Just then, a shadow darted past, lunging straight at Ren, it was the Wolfhound Envoy.
The Wolfhound Envoy suddenly leapt onto Ren, making him bend slightly under its weight. By reflex, he caught it in his arms so he wouldn't fall backward.
Its jet-black fur was still warm, carrying the scent of wind and dried grass. Even though it hadn't been seen all day, it seemed it had been silently watching from somewhere in the forest.
"I thought someone had caught you…" Ren muttered, running a hand over the beast's head. The Wolfhound Envoy gave a soft whimper in reply, its tail swishing lightly in that familiar way.
At that moment, a deep yet gentle voice sounded from behind:
"What are you still doing outside at this hour, Ren?"
Ren froze, then turned his head. Through the pale yellow lamplight and drifting mist, the tall, slender figure of Kizmel appeared.
She was still in her dark armor, the long sword strapped diagonally across her back glistening with beads of water.
It seemed she had just returned from some mission or perhaps, like Ren, had been pushed out of sleep by some unnamed reason.
"Knight Kizmel… good evening," Ren said, standing upright and giving a slight nod.
Kizmel stepped closer, each slow stride as if even her battle-worn boots were weary from treading too many moss-covered, frost-chilled paths.
In the dim glow of a nearby torch, her face came into view, calm as ever, but with faint dark rings beneath her eyes, traces that could not be hidden after many restless days.
Ren looked up at her.
"Is traveling with those two… exhausting?" he asked, not entirely out of concern, but more like repeating a thought he had already held inside. "Though… truth is, we haven't fought together all that much."
He paused, then added as if to reassure himself:
"But Asuna and Kirito are both good friends… and they're really skilled, too."
Kizmel stayed still for a moment, as though listening to hear if those words truly held meaning for him. Then she gave a faint nod.
"I understand." Her voice neither agreed nor disagreed, simply acknowledged.
"They are indeed skilled… but also very fragile. Even if they never show it."
Her eyes drifted toward the distance, where the military camp was sinking into silence. A light breeze swept by, stirring the neatly tied hair that hung down her back.
"You know…" she said softly, as if sharing a secret no one left alive could hear, "I often see the shadow of my little sister in Asuna."
Ren froze, not because of the words, but because of the sound in her voice: something old, fragile, buried deep beneath the steel armor of a Knight.
"She's… kind. Strong. But the way she grips the hilt of her sword… it's always like she's desperately holding onto something about to break apart."
Ren didn't reply. He simply stayed silent, because he knew some stories don't need answers... only someone willing to listen.
Kizmel smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly.
"My sister… once said that if she became strong enough, no one would have to die ever again," she murmured, weary as a lullaby. "Asuna has that same look… the look of someone who always moves ahead, not because she wants to, but because she fears that if she turns around… there will be no one left behind her."
Her voice faded, as though speaking only to herself.
"My sister always tried to hide her true feelings, always smiling no matter what happened. Asuna is the same. She's strong, but there's something in her eyes… that always makes me worry."
Ren nodded slightly, the nearby firelight flickering in his eyes.
"She never allows herself to be weak," he said, affirming what Kizmel had just shared. "And that's why those around her always place their expectations on her."
Kizmel turned to look at Ren, for the first time that night, her gaze on him wasn't that of a warrior toward a comrade, but of an elder sister quietly listening to a lost younger brother.
"And what about you, Ren?" she asked. "What do you fight for?"
Ren froze. It was such a simple question, yet it tightened his chest.
He lowered his gaze to his hands, hands that had gripped a sword, that had struck, that had been stained with blood.
"…I'm not sure," he whispered. "There's no one left to protect. No clear goal. Just that… if I stop, I'll disappear."
Kizmel was silent for a while, then placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't underestimate yourself. You're still here, still moving forward. And sometimes… that alone is enough for someone to survive one more day… one more day to find their own reason."
Ren looked up at her, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. But Kizmel said no more. She simply stood, turned toward the camp, and her figure melted into the night.
The Wolfhound Envoy shifted at Ren's feet, nudging its head into his hand as if to pull him back to reality.
Left alone, Ren let out a sigh.
"It's still not time to disappear… is it?"
The wind grew colder.
Ren lowered his head. For a moment, he felt as if he had become just another nameless silhouette on a vast battlefield, where no one demanded he exist, yet no one had a reason to keep him there.
In that moment, the regal air still lingered in her posture and voice, straight-backed, proud, decisive, but it was as if a thin veil of ash from an unhealed sorrow had settled over it.
"Just keep going straight this way…" She cast her gaze down the road stretching between two rows of tents. "At the second turn, you'll see a stone marked with the Dark Tribe's seal. Turn left there."
Her words came neither fast nor slow, as if each one was not just a direction, but also a farewell.
"You'll find him near the forest's edge."
She said no more. Only gave Ren a slight nod, an unspoken wish of good luck, before turning away.
Kizmel's figure slowly vanished into the mist, merging into the stillness of the camp at night, leaving behind a silence so deep it was as if no conversation had ever taken place.
Ren bowed his head in a quiet thanks, words weren't needed, and began walking in the direction Kizmel had shown him.
The dirt road leading out of the camp was at first dotted with the flickers of watchfires, but the farther he went, the more the lights thinned.
A light breeze carried with it the damp, musty scent of forest soil not yet dry, and somewhere faintly, the clicking of insects, like untold stories whispering in the dark.
The stone soon came into view at the edge of the narrow trail, a flat, moss-covered slab, with the deep, grey-etched seal of the Dark Tribe at its center.
Ren turned left.
The mist began to thicken, closing in until the world shrank to just a few steps ahead.
It wasn't natural fog, it breathed, creeping between the trees, clinging to his cloak, stealing away every warm breath from those who passed through.
Ren moved step by step, his boots sinking into the damp earth without a single sound returning to him. The mist devoured everything, leaving only the echo of his heartbeat in his ears.
And then, he stepped out of it.
Before him lay an open space. A small, still lake, as flat as a mirror, cradled in the middle of the forest.
Its surface reflected the silver moonlight and the drifting shadows of thin clouds passing overhead, so gentle it seemed almost unreal.
But it wasn't the lake that made Ren stop in his tracks.
It was the dozens of swords, driven into the grass along the lakeshore, like fallen steel candles after an unnamed battle.
Each one was different, some worn and rusted, some still gleaming as if just released from their owner's hand. All of them were planted at the same angle, facing the water, as though guarding something sacred.
It was a grave of swords.
The light from them was faint yet unextinguished, like the breath of old memories, like the final gaze of those who never returned. All of it mirrored quietly on the lake's surface, mingling with the moonlight.
Ren said nothing. His steps slowed to a halt, as if afraid he might shatter something fragile.
And there, in that stillness like the remnants of an unfinished dream, Ren found Aisen.
He was sitting by the shore, his back resting against an old tree, head bowed slightly as if listening to the whispers of the earth.
A sword was planted beside him, its tip buried deep into the wet grass, while his hand hung loosely, fingers brushing the water's surface, sending ripples spreading and fading away.
"You've been drinking, haven't you?" Ren asked as he approached, his tone carrying a faint note of reproach when the strong scent of liquor hit him.
Aisen chuckled softly, turning to offer the wineskin in his hand with a lazy gesture.
"Want some?"
Ren glanced at it, frowned, and shook his head. "No."
"What's wrong? Too good for it? Too good for me?" Aisen sighed, his voice half-earnest, half-mocking, before taking a long swig. The moonlight glimmered in his eyes, a muddied light, the kind carried by those long acquainted with the burn of liquor.
Ren folded his arms and dropped down to sit on the grass beside the lake. "Why the hell should I care about your pride?"
Aisen let out a low laugh, offering no reply, just that rough, tired chuckle, drifting into the mist with something heavy and sad hidden in it.
"That's right… You're not like the new recruits. No fawning respect, no pretending to understand." He leaned his head back against the tree, eyes half-closed. "Good."
Ren didn't answer. He just stared at the lake, where the moon's reflection spread across the still water like a spill of silver oil. Aisen kept drinking, each gulp swallowing down nameless memories.
"I usually only drink when there's someone to forget," Aisen murmured, not clear if to Ren or to himself. "But these days… there are so many, I'm afraid I won't be able to drink enough…"
Ren glanced at the Dark Elf, but asked nothing.
The breeze stirred again. Moonlight fell upon the swords circling the lake, silent as periods at the end of sentences no one remembered writing.