As Yuna and I made our way back to the church, the fading sunlight cast a golden glow over the quiet village. The familiar cobblestone streets and simple wooden houses stirred a bittersweet feeling in my chest. Every corner, every shadow of this place held memories—both joyful and haunting.
Yuna walked slightly ahead, humming a soft tune with her hands clasped behind her back. I watched her, my thoughts drifting to a different time, a different world.
I grew up in this orphanage, the same one I was now returning to. It was a place of warmth and laughter, despite the harsh reality of being without a family. As a boy, I was the protector of the other children, always standing up to bullies or helping the younger ones find their smiles again.
But life hadn't always been kind. My earliest memory was of being left at the orphanage by my parents. I could still feel the ghost of my mother's hand slipping from mine, the coldness in my father's voice as they told the caretaker I was "too much to handle." There were no goodbye hugs, no promises of visiting. Just a quick exchange of words and a look of relief on their faces as they walked away, never looking back.
That pain of abandonment never truly left me. It shaped me, molded my determination to prove my worth—even if only to myself. I buried that hurt beneath a fierce will to protect others, vowing that no one would ever feel as discarded as I did that day.
In the timeline before my reincarnation, the orphanage was destroyed during the Vampire Elders' campaign. I remembered the flames licking at the sky, the acrid smoke choking my lungs, and the screams... the screams that still haunted me. I could see their terrified faces, the children I couldn't save, the people I failed. That tragedy was one of the reasons I trained so relentlessly, pushing myself beyond my limits, determined never to feel that powerless again.
I tried countless times to forget those harrowing memories, to shove them into the darkest corners of my mind where they couldn't reach me. But no matter how hard I tried, the images of the blazing orphanage, the faces twisted in fear, and those unbearable screams were etched into my very soul. They were scars that no amount of time could heal, a haunting reminder of the price of my past failures.
I thought of the old man who had mentored me in that other life—a retired Royal knight named Hiroto, who had once served the kingdom. Hiroto had seen the spark of a warrior in me, even when I was just a scrappy kid with too much anger and not enough direction. He'd taught me the basics of combat, showing me how to wield a weapon with purpose, how to stand firm even when the world crumbled around me.
"I'll make you strong," Hiroto had said, his voice steady and unyielding.
"Not just for you, but for those who will rely on you."
Those words had shaped the foundation of my spirit. Even now, in this new timeline, they resonated within me. I hadn't met Hiroto yet, but I silently promised myself that I would seek him out again. I needed his guidance—not just for my own sake, but for everyone I needed to protect.
My gaze lingered on Yuna as she turned to me, her eyes bright and warm. She smiled, and a pang of guilt twisted in my chest. In my past life, I had failed to protect her. I couldn't let that happen again.
Her story was as tragic as my own, maybe even more so. Her father, a skilled mercenary, had taken a job that promised a hefty reward: hunting a pack of evolved boars in the depths of the Whisperwood, the most dangerous forest in the kingdom. But the group that had hired him had lied. They knew the dangers of the Whisperwood, knew of the monstrous creatures that lurked within its shadows. They hadn't wanted boar meat—they'd wanted a scapegoat, someone to dispose of a rival.
Her father, strong and skilled as he was, had walked blindly into a trap, betrayed by those he'd trusted. He never returned from that cursed forest.
When the news of his death reached Yuna's mother, the truth of his betrayal remained hidden. Grief-stricken, she was ill-prepared for what came next. The same group who had orchestrated her husband's demise showed up at their doorstep, pretending concern while demanding payment for the boar meat they claimed to have not yet retrieved.
When Yuna's mother couldn't pay, their facade crumbled. They ransacked the house, tearing it apart, taking anything of value. It wasn't just about money—it was about cruelty. It was a calculated act, designed to break her spirit and leave her with nothing.
With nowhere to go and no way to provide for Yuna, her mother made the agonizing decision to leave her at the orphanage. She must have hoped, with every shattered piece of her heart, that Yuna would have a better chance at a future there than with a mother broken by grief and poverty.
Yuna had been too young to understand. All she had was a small, crumpled note her mother had written, promising that this was all to give her a better life.
Despite everything, Yuna had grown up kind and optimistic, her spirit seemingly unbroken. She became a source of warmth and hope for the other children at the orphanage, always putting others before herself.
"Tatsuo?" Yuna's voice pulled me from my thoughts.
"Huh?" I blinked, realizing we had nearly reached the church.
"You're spacing out again," she teased lightly, tilting her head.
"What's on your mind?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, my voice soft.
"Just… thinking about how lucky we are to have this place."
Yuna smiled, though her eyes searched my face as if looking for a deeper answer.
"Yeah. The orphanage really is special, isn't it?"
As we approached the steps of the church, Yuna slowed her pace.
"Tatsuo," she said softly, "do you think… things will stay like this? Peaceful, I mean?"
I hesitated. I wanted to promise her that everything would be fine, that there would be no danger, but I knew better. The coming darkness loomed too heavily in my mind.
"They will," I said instead, keeping my voice steady.
"As long as I'm here, I'll make sure of it."
Yuna smiled, but her eyes lingered on me, searching for something deeper.
The church doors creaked open, and the familiar scent of candles and aged wood greeted us. The other children were gathered in the main hall, some playing games, others chatting softly. The caretaker, Sister Mari, looked up from where she was organizing supplies, her face lighting up.
"There you two are!" she called, her tone half-scolding, half-relieved.
"I was beginning to worry."
"Sorry, Sister Mari," Yuna said, bowing slightly.
"We went for a walk and lost track of time."
I offered a sheepish grin but stayed quiet, my thoughts still tangled.
As the evening wore on, the children settled into their routines. I sat by the window, gazing out at the darkening sky. I couldn't shake the memories of the flames, the destruction, the helplessness.
The image of this very place reduced to ashes haunted me.
Yuna approached, sitting beside me.
"Hey," she said, her tone light, "you've been acting strange today. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
I glanced at her, the weight of my past pressing heavily on me. I wanted to tell her everything, to warn her about the dangers that lay ahead. But how could I? How could I explain the burden of knowing the future, of having lived through the nightmares that were yet to come?
"I'm fine," I said after a pause, my voice softer now.
"Just thinking about how lucky I am to have everyone here."
Yuna's cheeks flushed slightly, and she looked away. "You're so weird sometimes," she muttered, though there was warmth in her tone.
As the church fell silent and the children drifted to sleep, I remained awake, staring at the ceiling. I knew that this peace was temporary. The vampires, the destruction, the chaos—it was all out there, waiting to descend.
But I had been given a second chance.
This time, I wouldn't fail.
This time, I would protect them all.
The quiet hum of the night surrounded the orphanage. I lay on my bed among the other boys, their soft breaths and snores filling the room. I stared at the wooden ceiling, the faint moonlight spilling through the small windows. A bittersweet smile crossed my face as memories of my previous timeline surfaced.
Back then, I had constantly grumbled about the lack of privacy, wishing for my own room. But now, I found myself cherishing this closeness—the warmth of camaraderie and the innocence that filled the orphanage. Yet, despite my newfound appreciation, sleep eluded me.
With practiced ease, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. I moved silently, avoiding the creaky floorboards and stepping lightly as I made my way out of the room. The cold night air greeted me as I slipped out of the orphanage, my movements deliberate and careful not to wake anyone.
I headed toward the nearby hill that loomed over the village, the one place where I could truly think. The grass crunched softly under my boots as I climbed the familiar path. At the top, the lone tree stood like a sentinel, its branches swaying gently in the cool breeze. The village below stretched out like a painting, its simple beauty magnified under the moon's soft glow.
I leaned back against the tree, exhaling deeply. The view brought a sense of peace, but my thoughts were anything but calm. I gazed at the village and beyond the horizon, memories of the destruction and despair from my past timeline weighing heavily on my mind.
"I won't let it happen again," I whispered to myself, my fists clenching.
Unbeknownst to me, Yuna had been watching from the shadows of the orphanage. Unable to sleep, she had been about to step outside for some fresh air when she noticed me sneaking out. Curious, she quietly followed me at a distance, careful not to make a sound.
As Yuna reached the top of the hill, she saw me leaning against the tree, my figure silhouetted by the moonlight. She paused, seemingly unsure whether to approach or remain hidden. But as she shifted her weight, her foot landed on a pile of dry leaves, producing a loud crunch.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"You couldn't sleep either, huh?" I asked, keeping my gaze on the horizon.
Yuna blinked in surprise before stepping out from behind the bush, her cheeks flushed.
"How did you know it was me?"
I turned my head slightly, a small smile playing on my lips.
"Your footsteps. You're quieter than most, but I could tell."
Yuna tilted her head, unconvinced.
"You figured it out just from that?"
I chuckled softly, leaning my head back against the tree.
"You used to try sneaking up on me all the time. You never could quite pull it off, though."
Her brows furrowed, confused.
"What are you talking about? I don't remember doing that."
My smile faltered for a brief moment, but I quickly masked it.
"Maybe not yet," I said, brushing off her question.
Yuna gave me a curious look, clearly sensing there was more to my answer, but she let it go.
"Well, I guess I'll take that as a compliment. At least I'm 'quieter than most.'"
She walked closer, sitting down beside me under the tree. She tucked her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. For a moment, neither of us spoke, letting the stillness of the night fill the air.
"What are you doing out here?" Yuna asked softly, breaking the silence.
I leaned my head back against the tree, closing my eyes.
"Just thinking. About the past, the future… everything."
Yuna tilted her head, studying me.
"You've been acting strange lately, you know. Like there's this heavyweight on your shoulders."
I opened my eyes, my expression thoughtful.
"Maybe there is. Or maybe I'm just trying to figure out how to keep everything I care about safe."
Yuna smiled faintly.
"You always take on too much. Even when we were kids, you were the one protecting everyone. You don't have to do it alone, you know."
I glanced at her, a flicker of vulnerability escaping before I could stop it.
"Sometimes it feels like I do. I can't explain it, but there are things only I can do. And if I fail… it won't just be me who pays the price."
Yuna reached out and placed a hand on my arm.
"Tatsuo, whatever it is you're facing, you're not alone. You've got me. And the others, too. Don't shut us out."
Her words struck a chord, and I felt the tension in my chest loosen slightly.
"Thanks, Yuna," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.
We sat in silence for a while, the cool breeze brushing against our faces.
"You know," Yuna began, her tone lighter now, "this spot is really nice. Did you come here often?"
I nodded.
"Yeah. This tree… it was like my safe place. When things got too loud or overwhelming, I'd come up here and just… exist."
"I can see why," Yuna said, looking out at the village. "It's beautiful."
"It is," I agreed, my gaze drifting to the distant horizon.
"But it's also fragile. And that's why I have to protect it."
Yuna looked at me, her eyes softening.
"You're not the only one who cares about this place, you know. If something ever happens… we'll all fight to protect it."
I looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the unwavering determination in her eyes. It was the same resolve she would carry into the future, the same courage that had made her the heart of our team.
"Yeah," I said, my voice steady. "I know."
We stayed there under the tree, side by side, watching the village as the night stretched on.
"I'm glad you followed me. It's nice having someone to share this with."
Yuna's cheeks flushed slightly, but she smiled back. "I'm glad I came, too."
As the first hints of dawn painted the horizon, Yuna rested her head on her knees, her eyes growing heavy. Tatsuo glanced at her, his resolve strengthening.
In this moment of peace, he made another silent promise: no matter what came their way, he would protect her and this village.