*Content Warning: This chapter contains mature themes, violence, blood, and morally dark actions. Reader discretion advised.*
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The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the simple wooden walls of the old man's house. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and stew, a warmth that clashed with the growing chill seeping in from the silent forest outside. Leon sat at the small table, his bowl half-empty, steam curling lazily upward like forgotten ghosts. The old man across from him leaned back in his chair, his weathered face illuminated by the glow, eyes reflecting the flames as if they held secrets older than the trees encircling them.
Leon set down his spoon, the clink echoing in the quiet room. He stared at the old man for a long moment, the weight of unspoken burdens pressing on his chest. Finally, he exhaled slowly, his voice low and rough, laced with a weariness that seemed to echo from depths no words could fully reach.
"You really want to know, old man? Fine. I'll tell you some of it. Not all — some things aren't meant for sharing. But maybe you're right. Maybe letting a piece out will lighten the load, even if just for a night."
The old man nodded silently, his kind smile unchanging, patient as the ancient tree outside.
Leon leaned forward, elbows on the table, scarred hands clasping together. His eyes grew distant, staring into the fire as if it held the reflections of battles long past.
"It started with nothing. I was nothing — a shadow in a world that didn't care if I lived or died. Then someone pulled me from that void. Gave me purpose. A name. Strength. But strength comes with chains. The kind you don't see until they start cutting into your flesh."
He paused, flexing his fingers as if remembering old wounds.
"I've walked paths where every step felt like wading through blood. Not always my own. Betrayals that cut deeper than any blade. People who smiled while twisting the knife. And the pain… it never stops. It builds, layer by layer, like a scar that thickens but never heals. You think you've outrun it, but it's always there, whispering that you're alone. That trust is a fool's game. That the only thing you can rely on is your own will to keep moving, even when your body screams to stop."
Leon's voice dropped lower, almost a growl.
"I've faced storms that strip everything away — left me hollow, questioning if survival is even worth the fight. Times when I wondered if letting go would be easier. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because giving up means they win — the ones who tried to break me. So I endured. Pushed through the darkness, the isolation, the moments where hope felt like a lie told to children. And now? I'm still here. Scarred, yeah. Changed, definitely. But alive. And that's more than most can say."
The old man listened without interruption, his expression unchanging — kind, yet shadowed with understanding. When Leon finished, silence settled again, broken only by the pop of embers.
Finally, the old man spoke, his voice steady and warm, like a grandfather sharing hard-won wisdom around a dying fire.
"You've carried a heavy burden, young man. Heavier than most could bear without shattering. But that's the way of things — the world doesn't hand out mercy. It tests you until you either break or become unbreakable."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"Let me tell you something I've learned in my long years. Pain isn't your enemy. It's your teacher. It shows you where you're weak, where you need to harden. Don't run from it — embrace it. Let it forge you like iron in flames. The ones who survive aren't the kindest or the luckiest. They're the ones who learn to turn suffering into strength. Cut away what's soft. What's unnecessary. Friends, regrets, illusions of fairness — they're chains if you let them be. Free yourself. Walk alone if you must. The path to true power is paved with the bones of what you used to be."
The old man paused, his gaze drifting to the window where the dark forest pressed close, branches like skeletal fingers against the glass.
"And remember this: the world is cruel, but so can you be. Don't seek justice — take what you need. Survival isn't a gift; it's a conquest. If something stands in your way, remove it. No hesitation. No remorse. That's how you endure. That's how you win."
Leon listened, the words sinking in like cold steel. They resonated — echoing the harsh lessons he'd learned in blood and isolation. But there was something deeper in the old man's tone, a quiet certainty that felt earned through fire.
The conversation stretched on, the fire burning low as they traded words. Leon spoke of endless roads that led nowhere, of shadows that followed him even in sleep, of a hunger that wasn't just for food but for something more — purpose, perhaps, or vengeance. The old man countered with tales veiled in metaphor: storms that reshaped mountains, rivers that carved canyons through unyielding stone, beasts that grew stronger by devouring their own weaknesses.
"You see, young man," the old man said at one point, his voice dropping to a grave whisper, "the truly strong don't bend to the world. They break it and rebuild it in their image. Mercy is a luxury for the weak. If you want to survive what's coming — and I sense storms gathering around you — you must become the storm itself. Relentless. Unforgiving. Let nothing chain you — not pain, not memory, not even fate."
Leon nodded slowly, the words stirring something inside him. They reminded him of lessons half-forgotten, of a blue-haired figure who had once pulled him from nothing and set him on this path.
Hours slipped by. The fire dwindled to embers. The old man's advice wove through Leon's thoughts like threads in a tapestry — profound, ruthless, a philosophy of perseverance born from a lifetime of unseen battles.
As the night deepened, the old man finally leaned back, his kind smile returning.
"You've shared more than most would, Leon. Sleep now. Tomorrow brings its own trials."
Leon lay down on the offered mat, exhaustion claiming him. But as sleep pulled him under, the old man's words lingered— quiet echo of unyielding truth: in a cruel world, only the cruel endure.
The old man turned to the window, staring into the inky blackness of the forest. His expression shifted — doubtful, sorrowful, as if gazing at something far beyond the trees.
"It seems there has been someone that is deliberately trying to fight against fate itself," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "without knowing what fate is and how fate works."
Leon stirred in his sleep, half-hearing the words. His brow furrowed.
What… does he mean? he thought dimly. Someone fighting fate? Without knowing it?
The words hung in his mind like smoke — cryptic, unsettling. Who could the old man mean? Some distant fool? Or… someone closer?
The forest outside remained silent.
Watching.
Waiting.