The city thrummed, a living thing exhaling warmth into the midday air.
We wove through the market, a river of bodies flowing between glowing stalls.
The scent of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and an unfamiliar spice—sharp and inviting—tangled together, pulling Leo's head this way and that.
His eyes, wide and luminous, darted from a vendor flipping golden-brown skewers over an open flame to another carefully arranging vibrant, steamed buns.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing at a bubbling pot where thick white noodles swam in a dark broth.
A woman with a flour-dusted apron ladled a portion into a ceramic bowl. "Spiced pork belly, fresh this morning," she said, her voice raspy but kind.
He took the bowl, inhaling deeply before blowing on the surface and taking a cautious sip. His eyes widened further.
"It's… warm." He paused, then slurped again, a small sound escaping him. "And spicy. Like a hug and a punch all at once."
A bead of sweat formed on his temple, but a grin spread across his face.
I watched him, a quiet satisfaction unfurling inside me. He wasn't just eating; he was discovering.
He moved from stall to stall, drawn toward every sound, every scent, every flicker of color.
He bit into a sweet bun, powdered sugar dusting his nose, and laughed—a bright, unburdened sound.
Then came a hot dumpling, fresh from the steamer.
"Ow!" he yelped, pulling his tongue back, eyes watering.
He fanned his mouth, grimacing in mock agony. "Fire! Pure fire!"
Then he coughed, laughed, and shook his head. "Still good, though."
He took another, slower bite, chewing carefully this time.
His joy—so simple, so unguarded—tugged at something inside me I thought was gone. I smiled quietly. No one saw.
But it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds I had carried for years.
He didn't notice; his attention had already shifted to a street performer juggling glowing orbs, the spheres spinning through the air with effortless grace—a small display of supernatural art that left him utterly mesmerized.
"We should get going," I said, pulling him gently from the crowd. "The Skyrail will be less crowded now."
We stepped into the sleek Skyrail car, its metal walls humming softly as it prepared to lift us above the streets.
The doors closed, and with a gentle lurch, we rose—the bustling market shrinking below. Cars became rivers of light, people mere specks of color, sunlight glancing off glass towers and scattering prisms across the city.
Leo pressed his face against the cool glass, squinting against the brightness. "It's… incredible," he murmured, voice hushed with wonder. "Look, that's the business district, right? And over there—the old city walls."
His words were filled with awe. "I never imagined so much… energy. So much life."
I leaned back, watching the city unfold. He was right. It was breathtaking—a constellation made real.
A familiar ache tugged at my chest: a memory of a time when I, too, had seen the world with such unblemished wonder.
I simply watched, the words catching in my throat.
The city, in its vastness and vibrant energy, felt both liberating and overwhelming.
The Skyrail deposited us near Hero Plaza, a vast open space bathed in the soft glow of daylight.
The chill wind brushed against my face, tugging at my hair. I welcomed it—it reminded me I was still here.
Lungs filling with cold air, each breath a quiet reassurance.
Stone statues, larger than life, rose from the center—figures frozen mid-stride, mid-battle, mid-triumph.
Their names, carved into granite bases, were more than words.
They were legends.
The air felt different here—hushed, reverent.
Families walked slowly, children clutching their parents' hands as they left small bouquets of flowers at the feet of the statues.
Leo wandered ahead, eyes wide. "Hey… these look way different from the ones I saw on the billboards," he murmured, almost to himself.
"These must be the first-generation heroes," he said softly. "From the way my grandfather told their stories… I can already tell which one he meant."
A spark of awe lit his face—the kind that belongs to someone seeing history not as legend, but as something alive before them.
He paused before a statue of a young man, a great sword strapped across his back. Leo's voice trembled with reverence.
"Grandfather told me about him," he said, eyes shining. "Can you imagine… that the word hero fits you so perfectly, as if you were born for it?"
He leaned closer, tracing the inscription:
Aurex — Leader of the Luminants.
"The Luminants…" he whispered, the word charged with wonder. "What made him so strong, anyway?"
"All I know is—he was untouchable," he said quietly. "A master of the sword. Every move precise. Every strike part of a perfect rhythm. My grandfather used to describe him as watching a storm—choreographed, unstoppable, and somehow… beautiful."
Leo straightened, eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it the sword itself? That can't be it, right? How could a blade alone make someone that strong?"
I kept my gaze on the statue. "Everyone's different, I guess. But the man before me—his name was Merlin."
The bronze gleamed beneath the high sun, every fold of his coat and line of his expression captured in stunning detail.
It all felt too alive to belong to stone. For a moment, it was as if he were watching me back.
"He was the first to turn chaos into order," Leo said softly. "The strongest of the early heroes."
I let the words sink in.
And I wondered… if he could help me.
A young girl, no older than seven, carefully placed a single white rose at the base of a towering figure, her small hand brushing the cold stone of its boot.
We moved onward, past statues that felt less like memorials and more like guardians—silent, eternal, watching over every street.
A man with a stern yet gentle face stood tall, shoulders squared as if bearing the weight of the city itself. Beside him, a woman radiated quiet strength, her gaze calm but unyielding.
Together, they looked like protectors of a city that might never know their real names.
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Death. I knew its cost—the hollow it carved into those left behind.
The flowers at their feet were fresh. The city still remembered.
But memory couldn't dull the sharp edges inside me.
I remembered them in every detail: the hush of their bravery, the pride that once swelled in my chest.
Now it lingered as a dull ache—a reminder of everything I had lost.
Leo moved closer, voice steady. "These two must be the Apex Pair—the greatest heroes in the world."
"They look amazing," he said, his tone quiet but full of awe.
There was a fire in his eyes—an admiration that didn't need words.
"You really like heroes," I said.
"Yeah. I love heroes, and one day I'll be the best hero in the world," he replied.
"You have a fine dream," I said softly.
My gaze lingered on the statues. For a moment, I let myself imagine.
I will visit you later.
I stood there a while longer, letting the sunlight burn against the edge of my thoughts—until warmth and noise reclaimed the quiet place grief had left behind.
We left the plaza and approached the Arcadium.
The building pulsed with vibrant, chaotic energy. Neon signs flickered, casting a kaleidoscopic glow on the street. The bass from inside vibrated through the ground, a constant thrum beneath our feet.
"This is it," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "The Arcadium."
Leo's eyes lit up. He pushed through the automatic doors, a rush of cool air and synthesized music washing over us.
Inside, the space exploded with life—glowing screens, shouting players, holographic creatures locked in combat above the crowd.
The air itself buzzed with anticipation.
"Whoa," Leo breathed, spinning slowly to take it all in. "This is incredible."
We found an open station—two sleek pods facing a massive curved screen.
I handed him a headset, the smooth plastic cool in his hands. "You ready?"
"I'm always ready," he declared, grinning.
The virtual world shimmered into existence.
We stood in a dense jungle, ancient trees towering overhead, their leaves an impossible green. Strange, bioluminescent flora pulsed softly in the shadows.
Our avatars materialized: mine—lean, dark, efficient; his—a flash of bright orange.
The objective flashed: Eliminate the corrupted spirits infesting the jungle.
A growl rumbled through the speakers. A hulking shadow-creature stepped from the undergrowth, eyes burning red.
"Let's do this!" Leo shouted, gripping the controller like a sword. Then, after a beat—"Wait… how do you use this thing?!"
I stifled a laugh. "Move with this stick. Attack and jump with the buttons. Think of it like… giving the character your orders. You're the boss."
"The boss?!" he said, incredulous. Then, with a grin: "I like that."
He charged forward, swinging wildly. His blade cut through air. The spirit countered, slashing across his avatar's chest. The health bar plummeted.
"Uh… I meant to do that," Leo muttered.
I moved quietly, rolling beneath the creature's strike and driving my dagger into its back. It dissolved into black smoke.
"Wait—how'd you do that?" he demanded.
"Practice," I replied, already scanning the foliage for the next one.
Wave after wave followed. Leo fought with enthusiasm but no finesse—swinging too wide, taking hits he didn't need. He died repeatedly, each time respawning in a flash of blue light.
"Again!" he shouted, refusing to quit.
I moved like a ghost—fluid, precise, each motion part instinct, part art. Years of playing made the rhythm feel effortless.
After a brutal wave, Leo tore off his headset, face flushed.
"Damn, you're good at this," he said, half-accusing.
I grinned. "No one beats me in this game. Better luck next life."
He laughed—bright and unguarded.
For the first time in years, the world didn't feel gray. Watching him—fumbling, laughing, alive—I felt it too. The pulse of life I'd forgotten.
Then a memory struck—sharp, fleeting.
The classroom. Sunlight spilling across the desks.
And there she was—Liora. White hair catching the light, eyes calm and certain.
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to that gaze.
As if she were saying: You are not alone.
There was always something about her eyes—too still, too knowing—as if they could see through time itself.
Then the bell rang, and the moment dissolved.
But the feeling lingered.
I let her name slip from my lips, barely a whisper. "Liora…"
For an instant, I could almost feel her—just beyond thought—like a warmth that didn't belong to the present.
It felt as though that moment had repeated itself, only this time, life itself was the answer: joy, wonder, and a silence filled by Leo's light.