In his heart, he came to believe that those who couldn't protect those they loved didn't deserve to dream.
Arthur watched from afar. He didn't interfere. He didn't try to fix it with words. Instead, he asked questions—not of others, but of life itself, the way he scatters seeds on the ground:
"If evil is born of instinct, why does good need to be chosen?"
"Is courage measured by strength, or by the silence after a blow?"
"Which hurts more: seeing your brother fall, or picking him up while you bleed internally?"
One evening, Damon was training in the empty field, alone. His hands trembled with pain, but it was his mind that truly punished him.
Arthur approached silently. He placed two wooden swords on the ground.
"Fight me," he said quietly.
Damon looked up, puzzled, angry.
"You want to prove my weakness to me again?"
Arthur shook his head.
**"I just want you to see yourself."**
The duel began.
Wood clashed against wood. Sweat dripped. Eyes burned with emotion.
But in Arthur's heart, he had already made up his mind. He wasn't fighting to win. He was retreating, little by little, giving Damon space—space to feel he was enough, space to reclaim something deeper than victory.
And at the final blow, as Arthur fell to the ground, Damon stood over him, panting, stunned.
Arthur smiled and whispered,
**"I may have been stronger in battle... but you were the strength I never lost inside me."**
That night, there was no chess duel.
But in their hearts, it was the first time a duel had ended in a draw.
Elizabeth sat by the window of her small wooden house in the village of *Elmar*. In her hand was a white cloth embroidered with fine threads, patterned with red and blue flowers. She had made it years ago, when her heart was still full of dreams.
She raised the cloth to her nose and inhaled quietly… It didn't carry perfume, but it carried the scent of memories.
That cloth was all that remained of her youth, a beauty that slowly faded with time, but never disappeared.
The wrinkles around her eyes were the marks of countless smiles and long sleepless nights cradling her children.
It was tender—a tenderness that needed no words, only silent glances, a hand gently touching a head, and an embroidered cloth left behind by longing.
Through the glass, she saw her son, Arthur, walking slowly across the field—not his body weighing down, but his mind.
He had changed, and she needed no words to understand.
Since the night he saved the village, something in his eyes had softened, as if he carried an invisible burden.
She saw in his footsteps a struggle between what is sown in the earth and what is killed by the sword.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by Damon's voice outside:
"The Age of Heroes has arrived!!" He repeated it once, then again, louder, as if declaring it to the whole world.
People came out of their homes, and Elizabeth hurried to him, asking:
"What do you mean?!"
He said, panting with excitement:
"King orien is dead! The new king is Julius… and his first order of business is to recruit heroes from every province!"
"I'm going to the capital… I'll join up, become a hero! They'll build a statue for me one day!"
Arthur smiled, though he said nothing. He knew that Damon's heart couldn't bear to be imprisoned, that his soul was made of fire, not dust.
As for Elizabeth, behind her smile, her eyes shone with worry.
She had seen so much and heard so much more...
Wars don't always make heroes; sometimes, they leave nameless graves.
The days passed, and then came the moment to say goodbye.
Damon stood in front of the house, wearing a simple jacket, a small bag over his shoulder.
Elizabeth stood before him and handed him a piece of embroidered white cloth, similar to the one she'd been holding by the window. She placed it in his hand and said, "This is the bond... between the hearts of a mother and her son."
"Keep it, wherever you go... no matter how much you forget... it will remind you of who you are."
He hugged her tightly, then said goodbye to his brother, Arthur, who had returned to the fields.
There was no solemn farewell, just a distant wave of a hand.
Arthur took a long look, then returned to his cultivation.
On his way to the capital, Damon walked confidently, repeating in his mind:
***"I will become the strongest warrior..."**