"You've changed a lot."
Ragna turned his head at Grida's words. She was watching her younger brother training alone under the moonlight. She didn't bother asking why he sat on the dirt instead of the chair nearby—probably just laziness.
"Me?"
"Yeah."
Ragna gave a half-hearted nod, sweat dripping from his face and falling from his chin.
"People are going to be shocked, seeing you like this."
Again, he only nodded, indifferent. Let them be shocked—what did it matter? His gesture made it clear: none of their concern.
"In the end, you're going back home after all."
Grida said.
"It's not going back."
"Then what?"
"Just stopping by."
"For what?"
"To fetch something."
Was that really all? Grida studied him for a moment, then dusted herself off and stood. The dry soil puffed under her as she rose.
"Well, your life's yours to manage."
What struck her was how much her brother had changed. Even after she left, Ragna continued swinging his sword. He had agreed to return to the house, but if he wanted to claim what he needed, he would have to advance further than he was now. And—
Time is short.
That was why he poured every spare moment into training.
When he swung a sword, he saw the path ahead. It had always been so since childhood. He could see how far he would reach, what awaited if he kept training—without effort, the road already lay open before him.
So, was there meaning in walking a path when the destination was known? Memories from the past surged like a rising tide.
"Become a knight."
His father had told him that.
"Why must I?"
Ragna had asked. His father looked at him as though seeing a strange creature for the first time.
"Does there need to be a reason?"
Those who were enthralled by the sword itself—that was Zaun. But Ragna could not be one of them. He found no joy in swinging a blade.
"You don't enjoy it? Why not?"
Everyone around him had asked, but his answer was always the same.
"What's fun about it?"
"Defeating someone, surpassing yourself—that's exciting, isn't it?"
Some said so. Ragna couldn't agree.
Defeat someone? Even if he couldn't today, in a month he would. The outcome was inevitable. The result was always the same—foregone.
"What are you, a prophet?"
Skeptics had mocked him. He proved them wrong easily. The process itself was tedious; talent alone decided everything. Even among those already gifted, Ragna stood apart.
That was why it bored him. A dull, joyless life. Swing a sword, walk the set path, die as foretold. He felt he already knew how his death would be.
Is this it? Swinging a sword my whole life, walking this predetermined road, only to die at the end?
A new sword art? A new road? None appeared. Only what was fixed. What should have been a blessing—God's gift of talent—was his curse. The gods gave him talent but left him with no will.
And then he met Enkrid.
"Why do you push yourself so hard?"
He had once asked.
"Because right now I fight only to survive. But I don't want to live like that."
Back then, Ragna had judged him—his basics flawed, his form lacking. But Enkrid's will never wavered. Straight as an arrow, unbending.
Ragna's thoughts of the past blurred into the present as his sword cut the night.
Ping.
His greatsword swept level with the earth, leaving behind a faint sonic ripple. The moonlight chased the silver trail of the blade, over and over. With each stroke, dozens of shimmering lines were drawn in the air, then vanished.
And always, Enkrid's words echoed in his mind:
"I want to live as I believe is right. To raise my sword for the poor and sick. To raise my sword for honor. To raise my sword for those I love."
Such words should have been drowned beneath torrents of hardship. Limits should have dragged him to his knees. But Enkrid shook off every future Ragna foresaw. He carried every curse like a yoke and walked on—unyielding, never wearing despair.
Seeing that man stride forward just beside him, Ragna felt a thrill.
Was the path itself what mattered? Had he ever even walked the path he claimed was set? Enkrid's life, his will, asked those questions without words. Ragna had no answer. So he had to walk it—like the man beside him—to see for himself.
That was when he began to enjoy swordsmanship.
A series of strange, wondrous experiences—he could call it that.
The memories carried him forward.
"You went to Juri's house, didn't you?"
Anne, healer and alchemist, asked.
"Yeah."
No reason to hide it. She paused, then suddenly met his eyes.
"Do you like Juri? Or… don't tell me you're into kids?"
"…What do you take me for?"
That stung. His scowl was answer enough. Anne smoothed her hair back and said,
"Then why go?"
"To look around."
"At what?"
"Do you think people always need a reason to act?"
Ragna countered. Anne thought for a moment before shrugging.
"No idea."
She had her own path to worry about. Other people's choices? Not her concern.
"Exactly. That's all."
"That's your explanation?"
"Forget me. What about you?"
Ragna had changed. More than Grida remembered, more than when Enkrid first met him.
"…What about me?"
"You were shaken by Magrun."
So he'd noticed. She muttered, then steadied her gaze on him.
"That wasn't a curse. It's a disease. More like an invisible powder that spreads. And it killed over a hundred people in my city."
Anne had lost parents, relatives, friends. She lived only by luck—or rather, by her talent.
She had learned the basics of alchemy from Laban as a child. That was what kept her alive. And now she knew: Laban was her enemy. Or rather, the one who raised Laban. The one who created the disease. That was the true enemy.
She continued:
"What spread in my city wasn't finished. It was only a prototype. That's why it vanished without a trace. People only knew it as a 'plague'—and in the end, even those uninfected were burned alive by the dozens."
Those born with the sickness were fated to die then. She saw it—her own parents among them. Her lame father. Her mute mother. Both burned alive. That day, Anne understood she had two choices: pursue revenge, or walk another path.
She chose another path. Her enemy was too pathetic for vengeance.
Terrified paupers had set fire to straw tents in the night. Not one person—several. Some ignored it. Some encouraged it. Some did it themselves.
Who was to blame? The world? The nobles? The wealthy commoners who stood by and watched? The guards who patrolled their ward?
Some guards, at least, carried water and tried to quench the flames, no matter the risk of catching the sickness.
"I'm sorry. Truly sorry."
One of those guards had been among them. He had even wept.
Anne never knew his face, but she believed he had nothing to apologize for.
It was in that moment she found her path. The road she would walk all her life.
I will not yield to disease.
She swore it, raising within herself a tower of will. She would banish the fear that sickness inspired.
Lately, with the fairy city's migration, she had obtained rare ingredients. It was her chance to pursue research she had long envisioned. And so she had. Staying up for nights on end, as she told Ragna, was no exaggeration.
Is there a cure-all for every disease in the world? she asked herself. The question was daunting, but she already knew the answer.
No, there isn't.
Or rather—yes, there is.
There is no such medicine. But there could be a healer who knows how to cure them all.
Then I'll become one.
That is what I want.
Her goal was clear, the direction unmistakable. She had no room to look elsewhere, no space for distractions. That was why she seemed so indifferent to others—because she had no spare attention to give.
"The source of the sickness must be found," she said. "Likely a fungus, a flower, something like that. We'll need to trace it back and study it. Only then can we make a remedy."
"If you're infected, does everyone die?" Ragna asked.
"Sooner or later, yes," Anne answered firmly. Then added, "When you die depends on luck. Magrun coughing blood, your house's master stricken—that's the sickness. Some stay strong, others waste away. That's how it works. Not a curse."
Ragna nodded, then said,
"Sometimes when I visit Juri's house, the children are happy to see me."
The sudden shift was jarring, his words scattered. But Anne humored even that.
"And so?"
"So I go."
Juri's house was where orphans were sheltered. Earlier, Anne had asked why he visited, and only now had he answered.
"Took you long enough."
Anne muttered with a hint of relief. She had half-feared he was courting Juri, the marmalade-seller. At least it wasn't that.
She murmured something to herself and left.
Ragna resumed his training, thrusting and slashing, stepping through drills.
Horizontal cuts, winding arcs, diagonal strikes. A feint to draw out a guard, then a downward chop to snap through resistance. The sequence always ended with a counter.
His imaginary opponent shifted footing, dragging forward with a descending strike. Ragna tracked the line of the blade. In his mind, the foe was poised for an overhead slash.
He imagined his sword bound. He yanked it free, closed distance, and drove his fist toward where a face would be.
Whff.
Of course, his punch struck only empty air. His foe existed only in his mind.
"That looked like you were countering my Flash."
The voice came. Someone who had been lingering nearby. Someone he called captain.
"It'd play out differently in reality," Ragna said, lowering his sword.
"There's no need to wait for a bind—you can settle it before that."
Enkrid approached, freshly bathed, no trace of sweat on him. The spring night breeze carried a faint floral fragrance.
"The Saint mentioned someone in the city who's already doing what he dreams of. Juri's house."
Enkrid continued. Juri, the woman who sold marmalade, had gathered children—war orphans, the abandoned, the lost. At first there were few, now their number had grown, with helpers alongside them.
It was always short on krona. But someone gave regularly.
"You."
"Yeah."
"You handed over the gold you took from Craise?"
"Looking after children costs more than people think."
"Raising people always does."
Enkrid nodded.
"Why?" he asked plainly, curious.
"The children… they don't all have dreams or burning desires. I just thought they should be allowed to live like anyone else."
Did one always need a dream? Did one always need passion? Ragna was saying no. He was speaking of children like himself, once.
"You're only stating the obvious."
Enkrid's reply was quiet, calm.
Some seek only peace in their twilight years. Some wish today would repeat tomorrow unchanged. Others pray tomorrow will not repeat today.
"I just wanted to help." Ragna added.
"There's a saying in the West—that when a man changes, it means his death is near."
"You cursing me?"
"No. Just repeating it."
"I only need to fetch one thing. Then I'll return."
The meaning was clear. He wasn't going back. His home was here, now.
"I wasn't worried. See you tomorrow."
Enkrid turned away. Ragna nodded, unconcerned.
When all was silent again, he sheathed his sword, raised a hand to his lips, and coughed.
Khff.
Blood stained his palm, crimson in the moonlight. His insides throbbed with a dull ache. The signs of the disease.
So—luck, is it?
Fate itself seemed to ask: How long can you live?
He had thought his path set in stone. But here was an unforeseen road. And strangely—it thrilled him.
If my life ends like this… what will I leave behind? What can I leave behind?
That was when he began supporting Juri's house. The question had taken root in him.
When I'm gone, what will remain?
For now, the answer was unknown. Ragna could only think so.