Interlude- The Wandering Hero

I stood atop a rolling hill, boots pressing into soft moss, letting the wind tangle my hair as it swept over the Europe Isles. Beneath me, Oberon's Fey Region sprawled—a dream painted in greens and golds, rippling meadows awash in wildflowers, forests dense as legend, streams threading silver ribbons between them.

The air tasted like lavender and morning dew, sharp and gentle all at once.

It was the quiet that first struck me—the silence of peace, not the hollow quiet of places emptied by fear. Here, the birds sang in earnest, the streams gurgled, leaves whispered above hidden paths. The world breathed around me. Even before I descended into the forest villages, I could feel a subtle enchantment—an invitation to belong.

I made my way down the hillside, following a path of luminous stones that seemed to hum beneath my steps. I passed between birch and ancient oak, trunks wide enough for three men to encircle with outstretched arms. Their roots, thick and knotted, formed gentle arches over the path, like gates into a sacred land.

As the trees grew denser, the light changed. It filtered through the canopy in shifting hues—sunbeams dancing green, blue, gold across my skin and the mossy ground. I soon reached a clearing where a village unfolded, woven seamlessly into the landscape.

There were no crude buildings here—each home was sculpted from living wood, their walls arching like tree roots, windows aglow with warm light. 

I paused, taking in the simple beauty. Fey children darted between mushrooms the size of umbrellas, laughter trailing like bells. Satyrs and elves strolled along boardwalks of living wood, exchanging news.

I even spotted a stoic dwarf in a cloak of ferns, bartering for berries at a market stall run by a willowy dryad. The mingling of races was effortless. I feel no tension, no suspicion, just a shared reverence for this place.

Here, the United Front's ideal of peace and unity was an unspoken truth. Everyone belonged.

I asked a passing nymph for directions, and she pointed me deeper into the heart of the woods, toward the Great Oak—the living palace of Oberon, Lord of the Fey. I thanked her, marveling at her translucent wings and the way she shimmered as she moved, barely disturbing the leaves underfoot.

The Great Oak was a colossal tree older than history, its branches arching so high they seemed to scrape the clouds.

Carved into its bark and roots were doorways and terraces, balconies where fey and elf children perched, legs dangling as they listened to stories told by ancient spirits.

Beneath the tree, in the dappled shade, I found Oberon.

Reclining against a root, he was surrounded by a small, colorful gathering: sprites fluttering above his head, elves sharing honeyed cakes, a brown-skinned satyr playing a soft tune on wooden pipes.

Oberon himself was tall, and though ageless, carried the weight of centuries with casual grace. His skin shimmered with a faint inner light, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and wisdom. His long hair fell about his shoulders, crowned by a lving ivy and gold circlet.

He caught sight of me immediately, and his face lit with a lazy, welcoming smile. "Raymed! Welcome, Hero of The United Front." His voice was the sound of wind through leaves—soft, musical, yet somehow commanding.

I inclined my head respectfully. "It's stunning here, Lord Oberon. I've never seen such peace among different races."

He waved a hand dismissively, as if titles were of little concern. "Oberon, please. Titles weigh down the spirit. Join us."

He gestured to an empty cushion of moss, and I settled in.

Someone pressed a cup of flower nectar into my hand—delicate and fragrant, as if summer had been distilled into liquid.

The group resumed their conversation, inviting me in with open curiosity.

For a while, I simply listened.

The Fey spoke of the shifting seasons, the annual Moon Blossom festival, a lost song rediscovered in a dream.

Oberon nodded, sometimes offered a quip, sometimes only smiled.

The atmosphere was easy—no posturing, no displays of power. If Oberon was king, he ruled by example, not by decree.

At one point, he turned to me. "You have the look of someone with questions, Raymed. Speak. Here, no thought is unwelcome."

I hesitated, unsure how to begin. "How do you keep it like this?" I finally asked.

"This… peace. Not just among the Fey but also with humans. I've seen so many places where coexistence is a struggle, or just a word in a treaty. Here, it feels… natural."

Oberon smiled, his gaze distant for a heartbeat. "Peace is a living thing, Raymed. It must be tended, not forced. We do not shun those who are different, nor do we demand they become like us. We honor each path, each story. The world is richer for its diversity."

He sipped from his cup, then added,

"Besides, many of our kin do not dwell here. Some choose the forests of the Americas, south and north. Though oceans separate us, we often commune through mana telepathy through our Great Oak. Distance is no barrier. If I wish to hear my sister's song among the redwoods of California, I need only reach out with my mind."

I tried to imagine that—a worldwide network of voices, thoughts, and feelings traveling on threads of mana, linking forest to forest, continent to continent. "That must be comforting, to know you're never truly alone."

"It is, and it is not," Oberon said.

"Connection means we share not only joy, but sorrow. If a drought withers the roots in Brazil, I feel it in my dreams. If something blossoms in the spring, I taste it in the air." He smiled softly.

"It reminds us that we are stewards, not rulers. The land and its people must be cared for, not commanded."

One of the elves—a young woman with hair like copper leaves—leaned in. "We hear much of your United Front, Raymed. Its ideals… are they truly so different from ours?"

I considered that, turning the question over in my mind. "The United Front aspires to unity, to peace through respect and shared purpose. But it's… newer. Harder won, and sometimes brittle. Here, the peace feels… lived-in. Natural, as you said. Elsewhere, it's still growing roots."

Oberon nodded. "It will take time. But it is a worthy effort. War, even when necessary, is a poison that lingers. We Fey have seen enough of it to know peace is not weakness. It is the bravest path. Even so we are not without our mistakes. Not many would share that ideal with me. Hence those Fey leave our sanctuary to pursue something else."

By how he explained it, does he mean that the Fey who committed horrendous things do not have ties with him? But seeing the society of his region like this, that would be much the case.

The conversation drifted on, touching on philosophy, tales of ancient fey battles, and practical jokes played on unwary travelers. Oberon's leadership was everywhere—quiet, subtle, yet decisive when needed.

He was quick to laugh, quicker to listen, and the others followed his lead without hesitation.

As night fell, light lanterns kindled in every home, casting the village in gentle hues of blue and gold.

Oberon invited me to a gathering—an evening feast beneath the Great Oak.

Long tables of living wood stretched beneath the boughs, heaped with fruits, fresh bread, honeyed cakes, and pitchers of sparkling nectar.

Music drifted through the air, blending with laughter.

I sat among Fey, elves, satyrs, and a few dwarves.

The conversation ranged from tales of old to the latest gossip from distant kin.

A sprite recited poetry, her words twining with the music, and for a while, I forgot the world beyond this glade.

As the evening wound down,

Oberon rose and addressed the gathering, his voice carrying gentle authority. "Let us remember, always, that peace is our greatest treasure. Let us greet every dawn as an opportunity to nurture it."

As the last notes of the evening faded beneath the Great Oak, I found myself lingering at the edge of the feast.

The warmth of laughter and lantern light was almost enough to make me forget the weight I'd carried into these woods.

Yet, as the gathering thinned, I noticed Oberon still seated among the roots, lost in thought.

He beckoned me with a quiet gesture.

The two of us sat in silence.

After a time, Oberon turned to me, his expression shifting—lighter now, but edged with a seriousness I hadn't seen before.

"Raymed, I must address something before you leave my lands. A matter of regret."

I observed him, sensing this was not the usual ceremonial courtesy. He was actually feeling guilty. But about what?

He continued, "I heard of what Zuatha did to you in South Jaka.

Zuatha I never guessed he would speak that name. 

But then again...

"I heard of her actions in my name, and the pain you endured as a result. I know what it is to suffer at the hands of those who claim to serve you. What it means to be wronged by those who twist peace for their own ends." His tone was really regretful.

His eyes met mine, honest and clear. "I was not there to prevent it, but I wish to offer you my apology, and my hope to make amends. Can you accept that, Raymed?"

For a moment, the memory of Zuatha—her judgment, the sting of exile, the wounds both seen and unseen—flickered in my mind.

Old anger threatened to rise.

I can feel my mana rising.

Should I...?

No...

I met Oberon's gaze and saw only sincerity.

This was not the plea of a guilty king, but the humility of a leader who carried his people's failings as his own.

I hesitated, searching for the right words. "No need to overthink it, King Oberon. It's true, I went through a lot. But after going through it for so long, with my friends, There's no bitterness left, not anymore."

He watched me, silent, letting me speak at my own pace.

"But…" I could not let it end there, the old longing tugging at my chest.

"There is one thing I do want from you. Not only for me, but for all of us. I want to have an everlasting peace—the kind my friends, United Front, and I have dreamed of. A peace that's real, not just words. That's all I ask."

Oberon's face softened, the lines at his eyes deepening.

He nodded once, as if sealing a pact. "A wish as old as the stars, and yet… still the bravest to speak aloud."

His eyes flickered with amusement and asked me, "Tell me, Raymed—do you also seek to coexist with them? The Demonfolk, I mean?"

His question caught me off guard.

The easy answer hovered on my tongue, but I held it back.

This wasn't something to say lightly, not after everything.

We have suffered countless death because of them.

To be honest most people in United Front like Celathis probably don't want anything to do with co-existing with Demonfolk.

But what do I want?

I stared into the shifting blue glow of a lantern, searching for Thalamik's words.

I smiled and spoke my mind.

"My friend once told me that if the United Front ever truly wanted peace, it couldn't just be for some. It had to be for everyone—even the Demonfolk. So if I ever get the chance to meet the Demon Lord… I want to ask him to cooperate. Even if it means I must fight all sixty-nine Demon Lord Envoys that are left to get there. I'd rather try for impossible peace than settle for endless war and cycling hatred."

There was a long silence.

Then Oberon laughed, not unkindly—a deep, delighted sound that rang with genuine respect.

"You truly are the ideal hero. No wonder Veuz chose you as the first hero. And no wonder that sword of light, Blastur, decided to choose you as its wielder."

Oberon smiled and said with pride, "The world has seen many heroes, Raymed, but not many who would even offer their hand to the 'darkness' itself."

He stood, the golden light catching in his hair, and extended a hand to me.

I took it—and noticed, for the first time, the black ring on his ring finger.

"Then let this be my promise in return, Raymed. I will help you in the best way I can. Hero, wanderer, peacemaker—whatever you choose to call yourself. The Fey will not be bystanders to your dream. We will help you seize it even if we fight against the remaining Demon Lord Envoys. Even if we have to disregard our judgements about the demonfolk."

His grip was firm and warm, the pact unspoken but understood. When he let go, I felt lighter, as if some invisible burden had eased.

It's good to know that Oberon shares the idea of having peace even beyond defeating the Demon King.

We stood together for a moment longer in the shadow of the Great Oak, two leaders—one of legend, one of hope—facing the night with quiet resolve.

"Thank you, Oberon," I said, meaning it.

He smiled—a soft, knowing curve of the lips. "Go with the peace you seek, Raymed. And if you ever lose sight of it, remember the woods, and those who dwell here."

I nodded, heart steady, and turned to leave the Fey Region behind.

I did not look back. 

"Ah, Ray, you're finally here. Let's go, we need to get to the Demi-Human Region Next!" Dwargo spoke as he instructed me to get in the wagon.

Yes, Dwargo accompanied me on this journey, but for some reason, he didn't want to see this land, saying if he did, he probably wouldn't ever want to leave again.

***

The sun hung like molten gold above the endless plains, painting the sky with streaks of crimson and copper as we crossed the threshold into the Demi-Human Region.

My boots pressed into hard-packed earth, still warm from the day's heat.

Gone was the dreamy hush of Oberon's forests—here, the world throbbed with energy, fields stretching to the horizon, dotted with villages alive with laughter, music, and the lowing of cattle.

I shielded my eyes and scanned the landscape.

The villages have hut structures with thatched roofs, low adobe houses painted with swirling patterns, and communal courtyards where children race barefoot.

Great baobab trees marked gathering places, their roots twisting like the fingers of ancient giants.

Smoke drifted from cookfires, mingling with the scent of roasted maize and spice.

Everywhere, life teemed.

At my side trudged Dwargo Kors, silent and focused as always, his sturdy frame a comforting presence in unfamiliar lands.

The sun glinted off his bronzed skin as he adjusted the leather pack across his shoulder, grumbling about the heat but never truly complaining.

"I'll take a forge over this sun any day," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "But you can't argue with the craftsmanship here. Look at those granaries—stonework's solid, not a crack."

I grinned, unable to resist the infectious energy of the region. "You say that everywhere we go. You would rather be in your workshop and try to make an artifact for yourself using this sword as a base wouldn't you?"

Dwargo looks to my waist, which had Blastur with its scabbard.

He gulped as if wanting to inspect it.

"N-No... Only when it's true." Dwargo huffed, but I caught the smile tugging at his lips.

The first village we passed welcomed us with curious glances but open hearts.

Children of every shape and species—wolfkin, hyena-people, antelope-folk—paused their games to stare.

An old human, hunched with age and draped in bright fabrics, leaned on a cane and gave me a knowing nod.

As we wandered deeper, I noticed a unique rhythm to the place.

Demi-humans, taller and more muscular than humans, moved with effortless grace, carrying baskets, hauling water, repairing thatched roofs. Yet interwoven among them were humans, often older, their movements slower, but their eyes sharp.

In the shade of a baobab, a wolfkin teen listened intently as a human sage traced diagrams in the dirt, lecturing on rivers' flow and the stars' wisdom.

Respect here was not measured in bared teeth or the heft of a spear, but in the reverence given to wisdom. For all their physical weakness, humans wore amulets of feathers and beads—symbols that marked them as advisers, scholars, and teachers.

I saw a wolfkin woman pause her work to bow respectfully to a stooped human man, who responded with a gentle pat on her shoulder and a word of encouragement.

We continued through the marketplace, where every stall was a riot of color and sound.

The air buzzed with a dozen dialects.

Vendors sold sweet fruits, woven baskets, pottery, and spice-laden stews that made my mouth water.

A cheetah-woman hawked bright cloth, her claws dancing as she bargained with a human couple.

Children darted between stalls, trailing laughter and dust.

A group of young wolfkin spotted us and, after a moment's hesitation, ran over.

One of them—no more than twelve—puffed up his chest. "Are you the hero? The one who fights demons?"

"Y-Yes. I am Raymed," I said, crouching to their level. "I do what I can."

Their eyes widened, ears flicking in excitement. "Will you fight for us if the demons come here?"

"I'll do more than that," I promised. "I'll fight for everyone. For peace."

They grinned, flashing sharp teeth, and scampered off, their shouts echoing across the fields.

Dwargo snorted. "You'll make 'em soft, giving out hope like sweets."

"Maybe," I said, "They should believe in hope."

The conversation was interrupted by a new presence—a hush that spread through the market as figures stepped aside.

At the center of the path stood Borreas.

I always expected the king of Demi-Humans to be a lion. But he was a wolfkin—tall and broad-shouldered, his fur the color of midnight, shot through with streaks of silver.

His amber eyes glowed with the quiet intelligence of a born leader.

He wore no crown, only a simple necklace of carved bone and turquoise, but his presence was undeniable.

He approached with easy confidence, tail swishing, his voice a resonant growl edged with warmth. "Hero Raymed. Your reputation precedes you."

His handshake enveloped mine—a strong grip, but gentle, as if measuring my spirit more than my strength.

"It's an honor to host such an esteemed human among us," he continued, a hint of a smile on his muzzle.

I bowed my head respectfully. "Your hospitality is appreciated, King Borreas. I admire what you've built here. Your people coexist in a way I've rarely seen—especially between humans and demi-humans."

Borreas's ears flicked, and he glanced around at the bustling market. "Physical strength alone does not define greatness. Humans bring wisdom, knowledge, and strategy—gifts that strengthen us in ways muscles cannot."

Dwargo chimed in, "And their masonry's not bad, either."

Borreas laughed, a deep, booming sound that sent a ripple of smiles through those nearby. "It helps to have a few dwarves around, too." He winked at Dwargo, who grinned.

Borreas led us through the village, explaining how the region operated—a loose federation of clans, each with its own customs and specialties. Wolves and hyenas patrolled the borders, gazelles managed the herds and fields, and the birdsfolk kept news flowing between settlements.

Humans held an honored, if peculiar, role.

They were never rulers, but their counsel shaped every major decision. Borreas made it clear: "We're strong, but strength means nothing without direction. Humans and other outsiders see what we sometimes cannot. Their age brings caution and memory; their learning brings invention."

As we passed a communal field, I saw a wolfkin woman teaching a group of young humans and demi-humans how to weave grain into rope, her patience matched only by her gentle smile.

On the other side, a human sage recited tales beneath a tree, and children clustered around his knees.

I found myself thinking of home, and how rarely such scenes played out without tension, how envy and fear so often poisoned the best intentions. There was still wariness here—no paradise is perfect—but the foundation was respect.

Borreas brought us to his home—a broad, low house of baked mud and timber, surrounded by fields of maize and millet. Inside, the space was cool and shaded, decorated with woven mats, painted gourds, and ceremonial spears hung with feathers. His family greeted us with curiosity and warmth, sharing food and stories as twilight fell.

Over a meal of roasted goat, root vegetables, and spicy greens, Borreas spoke of the challenges his people faced—raids by bandits of unknown origins or the slow encroachment of the desert.

"We don't ignore our scars," he told me, staring into the fire. "But we don't let them rule us, either. The world is big enough for all of us, if we remember our place in it."

Dwargo, licking his fingers, added, "Not bad for a wolfkin. Have you ever thought about opening a tavern, Borreas?"

The wolfkin snorted, but there was affection in the sound. "Maybe in my next life."

After dinner, Borreas led me outside, where the fields shimmered under starlight.

In the distance, drums echoed—a celebration, perhaps, or a rite of passage.

He stopped and gazed up at the moon, his fur glowing silver.

"Raymed," he said quietly, "you've seen much of the world in the frontlines by now. Tell me—do you believe true equality is possible? Between strong and weak, old and young, demi-human and human?"

The question surprised me, and I struggled for an answer.

Even if I am experienced, I still haven't experienced enough.

But even if it was a naive wish. 

I truly believe it is possible.

"I do," I admitted. "I believe it would happen. Every place I visit, I see people trying, and sometimes even if they fall short. What matters most is the trying."

Borreas nodded slowly, his eyes searching mine. "You're honest. That's rare."

We walked in silence for a while.

Later, as we returned to the village center, Borreas invited the community to gather around the fire.

He introduced me not as a hero, but as a seeker—someone who looked for answers as much as he fought for them.

He invited questions, and the villagers responded with curiosity, not awe.

A young girl, a jackal-child with bright eyes, asked, "Is it true you have a sword that shines like the sun?"

I smiled, drawing Blastur a few inches from its sheath.

The blade shimmered in the firelight, shifting patterns across the gathered faces.

"Will you protect us if the demons come?" she whispered.

I sheathed the sword, kneeling to her height.

"I'll do my best. But you must also help each other by looking out for your neighbors."

Borreas ruffled the jackal child's hair, smiling. "A wise answer."

The conversation turned to lighter topics—favorite stories, old songs, the best place to find wild honey. The sense of community was overwhelming, a web of bonds that held the village together.

Later, as the fires died down, Borreas pulled me aside. He spoke quietly, so only I could hear.

"There are those in my region who distrust outsiders. They remember old betrayals. But I see the hope of something better in you—a world where the strong protect the weak, not because they must, but because they want to."

I nodded, moved by his words.

"Thank you, Borreas. I can't achieve a world of peace alone. I hope this means I can gain your favor to help me in the future."

He clasped my hand in both of his, wolf claws gentle but firm. "You already have, Hero Raymed."

As I prepared to depart the next morning, the village gathered to see us off.

Children waved, adults offered food for the journey, and Borreas stood at the edge of the fields, his silhouette outlined by the rising sun.

"Remember, Raymed," he called, "Wisdom is a strength all its own. Carry it with you."

With that, Dwargo and I went to the next region.

***

We crossed into the Spirit Region at dawn, the light gold and silver on dew-soaked pines.

My journey with Dwargo had carried me from green fey glens to the sunburned plains of the demi-humans, and now northward. Towards the land of Canada opened before us, rolling forests and shadowed mountains that seemed to breathe under the morning mist.

Somewhere within, the border melted into a realm no map could truly define.

We climbed through ancient woods for hours, winding ever higher along trails paved with mossy stones and fallen leaves.

Birds sang in languages I could almost—but never quite—understand. The air held a sweet chill, threaded with pine, and an occasional, inexplicable scent—plums, or incense, or cold mountain water.

As we pressed deeper, the ordinary world faded, and I began to sense the otherworldly.

It happened so gradually that I didn't realize we'd crossed over until Dwargo pointed it out. "Look sharp, Raymed. The trees—they're moving."

He was right.

Great cedars and maples bent toward us, their trunks twisting slightly as if to peer down.

Shadows darted between branches, pausing to wave with childlike hands before vanishing in laughter.

The path grew smoother, marked by low blue and gold light lanterns.

Somewhere ahead, a faint bell chimed.

The Spirit Region was less a country and more a shifting patchwork of secret cities, tucked into mountainsides, coiled along riverbanks, hidden behind veils of mist.

Each settlement was a painting—rooftops sweeping like crane wings, wooden gates inscribed with delicate kanji, paper lanterns bobbing on invisible breezes.

The style was both deeply Asian—temples, shrines, stone torii—and wholly unique, with houses that hung weightlessly from trees or hovered on shimmering platforms above streams.

As we entered the first village, a hush fell over the street.

Spirits of every size and shape crowded the thoroughfare—some resembling animals, others crafted from water, wind, or light itself.

One enormous badger spirit, adorned with a woven hat and a string of bells, paused his sweep of the square to stare.

A floating lantern procession coalesced into a humanoid figure, who giggled and waved.

Wisps and soot sprites peeked from under eaves, whispering and pointing.

"Look at 'em all," Dwargo muttered, a bit awed despite himself. "Like a harvest festival back home, only the pumpkins are alive."

"You say that, but you never wanted to go home," I said to Dwargo before laughing, but my breath caught.

There was something so quietly beautiful about it all.

The streets bustled with both orderly and chaotic energy—markets filled with translucent vendors, old spirit women selling bundles of ghostly herbs and woven charms, small ghastly fox children chasing dragonflies that left starlight trails.

The buildings reminded me of mountain villages, but even more fantastical.

Every so often, I'd spot a human—an old man sipping tea in a garden, an elderly woman hanging prayers on a plum tree—always treated with the utmost deference by the spirits around them.

But for the most part, it was I who stood out.

As Dwargo and I strolled through the market, conversations stilled.

Spirits peered at me with unabashed curiosity—some beaming, others wide-eyed with childlike wonder. A blue and glistening water spirit gaped at me and tugged her friend's sleeve. "He's a real human! Look at his hands!" she whispered, as if I couldn't hear.

They weren't mocking.

Their fascination felt innocent, almost reverent.

I smiled, a little embarrassed, and bowed in greeting.

The crowd responded with delighted giggles.

An old wind spirit approached, her eyes swirling like storm clouds, and pressed a tiny blossom into my palm. "For luck," she said, voice barely more than a breeze.

Everywhere I walked, the same. 

A childlike delight in meeting someone so "solid," so… human.

After a while, a small party of spirits approached, each more fantastical than the last: a red-crowned crane-like woman in a silk kimono, a squat frog sage with a gourd slung over one shoulder, a shimmering moth child who clung to the crane's sleeve. They bowed deeply.

"Honored guest," the crane said. "Her Majesty, Lady Alayars, requests your presence at the temple."

I glanced at Dwargo, who only grinned. "Go on, hero. I'll keep an eye on things here."

Guided by my new companions, I wound through narrow alleys, over curved wooden bridges, up mossy stone steps.

At every turn, spirits paused their work to bow or wave.

Children threw petals from rooftops, laughing.

The air was sweet with incense and the distant song of windchimes.

Finally, we reached the temple—a breathtaking structure perched on a ledge overlooking a valley blanketed in fog.

Its roof soared like the wings of a great bird.

Lanterns swayed gently from the eaves, and the mountain breeze carried the scent of cedar and river mist.

Inside, the light was soft and golden, filtered through paper screens.

A great throne sat at the far end, but it was humble, more a cushion surrounded by blooming lilies than a seat of power.

Upon it sat Alayars.

She was radiant in her simplicity—tall, slender, ageless.

Her hair rippled like water, falling in waves of silver and blue.

She wore layered robes that glimmered faintly with every movement, as if woven from dawn itself.

Her eyes, when she lifted them to meet mine, were impossibly deep—full of gentle mirth and endless patience.

"Welcome, Hero Raymed." she said, her voice like wind through bamboo, light yet resonant. "We seldom see humans here, but when we do, we cherish their presence."

I bowed deeply. "Lady Alayars, it's an honor. Your land is… beautiful. Unlike anywhere I've ever seen."

Her lips curved in a wistful smile. "It is our sanctuary, built on centuries of memory and kindness. Our people love humans dearly. Some say we love your kind too much." She laughed softly, a sound like chimes. "Yet few of your kind stay. Why do you think that is?"

I hesitated, thinking of all I'd seen—the warmth of the Fey, the respect of the demi-humans. But here, the divide felt different. I answered honestly, "I think some humans fear what they don't understand. Spirits are… legendary, but legends can be frightening. And I suppose it's easier to stay away than risk not belonging."

Alayars sighed—a sound like leaves in a gentle wind. "It is our greatest sorrow. We would share our world with you, if only you would let us. The humans who remain—mostly elders—come seeking peace in their twilight years, and we treasure them like jewels. But the young rarely venture here."

She beckoned for me to sit beside her, offering a cup of tea fragrant with jasmine and something brighter, wilder.

As we sipped, spirits passed by in a slow, stately dance, their faces alight with curiosity and gentle excitement.

"Are you lonely, Raymed?" Alayars asked suddenly, her gaze piercing but not unkind.

The question startled me. I thought of Kourin, Thalamik, and Carmilla. "Sometimes. This is my first time travelling without my good friends, actually." I admitted quietly.

She nodded. "That is always how it is. But you will eventually meet them again."

We talked for hours, surrounded by music and laughter.

She told me stories. About spirit festivals under the harvest moon, of humans and spirits who had once built villages together, of a time before the worlds grew wary of one another.

I shared tales of my own travels—of Oberon's peaceful glens, Borreas's wise wolf-people, the relentless hope that had carried me across continents.

She listened with rapt attention, occasionally touching my hand in reassurance.

Her presence was a balm, an effortless gentleness that made every fear seem smaller.

As the day faded, she rose and led me outside. The valley below the temple had come alive. Lanterns floated between rooftops, spirits and humans mingling on the bridges, children—of both worlds—racing after will-o'-the-wisps.

"Would you stay for the Night Festival?" Alayars asked, her eyes bright.

I could hardly refuse.

The festival was a miracle of color and sound—drums and flutes, laughter and song.

Spirits danced with abandon, their forms shifting between animal and human, vapor and flame.

Old human men and women joined in, faces creased with joy, their laughter blending seamlessly with that of their spirit hosts.

Vendors offered skewers of roasted fruit, sticky rice cakes, cups of warm sake that fizzed with mana. Children set glowing paper boats at the festival's center adrift on the river, sending wishes into the night.

One elderly human—her hair a snowy cloud, eyes sharp and bright—sat beside me as I watched the revelry. "It's always this lively," she said. "Spirits never tire of celebration, nor of new faces."

"Do you ever wish more humans would come?" I asked.

She smiled, slow and wise. "Once. Now, I'm content. Here, I have peace. The spirits have become my family."

Her words lingered as the night wore on.

Alayars herself danced with the children, laughter ringing clear.

As the celebration waned, she sought me out one last time.

"Raymed," she said, "thank you for seeing us as we are. The world is full of walls and stories that keep us apart. Promise me, as you travel, you'll remind others that kindness is a door any heart can open." She extended her hand towards me.

I took her hand, feeling its cool warmth. "I promise."

When dawn broke, the mist curled through the valley again, softening the spirit world's edges. I prepared to leave, Dwargo waiting at the edge of the market, arms full of spirit gifts and souvenirs.

As I walked away, the streets behind me filled with waves and whispered blessings—some in languages I'd never know, but all with the same hope. Just as I left the misty embrace of the Spirit Region and walked north, a new call echoed within my mind—a voice as old as memory, layered with both command and invitation.

"Raymed, journey north. The High Humans await."

The message settled into my bones like a song I'd heard in childhood, one whose meaning I only now began to grasp.

I glanced back once, saw Dwargo's broad frame waving from the distant treeline. "Looks like this one's just for me, Dwargo," I murmured.

"Gotcha, I'll meet ya back home." Dwargo said.

The landscape changed as I crossed into the Arctic's vastness.

Pines and earth gave way to endless snowfields.

The sky above was a storm-splattered canvas—violet, silver, ever-shifting.

My breath clouded in the cold, boots crunching over ancient ice.

For miles, I saw no sign of life except for the flicker of auroras, their colors whispering across the sky.

As I pressed on, the horizon grew sharper, more surreal—a jagged wall of storm cloud stretching as far as the eye could see.

Lightning crackled and thunder rolled within, yet the air hummed with possibility rather than dread.

Something in the storm called to my mana, urging it to match its rhythm, to find the right current.

I paused at the edge, unsure whether to force my way through or wait.

That was when I felt it—a presence, warm and familiar, like sunlight glinting off gold.

A gentle voice spoke behind me, threaded with nostalgia. "It's you. Been a while since we met. Around 4 months, right?"

I turned.

For a moment, all the worries and uncertainties swirling in my mind were forgotten.

Kourin stood before me, her golden hair loose and flowing in the wind, framing her face in a way I'd never seen before.

She looked softer, somehow, unburdened by her usual sense of duty.

"Didn't expect to meet you here," I said, smiling despite the cold.

She returned the smile, stepping close so that her warmth could cut through the Arctic chill.

"Things have changed," she said quietly. "With new relations between Veuz and Morgwynevere, the Psyteliers have been cleared. We're no longer suspects—Morgwynevere herself decided we did nothing wrong. We were only protecting our own."

I blinked, a little thrown. "Wait. Morgwynevere? But wasn't she the one who forbade you from helping us in the first place?"

Kourin's eyes twinkled with a mixture of amusement and sorrow. "Yes, she was. I don't even understand all her reasons. The High Humans move only according to the plans that she made. Her public reason was that she argued that even if you're only a fragment—one percent High Human—that makes you kin. Therefore, The land of the High Humans is open to you now, always."

I tried to process that.

A part of me wanted to accept the good news at face value.

Another part—the part burned by shifting alliances and cryptic decisions—couldn't help but wonder what game Morgwynevere was playing.

"Strange," I admitted. "I always thought Morgwynevere was strict to a fault. The kind of person who never bends, even if the world splits around her."

Kourin nodded, her voice soft. "That's why you need to meet her for yourself. Speculation only gets you so far."

A shiver passed through me—not from the cold, but anticipation.

"I want to understand her. Not just what she says, but why she says it. Why would she bar you from helping us, then pardon you so easily? Why would she open the gates for someone like me?"

Kourin smiled, her eyes gentle. "Then let's go find your answers. But there's one condition."

She extended her hand. I took it instinctively, and her mana flowed into mine—a warm, guiding current.

"You need to match your mana to the frequency of the storm wall. Think of it like tuning a stringed instrument. Remember how you managed to enter Psytelier Shop's mist?"

I nodded.

Back then, I didn't even know what I did, but now, with Split Flow, I know what to do.

I felt the storm wall's energy—icy, layered, complex. 

With Kourin's hand steady in mine, I closed my eyes and activated Split Flow creating mana channels to control my mana frequency.

A sudden, exhilarating feeling swept over me, as if the wall recognized me.

The howling winds parted, threads of light opening a path.

Hand in hand, we stepped forward.

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What greeted me on the other side banished all thoughts of hardship.

The world beyond the storm was a vision out of legend—a kingdom born from humanity's wildest dreams.

The air here was different.

Crisp, almost musical, every breath tinged with mana so pure it shimmered in the light.

Crystalline towers rose above vast, verdant gardens.

Bridges arched gracefully over streams as clear as sky, and everywhere there was laughter.

The easy, bright laughter of people who had never truly known want or fear.

High Humans moved about with unhurried confidence, their features striking—golden hair, eyes in every shade of blue and silver, skin gleaming faintly under the polar sun.

I felt like I'd stumbled into the heart of a fairytale, yet everything was so vivid, so alive.

Not an illusion—reality at its most vibrant.

Beside me, Kourin's voice echoed—soft and sure, the promise of new beginnings.

"Welcome, Raymed, to Aurealis. Welcome to the Land of High Humans."