New Objectives

Larin stepped into the warmth of his home, his breath heavy but steady. The scent of burning firewood mixed with the familiar aroma of simmering broth. It was a scent tied to memories of safety, of childhood. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was back.

Moimui stood at the hearth, stirring a pot with slow, deliberate movements. She hadn't turned yet, but he knew she had sensed him. The silence stretched between them like an unspoken acknowledgment. Then, without looking back, she spoke. "You are home." Larin's throat tightened. He could hear the relief in her voice, but also the restraint. He wondered if she had practiced those words, preparing herself for his return.

"I am," he said quietly.

She turned then, her sharp, knowing eyes scanning him from head to toe. She did not gasp, did not rush forward. But he saw the way her fingers clenched around the wooden spoon she held, saw the breath she had to force herself to take.

"You are thinner," she observed.

Larin huffed a small laugh. "War does that."

Moimui sighed and put the spoon down, going to him. "Sit. Eat."

Larin sat, too, sinking onto a wooden stool as she set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him. It was his favorite—smoked meat and root vegetables, thick and rich with rice on the side. He'd grown up on this.

For some time, they ate in silence. There were no words called for yet. His mother understood what to tell him and when to keep mum, when to nudge things forward and when to wait some more. Always had. 

Finally, finally, she began to speak, still not moving to look him in the face.

"You take after your father," she mumbled, a bit indifferently.

Larin looked back at her, curious.

Moimui's lips curled slightly, but there was something distant in her gaze. "The way you sit there, brooding. The way you hold things in, thinking you are sparing others from the weight you carry." She exhaled through her nose. "Your father was the same."

Larin hesitated before asking, "You never talk about how you met."

His mother blinked, surprised. Then, a chuckle left her lips. "I suppose I don't, do I?" She took another slow sip of her soup before setting the bowl down.

"It was during the Great War. We were not married yet, only young warriors who were too stubborn to die."

Larin listened intently, spoon in hand, unmoving.

"We met in secret. Just… some moment of solace, getting away from all the killing, getting away from our duty. It was well within the deep woods past Pamchai, down near a tiny river that neither of us would forget. And that night we were not at our guard. We were surprised. End".

Her fingers were tracing the bowl's rim. "We got ambushed.".

"There were three of them—Cosmic Magi, trained killers. They had been hunting us, waiting for a moment of weakness. And we had given it to them."

Moimui's eyes flickered, as if she were seeing it all over again. 

"Your father fought them alone while I was wounded. He didn't hesitate, didn't even think of running. He faced three Cosmic Magi by himself." 

Larin's heartbeat quickened. His father never spoke of this.

"I saw him take a wound to the face," she continued softly. "Saw his blood paint the ground, but he did not stop. He killed one, then the second, and when the third tried to flee, he chased them down."

She exhaled, shaking her head. "That was the night I knew I loved him. Because it wasn't just about the fight. It was how he carried me, how he refused to let fear take root."

She looked at Larin then, her expression unreadable. "That is what it means to be strong. Not just power, but the refusal to let those you love be taken from you."

Larin swallowed hard. He wanted to say something, but the words would not come.

His mother reached across the table and squeezed his hand gently. "You don't have to carry everything alone, Larin. You are not your father. You are you. And whatever burden you take upon yourself, do not let it consume you."

Larin looked down. "I'll try."

Moimui smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "That's all I ask."

That night, having made sure that his mother slept, Larin left. 

He wandered on the streets for a long while, first passing by at snail pace as he took everything in within himself. 

Folks could recognize him and greeted him like a close member of their society, but underneath, there would be this scrunched, tense expression with eyes full of war, getting ready and just waiting for action.

Xiaxo had always been this way. They had been invaded before, long before the Great War, long before the Kirat Empire had named them as theirs. The people were adaptable. They knew how to build a city in weeks and tear it down in days. They could disappear when needed, rebuild when the land allowed.

The children trained, too, small hands gripping wooden spears as they mimed the warriors they admired. But they would not fight, not yet. Not until sixteen. 

He thought of visiting the Underbelly, to listen to the whispers in the dark corners of the city. But he did not go. Not tonight.

Instead, he left the city, moving toward the Spring.

It was quiet, the land humming with something deeper than life itself. It knew what was coming. War would stain the rivers, soak the earth in blood. The Guardian Beasts watched him pass, their ancient eyes gleaming in the dark. 

With [Spirit Communion], Larin greeted them. They responded in kind, their presence pressing against his mind, wordless but understanding.

By the time he reached the Spring, the air was thick with tranquility. The water trickled softly, whispering its song. Wispflies floated lazily, their glowing bodies casting faint light. 

Then, near the Great Tree, Oakenna emerged.

She separated herself from the bark with eerie grace, her green eyes studying him. "Larin."

He inclined his head. "Oakenna."

She tilted her head slightly. "You have been through much."

Larin huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You already know, don't you?"

"Cindris told me," she admitted. "But I wanted to hear it from you."

He hesitated, then sat down by the tree. At first, he said nothing. But then the words spilled from him—slow at first, then faster. He spoke of the warship, of the blood, of his failures. Of the fear.

Oakenna listened, her expression unreadable. But when he fell silent, she reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

"I do not fully understand what it means to be human," she said. "But I know what it means to carry too much. You are not alone."

For the first time in a long while, Larin let himself believe it.

Later, he asked to see the inside of the Great Tree.

As he entered, the space opened up. It couldn't be. And yet it was. The door alone was twenty times the size of the exterior of the tree.

Nature and structure blended in perfect harmony: spiraling corridors of living wood, walls throbbing with slow, steady mana.

Oakenna took him up to a small, plain room. "Yours," she said.

A bed, a worktable, shelves. Plain, but adequate.

Then she led him down to the endless spiraling stairway downstairs.

"It grows as the tree grows," she said. "This is the only completed room for now."

She gestured to the first chamber—a training room. Inside, the air was heavy with mana, a concentration not present anywhere else. "It's reinforced," Oakenna said. "Here you can train unrestricted. The power you will exert will be going into the growth of the tree."

Larin stepped inside and exhaled.

Here, he would train. Here, he would prepare.

Here, he would become what Xiaxo needed him to be.