Chapter 3: The Weight of a Decision

Morning arrived in silence.

The golden light of dawn slipped through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting faint shadows across the small room. Nate hadn't slept. His body ached from lying on the cold floor, but the real exhaustion came from within—his thoughts had run wild all night, over and over, until there was only one truth left.

There was no other way.

He had to go to the Dungeon.

His mother's weak breathing, the helpless look in his father's eyes, the cries of his baby sister—all of it pressed down on him, suffocating.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake his little sister. His father was still at the table, exactly where he had been last night, staring blankly at the wooden surface.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint chirping of birds outside and the distant noise of the waking city.

Finally, his father broke the silence.

"You're really going, aren't you?"

Nate swallowed. "I am."

A deep sigh escaped his father's lips. He rubbed his face with both hands, his fingers trembling slightly.

"You know what happens to people who go in unprepared?" His voice was low, strained. "They don't come back."

"I know."

His father turned his head slightly, finally meeting Nate's gaze. His once-strong eyes looked dull, tired. There was no anger—just exhaustion.

"Then why?" he asked again.

Nate clenched his fists.

"I've thought about everything, Dad," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "We don't have money. No one is going to help us. Mom has one week. That's all."

His father's breathing was heavy. He closed his eyes for a long moment.

"You're just a kid," he whispered.

No.

Nate shook his head. "Not anymore."

His father let out a weak chuckle—a bitter, broken sound.

"That's what everyone says," he muttered. "Right before they die."

Nate didn't respond. He didn't know how.

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then, slowly, his father reached beneath the table. There was the sound of rustling fabric, then something solid being placed on the wood.

Nate looked down.

Wrapped in a worn, faded cloth was a katana.

The sheath was scratched, the leather grip was torn in places, and when his father unwrapped the blade, Nate saw the rust along its edge.

"This was mine," his father said quietly. He ran a hand along the handle, fingers brushing against the worn grip. "Back when I was younger."

Nate's eyes widened. He had never seen this before.

"You… used to fight?"

His father let out another dry chuckle. "No. I was a coward." His fingers tightened around the scabbard. "I went to the Dungeon once. Just once."

Nate's breath hitched.

His father never talked about his past—not like this.

"What happened?" Nate asked softly.

His father was quiet for a long time. Then, without answering, he pushed the katana toward Nate.

"It's nothing special," he said. "But it's better than nothing."

Nate swallowed hard.

This wasn't just a weapon.

It was a story. A past. A regret.

Carefully, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the handle. The leather was worn but firm. Even though the blade was dull, it felt heavy in his hands.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

His father didn't reply.

The weight in Nate's hands was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

He turned back toward the door.

His father didn't move.

Didn't say goodbye.

Didn't stop him.

And so, Nate stepped outside, carrying his father's past with him.