Change of Fates
Beneath the emerald canopy of the Velmoran Greenwood, hidden behind illusion-wreathed brambles and fog thick with ancient whispers, yawned the cave-mouth known only in hushed rumors as The Maw of Thorns. Few dared seek it. Fewer returned.
Inside, the gloom gave way to blasphemous splendor.
Once a molten cavern carved by ancient fire, the heart of the cave had been reshaped into a crude throne hall—its walls adorned with torn silks, cracked noble crests, and the rusted remains of imperial standards.
The great throne, carved from black basalt and decorated with melted shackles and severed hands, stood elevated atop a platform of fused blades and bones.
Skulls ringed the dais like macabre candles, many still bearing the half-melted gold teeth of their former owners.
Upon the throne lounged a titan of flame and shadow.
Morga of Ashboune, once a warrior-prince of the Cindervow clan—now a branded exile, a [Fangborn] of the Black Chain, a butcher cloaked in stolen nobility.
His muscular frame was cloaked in silks looted from burning villas, his skin marred by fire-scars and ritual burns in the shape of Zhekar's broken ring. His left arm—encased in blackened chainmail fused into the flesh—rested lazily across the throne's arm.
His face, half-shrouded by a brass mask sculpted like a screaming shackle, gave him the eerie look of a crowned executioner.
Torches burned in wall sconces shaped like broken manacles. The scent of blood, charred wood, and spiced oil hung thick in the air, disguising the rot buried beneath the marble tiles.
Before him, kneeling on one knee and scrawling on bark parchment with a sharpened bone quill, was Skarr The Mute—his most loyal subordinate and the only other survivor from his original Chindervow exile.
Skarr held the parchment up in offering, bowing his tattooed head.
Morga took it lazily, eyes flicking across the jagged letters. The silence stretched. Then he chuckled, a deep sound like gravel grinding against metal.
"A golden-eyed child,"
He murmured, voice rough with smoke and old hatred.
"Hair like sunlight. Touched by the Lifegiver herself. They say his gaze calms the soul, that sickness flees from his presence."
He rose, chains clinking like whispers of the damned.
"They call him the Blessed of Elyssira."
He spat the name like a curse, the saliva sizzling on the stone below.
"And they left him to rot in a muddy orphan-heap at the edge of the world. No guards. No walls. Just prayers."
His voice curled into something more... amused.
"As if prayers ever stopped flame."
Morga began pacing, heavy steps echoing through the chamber.
"I remember what those priests said when they cast us out. When they stripped my name, my clan. You're a danger, Morga. You stoke passion without purpose. Fire must be righteous."
He grinned, showing yellowed teeth.
"They called me wildfire. Now I burn on purpose."
He turned back toward Skarr, eyes glowing dimly in the torchlight.
"Gather the Ashbound. Fifty blades is all I need. We strike at dawn's end."
"Take the bramble paths. No flames until I command it."
He descended the dais, kneeling by a small, soot-stained altar to Zhekar, Lord of Broken Oaths —a pile of black rings and fractured shackles bound together with threadbare prayer cloth.
Morga whispered,
"Let me show them what it means to be free."
He stood and added, almost absentmindedly,
"Bring me the boy. Alive. If his light breaks, I'll carve Zhekar's mark into his heart and raise him as my heir."
He paused, then sneered.
"And if not... we'll see how sweetly a child of light screams when everything burns."
Skarr bowed low and vanished into the shadows with the parchment. Outside the Maw, the warband stirred—fifty killers, some masked, some branded, all fanatically loyal.
They had names whispered in markets: Raveler ,Three-Knife Nun, Brek of the Eyeless Dogs.
And now they moved toward one goal.
Branmere.
*****
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶
✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧
⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰
✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢
*****
The wind carried a strange scent that night—smoke, faint and bitter, like damp firewood catching flame.
Perched atop the rickety watchtower overlooking the village's northern edge, Garren, the night guard, tugged his cloak tighter.
The moon hung low, a pale coin behind thin clouds, casting Branmere in silver gloom. His torch flickered. Another quiet shift, another lonely hour.
Then—a sound.
Not the rustle of rabbits, nor the whisper of deer hooves. This was heavier. Rhythmic.
Boots.
He squinted toward the forest path, eyes sharpening.
Movement.
Too many shadows. Too steady. Too wide.
The brambles didn't rustle like that.
Then—a glint of torchlight against metal.
A glimmer of brass.
A figure stepped into view—tall, massive, cloaked in chains and shadow, his face half-covered in something monstrous.
Garren froze.
Then he saw the others. Dozens. Fanning out behind.
Weapons drawn.
No banners. No signals. No mercy.
His voice tore from his throat.
"Raiders! RAIDERS FROM THE WOODS!"
He spun, slamming his fist into the iron bell above his post.
DING!DING!DING!
The harsh toll shattered the stillness of night.
Dogs barked. Windows burst open.
Candles flared to life in every home.
Children cried. Mothers screamed.
Steel scraped from sheaths below.
Garren screamed again, voice cracking:
"TO ARMS! THEY'RE COMING—THEY'RE COMING!"
And from the edge of the forest, Morga grinned beneath his brass mask.
"Let them ring their bells,"
He growled.
"It's a funeral hymn."
***
DING!DING!DING!
The bell's toll splits the silence of night.
"RAIDERS! FROM THE FOREST!"
Panic spreads like wildfire. Lanterns flare to life, boots slap stone, and steel sings from scabbards. Smoke curls from the outskirts. Screams echo near the livestock pens.
From his stone-walled home near the training yard, Joran bursts into the open, half-armored but fully alert.
His eyes burn with purpose as he seizes the Jovianole from its place by the hearth—a massive two-handed blade etched with radiant veins of light.
The metal is worn from years of use, not ceremonial polish. It is a weapon that has tasted blood in defense of the helpless.
"Let it be me,"
He murmurs to the night.
"Let it be me who stands first."
Down a narrow lane, Master Halbric joins him, wind gathering around his feet.
His saber is already unsheathed, polished edge gleaming like a fang. Their eyes meet briefly.
"Square?"
"Square."
They sprint.
***
BOOOM!
A building erupts in flame to the west.
The two warriors reach the central plaza, where chaos spills like a broken dam.
Black-clad figures surge through smoke, wielding mismatched weapons—cleavers, spiked maces, long iron chains. The Black Chain has come.
Joran doesn't hesitate.
"Brightsteel Form—First Arc: Solar Divide!"
The Jovianole slices through three attackers in a single upward sweep, radiant arcs burning the air.
Halbric flanks him.
"Wind Fang —Second Form: Darting Reaper!"
He blurs forward, blade flashing. One bandit falls, then another—quick, clean, silent.
But they keep coming. More and more.
And then—
Everything changes.
The air turns heavy.
The light feels smothered.
Footsteps.
Rhythmic. Slow. Like drums before execution.
A massive shadow parts the smoke.
Morga of Ashbourne.
He wears ragged noble finery beneath dark leathers. Chain-links hang from his pauldrons like fallen oaths. His eyes, beneath a split-brass mask, glow with a crimson gleam. His aura crushes the senses.
In his hands rests a massive two-handed axe, the shaft wrapped in dark hide, the blade cruelly curved and chipped from use. Its edge gleams red in the firelight— Oathhewer Forged with hatred. Tempered in exile.
"So the village has its lions,"
Morga rumbles, voice thick with malice.
"Let's see how they bleed."
His warriors falter, too many dying under Joran and Halbric's blades.
"Tch,"
He spits.
"Weaklings."
He steps forward—and the entire plaza feels like it sinks.
A [Rank-2] presence descends.
The flames dim. The wind stills. The guards freeze. Some drop to their knees.
"Stay with me,"
Joran growls, forcing air into his lungs.
"We hold this line."
"If we die,"
Halbric murmurs,
"let it be with blades singing."
CRASH!
Morga appears in a burst of motion. The Rendwheel arcs through the air like a guillotine.
Halbric raises his blade—
"Wind Fang—Fifth Form:Breaking Cyclone !"
But it's too late.
KRAAANG —!
The impact sends Halbric flying across the plaza. He crashes through a market stall, blood streaking the dirt.
Joran steps into Morga's path.
He lifts the Jovianole, setting his stance deep and grounded.
"Brightsteel Form —Fourth Arc :Radiant Bastion!"
A radiant wall flares with his strike, blinding and holy.
It slams into Morga—
BOOM!
The force rocks the plaza.
Dust rises.
And from within it—
Morga laughs.
"You think light frightens me?"
He snarls.
"I was born in fire and cast into dark. Your light is just something else for me to break."
He charges, swinging Oathhewer in a brutal, full-circle cleave.
SHING —CRASH —BOOM—SNAP —GRRRK — SSSHHH .
Six sounds. The language of ruin.
Joran blocks, but his arms scream with strain. The Jovianole cracks—just a little. A fracture of faith.
They clash again.
Each blow shatters the stones beneath them. Sparks rise like fireflies. The very air groans.
"Why do you protect them?"
Morga asks mid-fight.
"They'll die anyway. I'll sell the children.And enjoy the women before killing them or selling them as well.I'll burn the rest. This is the world we live in, warrior. You just haven't accepted it."
Joran's breath grows ragged.
"Because someone has to hold the line."
"Then break,"
Morga says.
He lifts the both Oathhewer —
Joran braces, knuckles white—
Then a scream from the east pierces the clash.
***
It was a sunny morning. A morning like any other.
After a night of arduous training, Alaric woke up and slipped into his usual routine—playing, wandering through the village, lending a hand where he could.
Though the villagers' treatment of him had changed subtly since his divine awakening, he was adjusting. It still felt awkward at times, but he was adapting better than expected.
Like always, his day ended back at the orphanage. He ate, lounged about, and drifted through the lazy hours until nightfall cloaked the world in silence.
The others slept soundly. Alaric, as usual, began his nightly training under the moonlight.
Everything was going smoothly.
Until—
DING!DING!DING!
The bell rang—sharp, urgent. The signal of danger.
A moment later, a distant, blood-chilling scream pierced the air.
Alaric's head snapped toward the village.Flames licked the horizon. Smoke coiled into the sky from the outskirts. The village was on fire.
His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum. It's here, he thought. The night that will decide everything.
A blur streaked toward the flames. Alaric squinted—it was Joran Hestel, sprinting with terrifying urgency.
Without a second thought, Alaric ran too.
He might not be able to fight. But he could heal. And that, at least, might save lives.
Thanks to his Divine Heart Core, Alaric rarely felt fatigue. Even before his awakening, his stamina had always been oddly high. He ran fast, the air sharp and hot as the smoke grew heavier.
As he neared the village, the screams grew louder. The fire had spread far and wide. It took him only minutes to reach the outskirts, but the chaos made them feel like hours.
A booming crash echoed from the direction of the central plaza.
He rushed toward it, healing the wounded he passed, his hands glowing with soft golden-white light.
The closer he came, the more destruction he saw. The once-beautiful plaza lay in ruins.
The ground was shattered, cracked like broken glass. Craters and deep weapon marks littered the stone.
And in the center of it all—
Joran and Master Helbric stood against a massive figure radiating overwhelming pressure. The sheer force of it could make any ordinary man collapse in terror.
Morga of the Ashbourne.
A [Rank-2] warrior.
Alaric could feel it—an oppressive force pushing down on everything. Yet, strangely, he remained untouched.
His soul trait protected his mind from panic or confusion. His body glowed faintly as the Divine Heart Core pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, cloaking him in a subtle golden-white aura.
As if something deep within had awakened to shield him.
Joran and Helbric were being beaten. Badly. The difference in strength was clear.
The battle paused for a breathless moment as Morga noticed him. The bandit's gaze locked onto Alaric—burning with unconcealed hatred.
But Alaric didn't flinch. He ran forward, focused on the battered figures of Joran and Helbric.
The two men looked shocked—and then terrified.
"Alaric! What are you doing here? Run! Now!!"
Joran shouted.
"I don't know what gave you the courage, but run while we hold him back!"
Helbric barked.
Their desperation filled the air. And yet, even without their warnings, the situation was clear.
"I wish to help."
Alaric said as he reached them.
"You? What can you do? Even both of us can't stop him!"
Helbric snapped.
"You're just a child. You've never even cultivated!"
"Yes, Alaric, Helbric is right,"
Joran pleaded.
"You can't help. Run while you still can. Go!"
Alaric looked up at them, eyes calm, voice quiet but resolute.
"Do you really think he'll let me run?"
He pointed toward Morga, who stood still, watching them with a cruel smile.
"He's not even trying. He's toying with you. With that strength... you already know. You can't win."
His voice, though soft, struck like a bell.
"I think you've already accepted it. You're not fighting to win—you're fighting to stall him. To give the villagers time to escape."
Neither of them replied. They didn't need to. Their silence spoke volumes.
"But is it enough?"
Alaric continued.
"Will they really escape? If you fall, and we're caught... our fate will be worse than death."
He took a breath.
"I don't know what I can do. But I want to try. Even if it means nothing... I want to act before fate erases me."
It was the most Alaric had ever spoken in five years.
For a moment, neither man said a word. There was awe in their eyes—at his bravery, at his clarity, at the soul-deep calm of a child far too young to speak like this.
They felt something stir inside them. Guilt. Respect. Shame.
"...What can you do?"
Joran finally asked with a heavy sigh.
Alaric didn't answer. He simply motioned for Joran to kneel.
Morga watched with lazy amusement, arms crossed. Letting it happen. Letting them hope.
So he can crush it later.
Joran knelt. Alaric placed his hand over his chest, eyes glowing faintly as divine energy surged.
Whirrr.
The Divine Heart Core pulsed, resonating with his will. Golden-white light flowed from his palm, spreading through Joran's body.
Alaric saw everything—how energy flowed, where wounds festered, what needed healing. He noticed strange scattered fragments within Joran, but didn't yet understand what they were.
Joran's body shone with ethereal light. Wounds closed. Pain vanished.
Aura reserves replenished. He stood, whole once more—stronger than before.
Next was Helbric. The same light, the same renewal.
Alaric saw it again—the mysterious fragments. And a realization dawned in his mind. Something important. But it needed testing.
Still, no time.
He pushed aside his wonder and turned toward Morga.
"Done?"
The bandit leader asked with a smirk.
Joran and Helbric said nothing. They simply turned to Alaric and signaled him to step back. Alaric obeyed, though his mind remained deep in thought.
Once he was safe, the two warriors stepped forward.
They took one last breath.
BOOOOM!
The battle resumed with a thunderous crash. A fight not to win—but to protect.
To defy fate, even for a moment longer.
***
In a safe corner of the burning village, far from the brutal clash between the bandit leader and the two warriors, Alaric sat in silence—his small frame curled in thought, his eyes distant.
The echoes of battle raged in the background, but his mind was elsewhere.
He was remembering.
The sensation of healing Joran and Helbric still lingered on his fingertips.
It wasn't just their wounds that had closed. When he poured his divine power into them, something else had happened—something deeper.
Especially when he touched the wellspring of their strength—the place where a warrior's aura is stored.
As his Divine Energy seeped into those core regions, he felt it: the residue of scattered mana, raw and chaotic, floating like ash within their bodies.
His divine power responded—not by purifying or replacing it, but by adapting. It degraded itself—not in weakness, but in gentleness—lowering its form to meet mana where it was.
Not because it had to, but because it chose to.
It broke itself down, piece by piece, until it could weave seamlessly into the fractured mana and slowly reshape it—repairing it, aligning it, and finally refining it into a form that resonated perfectly with their aura.
Not only did it refill their reserves—it elevated them.
Their aura pulsed with newfound strength, clarity, and purity.
His divine power wasn't ordinary.
It was different. Unfamiliar. Mysterious.
'And if I survive tonight...mabe I'll learn why.'
He drew in a sharp breath as another realization struck him like lightning.
How did it happen?
He had only intended to heal their wounds. But instead, he'd healed their whole being—as if his divine power hadn't been given a specific task… and so it had acted on its own, guided only by intent.
Will.
That was it.
He had willed them to be healed. He hadn't defined the limit, so his divine power hadn't held back.
Suddenly, a missing piece in his understanding snapped into place.
All the days he'd spent experimenting in solitude, channeling divine power through his body hoping it would grant him strength—it never worked. Not really.
Because he lacked focus.
But now, for the first time, he had willed something with absolute clarity. He had directed his power with purpose, not vague hope. And it responded.
It obeyed.
He stood slowly, the ground shifting beneath his bare feet as distant explosions echoed through the night. His golden hair fluttered in the smoky wind. The scent of blood and fire clung to the air.
Even if this doesn't work, he thought, nothing changes. But if it does…
He stepped toward the plaza, his heart pounding with a strange mix of calm and urgency.
BOOM!BOOM!
The sounds of battle grew louder. He saw them—Joran and Helbric—bloodied and staggering, their bodies barely holding together. Wounds tore through their armor; blood soaked their clothes. They were still fighting, still holding the line.
Alaric closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
This time, his will was sharp. Focused. Clear.
Strength. Speed. Endurance. Awareness.
He poured every ounce of intent into a single thought:
Make them stronger.
The Divine Heart Core pulsed violently within him like a second heartbeat. Golden-white light erupted from his body, fierce and radiant, blanketing the village in divine brilliance. It cut through the smoke. The cries. The despair.
The battlefield fell silent.
Even Morga, in the midst of crushing Helbric's shoulder with a blow, turned his head.
Alaric opened his eyes.
His amber gaze burned with divine intensity.
He extended his small hand toward the two warriors.
"Sanctifying Benediction."
His voice ethereal, like an ancient melody being played. They were hearing, But not with their ears, but with there very soul.
The light exploded—focused, direct. A current of divine power surged into Joran and Helbric, their bodies engulfed in golden radiance. Muscles mended. Bones realigned. Their strength roared back, and then some.
Their auras flared like suns.
The bandit leader's smug smile flickered.
The real battle was about to begin.
***
After Alaric got to a safe place, the battle between Joran, Helbric, and Morga resumed with renewed vigor.
Something had changed—Joran felt it in every breath, every motion. He hadn't just recovered… he had surpassed himself.
His aura flowed smoother, purer than ever before, dancing at the threshold of [Rank-2]. When he glanced at Helbric, he saw the same transformation in him.
A silent understanding passed between them.
They had become half-step [Rank-2]—standing at the edge of a new domain.
With newfound strength, they clashed against Morga once more.
For the first time, they managed to wound him. Blood splattered from a deep gash across Morga's shoulder, staining his armor.
The mighty Morga—untouched until now—was injured.
It boosted their morale immensely.
But Morga's eyes burned with rage.
"How dare you injure me?!"
ROOAARR!!
With a beastly roar that shook the air, the pressure around him surged.
His form twisted with power as he activated the dark blessing bestowed by his patron—Zhekar, Lord of Broken Oaths.
The blessing fed off his rage, granting him power in exchange for one dire condition: no retreat, not even in the face of death.
He charged like a maddened beast.
BOOM!!
Their weapons collided in an explosive clash of steel and aura. The ground cracked beneath them. Creak—faint bone-breaking sounds echoed, but Joran and Helbric held their ground.
Each moment felt heavier, every breath more labored. Blood soaked their clothes, dripping freely from wounds both shallow and deep.
Still, they fought, pushing past their limits.
They had done their duty. They had bought enough time for the villagers, the children… and for Alaric.
Joran thought of the boy—so clever, so calm. Surely, with Thalen guiding them, they'd fled safely by now. Not many could stand against Thalen, even in his old age.
Realizing this might be their end, Joran and Helbric exchanged a glance. Nothing needed to be said. They both smiled—gritted, blood-stained smiles—and nodded.
They prepared their final stand. Self-harm techniques—one last burst of power at the cost of their lives.
Morga let out a guttural roar and charged again, eyes bloodshot, muscles bulging.
They braced themselves.
Then—
A radiant golden-white light erupted behind them, growing stronger with each heartbeat. It pulsed like a sacred rhythm, mesmerizing and warm.
Even Morga paused mid-charge, blinking against the blinding illumination.
At the center stood Alaric.
His eyes were closed, expression calm, serene.
He raised a small hand, palm outstretched.The Divine Heart Core within him pulsed like a second heart.
He inhaled deeply and, in a voice ethereal and melodic, unlike anything they'd ever heard, spoke:
"Sanctifying Benediction."
FWOOOOOSH!!
A massive wave of golden-white light surged toward them, enveloping Joran and Helbric. For a moment, they were blinded—but their senses exploded with clarity.
Their bodies mended.
Their injuries vanished as if they had never existed.
Aura flooded their cores, expanding, refining, sharpening.
Every sense heightened. The fatigue melted away, replaced by power and focus. They felt weightless yet grounded, divine yet unshaken.
Joran felt his strength stabilize—he was no longer at the threshold. He had stepped through it. [Rank-2], fully. Not borrowed power, not an illusion. It was his.
Helbric mirrored the revelation. The sheer understanding of it nearly made his knees buckle. How could this happen?
But the radiant, swirling golden-white aura around them—the ever-present thrum of Alaric's light—told them it was real.
Joran chuckled breathlessly.
"I take back everything I said about retirement."
Helbric grinned.
"I feel like I just drank ten years' worth of potions. Is this what youth felt like?"
They turned toward Morga—who stood stunned, jaw slack.
"Wh-what is this?! What did that brat do to you?!"
Joran's expression hardened. He lifted his sword and took a familiar stance.
"He gave us hope."
"Jovianole:Ascendant Fang!"
Joran roared, launching forward in a streak of brilliant silver-gold.
Helbric followed, twin sabers igniting with dense aura.
"Saber Form: Starfall Drive! "
They struck as one—precision and force intertwining. Morga barely raised his axe in time—
CLAAANG!!
BOOOOOOM!!
Their combined might sent him reeling, feet skidding through dirt and shattered stone.
Pressure.
They exuded pressure he could no longer withstand. Their combined aura crushed into him like a mountain.
He was a mid-[Rank-2] warrior—but now, against two peak-[Rank-2]s empowered by divine grace, he was prey.
He tried to turn.
He couldn't.
His blessing forbade retreat.
The once-mighty Morga, feared butcher of the Black Chain, stood trembling before a pair of reborn warriors… thanks to a five-year-old boy.
"Damn it!"
He screamed, half in terror, half in disbelief.
And the battle resumed.
Only this time, Morga was the one getting pummeled like a ragged training dummy.
"Should've brought a retirement plan."
Helbric muttered with a wicked grin.
Joran snorted.
"I think he's still waiting for his next paycheck."
Morga screamed as another blow struck his ribs.
They didn't stop.
Slash after slash. Blow after blow.
No mercy.
The air shook with battle cries and explosions of aura, and the village once on the brink of ruin pulsed with the golden heartbeat of a miracle.
Alaric, bathed in sacred light, stood silently.
***
At the same time, Alaric—who was the cause of it all—seemed to be occupied with another matter entirely.
He placed his small hand on his chest, feeling a warm, steady pulse that hadn't been there before.The Divine Heart Core had finally settled in his heart. It finally felt in place. It finally felt like his.
Before, it had always been a gift—something granted to him, something he commanded only because it allowed him to.
Like a child holding the reins of a beast far greater than himself. But now… now it was different. It had become a part of him, something that no longer resisted or hovered beyond reach.
It had merged perfectly with his being, as if it had always belonged there. He felt whole. Complete. Reborn.
No more divine energy spilled from him uncontrollably. No more overwhelming light drawing eyes and whispers.
The Divine Heart Core now rested quietly within him, perfectly under his will. If he willed it, it would move. If not, it would sleep.
And now, his presence was no different from any other child his age. Just an ordinary boy—adorable, harmless. Unimaginably cute.
As he slowly removed his hand from his chest and opened his eyes, everything was already over. The once-mighty Morga, who had torn through the village like a storm, now lay on the ground like a dead dog.
His body was broken, twisted, beaten into an unrecognizable state. A twitch here and there proved he still lived—but just barely.
Near him stood two people, wrapped in golden-white light.
They stared down at Morga, occasionally giving him a light kick, checking if he still clung to life. Then, sensing Alaric's gaze, they turned to look at him.
And he felt it. A connection—soft, unseen, yet undeniable. A ray of light stretching from his chest—no, from The Divine Heart Core itself—directly to their hearts. It pulsed like a heartbeat, shared between them.
With a small wave of his hand, Alaric severed the link. The light faded from their bodies, their glow diminishing.
Their aura and presence dropped, returning to what they once were—Peak of [Rank-1].
Their eyes widened—first in astonishment, then in disappointment. Astonishment, because there were no side effects. No dizziness, no weakness, no pain.
Normally, such blessings left behind a heavy toll. But now… nothing. Just silence. Stillness.
Disappointment came next. The feeling of strength—the rush of power—it had been intoxicating. And now it was gone.
Still, they didn't dwell on it. They knew it must have been hard on Alaric to maintain such a divine gift, even though he acted like it was nothing.
They offered their thanks with quiet respect—Joran heading off to gather the villagers and spread the good news, while Helbric went to search for any remaining bandits.
Left alone, Alaric stood silently, staring out at the battlefield. Smoke curled into the night sky. The scent of blood lingered, heavy and bitter.
He watched it all—scars on the land, the echoes of violence still humming in the air.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked back toward the orphanage.
He wasn't physically tired. But mentally… he was drained. Buffing others had cost him more than magic. It had taken focus, willpower, emotion.
It had taken something from his very soul.
***
After the devastating night that would be etched into the village's history, the people of Branmere began to recover under the firm leadership of Village Chief Helbric.
Some mourned deeply for the loved ones they had lost, while others rejoiced at the simple miracle of surviving another day.
In the orphanage, which now felt unusually quiet, the weight of everything lingered like the smell of smoke after a fire.
In Joran's office, the warrior-turned-guardian sat still for once, reclined in his seat, a faraway look in his eyes.
His usual sharpness was dulled, as if he were still processing the battles of yesterday—not just the one against the bandits, but the silent battle of protecting the children he swore to keep safe.
Knock. Knock.
A soft knock at the door.
"Come in,"
He said, not lifting his gaze.
The door creaked open. A small figure peeked inside.
A boy, around five years old, stepped through the doorway. He gad golden hair and bright Amber eyes. It was Alaric
He walked slowly to Joran's desk and stopped. Joran, a warrior trained to read a battlefield with a glance, didn't miss the tension in the boy's shoulders or the way he stared at the ground, gathering courage like a soldier before a charge.
He didn't rush him.
Moments passed before Alaric finally looked up.
"Father… I wish to leave."
Joran's expression didn't change.
"I see."
There was no surprise in his voice. In truth, he'd expected this for some time.
"I'll arrange a horse, some travel expenses, and dry food,"
Joran said simply.
"For secrecy's sake, leave tomorrow at dawn."
Alaric blinked, clearly startled. He had expected questions, perhaps even scolding. After all, he was still just a five-year-old child.
But Joran—who had always treated him with both gentleness and respect—spoke as if he'd known this moment would come, and had already decided to help.
"You look surprised,"
Joran said with a soft chuckle.
"What, is that not enough?"
"No—it's enough,"
Alaric said quickly, shaking his head with a small, grateful smile.
***
The next morning, as dawn crept over the village, painting the sky with hues of pale gold and soft blue, three figures stood near the outer path of Branmere.
Alaric stood beside a horse, his small form cloaked in a hooded robe that covered his entire body and half of his face, save for his bare feet.
Despite his age, there was a gravity in the air around him—an unspoken understanding that this child was already something more.
Beside him were Joran and Helbric. Neither spoke at first.
Then Joran finally broke the silence.
"Will we ever see you again?"
He asked, voice gruff but steady.
Alaric looked up at him, eyes bright and calm.
"If fate permits… we shall."
Helbric stepped forward, his tone tinged with guilt.
"I wish I could offer you my aura cultivation technique, since you're heading into the wider world. But… it's honestly not suited for someone like you. Would probably hold you back more than help."
He bowed deeply.
"You've done more for this village than most of us could ever repay. I'm sorry we couldn't give you more."
Joran joined him, bowing not as a superior, but as a man offering quiet respect. It was rare to see a warrior like him bow to anyone.
Alaric shifted on his feet, startled.
"Please… don't bow. I only helped. Most of the work was done by you two. I just supported you."
"That support was why we're still standing," Helbric said simply.
With a soft sigh, Joran placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder.
"You've made up your mind, and I won't stop you. Just know… this is still your home."
He pulled something from his coat and handed it to him—a folded, well-worn map.
"It's of the Kingdom of Velmora. I used it back in my adventuring days. It'll serve you better now."
Alaric held it with both hands, then looked up.
"Thank you."
Joran chuckled softly.
"If you stayed any longer… I might never let you go."
With nothing more to say, Alaric walked to the horse. He touched its neck and whispered something only it could hear.
The animal responded with a calm snort, strength returning to its limbs. Then, with a small, practiced motion, Alaric climbed onto the saddle.
He turned once more toward the two men who had raised him in place of the world that hadn't.
Then he rode off into the morning light, the mist parting ahead of him like the beginning of a new story.
Joran and Helbric stood still, watching the silhouette disappear.
"He's gone,"
Helbric murmured.
"Yes,"
Joran replied, his voice low.
"The village will feel quieter now."
"It already does."
They turned and made their way back, the golden light casting long shadows behind them.
—To Be Continued