Chapter 7 — Ashes of Mercy

The scent of scorched wood lingered. Smoke crawled through the shattered streets like it couldn't decide where to rest. Above, the twin moons cast a pale light—one full and soft like bleached bone, the other glowing faintly orange, arc-shaped, facing it like a shadow cast behind a sphere.

Niko stood still.

He didn't speak.

All around him, grief flowed in hushed tones—low sobs, shuddering breaths, the rustle of cloth brushing against stone as people knelt beside the dead. There weren't many people left in Zaria. He counted in his head, almost instinctively. Roughly a hundred. Maybe one-fifty if you included the wounded and those too afraid to step outside.

A small town. A small loss.

So why did it feel so heavy?

A boy no older than ten stood beside his sister's body.

Hands trembling, but no tears. His voice had cracked a few moments ago—but now he was just quiet.

Niko's gaze shifted.

Not away.

He saw a woman bury her face into her husband's shoulder, both of them sitting beside what seemed like their father's corpse. Nearby, a pair of teenage twins tried to pull a tarp over what was left of someone they used to call an uncle maybe?

Niko lowered his eyes.

All these people…

If he had acted faster.

If he had understood Mercy in Panic just a bit more—its sensory haze, those flickers in his vision—he might've recognized the approaching danger.

He could've stopped it.

Maybe not all of it. But some.

Just Enough.

Instead, he'd been reactive. Watching. Trying to understand. By the time his Essentia had spoken, blood had already touched the dirt—He clenched his hands into fists, then slowly released them. The air was too thick to breathe right. Smoke and guilt shared the same weight.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Joran hauling a stretcher with two other men. The older fighter's steps were even, measured. Blood still dried on his arm, his shirt torn, but his expression didn't waver.

Joran didn't need words. When he'd seen Niko lingering near the shattered plaza, he'd only nodded and said—

"Sit this one out. You're not used to this weight."

Niko had wanted to argue. Say he could help. That he wasn't as fragile as he looked. But he'd stayed quiet—And he'd sat. Because Joran wasn't talking about corpses. He was talking about what they meant.

The fire pit was in the center of Zaria—a wide circular structure built long ago, back when the first wave of survivors had made the shelter their home.

It didn't use fuel. Just a silent ring of smoldering runes carved into stone. When activated, it released a clean cremation flame, blue and sharp, eating through the dead in silence. There was no ritual—No priest—Just ash, smoke, and memory. Niko stood near one of the outer support pillars, leaning against it as more bodies were lowered into the pit.

He looked up.

The moons stared back, unfazed. The full one cast pale light over the smoke, while the orange one bled faint illumination into the fog, like a watching eye behind a curtain. A whisper formed at the edge of his mind. Not from someone else. From him.

"Next time… I need to be ready. I won't hesitate again."

He let the thought settle.

Then exhaled.

— SOUL'S REFLECTION —

Essentia Log: [Fragmented Soul Core]

Soul Strain: 69%

Stability: 38%

Essentia: "Mercy in Panic" "Echoes of Cinder"

Sync: Unstable

Note: [Partial Sensory Sync Achieved]

He still didn't know what that meant.

"Unstable."

"Partial Sync."

Fragments. Logs. Glitches.

He still didn't understand the rules.

Essentia was supposed to be instinctual. Or so he figured. That's what he'd observed—how Joran wielded his, how Greed twisted illusion without hesitation. They didn't command their powers like tools. It came to them like a daily activity. Just like he had, that first time, when Mercy in Panic answered him in panic. But if that were true, why did his feel… coded? Scripted? Like a riddle trying to teach him something he wasn't equipped to learn yet?

His fingers brushed against the torn cloth clinging to his shoulder. Mr. Ledo stood not far from the flame. He wondered if the man had seen the damage—the shirt he'd given him earlier, now torn, burnt, and bloodied. How was he even supposed to apologize for something like that?

Niko looked across the square.

Mr. Ledo was standing near the cremation ring. Hands clasped in front of him. Face blank, but the tremor in his throat betrayed him. He'd lost a few apprentices in the fight. He didn't mourn. Just watched.

The little girl—the one Joran had saved—was sitting beside her father near the outer ring. Her legs drawn close to her chest. She wasn't crying either. Just staring at the smoke. Her father's hand gently rested on her shoulder, but his own eyes were raw.

The cremation ring still pulsed with low embers, faint smoke trailing into the night sky.

Niko stood near the edge of the circle, eyes half-focused. The scent of ash lingered in the air, mingling with the cold breath of fog. Around him, quiet footsteps moved—some carrying the dead, some carrying their regrets.

He watched as the little girl stood by the edge, her small hand raised, waving gently at Joran. Joran didn't say anything. Just gave a soft nod in return.

And Niko… just observed.

He knew the wave wasn't meant for him. That kind of warmth—that connection—wasn't something he'd received. She didn't even know his name. And he was fine with that.

Or maybe he wasn't.

Joran moved away from the firelight, speaking with someone nearby. Mr. Ledo—dust still on his sleeves, his gloves smeared with soot. The man looked exhausted, but he stood straight. Niko approached slowly, his boots brushing ash as he neared. Ledo turned to him. His eyes dropped—then narrowed. A tired smile tugged at his lips.

"Looks like that shirt didn't last a day, huh?"

Niko's gaze dropped to the tear running across his side, still stained with dried blood. The fabric looked like it had been clawed apart by something wild.

Which… wasn't exactly wrong.

"…Sorry," Niko muttered. "I didn't mean to ruin it. It just… happened."

Mr. Ledo huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You ruined it saving my life. So I'll let it slide."

He nodded toward the darker street past the burning ring.

"Come by the shop. You can't go walking around in rags. Least I can do."

Niko blinked.

He almost said no. Instinctively.

But he caught the look in Ledo's eyes. This wasn't just charity—it was gratitude. A peace offering. Maybe even a form of closure.

"…Alright," Niko said quietly. "Thank you."

Ledo nodded once and turned to lead the way. Joran fell into step beside them without a word. As they passed the edge of the street, Niko caught movement from the side. A girl stood at the end of a crooked doorway, half-shadowed by the light behind her.

The waitress.

The same one from earlier that day—when things were simple. She smiled brightly, eyes wide with relief, and waved at them both. Joran lifted a hand in return. Niko simply gave a nod, not sure what to do with the warmth in her expression.

And then she was gone, ducking back inside.

The three of them walked on.

—

Mr. Ledo's shop still smelled like sawdust and leather.

The shutters were half-drawn, casting long shadows against the walls. Lamps glowed dimly near the counter, throwing their faint gold across the tools and shelves.

"Come in," Ledo said as he unlocked the door. "Ignore the mess."

He stepped behind the counter, lighting a fresh lantern. "Go ahead, kid. Find something that fits. Should be racks of jackets and boots by the back wall."

Niko nodded, his eyes scanning the place.

The shop was cluttered but alive. Everything here had been made by hand—crafted, stitched, hammered into place. It reminded him of something, but he didn't know what. Just a vague feeling from a time before the silence.

He made his way to the far rack.

His fingers brushed against worn cloth, frayed threads, patched sleeves. Most of them wouldn't survive long in a real fight.

But then… he saw it.

A jacket—leather, dark charcoal with deep gray sleeves stitched directly into its body. It wasn't bulky. It felt like it belonged to someone who moved fast. The seams were tight. Flexible.

He ran a thumb over the fabric.

Sturdy.

Then he found the pants. A dark, fitted pair with faint straps and hidden loops—built for combat. Pockets placed just right for quick access, reinforced knees, even a side-slit holster built into the thigh for a blade.

Not flashy. But practical.

Niko took both pieces off the rack, holding them against himself briefly.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the boots.

Short-cut leather. Laceless, reinforced with subtle steel tips. He stepped closer and tapped one sole against the floor.

Solid.

He glanced back toward Ledo.

"…These okay?"

The old man looked up, eyebrows raised slightly—then smiled.

"Good eyes. Take 'em."

Niko frowned. "You sure?"

"Would I offer if I wasn't?" Ledo stepped forward, gesturing. "You saved this shelter's life today. I'd be a piss-poor man if I couldn't at least cover your back."

Niko nodded quietly, then stepped behind a curtained changing stall near the side of the room. Minutes later, he emerged—cleaner, sharper, more prepared. The clothes fit snugly, like armor disguised as comfort. He looked down, flexed a hand inside the jacket sleeve, then zipped it halfway up.

"…Feels right," he murmured.

Joran gave a small grunt of approval.

Ledo smiled.

"You look like you belong now."

Niko's mouth tugged at the corner. But before he could answer, the door creaked. Small footsteps echoed.

"Ah," Ledo said with a small smile, "you're just in time."

Niko glanced past him.

At the entrance stood a man with a tired face, eyes slightly sunken, a rough apron tied around his waist. And beside him—held close—was the same little girl from earlier. She peeked around her father's leg, then lit up when her eyes found Joran. Her small arms lifted instinctively.

Joran stepped forward and knelt down, catching her with practiced ease. Her head sank into his shoulder. Quiet. Warm.

The man gave a small bow. "I'm Kyle," the man said, his voice rough. "And this here… is my daughter, Mari."

His voice was hoarse but steady. "Thank you... for saving my daughter."

Joran's reply came with no hesitation. "It's nothing. I was just… there when I needed to be."

He gently adjusted Mari in his arms. "I wouldn't leave a little girl behind."

Kyle nodded, lips pressing into a flat line. "Still… thank you."

Mr. Ledo added, "They came by during the cremation. Told me to ask you to wait here if you dropped by. Said they wanted to speak with you themselves."

Kyle scratched his neck. "Also… I figured you might not have a place to stay tonight. If you don't mind, I run an Inn nearby. It's not much, but… the beds are clean."

Joran glanced at Niko.

Niko gave a small nod. "We'd be glad to."

A short while later, they stepped back into the night. Mr. Ledo waved them off from his doorway. As they walked, Mari now rested in Niko's arms. She was surprisingly quiet, but not asleep—her fingers played with a loose thread on his new jacket.

She liked him. He wasn't sure why.

Niko watched her for a moment, then shifted his eyes forward. The soft glow of moonlight painted the fogged path in a pale wash. Their steps echoed softly against the worn stone.

Beside him, Kyle's voice came low.

"My wife... was with her when it happened."

Joran's steps slowed. "I see."

"She tried to protect Mari," Kyle continued, "but… she didn't make it. I don't think Mari understands yet. She hasn't said a word about it."

He exhaled, a tremble barely hidden in his throat.

"I don't know how to tell her. She loved her mother. If she realizes what really happened... I don't know how she'll take it."

Niko glanced down at the girl in his arms—Still silent. Still holding onto his jacket. He gently shifted her weight. She didn't resist.

Kyle added, "We used to run the inn together. Every day. I… I guess it's just me now."

Joran's voice came, softer than before.

"Was... Miss Rida was your wife."

Kyle nodded.

Joran lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry I wasn't faster. She was always kind to me. Always made space for me when ever I passed through Zaria."

He hesitated, then added, "She was my favorite person in this shelter."

Kyle gave a sad smile. "You did what you could. I heard what you and that boy did today. You saved more than just Mari."

They reached the inn a few minutes later. The building stood quiet, its lanterns dimmed low, a wooden sign creaking above the door.

Joran looked up. "So this is your place."

Kyle nodded. "You've been here before, haven't you?"

"Plenty," Joran said. "My favorite spot."

"I remember," Kyle said. "Rida always liked serving you."

They stepped inside. The inn smelled of rosemary and wood polish, faint and clean. Mari finally stirred, rubbing her eyes as Niko set her down gently. She turned, still holding his hand for a brief second—then let go.

Kyle bent to pick her up. She yawned softly, resting against his chest.

"Thank you again," he said, looking between them.

"I'll show you to your rooms."

He led them quietly down the narrow hallway. Opened two doors.

"They're yours for the night. No charge."

"Thank you," Joran said simply.

As Kyle turned to leave, Mari looked up again, her small voice breaking the silence.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Niko replied.

She blinked slowly, then disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

—

The room was small, but warm. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, casting long shadows across the walls.

Niko lay down.

The sheets were stiff, but clean. His eyes found the window. Faint moonlight spilled through the cracks—dimmer now. The fog had thickened. He could make out both moons—though one looked blurred behind the other.

Were there always two?

He didn't know. Didn't care.

He closed his eyes, but the thoughts lingered like smoke behind his eyelids.

I need to learn more.

About Essentia. About this world. About the Nullborns.

If I don't… next time… I might lose more than strangers.

His hands tightened briefly at his sides. Then he let the thoughts fade. Sleep came slowly.

But it came.

---

The first light of morning spilled gently across the floorboards.

Niko opened his eyes, still caught between the quiet ache of sleep and the memory of the night before. He turned toward the window. Beyond the worn wooden frame, he could see the suns rising—two shapes casting twin shadows across the ground. One was full and golden, the other a pale crescent overlaid in front of it. They weren't aligned the same way the moons had been last night.

Right-facing. The suns face right... but the moons... they were left-facing.

Maybe that meant something. Maybe it didn't. But it felt like a quiet law of this strange world—day and night forever opposed, running in different directions.

He sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. The scent of baked flour drifted faintly from below. Silence clung to the room like dust, and it stayed on his shoulders as he reached for his jacket.

When he stepped out of the room, he nearly bumped into Joran.

The man was already moving, boots echoing on the wooden floor as he descended the stairs.

"Ready to leave?" Joran asked without looking back.

Niko gave a small nod. "Yeah." Then after a moment, "Aren't you taking anything?"

Joran didn't stop. "I'm all I need."

Niko blinked. For some reason, that answer felt heavier than it should've. Was his body enough? Or was it something deeper—Essentia? Maybe Joran's power didn't rely on tools or weapons. Maybe he was the weapon.

He followed him down.

At the foot of the stairs, Mari darted toward them, her little legs quick.

Joran crouched and ruffled her hair. She beamed.

Then she rushed to Niko, arms spread. He caught her easily, spinning her once before setting her back down. She giggled, her eyes bright. For a moment, the weight on his chest eased.

Kyle stood near the counter, watching them with a tired smile.

"You heading out?" he asked.

Joran nodded. "Yeah. We'll be back though. This'll be our place anytime we pass through Zaria." Guilt clear on his face.

Kyle's smile faltered but held. "You're welcome here. Always."

Then, softer, he added, "And don't carry the guilt. None of us feel resentment. Not toward you. You did what you could."

Joran lowered his eyes. Niko looked away.

But the words burrowed into Niko's chest anyway. He hadn't done enough. If he had grasped Mercy in Panic sooner—if he had understood the hues, sensed the threats earlier... maybe...

Yod Grade. Was that why? Was it too weak?

Maybe he was asking too much from an Essentia that had only just awakened. Maybe he was asking too much from himself. But that didn't change the fact that people had died.

He needed to understand more. About Essentia. About Soul's Reflection. About everything.

They stepped outside into the fresh morning. A light wind pulled at their clothes. Kyle stood by the door with Mari beside him. She waved, small and smiling. Others gathered near the center of the street. Not all, but enough. Survivors. Quiet nods. A few hands lifted in farewell.

"Come back soon!" someone called.

Niko lifted his hand in reply.

They walked.

As they passed by Mr. Ledo's shop, the older man stepped out.

"You two leaving already?" he asked.

Joran raised a brow. "Unless you've got more clothes to guilt Niko with."

Mr. Ledo leaned against the doorframe of his shop, arms folded, his weathered eyes settling on Niko. The morning sun hadn't yet warmed the stones beneath their feet.

"You heading to Dward?"

Joran nodded. "We'll pass through the Shelter of Wanderers first. Get him a Guild Card."

Ledo's eyes shifted to Niko.

"You'll be seeing a lot of the world soon, I imagine." His voice was quieter now. "If you do... if by chance, you ever meet a girl name ****"

Niko tilted his head. "A girl?"

"My daughter," Ledo said, barely louder than the breeze. "She left five years ago. Said she wanted to be a Wanderer. Thought it was noble. Brave." He looked away, jaw tight. "Haven't heard from her since. No letters. No word. Just... silence."

Niko said nothing at first. He didn't want to offer empty words.

Ledo gave a small, rough laugh. "She was timid, y'know? Scared of her own shadow. But she had this fire in her, too. Maybe it burned too bright. Maybe she changed."

Joran exhaled sharply through his nose. Not quite a scoff—more like a sigh that had lived in his lungs too long.

Ledo caught the sound and looked his way. "He thinks she's dead. Told me so once."

"I said I wasn't sure," Joran replied, tone flat. "World's what it is. But if she's alive... she's got more fight in her than most."

"I like to believe that," Ledo murmured. "Even if it's foolish."

A silence fell. Niko felt it press against his chest.

"I'll keep an eye out," Niko said at last. "And if I meet her… even if she's different now, even if she doesn't want to come back, I'll tell her what you said."

Ledo nodded, eyes glistening—but no tears fell. "Tell her… she's still got a home. That's all."

They said their final goodbyes and turned down the path toward the gate.

There, waiting at the edge, stood the waitress from before—the one from the tavern.

She handed them a small pouch.

"I baked it this morning," she said. "You've done more than you know."

Joran accepted it with a nod. "Thanks."

Niko gave her a short nod too. Her cheeks flushed.

Wasn't she fawning over Joran...? he thought, mildly confused.

They stepped through the open gate. And just as they did—someone else stepped in.

A figure. Hooded. Dressed in black. Their face was hidden, head low. They brushed past without a word.

Man or woman? Hard to tell.

But as they moved, Niko caught a glimpse of a strange emblem sewn into the back of their cloak: A corpse. A hand reaching toward it. And between them, a small sphere of light.

Pure. Unmoving.

He slowed, just a bit. But the figure was already gone.

"Let it go," Joran said. "Long road ahead."

Niko faced forward. "Good. Gives me time to think."

CHAPTER END.