Padrin gritted his teeth and finished his story. "After I was freed, all I did was train to get stronger, to be able to find her. And I finally did..." His voice turned into a whisper at the last sentence.
Celeste stood frozen in the aftershock of the battle, surrounded by her fallen allies and the remnants of the choices she had made. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. Her eyes were locked on Padrin, wide with disbelief. Tears shimmered at the edges, clinging to her lashes, but none fell.
"…It's really you," she whispered at first, her voice almost too soft to hear.
Padrin didn't speak. His body still bore the bruises from the fight. His sword hung low at his side. He couldn't lift his gaze to her eyes.
"I—" she took a shaky breath, "I kept hoping… even when I thought it was stupid… even when I told myself you probably forgot me… I still kept hoping that one day—"
She stopped herself, choking on the words. Her lip quivered.
But then Bral's voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Nobody cares about your fairy tale!"
Everyone turned.
His body was still shaky. He leaned against Tireuz slightly, his severed arm still a raw wound covered only by thin bandages, blood already soaking through at the edges.
He stared at Padrin, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
"You think that excuses what you did?" Bral snapped. "You acted like a damn idiot."
"Bral…" Amukelo said gently, but he raised his voice over his.
"You acted alone. You had the weights on. You knew you were slower, and you still went after them on your own. You didn't wait. You didn't think. And because of your stupidity—"
His voice cracked. "I lost my arm!"
Padrin lowered his gaze. The burn in his eyes from earlier—gone now, replaced with quiet, remorseful acceptance.
"I'm sorry..." he said, barely above a whisper.
But Bral didn't accept it.
He stepped forward, pain in every movement, every inch of his body tense.
"What do I get from you saying sorry, huh!?" he shouted. "You think that fixes this?! I'll never be able to fight like I used to! I'll never hold my sword with both hands again!"
Bral's shoulders trembled, either from rage or pain—or both.
But then, Tireuz stepped forward.
His robe was scorched at the hem. His staff had fresh cracks near the base. He'd bled in this fight too, but his eyes were calm.
"Maybe…" he said gently, "but maybe there's a way we can help."
Bral turned his head toward him, skeptical. "Help? I lost a damn arm. What exactly are you going to give me? A nice funeral?"
Tireuz didn't flinch. "Actually… no. A new arm."
Bral's brow furrowed. "What?"
The healer gave a tired half-smile. "Our guild's been investing in some experimental magical research. One of the projects involves prosthetic-limb enchantment. We've been working with a team in Halvareth—alchemy, rune engineers, and magic theorists. And just recently, they created something new."
He stepped closer and gestured toward Bral's shoulder. "It's not perfect. It won't be the same as what you had. But it's real. A prosthetic magic arm. It responds to your mana. You'll still have to train it, sync it with your nerves and spell control, but… it's capable of channeling complex spells."
Bral stared at him. "You're serious."
Tireuz nodded. "You won't be as limited as you are now with scrolls. Maybe not as powerful as using a full staff, but close. And who knows—if it's refined, it might surpass your past self."
Bral looked down at his severed arm. He didn't speak.
He imagined it—casting fire again. Not as support, not through pre-written spells. But his own magic, flowing from his hand. His own decisions. His own strength.
"…It'll be hard," Tireuz said. "At first. The balance, the sensitivity, the pain. You'll have to relearn a lot."
Bral still didn't answer. His fingers brushed lightly against the cloth wrapping his stump.
"I believe you can do it," Tireuz added. "And if you let me, I'll help you every step."
A long silence followed.
Then, slowly, Bral took a deep breath.
He closed his eyes.
And then, he laughed.
Just once. Quiet. Bitter. But real.
"Damn it…" he said, shaking his head. "I've been relying on those damn scrolls too much anyway."
He looked up, and for the first time since the injury, there was a flicker of that familiar grin.
"I guess it's time I stop hiding behind paper and start growing for real."
Amukelo exhaled with quiet relief.
He'd stood just behind the others, eyes shifting between Bral, Tireuz, and Celeste. He hadn't dared to say a word—he hadn't known what to say. But watching Bral now, seeing that flicker of resolve come back into his friend's eyes, the tension in his chest finally loosened.
Then Bral turned to Padrin.
His voice was steadier now. "But—"
Padrin raised his head.
Bral's gaze was firm, sharp again—but not cruel.
"You're not off the hook."
He pointed his remaining hand at him.
"Promise me. You'll get that arm. Whatever it takes. Because I'm not going to let you sulk your way out of this guilt."
Padrin swallowed. Then nodded once, firmly. "I'll do everything that's in my control."
Bral narrowed his eyes. "Not enough."
"…Then I'll make sure it will happen."
That was enough.
Bral gave him a small nod.
As they arrived back, the cart stood intact, surrounded now by more adventurers—armed and armored, their insignias marked with the familiar wolf emblem of the Stormhold Blades.
The surviving outlaws were bound on their knees beside the cart. Thick ropes, engraved with glowing red runes, shimmered faintly as they reacted to movement. A slight twitch of a hand and the runes brightened with a gentle hiss, tightening their grip.
Genkil, hunched and breathing shallowly. His eyes widened when he saw that all of the comrades they left behind were alive.
"They…" he murmured hoarsely, "…didn't kill any of us."
Idin was the first of Eternal Embers to step forward.
He approached with his usual firm stride, but his eyes locked onto Bral before anything else. His steps slowed.
"Bral…" he muttered, stunned.
Bral stood beside the cart, his left sleeve wrapped in blood-stained cloth. The wrappings were tight, professionally done, but nothing could hide what was missing.
The rest of Bral's arm—gone.
Idin's face darkened. He swallowed hard and lowered his head, uncertain of what to say.
Behind him, Bao stepped out from the group.
She didn't speak right away. Her sharp eyes flicked between Bral, Padrin, the captured outlaws… and then finally back to Bral. Her lips parted in a soundless breath.
"Bral…?" she whispered.
He turned to her with a faint smile. "It's fine, Bao."
She walked faster now, breaking into a short jog. Her eyes brimmed with tears, her breath catching as she reached him.
"What happened…?" she asked, her voice thin, barely holding itself together.
Bral exhaled slowly, keeping his tone calm. "I was just reckless. On the battlefield."
Hearing that, Padrin looked over at him from where he stood. Why wasn't Bral blaming him?
But before Bral could say anything else, Bao stepped forward and threw her arms around him.
She hugged him tightly, her face pressing into his chest, tears spilling freely.
"I'm so sorry…" she murmured.
Bral blinked, surprised.
He looked down at her and let out a breath of a laugh, not mocking—just quiet and disbelieving.
"What are you sorry for?" he asked gently. "You did literally nothing."
"I'm sorey for your arm..." she said, her voice breaking. "How will we keep chasing it—our dream of freedom? Of living by our own choices? What about that, Bral?"
Bral felt his chest tighten, but he raised his right hand and gently patted her head.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "We'll still chase it."
He turned to Tireuz, standing nearby.
"Crimson Directive has a solution, right?"
Tireuz nodded. "Yes. A prosthetic. Not perfect—but close."
Then Bral looked at Padrin, who stood quietly, his face distant, guilt shadowing his features.
"Right, Padrin?" Bral asked, voice light but loaded.
Padrin glanced over, startled. He looked like he wanted to shrink back—but then he saw Bral's face.
Not angry. Not resentful. Just firm.
"Ughh… Of course," Padrin said, rubbing the back of his neck. "We'll do anything."
A few steps away, one of the Stormhold Blades members surveyed the scene. He was a taller man, lean but muscular, with a wolf insignia on his chest plate. He had a blade strapped to his back and a slightly condescending grin as he approached Amukelo.
"So… is it over?" the man asked.
Amukelo turned toward him, nodding. "Yes. These are the last remaining outlaws," he said quietly.
Amukelo's jaw tensed. His voice dropped slightly. "Others are dead..."
The Stormhold adventurer clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No need to grieve, kid. These ones should count themselves lucky they're still breathing."
His eyes flicked to the bound outlaws. Then he glanced at their closed wounds.
"You healed them?" he asked, sounding confused.
Tireuz stepped forward and nodded. "Yes, I did."
The man let out a soft grunt. "Huh. Don't get it, but whatever. Guess your group's more merciful than ours."
"The directive's main team sent word," he added. "They spotted the main outlaw camp. We'll go reinforce them."
He turned back to the gathered group.
"Anyone here still able to fight should come with us. Let's end this."
He looked at Padrin.
Padrin hesitated. He looked at Celeste—silent, distant—and then to his teammates. Then he closed his eyes, reached down to his legs and arms, and unstrapped the weights from his limbs.
"…I'll join," he said quietly.
The man gave a nod and turned to the others—then looked at Amukelo, his brow raised.
"And you?"
Amukelo looked at Padrin's back. At Bral and Bao. At Celeste, Tireuz, and the ropes that bound the criminals they'd fought so hard to bring.
Then he looked and Pao and shook his head.
"No. I won't leave them. Not until they're safely back in Llyn. We don't know if more outlaws are out here."
The Stormhold adventurer raised his brows in slight surprise, then gave a slow nod. "Your call."
Then he turned to Tireuz. "You?"
The healer wiped his hands on a cloth and gave a tired smile.
"I'll go with them. Once we're back, I'll contact the guild. If they still need reinforcements, we'll find a way to return."
The adventurer nodded. "Fair enough."
And like that, the two groups turned from one another—one to press on into the shadows, the other to guide the criminals back home.
The sky had begun to fade from orange to deep indigo.
The cart rolled over the uneven dirt road, its wooden wheels creaking faintly beneath the weight of its passengers. The forest had begun to thin out, giving way to patches of farmland and rolling hills, a quiet sign that they were nearing the outskirts of Llyn.
Amukelo sat near the edge of the cart, his legs swinging slightly off the side, his gaze half lost in the motion of the trees passing by.
He leaned slightly closer to Pao, who was sitting beside him.
He whispered, "It's kind of weird to me… how your sister reacted to Bral's injury."
Pao looked at him, blinking slowly.
Amukelo continued, "I know it's… dramatic, sure. But the way she reacted—it was almost like she was more hurt than he after he cooled."
Pao tilted her head. "Why is that weird?"
Amukelo shrugged. "I don't know. It just didn't seem like they were that close."
Before Pao could respond, Idin, who sat across from them, leaned forward slightly, clearly having overheard.
"Yeah," he said, "but they are."
Amukelo looked at him curiously.
Idin smiled faintly. "Bral constantly messes with Bao, and she always acts annoyed or moody, but they're kind of weirdly attached to each other. If you think about it, they've spent a lot of time together over the last few months."
Amukelo's brow furrowed slightly. "They have?"
Idin nodded. "Yeah. They occasionally go out. You know, like the two of you."
That last line hit both Amukelo and Pao like a cold breeze. They stiffened a little, their shoulders straightening, and both glanced at each other awkwardly—Pao hiding a smile, and Amukelo suddenly avoiding eye contact.
A few muffled chuckles broke the silence.
At the back of the cart, some of the outlaws had overheard the conversation. One of them—a scruffy older man with sun-weathered skin and a chipped front tooth—laughed quietly, muttering, "Cute."
Another outlaw, the hammerman, still wrapped in the runic restraints, looked over his shoulder at Amukelo and said with a dry smirk, "How was I defeated by an awkward kid like him?"
Amukelo, to his credit, didn't respond with anger or even defensiveness. He simply sighed and looked away again, focusing on the swaying lantern light.