The warmth in his mother's voice cracked something inside Lucas—a wall he had long kept fortified. For years, he had trained, fought, endured, wearing a mask carved from silence and resolve. But at that moment, her love—gentle, familiar, and unwavering—slipped through the cracks like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
He reached for his wooden bowl, fingers trembling slightly. The soup quivered in his grasp, reflecting the flickering candlelight and the storm gathering quietly behind his eyes. He took another bite, hoping the warmth would settle the ache in his chest, but the silence around them only made the ache sharper.
He kept his eyes low, but his breath caught when a single tear escaped—silent, sudden, and real. It slid down his cheek and fell into the bowl with a soft ripple. Another followed. And another.
His mother's expression changed. Her hands, still warm from cooking, reached across the table and gently took his. "Lucas..." she whispered, her voice trembling with concern. "What is it, dear? Why are you crying?"
Lucas quickly wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, forcing a crooked smile. "It's nothing, Mom," he replied, his voice hoarse. "The food is just… amazing. You know I'm a sucker for grilled meat."
She tilted her head, unconvinced. "It's good, but not tear-worthy," she said with a soft chuckle, trying to ease the heaviness.
But Lucas didn't laugh. He just nodded, returning to his food, though each bite now carried more weight than flavor.
A name drifted into his mind, unbidden—Iskai.
His vision blurred—not from tears this time, but from memory.
He saw her again. Iskai, standing beside a small fire in a forest clearing, her golden eyes gleaming as she proudly held up a skewer of meat. "I'm making this just for you," she'd said, smiling wide. "It's going to be perfect—no excuses."
The memory clung to him, wrapping around his chest like a ghost of warmth. He remembered how she used to laugh when he burned his tongue, how she used to hold him tight during the coldest nights.
He remembered how it ended.
"Lucas!" His mother's voice broke through the haze, sharper now, filled with panic.
He flinched, blinking as if waking from a dream. The scent of the food, the flicker of candlelight—it all rushed back. He looked up, startled.
"I-I'm sorry," he stammered.
His mother's eyes searched his face, softened by concern. "You were somewhere else," she murmured. "Sometimes... I feel like you're carrying things no child should have to carry."
He tried to smile again, but it faltered halfway. "It's just... old memories. They show up sometimes. But I'm okay, Mom. Really."
She didn't press. Instead, she reached out once more and ran her fingers through his hair like she used to when he was little—slow, steady, and comforting.
"Eat while it's warm," she said quietly.
They finished the meal in silence, but not the same silence as before. This one held weight—memories unspoken, wounds unhealed. Yet even within that silence, there was understanding.
And as Lucas sat there, his heart still aching with memory, one promise echoed louder than anything else:
I will protect this warmth... this peace... no matter what it costs.
Afterward, Lucas quietly excused himself, retreating to his room.
He sank onto his small bed, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling above. Though the present was peaceful, the shadows of his past clung to him like a second skin.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest.
"This pain… it never leaves me."
The ache wasn't just emotional—it was etched into his very soul. A grief he carried from another lifetime. A name rose in his mind like a whisper from the void.
Iskai.
Her face flashed before his eyes—her smile, her warmth, her voice. The phantom of her embrace still lingered on his skin.
"If I ever want to see you again… I have to become stronger. Strong enough to defy fate itself."
He sat up abruptly, a spark of purpose igniting in his eyes. Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a worn, leather-bound book—a relic he'd hidden even from his mother. The pages were aged and torn, filled with techniques, skills, secrets about power that most villagers would never dream of touching.
Lucas flipped through it with practiced hands. His gaze sharpened with every line he read.
"If I master this… I might have a chance."
The candle beside him burned low, casting flickering shadows on the walls. He stood and moved with quiet discipline, mimicking combat stances, refining his posture, training his body while the rest of the village slept.
Every movement carried desperation.
Every breath, the weight of his resolve.
He trained until his muscles burned and his legs gave out beneath him. Collapsing onto the wooden floor, he gasped for air—but the book remained clutched tightly in his hand, open beside him.
---
Dawn came like a whisper.
Golden light trickled through the cracks in the walls, warming his skin. Lucas stirred, eyes heavy, body sore—but his spirit, unbroken.
Without hesitation, he grabbed his bow and arrows and stepped out into the morning light. The air was cool, the world silent.
He walked toward the forest.
His steps were steady, purposeful.
He was done waiting.
---
Deeper into the woods, the trees grew dense, the light dimmed. Birds quieted. The forest grew still.
That's when he saw it.
A dungeon.
Not just any dungeon—but a B-rank one. Its entrance gaped like a maw of darkness, a swirling mist rolling from its mouth.
Lucas's breath caught.
"A B-rank dungeon… It shouldn't be this close to the village."
He stepped closer, heart thudding.
"If I go in now… I won't come out alive. Not yet."
But even as he turned to leave, something shifted in the wind.
Voices.
He froze.
Shadows moved at the dungeon's edge. Metal clinked. Boots crunched against stone.
Lucas dropped to the ground and rolled behind a tree, barely daring to breathe. He peered out from the shadows.
Armored figures stood at the entrance—at least four of them. Their movements were sharp, military. Not villagers. Not adventurers either.
And then he heard something strange.
"He's still alive. They'll be here soon. We must make sure he doesn't remember."
Lucas's pulse quickened. He strained to hear more.
"If he enters the dungeon, everything falls apart."
He? Were they talking about… me?
His mind raced, trying to make sense of the words. Why would anyone want to stop him from entering the dungeon? Why did they sound like they already knew who he was?
A creeping chill wrapped around his spine.
"This wasn't a random scouting party."
Lucas gripped his bow tighter, backing away slowly.
He wasn't ready to fight them.
Not yet.
But this wasn't the end. It was just the beginning.
And deep in his gut, Lucas knew—his past wasn't as buried as he thought.