With Angel slowly integrating into my consciousness—her voice precise and calm like a scalpel—I kept walking through the woods. Each step was a battle between the will to move forward and the exhaustion gnawing at my muscles. The air had the scent of wet leaves, living earth… and solitude. As if the forest itself was watching me with invisible eyes.
I was looking for something specific: bitter peaches. According to William's original memories, they were technically edible, though their taste was something out of a cruel joke by nature. Bitter enough to make you regret being alive—but still edible. And in this green hell, anything edible became a treasure.
Hours passed. The sun crawled slowly above the twisted canopy. Three hours… and I had found only a single bitter peach tree. At first, I didn't dare eat the fruit. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. But as hunger grew, even bitterness started to sound like a delicacy.
Angel, in her calm, calculating tone, informed me that we had covered around fifteen kilometers so far. Caerlin was still two hundred kilometers away. At this pace, it would take three to four days—if I didn't starve first.
Time blurred into shadows and unsteady steps. Another three hours slipped by like ghosts in the trees, and I only managed eight more kilometers. My body no longer responded like it used to. My legs were trembling pillars, my breath a frayed rope. Hunger had become a voice in my mind—cruel, insistent.
I finally gave in.
Before me stood a grove of bitter peach trees. Tall, proud things with their fruit hanging nearly three meters high. I took a breath. My trembling hands reached for the sword at my side. Using it as a support, I clumsily climbed the rough bark, scraping my arms and slipping more than once. If my uncle saw me using his sword like a climbing staff… he'd probably drop dead from a heart attack.
But this sword… it's no ordinary blade. It may look plain, even rustic. But like everything tied to my bloodline, it's forged in pain and sacrifice.
More than four hundred years ago, my ancestors crossed the endless sea, fleeing relentless persecution. Of the five thousand that escaped, barely a thousand survived—mostly younglings and a few aging mages. When they arrived on this continent, they discovered something devastating: there was no mana here. And with their reserves depleted, they were forced to use their physical bodies for the first time in generations.
The locals didn't welcome them. They saw them as invaders. Desperate to survive, one of my ancestors used the last of his mana to annihilate their attackers. Then, he mounted their skulls on stakes, encircling the camp as a grim warning: "Try again, and this will be your fate."
But that warning was ignored. Generation after generation, war returned. And every time, my ancestors had to use what little mana they could recover to repel the invaders.
Eventually, knowing time was not on their side, twenty of the thirty-five remaining elders undertook a suicide mission. With what remained of their magical energy, they struck at the dominant empire of the region. In a single day, they erased it from the map, fracturing it into countless lesser kingdoms. That act of madness bought them precious time. Time to build. Time to survive.
And so, the Rosehart Duchy was born.
Since then, every dying elder faced a choice: use their final strength to strike down an enemy… or to protect the family's future. They chose humility. Secrecy. They hid in the shadows, never drawing too much attention, always afraid their persecutors might find them again.
One by one, they died. Not by battle. Not by sorcery. But by time—the one killer even magic can't stop.
The penultimate elder chose not to go out in a blaze of destruction. He had been a magical blacksmith. An artist. Rather than waste his final breath on vengeance, he chose to create. He gathered the last fragments of mithril, gold, and cold steel. He forged a sword—not for himself, but for his heir. My uncle.
That's the sword I now carry.
A silent relic. A sleeping tool of magic that can only awaken if fed with mana. In a world without magic, it slumbers… yet even in sleep, its edge was feared.
My uncle… was the last true warrior of our house. They said he was unstoppable. That his blade could cut through the thickest armor like butter. But even he fell.
Surrounded by hundreds of archers and dozens of knights, he was slaughtered. It wasn't a battle—it was an execution. And with him… everything fell. The fall of House Rosehart began with his death.
I only remember fragments of what happened next. My grandfather dragging me into the cellar, his hands shaking but determined. He hid me among old crates… then darkness. Screams. Metal. Fire. When I finally emerged, the world had changed.
Corpses, torn to pieces. Flesh and bone scattered like a god's wrath had swept through. And yet, the bodies of my family… were untouched. Not a scratch. Not a drop of blood spilled. As if someone—something—had protected them.
I don't know what really happened. But I have a terrible suspicion.
The last remaining ancestor. The one my grandfather spoke of in hushed tones… I believe he awakened. I believe he used the final ember of his existence to wipe out every single invader. And then… he vanished. Or died. Or both.
It's hard to reconcile that massacre with the gentle old man who once taught me magic. Who smiled when I failed spells. Who stroked my hair while whispering stories about a future where magic would rise again.
Was it really him?
I shook the thought away. No time to dwell.
With the bitter peaches clutched in my hands, I stumbled down and slumped under the tree's thick shadow. After a brief moment of silence—a strange blend of gratitude and resignation—I bit into the first fruit.
The taste… was indescribable. Like swallowing ash soaked in bile. I nearly vomited on the spot. But hunger was stronger than disgust. I ate another. And another. My eyes watered. My throat seized up. But my stomach… it stopped growling, at least for now.
"Angel," I muttered, wiping my lips on my sleeve, "status?"
Her voice echoed inside my mind.
"Vitals stable. Energy levels low. I recommend immediate rest."
I nodded, still tasting death on my tongue.
"Caerlin… awaits," I whispered. "And I'm not dying before I get there."
With my sword beside me, and the memory of my bloodline burning in my chest, I laid back on the damp earth. Night was falling fast. And the ghosts of my past were just starting to awaken.