Maxwell coughed violently, blood staining the ground beneath Him. His ribs felt shattered, and his vision blurred.
Arthur turned away with a huff. "You've ruined my mood. I Don't feel like finishing this dungeon anymore."
He glanced at Fay. "Elf girl," he said coldly, "heal him up. And make sure he's not late for tomorrow's raid."
Fay's hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she forced Herself to stay composed. "Yes, sir," she replied, her voice steady, though Fury simmered beneath the surface.
Arthur strode out of the dungeon with Hana close behind, Leaving Fay alone with Maxwell.
She knelt beside him, her hands glowing softly as she began Healing his wounds. Her magic flowed through him, mending broken ribs and torn Flesh. Maxwell stirred weakly, his eyes fluttering open.
"I'm sorry…" he rasped, his voice barely audible. "I know How much you hate using magic."
Fay's expression softened, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "Stop it," she said gently. "You know it's different when it's for you."
When she finished healing him, she sat beside him, letting Out a long breath. "Hey," she said after a moment, forcing a small smile. "There's a new book store that opened today. Want to check it out? My treat."
Maxwell declined Fay's kind offer with a shake of his head And a weak smile. "I just… need to be alone," he muttered, avoiding her Concerned gaze.
Fay hesitated, wanting to press further, but the look in his Eyes silenced her. She sighed softly, nodding before walking away, leaving Maxwell to his thoughts.
Hours later, he found himself in a bar, slumped over a worn Wooden counter. The stench of alcohol hung heavy in the air, mingling with the Faint scent of damp wood and stale bread. Maxwell was drunk beyond reason, his Vision blurred and the world around him spinning uncontrollably.
This was rock bottom.
He muttered to himself, his voice slurred and barely audible Over the din of the bar. "What am I doing? I worked so hard… I gave everything… But I still can't even come close to someone like Arthur. This just proves it. Hard work… it'll never beat talent."
The room wavered, and Maxwell let out a bitter laugh, Followed by a shaky sigh. "I'm begging you… whoever's out there, whatever supreme Being can hear me…" His voice cracked. "I want to matter. I'm tired of being Weak. I'm tired of being a side character."
The weight of his words hung in the air, until he heard a Voice.
"Well, well, Maxwell Palatine."
Maxwell's head shot up, and he squinted to focus on the Figure before him. The man stood out immediately, his appearance jarringly odd. He wore glasses, a red-and-white-striped t-shirt, casual trousers, and Sneakers—clothing so foreign it seemed completely out of place in this world. The man's aura was calm yet commanding, his smile sharp and knowing.
"How… how do you know my name?" Maxwell stammered, his words Slurring.
The man chuckled lightly. "Oh, Maxwell, I know everyone's Name. Yours just happens to have piqued my interest tonight."
Maxwell blinked, his intoxicated mind struggling to process What was happening. Everything else in the room—the bar, the other patrons, Even the bartender—seemed to blur and double. But the mysterious man stood Perfectly clear, as if untouched by the drunken haze clouding Maxwell's vision.
The man's smile widened. "I must say, I'm impressed. Do you Know how long it's been since I've heard a genuine prayer? Over a thousand Years." He leaned forward slightly, his voice soft yet echoing with strange Power. "You have my undivided attention."
Maxwell swallowed hard, the alcohol in his system doing Little to numb the weight of the man's gaze.
"What was it you said?" The man tilted his head, feigning Curiosity. "You're tired of being the side character? Well then, let's fix That."
The man snapped his fingers.
"I'll grant you a protagonist's most important talent," the Man continued, his tone light and almost playful. "But here's the catch—you'll Only be able to use it to its full potential when one of the two requirements Are met, be it to be a hero or when the Odds are against you."
The man straightened, his smile fading into something more Serious. "But be warned, Maxwell. The mantle of a protagonist isn't without its Burdens. Prepare yourself to carry the weight that comes with it."
With that, the man turned and began to walk away, his Footsteps unnaturally silent despite the creaky wooden floor.
Maxwell staggered to his feet, his legs wobbling. "Wait!" he Called, his voice desperate and hoarse. But the alcohol in his system betrayed Him, and he collapsed back onto the stool.
The bartender rushed over, concern evident on his face. "You Alright, kid?"
Maxwell barely heard him. His gaze remained fixed on the Mysterious man as he walked toward the exit. Darkness edged his vision, but he Forced himself to speak.
"Who… who are you?" he croaked, his voice barely audible.
The man paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a Smirk.
"Just a man of culture," he said.
And then, as Maxwell's vision finally gave way to blackness, The man vanished.