In the end, Da'off remained silent as he worked his magic to erase the traces of the battle. Glenn understood the turmoil within him. Were he in Da'off’s place, he would have felt the same uneasy weight.

  The strange weather did not linger; by four in the afternoon, the skies had cleared. Da'off released all the creatures from the oil painting, dispelled the wind sprites, and returned all other victims safely to their homes. Before departing at noon to erase every trace of Morogen’s presence, he encouraged Glenn and Xili to communicate more, hoping they would one day aid one another.

  Glenn agreed without hesitation.

  Once Xili left, Glenn found himself with free time, his usual teacher replaced temporarily by Meiko. Though only a fourth-tier mage, her knowledge far surpassed his own. She noticed Glenn’s keen interest in crafting magical tools and eagerly shared her insights, blending her expertise with her own perspectives. Under her guidance, Glenn experienced a breakthrough—creating his first independent magical artifact.

  It was a transparent orb capable of emitting its own light, the hue adjustable and rhythmically pulsing with music. A delightful trinket for a party, perhaps frivolous in practicality, yet a milestone of immense progress.

  Whether born of past-life experience or innate talent, Glenn soon crafted several more magical artifacts over the following days, astonishing both Meiko and the young apprentices. While the creations were not intricately elaborate, they were remarkable achievements for someone who had been studying magic less than a year.

  Glenn became utterly engrossed.

  Though he wished he could spend every hour in the laboratory, the younger apprentices regularly pestered him for stories. Out of kindness, Glenn obliged, no longer recounting trivial daily tales but spinning fairy tales instead. In narrating these fables, he felt almost like a preacher, imagining a future where the children, having grown up on his stories, might one day revere him as their guide.

  “…And so Cinderella and the prince lived happily ever after.”

  His voice dry, Glenn concluded the story. The young apprentices, however, refused to let him leave, enthralled by the beauty of the tales he wove, longing to listen endlessly.

  “Glenn, one more, please! Just one more!” “We want to hear another!” “Magic is no fun at all.”

  Having encountered such insistence many times, Glenn chided them with practiced authority:

  “You cannot spend all your time on stories. They are a reward, a respite. Studying magic must come first. Now go, do what you are meant to do. More stories tomorrow.”

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  At that moment, Little Mushroom dashed forward, clutching one of Glenn’s legs, eyes brimming with tears. “Please… one more…”

  How had she learned such a potent form of charm? Glenn felt blinded by its intensity, unwilling to meet her gaze. Her cherubic face, large innocent eyes—few grown men could resist such pleading.

  Seeing Glenn avert his eyes, Little Mushroom shook his leg again, her voice trembling with feigned grievance. “I really want to hear… just one more…”

  Glenn relented. “Alright, just one more, but this is the last. I have much work to complete.”

  “Yay!”

  Cheers erupted from Little Mushroom and the other apprentices. Little Leaf regarded Glenn thoughtfully.

  As he prepared to continue, Little Mushroom approached again, planting a kiss on his cheek before blushingly scampering back to her friends. Glenn touched the spot tenderly, quietly savoring the child’s innocent gesture.

  “Now, the next story is called ‘The Little Match Girl.’”

  A tale of sorrow began to unfold.

  “…In the dead of winter, a lonely little girl braved the cold, selling matches alone… No one bought from her, and she looked terribly pitiful.”

  Sensitive as they were, several children already had tears glistening in their eyes. The sadness, however, had only just begun.

  When the girl glimpsed her beloved family in the faint glow of the matches, some children could no longer restrain their sobs. Little Mushroom and Little Leaf covered their mouths, tears slipping between their fingers. A few boys, trying to maintain composure, furtively wiped their eyes.

  Glenn found it amusing, secretly delighted that his story could move them so profoundly.

  “…By the next day, the little girl was discovered dead, curled in the corner with a serene smile on her lips. People understood that she had spent the New Year with her grandmother.”

  As Glenn finished, the apprentices erupted into wailing.

  “Uh…” Glenn’s head spun. It seemed impossible to calm the flood of emotion. He glanced back and saw Meiko gently wiping away a tear. She caught his gaze, silently signaling him to handle the situation, then departed. Even after centuries of life, she admitted she had long forgotten the feeling of shedding tears.

  Glenn exhaled, accepting responsibility for his creation and its consequences.

  “Why did no one help the little match girl? She was so pitiful, sob…”

  With Lucas absent, Little Leaf—both the oldest and the loudest in grief—led the chorus. Little Mushroom buried her face beneath a large magical hat, repeatedly rubbing her eyes. Others, though typically tougher, could not resist the contagious sorrow. Glenn’s words of comfort were ineffective.

  Finally, he devised a solution. Raising his voice:

  “Wait! The story isn’t over yet!”

  Silence fell. Glenn took a deep breath.

  “The little match girl still had one last breath. Just as she was about to perish, I… I saw her. I had learned the healing arts, and I knew instantly that she was still alive. I saved her and cared for her through the winter…”

  This improvised ending, uncertain as it was, seemed the only recourse.

  “R-really?” Little Leaf choked out.

  “Of course. The little match girl is living happily now,” Glenn assured them earnestly.

  The children finally quieted.

  “Thank you for saving the little match girl, Glenn,” Little Mushroom said, lifting her head with genuine gratitude.

  Glenn’s cheeks flushed crimson, awkwardly waving his hand. “It’s… nothing, really. Hehe…”

  He silently vowed never again to tell children such sad tales—at least not in his own voice.

  Afterward, inexplicably, the children regarded him with a newfound admiration.”