Episode Part 12: Battle to Live

  Chapter 038 - A Father

  Days ago.

  “All this time, it was my dream to go to RrodKa because I want to find my real parents who would love me, not you.”

  Vynelor’s words sliced in a way a blade couldn’t. Wallan took a hesitant step after the boy as he stormed into the trees. He took another, then stopped. His hand lifted instinctively, reaching out, before falling back to his sides. The forest swallowed the child, leaving no trace until only silence surrounded the man.

  Wallan stood there in the hush that followed, his mind churning. Slowly, he sat on a nearby stump, shoulders bowed. A heavy weight settled over him, a burden he struggled to carry. He pressed a weathered palm to his forehead, eyes shadowed beneath furrowed brows.

  He sighed deeply, gaze drifting toward the campfire. The rabbit meat Vynelor had caught was still cooking on its makeshift stick, turning slowly over the low flame. Its scent filled the clearing. The small crackle of burning wood lingered. He stared at it longer than he should have. And in the quiet shuffle of the fire, he heard laughter.

  The laughter felt reminiscent, a distant warmth that brushed against him. It drew his attention gently, a touch of serenity he knew too well. A child’s bright smile came into view, light and warm, rolling through the air like sunlit wind.

  Wallan looked up.

  They were there, golden and translucent, like sunbeams shaped into memory. His wife, graceful and serene, knelt in a towering library with their son, their firstborn.

  They stood within a vast, circular tower, a labyrinth of books spiraling upward beyond sight. The shelves curved in endless rings, layer after layer, forming a colossal cylinder of bound knowledge. Books lined the walls like bricks, stretching so high the uppermost shelves disappeared into golden mist. Between them, stories flowed—thin lines of magical script drifting like ink suspended in air, winding from one book to the next in slow, glimmering currents. A river of stories, living ink threading through memory, caught Wallan’s gaze.

  His wife moved with gentle grace, golden hair catching the ambient light. Clothed in a soft, flowing dress, she knelt beside their child as he scanned the endless shelves. The boy’s eyes lit up. He pointed eagerly at a worn, leather-bound volume nestled far above. She laughed, casting a quiet spell. With a soft shimmer, the boy lifted into the air like a leaf on the wind, floating gently toward his chosen tale.

  Then the image shifted—

  courtyards and cobblestones

  —into vibrant life all around. The family walked side by side, their child dashing ahead toward a park. Wallan and his wife sat on a bench beneath the shade of a lone tree. Her head rested on his shoulder.

  Though Wallan remained in the wilderness, with Vynelor nowhere in sight, the ghostly wife leaned against him just as she once had. Her hand brushed his leg. He felt her presence settle beside him, her warmth pressing faintly through the veil of memory.

  “Honey,” she whispered, her voice lilting like a song, “who do you think our son will become when he grows up?”

  That question had followed Wallan ever since.

  He thought of Vynelor again, a boy long ago, broken and dying by the river, pale and still, and a mortal wound carved into his chest. No child should have survived that. But he did. Wallan had watched the body knit itself together. Tendons stitching back into place. Flesh clamping shut beneath rapidly enclosing skin. That sense of wonder returned to him now.

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, staring into the fire. “But he’s still my son. That will never change. And… I’m still his father.”

  “Then, like any father,” she said, “go find your son. No matter how far he’s wandered, he still needs you.”

  She rose without moving her legs as if unseen hands drew her upward. Her ghostly fingers found his and pulled. Wallan felt himself rise. But before he could speak, she vanished. Her form dissolved into the air like smoke in the wind.

  The library.

  The courtyard.

  The warmth.

  All of it faded.

  Only the campfire remained. The rabbit turned steadily. The sun dipped lower through the trees. It had only been minutes since Vynelor left.

  Wallan stared at his boots, then lifted his head toward the treeline. He took a deep breath.

  “Any father…” he whispered again.

  And then he stepped forward.

  Again.

  And again.

  Into the wilderness—

  …

  —Something was wrong.

  Days later.

  His eyes snapped open. His mouth opened too, but his throat rasped, dry as ash. Moments ago, he was running with Vynelor from that elite soldier. He couldn’t recall what had happened in between. But Vynelor was gone. Out of his grasp.

  He searched the clearing, heart pounding, breath breaking apart. The beats quickened, his breathing losing shape and rhythm. He searched, pleading for any sign.

  Then, faintly, a groan sounded somewhere beyond.

  His head turned toward it. A dense wall of trees loomed ahead, lined up like a barricade, dividing him from the trembling voice. But that didn’t stop him.

  Wallan clawed through moss and mud. Half his face was scorched, skin seared into cracked black. Blood wept where the blast had flayed it raw. His back—what remained of it—was shredded open beneath the remnants of his smoldering cloak.

  With a grunt, he dragged his shattered body forward. His arms quaked, blackened hands clawing at roots and stone. A trail of blood spread behind him like ink on parchment.

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  He reached the barricade. Half their branches and leaves were gone. Twisted arms bent unevenly, broken and dangling from the trunks. But the groans sounded clearer. The child was closer, on the other side. He was all Wallan could think of.

  So he climbed.

  One hand, then the next. His feet gave him nothing, so he used elbows, shoulders, and teeth, if he had to. Splinters tore into his skin. Bark scraped his cheek. He kept going, inch by inch, over the wreckage between him and his child.

  At the peak, he threw himself over the edge.

  He fell meters down, landing with a sickening thud. The impact slammed the breath from his lungs. He gasped, coughing raggedly, blood gurgling up his throat. When the shaking stopped, he forced his eyes open. He lifted his head—and saw Vynelor. His child. Crying. Breaking.

  The boy lay sprawled ahead, half his small body scorched and motionless. Steam still rose from the burns. And standing near him was Xollor and his men, watching.

  But Wallan didn’t care. He didn’t care who stood there.

  His nerves howled with a numbness that eclipsed pain, like something inside him was dying piece by piece. His chest scraped raw. His broken hands clawed at the earth like a dying animal. By now, it felt as though more dirt and filth filled his body than blood and organs.

  When he was finally within arm’s reach, Wallan forced himself upright… and collapsed forward. His body fell over Vynelor’s with a heavy thud. His arms stretched out, trembling, but wrapping around the child. He tried to cover as much of the boy as he could, as if his ruined frame might somehow shield him.

  His limbs quaked. His grip was weak.

  But he held him.

  Wallan panted, teeth clenched against the pain lancing through every nerve. Yet a strange calm settled into him. The warmth of the boy anchored him.

  He lifted his gaze to Xollor.

  He stared into his eyes. Then past him, to the soldiers gathering behind, to every figure circling the child. And he did not flinch. Not with the boy in his arms.

  And in his mind—

  He was screaming. Begging. Desperate.

  No words came. His eyes trembled. He couldn’t form a plea. But his stare spoke for him, shaking as it met theirs.

  Do not touch my son. If you want to take anyone, take me instead. Kill me if it spares him. Don’t hurt my child.

  Then the soldiers moved. They came for Vynelor.

  Wallan’s grip tightened. His arms locked around the boy, refusing to let go.

  A boot came down.

  It slammed onto his wrist, grinding bone against stone. The pressure was merciless. His fingers buckled. His teeth sank into his lip to cage the scream. Tears welled, ones he could no longer hide.

  And then…

  He let go.

  “Vyn…” he whispered, his voice trembling as he watched the boy’s limp body carried away. Wallan’s breath slowed. What strength he had left slipped away.

  And quietly…

  He closed his eyes.

  …

  ● System Update ●

  Constitutive Restoration Detected

  Health Restorative Rune — Applied

  + Max Health

  HP: 460 / 460

  Suddenly, all of his senses returned. A restorative rune cracked, and magic curled over him like silk on fire. He felt his body begin to stitch itself back together. Wounds reversed. Pain vanished. Flesh repaired. His nerves steadied. His mind went quiet.

  Wallan gasped as if surfacing from deep water. He coughed violently, spine arching, eyes flying open. Air flooded his lungs all at once. And when his breathing steadied, he realized he was kneeling.

  “If you kill him,” one Groggin said to Xollor, “we will spare you. Your system is bleeding out. Your stats are falling. Death will arrive soon. You don’t have time. Raise your sword. And kill him.”

  Wallan’s heart sank. Blood roared in his ears. His body trembled faintly as he whispered,

  “Where… where is Vynelor?”

  No response.

  A faint smile broke through. His head dipped lower. “I see… As long as he doesn’t see.”

  There was a pause. In his stillness, facing the inevitable end, his mind began to drift. He closed his eyes. At first, he heard only a soft plunk, like a stone dropped into water. Then laughter followed, fainter than before, but familiar.

  He saw himself seated at the edge of a quiet riverbed in the wilderness. A fishing rod rested in his hands. Beside him, Vynelor held his own rod, legs dangling off the rocks. The water moved gently. The wind was calm.

  Then he blinked…

  The scene shifted.

  Night had fallen. They were back at camp. Wallan sat near the fire, coaxing the last embers into warmth. Vynelor lay curled in his blanket, eyes heavy, his body finally surrendering to sleep. They hadn’t spoken in a while, but silence had grown comfortable.

  Then, just before Wallan turned away, he heard it—a hum. The same one he’d heard while the child grew. A gentle presence.

  Vynelor rocked beneath his blanket, humming low in his throat. The tune was simple, even circular. It carried something warm within it. The melody… soothing. A melody that brings hope… huh? he thought. Wallan listened. And before long, he hummed too.

  There, in the stillness of the campfire, they sang together, quiet voices brushing against flame and night.

  Now, in the present, kneeling before Xollor and the ring of Groggins, Wallan sang that lullaby once more.

  His voice was quiet. Gentle. Unshaken. The melody drifted across the clearing like morning fog. The wilderness listened. Birds fell silent. Even the air seemed to pause. Wallan hummed, carrying the sound forward, sweeping the field with an unknowable warmth that bore such weight.

  “Who are you,” Xollor asked, “to that child?”

  Wallan looked up. He stopped humming, and for a moment, the world flickered.

  There, beside Xollor, stood golden, ghostly figures. His wife. His son, Harrick. The woman’s hands were folded calmly. The boy stood with the same gentle posture he always had. They watched in silence—warm, impossible presences in the heart of the moment.

  Wallan exhaled, shaky but sure.

  “A failed father,” he said. “I wish I could’ve told him I was proud. Just once more. But that’s the price, isn’t it? When you can’t protect what matters. So… do what you have to do. No grudges.”

  He lifted his gaze again.

  “I have one favor to ask. What is your name?”

  “Xollor. Tora,”

  Wallan nodded. “Xollor,” he echoed. “I have a last request. Keep the truth from Vynelor. Don’t let him know what happened to his parents. He shouldn’t carry that weight. Let him carry hope instead. Let him believe something good might still be ahead. And… keep my name out of it too. And to all of you—”

  He turned to the ring of shadows.

  “If there’s any ounce of humanity left in you, please leave the child alone. I don’t know what brought you here, or what you’ve lost to stand where you are now, but leave him be. Do not make him a weapon, a monster. He is a child. He shouldn’t lose anything more than what he has already lost.”

  A long, painful silence fell. And when the moment came, Wallan bowed his head.

  Soon after, he heard the final words.

  “Close your eyes.”

  The sword was lifted.

  It rose…

  It went higher—

  and then…

  It stayed—

  and stayed…

  But no swing came.