After leaving the cemetery, they returned to the road that led to Promia.

  The walk back felt different.

  Not lighter—but steadier. Like a wound that still ached, yet no longer bled. Reid walked beside Arttu in silence, the boy’s hand warm in his own. The city gates appeared in the distance, stone rising against the sky, familiar and unmoving.

  Brog and Drool stood where they had been before.

  Quiet.

  That alone felt wrong.

  Reid slowed his steps. Getting used to this version of them would be difficult. He had known Brog and Drool for a long time—long enough to confidently place them in the masterclass of irritating. Loud voices, bad jokes, endless noise. He had spent years wishing they would speak less.

  Now that they had, his chest felt tight.

  He didn’t like it.

  Before they reached them, Reid leaned down and whispered something into Arttu’s ear. Arttu’s eyes widened for a moment—then he nodded.

  Without warning, the two of them broke into a run.

  Brog and Drool barely had time to react before Reid and Arttu jumped toward them, arms outstretched. Brog yelped in surprise. Drool staggered back half a step, caught completely off guard.

  “What—?!” Brog started.

  They collided into another hug.

  A sudden one. A messy one.

  Brog and Drool froze again, eyes wide, before laughter escaped them—thin at first, then real. Reid pulled back just enough to grin at them.

  “Why do you both look so shocked?” he said. “Aren’t reunion hugs supposed to be at least six times?”

  Brog and Drool looked at each other, jaws clenched tight as they fought the urge to cry again. Drool snorted. Brog laughed too hard.

  They hugged once more—shorter this time, but no less sincere.

  When they finally stepped apart, Reid cleared his throat.

  “We want to enter the city,” he said. “I assume you’ve heard someone needs to observe us.”

  A voice answered before Brog or Drool could respond.

  “I believe that someone would be me.”

  They all turned.

  A man stood beside them as if he had always been there—wearing a conical hat, a simple sword resting at his waist. His posture was relaxed, but his presence was unmistakable, like a still lake hiding depth beneath its surface.

  “My name is Qinyao Tian,” the man said with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He didn’t look like he belonged here.

  Reid noticed it instantly—not in his clothing alone, but in the way he stood, the rhythm of his speech. Still, Reid didn’t question it. He had learned long ago not to ask such things lightly.

  During his time at the academy, history lessons had spoken often of the east. Of Calanoid’s fractured lands. Of the tyrant Zereth, who had erased the country of Shingia from the map. Of the refugees who fled westward—to Nichiri, Aquilonis, and Tollia—carrying what little of their homeland remained.

  Understanding settled quietly in Reid’s mind.

  He bowed respectfully.

  “It’s nice to have you here, Qinyao Tian.”

  Qinyao blinked, visibly surprised.

  “You know who I am?”

  Reid’s face flushed slightly, caught off guard.

  “I—well—” He hesitated, then scratched the back of his head.

  Qinyao laughed, warm and easy.

  “Hahaha. Don’t worry about it.”

  He waved his hand dismissively, then gestured toward the city gates.

  “Shall we go in?”

  And together, they stepped forward.

  As they walked through the streets of Promia, Reid glanced down at Arttu.

  “Hey,” he said casually, “I think you’ve grown enough to have a weapon of your own.”

  Arttu stopped walking.

  Slowly, he looked up at Reid with a stare so pure and confused it could have been mistaken for betrayal.

  Reid chuckled and tapped his waist.

  “I got my lovely Genusrosa from a shop right over there.” He pointed ahead. “I think you should take a look too.”

  Arttu didn’t respond.

  Instead, he tilted his head… and pointed—not at the shop, but at Qinyao.

  Reid blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  “…Huh?”

  Understanding struck him a second later.

  “Oh—ah—right.” Reid cleared his throat and turned toward Qinyao. “Excuse me, sir. Could you turn your back for just a moment? I think Arttu wants to show me something.”

  Qinyao raised an eyebrow but said nothing. With a polite nod, he turned around, hands resting calmly behind his back.

  The moment his back was turned, Reid crouched down in front of Arttu.

  “What is it you want to show me?” he whispered.

  Arttu lifted his hands.

  Fwoom.

  A brief, sharp sound—like a flame being sparked and extinguished in the same breath.

  Reid’s eyes widened.

  His brain stalled.

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  His soul nearly left his body.

  Arttu’s hands were no longer hands.

  They were dragon claws—scaled, silver, shining, and unmistakably inhuman.

  Reid inhaled sharply, mouth opening as his entire being prepared to scream—

  —and then he forcefully swallowed it.

  “…What,” he whispered, voice trembling.

  Arttu, completely unfazed, shifted his hands back to normal.

  Then claws again.

  Then normal.

  Then claws.

  Like a child proudly showing a magic trick.

  Reid stared, frozen, mind racing at speeds that would have impressed the academy.

  “C-can you… do that to other parts too?” he asked cautiously.

  Arttu shook his head.

  Reid exhaled—half relief, half horror.

  Then reality snapped back into place.

  “Arttu,” he said quickly, lowering his voice, “you must never show that to anyone except me. Ever. Okay?”

  Arttu nodded obediently and returned his hands to normal.

  Reid straightened up just as Qinyao turned back around.

  “Apologies for the wait,” Reid said far too quickly.

  Qinyao studied him for a moment.

  “…Did something happen?” he asked calmly. “You look rather shocked, Sir Reid.”

  Reid’s face flushed red.

  His mind scrambled.

  “Ah—well—yes—no—kind of—” He cleared his throat. “Arttu said he didn’t want to buy a weapon.”

  His voice cracked.

  Qinyao blinked.

  “…That is surprising,” he said, looking down at Arttu. “But why?”

  Reid’s brain went completely blank.

  “It’s because—”

  Pause.

  “It’s because—”

  Think. Think. Think.

  “—because he wants to fight like Sir Baranor!” Reid blurted out. “Yeah. That’s exactly what he said. Totally.”

  Arttu stared up at him.

  Expression blank.

  Qinyao bent down and gently patted Arttu’s head.

  “Oh,” he said warmly. “That is admirable.”

  Reid froze.

  “If I were a child,” Qinyao continued, smiling, “I would probably want to be like Sir Baranor too.”

  Arttu nodded solemnly.

  Reid laughed nervously.

  “…Yeah,” he said.

  Inside, Reid was screaming.

  After a while of walking, Reid suddenly stopped.

  “Oh,” he said, as if remembering something important. “There’s an incredibly delicious pizzeria around here. Should we go?”

  Arttu’s answer was immediate. He nodded—firm, enthusiastic, absolute.

  Reid smiled and then glanced toward Qinyao.

  Before Reid could even ask, Qinyao spoke, a faint, kind smile forming on his face.

  “I am fine with whatever you decide, Sir Reid,” he said calmly. “I am your observer. There is no need to ask for my approval.”

  Reid chuckled softly.

  “Then to the pizzeria we go.”

  The building came into view soon after.

  It was the same pizzeria.

  The one he had once visited with Frigg and Lucius—on a day that had felt so ordinary at the time. The pizza had been wonderful, yes, but the memory of it was tangled with something heavier now. That had been the day Reid had received his own pizzeria as well.

  He walked on as the memories crowded his mind, stacking one on top of another, quiet and persistent.

  Then out of nowhere, a voice called out.

  “Please… assist me with some routs, gentlemen.”

  A man sat by the roadside, clothes worn thin, his eyes clouded and unfocused. Blind.

  Reid stopped.

  He reached into his pouch, placed a few routs into the man’s hand, and continued walking without a word.

  Behind them, the man spoke again.

  “May Shenrog bless you, young one.”

  Qinyao halted.

  Reid and Arttu noticed only when they heard footsteps behind them. Qinyao had turned back. He knelt slightly and placed a hundred routs into the beggar’s hands.

  “May Shenrog bless you,” Qinyao said gently.

  The man bowed his head repeatedly in gratitude.

  As they resumed walking, Reid glanced between Qinyao and Arttu, confusion lingering on his face.

  “…Are you a believer, Qinyao?” Reid asked after a moment.

  Qinyao smiled without hesitation.

  “With all my heart.”

  Reid’s gaze lowered slightly, a quiet sadness surfacing in his expression.

  “Why do you believe in your god?” he asked softly. “In Shenrog?”

  Qinyao looked at him. His eyes didn’t waver—not even for a moment.

  “Because I want to believe in him,” he replied. “There is no other reason.”

  Reid blinked.

  “When I think of Shenrog,” Qinyao continued, his voice warm, “my heart feels lighter. A dragon who warms souls… what a beautiful image, don’t you think?”

  Reid looked down at the stone road beneath his feet.

  “…What if he isn’t real?” he asked quietly.

  Qinyao laughed—a gentle sound, like a breeze passing through leaves.

  “Then tell me this,” he said. “If he is not real, how did my soul grow warmer just now?”

  He let the laughter fade and grew serious again, though kindness still lingered in his eyes.

  “It is not important whether he is real or not,” Qinyao said. “What matters is believing. That is the beauty of faith—it does not demand proof.”

  Reid stopped walking.

  Then, slowly, a faint smile formed on his face. The uncertainty in his eyes softened.

  “…I think you’re right,” he said. “That really is beautiful.”

  They continued toward the pizzeria together.

  After a while, they found it.

  The pizzeria stood exactly where Reid remembered.

  Tucked between two tall stone buildings, half-hidden in their shadows, as if the city itself was protecting it from time. The red sign still hung above the door, slightly faded but sturdy.

  Pizza Speranza.

  Reid stopped walking.

  For a moment, he simply looked at it.

  Seven years had passed since the last time he stood here. Back then, his steps had been lighter. His worries smaller. The world had not yet taught him how fragile things could be.

  They went inside.

  The warmth greeted them first—the scent of baked dough, melted cheese, and herbs drifting gently through the air. Wooden tables filled the room, worn smooth by countless hands and quiet conversations.

  Nothing had changed.

  Or maybe… it was he who had changed.

  Reid guided them to the table by the window.

  The same one.

  The place where he had once sat with Frigg and Lucius, sunlight spilling across the table just like it did now. He remembered how Lucius had complained about the size of the slices, how Frigg had laughed and told him to stop talking and start eating.

  Reid rested his hand on the table.

  The wood was scratched in familiar places.

  He could almost hear them.

  The waiter approached, asking for their order. Reid spoke without hesitation, as if his body remembered before his mind could..

  “The same.”

  The waiter stared at him.

  Once.

  Then again, more slowly—like he was checking to see if Reid was serious.

  “…The same as?” he asked.

  Reid paused.

  For the first time since sitting down, uncertainty flickered across his face.

  “The—” he began, then stopped. His gaze drifted briefly to the table, to the window, to a memory that clearly did not exist in the present. “The usual.”

  The waiter’s expression shifted.

  Not confusion.

  Disgust.

  He looked Reid up and down with open judgment, nose wrinkling slightly as if Reid had just suggested something unsanitary.

  “Sir,” he said flatly, “I've never seen you here before.”

  Reid blinked.

  Behind him, Arttu tilted his head.

  Qinyao watched silently, already amused.

  “I was here,” Reid said carefully. “Seven years ago.”

  The waiter closed his notebook halfway.

  “…Sir,” he said, voice heavy with tired patience, “seven years ago I was twelve.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Oh,” Reid said.

  The waiter sighed, reopened his notebook, and gestured toward the menu hanging on the wall with exaggerated politeness.

  “Take your time,” he said.

  Reid cleared his throat.

  “I’ll… have the cheese pizza.”

  The waiter nodded immediately.

  “Excellent. That must be the most unique choice I've ever seen.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Qinyao finally spoke.

  “That man hates you.”

  Reid sank back in his chair.

  “…I deserve that.”

  When the pizza arrived, steam rose softly from the surface, the cheese stretching lazily as Reid lifted a slice. The first bite was warm and simple.

  And perfect.

  No surprise.

  Just comfort.

  Arttu ate quietly, both hands holding his slice, eyes focused in serious concentration. A bit of sauce stained the corner of his mouth. Reid noticed—and smiled.

  Qinyao ate slowly, respectfully, as if savoring not just the food, but the moment itself.

  They didn’t talk much.

  They didn’t need to.

  Outside the window, the city moved on. People passed. Time flowed.

  Inside, it stood still.

  Eventually, the plates were empty.

  The warmth lingered.

  Qinyao rose from his seat and glanced toward the clock mounted high on the wall.

  He froze.

  The gentle calm he had carried all day cracked—just slightly.

  “…That’s not good.”

  Reid blinked. “What’s wrong?”

  Qinyao stared up at the clock, lips pressed thin.

  “Three hours and ten minutes,” he said slowly.

  Then—very suddenly—he moved.

  He straightened his coat, adjusted his hat, and began scanning the room as if expecting someone to appear out of thin air.

  Reid frowned. “Why do you look like you’re about to be executed?”

  Qinyao swallowed.

  “If Lady Lunia finds out,” he said quietly, “she will roast me.”

  Reid stared at him. “Roast you?”

  Qinyao nodded once, solemn.

  “Burn. Lecture. Dissect my soul with words. Whichever comes first.”

  Reid leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “And how exactly would she know? We’re just eating pizza.”

  Qinyao paused.

  Then he smiled.

  Not wide.

  Not playful.

  But with a calm certainty that sent a faint chill through the air.

  “Lady Lunia sees everything.”

  The clock above them ticked once.

  Reid didn’t laugh.

  He felt as though the city itself had been quietly watching them all along.

  They paid, stood, and stepped back onto the street.

  Brog and Drool were waiting nearby.

  Reid raised his hand first.

  “Take care of yourselves,” he said.

  Brog crossed his arms, smiling wide. “You better come back alive.”

  Drool waved enthusiastically. “And eat more next time!”

  Arttu waved too—small hand, slow motion, eyes shining.

  They turned.

  The road awaited.

  Toward Priscilla.

  The pizzeria disappeared behind stone and distance, but the warmth stayed with them. Not as longing.

  But as something carried forward.

  And with that, they continued their journey.