As Icariel fell at incredible speed, the voice in his mind gave a single command: "Raise your legs to your head and your hands too—protect your head at all costs. You're flexible enough to do it."
"Damn it," he muttered as the wind screamed around him. He obeyed without hesitation, contorting his body midair as a tear lifted from the edge of his eye.
"Please, God... I really wish to live."
BAMM.
The impact tore through him like a thousand hammers. Ice-cold water exploded against his skin, like knives pressing in from all sides. His lungs screamed, clenching shut against the flood. For a moment, it felt like his bones had cracked from the inside out. The world turned silent, distant—and then blue.He sank deeper, the crushing weight of the river squeezing his chest, the taste of blood and river silt filling his mouth.
A door.
Ancient and gray, etched into the stone riverbed, it stood out with its hauntingly detailed architecture: flames and chains carved into its surface like a warning or a curse. Then his eyes rolled back.
Darkness took him.
Morning rose over the lifeless remnants of Mjull Village. Once a peaceful place of laughter and quiet lives, it was now a graveyard—burned, destroyed, dyed in blood.
Elektra sat in a wooden chair, positioned exactly where Icariel had once been tied. Her expression was blank, her fingers drumming the armrest.
A figure emerged—a man shrouded in shadows, his appearance completely hidden. Only a grim smile hinted at his presence.
"About time," Elektra said, a smirk curling her lips. "I was thinking of killing you if you didn't show up soon."
The shadowy man folded his arms, head tilting slightly. "Yeah? Someone doesn't look happy about finishing Galien off and completing her mission?"
Elektra didn't answer at first. The wind rustled through the scorched trees, carrying the scent of blood and ash.
She shrugged, eyes narrowing. "Just had a weird brat mess with my humor. But he's dead now."
The man gave a low chuckle. "He must've been a special one, then."
"Nah," Elektra replied, her voice sharp with disgust. "Just a persistent one. Let's stop talking about this and finish that."
"Sure," the shadowy man replied.
Meanwhile…
Icariel he woke on a bed of scratchy wool, the scent of herbs and damp wood filling his nose. The air was cold, tinged with smoke. Every breath hurt, as if needles danced along his ribs. The ceiling above him was crooked and low, beams warped by age.
"Did I... survive?" he whispered, unsure if his voice was real or imagined.
"Yes, you did."
He thought it was the voice in his head—until he turned.
A short, long-bearded man with barely any hair sat beside him.
"AHH—what the hell?!" Icariel jerked back instinctively.
"You damn brat!" the man growled, landing a light punch on Icariel's head. "That's how you greet the man who saved your life?"
"Huh?! For real?" Icariel raised his hands to guard himself.
"Yes, for real," the man said. "I heard a splash last night. Opened the door, and after a while, I saw you surface. You were wounded, unconscious, barely breathing. I brought you in and treated you."
Icariel didn't fully trust strangers, but even the voice confirmed: "He's telling the truth."
His dark eyes softened. "Thank you... for not letting me die."
The old man looked surprised for a second, then smiled proudly. "At least you're a grateful one. Hah! Don't worry about it. But my granddaughter Fronta helped a lot too."
Just then, a girl entered the room.
She was beautiful—short, straight red hair, dark eyes, delicate features. She looked about eighteen and nothing like the girls from the village.
"Hello. I hope you're better now. You really made Grandpa worry," she said shyly.
"Thanks, I'm—"
"Who was worried about such a rude child who calls his savior a monster?!" the old man cut in.
Icariel scratched his face, embarrassed. "Sorry, but you really looked like one..."
The old man's face turned pure red. "You damn brat! How'd I let you live?!"
Fronta grabbed him with a smile. "He was joking, Grandpa. He was joking."
"But how?" Icariel asked later.
"How what?" the old man replied.
"I never knew anyone else lived around our village. I know every edge of the mountain—I never saw a house nearby."
"What are you saying?"
"Boy," the old man said with a smirk, "you're not on the mountain anymore."
"That's right," Fronta added.
"Our house is beside the river—the Zogonio River. Its beginning is at the top of your mountain, but the end flows here, at the base."
Shock coursed through Icariel. "What?"
He had never approached the river, not because he didn't want to, but because of the legends Chief Helos told. Rumors passed for generations—something was trapped within Zogonio, something even monsters feared.
"Why do you ask?" Fronta said.
"Because... that's where I came from." Their eyes widened in disbelief. "I jumped from the mountain... into this river. I didn't even know it flowed this far."
The old man's brows furrowed. "You're saying... you're from Mjull? And you jumped from the mountain—and survived?! You expect me to believe that?"
"I'm telling the truth! I don't know how I survived. I just—did."
Even Icariel couldn't make sense of it. "Voice... how did I survive such impossible odds?"
The voice answered, slightly tired: "Luck."
Icariel frowned. That didn't sit right.
But even as the word echoed, something deeper in him stirred—like the faint memory of a lock clicking open underwater. A whisper of heat, stone, and flame.
He shivered, then pushed the thought away.
"Huh? What does luck have to do with—" But the voice said no more.
The old man shrugged. "Maybe you hit your head too hard and forgot. But first, you need to heal and fill that stomach. We'll talk more later."
"Fronta, bring him a meal."
"Right away!" Fronta said after she nodded.
"By the way, what's your name, boy?"
"Icariel."
"And what is the name of my savior?" Icariel said with a smirk.
"Steelhearted Groon," the old man answered.
Days blurred into long hours of healing.
Fully healed, Icariel sat by the river…staring into the endless water. His hands—even rougher than before from days of chopping firewood for Groon—traced the fresh calluses along his palms. The old man had protested at first ("You're still recovering, damn brat!"), but Icariel insisted.
After they'd dragged him half-drowned from the river, bandaged his broken ribs, and fed him when he couldn't lift a spoon… the least he could do was shoulder the heavy labor. Since childhood, the rule of Mjull Village had been imprinted in his mind: Earn your food.
He'd spent those weeks proving his worth. Hauling water buckets when Fronta's slender arms trembled from the weight. Repairing the rotting roof beams that Groon's aging knees couldn't climb to reach. Even hunting in the nearby woods, though the memory of crimson fur still made his fingers twitch toward absent knives.
Each task was a silent thank you—one he didn't know how to voice.
Now and then, when his eyes lingered too long on the river's depths, something stirred.
A tug in his gut. A flash of stone—etched with chains and flame.
He didn't know what it meant. Maybe he didn't want to.
"The pond where I fell..."
"Groon and Fronta… they're great people. The best I could have found in that moment. It's the first time I've truly understood—I've left my small, safe place. My village. This is the first time I've stepped outside that mountain."
Fronta was soon leaving for the city to study. Groon had invited Icariel to stay with him while she was away. With nowhere else to go, it was his best option.
"I still don't understand how I survived, but I'm beyond grateful. The voice had gone almost completely silent. Ever since that fall, it had retreated—like it was watching from far away, or… hiding."
"I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was recovering.Either way, I was on my own now. And I wasn't sure I liked that."
A breeze stirred the grass beside him. Icariel watched the river swirl as thoughts drifted in.
"My sensitivity to mana has deepened", he realized. When calm—truly still—he could see more than ever before.
Not just the direction of the flow or its presence in the air, but color. Intent.
Galien's mana, before his death, had turned red—volatile. Elektra's had been darker, controlled. Lethal.
He exhaled. A leaf spiraled from a nearby branch and touched the water's surface, vanishing in the current.
"There's more to this. I'm sure of it."
"Crimson Bears never used mana directly, or maybe I just didn't see it. I've only seen two colors so far. Still, it's progress."
"Two weeks… Galien, Fin, Irela, and the others…They were good people. Chief Helos too. He blamed me—but deep down, he was just afraid."
"I'm sorry. I didn't avenge you. I probably never will. I'm too busy keeping myself alive. I can't lie and say I'm someone who lives for others. I live to live. That's all I've ever done."
"Sorry I couldn't let go of my need to survive, even when others needed me to fight."
A hollow ache pressed against his chest. Yet, his choice never changed—survival.
"Icariel! The food is ready!" Fronta's voice rang out.
"I'm coming," he said, standing up. "At least for now… things are quiet."
BOOM.
The earth itself trembled.