The sound of nature—no, the brutality of nature—was the only thing I could hear now. Not the rain pelting my skin. Not the thunder screaming overhead. Just that raw, chaotic hum inside my skull, resonating like a constant, primal beat.
I shifted my focus to Forza again, trying to grasp what the Cooldown process looked like from the outside. What it felt like. I'd been around mages as strong as her—maybe even stronger, if I counted Dargan and Rartar. But those two? Saints don't show their strength. They don't flex their mana. They don't need to.
It's how they are—quiet giants cloaked in mystery. Always walking a step behind, always hiding their cards and abilities.
Even Mercy and Edward, despite how close I am to them, never truly went all-out in front of me. Never revealed the burden of their magic—how they coped with the toll their minds paid, casting complex, multi-layered elemental spells. I used to wonder how they made it look easy. But now, watching Forza, I understood: they didn't. They just hid it better, it was taxing for them as well.
Elemental mages carry a heavier weight. The deeper your affinity, the more you pull from nature, the more your brain has to calculate, stabilise, and command. It's like juggling fire, ice, and Earth while your skull burns from the inside out... It's why those with elemental natures are both revered… and feared.
Their power is divine. But the cost?
Sometimes, devastating.
I sighed, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
What the hell am I even doing here?
If I had to distil everything down to a single word, it'd be misery. That's it. Misery. Wrapped in damp wool and thunder, choking on the stink of rotting leaves and wet swamp.
I'd be lying if I said this mission was worth it. It isn't. Not even close. The weather was—and still is—a cursed orchestra of madness. Winds that screech like banshees. Rain that slaps sideways like it holds a personal grudge. The ground itself has become a flooded graveyard of sinking roots and hidden holes, forming shallow swamps about a meter deep if my judgment's right, which I don't care about anymore... I don't intend to fight in these conditions.
Thunder's crescendoing now. Not random anymore. Not nature's tantrum. It sounds like warnings—as if the sky itself is growling a prelude to something foul and unnatural just over the horizon.
How did I end up voluntarily in this mess? For whom, again? I asked myself as my eye focused elsewhere, not trying to stare at Forza for long... Even shifting my focus elsewhere painfully reminded me of my loss... My vision, the massive dark blindspot I'll carry forever.
I clenched my jaw. I hated this part—the self-reflection that came only when the chaos slowed down. It always did. I always circled back to this moment. Even during the Valgura Raid, I never second-guessed myself like this. That mission was reckless, yes, but at least I walked in with a clear purpose. My instincts weren't against me back then. I was sharp. Calm. Focused. And the Valgura? It was terrifying, sure, but I didn't flinch. I accepted what might happen. Death wasn't a surprise. It was part of the equation.
This though? This is something else.
Valgura was a gamble—a calculated one. It paid off. Barely. If Mercy had been a minute late... I would've died. Or worse—crushed beneath that humanoid nightmare. But I lived. I got stronger. I upgraded my armour, refined my techniques and my Telekinesis. And those upgrades paid off later. They saved me from that Wraith. So yeah, I'd do that one again.
But this mission?
This mission never sat right with me.
From the moment I heard it, from the moment Forza asked… something in me said no, loudly, multiple times. That soft voice, the one that's saved my life more times than I can count, warned me, without a single hint of its usual softness. Told me to back out. But I ignored it.
I ignored myself.
And why?
Because of Forza? Probably... Because of her name, her influence, her web of connections that I knew I'd get entangled in anyway, especially if she chose to go solo. And she would have. With or without me. I didn't follow her out of loyalty. I followed her because I knew what would happen if I didn't.
She wouldn't have ratted me out.
But Roid would've.
He was there when she and I spoke. If I'd backed out, if she'd failed alone, I'd be marked. Branded the one who abandoned her. The one who betrayed Roid's "young master" and the sole heir of the Walkins.
And if there's one thing I don't need right now… It's that kind of attention.
Even now, my cloak—designed to repel mana-soaked weather—was failing. It hung between us, sagging like a waterlogged tarp, sheltering us from only some of the rain. Not enough. The winds had shifted again, cutting through like daggers in a cyclone's spiral. Every time I adjusted the angle, a new gust slapped the water sideways and soaked us from a different direction.
We were dry in patches. Damp everywhere else.
This is what I get, this is what I deserve, I thought, staring blankly at the distorted reflection of lightning in the shallow pool forming near my boot, for following instinct's shadow instead of its voice.
I glanced at Forza again. Still in cooldown. Still silent. Still trusting the very person mentally unravelling beside her.
She didn't ask questions. Didn't thank me. Didn't offer comfort or share a plan.
And yet, for some reason, I didn't walk away, not yet, not without her following me.
***
"..."
CLICK!
That sharp snap of fingers sliced through the fog in my brain like a knife. I blinked. Once. Twice. My breath caught as I jolted upright, spine stiffening with instinct.
How long was I out? An hour? Or maybe less?
I was zoned out, most likely. A full dissociation, maybe. That… rarely happens. Seldom. And yet here I was, drenched in cold, widened eye, trying to ground myself. I rubbed my eye reflexively—rough fingers against soaked lashes, the small warmth oddly comforting in this frostbitten hellhole we were pretending was still part of the Outer Rims.
Forza sat opposite me, still and composed. Her back straight, posture elegant, eyes open but unreadable. Her breathing was even, unnervingly so—and yet I felt her presence. A subtle weight to it. Quiet intensity. Like a taut bowstring held just shy of release.
"What were you thinking?" she asked. Her voice had softened—warmer, more casual now, no longer clipped and clinical like before. "You seemed… locked in a deep thought process."
I shrugged, trying to mask the exhaustion dragging behind my eyes. "Nothing, really," I muttered. "Just soaking in this paradise. Admiring the beauty of the Outer Rims in monsoon season... how charming it is."
It wasn't sarcastic. Not fully. More of a reflex—a cocky deflection wrapped in wet, bone-deep fatigue. Maybe part of me wanted her to call it out. But she didn't.
She tilted her head slightly. "You're really regretting this, aren't you?"
Her tone didn't change. It stayed calm. Considerate. Which, somehow, made it worse. Made me feel worse. She wasn't mocking me. She wasn't angry. She sounded… human.
I looked down and shook my head sideways. Not a full no, but not a yes either. It was deliberate. Slower than it needed to be. My thoughts refused to bail me out. My brain, it seemed, was just as done with this mission as I was.
And then she said it.
"So... you're regretting coming here. With me?"
There was no accusation in her voice. No guilt-tripping. Just quiet curiosity. An observation wrapped in the fragility of someone who had already prepared for the answer to hurt.
I didn't speak. Just lowered my head again, biting back the wave of bitterness threatening to rise up and spill into words.
No, I can't blame her. I won't. I knew what this mission was. I knew what she was. This was my decision. My mistake. My consequence.
Still staring at the ground, I finally breathed, "Can I ask you something? Something personal?"
She blinked, caught off guard. Her eyes flickered—faintly wide, like I'd just asked her to marry me under the thundering skies. That look of uncertainty passed across her face like a storm cloud, but after a moment, she nodded slowly.
"Hmm," she said, quiet and unsure.
I didn't hesitate. "What's inside you that's pushing you so hard into this madness, this nonsense?" I asked. "Because I don't believe it's just the Central Region exam. Or some research-based thesis. This… obsession? It's beyond academics. What is it really, Forza? What are you hiding?"
There was a pause. Long. Heavy. I half-expected a slap, a scoff, some noblewoman's tantrum about respect and privacy. Maybe even a flare of magic to put me in my place.
Instead, she just stared.
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak. Not right away. Her eyes didn't flare with rage or indignation—they shimmered with something else. Something more dangerous.
Vulnerability.
"...First of all," she began—voice low, and trembling just enough to notice, "it's not nonsense."
Her tone shifted as she spoke, a quiet venom curling beneath the words.
"My dream... my fucking purpose is not nonsense."
She hissed the words like they were weapons she'd sharpened long ago—ones she never got to use. Her fingers clenched the edge of her cloak as thunder cracked overhead.
I stared, unflinching.
I didn't apologise. Couldn't. Not without knowing the truth behind those words. Not without understanding why she was willing to chase this path through storms and danger and meltdown, just to reach whatever was waiting for her on the other side.
And somehow, that silence between us was louder than the storm for the moment.
"…It's not just a dream," she said, her voice quieter now, stripped of pride, of command. "It's a promise. One I made to myself… when I was twelve."
So, it finally came to this, huh?
She was opening up...
This will do, I thought silently. If I can just understand her reasoning, the core of her madness… maybe I can build a way out of this mess. Maybe I won't have to rely on or face that imaginary Chimaera she keeps chasing, which I now hope doesn't find us first.
Her eyes didn't meet mine as she continued. Her gaze was somewhere else, distant, fogged in memory. Not by choice, but by force.
"I wasn't always the sole heir of the Walkins." She breathed in slowly, then let it out like something weighed her lungs down. "I had a younger brother. Four years younger than me."
A beat of silence.
"His name was Cris."
She didn't pause for pity. She paused because saying his name aloud hurt more than she expected.
"…He was the centre of it all. Attention, affection, joy. My parents?" She smiled bitterly. "They adored him. Not just the typical 'we love our son' kind of affection. I mean… real love. The kind that glows. The kind that needs no reason, no explanation."
She finally looked at me, but didn't see me. Her eyes were burning through the rain, back through time.
"Unlike most people… including you, I suppose… I knew what true love looked like. Not because I felt it. No." Her voice cracked slightly. "Because I observed it. From afar. I watched it bloom across their faces when they were with him. I studied it like a foreign language—one I was never meant to speak."
"That smile that lights up without warning. That softness in their eyes. That quiet instinct to hold, to protect, to praise. I saw all of it… from the outside..." She paused for a second, then murmured something to herself, "Of course you'd know." That's what I think were her words before she resumed.
"They used to forget my birthdays." She laughed. A dry, hollow thing. "Didn't even fake interest in the things I liked. My books, my training, my attempts at spellcasting—none of it mattered. All they cared about… was the world orbiting around Cris."
I didn't speak. I didn't interrupt. The silence between us wasn't awkward. It was sacred. Heavy.
"…Why?" I asked finally, softly.
She glanced at me for a second, as if deciding whether I deserved to know. Then she returned to her story.
"At first, when I was too little to understand, I blamed myself. I thought maybe I was too loud. Too boring. Too… just a girl. Not special enough. Not lovable. I'd cry in corners when no one was around. Beg silently for scraps—just a moment of their time, even if it was when Cris was away."
She shook her head.
"But they wouldn't even spare that. They dressed me. Fed me. But I wasn't seen. I was… background. A shadow. A spare they forgot to dispose of."
The rain fell harder then, or maybe I just noticed it more. It had stopped being a storm. It was now… a backdrop.
"And then I grew up. Far too quickly." Her voice lowered. "Mentally, emotionally, I caught up with the reality I was born into. And I understood. Not forgiven, not accepted. Just… understood."
She exhaled, long and slow.
"Cris inherited his elemental affinity young. Around seven, I think. Sound affinity." Her eyes shimmered. "He could generate sonic tremors. Controlled vibrations, sound manipulation… it was rare. Powerful. Dangerous."
She looked up into the sky, letting the cold rain kiss her cheeks, as if it could erase the heat rising behind her eyes, or perhaps shroud the ones escaping her eyes.
"That was the reason. The mana itself had spoken. He was special. Touched. Worthy of everything."
"That was it," she whispered. "The heavens picked their favourite. My parents simply followed suit."
She was trembling now—not from the cold, not from fear—but from the unravelling of years she'd kept boxed in.
And now I knew.
Why did she chase this path so recklessly? Why wouldn't she stop? Why this mission wasn't about prestige, or status, or research, but about proof—to the world, to herself, and maybe even to the ghost of a brother she could never match.
Fire, earth, water, wind—those are the uncommon affinities. Revered, yes. Feared, sometimes. But they're still within reach for most mages. A gift, but not a miracle.
But sound?
Sound is a rare affinity.
And in more ways than one, it's… superior.
Not just because of its destructive potential or versatility in combat. But because of what it means—what it signals. A rare affinity is more than a magical trait. It's a divine endorsement. A stamp that says: this one is destined for something, something big and worthy.
Rare affinities practically guarantee you a future brighter than the stars themselves. The top Institutes—Verdun's finest—would send envoys, maybe even fight each other, for the chance to enroll someone like him. Especially someone with sound. Especially someone who could shake the very ground with a whisper.
And as if the world wasn't done spoiling him, he was the unofficial heir of House Walkins—one of Verdun's highest-ranking noble houses. A house with its own city. Its own army. Its own damn legacy.
A city that's not just sprawling, but strategically critical to Verdun's borders. His to rule one day. His to govern.
He had everything.
A rare affinity. A noble bloodline. A future written in gold.
What a life he would've had…
If it weren't for that one word.
That damn word.
"Had."
The moment she said it—past tense—I knew.
He's gone.
Not missing. Not away studying in some secluded mana school. Not estranged. No, those would be mere foolish thoughts to ponder.
Dead.
And yet... not forgotten.
No, never forgotten. Not to her. You don't build your life around a ghost unless that ghost refuses to leave you. You don't chase the impossible with your veins full of frost and fire unless your soul is trying to fill a hole it knows can't be filled.
I didn't interrupt her. Not because I was being polite.
Because I couldn't.
Not when she was clearly balancing on the edge of something brittle.
A little brother who outshone her, then vanished like a flame under rain, leaving nothing but cold, silence, and a promise she clutches like a blade.
I could tell—this mission, this whole goddamn pursuit she dragged me into… it was for him. Not prestige. Not titles. Not mana theory.
Just him.
A broken vow from a neglected sister, desperate to matter in a world that never gave her a reason to believe she did.
She must really hate everyone around her... Her dead brother. Her parents. That would explain the bitterness in her voice when she mentioned them, the ice in her eyes whenever someone brought up "home."
And here I was… thinking she was just a loner by choice.
How stupid of me.
No one's a loner by choice. Not really. People? Society? The world itself—it bends you, crushes you, until isolation starts feeling like safety, like peace, or maybe because you don't have any other choice.
And sometimes it's us—our habits, our pride, the armour we wrap around ourselves.
But Forza?
It was never her fault.
It was her damn destiny. Unfortunately.
'Life's not fair...' I thought, watching her, as our eyes locked—mine tired, hers hollow.
"...You must really hate your parents and brother..." I said softly. "Especially those two good-for-nothing individuals who were somehow blessed with someone as good as you."
I took a breath, the cold biting at the edge of my throat.
"No wonder you push yourself beyond your limits… Trying to prove something. To them. To yourself. I think I get it now. I understand your motives… and your way of moving forward. I'm sorry I asked. I'm sorry for not foreseeing. I'm… just sorry."
It was the most genuine thing I could offer her.
A moment passed. Then another.
"...You're wrong."
Her voice cut through the mist like a quiet blade.
I blinked. "What?"
"…He was my everything," she whispered. "My baby brother."
I opened my mouth but said nothing.
"And he—" Her voice cracked, a fracture slipping through her practised calm.
"He died in my arms…"
Time stopped.
The rain didn't. The wind didn't. But I did.
I stopped thinking. Breathing. Processing for a moment, which felt like an eternity in itself.