Chapter 64
The garden of the Page family shone dazzlingly in gold.
Because the roses were golden, it was called the Golden Garden.
Birds that had fled from the southern summer descended, drawn by the fragrance of the garden, chirped for a moment, and then flew away again.
It was the last land of peace.
The Page family had stepped aside from the whirlpool of religious reformation, and poured their spared strength into relief efforts. Refugees flocked into that haven and good governance, filling the city to its outskirts.
Now, although the family head and his forces had gone to war following Tarsio and Setsnen for the unification of the Empire…
This city, Goldenrose, was a gift of the Black Sun, Karenden.
It was a gift of the Ones Who Came, given to the family’s progenitor, the First Great Sage, Emmether Page.
The two had been master and disciple.
When parting ways with Karenden, Emmether had promised: I will love everything in this land.
Were his descendants keeping that vow now—or not?
And then, as a descendant of Dragon Lord Raine Ludwig, was it right for me to be here like this—or not?
—Love transcends all things.
So it was said Raine had left those words to his descendants before departing on his final journey with the Three Dragon Spirits, where he was laid to rest.
“Here.”
Kaisen raised his head.
Sunlight poured down onto the garden, and from food warmer than that sunlight, steam was rising.
“I borrowed the kitchen and made something. I haven’t cooked during the journey here, but it should still be edible.”
Ratel glanced at the maids and shrugged.
Kaisen felt admiration deep within.
Having grown up always eating plain, modest meals, he had always found the luxurious banquets offered to the Feyquaria overwhelming.
“Whatever Ratel cooks is delicious.”
That was Bors.
His brother-in-law, Bors, was an ordinary-looking man with no special traits, but he carried an endlessly gentle smile. A smile that seemed to notice the pain of others—that must have been what had captivated his sister.
Even after marriage, Bors still used honorifics toward Ratel and treated her with respect, and the sight of it was pleasant to behold. He had been a young man who sincerely helped his refugee bride in every way possible.
“Looks yummy!”
In his arms was their child.
The nephew was three years old.
His name was Radin. It had been chosen by combining their mother’s first name with their father’s last name.
His little face was flushed with a rosy hue.
When they first met, Radin had looked at Kaisen with a shy but curious gaze.
—You should greet your uncle.
When Ratel said that, Radin had placed both hands on his belly and bent his waist a full ninety degrees.
—Hello-there.
At that sight, Kaisen had flinched, as if seeing his younger self overlapping with the boy.
Mother had always said greetings were the foundation of a person’s character, and had made him practice them.
And when the village women had said:
—Your son is so polite.
—My, he speaks so well already.
It had always been Mother who was more delighted by the compliments than the boy himself, unable to contain her joy.
And now, that same smile was on his sister’s face.
Was this how Mother had felt, watching him greet politely as a child…?
When Radin lifted his clear, bright eyes after finishing his greeting, Kaisen suddenly felt tears rising, remembering Mother’s unfathomable heart.
“It’s delicious, delicious!”
“Yes, it really is good.”
His sister was looking at him.
Between two layers of bread were fried eggs, crispy bacon, and a bit of lettuce.
Within it lingered the taste of home, a taste that could not even be grilled here anymore.
The taste of days when Mother and Father were both alive, when they laughed and joked together atop the hill overlooking the sea.
On that hill, azaleas bloomed in abundance. He could even recall their fragrance.
It was such a simple dish.
Not gourmet cuisine, but a commonplace meal one could eat anywhere.
Yet how could such a simple taste also bring back the mood and scent of memories?
Perhaps because, through his sister’s family, he saw again the ordinary days that could never be regained.
—Kai, try this too.
—I don’t want it. It’s gross.
—Oh my, listen to this child. Don’t you know? None of the food your mother makes is bad. This stir-fried eggplant is one of her specialties.
—It’s gross! Dad, Mom keeps forcing me!
—Come on now, just give it a try.
Suddenly he choked, tears spilling out.
The food he had chewed and swallowed silently surged back up as vomit, suffocating him.
His sister cried out urgently, calling for help, while his brother-in-law struck his back, shouting for him to breathe.
And then, Radin was watching him, face smeared with oil and food, eyes wide and anxious, shimmering with tears.
—Kai, will you come here?
Before his eyes flashed Mother’s shoulder, torn open with a wide, deep wound by an axe-blade.
Balkaro’s axe had pierced through to her heart and back, spraying blood in a crimson fountain.
And the young boy who had looked at her in that moment… weren’t those his very same eyes now?
—There’s not much time left for Mom.
Breath—he couldn’t breathe.
Did his body, did his heart, wish only for death again in that moment?
As his breath caught and consciousness blurred, he tumbled once more into the abyss of darkness.
‘……’
From afar, Achillea of the Crimson Flame, watching with dragon’s eyes, closed hers in sorrow.
‘Face the pain. The pain you could not help but turn away from that day—face it.’
That pain is you.
To turn away from it is to turn away from yourself.
Before your soul rots completely in that avoidance, you must accept the pain of your childhood.
‘One who cannot truly see even their own pain, cannot see the pain of others.’
If you cannot see it—
You cannot understand it, cannot embrace it, cannot lift someone up, cannot push them forward.
To embrace the pain of others with the strength gained from transcending your own—that is love.
Without that love—
Without love in your heart—
Even if you wield the strength of angels that cut the heavens, or the power of gods that split the sea—
You cannot be a hero.
‘Therefore, this is your first step to being reborn as a true hero. Pull out that wedge, son of Laminea.’
Timed Fate,
The Hero’s Path, The Hero’s Heart (3)
The sound of someone nearby stirred me awake.
It was the dawn of a waning full moon. Even the night birds had ceased their cries, and the world had slipped into a realm of silence.
I felt dampness on my forehead.
The chill of cold water, the weight of a cloth that had stolen away my warmth.
My sister was lying beside me, resting her head on her arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Beside her sat a bucket filled with cold water.
Faced with this “natural” scene of daily life, I wondered for a moment if I was dreaming.
Bors, who had draped the blanket back over my sister’s shoulder where it had slipped down, bowed his head in apology.
“Sorry for waking you.”
I shook my head.
Perhaps wanting to stay beside his grandmother, Ladin had fallen asleep too, mimicking my sister’s posture.
This lost, unreachable image of daily life seemed to have been reborn through the bodies of my sister and nephew, and my heart swelled with sudden emotion.
“Mm…”
I pressed my nephew’s cheek with a finger. It was a prank my sister used to pull often.
“Uncle, you woke up…”
Half-opening his sleepy eyes, my nephew mumbled this before falling back asleep. It was exactly the same as I had been when I was little.
When my brother-in-law left, the bedroom once again became a silent world where only the sound of wind lingered. That silence seeped into my chest like a pattern etched into the heart.
Since we reunited, my sister had not asked about Mother’s death, and Kaisen had not spoken of it either.
From that day of death until this very moment, she had never asked about what had happened.
Why hadn’t she asked?
Was it because the sorrow engraved on my face was too deep—so deep she could not bear to look at it?
Just as Mother could read our emotions with the slightest blink of an eye.
“I met some friends in the Red Mountain Range. They’re fellow Fey Warriors like me—their names are Isla and Seira…”
Because she hadn’t asked.
But because she hadn’t asked, I wanted to speak.
If I didn’t force these words out, I felt like the swelling inside would burst. And so, I pushed the patterns of sorrow outward with my tongue.
“I was assigned to the Iron Cross Knights… it was a good unit. All honorable men. That hero party—Roberis, Trval, Mern, and Alidona—they were truly incredible heroes.”
“…”
“Before that, I was in Master Camilla’s Bone Legion. Did you know? She was once Mother’s disciple. They said she followed Mother like a second mother, though her personality was completely opposite…”
She’s dead too now…
I couldn’t finish the words aloud.
Perhaps because in my chest still lingered the desperate denial of death’s reality.
“People say I was possessed. That I killed enemies like a man possessed. First they called me Uruk Slayer, then later Demon Slayer. I don’t even know what they call me now. King Slayer, perhaps?”
Words poured out into the silence, as if drawing something back—something I had long tried to push away.
“I was never possessed. Not once did I enjoy cutting down with the sword. Not in the Iron Cross, not in the Bone Legion. Every moment was nothing but pain.”
Moonlight spilled over the garden beyond the window, making the Golden Garden shimmer silver under its glow.
The roses swayed with the breeze, their fragrance drifting in.
And sharper, older than the rose’s thorn—something long buried began to surface within my words.
“I told myself I endured for one reason—to kill the Uruks, to wipe out those who killed Mother like that. That was all I thought.”
All my life, my heart had been scratched by that thorn, bleeding without cease.
The wound never healed, and inside me the blood had formed a river.
It filled my chest to the brim, suffocating me, drowning me in every waking moment.
“But only after all that happened did I realize—it wasn’t truly so.”
No.
I had known it all along.
“Sister… you knew the answer too, didn’t you? That’s why you never spoke of it? Because if you did, it would have sounded like blaming me.”
That day…
No—
The moment Mother smiled as she died, I already knew it better than anyone.
“Sister… why? Why don’t you ask me? Why don’t you scold me? Why don’t you strike my back like before and tell me off…?!”
Within the silence of dawn, the thorn I had hidden in the dark revealed itself at last.
“The truth is… you knew all along…!”
That thorn.
It tore at my chest, trying to burst free.
Clutching my breast in pain, I gasped for air.
“That day, Mother’s death… it wasn’t the Uruks’ doing…”
The blood of my heart, welling up to my throat, finally surged toward my lips, suffocating me.
“You knew the truth…”
Yes, I had known.
But I was too afraid to face it. The truth was too heavy to accept.
“That day… it wasn’t the Uruks who killed Mother…!”
I had no courage to hate myself.
No courage to kill myself.
So instead, I searched for others to hate, others to kill. That was why I could never cut down the child inside me.
“It was—what made Mother unable to leave—!”
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to howl until my throat bled.
But grief, knotted into one great mass, clogged my windpipe, snapping my words on my tongue.
“—It’s not your fault.”
That day, Mother smiled as she died.
And now, with the same face as Mother, my sister met my eyes and spoke.
“It’s not your fault.”
With the same face as Mother.
With the same experience as Mother.
With the same life of taking a partner and bearing children as Mother.
“If it weren’t you, I would have run out instead. Do you understand? So why would that be your fault? Not even a little—not even the tiniest bit—it was never your fault.”
Mother, why did you smile that day as you died?
Was it to say these very words?
Even in your final moment, did you smile for your son’s sake?
“No one ever thought that way. Not Father. Not me. Not even Mother, I’m sure.”
The question I thought would never be answered in my lifetime—
The answer came, right before me.
“That’s why I don’t scold you. That’s why. So don’t cry. You don’t need to cry. It was never your fault. Do you understand?”
Ratel stretched out both arms and embraced her younger brother.
Her body, warm even though she had just woken, carried the same warmth as Mother’s body, who had died leaning on her child’s shoulder.
The stars that had laughed down from the sky that dawn, the memory of holding Mother’s body and wailing, surged up in me.
“You fool… why were you tormenting yourself with such thoughts…”
Her words broke into sobs.
She wept, her whole body trembling.
—Kai.
Through my sister, who spoke with Mother’s face, with Mother’s voice—
The words Mother had never been able to say seeped back into the memory of my childhood.
That day, the very day, when there was not even time for a few words, and she had spoken only through a smile.
—It’s not your fault.
My vision shattered into a blur of white.
From the trembling in my throat burst sobs, just like the ones on the day Mother died.
And I understood—Mother smiled then so she could say this.
—Do you understand?
Because I could never forgive myself.
Because I could never cut down myself, yet needed something to cut down to go on living.
Like a storm venting, my soul wandered in search of something to slay.
—So don’t cry.
And thus, in the world of the sword, in the sea of blood, my soul had slowly been drowning.
—You were Mother’s most precious treasure in this world.
Through my sister—
That day, when I met Mother once more.
At that very moment—perhaps, I was saved.
