No, it's not," Kevin muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "If you won't think about me, then at least think about yourself. The pain of trying to relive all the love we've shared—with someone else. The frustration of never seeing 'Little Kevin.' The criticism you'll face from society."
Christie stared at him, eyes narrowing in confusion. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her tone sharp—like a literature student trying to solve a physics equation.
She threw her hands up. "You know what? Forget it. Whatever dream you're chasing, just keep it to yourself and listen to me," she said.
She took a shaky breath. "Do you know what will happen to that kid if the officials ever get to him?"
Kevin's jaw clenched. "Yeah. Either he gets captured, has his identity rewritten—turned into some lowly servant, subjected to a life worse than death... or he ends up with the slave traders and gets a fifty-fifty chance of being sold."
"Exactly," Christie nodded grimly.
"That's why I think… maybe it's better we send him to Bruno."
Kevin blinked. "Bruno? But... he's the lesser evil—not a good man."
"I know," she said softly. "But at least he won't hand the boy over to the officials."
She paused, her eyes searching Kevin's for understanding.
"You told me yourself—it's better if I break through to Master Mage rank before we try to escape from her... before we can finally settle down and have children of our own. And I will break through—in two, maybe three years."
Kevin said nothing. She pressed on.
"But it's been ninety-six years since we married. Four years of dating before that. We're both 215 now, Kevin. I've waited with you all this time. I can't help but see this boy as one of the children we should've had."
She swallowed hard.
"And if we abandon him now... I'll carry the guilt of knowing I could've done something to improve his fate—to elevate his civilian rights, even just a little—but didn't."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"As much as I'd love to keep him, raise him like our own... I know it would only bring us ruin. So please—help me do something for this poor boy."
Her voice cracked.
"Please, Kevin."
Kevin stepped closer, his voice tender and full of quiet resolve.
"Oh, honey... you know I would do anything for you without you even asking. How much more now that you have?"
Christie looked up at him, gratitude shining through her tears.
"Thank you, Kevin De Loise… for still being the same man I fell in love with—and still love."
"So… Rick," Christie repeated slowly, leaning in. "Do you know how you got here?"
Rick's brows furrowed, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "No, ma'am. The last thing I remember… I was walking down the hallway with my sister when she suddenly stopped—just stopped—like she saw something I didn't. Then—" He swallowed hard. "It hit me. This… horrible feeling crawling through my body. My bones felt like they were splintering. My head like it was being split in two. And then… nothing. Darkness. Until I woke up here—in this prison."
Christie's eyes narrowed. "Wait—what do you mean 'here'? What cell?"
"This one," Rick said flatly, pointing at the walls around him.
The silence that followed pressed down like a thick fog. Even the faint hum of the air conditioner seemed loud against the stillness.
Then Kevin's voice sliced through it. "Boy… are you telling me…" His tone climbed with each word, his gaze sharpening into cold, needle-like points. "…that what my wife and I spent a century building—what we bled for—is nothing more than a prison to you?"
The heat in his voice made the air feel tighter, thinner. Rick didn't answer. The moment hung between them like a bowstring stretched to breaking, the tension thrumming in the air.
And then—Rick tilted his head, his voice carrying the kind of innocent confusion that cuts deeper than mockery.
"Wait… you said a century? That's, like… a hundred years, right? But you two don't even look old. I mean… not even a little. You look… good. Really good. Are you sure 'century' isn't just… uh… some kind of metaphor?"
The bowstring snapped—not with a shout, but with a sudden laugh from Christie. It was quick, sharp… and just a little too rehearsed.
"Hold your horses, kid. As much as I enjoy the compliment, I'm no hypocrite—we really are over a hundred years old."
Her smile lingered, but it stopped short of her eyes, leaving them cool and unreadable.
"And no, it's not that… 'metaphor thingy' you said."
Kevin didn't laugh. His stare stayed locked on Rick—silent, steady—measuring him the way a man measures a weapon before deciding whether to draw it.
Christie asked, "So, why did you call my little home—my paradise—a prison?"
Rick looked up and said, "I'm sorry, Granny. I didn't mean any disrespect. It's just that compared to my home, this place feels different. When I said prison, I actually meant it like a compliment. Also, I didn't know this was your place."
His honest way of speaking hit the couple's pride quietly.
Christie's smile tightened, eyes flickering away.
"Is that so."
Kevin remained silent, his jaw clenched just enough to show the sting beneath the surface.
"Okay, kid, listen. Where you are now is a dead zone for kids. So, tell me—where do you come from? And what type of 'civilian rights' or whatever they call it these days do you have?"
Kevin's patience was wearing thin; he was growing tired of Rick's theatrics.
"Eh… mm, to be honest, I don't know where I'm from or what civilian rights are either," Rick said, his tone calm but matter-of-fact. "I've never been outside our building, so I don't even know how big it is from the outside. Seriously, how do you expect a two-year-old child to know all that?"
"We'd wish you were a two-year-old baby instead of a sixteen-year-old teenager," Christie said with an amused voice.
"What do you mean?" Rick questioned, his voice quivering and shivering.
Kevin steadied his hand, fingers flexing as though weighing unseen metal. His eyes narrowed, focusing intently on the faint silver glow flickering above his palm.
With a steady breath, he murmured the incantation:
"Vitrio fulgeo, forma clara, metallicus nitore splendeat!"
Molten metal swirled slowly into shape, glowing softly before cooling into a perfectly polished, thin sheet. But this wasn't just ordinary metal—it gleamed with a subtle, almost liquid sheen, shifting slightly under the light as if alive.
Rick's eyes widened as the molten metal twisted and shimmered, a faint gasp escaping his lips. "How do you do that?"
Kevin's specialty was unique: he could not only conjure metal but also subtly manipulate its texture and density with his magic, allowing the metal to be both incredibly light and surprisingly durable. The surface shimmered with a faint metallic aura, a hallmark of his refined conjuring technique.
His expression was calm, a quiet confidence evident as he examined the flawless sheet.
In front of Rick, as he watched himself in this improvised mirror, he blinked, swallowing hard as the weight of his reflection hit him—the unexpected maturity and striking features that felt at odds with the child he believed himself to be. It was a reminder that appearances could be deceiving, especially in a world where magic shaped much more than just the body.