[PoV Evran]
That morning, I sat on a long bench in the clinic’s courtyard, which looked more like a small garden. Various plants grew neatly around it, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves carried by the wind.
My eyes traced the scene before me. At the far end, an old man walked slowly with a cane, his face scowling as if unwilling to be helped, even though a nurse faithfully followed beside him, ready to catch him should those frail hands lose balance.
Not far from there, some children much younger than me were busy playing with sand. They built miniature houses with colorful toys, watched over by their mothers’ gentle gazes. I gave a small smile, and unconsciously, a thought crossed my mind: Kid… if your sand isn’t enough, you could always build outside the city, out in the desert. You could even build a whole kingdom.
But my gaze soon shifted to a young man sitting near the garden fence. His right arm was gone, the stump still wrapped in bandages stained with dried blood. His head was bowed in shadow, his fingers clenched tightly on his knees, frozen amidst the lively morning. For some reason, the sight made my chest feel strange — a kind of fear I couldn’t explain.
Beneath a shady tree, a group of youths had gathered. Some seemed around my age, others a little older. They were engaged in a serious conversation, occasionally pointing at something unknown, while a bowl of colorful candies sat between them. I narrowed my eyes curiously. What are they talking about…?
On the other side of the courtyard, several mothers had pulled benches together, circling around a pregnant woman who looked exhausted yet still managed to smile. Their chatter filled the air, laughter and whispers blending, to the point I had to hold back a sigh, slightly annoyed.
An old man walked unsteadily into the courtyard. His hair was completely white, save for the bald crown on his head. His frail body was supported by a male nurse in white uniform, who remained at his side despite the old man’s protests.
“Ugh… let me walk on my own! I don’t need your help!” he barked, his raspy voice full of anger.
But the nurse stayed calm, holding his arm so he wouldn’t fall. “No, sir. You must be careful. Your body is still weak. Too much movement could be dangerous,” he replied softly, trying to soothe him.
The old man snorted, his cloudy eyes stubborn. “You don’t know who I used to be! I was a soldier… a strong soldier! No way I’d die just from walking!” he shouted.
“Please, sir. If you push yourself, your life could slip away instantly,” the nurse warned, his tone growing firm.
“Then so be it!” the old man roared, his cracked voice rising.
The nurse carefully pulled the old man’s arm, trying to guide him back inside the clinic. The old man struggled weakly, resisting with the last of his strength. Yet their steps moved forward slowly, forced though they were.
I sat silently on that bench, but my eyes couldn’t leave the young man across the way. Him… his right arm gone, wrapped in a bandage still marked with dried blood. His face gloomy, eyes empty yet brimming with fear. He seemed restless, his head bowed slightly, his shoulders trembling faintly.
The noisy atmosphere—the old man’s shouts, the children’s laughter, the mothers’ chatter—seemed to claw at his mind. He glanced around nervously, eyes darting to the plants, benches, tables, and patients nearby, as if everything around him was a threat. People who noticed his gaze began to feel uneasy.
Suddenly, his body shook violently. He clawed at his head, his breath ragged. His eyes widened in panic, his fingers digging into his own arm until red marks appeared. Amid his gasps, he whispered—just loud enough for those nearby to hear.
“Wh… y… did you… leave… me… I still… wanted to… live,” he muttered in broken, trembling words.
A nurse who had been watching from a distance rushed over, trying to calm him. She reached for his hand gently, attempting to lead him back inside.
But then—Sraak!—he yanked her hand with terrifying strength, shocking everyone around. I nearly leapt from my seat, as did the rest who had been watching.
“Help… me… I… I want… to live…” his voice cracked, sobs mixing with sheer terror. His eyes were empty, but something terrifying flickered within them.
The nurse screamed. “Aaahh!” She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. The children under the tree scattered, their mothers rushing to protect the pregnant woman in their midst.
“So… you all… want to blame me again…” he rasped, his trembling body wracked with anguish.
Blood began to drip from his own palm as his grip tightened too hard. Veins bulged in his remaining arm. His eyes watered red, blood seeping at their corners.
“I… I’m scared… don’t leave me…” his whisper grew more desperate, his body shaking uncontrollably.
The nurse shut her eyes, choking back tears. “Help! Help!!” she cried hysterically.
Doctors and nurses came running. One male doctor hurried into the clinic, searching for an antidote with the help of a panicked assistant.
Suddenly, a blond-haired young man pushed through the crowd. Without hesitation, he pried the crazed youth’s hand free and slammed him to the ground, locking him tightly.
But the frenzied youth thrashed, nearly breaking free from the hold.
“Damn it… Hurry! Where’s the antidote?!” the blond shouted angrily, eyes flashing toward the clinic.
He strained to hold him down, yelling, “Stay still, you lunatic! Do you hear me?! Stay down!!” His voice wavered between fury and panic, tightening his weakening grip.
Around them, the crowd watched in horror. The once-peaceful courtyard had turned into chaos.
An assistant dashed out, clutching a small purplish-blue pill. Without delay, they forced it into the crazed youth’s mouth, who still writhed beneath the blond’s hold. Yet his eyes still burned red.
“Why is he still going mad?!” the blond cursed, veins bulging on his neck.
The restrained youth bent his knees, lifting his body with wild strength.
“W-wait! The medicine hasn’t kicked in yet!” the assistant stammered, pale-faced.
People gathered around the scene, their expressions ranging from worry to horror—even excitement, as though watching a spectacle. From my bench across the yard, I could only stare, unblinking.
“Whoa… that guy’s amazing… He must be an Ashenblade soldier,” whispered one youth under the tree.
“Good thing a soldier’s here… or we’d all be dead,” said another.
“Man… that was close…”
Amid their chatter, the blond growled in frustration. “Are you all just gonna stand there?! Idiots! Help me hold him down! I can’t last much longer!!”
Finally, some male nurses snapped out of their daze and rushed to help. Slowly, the crazed youth’s strength faded. The medicine began to work—his breathing slowed, his body weakened, and at last, he collapsed unconscious.
“Phew… that was close…” the blond muttered, releasing his hold and wiping sweat from his brow.
Applause broke out around them. “Clap… clap… clap…” One by one, the onlookers joined in, whether out of relief, respect, or simply because the spectacle was over. I too found myself clapping faintly from my bench.
Moments later, the doctor reappeared, walking awkwardly into the crowd.
“Ah… sorry everyone, for the commotion and inconvenience,” he said with a slight bow. “It seems… we forgot to give him his medicine today.” He smiled apologetically.
The nurses prepared to carry the unconscious youth, but the blond stepped forward. “I’ll carry him.”
The nurses exchanged glances. One spoke, “Let us. We’ve troubled you enough.”
“He’s my friend,” the blond replied curtly, his eyes fixed on the pale youth.
I could guess what people were thinking. If he’s your friend… why did you keep calling him a lunatic?
But no one dared say it aloud. Finally, one nurse nodded. “Very well, then. Please help us.”
The blond lifted his friend onto his back and carried him into the clinic, followed by a nurse guiding the way.
I exhaled, staring at the now-quiet courtyard. Today had been frightening… but also oddly thrilling. Strange. I had never seen anything like it before. Yes… life was strange—so many things beyond my grasp.
Without realizing it, an old man slowly walked up and sat beside me on the bench. We sat in silence for several minutes. I was still caught up in the remnants of the chaos, while he seemed content with the morning breeze.
After a while, he spoke without looking at me. His voice was soft, raspy, yet warm.
“Did you find that interesting?”
Startled, I glanced at him, then nodded faintly.
“Yes…”
He chuckled softly.
“First time seeing something like that, huh? Hahaha.” He added,
“And… you’re not from around here, are you?”
I stayed silent.
“Hahaha…” He laughed again, lighthearted—not mocking, but as if he knew exactly how I felt.
“Even if you don’t say it, your face says everything. Well, kids will be kids,” he said lightly, still smiling.
I lowered my head a little, then gave a faint smile.
“Forgive me, boy. I’m not used to talking with children. Usually I only talk with old folks like me,” he said, brushing a hand through his white hair.
He glanced at me briefly.
“You’re curious about what happened, aren’t you? Want to hear an explanation from an old man like me?”
I nodded softly.
Seeing my nod, he patted my shoulder gently. His touch was light, like any old man’s. His face lit up, glad to have someone willing to listen.
With an eager smile, he stroked his chin. His eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“Hmm… alright then. Where should we start?” he mused, a little uncertain.
“You want to know about that young man, right?” he continued.
I nodded again.
The old man chuckled.
“Hahaha… That crazy young man, yes. Once, he was a strong soldier, maybe like the blond lad earlier. But I think he carries trauma… a dark past. Perhaps the death of someone he loved. And…” He looked at me. “It seems he suffers from a curse—Timet Curse. Which worsens his madness, feeding his fear.”
“Timet Curse?” I asked curiously.
“Yes… Timet Curse. A cursed sickness that instills overwhelming fear. When its victims go mad, they can destroy everything around them.” He paused, then added, “It’s a curse spread by the Messengers of Chaos.”
I wanted to ask more, but he anticipated me.
“The Messengers of Chaos, followers of one of the Archons… You’ll learn about them someday,” he murmured, gently patting my head.
“Is there a cure?” I asked hesitantly. Then something struck me. “Oh right, he just took medicine… That means he’ll recover, right?” I almost answered my own question.
The old man laughed softly, seeing me think aloud.
“Hahaha… You know? Medicine like that is only a temporary suppressant. Not a cure.” His gaze drifted into the distance.
“The only cure lies within himself. He must face and accept his trauma.”
I fell silent, awed.
“You see… that curse preys on those who fear death the most. Those traumatized by the death of loved ones. So… don’t fear death,” he said sheepishly, almost embarrassed by his own words.
I froze. His words pierced deep. Memories flashed of my parents’ deaths, who gave their lives without hesitation just to save me from slaughter. They weren’t afraid to die.
I drew a long breath. The words I wanted to say felt heavy. Finally, with a trembling but steady voice, I asked:
“How can someone not fear death? Aren’t you afraid of death, sir?”
The old man paused. His pupils widened, surprised such a question came from me. Then a faint laugh escaped his lips.
“Hahaha…” His laughter was soft, yet tinged with bitterness. “It seems we were meant to speak to each other,” he said. Weariness hid behind his smile.
But his face softened again, his eyes calm.
“Yes…” That was all he said.
I stared at him, puzzled and curious.
He sighed, then continued:
“What can I say, boy. Sooner or later, everyone must face what most desperately avoid—death. It’s a mystery no one truly understands until it arrives.”
“Besides, do you know?… soon I’ll experience it myself,” he said, a warm smile flickering across his face.
“Knowing that… tell me, boy. What do you think I should do?” he asked, his tone resigned but sincere.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked in disbelief.
“Well… let’s just say I know.” He smiled.
I couldn’t find words.
“I… don’t know,” I answered.
The old man chuckled softly once more, then spoke quietly.
He continued, his gaze drifting as if recalling something far away.
"If I remember correctly, the words were: ‘It is not death that a man should fear, but rather the fear of never truly beginning to live.’"
He turned to me with a faint smile.
"That’s what it said… words from an emperor of an ancient kingdom—the Ronven Kingdom, long buried according to the old books."
He drew in a slow breath before going on.
"If your life has ever held meaning… if you’ve ever done good, then death is nothing to regret. That is an honorable death. At least for this world, then… it is alright," he said calmly, though his tone carried depth.
"What do you think, boy?" he asked, looking at me with intent.
I frowned.
"So… what does it mean to die honorably?" I asked hesitantly.
The old man laughed softly, his voice warm.
"There are many ways."
"Like dying on the battlefield to save many from the enemy’s assault… Dying while teaching, leaving behind knowledge of use… Dying in childbirth, for the sake of one’s child… and countless more."
A gentle smile curved his lips.
His words dragged my mind back to the past.
The faces of my parents appeared—when they stood between me and death, sacrificing themselves without hesitation.
I lowered my gaze, then dared to ask, my voice faint but steady.
“…Do you believe, sir, that death itself can be considered an act of kindness?”
The old man turned, smiling softly. Understanding flickered in his eyes, as if he knew the hidden weight behind my question.
"Perhaps… I misspoke," he said quietly.
"Kindness is done before death. Death itself is only a divider. When someone departs, they leave behind those who love them… and they are rarely ever ready."
He lifted his eyes to the sky, silent for several moments. Then, almost in a whisper, he added:
"Who could ever call death a kindness? It leaves only sorrow… for those left behind."
A thin smile touched his face, his eyes shimmering with the pale light of morning.
"Because… death is a severer."
"It cuts away all that one has. It ends a destiny in this world. Not goodness… not evil. Merely fate deciding."
I lowered my head, my voice small as I asked,
"Have you… ever done kindness in your life, Sir?" I asked with a curious face
The old man’s smile was faint, his eyes wandering far away.
"I… am not certain either," he answered softly.
I took a breath, gathering courage to ask again.
"Then… do you think I could ever do good for this world?" I asked, uncertainty in my tone.
The old man sighed deeply. His gaze sharpened, piercing me—not to judge, but to understand me more deeply.
"Hufff… how about this," he said softly. His voice grew serious, weighty yet gentle.
"I will give you a few questions."
I nodded quickly. Even with the tightness in my chest, I wanted to hear.
"Let us look… around us. If you could choose one of these, which would it be?"
His tone deepened as he spoke.
"First… to risk death for the sake of many, like that old crippled man."
"Or… to fear death, constantly seeking to evade it to live longer, like that mad youth… he is bound by a curse with little chance of healing. But if he survives, perhaps he could still do good again."
"Or… to live as best you can, bringing benefit to those around you before death comes. Like those children, chattering about their dreams of the future."
"Or… to create goodness that endures. Raising children, teaching, shaping the future… like that pregnant woman earlier. She was a teacher, by the way."
I closed my eyes briefly, weighing each choice in my mind. All seemed meaningful. All carried burdens. None truly light. I had no idea which to choose. But one thing was certain: I would not choose the crippled youth.
"I think… all of them are good, except that young man," I said.
The old man chuckled gently, his laugh as familiar as ever. “Hahaha… You underestimate him, it seems! I would wager he is the most worthy of them all,” he said, smiling softly.
Unease prickled at me. I tilted my head. “Why is that?” I asked, bewildered.
The old man’s eyes softened, his gaze warm, as though he understood all my unrest.
"So… what will you choose, boy?" he asked quietly. Then he smiled and patted my shoulder.
"But… you need not answer now. That answer… is only for yourself."
I swallowed hard. A stirring grew inside me—a hunger to know, to understand those choices more deeply.
Then I whispered,
"So you chose that crippled youth, Sir? Why?…"
The old man fell silent, surprised, as if forgetting how to respond. He rubbed his chin, then finally said,
"I chose him?" He smiled hesitantly. “If it were me… I would not choose any of them, even if that seems impossible,” he said quietly.
I looked at him, curiosity burning.
"Then… what would you choose?" I pressed, eager.
He chuckled, hiding his smile.
"Hmm… a secret," he teased lightly.
I clicked my tongue in mock annoyance.
"Tch…" but a faint smile tugged at my lips.
"Hahaha…" the old man laughed with satisfaction. “But I am certain, one day you will know.” He looked at me, his eyes brimming with quiet conviction. “Thank you for keeping an old man company… perhaps for the first and last time. It was more enjoyable than I thought.” His smile turned sorrowful.
I asked quickly, trying to ease the sudden weight pressing on my chest.
"Why do you say that, Sir? Surely we’ll meet again tomorrow, won’t we?"
The old man shook his head gently, his smile fading.
"No… we cannot. My life… has little time left."
I froze, words failing me. Though he seemed strong and well, his words unsettled me deeply.
He gave me a soft smile, then drew something from his pocket. A necklace, marked with a symbol both strange and beautiful.
The emblem was a circle set in pale gold. Within, fine silver threads crossed faintly, encircled by four silhouetted hands weaving the threads around the ring. At its center rested a spool of thread topped with an eye, tiny stars scattered along the strands. Every detail gleamed with silver.
"What is this, Sir?" I asked softly.
"That… is the sigil of the Fateweavers Conclave," he replied. “Perhaps one day you might join them… or at least, if you need aid, show this. Someone will recognize it.”
"Is it really alright for me to take this?" I asked hesitantly.
The old man chuckled.
"It’s alright. This old man has no one left to pass it to. Better I give it to you than let it rot away in a box."
I accepted the necklace slowly, tracing its delicate engravings—until on the back of the pendant I found a string of letters I could not understand.
"You cannot read it, can you?" the old man teased with a chuckle.
I sighed and slipped the necklace into my pocket.
"Haaah…" he exhaled deeply, then rose, stretching his frail yet enduring frame.
"I’ll be off now, boy. Farewell." He walked slowly toward the clinic at the far end of the street.
Before the door closed, his voice called once more,
"Take good care of what I’ve left you!"
I gazed down at the necklace again. A strange feeling swelled in my chest. The sky had grown suddenly darker, the wind blowing harder—signs of the rare rain in this city.
And so I jogged toward my room, letting the gusts whip through my hair.