Step by step, they moved through a forest that refused to speak.
The sky remained clear, yet the light filtering through the leaves seemed afraid to touch the skin. Old roots sprawled like memories too stubborn to die. Only the faint sound of Azael's breath and the silent presence of the blue light guiding him marked that time had not stopped.
It had been only minutes since he opened his eyes for the first time—and the world still felt like a secret unwilling to be told.
But now, something was different.
Azael had begun to think.
"If I really am a hero like it says... why don't I feel like one?"
He walked slowly behind the light. His bare feet touched the soft grass, slipping now and then between twisted roots, stumbling over uneven earth. The thin cloth wrapped around his body felt more like a symbol: false protection for an identity he hadn't even met.
"Hey..." Azael finally spoke. "How much longer until we reach... that 'destination'?"
The sword spirit didn't answer right away. Its blue light trembled softly, as if deciding whether the truth was worth sharing.
"Five days," it finally said. "Without rest. Without sleep."
Azael stopped in place. He raised an eyebrow and let out a long sigh.
"Five days? You're kidding, right? I just came back to life this morning."
His voice wasn't angry, nor frustrated. Just slightly amused.
He looked up at the pale blue sky, then resumed walking.
"I thought heroes were supposed to have giant birds or glowing horses. Not bare feet and a stomach that won't stop singing."
The blue light shivered again—perhaps from laughter, or guilt.
"Forgive me. I forgot you're not used to this."
Azael didn't respond. He shrugged, brushing his hand along the bark of a nearby tree—rough and dark, like a scar that never closed.
"Can I ask something else?"
"Of course."
Azael halted, and the spirit floated beside him in silence.
"If I really have... been reborn, why should I chase memories that don't want me?"
"Why not start fresh? Be someone new?"
The air grew heavier. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Azael's voice softened, gaze lowered:
"Maybe I wasn't anyone important before. But at least now... I'm free."
"Why chase ghosts that won't return?"
The spirit drew closer. Its tone carried no judgment.
"Because this world isn't done with you."
Azael looked up.
"Five years from now, the prophecy says the Demon King will rise again."
"And no one alive today is strong enough to stop him."
"Prophecy?" Azael echoed. "Who made that?"
"Arthur Isolde," the spirit replied.
"Five years before he became king. And only fifteen days after taking the throne... he died."
The words hit the air like an unburied truth.
Azael didn't know how to feel. He didn't know the name. But somewhere beneath his skin, it stung.
"So... I made a prophecy that I'm now forced to fulfill?"
"You... are this world's last hope," the spirit whispered.
"And its reason for beginning to crack again."
Azael frowned. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, but hadn't yet become guilt.
They continued walking, but now, each step dragged a little more.
The air was still filled with drifting lights—soft, colorful, shifting in shape and glow. Some floated near, then slipped away when he reached out.
"What are those?" he asked, pointing at one.
"Nature spirits," the sword spirit replied.
"Beings bound to this world since the beginning."
"They all look... different."
"Because they are. There are three kinds: elemental, beast, and conceptual spirits."
"You can see them... because you're an indigo human. Like Arthur was."
Azael stepped closer to one of the floating lights—spiral-shaped and glowing orange. He reached out, but it gracefully evaded his touch.
"Are you one of them too?"
"Yes," said the spirit. "I'm a spirit who chose to become a sword."
"Why a sword?" Azael asked with childlike wonder.
"Why not a flower, or a star, or... a warm blanket?"
The light dimmed, not in sadness, but reflection.
"Because someone I trusted... once believed in the sword."
Azael nodded, not fully understanding.
But for the first time, he didn't feel alone.
The sky began to change. Orange light painted the ancient leaves. Shadows stretched long, chasing the last warmth of day.
Azael's body wavered. His breath was steady, but something in him had grown... hollow.
"Can I... rest a little?" he asked quietly.
"Of course."
The spirit hovered down, settling above a large root that arched like a cradle. Azael followed, sitting and leaning against the tree, warmed by the last touch of sunlight.
He closed his eyes. In his heart speaks...
"I don't know why I woke up naked in a forest. I don't know why my memories are gone. I don't know if I can even trust her."
"But for some reason, when she was the only one who called me a hero..."
"That made me happy."
"As if someone finally cared."
The blue light said nothing.
But in its silence, it spoke to itself:
"I miss the Arthur I once knew..."
"But can I see him in this boy... or must I learn to see something new?"
The sky turned deeper gold. No birds sang. And for a moment, all returned to how it began:
Silent.
Warm.
And quietly... hiding something.
Azael curled up atop a root that bent like the arms of the earth. The spirit's glow dimmed to a quiet watch, like the last star refusing to fade.
Night air thickened with dew. Leaves trembled despite the stillness. As if the forest itself breathed, guarding his dream from straying too far.
Elsewhere, far from the hush of ancient trees—Camelot burned bright like a torch for a world still seeking its way.
Built atop the tallest hill in Jornia's Crownhold, the castle stood regal with white stone walls rising like fate itself. A red-dragon banner flew high, sewn from spiritthread no time could fray.
Inside the main hall, atop marble stairs facing the Wall of Honor, a young woman stood.
Her hair shimmered gold, cascading like royal silk. Her nightgown, stitched with the Isolde crest, clung gently to skin as pale as morning frost. Her eyes, glowing sapphire, locked onto a single painting.
A massive portrait, framed in old gold and guarded by twin spirit-forged blades. It depicted a man with golden hair to his shoulders and a trimmed beard. His face was calm—handsome with age, steady with strength. But his eyes...
They saw something the world could never name.
Arthur Isolde.
Hero. King. Legend.
And to her, something even closer.
Her name was Artania Isolde.
Princess of Jornia.
Chosen to become the youngest Sovereign Sentinel in history.
"Tomorrow... is my day. Not yours," she whispered. Her voice raw, like she'd been carrying words too heavy to speak.
Down the hallway, footsteps echoed.
Not from a servant. Not from a guest.
They were light... but carried will.
A man entered the hall without warning.
"Artania," came a smooth voice, honeyed and sharp.
King Lucan du Lac—her father. And current ruler of Jornia.
"Tomorrow is a great day. Every kingdom will see you. They'll know that Jornia finally has a Sentinel worthy of the legends."
Artania said nothing. Her gaze remained on the portrait—as if asking a question it refused to answer.
Lucan stepped closer, his diplomatic smile as polished as history.
"What troubles you, my child?"
"That you never wanted me to be someone," she murmured. "Only something."
His smile didn't falter, but his eyes froze.
"You misunderstand. I only want the world to see truth. You are Isolde blood. The light of a savior. They will believe in hope—because they see you."
"Not because they know me," she said, standing. "But because you made me a symbol."
She left before he could answer.
Outside, the night air moved gently.
But inside Artania, a storm churned quiet.
She stepped onto her balcony, staring at a sky so wide it felt ungraspable.
"I'm only twenty..."
"And tomorrow, I must become a hero even I don't understand."
Her hand touched the hilt of Clarent, resting beside her wall.
The sacred sword of light.
Her Pactbound Armament.
Its glow was faint, but warm.
"Excellence is not a gift... but a burden shaped by duty."
She had spoken those words too often.
Perhaps more than she ever believed them.
Meanwhile, deep within Azael's sleep—darkness began to form a shape.
He opened his eyes.
No trees. No earth. Only blackness, like a world not yet born.
"Hello?"
His voice echoed thrice before vanishing.
Then—footsteps.
A figure emerged from the void.
Not closer.
Not farther.
Just present.
Long white hair. Deep red skin. Black wings unfurled like fire-drenched night. Eyes pitch black, pupils glowing red—piercing, unreadable.
And though the form was unfamiliar...
Azael did not fear it.
He felt...
safe.
"It's been a while," the figure said.
Its voice was twofold: soft and cruel. Warm and empty.
"We should have met... much earlier than this."
Azael stared.
And for the first time...
he felt he wasn't on the right side of the dream.
Light and shadow crossed in his eyes—
and for the first time,
Azael feared remembering something he never knew he had forgotten.