Aron stepped inside. Each creak of the wooden floor echoed beneath his feet. Everything in the small cabin seemed to be made of wood—the walls, the shelves, even the bed frame in the corner. Inside, Carlos was there, sitting quietly beside an old man who lay still on the bed. His breathing was slow, his eyes closed, and a faint scent of medicine lingered in the air. Aron could tell this was Carlos's grandfather, the man he had spoken of before—the one trapped in a coma.
Aron walked over calmly. Carlos turned to him, his eyes carrying both a heaviness and a quiet determination.
Carlos: "Grab the tools."
He gestured towards the corner where several old farming tools rested. There were many—pickaxes, hoes, shovels, each weathered with age but still usable. Aron picked them up, feeling the cold metal and the rough wooden handles. They weren't too heavy, but something about them made him nervous. Perhaps it was the weight of the work ahead, or the sense that this was the beginning of something important.
Aron: "Could you help me with these remaining tools?"
Carlos: "Sure."
They gathered the tools together and stepped outside. The warm sunlight welcomed them, spilling over the path ahead. They began walking toward Mr. Wood's home. The air was fresh, carrying the distant scent of soil and leaves. Aron balanced the tools in his arms and looked up at the sky. The sunlight was bright, almost golden. In that moment, he felt grateful—not for the tools, but for the company beside him. With Carlos, he felt alive.
Carlos: "Aron, can I ask… where are you from?"
Aron: "I'm from Norm Kingdom."
Carlos's eyes widened.
Carlos: "Really? Wow… I thought after hearing about the recent attack that they wiped out everyone."
Aron: "Yeah… it was very dark."
Carlos: "How did you manage to escape, man?"
Aron: "I didn't. I wasn't there when it happened. By the time I reached home… everything was already over."
Carlos's face softened.
Carlos: "Sorry for your loss, man."
Aron: "It's okay. And what about you?"
Carlos took a deep breath, looking down as they walked.
Carlos: "Ah, man… it's nothing, really. I don't remember much, but I know my parents used to beat me—chains, fists, whatever they could grab. I was like five or six at the time. One day, they threw me into a forest. Just left me there. I was abandoned. I cried for hours, maybe days. Then… there was hope. A man came and took me in. Raised me like his own. That's him now—lying in that bed. He's been in a coma for so long, and I don't even know if he'll ever wake up."
Aron's expression grew serious.
Aron: "Don't you seek revenge? Or vengeance against them?"
Carlos shook his head firmly.
Carlos: "Never. When somebody doesn't love you, don't waste your love on them. And if they want to get rid of you, then go. That's the best thing you can do. The man who raised me—he showed me real love, like a father should. That's all that matters."
Aron: "I'm sorry, brother. But don't worry—he'll come back from this."
Carlos smiled faintly.
Carlos: "I'm pretty sure he will."
They reached Mr. Wood's home. The older man greeted them warmly. Aron and Carlos set the tools down.
Carlos: "Mr. Wood, teach me everything once Grandpa is awake."
Wood: "Sure, son. I'll take care of your grandpa."
Carlos: "I will."
Carlos gave a quick wave, then jogged away. Within moments, he vanished down the road.
Wood: "Okay, Aron, let's start farming. Come with me."
They walked toward the shed, picked up the necessary tools, and headed toward a barren area in the distance. The land stretched out before them, a vast expanse of lifeless soil.
Wood: "I know it's huge, but once you recover it and plant it with trees, I'll name it after you. Now, here's the pickaxe. Start from that corner. I'll sit here and watch. Don't worry—it'll take two or three years to finish."
Aron nodded, gripping the pickaxe. He loosened the sand first, removing his top layer of clothing as the sun bore down on him. He began striking the ground, breaking apart the dry, stubborn soil. Line by line, he worked. Sweat rolled down his face, mixing with the dust and mud. His breaths grew heavier, each swing of the pickaxe pushing his body to its limits.
Hours passed. The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky with orange and gold. Aron finally paused, throwing the pickaxe to the ground. His muscles ached, and his shirt clung to him from sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, flicking droplets away.
It was nearly dusk when he made his way back to Mr. Wood's house. He placed the pickaxe alongside the other tools and found Mr. Wood sitting in a chair outside.
Wood: "There you are. Look at you—covered in dirt. Go to the well, fetch some water, and clean yourself up. Then we'll talk."
Aron nodded. He picked up two wooden buckets, drew water from the well until they were full, and poured it over himself. The cool water was refreshing, washing away the dirt and sweat. He changed into fresh clothes and stepped back into the house.
Wood: "Here, Aron. Enjoy this meal—you've earned it. Good work today. Indeed, you are Norm blood. Just thirteen years old and already handling a pickaxe like a warrior. I'm proud of you."
He placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of Aron. The smell alone made his stomach growl. Aron took a spoonful, savoring the rich flavor before quickly devouring the rest.
Wood: "Haha! Eat up, warrior. Farming work like that makes a man hungry. Enjoy every bite."
Aron swallowed the last of his stew, burping slightly before smiling. Wood chuckled.
Aron: "Mr. Wood… are you a retired warrior?"
Wood leaned back, eyes distant.
Wood: "You want to hear my story?"
Aron nodded eagerly.
Wood: "Alright… a long time ago, about thirty years back, we were fighting against a horde of black soldiers. We fought hard, and we killed many of them, but we didn't have light swords—only Wingman City had those. We asked for their help, begged them to share their weapons, but they refused.
We were stronger warriors than most, but without those swords, the battle turned against us. My men were dying one after another. I saw my best friend fall—his throat pierced by a spear. That moment… it broke something inside me.
I started to wonder—are humans the problem, or is it the darkness we fight? Should I even side with them? I was a warrior who wielded a dane axe, but my strength began to fade—not in my body, but in my heart. I saw corruption everywhere. The rich held all the power, while the poor suffered. No one valued life anymore. They killed each other like enemies on a battlefield.
That day, when we begged for help and were denied, they stood by and watched us die. I was wounded, exhausted, barely holding on. Then a man saved me—pulled me from the carnage and nursed me back to health. He told me to get out before they killed me too.
I thought maybe—just maybe—they'd change their minds. But they didn't. They didn't kill me, but they cast me out like I was nothing. I wandered for weeks until I found this place—a peaceful land where I could live the rest of my life in quiet. From that day, I lost all hope in humanity."
Wood's voice trailed off, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, as if he could still see the battlefield. Aron sat silently, letting the weight of the story sink in. The room felt heavier now, but also… more honest.