Xentan collapsed without warning.
Ron caught him before his body could hit the ground, lifting him over his shoulder. Without wasting another second, Ron teleported to the nearest hospital. The night air snapped back into existence around him as he appeared outside the emergency entrance. Nurses rushed forward, startled but professional. Within moments, Xentan was taken inside.
Ron stood there for a while after the doors closed.
No progress. I thought I would retrieve that Research Volume tonight…
The weight of failure pressed against his chest. He turned away from the hospital lights and began walking down the dimly lit street. The city at night felt different—quieter, almost honest.
A little further ahead, beneath a flickering streetlamp in a park, he noticed a large bench.
An old man sat there alone.
He wore a red-and-white muffler wrapped carefully around his neck, black sunglasses shielding his eyes, and held a wooden walking stick loosely in one hand. His posture was relaxed, almost peaceful.
Is he blind? Ron wondered.
Drawn by something he couldn't explain, Ron walked over and sat beside him.
For a while, neither of them spoke. There were no sounds of distant traffic or anything except the faint rustling of cold wind.
Then the old man smiled faintly.
"Out this late in the night, young man?"
Ron blinked. "Yes… I was on a mission."
"A mission?" The old man tilted his head slightly. "You must be a soldier then."
"Something like that," Ron replied.
He hesitated, then asked, "Uncle… how did you know someone sat beside you?"
The old man chuckled softly. "I was never blind from the beginning. I lost my sight when I was eighteen."
He lifted his face toward the sky.
"Now I'm sixty-eight."
Ron's eyes widened.
"It's experience," the old man continued. "When one sense leaves you, the others learn to listen harder."
"Wasn't it difficult?" Ron asked quietly. "Living without sight?"
The old man laughed again, but this time it carried memory within it.
"You're different, young man."
Ron watched him with a softened expression.
I really feel a positive attachment to people like these. Ron thought.
"To be honest," the old man continued, "it was hard. In the beginning, it felt like the world had ended. Darkness everywhere. But pain, like anything else, becomes familiar. And once it becomes familiar, it becomes manageable. Now… everything is peaceful."
Ron exhaled slowly.
"I don't know what you went through," Ron said. "Maybe terrible things happened. But here you are… saying everything is fine, even without vision. If I were in your place… I don't know what I would've done."
"What's your name?" the old man asked.
"Ron."
"Ron…" The old man smiled. "That sounds like a name from old times. People don't carry names like that anymore."
Ron allowed a small smile.
"Uncle… something tells me you've seen life deeply. Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," the old man said gently. "Maybe this blind man can be of use."
"When bad times come… how do you face them? How do you move forward?"
The old man didn't answer immediately. He tapped his stick lightly against the pavement.
"In bad times," he finally said, "you hold onto what you love."
He turned his face slightly toward Ron.
"Tell me, young man. What do you love the most?"
Ron didn't hesitate.
"My daughters. And my wife. Even more than my own life."
"Then spend time with them," the old man said calmly.
Ron swallowed.
"What if I told you… they're going to die?"
The words trembled as they left his mouth.
The old man fell silent.
So… even he doesn't know, Ron thought.
After a long pause, the old man spoke quietly.
"You remind me of myself."
Ron looked at him.
"I had a wife," the old man began. His voice softened. "I met her when I was sixteen. She was… perfect in every way. We used to sit on this very bench and talk all night."
His fingers tightened slightly around the stick.
"Then the day came. The day I lost my eyesight. I lost hope too. I believed my life was over."
He inhaled slowly.
"But she stayed. She became my eyes. We married. And I didn't know… she was hiding her own pain."
"What was it?" Ron asked softly.
"A brain tumor."
Ron's eyes widened in shock.
"Even when she was sick, she brought me here. To this bench. I found out about her illness only a week before she died."
The old man's voice cracked.
"It's been forty-eight years since then. I still come here almost every night. This red scarf…" He touched the muffler gently. "It was the last gift she gave me. Before I lost my sight."
Ron felt warmth on his cheeks.
He hadn't realized he was crying.
"Losing someone you love is terrifying," the old man said. "It feels like the world stops."
He paused.
"But hope… hope is what keeps it turning again. Everything begins with hope. Everything survives on hope."
He placed his hand on Ron's shoulder.
"I hope your family lives long and happily."
Ron couldn't speak.
"The strange thing about life," the old man continued, "is that it never tells you what will happen. It only gives hints. Life is a plane with a one-time ticket. Even immortals—if they truly die—do not return."
His grip tightened slightly.
"So hope for the best. Choose happiness while you can. This life… it can be exhausting."
Ron nodded slowly.
"In all my years," the old man added with a gentle smile, "I haven't met someone like you. Men these days drown their pain in drink or distraction. But you… you carry your pain quietly. I can sense goodness in you. Your parents must be proud."
Ron lowered his head.
"Thank you, Uncle," he said softly. "It was an honor talking to you."
The old man smiled toward the darkness.
And for the first time that night, Ron felt something he hadn't felt in days.
Not certainty.
Not safety.
But hope.
Ron stood up, and thanked the old man.
Then, walked into an alley and teleported to his house.