Graveholme Village
After what felt like an endless journey, my consciousness slowly returned. My eyes fluttered open, and the first thing I noticed was the tight weight of bandages wrapping my torso and arms.
A dull ache ran through every limb, a reminder of the battles I had survived.
"Hey, boy! You're awake!" a voice called softly beside me.
I turned my head and saw one of the cloaked figures leaning closer. His hood shadowed most of his face, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable.
I tried to move, but my body protested, every motion sending pain shooting through me.
"Where… where am I?" I said.
"We're still riding," another figure said, this one seated in front of me on the enormous turtle's shell.
The wooden cabin atop it creaked with every step, the creature's heavy legs pressing into the cracked earth below.
"But we've reached a place safe for now. Graveholme Village."
"Graveholme?" I repeated, trying to piece the name together, though nothing stirred in my memory.
My lips trembled. "Where… where do you live?"
The man in front of me turned slightly, regarding me with a calm but curious gaze.
"You… don't remember?" he asked quietly.
"I… I don't know," I admitted, my throat dry. I tried to recall the war, the dungeon, my comrades—but all I saw were flashes of pain, darkness, and the unyielding crimson eyes of the Dakin Dagger.
One of the figures near me tilted their head slightly, muttering under their breath, "Has this boy… lost his memory after the war?"
Then, unexpectedly, a laugh broke the silence. "HAHAHAHA!".
I blinked, confused, and saw the person near me chuckling softly, as if amused by my state.
"You're awake, and you sound like a dying sparrow," they said with a grin, shaking their head.
"I thought you'd been asleep for days."
I tried to sit up, but the motion was too much. "I… I feel… weak," I admitted, my fingers clutching the edge of the bandages.
"What happened? Did… did the others survive?"
The group exchanged glances, and one of them shook his head slightly.
"This boy… he has lost his memory," one of the cloaked figures whispered, glancing down at me as I lay slumped against the turtle's massive shell.
The words were soft, almost reverent, carrying a weight that made my chest tighten. My mind swirled with confusion, images of battle, screams, and smoke clashing against the emptiness that had replaced my memory.
I tried to speak, but my voice came out hoarse and weak.
"Where… where are you all going?" I asked. The wind carried my question across the barren landscape, and I felt my throat tighten with the effort.
One of them, the man who had been sitting closest to me, paused for a moment. He turned his head slightly, the hood of his cloak hiding his face.
"We are heading towards Midlands Tower," he said. "That is where we live. That is where you will find shelter, safety, and the chance to recover."
"Midlands Tower?" I repeated, my mind trying to grasp the name. It sounded distant, almost like a dream. "How far is it?"
"We will reach it by tomorrow," another figure said.
"It is a long journey, and your body needs rest. You cannot walk. You fought bravely, survived the horrors of Demon War, and for now, you must let yourself heal."
I tried to nod, but my strength was failing me. My arms and legs felt heavy, my muscles screaming from the wounds I had barely survived.
The turtle's slow, deliberate steps rocked me gently, and the creaking of its shell and the cabin above me sounded like a lullaby, soothing yet constant.
"One night here," a soft female voice added from behind me.
"Tonight, we stay here in Graveholme Village. It is safe. No demon or darkness will disturb us while you rest. By morning, we will continue our journey to Midlands Tower, where you can find the answers you seek… or perhaps, pieces of yourself waiting to be remembered."
I blinked slowly, the faint light of the village glimmering through the haze of exhaustion and pain.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, lanterns flickered in the gentle night wind, and the quiet hum of life—people talking, the soft clatter of animals—reached me across the distance.
For the first time in what felt like endless days, I felt a small spark of relief, a fragile sense of security.
The man in front of me leaned slightly closer, pressing a hand to my shoulder again, firm but gentle.
"Memory or not, boy, you are alive. That is what matters. You fought with courage, and even now, you carry that bravery within you. You survived the War, you survived the war. Let that be enough tonight."
(They respect the soldier), I thought.
I closed my eyes, letting the words sink in. The six cloaked figures murmured quietly among themselves, their movements precise and careful as they guided the turtle along the village road.
I felt their presence like a shield, a protective wall against the memories of horror and loss that still clawed at my mind.
The night grew deeper, and the village slowly enveloped us in its quiet peace.
For the first time since the battlefield, I felt that I could rest, that for a brief moment, I could let go of fear.
I was drifting back into the fragile haze of sleep, my body heavy with exhaustion, when a sudden thought pierced the fog of my mind.
Why can't I go back to Earth? The question throbbed like a pulse, relentless and painful.
Memories of home, of warmth and laughter, of simpler days, clawed at me from the corners of my mind.
My brother's face appeared suddenly, vivid and impossibly close, and my chest tightened with longing.
"Brother… I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling through the quiet night. "I'm sorry for being stubborn. I'm sorry for everything…"
Tears fell freely, burning my cheeks as the weight of guilt pressed on me.
I sobbed loudly, the sound echoing faintly across the turtle's broad shell and into the stillness of Graveholme Village.
The six cloaked figures surrounding me said nothing. They did not speak.
Yet their silence was not cold—it was a quiet understanding, a protective presence that allowed me to grieve without judgment.
For once, I could let the pain flow, acknowledging my mistakes, my longing, and my helplessness.
Even in that desolate place, surrounded by strangers, I felt a small, fragile comfort: I was not completely alone.
"This boy… has suffered a lot in the Castle war" said one of them and the other nodded.
"I feel pity for this boy".