As his parents smiled down at him, baby Arold's chest tightened with a feeling he couldn't explain. It was confusing—almost painful—yet strangely warm. In all his countless years, nothing had ever made him feel like this.
They named him softly, lovingly.
"Arold. Arold Marliadeus."
The name wrapped around him like a promise.
Sixteen years later…
The school bell rang loudly, signaling the start of lunch break. Students spilled out into the hallways, laughing, shouting, hurrying toward the canteen.
Among them, Arold walked with his only close friend, a boy with messy hair and an easy grin—Ramon.
"Yo, Arold!" Ramon slapped his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. "Lunch time! Let's hurry to the canteen before it's too late. I swear I'm getting that curry today! My mom made it at home last week, and man—pure heaven!"
Arold smirked, remembering the taste when he visited Ramon's house. It wasn't bad… but it hadn't exactly blown him away either.
"…It's good," Arold admitted, "but my mom's cooking is still better."
Ramon groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up. "Bro, don't start a war over whose mom cooks better! That's one battle I'll never win!"
For the first time that day, Arold chuckled. The two of them continued walking side by side, blending into the sea of students.
Two weeks later…
The sharp crack of air echoed through a small training room. Sweat dripped from Arold's forehead as he pushed his body beyond its limits, steam-like heat rising from his skin. He had trained like this for as long as he could remember—since the age of five. His body was not just trained. It was forged.
Just as he steadied his breathing, a familiar voice called out from the kitchen:
"Arold! Dinner time!"
"Got it, Mom. I'll be there in five!" he answered, wiping himself down quickly before heading out.
At the dining table, his family gathered as usual. The television hummed in the background, the anchor's urgent voice cutting through the meal.
Breaking News:
"According to the recent council meeting, a decision has been made: all students aged fifteen and above will now be required to undergo combat training and skill assessment under the supervision of elite hunters. This policy comes in response to the rising number of dungeon breaks—over four hundred cases in the last month alone, with nearly a thousand casualties reported."
The room fell into a heavy silence. Arold's mother set down her chopsticks, her brow furrowed in worry.
"…That's dangerous," she murmured. Her eyes shifted to him. "Arold, ever since you were five, I've seen you training every day. At first, it shocked me. But I told myself… if that's the path you chose, then I'd support you. Even so…" Her voice trembled slightly. "I still worry. Especially that one time, when they measured your level at school. The professor said the system couldn't detect anything. It showed nothing. Do you know how terrifying that was for me as a mother?"
Arold met her eyes quietly. He could feel the weight of her worry, and for once, the warmth of it reached him. He gave a small, reassuring smile.
"I'll be fine, Mom. Don't worry."
She bit her lip, then leaned closer. "Promise me this, Arold. If you ever run into a monster… or a dungeon break happens near you—don't try to fight. Just run. Run home. I don't care about levels or strength. I just don't want you to get hurt."
Arold hesitated. A part of him—the part buried deep inside—scoffed at the thought of "running" from creatures he could erase with a breath. But as he looked at his mother's anxious face, he nodded.
"…Yeah. I promise."
The room fell into a fragile peace again.
Until—knock, knock.
The sound echoed through the house.
Arold then walk to the door and open it then...
To be continued…