"Wasn't he lying there a moment ago?"
"Is he… cultivating?"
"Impossible. He's always been stuck."
Astra didn't look at them.
They didn't matter.
Not yet.
A Promise to Himself
He stood and walked toward the small, plain building that passed for his room.
Inside, there was a narrow bed, a roughly mended blanket, and a wobbly wooden table.
He closed the door behind him and leaned his back against it for a second, letting out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.
In the small cracked mirror on the wall, he saw himself:
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
Slight frame, but no longer sickly.
A faint stubborn line at the corner of his mouth.
He stared at his reflection.
Memories of his first life flashed:
a warm hand on his cheek, a gentle voice telling him to rest;
a girl's blurry face, laughing with eyes full of light,
someone he'd never confessed to, someone who'd faded as he faded.
He didn't remember her name clearly…
but the feeling remained.
This time… I won't treat feelings as something to run away from.
If someone chooses to walk beside me… I'll protect them with everything I have.
And somewhere deep in his blood, the faint echo of a future connection trembled—
Silhouettes of women he hadn't met yet, spirits and mortals both,
who would one day choose him
and be chosen in return.
He looked himself in the eyes.
"Astra," he said quietly to his own reflection, "no more wasting this life. No more kneeling. No more being pushed wherever others want."
His hand curled into a fist.