"This sun... it's really a bit blinding."
Burning Feather raised his hand and rubbed his eyes hard with the back of it, as if doing so could block out that excessively bright sunlight.
He sniffled, a hint of a raspy complaint in his voice, as if he truly were just moved to tears by the stinging sun.
He maintained this posture until the three figures completely transformed into three small black dots on the horizon, no longer distinguishable.
The wind blew from the north, carrying the chill from the depths of Dragon Valley, messing up his white hair and drying the last traces of moisture on his cheeks.
He slowly lowered his hand, the feigned ease on his face long gone, leaving only a silence unbefitting his age.
He turned and walked silently toward the small log cabin.
"Creak—"
He pushed the wooden door open gently, and it made a familiar sound.
The furnishings inside were the same as ever—simple, tidy, and one could even say a bit lonely.
A wooden table, two chairs, and a rudimentary stove.
Every item felt like an anchor for his memories.
He could almost see Alphea sitting in that chair with her eyes closed, quietly listening to the wind, her brow slightly furrowed because of the noisy children outside the window.
He could almost smell that, besides the scent of wood and dust in the air, there remained her unique, cold fragrance—like a winter rose atop a snowy mountain peak.
He could almost feel himself being stared at by her emotionless eyes because he had done something wrong; that pressure almost made it impossible for him to breathe.
Eight years of bits and pieces—arguments, beatings, silent dinners, an occasional clumsy moment of care... countless images flooded his heart at this moment, as clear as if they had happened yesterday.
"Farewell, Alphea."
Burning Feather tilted his head back, blinking hard in an attempt to force back the warmth welling up again.
But this time, the tears were no longer under control; they slid silently down his cheeks and dripped onto the old floor, spreading into a small, dark water stain.
He knew better than anyone that the "see you tomorrow" from just now was merely an unrealistic fantasy, a lie to support himself so he wouldn't break down in front of them.
Alphea suffered from a terminal illness.
A decay originating from the soul that even the gods were powerless against.
This was the price brought by that curse known as "Talent," which was envied by the gods.
He also knew the purpose of her and Uncle Chaldo's trip.
They would transform into "Absolute Evil," using what little remained of their lives to ignite the potential of Orario's new generation of Adventurers, becoming the cruelest and most effective trial on their path to growth.
They would use their own destruction to compose a hymn of hope.
How great, yet how cruel.
He knew he couldn't stop her.
That woman was so stubborn, so willful; once she made a decision, even a god couldn't make her turn back.
Moreover, what standing did he have to stop her? A burden she had picked up? A mortal who couldn't even receive a favor? He could do nothing.
Powerlessness was like a giant net, binding him tightly.
Watching the person he liked resolutely walk toward the abyss of destruction while he could only stand in place, without even the qualification to reach out and ask her to stay.
This feeling was like a dull knife repeatedly cutting at his chest; every breath was accompanied by a heart-wrenching pain.
For the first time, Burning Feather experienced so clearly what it meant to have one's heart pierced with pain.
Eight years of being raised—for an ordinary child, this might have turned into deep familial affection.
But for Burning Feather, who possessed the soul of an adult, this feeling had long since quietly changed through their day-to-day interactions.
He looked at the pain hidden beneath her icy exterior, at her loneliness from bearing sins alone; that pity and admiration eventually fermented into something called love.
Even though this was just his one-man show.
"But..."
Burning Feather clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms; the resulting sting cleared his chaotic thoughts slightly.
"I haven't despaired."
He muttered to himself, a glimmer of madness and determination flashing in his eyes.
"The laws of this world state that after an Adventurer dies, their soul returns to the heavens... Fine, then I'll go to the heavens and snatch your soul back!"
"My System can summon existences from fantasy... Then, items that can bring people back from the dead, miracles that can reverse causality, must also exist in some world."
He would not accept this ending.
He had no right to cry, and even less time to despair.
Alphea chose to fight in her way, so he, too, would use his own way to struggle against this predetermined fate.
Time is the most impartial hourglass; it never stops for anyone.
Spring went and autumn came; winter and summer alternated.
Six years of time passed in the blink of an eye.
The small village in the North was as it had always been, peaceful and harmonious.
In the early morning, the door of the log cabin was pushed open.
A youth with a tall and straight posture walked out.
He was already sixteen years old; his short white hair from back then had grown a bit longer, and the childish innocence had faded from his blue eyes, becoming deep and calm.
The polishing of years had made his facial features more defined, and his handsome face always carried a faint touch of aloofness.
"Burning Feather, going to train again? You really are diligent."
The neighboring blacksmith uncle, carrying a hammer, greeted him with a smile.
"Good morning, Uncle Huck."
Burning Feather nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
He walked through the village, nodding hello to every villager he met, and then headed toward a dense forest outside the village with practiced ease.
That place had been his secret base for the past six years, and also his training ground.
Although he still couldn't be inscribed with a favor and couldn't become an Adventurer, he had never given up exercising for even a single day.
He polished his body and techniques in the most rigorous and primitive ways, all for that moment that would eventually arrive.
Six years ago, not long after Alphea and the others left, the "Great Feud" event that shocked the entire world broke out.
Passing merchant travelers brought news of Orario; in Burning Feather's ears, that tragic battle that lasted a full seven days and was called the "Seven Days of Darkness" sounded like a series of familiar full stops.
He knew that Alphea, Chaldo, and that deity he had met once, Erebus, had all completed their missions.
He knew that Alphea had already passed on her will and hope, like a spark, to the new generation of heroes in Orario.
But he wouldn't allow it.
He absolutely would not accept it. On what basis is your hope passed to others? On what basis must you use your own sacrifice to fulfill the greatness of others?
Burning Feather gritted his teeth, the wooden sword in his hand swinging faster, bringing about bursts of sharp wind.
He would use his own way and his own will to change all of this.
He would personally stand before her, defeat her fair and square, and then tell her—your hero can only be me.