"Forgive me," Yacha sobbed, his voice barely audible through his tears. "I didn't want—"
"You've... nothing to forgive," Sigurd whispered, his smile growing faint. "You've done... well. Better... than I ever could have hoped." His voice faltered, his eyes slipping shut.
Sigurd's breathing grew shallower, each rasping breath like a thread slipping away from the loom of life. His eyes, now glassy with the approach of death, found Yacha's, and he raised a trembling hand, motioning for him to come closer. Yacha, still shaking with silent sobs, leaned in, his face streaked with tears. He could barely breathe past the lump in his throat, the weight of guilt and sorrow pressing down on his chest.
With great effort, Sigurd brought his lips close to Yacha's ear, his voice barely a whisper, rasping with the strain of his final words. "There are enemies... within Akkadia. A threat... to humanity itself," he breathed, his voice as fragile as the moment. Yacha's body tensed, his tear-filled eyes widening as he tried to grasp the weight of what Sigurd was telling him.
"I... I can't say... who," Sigurd continued, the words growing fainter, weaker with each passing moment. "You... must find the answer... for yourself." He gasped for air, his grip on Yacha's shoulder loosening. "Trust... no one."
Yacha's heart sank even deeper. He had come here to fulfill a mission, but now, standing at the edge of the unknown, it felt as though the weight of the world had just been thrust onto his shoulders. He wanted to ask, to beg for more information, but Sigurd's time was slipping away like sand through fingers.
Sigurd's lips curled into a faint, almost serene smile despite the pain, his final message waiting on his dying breath. My bracelet pocket don't…, you take it…, and… Send... my regards... to Orcham... and Valdir," he whispered, each name a whisper of farewell, carrying the weight of a life lived in loyalty and sacrifice. His fingers, once strong enough to wield an axe with deadly precision, now trembled as they fell away from Yacha's arm.
And then, with a soft exhale, Sigurd was gone.
Yacha, kneeling beside him, his body frozen with grief, stared at the man who had meant so much to him—now still, now silent. The world around him faded into the background. His chest heaved with emotion, but no sound escaped his lips. His tears fell in silence as if the very air around him respected the gravity of the loss.
The sky above remained cruelly indifferent, the stars twinkling as they always had, unaware that a great man had just left the world. But in Yacha's heart, the weight of Sigurd's last words settled like a stone, his smile lingering in death, haunting the young soldier who now faced not only the guilt of his mentor's death but the looming threat of a deeper, more insidious danger.
As Yacha knelt there, sobbing in quiet agony, the world felt emptier, colder. Sigurd had died protecting him—protecting everyone—and now, in the eerie stillness of the night, Yacha knew he had inherited not just his mentor's strength, but his burdens as well. And all Yacha could do was cry, holding onto the last moment of Sigurd's life, before the darkness of the future began to close in.
Yacha clutched at Sigurd's hand, the world around him dissolving into grief. There was nothing left but the weight of loss, the ache of knowing that the man who had always protected him was now gone.
Step... step... step...
A figure slowly emerged from the shadows, the shape becoming more distinct with each step. As the light revealed him fully, he took on a familiar form—Sigurd, the jinn who had been so dear to Yacha. The sight was jarring, almost cruel.
"I see an Orionis... with emotions," the figure said, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on Ursang and the two girls. His voice dripped with disdain as he assessed their state. "Pathetic for a soldier, even more so for you... sobbing like children."
Ursang and Eline, their faces streaked with silent tears, avoided the jinn's mocking gaze. Speira, while not outwardly crying, looked truly heartbroken. The weight of their loss hung heavily in the air.
The jinn's eyes then shifted toward Yacha, who stood at the edge of the group, silent, his emotions swirling dangerously beneath the surface. Only Speira remained composed, though sadness was etched across her features. The jinn tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral, perhaps even bored. "However," he continued, his tone cold and detached, "I am not here to chastise you for your pathetic display. My task is not to comment on your failures." He paused, letting the silence stretch out, then added calmly, "I'm here to report the mission. Whatever happens here stays here."
His words were a knife, cutting through the tense air. Before any of them could react, something happened that none of them had seen coming—it was too fast for the eye to follow.
Yacha's axe was suddenly at the jinn's throat, the blade gleaming ominously. His eyes, usually calm and reserved, now burned with fury. He stared into the jinn's soul with an intensity that made the air around them hum with barely contained energy. His voice, low and dangerously steady, cut through the silence. "You dare... take his shape?"
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The group watched in breathless anticipation, knowing the thin thread on which the jinn's life hung. Yet the jinn remained confident, almost amused, as if aware of a truth none of them could comprehend. He did not flinch or move, his expression calm.
"Mission completed," the jinn finally said, his voice betraying no fear, only the cold delivery of a messenger. "You are to take the north road to Akkadia. There, you will find the meeting point where the three lands converge. This is a direct order from headquarters."
With those final words, the jinn vanished, dissolving into smoke, leaving nothing but the faint echo of his presence behind.
Yacha stood frozen, his axe still raised where the jinn had been only moments before. His breathing was heavy, his mind a storm of emotion and memory. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and reached into his pouch, retrieving a small, glowing sphere. He gazed at it for a long, silent moment before speaking softly, as if to himself.
"So long, Sigurd... So long, Father."
With great care, he placed Sigurd's body into the sphere's pocket. The action was gentle, deliberate, as though this final act of respect would somehow preserve the memories they had shared. Only a few months had passed since Sigurd had come into his life, yet the bond between them had been strong, forged in battle and mutual trust. The memories of their time together flooded Yacha's mind—happy, fleeting moments he knew he would carry with him forever.
Ursang, sensing the shift in Yacha's mood, stepped forward. "We move," he said, his voice quiet yet commanding. His eyes lingered on Yacha for a moment, a silent understanding passing between them. Some of them lost something today. But there was no time to grieve. Not now.
Without another word, the group set out, moving swiftly to follow the jinn's orders. The path north to Akkadia stretched long before them, and they traveled in silence, each soldier wrapped in their own thoughts. The weight of their mission bore heavily on them, but it was Yacha who seemed to carry the heaviest burden.
He took the rear of the formation, his steps slower, more labored than usual. He was exhausted both, physically, mentally, emotionally. Every step felt like it drained more of his energy, and yet, despite the toll this mission had taken, his mind was far from still. Memories from his childhood resurfaced, unbidden and relentless. Moments he had long buried, thoughts he had kept hidden even from himself, now rushed back with startling clarity. They overwhelmed him, crashing over him in waves until he felt as though he might drown in them.
What he did not realize, what none of them yet knew, was that this was more than simple grief. Something deep inside him was stirring, awakening. His thoughts, his emotions. everything was connected to this moment. This was not just a mission, not just a loss. It was the beginning of something far greater.
His awakening had begun.
"In what terms, you may ask?"
Both, as it turned out. The breaking of the curse was no simple matter. Typically, it demanded a near-death experience, one that scorched through the mind, leaving the body and soul on the brink of ruin. This traumatic process would often fry the brain, pushing one's magical limits to dangerous extremes. But Sigurd had intervened, preventing the worst from happening, yet in doing so, he unintentionally expanded Yacha's mana pool far beyond its natural capacity. His senses, too, were sharper than ever, more refined than any normal soldier could hope to achieve.
Emotionally, however, Yacha was now a paradox. Though he had gained greater control over his feelings, the method by which this maturity was reached was far from ideal. It left him hardened, cold in ways that made it seem as if the curse had only shifted rather than broken completely.
The group moved cautiously through the dense woods, alert to any sign of danger. The Albions had been hunting them, tracking their movements ever since the commotion caused by Yacha's battle with Sigurd. The word had reached, even the holy order uses jinns as their scouts and now the Holy Order had sent one of its knights to deal with them. The forest, cloaked in fog, felt oppressive as they pressed deeper into its heart.
Without warning, an arrow sliced through the air, swift, deadly, aimed directly at Yacha. But before it could find its target, Yacha's hand snapped up, catching it effortlessly, as though it were no more than a passing insect. He barely paused before flinging it back with impossible speed. A few seconds later, the heavy sound of a body collapsing broke the eerie silence.
Ursang, Eline, and Speira reacted immediately, drawing their weapons from their bracelet pockets. Tension gripped the air as they braced for what came next.
Suddenly, a deluge of arrows rained down upon them, unleashed from every direction. These weren't ordinary arrows.