The cold air seeped into the room, wrapping itself around every surface like a ghostly presence. Shin stood frozen, his eyes locked on the letter Ayano Poirot held in his hand. The faint flicker of candlelight danced against the worn parchment, illuminating the name that sent a strike of cold fear through Shin's chest.
Elianor.
It was a name Shin hadn't heard in years, a name that belonged to a shadowed past of betrayal, secrets, and a hero's mysterious death. The very mention of it summoned memories that most would rather forget. Shin's throat tightened, his breath shallow, as if the room itself had conspired to suffocate him.
Shin's gaze darted to Ayano, hoping to find some flicker of recognition or emotion in his face. But Ayano's expression was unreadable, his demeanor calm—too calm. The long, disheveled strands of his hair hung over his face, partially concealing his intense bluish-purple eyes. His lanky figure was slouched, and he scratched the back of his neck—a nervous habit Shin had seen countless times before. The letter trembled in his hand, betraying the otherwise stoic façade.
For a long moment, silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. Outside, the rain had begun to pour heavily, its rhythmic drumming on the wooden walls the only sound in the oppressive quiet. Shin's fingers twitched at his sides, his mind racing with questions he was too afraid to ask.
Finally, Ayano broke the silence. His voice, usually tinged with awkward warmth, was cold and detached. "What a lousy prank," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. His lips curled into a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. Without hesitation, he crumpled the letter into a tight ball and tossed it to the ground, the parchment landing with a muted thud.
Shin stared at the discarded letter, disbelief etched across his face. "A prank?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ayano, this… this can't be a prank. It's too specific. The name, the timing—it doesn't make sense."
Ayano turned his gaze toward Shin, his expression darkening. "Don't start," he said flatly, his tone carrying a warning edge. "I'm not falling for it. Elianor is gone. Dead. Nothing's bringing her back."
The finality in Ayano's voice hit Shin like a physical blow, but he refused to back down. "But what if it's not just a prank?" Shin pressed, stepping closer. "Whoever sent this letter knew where to find you. It took me weeks to track you down, Ayano. How could someone else know? Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
Ayano's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I don't care who sent it. They're wasting their time." His eyes softened momentarily, as if he regretted his words, but his expression quickly hardened again. "Stay the night, Shin. But don't waste your breath trying to convince me to get involved. I'm not a hero anymore."
The words stung more than Shin cared to admit. He had traveled so far, clinging to the hope that the Ayano Poirot he remembered—the hero who had once saved him from the freezing streets of Shandiam—was still somewhere beneath the surface. But the man standing before him was a shadow of that hero, weighed down by guilt and resignation.
"You have to help us," Shin pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice. "The world needs you. You heroes are supposed to be our salvation. Without you, we don't stand a chance."
Ayano's gaze turned distant, his voice hollow. "I'm sorry, Shin. I can't help you. Not after what happened to Elianor…" He trailed off, the name hanging heavily in the air.
Shin clenched his fists, frustration boiling over. "Elianor's death—whatever happened—doesn't change the fact that people still need you. You can't just turn your back on them."
Ayano winced, the pain in his eyes momentarily breaking through his mask of indifference. But he quickly regained his composure, shaking his head. "It's not that simple," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Shin's heart sank, but he refused to give up. "If you won't help, I'll find someone who will," he said, his voice firm. "There are still other heroes out there."
For a moment, Ayano seemed as though he wanted to respond, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned away, walking toward the corner of the room. "Good luck with that," he muttered, his tone laced with bitterness.
---
That night, Shin lay awake in the small inn, his thoughts racing. The mysterious letter, Ayano's cold demeanor, and the haunting memory of Elianor's name weighed heavily on his mind. Something wasn't right—he could feel it in his bones. Ayano's reaction, though dismissive, seemed forced, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Shin.
Meanwhile, Ayano made his decision. Under the cover of darkness, he slipped out of the inn, his ragged cloak pulled tightly around him. The rain had lessened to a steady drizzle, but the air was still heavy with moisture. His long hair, now tied back, dripped water as he made his way toward the forest at the village's edge.
The journey was slow and solitary, each step burdened by memories he had tried to bury. The letter's cryptic instructions echoed in his mind:
"Foreraid Structure. 9 PM."
He knew the place—a crumbling relic hidden deep within the forest. Its towering stone pillars, remnants of an ancient civilization, exuded a quiet, eerie power. The scent of old magic still lingered there, and Ayano had no doubt it was tied to the Conqueror's Ring—a power he had tried to forget.
As he approached the structure, the rain subsided, leaving the night quiet save for the rustling of leaves in the wind. Shadows danced across the ground, cast by the faint glow of the moon peeking through the clouds.
And then, he saw them.
Four figures stood beneath the towering pillars, their faces obscured by the dim light. Ayano recognized each of them immediately, though none looked pleased to see one another. Tension crackled in the air like an unspoken challenge.
Logan, ever the blunt one, broke the silence first. "Who the hell sent this letter?" he barked, his arms crossed and his glare sweeping over the group. "Do you think this is funny?"
Vincent, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, scoffed. "Funny? If anyone here would think this is funny, it'd be you."
Lillian crossed her arms, her expression icy. "Enough. Some of us have responsibilities—real ones. If this is some elaborate prank, I'm leaving."
Doisume leaned casually against a pillar, his sharp gaze flitting between the others. "What a waste of time," he drawled. "I should've known this group would be just as insufferable as always."
Ayano lingered in the shadows, watching his former companions bicker. It had been years since they had stood together, and the passage of time had done little to ease the bitterness between them. Yet, despite their differences, they were all here—drawn by the same mysterious summons.
The weight of old memories pressed down on Ayano as he finally stepped forward, his presence immediately drawing the others' attention. For a moment, the bickering ceased, and all eyes turned to him.
Ayano cleared his throat, his voice quiet yet firm. "So," he said, his words cutting through the silence, "which one of you thought it was a good idea to drag us back here?"
No one answered, but the unease in their expressions spoke volumes. Something—or someone—had brought them together again, and none of them were prepared for what lay ahead.