The morning light crept through Chevie's window, painting the room in soft hues of gold.
He hadn't slept much, but for the first time in three months, he wasn't consumed by the weight of his grief. Instead, there was a flicker of something different—resolve.
He stared at the ceiling, letting the morning sounds of Avenridge City seep in.
Somewhere in the distance, a street vendor was shouting about "mana-infused snacks," and the faint clatter of carts echoed from below. It felt ordinary, even mundane, and that was oddly comforting.
Chevie glanced at the sword leaning against the wall. His fingers itched to hold it, but not yet.
Today was about more than just training; it was about taking the first step forward.
... ....
As Chevie prepared for the day, his mind wandered to a time when life had been simpler.
At 18, the Gates hadn't yet appeared, and his world revolved around lazy afternoons, odd jobs, and his mother's cooking.
He chuckled, remembering her exasperated expression whenever he managed to shirk responsibilities.
"I swear, Chevie," she'd say, hands on her hips, "if you don't shape up, the only door you'll walk through is the one to trouble!"
Her voice still lingered in his memory, warm and teasing.
Those days had been carefree, almost idyllic. But the chaos brought by the Gates had shattered that peace.
When his mother died in the initial outbreak, everything changed.
For years, he'd barely recognized himself—withdrawn, sullen, lost.
It wasn't until much later, after meeting his team, that he began to piece himself back together.
Their banter, their camaraderie—it had reminded him of what he used to be. Slowly, his easygoing nature returned, though it never fully erased the scars.
The streets of Avenridge buzzed with life as Chevie made his way to Darius's family home.
The city had a peculiar charm, with its mix of modern Gatewalker tech and old-world simplicity. Kids chased each other with wooden swords, pretending to slay magical beasts, while vendors peddled their wares.
One stall caught his eye—a collection of quirky, handcrafted charms shaped like tiny Gates. The vendor, an elderly man with a crooked smile, waved him over.
"Good luck charms, young man! Guaranteed to keep you safe from magical beasties," he said with a wink.
Chevie smirked. "Do they come with a guarantee, or do I just hope the beast doesn't eat me first?"
The old man laughed. "Depends on how much you believe in luck!"
With a shake of his head, Chevie continued down the street, a faint smile lingering on his lips.
When he reached Darius's house, his steps faltered. It wasn't his first visit, but it never got easier.
He knocked, and the door opened to reveal Mira, Darius's younger sister.
Her face lit up with a mix of surprise and relief. "Chevie… you came."
"I didn't forget," he said softly.
Inside, the atmosphere was quiet but not oppressive. Darius's mother sat at the table, a cup of tea in her hands.
She looked up, her expression weary but kind.
"You've come," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Thank you."
Chevie hesitated, unsure of what to say.
How did you comfort someone who had lost so much?
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he finally managed. "I… I should've been here."
"Darius wouldn't have wanted that," his mother replied, her gaze steady.
"You were with him, Chevie. That's all that matters now."
Mira handed him a small box. It was wrapped carefully, as if holding something precious.
"This is for you," she said.
"Darius… he wanted you to have it, in case something happened."
Chevie accepted the box with trembling hands, the weight of it almost unbearable.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"I'll keep my promise."
... ....
The Department of Dimensional Affairs building loomed in the city center, all sleek metal and glowing panels.
Inside, the air was thick with urgency—agents rushed about, murmuring about rogue Gates and magical beast incursions.
Chevie was escorted to a sterile room, where Agent Rivers waited with his usual unreadable expression.
"Mr. Harley,"
Rivers began, gesturing for him to sit. "We've been reviewing your case. Your… second awakening has caused quite a stir. Care to elaborate?"
Chevie leaned back, doing his best to look nonchalant.
"Not much to tell. I was exposed to some crazy energy, and boom. Woke up stronger."
Rivers raised an eyebrow. "And your clone ability? Is it true you can summon a duplicate of yourself?"
"Yeah, but it's not permanent," Chevie said with a shrug.
"It's just… there to help in a fight. Nothing fancy."
The agent studied him for a long moment, clearly skeptical.
"Interesting. But understand this, Mr. Harley: we'll be watching you."
Chevie nodded, feigning indifference.
The truth wasn't something he was ready to share—not yet.
Later that evening, Chevie sat by the window of his apartment, the small box from Mira resting on the table.
He opened it slowly, revealing a few trinkets and a folded note in Darius's handwriting.
Take care of yourself, Chevie. Don't forget what we fought for. And don't waste the life you've got now.
Chevie's chest tightened as he read the words. He could almost hear Darius's voice, playful yet serious.
"Don't worry, buddy," he murmured. "I won't."
As the city lights twinkled outside, Chevie reached for the sword leaning against the wall. It felt right, like a natural extension of himself.
His training over the past few weeks had been grueling but rewarding.
Every swing, every technique—it was like rediscovering a part of himself he didn't know existed. And though the memories of his clone still lingered, they no longer felt like a burden.
They were a reminder—a guide.
He stood, gripping the sword tightly.
Strength wasn't about power; it was about purpose.
"That was a bit cool, doesn't it?"
Chevie tried to sound cheerful as he remembered his party's name.
'Leon, El, Ronan, Darius...'