- Foster! FOSTER!' shouted a voice behind him.
Foster turned around and his friend Yänn jumped into his arms.
- Ahaha long time no see since I left for the hunt! exclaimed his friend.
- Yänn!
Tears welled up in Foster's eyes, the last time he'd seen his friend was his body bathing in blood.
- Hey, what's going on? I knew you missed me, but not this much!
- It's nothing! How are you?
The two started chatting as they headed into the town of Völlua. After a while, the two said their goodbyes and Foster headed for his old house.
Opening the door, Foster saw something he hadn't seen for decades. The interior was warm, bathed in soft light from luminescent crystal lanterns suspended from metal hooks. The walls, formed from the natural bark of the tree, have been smoothed and reinforced, but retain their organic curves.
The main living room is modest but functional: a rough-hewn wooden coffee table, surrounded by armchairs upholstered in handmade fabrics. On the shelves, carved directly into the walls, are books, tools and her various magic sticks.
A spiral staircase, made of solid intertwined branches, leads to a mezzanine. Here is the sleeping area: a simple but sturdy bed, covered with a thick woollen blanket, faces another small window offering a direct view of the canopy. On a bedside table rests a lantern.
Foster stopped in the middle of his living room, his breath caught. Time seemed to stretch as he contemplated this home so familiar to him, nestled on the outskirts of Völlua like all the lower elves. A wave of nostalgia washes over him, sweet and cruel at the same time.
Every detail reminds him of a moment frozen in the past: the door he carved himself, for hours on end, with rough hands but a proud heart. The light from the lanterns filtering through the round window, even the creepers climbing the walls, seem like silent friends, unchanging witnesses to his days and nights.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and memories flood back: the creak of wood under his fingers as he mends a shelf, the warmth of the hearth in the harshest winters, the murmur of the forest around him, protective and soothing.
But nostalgia, sweet at first, becomes a bitter pain. It's all in the past. He knows he can't get back to the carefree state, the balance he built up here, in this house. Every stone, every plank bears the echo of a bygone era, a time when he believed this refuge would last forever.
And yet, there is consolation in this vision. The house is still there, still standing, still faithful. It hasn't changed, unlike him. It stretches out its arms to him, like an old friend he had thought lost. But Foster knows he's not exactly the same man who built it. He's a man who has returned with invisible scars, carrying a weight he didn't have before.
He inhales deeply, letting the fresh forest air fill his lungs. The nostalgia subsides slightly, replaced by a strange resolve. This place, this house, is a part of him, an anchor in a shaky world. And even if the peace he once knew here seems beyond his reach, he vows to protect this place, to give it back a fragment of the serenity it once offered him.
Foster stands there in front of the house, a mixture of pain and gratitude in his eyes. He murmurs almost to himself:
- I'm back.
He faced the mirror on his wardrobe. As a lesser sylvan elf, Foster's appearance was much more modest, lacking the glamour of his more noble fellows.
His face is angular and marked by a certain hardness. His features are less refined: discreet cheekbones, a straight, slightly blunt nose, and a square chin that betrays a resilient character. His skin has a slightly tanned hue, the result of long days spent under the cover of trees and in the open air. There are small scars here and there: scratches, traces of an active life in the forest.
Her eyes, an earthy brown, lack the supernatural sparkle of the higher sylvan elves. Yet they have a discreet intensity, a depth that seems to hold secrets. His eyes are keen and attentive, but often shy, as if he avoids meeting the eyes of those he considers superior.
His pointed ears, characteristic of elves, are slightly shorter than those of others and often half hidden by his hair.
His hair is dark brown, almost black, and often messy. Roughly cut, probably by her own hand, it falls in uneven strands around her face. A few longer strands sometimes slip over his eyes, adding to his unkempt appearance.
Foster is slim, almost frail. His musculature is slight, honed by the simple but constant physical tasks of life in the forest: climbing, running. His clothes, made of coarse, worn fabrics, bear witness to his rank: a simple brown linen tunic, patched in several places, and canvas pants. A rope belt holds it all together, from which hangs a small knife, more tool than real weapon.
- So, I'm 16 again, with 2 years to go before the Obscurus arrive. he thought.
He raised his magic staff and channeled his mana.
- Fireball!
A third of his magic reserve was suddenly gone, and a fist-sized fireball appeared a few centimetres from the end of the staff.
Magic is a rare gift among Sylvain elves, and especially among the lesser elves. Foster's gift elevated his rank a little in everyone's eyes.
[*Ding* skill created: Fireball (lvl 1: 1/50)]
[*Ding* casting 25 spells: 1/25]
- Hell, I can only throw 3 fireballs before I run out of mana. Knowing that I recover all my mana in 6 hours, I can throw 12 fireballs a day without sleeping.
After creating 3 fireballs and exhausting his magical power, Foster took out his small kitchen knife and raised it above his head before lowering it sharply downwards in a frontal slicing motion.
[*Ding* Fencing practice 1/5]
- Looks like for now my path is going to be that of the knight.
[*Ding* Fencing 5/5]
[Awarded: Beginner fencing talent]
Foster felt an unusual warmth run through his body, a strange, almost unreal sensation, as if a foreign energy were gently creeping in. He placed a hand on his heart, where the warmth seemed to intensify, and closed his eyes. It wasn't painful, but he felt every fiber of his being, every muscle, every tendon, as if they were frequently awake.
When he opened his eyes again, the world looked slightly different, as if his perception had changed. He instinctively looked down at the kitchen knife he was holding. Until then, it had been nothing more than a tool, a clumsy weight in his hand, but at this moment, it seemed... different. Lighter. More natural.
A strange understanding crept into her mind, like a diffuse but persistent whisper. His fingers tightened on the knife handle, and he felt the right balance between strength and precision. He'd never had any real training in fencing, but gestures periodically flashed through his mind, like hazy memories of a knowledge he hadn't possessed even a few moments earlier.
He raised the weapon in front of him, adopting a posture he couldn't explain: feet slightly staggered, knees supple, weight distributed for optimal mobility. It all seemed instinctive, as if he'd always known it, even if his reason knew otherwise.
A shiver ran through him as he made his first move. A simple stroke, an estoc, followed by a fluid withdrawal. It wasn't perfect, his movements still lacked precision and fluidity, but he felt a foundation on which he could build.
And it wasn't just a question of technique. His body itself seemed slightly different: firmer, more balanced. He noticed a new solidity in his legs, a better coordination between his limbs. His muscles, though still modest, seemed to respond with increased efficiency, as if they finally understood their role.
- That's it," he murmured, almost incredulously.
This gift, this reward, was modest but powerful. It was only a beginning talent, he felt. But it was a step, a first step towards something greater.
A rare smile stretched his lips as he lowered the sword. For the first time in a long time, Foster felt confident. Not invincible, far from it, but ready to start building. To become someone stronger.
[*Ding* Quest 2.2: Practice Fencing: 0/1000]
[Reward: random fencing skill]
Foster's eyes went wide.
- Holy shit! This is completely unreasonable !!!!!!
He sighed and started practicing again, closing his eyes and getting used to his new body and new knowledge.
Parry, strike, dodge; parry, strike, dodge; little by little he began to get the hang of it, and his movements became much more precise, much more natural.
- Being a knight isn't so bad after all.
- Host's current status]
- Race] : Sylvain Elf
- Strength: 2 4
- Endurance] : 5 6
- Constitution] : 3 4
- Magic] : 15
- Skills] : Fireball
- Talents] : Beginner fencing talent
- [Quest 1: Cast 25 Spells: 3/25]
- Reward: Beginner's Magic Talent]
- [Quest 2.2: Fencing Skills: 15/1000]
- [Random fencing skill]
- [Quest 3: Go to Fotiya and search for the World Tree Seed]
- [Reward: ???????]