Chapter 178
At first, Daniel treated Melgil the way he treated everyone else, with distance, politeness, and the carefully measured detachment of Damon Lazarus, the mask he had worn for so many years. That mask had been his armor, a shield built out of mimicry, where he copied the patterns of human emotion without ever feeling their weight. It kept him safe, kept him untouchable.
But inside the Void, where days stretched into years, the mask began to crack. Melgil never forced him, never demanded more than he could give, yet she was there steady, warm, patient. At first, her presence unsettled him.
He found himself unprepared for the sudden sting of grief when they spoke of his parents, or the sharp brightness of joy when laughter caught him off guard. Even the brush of her hand against his sent an ache through him so deep it frightened him, because for the first time he didn't want the moment to end.
These feelings weren't practiced or rehearsed; they were raw, uncontainable, and alive, as though he had lived his whole life blind and was only now learning to see. Slowly, Damon Lazarus—the illusion, the mask, the safe distance, began to fall away.
The breaking of that armor did not destroy Daniel; it remade him. And as he changed, the Void changed too. What had once been a hollow realm of silence and endless trial began to breathe with new life, echoes of conversation, bursts of laughter, even arguments that carried meaning rather than emptiness.
Bonds formed between them all, fragile but real, weaving a net of belonging where there had only been solitude. The Void no longer felt like a prison or a hiding place. It had become something startlingly human, and in that transformation Daniel discovered a truth he had never dared hope for: he was no longer a shadow pretending to be someone else. For the first time, he was simply himself and that was more terrifying, and more precious, than anything he had ever known.
Yet even as Daniel felt himself awakening to something real, a whisper of fear coiled at the edges of every moment. Trust, he realized, was as delicate as spun glass beautiful when held in the right light, but breakable with the slightest pressure. so he had to protect it. he just stood up and walked toward his skill tree , the library was still pulsating with grandeur but it has that home warm feeling, the books representing his gained knowledge was still seen place neatly on the book shelves, the difference was it no longer reflect his old life, the knowledge felt more aligned to who he was as a noble,
Daniel has those information but because its no longer applicable to his current reality its just part of him, a old memory, like a small glimpse of wisdom he gained by chance, the biggest change was confirmation that he now truly feel and understood the emotion . doing something and not feeling the emotion has a profound impact to him now.
many will say its a
…curse, others a blessing. To Daniel, it was neither, it was a threshold.
Before, he had acted because duty demanded it, because systems and structures around him guided his steps. Now, with each sensation vivid and undeniable, the world felt heavier but also sharper, richer. Emotion was no longer a ghost brushing against his decisions; it was a fire within them, shaping their weight.
He ran a hand across the spines of the books, each one a fragment of a life he had already outgrown. They weren't gone, not truly. They lingered as echoes of the boy who had once followed orders without question, who had lived a half-life of instinct and calculation. But the man who now stood in this library his library, was awake in a way he hadn't thought possible.
The skill tree before him unfolded like a constellation, threads of light branching outward. For the first time, Daniel didn't just see choices, he felt them. The paths were no longer abstract gains in power; they resonated with something deeper, whispering of consequences, of connections, of futures woven together with fragile trust.
He paused, realizing with quiet intensity that this was the true beginning. Not the trials. Not the battles. Not even the victories. But this standing in the stillness, with fear and hope braided into his every breath.
Daniel's footsteps echoed softly at first, steady and deliberate against the marble of the grand library. Yet with each step, the grandeur began to melt away. The vaulted ceilings lowered into something gentler, painted in warm golden light. The towering shelves, once gilded and rigid, softened into polished oak that carried the scent of old parchment and candle wax.
By the time he reached the heart of the room, the transformation was complete. No longer a cathedral of knowledge, the library had become a cozy reading room walls lined with well-loved tomes, a hearth flickering with calm firelight, armchairs settled into inviting corners. The shift was not an illusion; it was a reflection of him, of how his knowledge was no longer about power or duty, but about living, understanding, and feeling.
But the skill tree was no longer inside. As he pushed open a small wooden door at the far end, Daniel stepped out and found himself breathing in cool, fragrant air.
The tree had taken form as a warm cabin perched at the crest of a gentle hill, its windows glowing with a soft amber hue. The hill itself was alive with beauty—wildflowers and tall grass swaying in the breeze, their colors dancing under the vastness of the sky. Beyond the slope stretched an open grassland, a perfect circle about a kilometer wide, and at its very edge lay something impossible.
The horizon did not fade into distance. Instead, it unraveled into a swirling cosmic universe—galaxies twining like rivers of light, stars birthing and dying in silent brilliance. The cosmos folded endlessly, wrapping the edges of his reality in a tapestry of infinite possibility.
Daniel stood there, breathing deeply, the air crisp and alive. The cabin on the hill seemed to beckon him, and with it, the choices of his skill tree, no longer a mere diagram of power, but a home for his potential, shaped by who he was becoming.
The cabin's interior was intimate, touched by a quiet charm. Sunlight spilled through lace-draped windows, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily through the air. The scent of tea and freshly bound pages mingled gently, grounding him in a peace he had never known.
And then he saw her.
Melgil was seated on a sofa near the fire, legs tucked neatly beneath her, a book resting lightly in her hands. She wore a cozy yet adorably styled dress, simple but radiant in the way it framed her presence. She looked completely at home in this space—as though she had been waiting for him, as though she belonged here.
Daniel's lips curved before he realized it, a smile slipping past the weight of everything else. It wasn't forced, wasn't calculated. It was real. A small thrill ran through him, one he couldn't smother, a spark of joy that filled the quiet of the cabin more powerfully than any flame in the hearth.
For a moment, the cosmic expanse outside, the vastness of power and choice, faded away. Here, in this ordinary, almost fragile moment, Daniel felt alive in a way no victory or skill had ever managed to give him.
Daniel lingered at the doorway longer than he intended, caught between the surreal beauty of the moment and the unsteady warmth stirring in his chest. Melgil glanced up from her book, her eyes soft but keen, and she tilted her head with the faintest smile.
"You're staring," she said gently, closing the book with a quiet thump against her palm. "That's new."
Daniel blinked, almost startled by how right she was. "Is it?" His voice came out lighter than he expected, carrying none of the usual weight he'd grown so used to.
"It is," Melgil replied, leaning back into the cushions. Her cozy dress shifted slightly as she tucked her legs tighter beneath her. "Before, you used to look at things as if you were measuring them. People, choices, even me. As though you were deciding how much to hold, and how much to let go." She gestured lightly toward him. "But now… you're simply looking. There's no calculation in your eyes. Just… you."
Daniel stepped further into the room, drawn as much by her words as by the hearth's warmth. "I didn't realize it was that obvious," he admitted, almost sheepishly.
Melgil's smile deepened, though it wasn't teasing—it was kind, reassuring. "To me, it always has been. But now, there's something different. You feel… awake."
That word landed in him with unexpected force. Awake. Yes, that was what it was. Not simply alive, but aware, feeling the full gravity of moments that used to pass like mist. He lowered himself into the chair across from her, running a hand over the armrest as though grounding himself.
"It's strange," he said quietly. "I've lived so long by instinct, by duty. I thought I understood what mattered. But now… every feeling is sharper. Fear, hope, even joy. It's overwhelming, but it's also—" He paused, searching for the word.
"Beautiful?" Melgil offered, tilting her head again.
Daniel's smile grew, faint but honest. "Yes. Beautiful."
She studied him in the glow of the fire, her expression soft but thoughtful. "Then don't be afraid of it. Don't treat it like another enemy to master. Let it in, Daniel. Let it change you."
Her words settled over him like a blanket, gentle yet impossible to ignore. For the first time, he realized he wasn't afraid of change—he was afraid of losing the trust it required. And yet, sitting across from Melgil, watching her light the room with nothing more than her presence, he thought perhaps trust wasn't as fragile as he believed.
"Melgil," he said at last, voice low but steady, "thank you. For reminding me that I'm more than what I was."
She gave a small nod, returning to her book but with a smile that told him she heard every word. "You've always been more, Daniel. You're just finally starting to see it yourself."
The fire crackled softly, and for the first time in years, Daniel felt the peace of simply being.
Daniel let the silence stretch, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but alive, holding every unspoken thought between them. He leaned back, eyes half on the fire, half on Melgil.
"I keep thinking," he said slowly, "that if I let myself trust, it'll break. Like spun glass, too fragile to last. And if it shatters, I won't know how to gather the pieces again."
Melgil set her book aside, leaning forward slightly, her gaze steady. "Then maybe it's not about gathering the pieces," she replied. "Maybe it's about learning to hold them without fear. Not everything fragile is meant to be protected from breaking. Some things… are meant to be held, even if they crack."
Daniel absorbed that, his fingers curling against the armrest. "That sounds… dangerous."
"It is," she said softly, almost with a laugh. "But isn't that what makes it real?"
Her words struck deeper than he expected, like a key turning in a lock he didn't know existed. His chest tightened, not in pain, but in the ache of recognition.
Melgil stood, smoothing the folds of her dress, and extended a hand toward him. "Come," she said simply.
He looked at her hand, hesitant. "Where?"
"To the hill," she answered, her smile both playful and serious at once. "The tree isn't just waiting for your choices, Daniel. It's waiting for you. For the person you've become, not the one you think you still are."
Daniel rose slowly, placing his hand in hers. The warmth of her touch startled him, not for its heat but for the way it calmed the storm inside. Together, they stepped out of the cabin.
The hill stretched upward, the flowers swaying as though they bowed to their passing. And at the crest, the cabin's warm glow gave way to something greater, the skill tree itself, unfolding like a constellation of light anchored in the soil, its branches stretching both skyward and outward, weaving into the cosmic horizon.
Daniel stopped, breath catching. It no longer looked like a system of choices. It looked alive.
Melgil squeezed his hand gently. "Don't look at it as power. Look at it as trust. Each branch, each path it's a promise between you and yourself. Not glass to shatter, but roots to grow."
Daniel swallowed, eyes fixed on the shimmering expanse before him. And for the first time, he felt ready, not just to choose, but to accept what those choices meant.
"Honestly , I like this,"
" Huh? like what?"
" this, being with you, the sudden change. its nice !"
Melgil's fingers tightened ever so slightly around his, her thumb brushing across his knuckles as if she were testing whether his words were real. She tilted her head at him, a small, curious smile touching her lips.
"Huh? Like what?" she asked, though her eyes already held the answer.
Daniel let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh, more like something uncoiling from deep inside. "This," he said, the word soft but steady. "Being with you. The sudden change. It's… nice. Better than nice. It feels like I'm finally breathing after holding it in for too long."
Melgil's expression softened even further, her gaze shimmering in the pale light of the skill tree. "You don't know how long I've wanted to hear you say something like that," she murmured. "Not the words, but the feeling behind them. That's the Daniel I always believed was there, underneath all the armor."
He looked down at her, startled by the quiet certainty in her voice. "You believed in me? Even when I didn't?"
"I had to." She smiled, a little sad and a little proud. "You never stopped moving forward, even when you were empty. Someone who does that… someone who still protects, still builds, even without feeling, he's worth believing in. And now you're here. You're you."
The wind at the top of the hill shifted, carrying the scent
Daniel's gaze lingered on the radiant tree for a heartbeat longer, the branches swaying gently as if breathing in unison with him. The light from its trunk shimmered across Melgil's face, making her look almost otherworldly. He opened his mouth, but instead of choosing, another thought surfaced—one that tugged at him harder than the tree's call.
"I almost forgot…" he said softly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "The promise I made. To the united guild. To help them clear the quest, no matter what."
Melgil tilted her head, studying him. The glow of the tree reflected in her eyes like a constellation trapped in amber. She gave a small smile, warm yet edged with something bittersweet.
"Better keep your promise then," she said, and before he could respond, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his lips—gentle, lingering, filled with trust more than passion. When she pulled back, her smile was quieter, steadier. "I'll wait for you here."
Daniel blinked, caught between surprise and the warmth blooming inside his chest. "Wait here? You're… not going to join me?"
Melgil laughed softly, shaking her head as she let go of his hand. She turned back toward the cabin, her dress brushing lightly against the flowers as she walked. "No. This place—" she gestured around her, the cozy cabin now glowing faintly with its hearthlight spilling onto the hilltop—"this is more than just a resting place. It's a part of you. A reflection of who you are now, Daniel. And honestly…" she sat down on the sofa, tucking her legs under her again with a contented sigh, "I think I've changed too, you know."
Daniel followed her with his eyes, drawn by the sincerity in her tone. "Changed? How?"
Melgil rested her book on her lap and looked at him with a softness that pierced deeper than any blade. "When we first met, I thought of you as… untouchable. Strong, but distant. Like a wall I could lean on but never truly reach. I accepted that because that's who you needed to be. But now…" She paused, her fingers brushing lightly over the book's cover as though steadying herself. "Now I see you as human. Vulnerable. And that makes you more real to me than ever before."
Daniel shifted, unsure of how to respond. He had fought demons, wielded chaos, endured loneliness—yet her words disarmed him with a simplicity he couldn't defend against.
"I'm not sure I like being seen as vulnerable," he admitted, his voice low.
Melgil chuckled softly. "Of course you don't. But Daniel, it doesn't make you weak. It makes you… alive. And it makes me less afraid to stand beside you. Because if you can change, then maybe so can I."
Daniel sat down across from her again, leaning forward slightly. "So you've changed because… I've changed?"
"Partly," she said, a playful light in her eyes. "But mostly because I realized I don't have to pretend either. For so long, I thought I had to be the steady one, the light in the room. But here, in this cozy corner of you, I feel like I can simply… exist. Be warm. Be me."
Her words settled into him like roots, weaving through the soil of his heart. He looked back at the skill tree, its branches humming faintly as though waiting.
"Then maybe that's what this is," he said slowly. "Not just power. Not just choices. But a chance to grow into who I really am."
Melgil smiled, leaning back into the cushions. "Exactly. And while you're out there keeping your promises, I'll be right here, in the part of you that's finally yours. A home you can return to."
Daniel stood again, the weight of her words giving strength to his resolve. "Then I'll keep my promise. To them. To you. To myself."
She gave him a mock stern look, though her eyes betrayed her warmth. "You'd better. I'll be keeping the fire warm. Don't make me wait too long."
Daniel allowed himself a small smile as he turned back toward the hilltop, the living constellation of his skill tree unfolding like an invitation. He felt her presence behind him, not just in this place, but in him and for the first time, stepping into the unknown, it didn't feel like he was walking alone.