Allen,
How have you been lately?
It's hard to believe, but it's already been nearly a year and a half since we parted ways. I wonder if you've gotten any taller? You always used to say you were 160cm—what a lie. Rudeus mentioned in his letter that you've grown nearly a head taller since last year.
He also told me you once claimed your facial features have become more delicate, and your hair is now long enough to tie in a short braid at the back. But just reading that in a letter doesn't really paint a picture for me.
I'm so curious.
Picking up where I left off last time…
I've been venturing through dungeons over and over again lately. I don't know if it's because I tend to go alone, but somehow my name's been spreading, and—can you believe it—I received an invitation from the royal family of the Shirone Kingdom to become Prince Pax's private tutor.
Honestly? I'm tempted.
Also, following your suggestion, before my last dungeon expedition, I sat down and seriously discussed spell amplification with Rudeus. As expected… he really is a genius. He pointed out techniques I hadn't even considered. You two were a huge help.
According to his letters, Sylphy's magic has officially advanced to the Intermediate Tier now. Her hair's shoulder-length, and she's become a lot more mature—and much quieter too. But apparently, she still loves following you around like a shadow.
Rudeus sounded pretty dismissive when describing it, but I think it must be adorable. Honestly, Allen, you really are just too popular with girls, aren't you?
Rudeus also mentioned that Sylphy once asked if you'd grow your hair into braids like mine. You rejected her outright—said something about "white hair should be kept shoulder-length," or some strange remark.
Do you prefer shoulder-length hair? And white hair—what do you mean? Like, literally white? But Sylphy's hair is green…
Ah, I'm rambling again.
Anyway, give Sylphy my congratulations. After all, mailing three letters from the same place gets expensive. Once I settle into the royal court, I'll have a steady income—then I'll be able to write her directly more often.
Speaking of the Shirone Kingdom—it's a rather unusual place. Some of the locals wear turbans and ride elephants. I couldn't find anything suitable to send you this time, but a few months ago, while wandering the capital, I came across something beautiful—
—The royal river is filled with pink flowers. Unlike the usual blossoms that grow from soil, these ones float atop wide green leaves on the water. Their petals are long and narrow, blooming slowly but gracefully. They're the national flower here.
Well… in truth, I didn't know what to send you. I racked my brain and found nothing.
Then I realized the petal I'd been using as a bookmark all this time was quite pretty. So I decided to send that to you. I don't know if you'll like it.
Mm… I seem to always have this problem when writing. There's so much I want to say, but once the pen is in my hand, I can't seem to get the words out, so my letters end up being so short.
I wonder…
When will we see each other again?
Please send your reply to both the Adventurer's Guild and the Shirone Royal Court, just in case I miss one of your letters.
—Roxy
P.S. Stop calling me Blue Mom!! What is that even supposed to mean?! Do I look that old to you!?
You keep insisting it's a term of endearment...
You really think that makes it better!?
Unbelievable—
...
Buena Village, Fittoa Region, northern Asura Kingdom—across the Red Dragon Mountains from the Shirone Kingdom.
For the wind and snow, a year's passing seemed like little more than a routine journey.
Last year, Allen sat here reading a letter as the snow danced outside the window.
This year? No different.
But thanks to a well-stocked fireplace, the knight's household in the village wasn't uncomfortably cold.
Allen lowered the letter in his hands, glancing away from the last few lines—written in a sudden, flustered scrawl—and smiled, picturing Roxy's slightly panicked face as she scribbled those words.
The books always say demons aren't very smart, but Roxy clearly doesn't fit that at all.
That's gotta be a myth.
He turned to look at the falling snow outside.
Another year already… Time flies.
It had left its mark on his rapidly developing body. The sharp, youthful angles of his face had softened considerably over the past year. Even just sitting at the table, it was obvious he'd grown taller.
His hair had grown out and was tied into a short braid behind his head. His bangs had been trimmed into gentle curls that framed his eyes. His brows were softer now, and the glint in his gaze—once cold and fierce—had mellowed under a year of warmth and laughter in the Greyrat household.
He still wore those frameless glasses on his nose, lending him a studious air.
Allen reached over to examine the "national flower of Shirone" she had sent.
It was a lotus petal.
In this world, there didn't seem to be a direct name for it.
Long-pressed between Roxy's books, the petal had dried into a preserved specimen. The veins were perfectly intact—no cracks or tears from drying out.
He gently ran a finger along the edge, then set it carefully beside the Roxy "figurine" on his shelf.
Then he folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope, opening his drawer.
Inside was a neatly stacked pile of letters. Beside them, a carved wooden box held glimmering magical beast fangs, intricately shaped magic stones, wrapped grip cord with an exotic flair…
…And a hideous wooden figurine of a wild-haired man with a slicked-back pompadour.
Even though Allen had already seen it hundreds of times, he still couldn't keep a straight face.
What even is this carving? Couldn't she ask Rudeus to make a clay version with magic or something? Roxy's not dumb, right? Maybe that was just a misunderstanding after all…
Notably, ever since Roxy first sent him a birthday gift, Allen had replied with a pouch of Batils flower seed powder. Since then, without quite realizing how, their letters always seemed to include little gifts.
Shaking his head, Allen pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
That motion brought with it a loose leaf pressed between the old and new pages.
A round-edged broadleaf, the color of dried gold—likely from an evergreen tree species. It had been turned into a bookmark.
Allen carefully pinched it between two fingers and looked toward the base of the leaf.
Three characters, small and delicate, written with precise care and not a single tear in the veining:
"For Allen."
His smile deepened.
A glance at the snowy window—
Then he picked up his pen.
...
Dear Blue Mom,
By the time you read this, I imagine another month will have passed, as usual.
By now, you're probably already serving as a tutor in the Shirone Kingdom. The pay is too tempting, and knowing you, I figure you weighed it carefully and chose to follow your heart.
That's the Roxy I know.
I did hear from some southern adventurers that Shirone's princes have… less than stellar reputations. Maybe it's a spoiled noble brat thing? Or maybe they're not as bad as they sound?
Whatever the case, try not to compare everyone's magical aptitude to Rudeus. You'll crush their self-esteem.
That's just professional advice from one tutor to another. As for what kind of person the prince is…
I have no idea.
If he tries anything shady—like sexual harassment—please feel free to incinerate him with Burning Place. No need to hold back.
As for Sylphy's hair…
You'll understand when you see her next. Her elven features suit shoulder-length cuts far better—especially with her ears showing. It brings out her energy. Just like how your braid is (crossed out) refined and elegant.
Everyone has a style that suits them best.
As for the white hair thing… maybe the sunlight was just really strong that day? It kind of came out of nowhere.
What do you mean "still so popular with girls"? Were there that many girls around when we were together?
Or are you just talking about Sylphy? Please. That's definitely a misunderstanding. She's how old, exactly?
About that flower you sent—
I was lucky enough to find a book in the capital's museum library. Apparently, even though the flower seems to "rest" on the river surface, it actually grows from the mud below.
If you don't believe me, check beneath the leaf next time. You'll find its root system.
Oh, and by the way—those roots? They might look dirty, but once cleaned, they're white and full of holes. You can slice them and eat them.
They don't taste like much, so I recommend soaking them in sugar water first. Much easier on the palate.
…At least, that's what the book said. You should test it yourself. I'm sure you're not afraid of a little poisoning—especially after all that Batils flower powder you had me send.
As for your gift—well, like you, I'm completely out of ideas—
At this point, Allen paused his writing.
Despite the words, he didn't look troubled in the slightest.
Lifting the sheet with his left hand, he stood and opened the window.
A gust of wind and snow immediately rushed in.
Allen braced against it, shut the window tight again, and swept away the drifting snowflakes with one motion. Then he extended his right index finger and tapped the air.
But it wasn't just air he touched.
Using Flow Technique, he redirected one perfect snowflake—no larger than a fingernail—delicately catching it mid-fall.
Gently, it landed on the letter.
The paper trembled, and the snowflake melted instantly into it.
Then dried.
It vanished.
But a mark remained.
On the rough paper—thanks to this world's texture—was a faint impression, like a pressed blossom.
A six-petaled snowflower, crisp as a seal.
Allen smiled and set the paper flat again on the desk.
Then, calmly, he continued to write.
You gave me a petal—then I suppose I'll give you a whole flower.
One born from the snowfall here in Buena Village.
Also, that "Evil God" figurine you carved? I liked it.
Don't carve another one.
As for when we'll meet again…
Maybe beneath a balcony on a summer night? Or perhaps in a springtime forest, beneath budding leaves?
What I'm certain of is this—
We'll meet again when the time comes. No need for anxiety. Just wait.
That feeling… I call it:
'Anticipation.'
—Allen
P.S. I'm absolutely not dropping "Blue Mom." I told you—it's a term of endearment. It has nothing to do with age.
Don't you think it makes you sound warm and familiar?
Allen's smile curved gently as he paused for two seconds, waiting for the ink to dry. He folded the letter and slipped it into its envelope, then reached for the drawer to file it away. His fingers brushed against a wrinkled sheet of paper shoved into the far corner.
It felt like something that had been crumpled and uncrumpled dozens of times.
His smile froze.
Expression unreadable, he took the sheet out.
He opened it.
Messy, scattered handwriting covered the page—like a swarm of flies had danced across it. The letters clustered, piled up, tangled upon each other.
Look closely, and it was clear.
They were the same two words, written over and over again:
Future Sight.
Beneath them, the lines he'd written a year ago were completely buried.
Allen stared down at the paper in silence.
"Waaah~ Waaah~"
Outside his room, a child's high-pitched cries echoed, accompanied by scattered, panicked voices.
"Goodness, Norn just won't stop crying! I can't even step away for a second. I remember Rudeus being so easy to care for when he was this age… Was it because he was always too well-behaved?"
That was Zenith's voice, full of helplessness as she tried—and failed—to soothe a wailing Norn.
"No way, Mother! Look, watch this—luai~~~!"
"Heehee!"
"See? Norn's not crying anymore!"
That was Rudeus, making funny faces like always to calm her down. And as usual, it worked like a charm.
"Young Master Rudeus truly is remarkable… He was mature even as a baby, and he still is now."
That was Lilia's voice, tinged with quiet exasperation. She'd known Rudeus's precociousness since the start.
"WAAAAH!!"
A second cry, this one sharper, clearer. That would be Aisha.
Those sounds pulled Allen out of his thoughts. With a flick of his wrist, he crumpled the marked paper again and stuffed it deep into the drawer, then rose and stepped out of his room.
Downstairs, Zenith—noticeably rounder from pregnancy—was settling into a chair to nurse Norn. She looked up and smiled as Allen descended.
Lilia and Rudeus, who had been trying to pacify Aisha, glanced over. When they saw Allen, they dropped what they were doing and moved to assist Zenith instead.
Allen approached the cradle.
Aisha, with her tuft of red hair, had been crying. But the moment Allen arrived, she stopped, eyes round and alert as she stared up at him.
Allen couldn't help but chuckle.
He hadn't noticed it at first, but Aisha was crafty even as a baby. Over time, he'd realized a pattern: whenever Norn cried, Aisha would always follow suit—often just a beat later.
That's when he realized it wasn't real distress.
It was intentional.
She cried not because she was sad or in pain, but because—
It was the socially correct thing to do.
If Norn cried, she should cry too. It earned adult attention, after all.
So maybe "mischievous" wasn't quite right.
Aisha was just sharp. Emotionally attuned. She had a natural, instinctive gift for reading people and responding exactly the way that suited the moment.
A born social chameleon.
Allen smiled at her, narrowing his eyes, then leaned over the cradle, resting his cheek in one palm and gently tapping her forehead with a finger.
"Bored, are we?"
Aisha grabbed at his finger, her tiny hands trembling with uncoordinated energy.
Allen shook his head and picked up a spoon beside the cradle, letting it twirl and dance between his fingers using Flow Technique.
Aisha's chubby little face lit up. Her glassy eyes sparkled like marbles, darting between the spoon and Allen's face with absolute delight.
He let her watch the show for a moment, then set the spoon aside and gently patted her head.
"Good girl~ You're so smart already, Aisha. When you grow up, if something's bothering you, say it. Don't bottle it up. That's a bad habit, okay~?"
Of course, Aisha was just a few months old. Her red hair barely longer than a knuckle's length. She couldn't understand a word he said—just clutched his finger and laughed with that up-and-down infant gurgle.
Lilia, off to the side changing Norn's diaper, looked over at the scene. Her gaze was soft.
Outside the window, snow continued to fall, muting the voices within.
"…Uncle Paul's been gone for days now, hasn't he? Uncle Laws said he just went out for a bit."
"Nope. Heard there was a magical beast riot in the forest."
---
Nightfall. Shirone Royal Capital. A modest inn.
Roxy stood by the window, eyes half-lidded with weariness as she looked out at the moonlight.
On the table beside her were a dozen lotus petals she'd tried turning into bookmarks. Most were flawed—creased, torn, imperfect. Not a single one was whole.
Rubbing her eyes with a soft sigh, she stacked them inside the book she was reading and closed it.
"…Time to sleep."
"These didn't turn out well at all. I wanted to piece them together into a full flower… and yet, months later, only one came out right. I wonder if Allen will like it."
"…Am I really that clumsy?"
She blew out the candle, took off her mage's robe, and slipped into bed.
From beneath her pillow, she pulled something into her hand. Moments later, her breathing deepened—steady and peaceful.
Moonlight streamed through the window, casting pale silver across her fingers.
There, clutched in her palm, was a small wooden doll. Not as finely crafted as one of Rudeus's clay figures, but the anxious expression on its tiny face—like someone who'd just gotten caught doing something wrong—was surprisingly vivid.
Roxy held her little wooden self tight and drifted into dreams.
...
At this very moment.
It was the deep winter of Dragon Calendar Year 413.
Allen had just turned eleven. Rudeus was six and a half. Sylphy was two months away from her seventh birthday.
From the start of the home tutoring arc in the original timeline.
Half a year remained.
And from the end of their childhood arc.
Only six months were left.