The seasons changed.
Wildflowers began to grow among the old ruins, as if refusing to be forgotten. Streets once stained with blood were now paths for merchants, travelers, and dreamers.
At a small festival in a suburban town, I saw something that made me stop: a beastkin and a human child performing a stage play—about a demon king and a high priest who chose not to kill each other.
There was no applause.
Just the smiles of their parents, whispers of admiration, and a pair of old, teary eyes,
staring at the stage as if they knew the story in their own hearts.
I sat among them, disguised as anyone.
And in the midst of the commotion, I heard a small voice nearby ask its mother, "What happens after the story ends?"
The mother smiled and replied, "They live. Not perfectly. Not always peacefully. But they live… and choose not to hurt each other."
The boy nodded. Satisfied.
And as night fell, as the paper lanterns began to float into the sky, I gazed up at the sea of stars that had once witnessed my nearly lost prayers.
I didn't know how much time I had left. But that was no longer a burden.
Because this story… wasn't mine alone.
It now belonged to anyone who believed that the world shouldn't be divided between winners and losers… between light and darkness.
To anyone who, one day, stood in the storm and chose not to raise a sword… but a hand.
And if they ask where hope comes from, let them find the answer not in great names…
…but among the leaves of a tree that grows from ashes.
The end of this story is not closure.
But a seed we leave behind,
to grow in the hearts of those who come after.
A few days after the festival, I walked across the old border once guarded by magic and blood, now marked only by a wooden bridge and a sign of welcome.
There, beneath an ancient tree I never named, I met a young man. He was writing, his face young but his eyes held an unspoken wound.
She stared at me for a moment, then asked, "Do you really think this world can change?"
I didn't answer immediately. I just sat down next to her and pulled a small pouch from under my robe containing the Arhel seed I'd picked up on the battlefield years ago.
"Plant this," I said. "Not because it'll definitely grow. But because this world needs more people who are still willing to try."
She took the seed hesitantly, but her eyes warmed. And as she stared at the ground before her, I knew: the world would never be completely the same, but as long as there was one hand holding onto hope, it wasn't over.
I walked away without looking back.
The wind carried a faint song from the nearby village, and in the shadows of dusk, I saw Seraphine's silhouette standing on a hill—surrounded by laughing children. She didn't see me, but she didn't need to.
We knew each of us was fulfilling part of an old promise: to guard this world, not as our possession, but as our inheritance.
And as night fell again, I lit a small campfire in the middle of the field. Not to chase away the darkness, but to welcome it. Because the night has a right to be present, as long as we don't forget it.
On paper, I wrote one final sentence:
> "Once, we fought for truth.
Now, we live for understanding.
And perhaps, someday…
they will call this age not an era of peace,
but the beginning of the courage to understand each other."
Then I closed my book.
And left it there,
in the middle of the field where there were no monuments…
only the faint glow of a small fire,
and the vast sky that held all our stories.