The cold evening breeze brushed against Roman's face as he stepped beyond the palace gates. His footsteps were slow, heavy, as if every stone and broken road whispered reminders of what had been lost.
The villages of Presia Dukedom lay in ruins. Knights and healers worked tirelessly, yet the scars remained. Streets still bore stains of blood, deep red seeping into the earth. Collapsed homes stood like skeletons, and streams carried the faint stench of decay. Burned, disfigured corpses had already been recovered, either laid to rest through fire or buried according to grieving families' wishes.
Roman clenched his fists tightly.
Why was I late? Why couldn't I stop this before it turned to chaos? I was supposed to bear this burden, not them.
A weak, fragile voice interrupted his torment.
"Young master Roman… you did what needed to be done. We all saw you. You threw yourself in front of that monster to save us commoners."
He turned and saw an old woman struggling under the weight of a large sack of grains. Despite her frail frame, she tried to carry it alone. Without hesitation, Roman moved to her side and lifted the sack onto his shoulder.
"Allow me, grandmother," he said softly.
The old lady gave a small, tired smile, and together they walked along the ruined lane. Roman's eyes kept straying to the devastation around them: laborers clearing rubble, knights supporting injured survivors, healers channeling magic to mend wounds, and mages casting orbs of light to guide people through the darkness of night.
Unbeknownst to him—or perhaps knowingly—Selena and the children trailed behind, hiding poorly in the shadows. Roman sensed them but allowed it. For now, he wanted to keep walking.
The old woman broke the silence.
"Do you know my grandson, Michael? He was a knight in our Presia knighthood… or rather, he was. He, too, was killed during the dungeon outbreak. Left me alone, just like his father and older brother before him."
Roman's grip tightened on the sack. The grief in her voice pierced deeper than any blade.
"But," she continued, her voice trembling yet proud, "every day Michael would tell me, 'Our young master has changed. His health rivals Duke Jacob himself, and both father and son are working together to rebuild Presia. I want to be like him.'"
The words struck Roman harder than the old lady could imagine. He stopped in his tracks, stunned, his throat dry.
"…I promise you, grandmother," Roman whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. "I will protect this dukedom, no matter what. I am honored your grandson was one of our knights."
She placed her wrinkled hand on his shoulder, firm despite her weakness.
"Sometimes, young master, the burdens we carry weigh far heavier than we can lift. But we must lift them anyway—slowly, steadily. Just like life itself. We cannot change the past… only carry forward the light and dreams of those who are gone."
Roman stared into her weathered eyes. A warmth stirred in his chest—painful, yet strengthening.
Her home came into view: a crumbling structure with broken tiles and shattered steps. Seeing it, Roman's resolve grew sharper.
"Grandmother," he said, "come with me. I will find you a proper room in the palace."
She shook her head.
"No. This house holds the memories of my family. I will repair it myself, even if it takes the rest of my days."
Roman called to two nearby knights.
"What's your name?"
"Hendricks, young master."
"Hendricks," Roman ordered firmly, "help this grandmother repair her home. Spare no effort."
"Yes, young master!" Hendricks bowed, already moving to assist.
Roman handed the sack to the old lady, bowed respectfully, and left. She watched him walk away, a silent blessing on her lips.
Selena and the children still followed, keeping their distance. Roman didn't turn back. His steps carried him to another corner of the dukedom, where a long line had formed outside a merchant's shop. Families, thin and ragged, waited desperately to receive their rations.
As Roman approached, the crowd recognized him. A murmur spread like wildfire before the people rushed forward, bowing, crying out.
"Young master, please help us!"
"We are grateful you saved us, but our children are starving!"
"The Duke ordered one bag of grains, but it is not enough! Please—grant us more!"
The pleas overlapped, raw and desperate.
Roman raised his hand, silencing them. His gaze hardened as he called out the merchant.
"Give them two bags each."
The merchant's face went pale.
"But… but young master, Duke Jacob ordered only one bag per family. If I disobey…"
Roman's voice cut through like steel.
"Do as I say. I will speak to my father myself. These people need food more than rules."
The merchant swallowed nervously, then bowed. "As you command, young master."
The people wept with relief, bowing again and again. Roman said nothing further. He simply turned and walked away.
Finally, his steps carried him to the Solara River. The once-pristine waters now reflected crimson streaks where blood had spilled during the chaos. Roman lowered himself to the ground, staring at the current in silence.
For the first time, no villagers, no knights, no old women were there to distract him. Only his thoughts, heavy as chains.
The Shadow System stirred within him. Its voice echoed in his mind.
> "The goddess has not abandoned her people. She grants blessings selectively, to those who must face the dungeon's horrors. But you… you are the Warherald. The pinnacle. Humanity's last shield, its final hope. Do not falter."
The voice faded, leaving only the murmur of the river and the weight of destiny pressing upon his shoulders.
Roman clenched his fists, staring at the Solara River's flow. The light of day was nearly gone, and with it, the fragile comfort of ordinary life.
Darkness was coming. And he would have to stand against it—alone, if necessary.