In the vast expanse of the Five Cosmos, Gods and Demons waged an endless war for sovereignty, shaping the fates of mortals below—Good or Evil, salvation or ruin.
Yet far from their cataclysmic struggle, in the northern Cosmos, lay a small planet called Exar—quiet, distant, and blissfully unaware of the devastation above.
In the central region of Dawnfall, outside a small eastern village's palisade, a man stood waiting. Axe in his left hand, a stack of freshly cut logs in his right.
"Is that you, John?" called a watchman from the tower—one eye intact, the other carved out long ago by a blade he should never have survived.
I still can't believe they let a half-blind man watch the gate, John thought, shaking his head. Peace really is the death of caution.
Naturally, he didn't dare say it aloud. Instead, he raised a hand.
"It's me."
The guard leaned forward, squinting, refusing to trust anything except the one eye time hadn't stolen.
"Ah," he said at last. "It really is you."
"Yeah…" John replied dryly.
"I'll open up. One moment."
The watchman pressed a hand against the Tier-2 Earth Essence Scroll mounted on the inner wall. The formation flared, its runes pulsing. Below, the southern gate—a thick wall of compacted earth and hardened mud—rumbled as it lifted from the ground.
John stepped inside.
"Thank you."
He paused just past the threshold, letting the familiar scents and sounds wash over him: smoke drifting from chimneys, distant chopping of kindling, soft chatter from porches. A small village—but it was theirs. They had bled for this peace.
He relieved his grip, plunging the axe into the dirt to free his hand. Then he grabbed a log from his stack and tossed it back over his shoulder without looking.
The watchman's hand shot out, snatching the log mid-air—war-honed reflexes still sharp despite age and injury.
By the time he looked up to thank John, the man was already walking away, too far to hear him.
---
After trudging through the village street, firewood slung over his shoulder, John rounded the final bend.
There—
He saw her.
His neighbor, an old woman bent like a wind-whipped oak, stood at her front door. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, willing the fading light to summon a familiar silhouette.
She heard his footsteps—heavy on the packed dirt—and turned. The faint spark of hope in her eyes dimmed instantly into quiet disappointment.
"Good evening," she said, her voice as thin as the shawl draped over her shoulders.
"Good evening," John replied, pausing at his own door. His hand reached for the latch, but the evening breeze tugged at him—cool fingers brushing his cheek, carrying the chill of the wilds beyond the palisade.
His mind urged him onward: Home. Rest. Forget the day. But his heart, scarred and stubborn, weighed heavier than the logs.
He sighed, a sound lost to the wind. turning back, he walked over to her and crouched down to meet her eye level.
"Everything alright?" she asked, blinking.
"Clide'll be home later than usual," John said gently. He rummaged in his pouch, fingers closing around a Tier 1 Fire Essence Scroll. Its runes hummed, faint but reliable.
"Is he okay? Do you know why he's late?" she asked, her hands twisting nervously.
"Mhm," John replies, stacking a few of his logs near her feet and sliding the scroll beneath them. "The Lumber Shack got a last-minute call-in. He volunteered for the extra hours."
He tapped the scroll. Essence flared, and flames burst to life, wrapping the wood in sudden warmth.
"If he saw you out here freezing," John added, rising slowly, "it'd break his heart. Take care of yourself, alright?"
The old woman's lips curved into a fragile smile. "I'm sorry to worry you. I still haven't—"
"Any man would be lucky to have a mother like you," John cut in, soft but firm. "No need to justify a damn thing."
He knew her story all too well. Her husband's death—a lumberjack's hazard. One slip on iced bark, one brittle branch in the winter gales. Lives snuffed out like embers. For men like them—warriors whose hands knew only the swing of a blade—what other trade waited when the fighting stopped? The palisade kept the wilds at bay, but scars like hers ran deeper than any wall.
"Thank you," she murmured, watching the flames take hold.
John nodded, hefting his axe once more. He turned back to his door, the warmth at his back a fleeting comfort against the gathering night.
Peace was a fragile thing in Exar—earned in blood, held by whispers. And some nights, it felt as thin as the shawl she wore.
---
"Papa!"
Ezmelral's voice echoed through the house like a joyful thunderclap, her little feet pattering across the wooden floor in a frantic rhythm.
John dropped his axe with a clatter, crouching just in time to scoop her into his arms. "How's my girl?" he rumbled, voice warm as hearthfire, spinning her once for good measure.
"I—"
She froze mid-sentence, golden eyes zeroing in on the noticeably lighter bundle of logs slung over his shoulder.
"Mom!" she wailed, twisting in his grip like a storm about to break.
"What is it?" Mary's voice drifted from the kitchen, laced with that patient amusement only mothers mastered.
"Dad gave away logs again!"
John's eyes widened in mock horror. He lunged, clapping a hand over her mouth. "You little traitor—how could you betray your old man so easily?!"
Ezmelral's muffled giggles bubbled out, her small hands prying at his fingers. "I don't see my present on you!"
"Over a gift?"
"It's my birthday!"
Their bickering filled the room like sunlight spilling through cracks—playful, relentless, utterly theirs.
From the kitchen doorway, Mary watched, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She would be lying if she claimed the doubt never crept in during quiet hours: Did we make the right choice?
Once, she had been their squad's captain—not just leader, but guardian. Her word meant life or death, her hawkish gaze the thin line between survival and the grave. And among those hardened men, John had stood out. Not for skill with a blade, but for his impossible kindness.
A double-edged sword, she'd thought then. Worry gnawed at her: one day, that soft heart would be his undoing, exploited by the merciless wilds.
But the more she watched him—the more she pulled him aside for "strategy talks" that stretched into stolen evenings—the closer she drew. Love had a way of bridging even the widest chasms, turning vigilance into vulnerability.
And with love came sacrifice.
They had left it all behind for Ezmelral: ranks stripped, careers ashes, even family ties severed by whispers of "foolish weakness." Warriors trading swords for axes, glory for hearths.
Was his kindness a burden? Sometimes. Annoying? Often—logs vanishing like smoke, favors given without a second thought.
But without it?
No them. No Ezmelral's laughter ringing through the house like bells. No home warmed not by fire, but by the unique chaos only they could weave.
So in moments like this—watching her husband come home lighter in load but heavier in heart, their bickering a melody no stack of wood could match—Mary's answer was simple, carved deep as any scar:
We made the right choice.