The letter arrived the next morning, attached to a raven's feather that struck the inn's window as if it had been thrown by an invisible hand. It wasn't ordinary paper. It was made of a material similar to aged tree bark, with edges that looked as though they had been burned by a cold flame. No signature. No seal. Just a single sentence, written in thin, almost dancing letters, as if the scribe had written it while walking:
Come. The Seventh does not sleep. He waits. And he knows you will come.
Elara held it as if it were a wounded bird. "This… isn't from Celine. Nor from Malrik. This handwriting… it's his."
Liriel, who was sitting at the counter, drinking wine with her usual indifference, looked over the rim of her cup. "Zephyron writes? How ridiculous. He was a general, not a poet."
"He was a poet before he was a general," Elara replied softly. "The tome we found in Vaelor… it quoted his verses. About the loneliness of eternity."
Vespera, who had been trying to use the feather as a brush to draw a face on the tabletop, stopped suddenly. "So… this is an invitation? To go to him? Like it's a dinner?"
"No," I said, looking at the letter. "It's a challenge. He doesn't want us to find him. He wants us to choose to find him."
Silence fell like a curtain. Torin, who was passing by with a bucket of water, nearly dropped everything upon hearing the name. "Zephyron? The Seventh? By all the gods… You are not going."
"It isn't about what we're going to do," Liriel said, setting down her cup carefully. "It's about what he has already done."
She stood up. The necklace on her neck glowed — not with the intense light from before, but with a soft shine, almost like a whisper. "He's not hiding. He's waiting. And the only reason for that is… he wants someone to hear him."
"And who better than us?" I asked, unable to hold back a bitter smile. "We're the only ones who have touched his artifacts. The only ones who have heard his name whispered in ruins. The only ones still alive after trying."
Vespera stretched her arms. "So that's it. Mission: go to the evil general, who's in a place that isn't even on a map, to hear what he has to say… and maybe, who knows, not kill him. Because if he wanted to kill us, he already would have. And he isn't stupid."
"Exactly," murmured Elara. "If he wanted to destroy us, he wouldn't have called us. He would have forgotten us."
Liriel stared at me. "Do you think this is a trap?"
"No," I answered. "It's a trap… that doesn't want to catch us. It wants to make us stop. And think."
The city was called Vey'thar. Not on maps. Not in stories. Not even in the records of the oldest guild. But there was a clue.
The day before, while we tried to decipher the letter, Elara found something in the grimoire she hadn't noticed before. An illustration, almost invisible, made with ink that only appeared under moonlight. It was a map. Not of roads, but of whispers. Thin lines connected the points where the artifacts had been found — the scepter in the fortress, the orb in the ship, the pendant in the grove — and ended in a single point, marked with a five-petaled flower. The same flower that was on the letter.
"It's a path," she said, pointing. "Not to find Zephyron. To find where he was… forgotten."
It was Vespera who found the last piece. While we argued about the route, she went out for a "walk" — which, in her vocabulary, meant stealing a map from a Vaelor merchant. When she returned, she carried a torn parchment hidden in her pocket. It was a fragment of a diary belonging to a traveler who had died two hundred years ago. The final entry:
> "I found Vey'thar. It is not a city. It is a memory. The people did not die. They simply… ceased to exist. Not by magic. Not by war. By giving up. And there, in the center, stands a statue. Not of a king. Not of a god. Of a man who chose not to fight. He held a parchment. And whispered."
Nobody spoke for a long time.
"So," Vespera said finally, "we're going to a city no one remembers, to find a general no one wants to remember, because he… whispers?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Perfect," she said, smiling. "I love when missions have a name and a story."
The journey took four days.
Not because of the distance. But because of the shadow that followed us.
The roads grew quieter. The trees didn't sway with the wind — they watched. The birds didn't sing. They remained still, as if they were in a state of waiting. In every inn, the merchants looked at us with fear, but said nothing. They only pointed north, with trembling fingers, and shut their doors.
On the third night, we camped beneath an oak whose roots seemed to form a face. Elara tried to sleep, but couldn't. She sat beside me, hugging her knees.
"Do you think he's testing us?" she asked softly.
"Maybe."
"And what if he wants us to forgive him?"
I didn't answer. Because I didn't know. But in the firelight, I saw that she was afraid—not of death, but of the possibility that, by hearing Zephyron, we might understand… and then be unable to hate him.
Liriel was standing at the edge of the camp, looking at the sky. She wasn't drinking. She wasn't laughing. She was simply… present. As if listening to something none of us could hear.
Vespera, who would normally make some joke about "ghosts who don't like arrows," was silent. She cleaned her arrow carefully, as if preparing a weapon for a battle that wasn't about strength, but about truth.
On the morning of the fourth day, the mist appeared.
Not like ordinary mist. It was thick, silver, and moved as if it had breath. It didn't cover the ground—it floated, like a cloth suspended in the air. And inside it, there were shapes. Silhouettes. Figures walking, talking, laughing. But without sound. Without real movement. As if they were memories of people who once existed.
"Vey'thar," Elara whispered.
It was there.
Not as a city of stone and rooftops. But as a city of memories.
The streets had no paving. They had voices.
The houses had no doors. They had glances.
And in the center, where a plaza should be, there was only a statue.
It was simple. Made of dark stone, without detail. But in its arms, it held an open scroll. And on it, a single word, carved in letters that seemed to be written and erased at the same time:
"Remember."
It wasn't from Zephyron.
It was from him.
The man who chose not to fight.
As we approached, the mist parted. And the statue… moved.
Not like a statue. But like someone who had been still for a very long time, and had finally decided to stand.
A figure emerged. Not tall. Not imposing. Wearing a simple, worn cloak. His hair was graying, his face tired. But his eyes… his eyes were alive. The eyes of someone who had seen the end of everything, and yet had not given up.
He looked at us. And smiled.
Not with anger. Not with pride. With… sadness.
"Takumi," he said, with a voice that wasn't that of a general, but of a man who had lost his voice long ago. "You brought the ones who heard me."
Liriel stepped forward. Her necklace glowed—faintly, as if answering the same call.
"You are not the Seventh General," she said, her voice trembling. "You are what he became when he stopped being a general."
Zephyron—if it was him—nodded.
"Correct. I was the Seventh. But not by choice. By accident. They gave me the title. I used it. And when I realized what I was doing… it was already too late."
He pointed to the scroll.
"I wrote a letter. To the Demon King. I said I no longer wanted to be part of this. That chaos wasn't power. It was pain. And that I didn't want to cause it anymore."
He smiled sadly.
"They killed me. Not with swords. With forgetting."
He raised his hand. And the statue behind him crumbled into dust.
"They erased my name. My story. My voice. And turned me into an echo. A whisper. A mistake the world doesn't want to remember."
He looked at me.
"But you… you didn't erase me. You listened. Even when I didn't want to be heard."
Elara began to cry. Vespera said nothing. She only lowered her head.
"Why did you call us?" I asked, my voice barely louder than the wind.
Zephyron looked at Liriel.
"Because you are the only ones who still carry the fragments of my soul. And because… I need someone who doesn't hate me. Who understands me."
He extended his hand.
"I don't want to be defeated. I want to be remembered."
And then, for the first time, I saw something I didn't expect.
Liriel knelt.
Not by command. Not by magic.
By respect.
"I remember you," she said, her voice breaking. "I remember you, Zephyron. And I'm sorry."
He smiled. And for the first time, the mist around us dissipated. Not as if it had been broken. But as if it had been… freed.
The sun rose.
And the city—Vey'thar—disappeared.
Only the scroll remained, floating in the air before falling into my arms.
No words. No name. Only a drawing.
A five-petaled flower.
And beneath it, three lines:
"The Seventh is not a general.
It is what remains when war forgets its purpose.
And you… are the ones who still remember."
Elara took the scroll, trembling.
"So… this is what he wanted?"
Zephyron didn't answer. But when I looked for him, he was no longer there.
Only the wind remained.
And Liriel's necklace, now glowing with a steady, gentle light—as if it had finally found what it had lost.
Vespera took the scroll and folded it carefully.
"So," she said, looking at me, "the mission was… not to defeat. But to listen."
I looked at the scroll.
"Yes."
"And now?"
Liriel stood. She didn't smile. But her eyes… were no longer hollow.
"Now," she said, "we find out who is using his name."
She pointed north.
Where, somewhere, another city was being erased.
And where, somewhere, someone was trying to awaken the Seventh General… not to remember him.
But to use him.
As a weapon.
And I, Takumi, who was tired of being the hero, tired of paying debts, tired of being called a pervert…
…only thought:
At least this time, we won't be fighting for money.
We'll be fighting for someone who didn't want to fight.
And for the first time, that felt like enough.
Even if the tavern bill was still there.
Even if Elara was exhausted.
Even if Vespera had forgotten to bring her bow.
And even if Liriel had knocked down a branch with the necklace.
Because now, it wasn't about defeating anymore.
It was about remembering.
And that…
that was harder than any battle.
"And the path, as always, continued."