Morning decided to greet me with the subtlety of a hammer smashing into my temples.
The moment I opened my eyes, the echo of the explosion was still vibrating in the back of my skull. My eyelids weighed as if someone had sewn lead coins onto my eyelashes, and the dark circles under my eyes were so deep I swear I could hide small secrets inside them. But hunger—that damn companion who doesn't care about debts or interdimensional trauma—forced me to get up.
I stepped out of my "room"—a euphemism for that pile of straw and wood—to go chop trees. As is my damn custom in this forced spiritual retreat.
Turns out the man who almost had me thrown into a cell just for existing, the "old drunk" who looked like a stain on the bar's landscape, is actually José Arturias. The leader of the village. The guy who supposedly holds the reins of this place.
Seeing him under the light of a sun that shone with insulting intensity, I noticed how worn down he looked. There was a fatigue etched into the wrinkles of his face that no nap could cure; it was the kind of exhaustion only overwork or a lifetime of regrets can create. I felt guilty. Or maybe it was just the bile from my empty stomach protesting my lack of dignity.
Halfway through the workday, when my arms were already trembling like gelatin, my boss sent me to pick up an order from the town bar. With no ability to argue back, my spine creaking under the weight of my own uselessness, I said, "I'll run and get it, boss."
It was the first time the boss had asked me for a personal favor. In my optimistic mind—the one that clings to any burning nail rather than admit I'm basically a vagrant—it meant he was starting to grow fond of me. I was so euphoric I practically skipped along the road, greeting the villagers with an energy that didn't belong to me.
—Furanchesoku! Why are you so happy? —an old woman asked while hanging white sheets that seemed to mock the dirt covering me.
—In life we should always be happy, even when everything is going wrong —I replied in a tone meant to sound glorious, almost heroic—. What matters is that you cry and keep moving forward without regret. Happiness above all, ma'am!
I continued down the road with that idiot smile glued to my face until I reached the bar's door. I pushed it open with dramatic force, ready to announce my arrival like the protagonist I clearly am not.
—I've come to pick up an order from the bo—! OLD DRUNK! SEE?! YOU ARE A DRUNK! —I shouted at the top of my lungs when I spotted the familiar figure in front of the counter.
José, sitting before a mug that seemed to be his only anchor in this world, shouted back without even bothering to turn his neck.
—Shut up! I'm enjoying myself in my own way! Can't I, kid? —he said it in a joking tone, but his voice carried the weight of a thousand empty bottles.
The bar erupted in laughter. It wasn't cruel mockery; it was the laughter of a town that had already accepted the vices of its leader as part of the local climate. I walked over and sat beside him, smelling the stale alcohol mixed with the sawdust on the floor.
—Don't you have work to do? —I asked, resting my elbows on the sticky wooden counter.
—Honestly, no —he replied, staring at the foam in his mug like he was searching for an emergency exit—. Ever since this country became so peaceful and the economy's been doing incredibly well, I don't do much. I spend my free time drinking, you know?
There was a second of silence where his tone became so melancholic that I felt a knot in my throat. Peace—the blessing everyone prays for—seemed to be the poison slowly consuming a man who had clearly been made for war.
—Hey, can I ask you something honestly? —I said, lowering my voice. The joking atmosphere faded like the smoke from a blown-out candle.
—Yeah, go ahead —José nodded, glancing at me sideways.
—Why did you decide to become a leader?
José went silent. He looked straight at me, and for an instant the drunk vanished. His eyes shone with a terrifying clarity, the gaze of a predator that had chosen to hide its claws.
—I don't know… maybe someday I'll tell you —he answered, looking away toward the sunlit door—. Didn't you have an order to pick up for your boss?
Panic hit me like a hammer. My face went from philosophical interest to a deep purple of pure nervousness. I had forgotten my only task! I jumped out of the chair in a ridiculous scramble, tripping over my own feet while grabbing the package and sprinting out of the bar as if the devil himself were chasing me.
José watched me leave with a sad smile that hurt more than any insult. My clumsiness, my desperate need to please… all of it seemed to have triggered a rusted mechanism in his memory.
In his mind, José was no longer in a rancid bar. He was in a training field, nineteen years old with arrogance pouring out of every pore. He held a wooden sword with insulting grace, shredding straw scarecrows with quick, precise cuts. He had been born to be a swordsman. The best. The only one.
Until fire claimed its right over the story.
The image of a burned village, reduced to ashes and screams that still echoed in his nightmares, cut through his vision like a blade. José stopped remembering abruptly. A single tear, heavy as remorse, rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away with practiced ease, recovering his mask of the clownish leader.
—Another mug of beer! —he shouted, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
I arrived at the quarry just in time, panting with my lungs burning. The boss was surprised; I suppose my reputation for uselessness had already preceded me. Instead of a "thanks," he handed me extra pay.
—Here, kid. You've earned it for not getting lost on the way.
It was a silver coin. A simple, cold, tiny coin. For anyone else it would be trash, but for me, in that moment, it was physical proof that I still had a place in this world. I was happy. Genuinely happy for one second.
Until night fell. And with the darkness came the memory of that woman's cold steel against my neck.
We survived out of pity. If she had wanted to, that silver coin would now be buried with my corpse. Being an exploited worker was feeding me, sure… but it wasn't going to save me when true villainy decided my time was up.
Paranoia began to sprout in my chest. And believe me, it's a plant that grows very fast when you're afraid to close your eyes.
Midday the next day.
The sun in this world has a very particular way of hating me. It's not normal heat; it's radiation that seems to specifically search for the gaps in my clothes to burn my skin. There I was, axe in hand, standing in front of an oak that seemed to be laughing at my nonexistent biceps.
Every strike against the wood was a reminder of my fragility. Thud. A splinter smacked my cheek. Thud. Sweat stung my eyes. I stopped for a second, pressing my forehead against the tree's cold bark.
—If I die here, I hope they at least turn me into a nice table —I whispered, panting—. One of those tables where people can be happy and don't have to chop trees.
Fear is an incredible engine for hard work, but terrible fuel for sanity.
Everything hurt. My fingers had stiffened into a claw shape, accustomed to the axe handle. The soles of my feet had become a collection of blisters and calluses that would make a podiatrist cry. But the worst part wasn't my body—it was the silence.
Renii and Alele were nearby, helping with their "abilities" (which usually meant Alele sleeping on a log while Renii tried to use wind magic to move leaves and failed spectacularly).
—Furanchesoku! Stop hugging the tree and move! —Renii shouted from a distance—. The boss says if we don't finish this batch before sunset, there's no dinner!
—Tell the boss his tree has feelings and we're in a therapy session! —I shouted back, though my voice cracked halfway through.
I forced myself to keep going. I raised the axe once more. My muscles screamed in protest, a chorus of agony that had already become the background noise of my existence. In this world, if you're not a hero with a sacred sword, you're the guy who chops the firewood so the hero can warm his feet. And I clearly wasn't the one with the sword.
The Sunset of the next day.
We were walking back to the village. The sky had turned a deep violet color, almost the same shade as the bruises decorating my ribs. Renii walked beside me, humming an irritating tune.
—Hey, Renii… —I said, my tongue feeling heavy—. Do you think I could ever… I don't know, do something more than this?
He looked me up and down. His gaze stopped on my blazer, which was now more gray than black, covered in stains of resin and dirt.
—Well, you'd make an excellent scarecrow —he replied with a smile meant as a joke, but which hit me with the force of an absolute truth—. No offense, but your "curse" is understanding languages, not cracking skulls. Be grateful you have a job. In other kingdoms, people like you are used to test dungeon traps.
I stayed quiet. Renii's honesty was like a splash of ice water: necessary, but damn painful.
We reached the new cabin. It was smaller than the last one (the one that exploded), but at least it had a roof. I collapsed onto my sack of straw without even taking off my shoes. The wooden ceiling seemed very far away, spinning in circles as exhaustion dragged me downward.
—I don't want to be a scarecrow —I murmured to myself in the darkness—. I don't want my life to depend on the mercy of a woman I don't even know.
At dusk the following day.
That day was different. The work at the quarry was especially brutal. We moved granite blocks heavier than my sins. When we finished, the boss gave me another silver coin. I squeezed it in my fist until the metal warmed up.
I walked with Renii toward our hill. That same hill where everything started, where the giant tree stood like a monument to my confusion. The wind blew with unusual force, shaking the grass like an angry sea.
—Renii… —I broke the silence, kicking a rock that rolled down the hill—. What was the girl from that day in the forest like? The one who let us live.
Renii stopped. His eyes lit up with a flash of teenage lust mixed with absolute respect for power.
—Big-chested. Very beautiful, dark skin, and a lot of waist —he replied without hesitating even a millisecond—. She had a presence that… well, made you want to kneel down and apologize for being born.
I let out a bitter laugh. A laugh that tore at my throat.
—Damn, I wish I had seen her face to face —I said, wiping a tear of pure frustration—. At least then I'd know the face of the person who owns my life. Because that's what we are, right? Her toys. She let us go because we bored her, not because we mattered.
We reached the top. The giant tree watched us, unmoved by our insignificance. I took a few more steps, moving away from Renii until I stood directly in front of the immense trunk. I raised my left arm. My hand trembled, not from exhaustion but from a liquid rage that had been building in my chest since the first day.
I placed my palm against the bark. It was rough, full of life, indifferent to my human dramas. The night wind howled, a sound that resembled fate's mocking laughter.
—Renii… —my voice changed. It lost all traces of sarcasm. It became empty, cold like steel—. If that girl had really been a villain… don't you think I'd be dead? And you too?
Renii didn't answer. The silence was his way of saying "yes."
—That's why… I want to improve —I pressed my fingers into the wood until it felt like my skin might tear—. I don't want to be the guy who faints. I don't want to be the burden. I want to be the one holding the axe—but not to chop wood. To decide who lives and who dies.
I slowly turned around. The wind suddenly blew violently, tossing my dirty hair and making my torn blazer flutter like the flag of an army that had just lost everything but refused to surrender. The full moon illuminated my eyes, giving me an appearance that, for the first time, wasn't that of a vagrant.
It was the gaze of someone who had just accepted his own hell.
—If I never become strong, I'll always be a burden to you —I declared, locking my eyes onto his—. Teach me. Train me. You're a mess, Renii, but you're a mage. And I… I'm nothing. So help me become something.
Renii froze. For the first time, he didn't have a joke ready. The weight of my request seemed to pin him to the ground.
The silence that followed my request was so dense I could feel it in my eardrums. Renii looked at me as if I had grown two extra heads, and for once his mouth didn't move to spit out some stupidity.
The wind—our noisy accomplice—suddenly stopped. The entire world seemed to hold its breath beneath the shadow of the giant tree.
—Train you? —Renii finally repeated, his voice barely a whisper lost in the vastness of the night—. Furanchesoku, you don't have a Mark. You don't have a combat curse. You can't even lift a sack of granite without your knees rattling like castanets.
—I know —I replied, and I was surprised by the lack of tremor in my own voice. It was a cold calm, a resolve born from extreme fatigue—. I know I'm an "Echo." I know I'm the guy who dies on the first page of any epic story. But I don't want to die out of pity. If I'm going to die, I want it to be because someone actually had to work to kill me.
Renii sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. He stepped forward, and his expression became unusually serious, stripped of his usual childish arrogance.
—Listen carefully, Furan. The Marks… the Marks are an unfair gift. Someone born with the Mark of the Sword, the moment they touch steel, moves as if they've practiced for a thousand years. Fate governs them, tells them what they'll be best at from their very first cry. But… —he paused, locking his eyes onto mine—. That doesn't mean someone without a mark can't reach the top. It just means they have a map and you have to walk blind through a field of thorns. You can become the best with a spear or sword if you want, but while they flow, you'll have to break your bones just to keep up. Do you understand the level of agony we're talking about?
—I accept —I said before I could regret it—. If destiny didn't give me a map, I'll burn the forest just to see the road.
Renii nodded, and his presence—which had always seemed to me like that of a kid with too much power—suddenly felt heavy. Real.
—I don't know anything about weapons, Furan. I'm a mage. My power is unstable and my knowledge is basically "if I yell louder, the fireball gets bigger." But I know what the pressure of power feels like. If you really want this, there will be no more complaining about the sun. No more "therapy sessions" with trees. I'm going to break you, Furanchesoku. I'm going to break you until there's nothing left of that guy with the blazer and tie, and then we'll see what pieces we can put back together.
There was no cinematic transition. No heroic music.
What there was, was a bucket of ice-cold water dumped on my head at four in the morning the next day.