"You've changed a lot."
Ragna turned his head at Grida's words. It was his sister speaking, watching him train alone under the moonlight.
She didn't bother asking why he was sitting on the ground instead of using a chair. Probably because she didn’t care enough to ask.
"Me?"
"Yeah."
Ragna responded with a question, then accepted it with a simple nod. Sweat trickled down his face, gathering at his chin before falling to the ground.
"If people saw you like this, they'd be surprised."
Ragna only nodded again. As if it didn’t matter whether others were surprised or not. It wasn’t something for everyone to know, so why bother?
"Anyway, in the end, you're going back home."
Grida said.
"I'm not going back."
"Then?"
"I'm just stopping by."
"Why?"
"To grab something."
Was he serious? Grida stared at Ragna for a while before brushing the dust off her clothes and standing up. A small cloud of dust rose from where she had been sitting on the dry ground.
"Well, whatever. It’s your life."
Grida was simply amazed at how much Ragna had changed.
Even after his sister left, Ragna continued swinging his sword.
He had decided to return to his family, but if he wanted to retrieve what he needed, he had to push even further forward than he was now.
And—
'There’s no time.'
So he had to invest even a little more time in training.
When he swung his sword, the path became clear. It had always been that way since he was a child.
He could see how far he could reach, how far his training would take him if he continued, he could see everything.
Even if he did nothing, he could see it. Even without struggling or floundering, the path was already open before him.
Then was there any meaning in walking a path that was already laid out?
Memories from the past surged like a rising tide, filling his mind.
"Become a Knight."
His father had said those words.
"Why should I?"
Ragna had asked in return.
His father had looked at him as if he were some strange, alien creature, then replied.
"Do you need a reason?"
The people of Zaun were those who were captivated by the sword itself. But Ragna wasn’t. He took no joy in wielding a sword.
"You're not enjoying this? Why?"
Everyone around him had asked, but his answer was always the same.
"Why would I enjoy it?"
"Wanting to defeat someone, surpassing yourself, doesn’t that thrill you? It’s just fun, you know?"
Some had said things like that. But Ragna couldn’t agree.
Defeating someone? Maybe not today, but in a month, he would win. The outcome was obvious. It was an unchanging fact.
"What are you talking about? Are you some kind of prophet?"
To those who scoffed, he proved it. Even the process of proving it was mind-numbingly dull.
The difference in talent determined everything. Ragna had known that.
Even among those gathered for their talents, he stood out as exceptional.
So it was boring. Life was monotonous. If things continued this way, he would die while swinging his sword. And he already knew what kind of death awaited him.
'So I’m just going to keep swinging my sword, walking down this predetermined path, and die like this?'
A new sword technique? A new path? He saw nothing new. Only what was already decided.
A talent granted by the heavens should have been a blessing. But for Ragna, it became a curse.
The gods had given him talent but had taken away even a single grain of motivation.
Then, he left home and met Encrid.
"Why do you go that far?"
He had asked once.
"Right now, I wield my sword to survive. But I don’t want to live like that."
At the time, he had thought Encrid’s basics were lacking. Yet even then, Encrid’s resolve never wavered. It was a straight, unwavering path. That was his will.
Like carving through stagnant thoughts, Ragna swung his sword in the present.
Ping.
His sword sliced through the air parallel to the ground, leaving behind a faint, hollow sound before disappearing into the arc of his swing.
Moonlight chased after the blade's passing. As Ragna swung without pause, the moonlight trailed the sword, and the blade teased the moonlight as it danced.
Dozens of silver streaks formed in the air, appearing and vanishing repeatedly.
The words Encrid had spoken lingered in Ragna’s mind, surfacing time and time again.
"I want to live by what I believe is right. I want to wield my sword for the poor and the sick, for honor, for the people I love."
Talent should have crumbled beneath the downpour of effort. Limits should have seized him like a relentless pursuer, forcing him to kneel.
Ragna had seen every possible future for Encrid. Yet Encrid shattered them all.
Even while carrying the burdens that clung to him like a curse, he pressed forward, shaking off the pursuer of limitations, never once succumbing to despair or defeat.
The moment Ragna saw him move forward like that, he felt a thrill unlike any other.
Was walking a predetermined path really that important? Had he ever actually walked it?
Through action, through life, through will—Encrid asked those questions.
And Ragna had no answer. So he had to walk. To see for himself whether his path was the right one, just as the man before him had shown.
At that moment, he found joy in swordsmanship. It was a continuous experience of wonder. The stagnant memories guided Ragna forward.
"You went to Jury’s house, right?"
Ann, the healer and alchemist, asked.
"Yes."
He had nothing to hide, so he answered honestly.
Ann hesitated for a moment before locking eyes with him and asking suddenly.
"Are you interested in Jury? Or do you just have a thing for kids?"
"What do you take me for?"
That was a little offensive. At Ragna’s reaction, Ann casually flipped her hair back and said.
"Never mind, then. So why did you go?"
"To look around."
"At what?"
"Do you think people always need a reason to do something?"
Ragna asked in return. Ann pondered before replying.
"I don’t know."
She was too busy trying to get by herself. Why should she care about what others did?
"Yeah. Just because."
"What does that even mean?"
"Talk about yourself instead."
Ragna had changed. Compared to when Grida Zaun had known him, compared to when Encrid had first met him, he was different.
"…Talk about what?"
"You were shocked when you saw Magrun."
So, she wasn’t clueless, just lost. Ann mumbled before speaking again, still maintaining unwavering eye contact.
"That’s not a curse, it’s a disease. Specifically, it spreads through something invisible, like a fine powder. And that disease killed more than a hundred people in the city where I lived."
Ann had lost her parents, relatives, and friends then. She had survived only by sheer luck—or rather, because of her talent.
Even as a child, she had learned the basics of alchemy from Laban. That was what had saved her. But now, she knew the truth.
Laban was her enemy. Or rather, her real enemy was the one who had raised Laban as an alchemist. He was the one who had created this disease. She knew that now.
"It was still in its research phase when it spread to my home. That’s why it disappeared without a trace. The rumors called it a plague, so even the uninfected were burned alive to end it."
People born with the disease had to die back then. Ann had seen it with her own eyes. She had two choices: pursue revenge, or take an entirely different path. She chose the latter.
Her target was too pathetic to be worth avenging. It was terrified beggars who had secretly set fire to straw huts in the dead of night.
Not just one person, multiple people had done it. Some had ignored it. Others had incited it.
Some had turned a blind eye, encouraged it, acted upon it, or let it happen despite knowing.
Who should she blame? The world? The nobles? The wealthy commoners who had merely watched? The guards who had patrolled the district?
Some of those guards had helped carry water to put out the fire, even at the risk of infection.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
He was one of the guards. The kind that even shed tears.
Ann didn’t know his face, but she didn’t think he had anything to apologize for.
At that moment, Ann found her path. The road she would walk for the rest of her life.
'I won’t lose to a disease.'
She made a vow, building a tower of resolve in her heart. She also decided that she would eliminate the fear that diseases instilled in people.
Recently, thanks to the migration of the Fairy City, she had obtained many rare ingredients. It was an opportunity to push forward with research she had only imagined before.
So she did. When she told Ragna she had stayed up several nights, it hadn’t been an exaggeration.
Could there be a cure for all diseases? Ann asked herself. It was a difficult question, but in truth, she already knew the answer.
'There’s no such thing.'
Or rather, there was. It didn’t exist, but it did.
There was no cure, but there could be someone who knew how to heal every disease. She would become a healer.
'That’s what I want.'
Her goal was clear, and so was her destination. There was no room for distractions. That was why Ann couldn’t afford to care about others.
"We need to go to where the disease is spreading. It probably started with a mushroom or a flower, something like that. We need to find it and confirm it. That’s the only way to create a cure."
"If someone gets infected, do they all die?"
"Whether quickly or slowly, yes, they will die."
Ann answered firmly and then continued.
"The timing of death depends on luck. Magrun coughed up blood, and the head of the household was infected too, right? Some people will be fine, while others will be bedridden, unable to muster any strength. The disease affects everyone differently. It’s not a curse."
Ragna nodded and spoke.
"Sometimes, when I stop by Jury's house, the kids welcome me."
It was a sudden remark, said simply because it came to mind.
Ann took it in stride.
"And?"
"And so I go."
Jury's house was a place that cared for children. Ann had asked earlier why he went there, and now he was finally answering.
"Took you long enough to say it."
Ann muttered, relieved.
There was nothing to worry about. She had half-wondered if he had become romantically involved with Jury, the woman who sold marmalade.
As long as it wasn’t that, it didn’t matter. Muttering to herself, Ann left.
Ragna, clearing his thoughts, shifted his footing and continued thrusting and slashing.
He performed a horizontal cut from above, followed by a twisting slash, a diagonal strike, and then a quick flick of his gaze as he struck at an imaginary opponent.
He concluded the series of movements with a counterattack.
The imaginary opponent changed their stance. They dragged their foot, bringing their sword down.
Ragna read the trajectory of the incoming attack. The opponent was attempting an overhead horizontal slash from a high stance.
Ragna imagined his sword getting bound against the opponent’s, then withdrew his blade and closed the distance, punching where the opponent’s face would be.
Whoosh.
Of course, his fist only struck empty air.
He was fighting nothing more than an imaginary opponent.
"Seems like you just countered my flash strike."
A voice called out.
It was the man who had been deliberately revealing his presence for a while now. The man Ragna called his captain.
"It’d be different in a real fight."
Ragna relaxed his sword and answered.
"There are ways to settle it before it even comes to a bind."
Encrid had approached before he even noticed. He must have finished his nighttime training, washed up, and come outside.
The night breeze of spring was cool, carrying the faint scent of flowers.
"According to the saint, there’s already someone in the city doing what he desires. That place—Jury’s house."
Encrid continued.
Jury, the woman who sold marmalade, gathered war orphans, children who had lost their parents, and those abandoned by them. She raised them.
At first, there were only a few children, but their numbers grew, as did the number of people working there. Because of that, they were always short on Krona. And someone had been giving them money regularly.
"You."
"You gave all the gold coins you took from Krais to that place, didn’t you?"
"It takes a lot of Krona to care for children."
"Raising people is always like that."
So Ragna had done it.
"Why?"
Encrid asked with pure curiosity, staring at the silent Ragna.
"Not all of those kids necessarily have a dream or a burning desire to do something. Shouldn’t they still be allowed to live like everyone else?"
Did people need a dream?
Did they need to live with a desperate sense of purpose?
Ragna was saying that there were people who didn’t. Just like he had been as a child.
"That’s the obvious truth."
Encrid replied calmly.
There were people who simply wished for a peaceful old age. People who wanted today to be the same as tomorrow.
And on the other hand, there were those who wished tomorrow would be nothing like today.
"I just wanted to help."
Ragna added.
"There’s a saying in the West, that when a person changes, it means they’re about to die."
"Are you cursing me?"
"No, just saying."
"I’ll be back once I find the thing I’m looking for."
Ragna’s sudden remark held an unmistakable meaning.
He wasn’t going back. His home was here now.
"I wasn’t worried. See you tomorrow."
Encrid said and turned away.
Ragna nodded indifferently. Now, he was alone.
Ragna sheathed his sword, then covered his mouth, letting out a small cough.
'Luck, huh.'
Red blood stained his hand.
His insides throbbed. A sign of illness. As if fate itself was asking—
How long do you think you’ll live?
He thought he had been walking a predetermined path. But now, he found himself on an entirely unexpected road.
And strangely enough, that made it all the more enjoyable.
'If my life ends like this, what will I leave behind? What can I leave behind?'
Ragna had started helping Jury’s house after such questions arose in his mind.
'What will remain after me?'
He didn’t know the answer yet. But Ragna thought—he would find out.
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