The village was drenched in silence, broken only by the occasional sobs carried on the cold breeze.

The aftermath of the battle had left not just scars on the ground, but deeper wounds etched into the hearts of the survivors.

Blood-streaked paths and shattered homes bore witness to the tragedy, yet life had to move on.

The dead deserved more than to be left among the ruins—they deserved to be honored.

The villagers, their faces pale with grief, gathered the lifeless bodies of their friends, family, and neighbors.

Each body was treated with care, as if handling something fragile, sacred.

Some corpses were still warm, their expressions frozen in pain or fear, while others bore the peaceful look of eternal sleep.

Even the smallest of tasks felt monumental—lifting a child’s limp body, closing the eyes of a loved one, wiping away dried blood from familiar faces.

Kenta stood quietly, his small fists clenched as he stared at his mother’s and grandfather's body being lifted with gentle hands.

His face was blank, but his red, swollen eyes betrayed the storm raging inside.

Once all the bodies were gathered, the villagers began the funeral preparations.

A large, open area was cleared at the heart of the village, where the ground was dry and the wind whispered softly.

Wooden pyres were meticulously stacked, layer upon layer of timber, dried grass, and flowers—whatever could burn, but with a touch of respect and care.

Each pyre was dedicated to several villagers, their bodies laid upon the wood, arms crossed over their chests, their faces cleaned of blood and dirt.

Personal items—small trinkets, necklaces, wooden carvings, or simple cloth pieces—were placed beside them, tokens of the lives they’d lived.

The sun dipped low, casting an orange hue over the village as if mourning with them.

Everyone gathered.

Men, women, children—all stood in somber silence around the pyres.

Tears were silent rivers down many faces, while others stared hollow-eyed, too numb to weep anymore.

Kenta stood near the front, clutching a small wooden pendant that once hung around his mother’s neck.

His knuckles turned white from gripping it too hard, his lips trembling but voiceless.

At the center stood Anne, the Saintess, her voice steady despite the tears lining her cheeks.

She began the funeral prayer, her words a soft murmur that seemed to wrap around them like a fragile blanket:

Oh spirits, who walk the path beyond,

Let not sorrow bind you to this world.

May the flames guide you,

May the winds carry you,

May the earth embrace what remains,

And may your souls find peace in the great beyond.

Her voice broke on the final words, but she held strong, for the sake of the others.

With heavy hearts, the villagers lit the pyres.

Flames erupted, climbing hungrily, consuming the wood and slowly reaching the bodies.

The crackle of fire grew louder, merging with the quiet sobs around.

The smell of burning wood mixed with something more raw, more human, lingering in the air—a scent that would haunt many for days to come.

Asael stood apart, his golden eyes now dulled to a faint amber, watching the flames with a distant expression.

The warmth of the fire couldn’t reach him.

His mind drifted back to the lessons from the Holy Temple, words spoken by the priests echoing like a distant chant.

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"Why do we burn or bury the dead?" he had once asked in his youth.

The practical answer was simple: to prevent rot, to keep wild beasts and monsters from desecrating the remains.

But the priests had given him something deeper.

"Souls," they’d said, "cling to their vessels—the bodies they’ve lived in for years. They struggle to let go, to accept the end. If we leave the body untouched, the soul may linger, lost, unable to move on. So, we burn them. The flames are not for destruction but for release—to free the soul from its earthly shell."

Others believed that burying the dead hastened their rebirth, allowing the soul to find a new life quicker, unburdened by the weight of their former existence.

As Asael watched the flames dance and flicker, he wondered if the souls were truly free—or if they, like him, were still trapped, lingering in a world that had failed them.

Eventually, the fire began to die down, reduced to glowing embers and ash.

The villagers didn’t leave—not until the last flicker of flame vanished, leaving nothing but gray dust and fragments of charred bone.

With reverence, the ashes were collected.

Each handful was treated like treasure, scooped gently into clay urns or wrapped in cloth.

The villagers carried the remains to a small sacred grove on the edge of the village—a place where the ashes of ancestors rested, buried beneath the soil, their spirits believed to watch over the living.

A shallow pit was dug, and the ashes were laid to rest, mingling with those who had passed long before.

Anne whispered another prayer, her voice soft like the rustling leaves:

May your essence return to the earth,

May your spirit find its place among the stars.

But the ritual didn’t end there.

After the ashes were buried, the villagers walked to the edge of the forest, where the soil was fertile and the sunlight gentle.

Each person carried a small sapling or seedling, corresponding to the number of lives lost.

Kenta carried a fragile sprout, its leaves trembling in the breeze, much like his heart.

He planted it carefully, pressing the soil around it with his small hands, his tears watering the earth alongside it.

It was more than just planting trees. It was a promise.

Life would grow where death had been.

Each tree would stand as a testament to the lives that were lost, their roots entwined with the memory of those who had once walked, laughed, and lived in this village.

As the villagers stood in silence, staring at the fresh mounds of earth and the fragile saplings, Asael finally let his knees buckle.

He fell to the ground, his face hidden in his hands.

Not as a hero.

Not as a warrior.

But as a man who had witnessed too much loss.

And all he could do now was grieve.

----

Asael sat alone, his figure slouched beside the fragile saplings planted in memory of the fallen.

The cool night breeze whispered softly, rustling the tiny leaves as if the souls of the departed were speaking through them.

The sky was awash with black and purple, the moon covered in clouds, leaving behind streaks of melancholy darkness.

Everyone had gone back.

The laughter of children, the comforting words of survivors—it was all gone, replaced by a silence that weighed heavily on Asael’s chest.

His golden eyes, now dim and distant, stared blankly at the fresh mounds of earth, where life and death coexisted, separated only by fragile roots.

His heart felt like those saplings—barely holding on, fragile, vulnerable.

A quiet sigh slipped from his lips, barely louder than the whisper of the wind.

What am I even doing? he thought, his fingers digging into the dirt absentmindedly, as if trying to ground himself.

Then came a soft, familiar voice that broke the suffocating silence.

"Are you alright?"

Asael turned slightly, his tired eyes meeting the gentle gaze of Anne.

She approached slowly, her white robes faintly illuminated by the twilight, her face soft with concern.

She always had that calming aura, like a fragile candle flickering against the darkness.

Asael forced a weak smile but couldn’t hide the heaviness in his heart.

"Yes, I'm fine. I just… feel like I'm not meant to be a hero."

The words slipped out, raw and vulnerable.

It wasn’t an admission of weakness—it was the simple truth, heavy with guilt and self-doubt.

Anne sat beside him, her gaze lingering on the saplings before speaking, "What are you talking about? You're chosen by the gods."

Asael laughed softly, but there was no humor in it—just bitterness.

"But so many people died, and I couldn’t do anything."

His voice was hollow, haunted by the memories of blood-streaked faces and screams that echoed in his mind.

"Neither was I able to do anything to the Demon King."

His fingers clenched the soil beneath him, trembling slightly.

"Sometimes I wonder, even if I get my powers completely back… would there even be anyone left to save?"

His words were a whisper, carried away by the wind as if he was too ashamed to speak them aloud.

Anne looked at him, her heart aching for the boy who carried the weight of the world on his fragile shoulders.

She reached out, her hand resting gently on his.

"You know what?" she began softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swelling within her.

"There are times when even I feel like I’m not suited to be the Saintess. Like I’m just wearing a title I don’t deserve. But… I can’t give up, you know?"

She tightened her grip slightly, her warmth grounding him.

"We’ve failed, yes. But people still need us. They’re still here, Asael. Only you can defeat the Demon King. So please… don’t give up."

Her words weren’t grand or filled with divine wisdom—they were simple, honest, and they pierced through the fog in Asael’s mind.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, though his eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"Don’t worry," he muttered, his voice slightly steadier, "I won’t give up. I’m just… complaining, that’s all."

But deep inside, he wasn’t entirely sure.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their grief shared between them like an invisible thread connecting two fragile hearts.

Then Anne broke the quiet.

"By the way… I felt the presence of Goddess Aria when you transformed."

Asael’s eyes flickered slightly, recalling the golden light that had surged through him during the battle.

"Yes… I think I can communicate with the gods now. But… I don’t know when or how it happens."

Anne smiled softly.

"That’s still better than before."

Asael gave a faint nod, his fingers brushing the tiny saplings as if drawing strength from their fragile resilience.

"Hmm…"

The wind grew colder as the night crept in, the stars beginning to peek through the dark canvas above.

"By the way," Anne asked gently, "what are we going to do next?"

Asael’s gaze turned towards the distant mountains, their jagged peaks silhouetted against the darkening sky.

"Since I’ve started to regain my powers, I think we should set out on a journey—to defeat the monsters and seek the gods’ blessings."

Anne nodded, her heart heavy but filled with a faint spark of purpose.

"Okay."

But before either of them could say more, a small voice broke the quiet.

"Can I… come with you?"

They both turned, startled.

Kenta stood there, his small frame outlined by the dim glow of the setting sun.

His face was different—the innocence of childhood replaced by something harder, something forged in grief.

His eyes, once bright and curious, were now dark pools of determination.

Asael and Anne exchanged a glance, and Anne quickly shook her head.

"No, Kenta. It will be really dangerous." Her voice was gentle but firm.

But Kenta didn’t flinch.

"Don’t worry. I can take care of myself." His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering.

Asael studied him for a long moment, seeing not just a boy, but someone who had lost everything—and had nothing left to fear.

"Okay, you can come."

Anne’s head snapped towards Asael.

"But—!" she began, her voice filled with concern.

Asael raised his hand to stop her, his expression calm.

"But you won’t do anything dangerous," he added, his golden eyes meeting Kenta’s with quiet authority.

Anne frowned, clearly unhappy.

"But he’s just a child—"

"Don’t worry," Asael interrupted gently. "We’ll protect him."

Anne sighed, her heart heavy with worry, but she eventually nodded.

"Okay… fine."

A small, bittersweet smile crept onto Kenta’s face, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

Asael stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, his gaze fixed once more on the distant mountains.

"Good. For tonight, rest up." He looked at both of them, his voice steady with newfound determination.

"Tomorrow morning, our first destination will be that mountain on the path."

Kenta’s eyes lit up slightly with curiosity.

"You mean the mountain where that mysterious monster lives?"

Asael smirked faintly.

"Yes. If you’re scared, you can stay here. We’ll come back and pick you up later."

Kenta’s face hardened.

"NO. I will come." His voice was fierce, filled with the kind of determination that no child should have to carry.

Asael nodded softly, placing a gentle hand on Kenta’s shoulder.

And so, beneath the dark sky and beside the fragile saplings of the fallen, the three of them made an unspoken promise—

To keep moving forward.

To fight, even when broken.

To carry the weight of the past, and still seek hope in the future.

Tomorrow, their new journey would begin.