In a dimly lit hospital ward, the air hung heavy with the scent of antiseptics and the faint hum of machines.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional beeping of monitors that seemed to measure time in heartbeats.

Beside a frail figure lying on the bed, Havard sat on a small, worn-out stool.

His face was etched with deep lines of grief, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of emotions he could barely carry.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Havard began, his voice trembling with sorrow.

"I couldn’t fulfill our dream."

His words lingered in the room, unanswered.

"I failed to keep my promise," he continued, his voice cracking.

"I failed to protect what mattered most to you. Your son... I couldn’t save him, just like I couldn’t save you that day."

He gripped the edge of the table tightly, his knuckles whitening as he spoke. Despite the torrent of words, the man on the bed—Morris—lay silent, unmoving.

His body was a pitiful sight, covered in an array of tubes and needles that tethered him to life in the most fragile way possible.

His chest rose and fell faintly, almost imperceptibly, and his eyes, shut tight, had not opened in years.

Havard looked at him, his old friend, and the sight felt like a dagger twisting in his chest.

"How nice it would’ve been if you were awake, Morris," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

The memories of their shared past, their dreams and laughter, flashed before Havard’s eyes. T

They had been inseparable once, brothers in all but blood, chasing ambitions that now felt like faint echoes of a forgotten world.

"I miss you, my friend. I miss those old days," Havard said, his voice breaking. He reached out, placing a trembling hand on Morris’s cold, motionless one.

"Please... please wake up!"

His plea hung in the air, desperate, hopeful, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Morris gave no sign of hearing him, no flicker of movement, no response.

Havard let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging further.

He hadn’t truly expected anything.

Hope was a cruel thing—every time it whispered in his ear, it left him more broken when it went unfulfilled.

But then, just as he was about to sink into despair, a voice interrupted the stillness.

"I can wake him up."

Havard's head snapped up, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Slowly, he turned towards the door, where the voice had come from.

Standing there were two men.

The first was an old man, his face wrinkled but his posture exuding a sense of authority.

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He wore ornate robes that bore intricate patterns, and his sharp gaze seemed to pierce through the gloom of the ward.

But it was the second man who truly commanded attention.

He was younger, yet there was something about him—an aura that felt otherworldly.

His presence seemed to fill the room, and his eyes held a calm, piercing intensity that made Havard’s breath catch.

"Who are you?" Havard asked, his voice wary but firm.

The old man stepped forward, his expression twisting into indignation.

"Watch your tone! Do you have any idea who you’re addressing?"

The younger man raised a hand, silencing the old one.

His voice was calm, measured.

"Fredrik, it’s fine."

The old man immediately stepped back, bowing slightly.

"Yes, master."

Havard’s eyes flickered between the two men, trying to place the emblem on their robes. Recognition dawned, and his breath caught.

The intricate patterns and the symbol—it could only belong to one group.

"The Mystic Tower," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and fear.

His gaze returned to the younger man, realization striking him like a thunderbolt.

"Are you... the Mystic Tower’s Guildmaster?"

The man inclined his head slightly.

"Yes," he said simply, his voice carrying both authority and grace. "My name is Jökull."

The name was strange, foreign, but somehow it suited him, resonating with the icy calm he exuded.

"Anyway, back to the topic—I can cure your friend," Jökull said, his voice steady and unflinching.

Havard froze, his gaze flickering from Morris’s pale, motionless body to Jökull’s calm, enigmatic expression.

"Are you serious?" he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

"Yes," Jökull replied without hesitation, his tone carrying an authority that left no room for doubt.

Havard narrowed his eyes, his suspicion bubbling to the surface. "And what do you want in exchange?"

Jökull smiled faintly, his piercing gaze never leaving Havard’s.

"I just want your help in stopping that dungeon boss," he said simply.

Havard blinked, confusion knotting his brow. "Huh?" The words felt absurd.

"What do you say?" Jökull pressed, his expression calm but insistent.

Havard hesitated for only a moment, glancing back at Morris.

The man who had been his brother in all but blood lay still, trapped in a state worse than death.

His heart clenched.

Whatever this man wanted, it didn’t matter if it meant bringing Morris back.

"Okay," Havard said firmly. "I agree."

Jökull nodded, satisfied. "Good."

He turned to the old man beside him. "Fredrik."

Fredrik stepped forward, retrieving a small bottle from his robes.

The liquid inside shimmered like molten silver, its glow casting dancing lights on the dim walls.

Without a word, Fredrik approached Morris’s bedside.

Carefully, he tipped a few drops into Morris’s mouth and sprinkled the rest over his frail body.

As the liquid touched him, it began to radiate an ethereal light, glowing brighter with every passing moment.

A faint, almost imperceptible hum filled the room. Slowly, the liquid seemed to evaporate, disappearing into Morris’s skin.

Then, his eyelids fluttered.

Havard’s heart leaped.

He surged forward, gripping Morris’s hand tightly.

"Morris! Are you alright? How are you feeling?" His voice was thick with emotion, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Morris blinked a few times, his gaze focusing on Havard.

"Havard… you look old, man," he said weakly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"How many years has it been?"

"It’s been many years, my friend," Havard replied, his voice shaky but filled with relief.

"Is that so?" Morris murmured, his smile widening briefly.

"Well then, tell me—did you finally get married? What about the others?"

Havard’s smile faltered, and his throat tightened. He said nothing.

Morris’s brows knitted in concern.

"And… Cain? He must’ve grown a lot by now, right?"

At those words, Havard’s silence grew heavier.

The light in Morris’s eyes dimmed.

"Why aren’t you saying anything, Havard? What happened? And who are these men?" he asked, his voice laced with growing anxiety.

Jökull stepped forward, his presence commanding.

"I don’t have much time," he said.

"Explain to your friend what has happened."

Havard nodded, swallowing hard.

Turning to Morris, he began to recount the events that had transpired during his absence—the fall of their people, the new dungeon and its boss, the demonic people uprise, and finally, the tragic death of Cain.

As the story unfolded, Morris’s expression shifted from confusion to shock, and finally to unrestrained sorrow.

Tears streamed down his face, and he clutched the edges of his blanket as though it could anchor him in the storm of grief.

"My boy…" he whispered, his voice cracking. "My Cain… gone…"

Havard placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I’m sorry, Morris. I’m so, so sorry," he said, his own voice breaking.

Morris sobbed into his hands, his body shaking.

For a while, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of his grief.

Eventually, he lifted his head, his face streaked with tears but his eyes now holding a quiet determination.

He looked at Jökull.

"What kind of help does a being like you need from me?"

Jökull regarded him solemnly.

"I cannot stay on this planet for long," he said.

"When the portal opens, someone must be here to stop what comes through. I need someone strong, someone with the will to fight."

Morris nodded without hesitation. "Okay. I will do it."

"No," Havard interjected, his voice firm.

"Your body isn’t in any condition to fight. You’re still weak."

Morris turned to Jökull, ignoring Havard’s protests.

"You can fix this, can’t you? My body—whatever’s wrong with it—you can heal it?"

Jökull hesitated, then nodded.

"Yes. But the process will come at a cost. It will consume your life force. The more strength you regain, the shorter your remaining time will be."

"I’m ready," Morris said without a moment’s hesitation.

"Wait!" Havard shouted, grabbing his arm. "You’ve just come back, Morris. Don’t throw your life away again!"

Morris met his gaze, his expression soft but resolute.

"Please, Havard," he said quietly.

"Let me die as a hunter, not as a broken man lying in a bed. Let me fight for something, for Cain, for our people… for us."

Havard’s lips trembled.

He wanted to argue, to beg, but he knew Morris’s heart.

He saw the fire burning in his old friend’s eyes—the fire of a hunter who would not back down.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nodded.

"Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Morris smiled faintly, the tears in his eyes glinting in the light.

"Thank you, Havard," he said.

Jökull stepped forward. "Let us begin."

The room filled with a sense of purpose, heavy and solemn, as Morris prepared for his final stand.