Houses are burning, screams of terror pierce the smoky sky, and lifeless bodies litter the village streets. The entire valley is shrouded in choking smoke, and I run as fast as my little legs can carry me. I clutch a piece of cloth, torn hastily from a burning corpse, pressing it to my face to block out the searing smoke. My throat sears, my eyes sting, my legs tremble, and each glance backward tightens my chest, as if an invisible tether binds me to this inferno, and every step I take away from it tears at my heart.

A young man runs beside me. His face is familiar, yet I can't tell who he is. His severe face is blackened by soot and tightened with frustration. Or maybe he's just trying to contain his grief, like a dam cracking under the weight of a torrent of emotions. He looks like a young man who has grown too old; his body, still full of vitality, seems weighed down by a burden too heavy and too precocious. His presence is a comfort, the last link to reality that keeps me grounded amid the chaos.

∼ Wherever he goes, I'll follow!

When we're finally beyond the searing heat, and when the cries have faded to distant echoes swallowed by the stagnant air, the man places his hands on my shoulders and crouches to meet my gaze. He looks me straight in the eye and speaks with a serious face, but no sound reaches my ears. He then pulls me into a tight embrace, and my vision starts to blur. At last, he loosens his grip, leaning close, and his final words reach me through this time.

– There are two things you must remember, Cyan. First, you must become stronger — stronger than anyone else, he says in a barely audible voice, as if speaking from the other side of an icy wall.

Eventually, a tear rolls down his cheek, first crack heralding a flood of emotions.

– And finally...

His last words, in a voice cracked with sorrow, are swallowed by the hot air, before he turns and runs back toward the flickering shadows of the village. Smoke clouds my senses, and I wake up.

Sunlight streams through the gaps in the stable’s wooden boards, piercing the dimness like a thousand sharp arrows of light that dazzle me. Suddenly, I feel a wet nudge against my shoulder, pushing insistently until I tumble off the straw mound that served as my bed. Jolted awake, I leap to my feet and instinctively reach for my weapon, disoriented by the sudden chaos. There, standing in front of me, the culprit is happily chewing on the hay I had warmed with my sleep, whinnying in delight. I vaguely recall dreaming something important before I woke, but now all that lingers is a throbbing headache. As I blink away the confusion of my rude awakening, the situation becomes clearer.

– Up and at 'em early today, are you?

I recognize the deep, gravelly tone of the stocky tavern-keeper, standing in the stable doorway with an armful of hay. He looks in bewilderment at the absurd scene unfolding before him: a young man half-asleep with straw in his hair, ready to fight with a spotted mare who, completely ignoring her opponent, calmly enjoy her breakfast.

– Who exactly are you fighting against, he asks me, puzzled.

I finally see the absurdity of the moment and lower my weapon, feeling slightly embarrassed.

– Looks like you slept well — judging by the straw in your hair.

– Not too bad!

∼ Bad dream or not, I admit straw isn't less comfortable than tree moss.

– Good! So, what's your next move?

– I'm going to keep looking for information. If I don't find anything by tonight, I'll be on my way. I don’t want to impose on you any longer.

– Why not try speaking to some of the less prominent Geikas? They might be more open to helping you.

– You’re right. I’ll give it a shot. Thanks again for everything.

– Don't worry about it. You know, kid, as long as you keep searching, you'll always end up finding something, he tells me as I exit the stable.

As I walk, I reflect on the tavern keeper's last words, surprisingly wise for someone with the looks of a grizzlion boxer. This raises however an important question.

∼ Do I really have time?

I can’t shake this strange sense of urgency, as though something deep within me is bubbling up, ready to erupt. This voice — the only piece of my past I’ve managed to hold onto — never imposed any deadlines. At least, not that I remember. No, this restless drive comes from somewhere deeper. It’s been with me since I was "reborn" ten years ago. Everything before that is just a tangled fog of colors and sounds, as vague as it is maddening.

∼ I'm tired of not knowing. I’d give anything to remember something else from my past, something more useful, like a place, a name, or just a face.

With these thoughts swirling in my mind, I step into the Renkin Keiga’s HQ, brimming with determination. The place is a chaotic whirlwind of activity. People in white coats rush about, deeply engrossed in what seems to be important work. The energy in the room is palpable, and I feel a little out of place, hesitant to interrupt anyone. Before I can decide on my next move, a man in his thirties, unshaven and full of soot, approaches me.

– What can I do for you, my friend? Are you a science enthusiast, by any chance, he asks me excitedly.

– A what? No, no! At least I don't think so.

– Oh, don't worry about that! Everyone thinks science is irrelevant these days — until they don’t.

I don't know what I should worry about, but it's impossible not to agree with his childlike smile, theatrical gestures, and sing-song intonation accompanied by a slight lisp. Adding to his eccentric aura, a small flame dances atop a lock of his salt-and-pepper hair that seems to defy gravity, like a match someone forgot to blow out. His fogged-up glasses can’t hide the spark in his eyes, and with hands on his hips, he radiates confidence.

– I’m just curious about what kind of activities you do here.

– Ah, perfect timing, my friend! Right now, we’re experimenting with extracting Mystra from bluish ptirotactites in order to build a choroxybolite propellant.

∼ It's very far from the answer I was expecting, but at least he didn’t brush me off, which I consider a huge success. Nobody else seems to be available anyway.

– And, uh, what’s the point of that, exactly?

– What's the point, he repeats, raising his voice in outrage at the question, as the answer seems so obvious.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He looks genuinely outraged at my question, as though the answer should be self-evident.

– Not only will it allow loaded vehicles to move effortlessly, but above all, it would be an unparalleled scientific breakthrough! For centuries, our Geika has been chasing the dream of perpetual motion, and after countless setbacks, we're finally on the cusp of success! Just imagine the infinite possibilities! Previously unexplored horizons are about to open before us! And that, my friend, is the word of a scientist!

∼ I don’t understand a single word of his fiery speech, but admitting it would mean giving up on his infectious good mood.

– It all sounds... fabulous!

His wide grin lifts my spirits, almost making me forget the reason of my visit. But the aura of happiness radiating from this funny man is abruptly shattered by a loud explosion from the adjacent room. A young woman in a lab coat bursts through the door, her face etched with panic.

– WARNING! CODE RED! CODE RED! EVACUATE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY!

Thick black smoke billows out behind her, underscoring the urgency of her warning. The room erupts into chaos, people rushing toward the exit. Meanwhile, I stand there, staring at my eccentric host, who seems unfazed by the situation. His goofy grin remains plastered on his face, eyes still twinkling as though the world wasn’t about to end.

– Uh… this smoke… is it dangerous?

– Oh, don't worry about that! We experience failures all the time, but if passion is the horse that pulls the cart of knowledge, failure is the reins that guide it!

Not in the least bit alarmed by the situation, he even starts laughing, amused by his analogy that went completely over my head. Then, a second explosion echoes, and a man emerges from the same room as his colleague before him. He staggers and coughs up his lungs, holding a cloth to his face to avoid inhaling the now yellowish smoke chasing him. The colored gas fills the room at the speed of an avalanche, though it doesn't rise more than a meter above the ground. Once again, I ask my host, still as stoic as ever, for his opinion on this sulfur-scented cloud.

– And… what about that smoke?

As if to answer my question, the dying man warns us between coughs.

– It's… dangerous! Get… out… now, warns the newcomer between two coughs, as if to answer my question.

The man staggers and eventually collapses into the thick blanket of smoke, as if swallowed by a dense fog. Keeping my composure, I use his brave sacrifice as a point to support my suspicions.

– See?! Your colleague says it's dangerous.

The match man, as I've decided to call him, ponders the situation for a few seconds before finally nodding his head.

– Hmm… yes, it does seem rather dangerous this time…

Once everyone has evacuated to the street, amid the scandalized stares of passers-by, the acrid smoke billows out from the Renkin Keiga’s building. As it reaches the open air, it condenses into a multitude of ghostly wisps that dissipate in the morning breeze, leaving behind only a trickle of golden liquid, slowly dripping onto the cobblestones before seeping into the adjacent drains. I turn to one of the relatively clean scientists and ask the question that has been burning in my mind.

– Out of curiosity, what would’ve happened if we’d breathed that in?

– Oh, it varies. Once, someone lost an arm! Unfortunately, I wasn’t around to witness it that day, he says in a nonchalant tone that makes me doubt the existence of a survival instinct in these people. But don’t worry, we stopped doing those kinds of experiments. I mean… I think we did, his hesitation unfortunately failing to reassure me.

∼ To be honest, I cannot picture any of the match man colleagues being cautious in the face of an exciting discovery.

∼ Speaking of him, where has he gone? Surely, he hasn’t stayed inside. Has he? I lost sight of him in my haste.

Just then, I hear an old man's voice break through the tumult.

– Again?! I wonder how they're still alive in there.

After some thought, I decide it's best to get away from here. After all, I can't afford to die now.

∼ No, I cannot die yet!

Those words echoe inside me with an unexpected intensity, far greater than I anticipated.

Sneaking out of the crowd, I finally spot the match man whose lited wick has finally gone out, leaving a small amount of black smoke and the smell of burnt clay. Crouching beside a manhole cover where the golden liquid is dripping, he observes it utterly fascinated. He finally dips a finger in the liquid, brings it to his lips, then leaps to his feet and runs off to join his colleagues, looking more exhilarated than ever.

After wandering for several minutes through the maze of the city, I sit down on the edge of a fountain, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

∼ This really isn’t going according to plan...

I let the despair simmer inside me for a few moments, then think back to the warm, reassuring voice of the corpulent tavern-keeper, the wistful smile of the sour old lady, and the girl whose feline eyes and fiery hair now haunt my thoughts, as if they’ve taken up permanent residence in my memory. I slap my cheeks, forcing focus, and spring to my feet.

∼ There's still hope.

I scan my surroundings, gauging which direction to take. That’s when I realize the unexpected beauty of the square I find myself in: the space is wide, encircled by quaint stone houses of varying hues, their architecture noticeably older than the other buildings of the district. A few wooden benches, scattered in the shade of leafy trees of various species, are harmoniously arranged around the square, and bushes carefully pruned into four distinct sections encircle the fountain on which I was sitting. The fountain itself is impressive, crowned by a striking white marble statue of a majestic winged wolf, its wings spreading proudly in the centre of the square.

∼ Do wolves have wings? Not the ones I know, at least.

Upon closer inspection, I notice intricate symbols carved into the feathers of the wolf’s immense wings. I've seen these patterns many times, ever since I arrived in the city. They are embedded in the capital’s architecture, though I’d never given them much thought, thinking of them as mere decorative motifs. Strangely enough, I feel like I’ve seen them even before I reached Aragane, but the memory remains elusive. Judging by the surprising plumage of the marble animal, there are seven different symbols. As for what they represent, I haven’t the faintest clue.

My attention shifts to the tallest and most modern building of the square. Although it isn’t particularly high, it stands out for its width, its recent architecture in smoothed white stone, and its wide-open wooden doors, creating a grand entrance several meters across. The interior seems to be bustling with activity, and my curiosity quickly guides me up the short flight of stairs.

Stepping through the vast opening, I find myself in what appears to be an infirmary. The room is very spacious and minimalistic, stripped of any unnecessary furnishings or decor. Apart from the numerous beds where patients are being tended to, the room is completely empty. The stark whiteness of the walls is broken only by a large inscription painted boldly across the far side:

« Kusur Geika »

Nurses hurry about, their footsteps and urgent voices echoing off the walls. Every bed is occupied with men and women wearing the same black uniform. Some patients, only slightly injured, are getting an arm or leg bandaged, while others, clearly in more severe condition, writhe in pain, their torsos wrapped in bloodied bandages.

Apart from me and another young man chatting in the middle of the room with an older nurse, everyone else is either a carer or someone being cared for, so that I begin to feel out of place, awkward and unsure of where to stand. As I contemplate the agitation and distress filling the room — yet totally absent outside of its walls — a young nurse calls out to me, snapping me out of my daze.

– How can I help you?

It takes me a moment to realize she's speaking to me.

– Uh... Yes! You do belong to a Geika, right?

The young man who was speaking to the older nurse, now gone into the anthill of white aprons, turns his ear in our direction, seemingly interested in our discussion.

– Yes, you're in the main building of the Kusur Geika. Are you injured or ill, she asks in a cold and impatient tone, fearing that I might waste her precious time.

– No, no, I'm fine, thank you. I was just looking for some informat—

– If you don't require our services, please step out so we can focus on those who do.

– Chloe! I need your help to prepare the painkillers!

The woman vanishes as swiftly as she had appeared, joining the older nurse who now holds a handful of midnight-blue flowers, while the young man slips a few silver coins into his pocket. Realizing I’m in the wrong place, I quietly retreat, head bowed.

Once outside, the world feels entirely different — calm and serene. Few people pass through this large square, despite its obvious charm, and the only dominant sounds are those of the fountain and birdsong. A few steps away from the chaos inside, this peaceful place seem almost unreal.

– I wonder what happened to all those people...

– They're border guards from Historia's army.

Not realizing that my thoughts have escaped, I'm initially surprised that a voice answers them.

– Judging by their wounds, they must have had a skirmish with Techna's men.

I turn to face my interlocutor, who is none other than the young man I saw in the room. As soon as our eyes meet, he greets me with an elegant bow.

– Natsuki, at your service!