[…You mustn't sleep forever. There is much to be done…]

It felt as though words glided into his ears, yet he heard nothing, only sensing their meaning as his eyelids parted. Opening his eyes felt as though he was parting leaves glued together by sap, as though they had been shut a long time.

A ceiling of lavish marble, light as snow and dazzling like precious jewels stared down at him.

“…Ah…Huh…?”

It wasn’t the wooden material he was used to seeing when waking him up, prompting him to sit up—or at least, attempting to as his body felt as heavy as a boulder.

“Nnh…”

“Careful there. Your body is still recovering—it’s a miracle you’re alive, really.”

An unfamiliar voice met his ears, coming from the very room he was in as he lifted his head. He hadn't noticed it until then, but there was another person there, standing by a wooden cabinet and fiddling with vials.

It was a man, looking around middle-aged with his mostly black, but somewhat white hair, wearing a lengthy, olive green coat and circular-rimmed glasses that he adjusted with his thumb.

“Who are you? Where am I…?” Bastian asked groggily, tiredly rubbing his own face.

The stranger set the bottles he was assorting down, placing his hands in the pocket of his coat as he paced in front of the bed, “Hmm…Right, I guess you weren’t awake when we brought you in. You’re at the headquarters of Sapphire. I’m Spiero, I’ve been tasked with taking care of you.”

It was a less than ideal answer it seemed, as Bastian’s expression immediately turned sour, “Sapphire…? Why? What’s going on anyway? My body—“

Looking down, he found himself wrapped in bandages from head-to-toe. It was all confusing to him, finding his brain foggy, steeped in a perplexing mist as he tried to make sense of his current situation.

The man in the olive coat sat down on a chair in front of the bed, with his chest facing the back of the seat and allowing his arms to sit atop it as he looked at the confused person, “A group of members of Sapphire were approached by a frantic adventurer, who asked for their help, saying someone was battling Bakasura–the tenth floor guardian. Do you recall now?”

“The tenth guardian…mmm…” Bastian tried remembering, finding a vague memory of it, though it was difficult to place it all together as it felt scattered like a dream in his mind.

Spiero shook his head, “Don’t force yourself right now. Your mind and body are exhausted. It’s a miracle you’re alive, really.”

“Thanks…sorry, I should’ve said that first,” Bastian apologized, realizing the man across from him was likely the reason he was even breathing.

There was a look from the medical professional that he couldn’t quite figure out, as if he was holding back from saying something. Before he could ask anything else, the door opened without any warning.

In the doorway was a tall, silver-bearded man with a build of brawn carefully crafted by decades of training, most likely. It was a familiar figure to the recovering adventure, who immediately had a sour reaction.

“Beowulf,” Spiero said, calling the man’s name, “Good timing. Look who’s awake.”

The words brought the imposing figure to look over to where the bed was, making eye contact with Bastian. Both looked at one another, silent for a few moments.

A couple figures clad in equipment of their own stood behind the man, though didn’t enter the room.

“Bastian, it’s good to see you up,” Beowulf said, not yet approaching the bed.

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Bastian waited a moment before responding, looking down as he didn’t feel like looking at the older man much, “Yeah. I am, Father.”

There wasn’t any softness to the title said by Bastian, instead leaving his lips like a harsh demoter.

As the father and son reunited, the doctor silently walked out of the room, gesturing for the two that followed Beowulf to clear up as well.

Rather than confront that bitterness from his son, Beowulf hoisted the chair in the middle of the room up with one hand as if it was as light as a feather, setting it down beside the bed. An awkward silence filled the room as the older man sat himself down.

“You defeated the tenth floor guardian, didn’t you?” Beowulf asked.

“I…think so,” Bastian answered truthfully, finding it all vague within his blurred memory of the encounter.

“Defeating the tenth guardian alone is a feat only few in this world can do. It’s something only an Invictus would be capable of,” Beowulf remarked, looking straight at his son.

“I don’t know anything about that. All I remember was it was overwhelming–I can’t imagine beating that thing,” Bastian slowly shook his head.

“I see,” Beowulf responded, withholding any further words.

As he looked over at his father through a side glance, he found his gaze fully pulled over as he realized the state of the man wasn’t much better than himself: the leader of Sapphire had bandages covering his right eye, and wrapped tightly around his torso and left arm.

“What happened to you?” Bastian asked, “I don’t know many things in this world that can lay a finger on you.”

Beowulf let out a small exhale as a minuscule laugh, lifting his injured arm up, as he looked at the bandages that tightly bound it, “A small price to pay. The expedition was a success. The thirtieth floor is now open.”

It was a surprising bit of news for the fresh-faced adventurer, “The thirtieth, huh? Guess it wasn’t easy, by the looks of it.”

The silver-bearded man shook his head, “That guardian was unlike anything else we’ve faced. We knew that going in, though. Adventurers know well what dangers Yggdrasil houses.”

“Yeah,” Bastian replied quietly.

As he glanced at his father, there was a look on his face similar to the doctor that tended to him; a hesitant expression as if wanting to say something, but having trouble doing so.

“Bastian, those seals on your arm…” Beowulf began to say.

The young man lifted his forearm, looking at the inscriptions that laid between the bandages, “Yeah. Uncle gave it to me…”Levin.”

“I see,” Beowulf accepted quietly, turning his gaze down.

He looked over at the veteran adventurer, finding there to be a vulnerability he wasn’t used to seeing from his father. In his mind, the image of Beowulf was that of an indomitable, steel wall; cold and few of words, unmoved by emotion.

“What is it?” Bastian asked, confronting his suspicions, “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“You’ve been asleep a long time, Bastian,” the man informed him.

“I have?”

“Over a week,” Beowulf revealed quietly.

That amount of time came as a surprise to the young man, though by the look still worn on his father’s face, it seemed that wasn’t what he was hesitant to speak of.

“Old man,” Bastian said, forcing himself to make eye contact with him, “Spit it out already. I’m not a kid anymore–I’m a grown man. You’re not protecting me by hiding me from the truth. Just say it.”

Even though he said as much, deep down a part of him knew that whatever it was that his father had to say, wasn’t something he was prepared to hear. Perhaps it was the fact that the sturdy bulwark of a man beside him looked vulnerable–a rare sight.

“Duncan is dead.”

As those three words fell from the lips of the bearded man, they rang against Bastian’s ears, echoing through his mind. They didn’t seem real; the words strung together didn’t make any sense to him at that exact moment.

In a trance of disbelief, the fresh scent of the yellow-petaled flowers on the stand beside the bed stuck out to him, clinging itself to this core memory, freshly implanted into his mind. That sweet, earthy scent, meddled with the hellish truth bestowed onto him.

The soft rays of orange light that seeped between the velvet curtains, presenting the bright dawn beyond the room, seemed dim upon his gaze.

“...What?” That was the only word he could muster through his throat, feeling as though a brick wall permeated within the canals of his body, attempting to restrain him from confronting the truth.

Beowulf’s expression scrunched, withholding his own sense of pain from the topic as he repeated himself, “He was found dead the night after we found you on the tenth floor.”

“The sickness–I…” Bastian began to say.

“It wasn’t that,” Beowulf interrupted him.

It was as if a knife was twisted in his heart as his father dissuaded his original idea, looking blankly at the man, “...What? What do you mean? The sickness didn’t kill him? Then…”

“He was killed,” Beowulf informed him through his low tone, a slight quiver of emotion shaking his words.