The night is well underway, the warm, golden glow of lanterns casting soft light across the inn's lower floor. Shadows from the wooden beams and furniture dance lazily over the floorboards, while the crackling hearth fills the room with a cozy, flickering warmth. The air smells faintly of roasted meat, ale, and wood smoke.

The hum of laughter and chatter fills the room as drinks are poured by the bartender, their amber hues glinting under the dim light. It's a lively scene, and yet I can't help but feel like an outsider—still trying to figure out how I ended up here, with this group.

"Yo, Kaito!" Ronan's voice snaps me from my thoughts. He strides up to me with that carefree grin of his, grabbing my arm before I can protest. "You need to loosen up, man. Come on, get a drink! Follow me."

Before I know it, I'm being dragged toward the center of the room, where the rest of the group has gathered. The atmosphere feels alive with camaraderie, even if some of it leans toward chaos.

"Farren!" Ronan calls out as he reaches a nearby table, slapping his friend on the back. "Let's arm wrestle. Loser has to... let's see... has to trigger Althea."

"Hah! You're on," Farren replies, grinning as they both take seats at the table, bracing their elbows and clasping hands in preparation.

Ronan turns to me as I awkwardly settle into a chair nearby, his eyes alight with mischief. "Alright, Kaito, you're up after us. Winner takes on you. Got it?"

"Uh… yeah, sure," I reply hesitantly. My hand instinctively goes to the back of my neck. "But I'm really not strong. I'll probably lose instantly."

"Don't worry about it!" Ronan says with a wide grin. "This is about fun, not winning. Besides, maybe you'll surprise us."

Or embarrass myself. I can't quite tell what his idea of "fun" entails yet.

With that, Ronan turns back to Farren. "Alright, ready?"

The two lock hands, muscles tensing as they lean in. "One… two… three… go!" Their voices ring out in unison, and the table creaks under the pressure as the match begins.

Their hands lock tightly, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh cutting through the lively hum of the room. Ronan grins wide, his teeth flashing, while Farren narrows his eyes, the playful glint in them sharpening into focus.

The moment the countdown ends, Farren surges forward, his arm pressing downward with surprising force. The table creaks under the pressure as his biceps flex, veins bulging against his skin. For a moment, it looks like Ronan might lose outright, his hand hovering dangerously close to the table's surface.

"Giving up already, Ronan?" Farren taunts, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Not a chance," Ronan fires back, teeth clenched but his grin unwavering. His free hand braces against the edge of the table for balance as he fights back, his arm trembling with effort.

Despite the strength Farren exudes, Ronan refuses to go down easily. His hand inches upward, reclaiming lost ground as sweat begins to bead on both their brows. The tension between them is palpable, their competitive energy drawing a small crowd of onlookers.

"Come on, Ronan! You've got this!" Sela cheers, leaning forward with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "Don't let Farren show you up!"

"You call this showing up? I'm just getting started!" Ronan replies, though his voice strains under the effort. His arm shakes visibly, but he digs in, determination flickering in his gaze.

"Keep talking, Ronan," Farren growls, his tone light but his focus unyielding. "It won't stop me from slamming your hand down."

"Yeah, yeah… say that when you actually win!" Ronan shoots back, his grin still annoyingly confident despite the clear struggle.

The match continues, neither giving an inch, the table groaning as their strength collides. The onlookers cheer and jeer, their voices melding into a chaotic chorus of encouragement and teasing.

The match drags on, both men pouring every ounce of strength they have into the contest. Ronan's arm wavers, the strain clear on his face, but he refuses to let go of his grin, as if sheer bravado could carry him to victory.

"You're slipping, Ronan," Farren taunts through gritted teeth, his voice tinged with effort.

"Slipping? Nah, just—just giving you a head start!" Ronan quips, though the tremor in his arm tells a different story.

But Farren doesn't let up. With a final surge of power, his muscles tense, and he slams Ronan's hand down onto the table with a loud thud. The table rattles, and a cheer erupts from the small crowd gathered around them.

"HA! Told you!" Farren declares triumphantly, raising his hands in mock celebration. "Guess you're not as strong as all that talk, huh?"

"Pfft… lucky break," Ronan mutters, shaking out his defeated hand, though his grin remains intact. "Fine, fine, I lost. I'll trigger Althea. But don't come crying to me when she tears me a new one!"

Sela giggles from the side. "Oh, he he, You'd better make it worth the effort, Ronan."

Farren chuckles as he leans back in his chair, looking smug. "And don't forget, Kaito's up next. Let's see if you can handle the champ."

I blink, glancing between them nervously. "Me? Against you? Uh… I think I'll pass—"

"No way, you're in this now!" Ronan cuts me off, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Just think of it as an initiation, rookie."

I sigh, reluctantly taking the seat Ronan vacates, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on me. Farren smirks, cracking his knuckles.

"Don't worry, Kaito," Farren says with a mockingly reassuring tone. "I'll go easy on you."

Judging by his earlier display of strength, I'm not entirely convinced.

Hesitating, I slowly place my elbow on the table in front of me, feeling the weight of everyone's attention. Farren grins confidently as he leans forward, his larger hand gripping mine firmly.

"Alright, here we go," Ronan chimes in, placing his hand on top of ours to keep everything steady. A mischievous glint flickers in his eyes before he adds, "Okay, how about this? The loser has to… ha! Ask Sela what color her underwear is."

"What? Why mine?" Sela pipes up, feigning indignation.

"Because you're the most interesting one here," Ronan shoots back with a wink.

Before Sela can protest further, Ronan pulls his hand away with a loud "Go!"

The match begins, but my hand doesn't even stand a chance. The moment Farren applies the slightest pressure, my arm slams against the table with an almost comical thud. It's over before I can even process what happened.

The small crowd around us erupts into light laughter and scattered applause, cheering for Farren's effortless victory.

"HA! I win!" Farren exclaims, raising his fists in mock triumph. He leans back with a cocky grin, pointing at me. "Good luck with your punishment, bro. Don't worry—I'll try and support you as much as I can."

"Support me?" I mumble, my face already heating up at the mere thought of Ronan's ridiculous dare.

"Hey, a deal's a deal," Ronan says, clapping me on the shoulder. "And don't worry—she probably won't hit you too hard."

Sela crosses her arms, her playful smirk still lingering. "You guys are way too curious about me," she says teasingly, clearly enjoying the situation far more than she's letting on.

"Don't worry, man," Ronan says with a grin, slapping me lightly on the back. His tone is casual, but there's a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "It's only natural you didn't stand a chance. Farren's been working out and fighting way longer than you have, so no pressure, man." He chuckles, raising an eyebrow as he leans in slightly. "Just think, next time you might actually stand a chance after a little training, right?"

I'm not sure if I should feel comforted or scared.

Ronan smirks, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Anyhow, I wish you luck, man. Just remember—you need to see the color with your own eyes, so… yeah." He lets out a small laugh, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "But hey, don't worry about Sela. I'd be more worried about Althea."

His smirk widens, clearly relishing the thought of what might happen if I end up in her sights.

"Come on... What's the worst that could happen?" I mutter to myself. I mean, it should be easier than asking someone like Yumiko for something, right?

"Sela," I call out, trying to sound casual.

"Yes?" she responds softly, her voice sweet and innocent.

"May I... see the color of your—"

Before I can finish, a sharp smack lands at the back of my head, cutting me off mid-sentence. I wince, and it seems like Ronan gets the same treatment as he waits for the scene to unfold.

"Ouch..." I groan, rubbing the spot.

"Ronan, idiot. Why make him do that? Huh?" Althea's voice rings out from behind me, her tone sharp as she locks onto Ronan.

Farren, hearing the commotion, speaks up. "Hey, why'd you hit Kaito? Not cool, Althea."

But before he can continue, Althea shoots him a glare that silences him instantly. The atmosphere around her seems to freeze.

"Sorry, Miss..." Ronan mutters sheepishly, staring at the ground like a guilty child.

Sela, ever the curious one, tilts her head with a confused look. "Hey, Althea? They just wanted to see the color of my... you know, it wasn't anything weird this time... Right?" She continues, still holding her skirt half off her hips, unsure if it's even a big deal, clearly not realizing the potential awkwardness of the situation.

"No, Sela, just don't please." Althea replies to her with a softer tone.

"Ronan…" Orin adds, watching the scene unfold as he takes a sip from his glass of beer. "Do you ever learn, or is this just how you have fun? Anyway, don't drag Kaito into it." He continues, his voice firm but with an attempt at comfort. "Kaito, come on, let's take a seat."

Thank you, Orin… Finally, someone who's saving me from this.

"Yeah, sure, coming," I reply, standing up. I weave my way over to him, leaving the lively group behind.

As I take a seat beside him, Orin slides a glass of red wine toward me. "Figured this might suit your taste better than ale," he says, taking a sip from his own drink, his tone casual yet observant.

"Well… yes, but I… No, never mind, thank you," I reply, taking a sip myself. It's not like I dislike wine… I've grown to like it slightly, though it still feels odd drinking it. However, this? It smells and tastes completely different from the wine Julian always invites me to drink. This one feels… watery and not as flavorful. I suppose the wine I've been drinking has been really expensive. Julian is a refined man, after all, and he probably insists on having only the finest wine he can get his hands on. So, it makes sense.

This one isn't bad, just not that good either… But I'm not about to complain. Orin gave it to me, and for that, I'm grateful.

"Probably not as good as the wine where you come from, but it's the best we've got around here—nothing fancy," Orin remarks, his tone steady and grounded, as if to reassure me.

"Yeah, you're right. But I don't mind. So, you wanted to talk?" I ask, trying to ease into the conversation.

There's something about the atmosphere—the quiet hum of the inn, the warmth of the hearth, and the simplicity of this moment. With the wine in hand, a one-on-one talk, and the cozy surroundings, it feels like I can let my guard down. Not like the formal, polished settings I'm used to, but warm and inviting in a different way.

I feel like I can relax here, let my words flow without overthinking. If I speak as freely as I do with Julian, carefully but honestly, maybe this conversation will come naturally.

"So, what do you think? Think you'll get used to this?" Orin asks, glancing over the lively scene in front of us before turning his gaze to me. I follow his glance, my eyes lingering on the group, the faint hum of their voices filling the space.

The quiet moment carries its own kind of weight, one that I let settle before speaking. Slowly raising the glass of wine to my lips, I respond with measured calmness, "Well, I believe I will… However, how long it'll take for that to happen, who knows. It's a very new environment for me—new people, new land. You get what I mean, right?"

As I speak, I can hear the tone of my own voice—calm, collected, almost too refined. My words flow naturally, not because they're the truest reflection of me, but because they mirror a habit I've built. Over the past month, I've been surrounded by formality and structure, most notably in conversations with Julian. Speaking this way—politely, thoughtfully—has become a second nature for me in settings like this.

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And honestly, it's easier this way. Talking as "myself" often makes me sound uncertain, even weak, especially in unfamiliar company. But when I lean into this more polished demeanor, it feels like I'm able to hold my own. It's not that I'm naturally polite or refined—it's more like a tool I've learned to use. Acting casual might be closer to the "real" me, but that version doesn't always seem to work as well, at least not here.

I take another sip of the wine, letting the warmth of it linger as I glance back at Orin. If he notices the subtle mask I've slipped into, he doesn't show it.

"I see. Makes sense," Orin replies, nodding slightly as he takes another sip of his drink. "Well, don't worry too much about it. We're a welcoming bunch, and trust me, we all have our flaws and quirks. So whatever you think might make you stand out awkwardly? It's probably nothing compared to the rest of us." He smirks, leaning back in his chair.

"Take Farren, for example. The guy's as hot-headed as they come, not exactly the sharpest sword in the armory, and he gets carried away faster than you'd believe. Then there's Ronan—well, I don't think I even need to explain him to you at this point." Orin raises his eyebrows knowingly, his smirk widening. "You've seen enough to know what I mean."

He gestures casually toward the group, his gaze flicking to Sela. "Sela? She's way too innocent for her own good. I mean, she's got a good heart, don't get me wrong, but having someone like Ronan on the same team doesn't exactly help matters. She's like a walking invitation for trouble without even realizing it."

Orin pauses, his expression shifting as he moves to Althea. "And Althea… Well, she's probably the most 'normal' one among us, but her stubbornness? That can be a real pain to deal with. When she's set on something, there's no budging her. Plus…" He lowers his voice slightly, leaning in as if to share a secret, "She can be scary. Trust me on that. You do not want to be on the wrong end of her anger."

He chuckles softly, straightening up again. "And then there's me. What's my flaw? Hmm… I'd say I'm pretty terrible with money. Not the type to save, and definitely not the type to spend it on the smartest things either. Let's just say I could probably use a bit more discipline in that department."

Orin's gaze returns to me, his expression softening. "But that's the thing—none of us are perfect, Kaito. We all have our quirks, and we make it work because, at the end of the day, we've got each other's backs. So, with that said… I hope you come to like our party. Flaws and all."

I had guessed as much… However, his words loosen something in my chest—a tightness I hadn't even realized was there. It's comforting in a way I didn't expect. Orin's demeanor is steady, grounding. There's no doubt he's the leader of this group.

Still, I can't help but wonder… What would it be like if one of the others took charge instead?

"Yeah, I see. Thank you, Orin, for telling me. I'll keep that in mind." His words carried a warmth that settled in my chest, like an ember flickering to life. It was a comforting feeling—one I hadn't realized I'd been missing until now. How long had it been since I felt this? Days? Weeks? It felt like an eternity.

"Good to hear," Orin replied simply, his calm tone ending the moment on a quiet note.

I took the pause he'd given me to reflect, lifting my glass and taking a slow sip. The wine spread a gentle heat through me, but it wasn't just the drink. It was this place—this moment. These people. They weren't just comrades; they were a strange kind of family. Bantering, bickering, yet bound by something that felt unshakable.

"Hey, guys!" Farren's voice broke through, loud and energetic as he stood up, raising his tankard high. "Let's have a drinking contest! Whoever drinks the most wins—simple as that. Ronan, Althea, Sela, you in?"

"Pfft, as if you could ever beat me," Ronan shot back, leaning back in his chair with a cocky grin. He grabbed his tankard and raised it, pointing it at Farren. "You're on, big guy. But just so you know, you'll be calling me 'Champion' by the end of the night."

"Oh, please. The last time you tried, you ended up passed out under the table," Farren quipped, smirking.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up while you can," Ronan retorted, his grin widening. "This time, I'm going the distance."

Sela giggled, already holding her own tankard. "I'm in, but let's be honest—I'll lose. I always do." She smiled cheerfully, the defeat in her tone more playful than serious. "At least I'll get to see Ronan embarrassing himself again. That's worth it."

Ronan raised a brow at her. "Hey, don't count me out just yet. I've been training."

"Training to drink? Impressive dedication," Althea cut in dryly, sipping her drink without even looking their way.

"And you, Althea?" Farren pressed. "You're joining, right? Don't leave us hanging."

"No, thank you," Althea replied firmly, her tone as sharp as ever.

"Oh, come on!" Ronan groaned, throwing his arms up dramatically. "Don't be such a buzzkill. It's just a bit of fun."

"Fun?" Althea arched a brow, finally looking at him. "The last time you called it 'fun,' you ended up puking in Sela's lap."

"Hey, that was one time!" Ronan protested, though his sheepish expression betrayed his confidence.

Sela tilted her head thoughtfully, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "He's got a point, though. Althea, it could be fun this time. Maybe he won't puke this time… maybe."

Althea pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "Fine. Fine. I'll join. But only because Sela asked. And if Ronan pukes again, I'm never doing this with you people again."

"Deal!" Ronan cheered, lifting his tankard. "Let's get started! Farren, you're going down first."

"Keep dreaming," Farren shot back, slamming his tankard onto the table.

I watched the scene unfold, smiling faintly. This was what I meant. The banter, the camaraderie—this group wasn't perfect, far from it, but there was a connection here I couldn't deny.

Looking back at Orin, who seems much more relaxed now, a stark contrast to how he appeared earlier in the day, I can tell these moments are what he truly enjoys. If that's the case, then I think he's spending his money on the right things.

"By the way, Orin. What's the name of your party?"

"Oh, right. I never mentioned it, my bad." He chuckles, taking a long sip from his drink. "Our name is The Erinas. It's rooted in comfort, camaraderie, and bonds. I chose that name for a party that's all about uniqueness, a group that sticks together. I believe journeys are all about bonding with people—facing challenges and enemies as a team."

"I see, it's a great name. I like it. And the meaning behind it... it really shows thoughtfulness, Orin."

"Yes, I believe so too. I'm glad to hear you like it," he replies, his tone relaxed but thoughtful.

With those words, I take a slow breath, sinking back against the wooden surface behind me. The atmosphere wraps around me like a warm embrace, drawing me into its serene rhythm. I swirl the wine gently in my hand, watching the rich crimson liquid trace lazy circles along the edges of the cup. The subtle motion brings the aroma to life, teasing my senses, each swirl a quiet meditation. Around me, the soft hum of the room fills the air—peaceful, inviting, alive. It's all so warm, so utterly welcoming.

This moment feels… unique, like stepping into a dream. But not just any dream—the kind where everything feels vivid, where the world seems sharper, brighter, and more alive than reality itself. Except this is real. It isn't a fleeting mirage; it's my new reality.

Yet, even as I let the warmth settle into me, it stirs questions I can't ignore. What do I really want? Do I want this—this chance, this fresh start with these remarkable people? Or do I long to return to the life I left behind in Luminara?

I want to go back. Back to Yumiko. I want to hear her voice again, feel her fiery energy, see her beautiful face just one last time. Her presence was sharp and commanding, but it made me feel grounded in a way I can't describe. And Umi—I want to sit with her, talk to her, lose myself in a conversation as her charming eyes hold me captive. I want to go back to Seraphina, to thank her for always being there, for making me feel like I had a place where I belonged. Her calm, soothing voice always brought a sense of peace, like everything was going to be okay.

And Julian… I owe him so much. I want to thank him, to truly repay him for everything he did for me—giving me a place to stay, a sense of purpose, and his unwavering support. He was like a second father to me, someone I could lean on, confide in, and, most importantly, unburden my thoughts to.

But now… now I'm here. Somehow, I've been given another chance—a third one, maybe even a miracle. And again, I find myself surrounded by incredible people. This group, these strangers who already feel like more—they're kind, welcoming, and full of life in a way I never expected. Just moments ago, Ronan's laughter echoed across the room, infectious and full of warmth. Even Orin, so calm and composed, manages to make everyone feel like they belong.

So why, despite all this, do I still want to go back? Back to the place I once called home? Am I selfish to even think that? After everything I've been given, after a second and now a third chance at life… is it wrong to want something I've lost?

Maybe it is. Maybe it's selfish. No… maybe it's not just selfish. Maybe it's greed.

But even knowing that, I can't deny what I feel. I want both. I want the comfort and familiarity of the life I had in Luminara, but I also want to see where this new path leads me. The thought twists in my chest like a knot, tight and heavy.

Am I greedy for wanting both? Perhaps. Especially when, by all rights, I shouldn't even be here. I should have been dead long ago, and yet… here I am, alive. Sent to this world for reasons I don't understand, blessed with another chance I probably don't deserve.

Is this what greed feels like? Or is it just being human? I don't know anymore.

Greedy? Yes, maybe I am. But even knowing that, I can't help it.

Slightly shaking off the haze of my thoughts, I try to ground myself in the present moment. The world in front of me feels distant at first, but the sounds and sights of the night slowly reel me back in. The evening seems to be winding down, the atmosphere mellowing as exhaustion and drink take their toll.

"Sela… Y-You're tapping out already, huh…?" Farren slurs, his voice wobbling like his balance, the words almost breaking mid-sentence.

Sela glances at him, her tankard clinking lightly as she sets it down on the table. Her cheeks are flushed red, her eyes glassy and unfocused, like they're gazing into another dimension. "Yeah… I think I—I need to… stop…" she hiccups, her voice a tired mixture of determination and lingering energy.

"Hahaha! The one—hic—who bowed out second! At least…" Farren pauses, struggling to string the words together as he sways slightly. "…At least you didn't come last…" His drunken gaze shifts to Ronan, who's sprawled out on the floor, utterly defeated.

"Hey… hey! You guys… you guys were just… hic… just lucky this time!" Ronan groans, his voice rising as he pushes himself up from the floor. He leans heavily on the table, his hand slamming against its wooden surface for emphasis. "Y'know what I think? I think Sela should just—just forget about her clothes. Yeah!" He declares loudly, gesturing at Sela like he's unveiling a grand battle plan. "You can't even fight properly in them! So, uh, in my—my humblest opinion, Sela, you should just stop wearing them! Right?" He squints at her, nodding with the serious expression of someone solving a major crisis.

"Uhm… I mean…" Sela mutters, blinking at Ronan as she sways slightly. Her hands brush against the edge of her shirt as she considers his drunken logic. "That does sound better, like… maybe it'd be less distracting for me? No? Not for you guys? Then… I guess…" she trails off, gripping the hem of her shirt as if she's about to pull it over her head.

"No… No, I don't think you can do that… Sela, please keep your—hic—manners, okay?" Althea interjects, reaching out to gently take Sela's hands as her shirt begins to lift, barely grazing her chest.

"Ah… Why not…?" Sela slurs, blinking slowly at Althea. Her lips curl into a mischievous pout, her hands still hovering near her shirt's hem. "You don't think I look good without it? Huh? Ahh… But Ronan says I'd look even better without it! He says that all the time… so, like, why not?" Her words tumble out in an exaggerated drawl, laced with tipsy curiosity as she lingers on the idea.

Althea sighs, glancing briefly at Ronan. She looks far too tired to muster even a fraction of her usual sharpness, much less any irritation. Instead, her gaze slides past him like she's resigned to the absurdity of it all. "No, Sela, I never said you wouldn't look good without them… but," Althea says, her tone as patient as it can be, "I just feel like, you know, doing that here, in front of everyone, might not be such a great idea. You get what I mean?"

Sela stares at her blankly for a moment, her drunken brain working sluggishly to piece the words together. Then she shakes her head, her expression confused but still cheerful. "Nope, I don't get it… But I'll listen. I was so ready for that moment though… Maybe some other time?"

"... No, Sela. Not some other time." Althea's voice softens even further, taking on a calming tone as she gently guides Sela's hands away from her shirt. "You should go to bed, alright? You're still young. You need your sleep, okay?"

Sela squints at her, teetering on the edge of drunken defiance but ultimately relenting. "... Okay, fiiine… But only 'cause you're nice about it, Althea," she mutters, her words trailing off as she wobbles unsteadily, finally stepping away from the group.

Stepping away and wobbling slightly, Sela makes her way toward the stairs. "Good night—hic—see ya'll tomorrow," she slurs, half-holding her balance as she slowly ascends the steps. Her movements are unsteady, and she clings to the railing for support before finally disappearing behind the staircase.

"Yeah, good night, Sela," the drunken group replies in a messy, unsynchronized chorus.

"Hey! Ronan! Give me one more! I'll beat this witch!" Farren suddenly shouts, slamming his empty tankard onto the table. He turns to face Althea, eyes wide with a tipsy determination that screams do or die. To him, this is no ordinary drinking contest—it's a duel to the death.

"Huh—? What'd you just call me…?" Althea drawls, her brow arching as she squints at him. Her brain seems to lag a few steps behind, trying to catch up to the words she just heard.

"Huh, I don't know… I think I said witch, maybe," Farren responds, his face blank and clueless, like he's just as lost as her.

"Ah, alright," she replies casually, her tone calm, almost indifferent, as if she's brushing it off. Then her brain finally clicks into gear. "Wait… Witch!?"

"Yeah," Farren says, giving her an exasperated look. "You don't gotta scream it, you know… people could hear you…" His voice drops to a hushed whisper, like he's sharing a grave secret.

"Oh yeah… Forgot. My bad," Althea mutters, her tone suddenly sheepish as if she genuinely feels bad about it.

"Now, the hell, RONAN, pass me one more already!" Farren bellows again, snapping back into his dramatic bravado.

"Huh…? What'd you say?" Ronan mutters, his head propped lazily against the edge of the table, clearly half-asleep or simply too drunk to process the words.

"Pass me one more!"

"More of wha…?" Ronan mumbles, blinking at him in slow confusion.

"Umm… Uh… Ale? Yeah… ALE! Pass me!" Farren shouts, his voice full of drunken certainty as if he just cracked the greatest mystery of the night.

"Oh, right. Yeah, it'll come right up, Sir." Ronan responds, putting a hand in front his forehead, in a gesture like saluting to his leader.

"Good. Be quick." Farren demands, watching Ronan as he gets on his ways… But Ronan seems to have started walking the wrong way, away from the bar, instead he moves towards the stairs. "Hey Ronan, that's the wrong way, man…"

"You know wha… I'll head to sleep as well, guys… I'm getting real tired, so… good night," Ronan mutters, his voice heavy with exhaustion, teetering on the brink of passing out.

"Yeah, sure. Good night, Ronan," Althea replies firmly, her tone steady as she watches him stagger slightly.

"Wha—no, wait! Hold up! Come on, just one more—just one goddamn fucking beer first… please… Ronan," Farren shouts after him, his voice a mix of calm resignation and drunken vulgarity.

Ronan shakes his head lazily, brushing him off. "Nah… Sorry, man. I'm done." He stumbles slightly as he turns to Althea, a faint, dopey smile tugging at his lips. "Hey, yo… Althea, you know what? I might need a little help getting up the stairs… from a beautiful woman like you, Miss… heh…"

Althea narrows her eyes at him, sighing deeply. "Shut—up… and just go to sleep already," she replies, her voice calm but carrying a touch of exasperation.

With Ronan leaving the two still locked in their drinking contest, the night drifts on, their laughter and shouts filling the tavern. Meanwhile, Orin and I remain seated, letting the noise fade into the background as we relax, quietly soaking in the warm, lively atmosphere.

"Hey, Kaito. Are you getting tired?" Orin asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "I just realized—I forgot to set up a room for you. Let me go take care of that, alright?"

"Oh, yeah. Thank you," I reply firmly, rising from my seat. "I'll come with you."

Heading over to the inn's desk, I let my gaze drift across the room. The scene before me carries a strange charm—the two drinkers now resembling fools as they compete for another round, their hands unsteadily raising glasses to their lips. They're teetering on the edge of collapse, yet the determination in their flushed faces keeps them going. Althea's focus surprises me—I didn't think she was the type to enjoy drinking like this. Meanwhile, Farren's hot-headed, somewhat dimwitted nature shines brightly in his drunken fervor, painting the scene with a raw, human warmth.

The hearth crackles softly, its flickering flames casting long shadows that stretch and waver across the worn wooden planks. The floor, faintly humid and slightly cracked, creaks under the slightest weight. The warmth of the fire wraps around me like a familiar embrace, and the mingling hum of conversation and the snapping of logs creates a symphony of comfort. It's a moment that lingers in my chest, gripping my heart in a gentle yet unyielding hold. I can feel the rhythmic pulse within me, hear the quiet thrum of life in my veins—a reminder that, for now, I'm alive, and I'm at peace.

Beyond the window, the night sky unveils its vast, unbroken canvas. The reflections of the flames dance across the glass, trembling as though alive. Yet behind them lies a deeper beauty: the stars. They scatter like diamonds across the velvet expanse, their shimmering light joined by streaks of color that swirl like spilled paint across the heavens—hues of violet, indigo, and faint emerald, ethereal and dreamlike. Among them hangs the moon, a luminous orb tinged with a faint blue hue, casting its glow over the quiet village. Its light spills softly, drinking up the shadows that cling to the night, bathing the world in a hushed serenity.

But even the moonlight isn't invincible. The darkness of the night stretches its fingers, swallowing the pale glow in places, leaving only faint sparkles suspended in the air, like fragments of light struggling to hold their ground. The contrast between light and shadow is mesmerizing, as if the night itself is alive, shifting and breathing. It's a beauty that feels almost otherworldly, a sight that etches itself into the soul—A reminder of how vast, fragile, and beautifully fleeting the world truly is.