The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, as Arin stood in front of his small home—no longer the frail boy who once limped back with wounds and scraps. His eyes carried a deep calm, but a fire flickered underneath, quiet and fierce. The wind rustled through the leaves, whispering tales of what had been and what was yet to come.
Inside, his mother moved gently around the kitchen, preparing a meal that smelled of roasted roots and herbs—simple but made with love. His father sat on a worn chair, the same one that creaked every time Arin sat on his lap as a child. Now, his father simply looked at him, eyes glistening with unsaid pride.
"You're leaving tomorrow," his father said, breaking the silence. His voice, rough like gravel, carried a tremor.
Arin nodded. "Yes."
His mother came over, wiping her hands on her apron, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. "You've done more for us than we could've ever asked, Arin… you brought life back into this house." She smiled, though her eyes watered. "But this next path… it's yours. Walk it as only you can."
They all sat for dinner, and for a while, the conversation was warm and ordinary—talk of markets, old neighbors, and hunting stories. But there was a stillness underneath, the kind that only came before a big storm.
After dinner, Arin excused himself and walked out, heading towards the edge of the village where a hill overlooked the valley below. It was the very spot he'd collapsed on after escaping the Redhorn Rabbit. He could still recall the blood in his mouth, the terror in his veins, and the burning desperation to survive.
He sat on a rock, staring out as darkness folded the landscape into quiet silhouettes.
"This is where it all began," he thought.
He closed his eyes, letting the breeze wash over him, carrying memories like loose leaves. He remembered the black lightning, the snake meat, the deer, and the people who mocked and doubted him. And then he thought of the old man, the books, and that one perfect slash that cut through an A-ranked beast like paper.
A small smile curled his lips.
"I will join the Magic Academy… and create the strongest core," he whispered.
As the stars emerged one by one, Arin lay on his back and stared at the sky. His thoughts turned inward. He visualized his body, as he had done countless times during meditation. He imagined the pathways, the channels, the flow of energy just waiting to be carved and claimed. He could almost see it—his future self, standing on peaks others feared to climb.
And yet… he wasn't arrogant. He knew pain would come, and failure. But he also knew that nothing could break him anymore. Not the weight of poverty, nor the shadow of death.
His eyes flickered open.
"I'm ready," he said to the stars.
Tomorrow, the exam would begin. The gates of Dorothrel Magic Academy would stand tall and proud, ready to welcome the best of the best.
And he would walk through them—not as a genius, nor a noble, but as Arin. A boy who had bled, fought, learned, and refused to kneel.
He got up, gave the valley one last look, and began walking back home.
The night air was cool, but his blood was warm.
Tomorrow… the real story would begin.