As Icariel fell at breakneck speed, the voice in his mind issued a single command:
"Raise your legs to your head and your hands too—protect your head at all costs. You're flexible enough to do it."
"Damn it," he muttered as the wind howled like a feral god around him. He obeyed without hesitation, contorting his body midair, a tear lifting from the edge of his eye, snatched away by gravity's roar.
"Please, God… I really wish to live."
BAMM.
The impact didn't just hit—it shattered him.
Ice-cold water detonated against his skin like glass daggers, each droplet a tiny blade. His lungs seized, clamping shut against the deluge, refusing to breathe. It felt as if his bones had cracked from the marrow outward. The world turned silent, distant—and then bled into blue.
He sank deeper.
The crushing weight of the river wrapped around his chest like an iron vise. Blood and river silt mingled on his tongue. A darkness thick with salt and pressure pressed against his skull.
A door.
Ancient and gray, embedded in the riverbed stone.
It stood like an accusation—etched with flames and chains, carved so intricately it felt alive. A warning. A curse.
Then his eyes rolled back.
Darkness.
Morning rose like a mockery over the lifeless remnants of Mjull Village.
Once a place of soft fires and gentler voices, it now reeked of ash and unburied dead. Blackened timber jutted like charred bones. What remained of the village whispered in smoke.
Elektra sat in a wooden chair, positioned exactly where Icariel had once been tied. Her expression was blank, her fingers drumming the armrest.
Her face was void. Fingers drummed the splintered armrest, metronome to the dead silence around her.
A figure stepped from the shadow—a man wreathed in dark, his form consumed by it. No face, no features. Only a grin—slow and cruel—hinted at his presence.
"You took your time," Elektra said. A smirk curled her lips like a blade. "I was close to killing you just to pass the time."
The man folded his arms, head tilting slightly. "Yeah? Someone doesn't look thrilled about killing Galien and completing her mission."
The wind answered for her first—low and dry, carrying the stench of charred blood.
She shrugged. Her eyes narrowed. "A brat got in my way. Annoying little rat. But he's gone now."
The man chuckled low. "Must've been a special rat."
"Nah." Her tone curdled with disgust. "Just stubborn. Let's stop talking and finish this."
"Gladly."
Meanwhile…
He woke gasping on a bed of scratchy wool. The scent of herbs and damp wood jammed into his nostrils. Each breath burned, as if needles stitched along his ribs. The ceiling above was crooked and sagging, its beams warped by time.
"Did I… survive?" he whispered, unsure if the words escaped his mouth or merely echoed in his skull.
"Yes, you did."
He thought it was the voice—until he turned.
A short, long-bearded man with barely any hair sat beside him, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded with judgment.
"AHH—what the hell?!" Icariel flinched, jerked upright, pain flaring like firecrackers in his chest.
"You damn brat!" the man barked, delivering a light punch to Icariel's head. "That's how you greet the man who dragged your half-dead body out of the river?!"
"Huh?! For real?" Icariel raised his arms in reflex.
"For real," the man snorted. "I heard a splash last night. Went out to check. Found you surfacing like a bloated corpse—unconscious, barely breathing. So I pulled you in."
Icariel's instincts recoiled, but even the voice whispered, faint and cold:
"He's telling the truth."
His eyes softened. "Thank you… for not letting me die."
The man blinked, surprised. Then smiled. "At least you're not an ungrateful brat. Hah! Don't thank me—thank my granddaughter too. She helped plenty."
The door creaked.
A girl stepped in.
Short, crimson-red hair caught the firelight like falling leaves. Her eyes, deep and dark, studied him with quiet concern.
"Hello. I hope you're better now. You really made Grandpa worry," she said, voice soft.
"Thanks, I'm—"
"Who was worried about a rude kid who calls his savior a monster?!" the old man growled.
Icariel rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry, but you really looked like one..."
The old man turned beet red. "How'd I let you live?!"
Fronta giggled and grabbed his arm. "He was joking, Grandpa. Let it go."
Later, Icariel asked, "How?"
"How what?" the old man replied.
"I never saw a house near the village. I know every cliff of that mountain. No one ever lived nearby. Where are we?"
The old man grinned. "Boy, you're not on the mountain anymore."
"That's right," Fronta added, stepping beside him. "Our house is at the river's base—Zogonio River. Its source is on your mountain, but it flows all the way down here."
The name coiled like a snake around his spine.
"…What?"
He'd avoided Zogonio his whole life—not by choice, but by instinct. Chief Helos's stories. Old legends of something sealed within its depths. Something even beasts refused to approach.
"Why do you ask?" Fronta said.
"Because... that's where I came from. I jumped into that river. From the mountain."
Their faces froze.
"You're from Mjull?" the old man barked. "And you survived that fall?! You expect me to believe that?"
"I'm not lying! I don't know how I lived—I just… did."
Even he couldn't explain it.
"Voice… how did I survive?"
The voice answered, thin and drained: "Luck."
Icariel frowned. That didn't sit right.
But even as the word echoed, something deeper shifted—like a lock turning in a drowned tomb. Heat. Stone. Chains.
He shivered, casting the thought away.
"Luck?! What kind of—" But the voice had fallen silent.
The old man sighed. "Maybe you hit your head harder than we thought. Let's eat. You need to recover."
"Fronta, get the boy some food."
"On it!" she replied.
The old man's tone softened. "What's your name, boy?"
"Icariel."
"And who do I owe my thanks to?"
"Steelhearted Groon," the man answered proudly.
Days blurred.
Pain dulled into aches. Ribs slowly knit beneath tight wrappings. The meals were strange but warm. The nights cold, but safe.
Icariel labored.
He hauled water buckets when Fronta's arms failed. Chopped firewood until calluses bloomed again. Fixed sagging roofs. Hunted game with trembling fingers. Groon had protested at first ("Still healing, idiot brat!"), but Icariel had insisted.
In Mjull, there was one law: Earn your food.
And now, every task was a silent thank you—one he didn't know how to say aloud.
Some nights, he sat by the river, staring into its shifting silver. His hands, rougher than ever, traced the edges of fresh scars. When the wind paused just right, something stirred beneath the current.
A tug in his gut. A flash of stone—etched with chains and flame.
He didn't know what it meant. Maybe he didn't want to.
"The pond where I fell..."
"Groon and Fronta… they're great people. The best I could have found in that moment. It's the first time I've truly understood—I've left my small, safe place. My village. This is the first time I've stepped outside that mountain."
Fronta was soon leaving for the city to study. Groon had invited Icariel to stay with him while she was away. With nowhere else to go, it was his best option.
"I still don't understand how I survived, but I'm beyond grateful. The voice had gone almost completely silent. Ever since that fall, it had retreated—like it was watching from far away, or… hiding."
"I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was recovering. Either way, I was on my own now. And I wasn't sure I liked that."
A breeze stirred the grass beside him. Icariel watched the river swirl as thoughts drifted in.
"My sensitivity to mana has deepened", he realized. When calm—truly still—he could see more than ever before.
Not just the direction of the flow or its presence in the air, but color. Intent.
Galien's mana, before his death, had turned red—volatile. Elektra's had been darker, controlled. Lethal.
He exhaled. A leaf spiraled from a nearby branch and touched the water's surface, vanishing in the current.
"There's more to this. I'm sure of it."
"Crimson Bears never used mana directly, or maybe I just didn't see it. I've only seen two colors so far. Still, it's progress."
"Two weeks… Galien, Fin, Irela, and the others…They were good people. Chief Helos too. He blamed me—but deep down, he was just afraid."
"I'm sorry. I didn't avenge you. I probably never will. I'm too busy keeping myself alive. I can't lie and say I'm someone who lives for others. I live to live. That's all I've ever done."
"Sorry I couldn't let go of my need to survive, even when others needed me to fight."
A hollow ache pressed against his chest. Yet, his choice never changed—survival.
"Icariel! The food is ready!" Fronta's voice rang out.
"I'm coming," he said, standing up. "At least for now… things are quiet."
BOOM.
The earth itself trembled.
[End of Chapter 7]