Chapter 19:

Chapter 19: Shadows of the Past

Level up to survive

Golden-yellow leaves slowly drifted through the air, carried by a cool autumn breeze. Pale light filtered through the thinning branches above—not warm, but distant, cold, as if the season itself had turned its back on the world. The air smelled of damp soil and fallen leaves.

A twelve-year-old boy stood alone in the middle of an old courtyard, surrounded by a group of boys—no fewer than eleven of them, all about his age. The circle slowly tightened around him, wordless but full of intent.

One of them stepped forward with a smirk.

"You said this would be a one-on-one fight," he said, trying to sound confident despite the tension rising in his chest.

"Yeah. With me," replied the boy across from him, still smirking. "The others are just watching. No one’s going to interfere."

"You sure? You were the one who invited me here. You said we’d settle this one-on-one."

"Of course," the boy said with a pleasant tone, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I’m the one who brought you here."

Then, with a barely noticeable motion, he nodded to someone behind the boy in the center.

Before the last word could even leave his mouth, a sharp blow struck him from behind, right at the knees. The hit came suddenly, from the back—cowardly and precise. He fell to the ground, barely catching himself before his face slammed into the asphalt.

Laughter erupted all around—loud, cruel, feral.

"Hey, what’s the matter? Can’t even stand?" someone jeered.

He jumped up, ripped off his jacket, and charged at the one who had struck him. But he never made it. Three others rushed him from different directions. One grabbed his shoulder, another shoved his chest, and a third kicked him in the stomach. Before he could strike back, he was thrown to the ground.

"Bastards..." he hissed, curling up and shielding his head.

The crowd closed in. Blows rained down from every direction—his ribs, his back, his legs. Someone kicked him in the face. He curled tighter, teeth clenched, trying not to scream. The ground beneath him was cold and damp, and even the taste of it felt dusty and humiliating.

Laughter. Kicks. Taunts.

And then—silence.

They were gone.

He lay there, staring up at the gray sky through a slit between his fingers, his face pressed into the yellow, filthy leaves.

Then, everything around him began to fade. The trees lost their color, the sky grew dim, and the ground beneath him vanished—until only darkness remained.

He opened his eyes.

Slowly, with a heavy breath. Above him stretched a high, pale ceiling. He lay in a large bed in a spacious room. A beautiful chandelier hung above him. Not just one—smaller ones adorned the corners as well. The décor was elegant, though not extravagant. More warm and comfortable than luxurious.

The room was quiet. The air—fresh. The light—soft.

What am I doing here…?

He slowly sat up in bed, struggling to keep his balance. His head was heavy. His thoughts, scattered.

How did I get here…?

He tried to recall. Pain. The forest. The city. The guild. The tavern. Shouting. Blows. He fell. Lost consciousness...

Instinctively, he reached for his face. Carefully, his fingers traced his cheek, nose, lips. Everything was intact. Smooth skin, as if nothing had happened. But inside... there was still a tremble.

He remembered falling.

And then—how the guy had straddled him and started hitting him. Blow after blow. Relentless.

Each strike landed squarely on his face. One. Another. And another. He lost count. He heard something crack. Then again. And again.

Pain. Heavy, sticky, inescapable.

And then—darkness.

Damn it.

Now… he was lying here. In a warm bed. In a bright room.

He closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

I can’t believe it. I fell for the same trap again. Just like back then. I’m thirty years old… and still the same fool.

He lowered his gaze to his palms, then to the bedsheets, and finally to the room around him.

How did I get here...?

Someone saved me. Someone healed me. Otherwise…

The thought trailed off.

At that moment, the door creaked open.

Rhem entered.

"Oh, looks like you’re awake," she said calmly.

He looked at her but said nothing. His heart was pounding—slow and heavy, like after a nightmare. He realized… this was the second time she’d saved his life.

"You probably saved me again," he finally said.

"Yeah," Rhem nodded. "We left the guild, and you were already gone. Why didn’t you wait for us?"

"I thought… you’d already left."

"Well, to be fair, we didn’t say when we’d be out. That’s on us." She stepped closer. "How are you feeling?"

"Not bad," he said quietly. "I think… I’m okay."

He tried to smile. But he couldn’t.

Rhem paused for a moment, then asked:

"What did you do to those guys?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing... Or rather, I didn’t have time to do anything," he replied gloomily.

Rhem sighed.

"When Sherial and I found you… we couldn’t even recognize your face," she said, her voice dropping. "It looked like they weren’t just robbing you. Like… like you were their sworn enemy."

She stared at him closely, searching for some kind of answer.

"It’s hard to believe someone would beat a person that badly just to steal from them."

"I’m so weak…" Alisar whispered suddenly.

Rhem turned to him, surprised.

"What?"

He took a deep breath, as if holding something back.

"I’m level sixty-four right now." His voice trembled, tinged with restrained bitterness. "Yeah, they hit me from behind. Sure, it was a cheap shot. But then… that guy beat me like I was nothing. Like a ragdoll. Helpless. Worthless."

He went silent for a moment, clenching his fists.

"Every hit landed right in my brain. I could hear the bones in my face breaking. One after another. And I couldn’t do anything. No reaction. No resistance. Just… lying there."

He looked up.

"I’m that weak… Sixty-four levels—meaningless."

The words were quiet, but heavy—torn from deep inside.

"Do you really not know anything?" Rhem asked softly.

Alisar didn’t answer. He just looked at her. Long and silently. His gaze was heavy—not because he was hiding something, but because he didn’t know what to say.

Rhem sighed, got up, and grabbed a chair by the wall. She brought it closer and sat down, facing him.

"I think… I saw the ones who beat you. There were three of them, right?"

"Probably," Alisar said uncertainly. "I heard three different voices. Faces… I lost consciousness too quickly to see them clearly."

"Do you remember who actually hit you?"

He frowned, thinking. A figure surfaced in his mind—the guy who’d lured him out of the tavern.

"He was about my height. Muscular. More than me. Confident." He clenched his fists. "Yeah… it was him."

Rhem nodded.

"There was someone like that. The others were scrawnier. They followed him."

She hesitated, then added:

"He was only level fifty-one."

Alisar stared at her, stunned.

"What…?" he turned sharply, eyes wide.

"The higher the level, the stronger you are. Sure," Rhem said. "But there’s more to it. Like… your starting stats."

She paused, meeting his eyes.

"You’re probably just a village boy. Worked in the fields? No training, no background?"

He nodded.

"Yeah. That’s right."

"Then it makes sense. Your base physical stats were lower than anyone who’s even done basic combat training. It matters. Not everything—but it does matter."

She paused briefly, then asked:

"Where did you spend your free attribute points?"

"I needed more mana. For potions," Alisar said. "So I put everything into magic and mana."

"That explains it," Rhem said. "That guy probably poured everything into strength. His blows hit so hard not just because of his level, but because of how he built himself. He’s a fighter. You’re not."

She softened her tone.

"Have you ever been in a fight?"

Alisar shrugged.

"Well… in childhood. Here and there. Like everyone."

"Doesn’t count," Rhem said flatly. "Unless you trained in something. Martial arts? Hand-to-hand combat?"

"No," he shook his head. "No training at all."

"Exactly," she sighed. "Kid fights don’t count. You have no combat skills. No real fighting experience. No training, no reflexes. That’s why they beat you so easily."

"Maybe… I did everything wrong," Alisar murmured. "What kind of fool puts all his points into mana? I should’ve focused on strength, defense…"

"Are you stupid?" Rhem cut in—not with anger, but genuine disbelief.

He looked up.

"You did everything right," she said firmly. "You wanted more mana—and you got it. That was your choice. Don’t imitate others. Don’t chase someone else’s path."

She leaned in slightly.

"If you want to be a melee fighter—sure, raise strength, defense, speed. That makes sense. But you’re not a frontliner. You have unique abilities that work differently. If you try to fight like a swordsman, you’ll just waste everything that makes you special."

She paused, then added:

"Use the potential of your skills for your own benefit. Don’t try to be someone else. Be yourself."

Alisar listened silently.

She’s right…

He lowered his gaze again.

I never wanted to be a frontliner. Never wanted to throw myself into danger. I just wanted a safe, quiet life…
And if my skills give me that chance—I need to use them right.

"Well, it’s already late," Rhem said, rising from the chair. "You need rest. You’re probably hungry. I’ll tell someone to bring you food."

She walked toward the door.

"Rhem…" he called.

She stopped and turned.

"What?"

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Thank you for saving my life."

Rhem smiled faintly.

"Don’t mention it." She turned to leave, then looked back. "And hey… don’t think it was free."

He raised an eyebrow.

"One day, you’ll repay this debt," she continued. "When the time comes, I’ll ask for your help."

Alisar nodded seriously.

"I’ll do everything I can."