The moment Tsumiya approached the worn wooden door, the cabin's darkness seemed to swallow the already faint candlelight within. His hand, which until recently had gripped the broom with an almost religious fervor, rose with deliberate slowness, pausing just before touching the cold, splintered surface of the frame. A subtle, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his fingers before he managed to rest them on the iron handle, polished smooth by countless hands over the years. It wasn't fear, nor even uncertainty, that caused this slight tremor; it was the bubbling effervescence of anticipation, the same a seasoned gamer felt before venturing into a new dungeon, engrossed by the promise of legendary loot or the thrill of a critical quest.
His mind, always seeking patterns and game logic, had already charted the strategy. He had arrived in this new world two days ago, had been unconscious for several hours, and had awoken to the promise, whispered by the emerald "marble" and confirmed by his own protagonist's ego, of a grand destiny. And grand destinies, he thought, are built by starting with the most basic missions. He, Tsumiya Higeri, wanted—no, needed—to achieve a harmonious relationship with the villagers. And what better starting point, what better public relations tutorial, than a heroic intervention for some children who, at this precise moment, seemed defenselessly lost in the night? The answer was obvious, as clear as a shining arrow pointing to the next objective on a virtual HUD. This was the mission. His mission. A perfect opportunity to cement his legend, an irresistible bait for his avarice for recognition.
Tsumiya: [—So, I have to help the children; it's a pretty simple mission.]
He told himself in a low voice, almost a murmur that was lost in the cabin's dense silence. With each word, confidence returned, not like a gentle dawn, but like an electric shock, reaffirming his role. They were just children. A few of them. Lost, perhaps scared. The image that came to his mind was that of small, secondary characters in need of rescue, the classic archetype that elevates the protagonist's status.
But the truth, the uncomfortable truth his "old world self" could barely ignore, was that he wasn't precisely the type of person who was best at helping others. In Japan, in his monotonous existence, charity had been a luxury his meager bank account couldn't afford, especially when those 25% end-of-year gacha game promotions came out. And as for motivating others, his own chronic insecurity, that constant self-critical voice, had always kept him on the sidelines, observing life from a distance, without the audacity to interfere, nor the conviction to lead.
(«They are just NPCs.»)
The thought slid into his mind, quick and efficient, like a console command executing with unexpected fluidity. It was a label, a mental filter that offered him a comfortable distance. And instantly, a wave of cold, almost clinical and detached confidence enveloped him. It wasn't the warmth of empathy, but the calculation of efficiency. If thinking of others as mere "non-playable characters" provided him with the emotional barrier needed to circumvent his own social anxieties, to speak with the kind of people he would never have crossed paths with before, then so be it. The justification, twisted but functional, settled in his head with the unbreakable logic of a well-balanced game, where every mechanic, however questionable its ethics, served a greater purpose: the protagonist's success.
With that new understanding, with that psychological armor forged in self-justification, Tsumiya opened the door. A gentle movement of his hand, a slight creak of hinges yielding. A smile, barely perceptible, tinged with studied superiority and the promise of glory yet to be reaped, formed on his lips. This was his stage. And the "NPCs" were about to meet the hero they had been promised. Or at least, the one he had promised himself to be.
(«It has to be this way, doesn't it?»)
The question echoed in Tsumiya's mind, an echo of the self-affirmation he so desperately craved. He was about to embark on his first "heroic mission," to dazzle these "NPCs" with his presence, to solidify his legend in this new world. His chest swelled a little more with each millimeter he advanced, a mix of naive pride and the anticipation of an intangible reward. His posture, as he opened the door, was that of a triumphant hero, ready for an ovation.
But just as Tsumiya leaned halfway out of the threshold of the worn cabin, his silhouette cast against the starry mantle, a blurred movement caught the corner of his eye. Too late. A stone, launched with the determination of an invisible sling, whizzed from the children's position. It followed a cruelly precise parabolic trajectory, tearing through the air with a brief, sharp hiss that broke the night's stillness. A tiny sound, almost insignificant in the vastness of the outdoors, but laden with a strange pressure, as if the projectile itself contained a small portion of accumulated fury. Tsumiya, immersed in his daydream of imminent heroism, his mind already drafting the dialogues of his grand entrance, was irremediably distracted. He would never have anticipated a direct attack, much less a flying projectile, and even less from his supposed "beneficiaries." His video game logic had not accounted for "NPCs" as initial aggressors.
—And there it went...
A dry, forceful impact resonated against his exposed arm. The tracksuit, that annoying red and white hoodie he had relegated to a pile on the cabin floor, wasn't there to offer any protection. The stone, upon colliding with Tsumiya's skin, didn't just stop; it exploded. A small explosion, more a concentrated pop of energy than a true bang, released a dense, acrid puff of smoke that quickly dissipated into the chilly night air. The blow was accurate, a direct and unmitigated aggression on Tsumiya's unprotected flesh. The shot had been calculated, painfully precise. Tsumiya's analytical mind, even amidst the pain and surprise, was already calculating potential damages with the coldness of a first-aid manual: "second-degree burn, at a minimum."
The stone in question, an elemental pebble with the intrinsic ability to release a small fiery discharge upon impact, was not an ancient relic that would surprise the scholars of the Astelford Kingdom nor make collectors tremble. In fact, it was a relatively common item, cataloged by the Merchant's Guild with a regular cost in the low-level magical item market. However, its presence in the Hyulkran Forest, a region without active volcanoes or large concentrations of igneous mana, made it anomalous. A detail that, in any other circumstance, Tsumiya would have cataloged with interest as an unusual "drop" from an enemy or an environmental mystery.
But now, the pain. A sharp, stinging burn that began to spread from the point of impact on his arm. The burn, so severe that in a normal person it would have caused immediate blistering, violent redness, and considerable tissue damage, felt... strangely contained. It was as if an invisible hand, or an immaterial appendage rooted to his avaricious soul, was curbing its advance, mitigating the virulence of the fire. The skin wasn't disintegrating in a painful instant; the pain wasn't as incapacitating, as searingly acute as a burn of that caliber should have been. It was a dull, deep ache, feeling attenuated, muffled by something he couldn't comprehend. Something, some internal force activating without his conscious knowledge, was intervening. And that "something" was neither a magical potion he would have had time to drink, nor an enchantment Tsumiya knew or could have cast. It was an unexpected lifeline, a margin of error granted by a force he was only beginning to understand, a strange resilience that didn't fit his new, vulnerable reality. The promise of his "cheat skill," still veiled and mysterious, manifested in a cryptic way, saving him from the utter dishonor of a childish attack.
Tsumiya: [—What happened?]
The question escaped Tsumiya's lips like a wisp of smoke, a hoarse whisper laden with a subtle sense of exhaustion that permeated every fiber of his being. A harsh, dry cough seized his chest, caused by the dense smoke that still stung his throat, slowly dispersing into the night air after the stone's small explosion. His arm, the one that had received the impact, now showed an unsightly purplish bruise at the point of impact, a hematoma that was already beginning to turn dark purple. The skin around it, a reddish, scorched circle, bore witness to the burn. He felt a deep, constant pain spreading through the tissue, but strangely, it was a contained pain, as if an invisible barrier prevented it from escalating to total agony. The feeling of exhaustion, however, became more and more evident, draining his energy as the sharp pang in his wound grew duller, more manageable.
(«Was it them?»)
Tsumiya's thought was direct, sharp. A pang of indignation mixed with his confusion. He couldn't understand why he should receive this kind of gratuitous aggression, especially from a group of what, to all appearances, were children. The image of a protagonist besieged by small vandals didn't fit his mental manual of the "perfect isekai." He was Tsumiya Higeri, the protagonist. These types of events, these narrative inconsistencies, were simply not supposed to happen in his story. He didn't like it, at all, for others to see him in such a confused state, or worse, to attack him.
With a subtle movement of his uninjured hand, Tsumiya tried to disperse the residual smoke that made him feel strangely dizzy, as if the world were tilting a couple of degrees more than usual. But as he did so, an unusual, almost pleasant sensation coursed through him. It was a subtle, comforting warmth, emanating from deep within his being, a familiar yet wild warmth, as if he were feeling the soft fur of a lion, a powerful and majestic beast. Or even better, an astral connection, a distant and glorious echo traveling from the distant star "Denebola," the bright tip of the celestial lion's tail, to the shining "Regulus," the very heart of the Leo constellation. It was the "Cauda Leonis" whispering to him, reminding him of his connection. A strange sense of confusion and awe began to bubble in Tsumiya's mind as he looked up, his eyes squinted, searching for his aggressors.
There they were, leaning nervously against the thick trunk of a nearby tree, their tiny silhouettes barely visible in the gloom. They were three children, none appearing to be older than twelve, probably all the same age. Their tense bodies and expressions, now that the smoke was dissipating, were a mix of astonishment and poorly disguised panic. Clearly, they had expected a different reaction. One of them, the tallest, clutched a rustic wooden sword with almost comical determination, his knuckles white. Another, smaller and thinner, held a piece of old, rolled-up paper—a scroll, perhaps? Tsumiya didn't know exactly, but the image of these small "NPCs" armed with toys and everyday objects, and with faces of pure surprise, only deepened his bewilderment. They seemed confused, not by his presence, but by his lack of a "monstrous" reaction.
Suddenly, while Tsumiya was still quite confused and his body plunged into a growing drowsiness, a viscous lethargy that threatened to drag him into semi-consciousness, he blinked several times, trying to clear the haze from his brain. His arm, where the contained pain and fatigue were fighting a silent battle, throbbed with a dull insistence. His protagonist persona, his "heroic self" that calculated strategies and epic dialogues, stopped dead. An abrupt break in the internal narrative of his isekai, caused by the sudden intervention of one of those aggressors. Or rather, one of those children who looked at him from the shadows, their small faces reflecting an undeniable mix of disbelief, astonishment, and, most surprisingly, incipient remorse.
One of those children, the smallest of the trio, detached himself from the tree as if unstuck by force, and approached Tsumiya with hesitant steps, stopping a few meters away. His hair, a light brown that turned honey-colored under the moonlight, framed bright green eyes that widened with each blink. He was the shortest of the three, and his small body trembled slightly, a barely perceptible shiver that made him look strangely endearing. This was an uncomfortable contradiction, as, in Tsumiya's mind, this child was the mastermind behind the "fire stone" attack, the intellectual aggressor of his first burn in this new world.
The child, with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed, looked up for an instant, his green eyes pleading for forgiveness before returning to stare at the ground. His voice came out in a barely audible whisper, which the night wind almost carried away.
???: [—S-sorry, please, sir, I truly am sorry. I... I thought you were the cabin monster. A-and when you came out so suddenly, with that face... I got too scared and... and I couldn't help it. I had to throw... the stone.]
The little one concluded, his voice almost inaudible at the end, as he made quick, nervous bows with his body. They were short, repetitive bows, like an automaton apologizing endlessly. To Tsumiya, they felt strangely familiar, almost an echo of his forgotten past. The classic Japanese bow, a gesture of contrition and respect that he himself had performed countless times, almost by instinct, in his previous life. Since his arrival in this world, he had executed it before three people: Lyson, the village elder who had healed him; Varzgax, the imposing adventurer who rescued him from sunstroke; and Matthew, the other adventurer, with his relaxed and carefree aura.
The first two, Lyson and Varzgax, had reacted with subtle astonishment at the formality and depth of his bow, as if they had recalled distant times or a nearly forgotten custom. Matthew, for his part, had paid it no mind, an indolent shrug, as if such gestures were irrelevant to someone as relaxed as him. But to see it now, replicated by a child from this world, an involuntary attacker, was a strange pang. It was a reminder of a protocol, of a culture, of a life he was supposed to have left behind, an unexpected thread connecting his "self" from Japan to this new fantasy setting.
(«I know.»)
The thought was direct, almost a flash, for Tsumiya. An icy understanding that cleared some of the haze from his mind. He remembered the detail the child had blurted out with his apology: "with that face." The image projected from the cabin's shadow, with the moonlight outlining his features, must have been... intimidating. His short, somewhat messy hair, his still drowsy and confused expression, and yes, his "grumpy face," a trait that, for better or worse, he had inherited directly from his father and that had earned him more than one misunderstanding in his previous life. It had always given him the air of a delinquent or tough guy that wasn't usually well-received. In this new world, however, the interpretation had escalated: to these children, he was the "cabin monster," a being with an ugly face, short hair, and a threatening gaze.
(«I knew it, anyway»), he thought with bitter self-irony. He cautiously stroked his injured arm. The bruise, now more visible, spread over the reddened skin from the heat. The "monster" the child had mistaken Tsumiya for was probably not so different from him.
Tsumiya: [—Don't worry... I'll go visit Lord Lyson to get this wound healed... After all, I'm a big, strong guy.]
He tried to force a smile, a grimace that felt more like a painful spasm on his own face. He slumped heavily onto the cold, damp grass, seeking a breather, not just from the physical pain, but from the flood of irony in the situation. He forced himself not to get angry. They were just children. Children who had mistaken him for... well, for the "monster," that feared figure who, according to the nervous child's babbling, was surprisingly similar to Tsumiya from his childish perspective.
The pain was searing, constant, but strangely warm, as if he had plunged his entire arm into a cup of warm coffee, or spring water heated by the sun, instead of a fire that should burn and lacerate. The appearance of his arm was undeniably reddish, a subtle burn on the epidermis, a promise of future blisters if left untreated. The purplish bruise was at the exact point where the stone had impacted before its small explosion. But despite the proximity, despite the palpable evidence of the damage, it could still pass for an uninjured arm from a distance, a visual trick his mind was already registering. The ^Second Law^ or whatever was happening to him, was mitigating the effect, turning a serious injury into a painful, but not incapacitating, nuisance.
As Tsumiya assessed his own wounds and the surreal interaction, the brown-haired child, who had indirectly identified himself as the aggressor, continued his anxious bows, head bowed and voice trembling with supplication.
???: [—Please, sir, I apologize a thousand times, don't tell my mother about what happened, or she might punish me, and I don't want to be punished...]
—I was just playing with my friends: Julian and Jorgen.
His words were a cascade of childish fear, the threat of maternal punishment overshadowing even the guilt of having injured a stranger. The fear of parental authority was a universal fear, more potent than any imaginary monster.
While the child awaited Tsumiya's reaction, eyes still fixed on the ground, his two companions and friends, who had remained in the background, decided to approach. The white-haired child, Jorgen, moved with a mix of curiosity and still undissipated arrogance, though his shoulders were slightly slumped, revealing a hint of discomfort. His eyes darted towards Tsumiya's arm, but quickly avoided direct eye contact, as if fearing what he might see. The other, the black-haired Julian, approached with more marked caution, his dark eyes, usually so calculating, now showed palpable concern, but he didn't look directly at the wound on Tsumiya's arm. It was almost as if he knew exactly what a burn of that nature would look like, the scar it would leave, without needing to see it. His expression, tense and slightly pale under the moonlight, suggested a tacit understanding of the incident's seriousness, despite the mitigation Tsumiya was experiencing.
Jorgen: [—I... We truly are sorry for what just happened... If this eases the situation, please let it be so.]
The white-haired boy, Jorgen, uttered his words with an unusual stutter, his voice, which had previously brimmed with bravado, now sounded muffled and almost forced. As he offered the apology, his hand, which until then had gripped the rustic wooden sword with unwavering conviction, loosened its hold. It wasn't an impulsive act, but a calculated decision. In Jorgen's mind, a natural leader and budding strategist, that forced "apology" and the gesture accompanying it were a form of bribery, a symbolic offering to appease the aggrieved party for their actions. Jorgen was by no means foolish; his ego and ambition were vast, but his survival instinct was even greater. He was the leader behind the expedition against the "monster," and obviously, he had to safeguard his own well-being to avoid being harmed. It was a selfish thought on his part, yes, but perfectly logical from his childish perspective: if Archimedes, the executor of the attack, escaped without reproach, why should he, the leader, be the one to face the consequences? Punishment was for subordinates, not for the general.
With a soft, almost imperceptible clatter of wood against wood, the wooden sword slipped from his fingers. It fell to the ground without a clang, subtly marking its molded figure on the damp grass and soft earth. It wasn't just a discarded toy; it was a symbol of surrender, a subtle offering to the person who had been harmed. For Jorgen, that wooden sword was not merely a carved branch. It was an extension of his being, an invaluable tool that allowed him to train, simulate epic battles, and forge the character of the knight he so longed to become in the future. A knight who would eventually migrate to the capital, a place where everything was different from the small, familiar village where he had grown up his entire life, a place of grand towers and true heroes. Parting with it, even temporarily, was a significant sacrifice, a tacit acknowledgment of the seriousness of the situation, or at least, of the need to avoid a much worse consequence.
Tsumiya: [———?]
A silence stretched between them, dense and expectant. Tsumiya, with his arm throbbing and his mind still processing the bizarre chain of events, saw himself reflected in the frightened eyes of the children, in Jorgen's gesture of surrender.
(«What the hell am I doing, putting these little subjects in such an awkward situation?»)
The thought crossed his mind, not with the coldness of calculation, but with a pang of something akin to empathy. Even he, the great Tsumiya Higeri, protagonist of his own isekai, would feel overwhelmed if he were in a similar situation, asking forgiveness from a stranger he had just attacked. It was just a minor injury, after all, he thought, observing the reddish hue of his skin and the faint bruise. It would heal tomorrow, if he was lucky enough to find some free time amidst his impending exploits.
But a hero, a true symbol of justice and empathy, could not allow the situation to become tenser or more uncomfortable than necessary for either side. That's how it was supposed to be. He, Tsumiya Higeri, was no tyrant, no vengeful dark lord. The image of the three small figures, trembling and offering a wooden sword as a tribute, stirred something in his chest—something that wasn't avarice, but a strange sense of duty. He even felt that accepting their apologies, or allowing them to apologize, was unnecessary, an indignity for those "brave little warriors."
Tsumiya: [—It's not necessary, really... I'm already fine, in perfect condition, if I'm honest with you, brave heroes.]
The words flowed from his lips with a tone he hadn't possessed moments ago, optimistic, resonant, almost melodious. With renewed strength, he rose from the ground with surprising agility, his figure lengthening in the gloom. He performed a series of basic stretches, moving his shoulders, extending his arms, even the injured one, with a ease that belied the pain he still felt. The children watched him with wide eyes, their small jaws slightly agape. The change was so abrupt, so complete, that it was as if an actor had transitioned from a supporting role to embodying the main hero in the middle of a play. The tired, dizzy man had vanished, replaced by someone who seemed entirely unconcerned with what had happened earlier.
And then, with a fluid and dramatic gesture, Tsumiya bent down. He picked up the wooden sword Jorgen had dropped, not with the cautiousness of a foreign object, but with the familiarity of a tool. He stood up again, his posture transforming. He raised the wooden sword, pointing its rustic tip towards the firmament, where millions of stars twinkled as silent witnesses. A wide smile spread across his face, soft and luminous, erasing any trace of the "monster" expression that had frightened the children. His gaze fixed on them, a spark of camaraderie and a glint of adventure in his eyes.
Tsumiya: [—My name is Tsumiya Higeri!]
He proclaimed with a voice that, though controlled, carried the echo of a promise, of a future written in the stars, of an attempt to improve the situation that now enveloped him.
—Someone who dreams of becoming a hero... just like you!
The last words Tsumiya spoke resonated in the quiet of the night, softer than usual. They weren't a battle cry, but an invitation, a hand extended in the darkness. With surprising grace, though not without an undeniable lack of polished skill, Tsumiya performed a maneuver with the wooden sword. It was a movement that, to an expert observer, would seem rudimentary, but it contained a subtle underlying technique. It wasn't the flourish of a consummate swordsman, but the vestige of something learned and then, largely, forgotten.
That movement, that particular way of handling the "wooden katana," was a distant echo of his teenage years. A time when, driven by the search for something that would give him meaning and structure, he had briefly immersed himself in Iaido. It had lasted barely two years, a brief chapter in his life before boxing, and the choice had been more a consequence of his generalized lack of interest in sports. Before the punches and the discipline of the ring taught him resilience and controlled aggression, Tsumiya had been, at best, a mediocre athlete. His attempts at soccer ended with him chasing the ball more than playing it. Basketball was a nightmare of poor coordination. Swimming bored him. Any sport that required team effort or natural agility seemed to elude him. Iaido, with its focus on individual discipline, form, concentration, and precision of movements, had been a desperate attempt to find something he wouldn't spectacularly fail at, something he could do alone, away from the judgmental eyes of his peers. He hadn't become a master, far from it, but something of that muscle memory, of that philosophy of the sword, had been etched into his being. A skeleton of technique in a body that had not yet found its true strength.
The children looked at him with an expression of disbelief, a lapse of several seconds that felt like an eternity. Each processed the unusual spectacle in their own way. The brown-haired boy, whom Tsumiya now knew as Archimedes, seemed less frightened, his small face still tinged with guilt, but with an incipient fascination. Jorgen, the white-haired boy with shrewd eyes, was now visibly more relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders. Julian, the black-haired boy, the silent observer, just watched, his dark eyes analyzing every nuance of the man's surprising change in attitude. From a tired, grumpy "monster" to a self-proclaimed hero with a wooden sword and a radiant smile.
But among the three, there was one who found the scene particularly amusing. To Jorgen, Tsumiya's bravado, sudden heroism, grandiose declaration, and especially that knightly pose with a toy sword, seemed the height of absurdity. His white hair, softly illuminated by the pale moonlight, ruffled slightly as a contained laugh bubbled in his chest. First it was a slight tremor, then a stifled grunt, and finally, a chuckle he couldn't hold back. He watched Tsumiya's figure, upright and proud, with the wooden sword pointing skyward. The boy, who had feared for his life and his backside minutes before, now felt a pang of relief and a good dose of mockery.
Jorgen: [—A hero, you say? That's the dumbest thing I've heard all week... Even Julian was more embarrassed by his attempts to appear intelligent than you are now!]
Julian: [—I'm smarter than you, idiot! It's just that... I don't... like to show off, unlike you.]
Julian immediately retorted to Jorgen's taunt, subtly frowning. The only thing that made him restrain his urge to abandon his "leader" in the forest was the same reason he had decided to come—a mystery he had solved long ago. Archimedes, who was close to both, smiled subtly at the amusement of the situation; his worries about what might happen were resolved by the "monster's" attitude.
Jorgen: [—You're the dumbest one here! And you won't deny it... Julian!]
Jorgen's barely contained laugh broke the tense silence of the night, followed by a direct accusation filled with familiar childish cruelty directed at his companion. A slight skirmish of words ignited between them, a dispute that, for Tsumiya, was a sweet echo of his own schoolyard past.
Tsumiya, for his part, observed the interaction with a subtle smile spreading across his lips, a genuine expression of relief and something akin to happiness. With a fluid movement, he lowered the wooden sword he had been pointing skyward, placing it gently on the ground beside his feet. Then, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it. He remembered the rough feel of the old cabin's wood against his head when he had been unconscious, and the fact that his hair had gotten a bit dirty in the process. The simple, almost unconscious action transported him for an instant to his childhood, to those carefree days when he too had had friends—not many, but the ones he had were loyal and "cool," with whom he had shared similar adventures, though without exploding stones or imaginary monsters.
All this, this scene, felt particularly pleasant. His "protagonist mission," the one he had self-imposed upon leaving the cabin, had been a resounding success. He didn't need experience points, the numerical sparkle indicating progress in an RPG. Nor did he require a legendary item or a bag of gold as an immediate reward. The only thing that truly mattered to him at that moment was the warm pang of a more intangible reward: the feeling of having done the right thing, of having eased the tension, of having transformed fear into laughter, even if at his own expense. He knew that real-life rewards, the true ones, were not always immediate or tangible. For now, he would settle for the image of a trio of small heroes, brave in their own way, who had for a moment forgotten their fear to argue among themselves.
(«The stars are better than this, I'll take it, but it offends me greatly.»)
His reflection was direct, an internal monologue steeped in a brutal honesty he reserved solely for himself and the unplumbed depths of his innermost yearnings. For Tsumiya, true success, his longed-for "happy ending," did not lie in the accumulation of power or heroic fame. It was, in essence, to be loved unconditionally, to be accepted without reservation by those around him, and to live a tranquil existence, free from upheavals, where comfort was the norm and peace, his constant companion. He yearned to finally rest, happy and fulfilled, having navigated life without excesses or grand sacrifices. That was the utopia, the sweet dream that propelled someone who, at that precise moment, found himself with an aching arm and the vastness of a new world, brimming with mysteries to unravel, stretching before him like a blank canvas.
But just as Tsumiya, pleased with his "heroic intervention," was about to turn back into the relative safety of the old cabin, his eyes stopped. Something was moving in the distance. A figure ascending the hill that led to the abandoned cabin. The children's discussion, which had continued in a more discreet murmur, faded into the background of his consciousness. What he saw climbing the hill captivated him instantly, stealing his attention from everything else.
The approaching person, rising with silent grace up the slope of the hill, was the epitome of what Tsumiya, in the deepest recesses of his being, might have longed for. It was the palpable manifestation of the most exquisite and deeply repressed fantasies that resided in his subconscious, now materializing with a perfection that defied his understanding. It was not a crude or idealized vision; it was as if one of his most private and delicate daydreams had come to life, tempered, however, by a strange and palpable sense of composure, an innate serenity that made her even more ethereal, almost unreal.
Her appearance, at first glance, was simple, devoid of all ostentation. She wore no flashy ornaments, no sparkling jewels that sought to dazzle; her beauty needed no external embellishments. It was a beauty that bordered on the unreal, almost sacred, the kind of beauty that doesn't scream, but whispers and captivates with her mere presence. Of average height, her figure moved with a fluidity reminiscent of the gentle swaying of reeds in the wind. Her skin, clear as polished alabaster, was so soft that the silvery moonlight seemed to want to caress it, making it almost translucent, like the most delicate petal of a winter flower.
Her hair, cascading to her shoulders, was an immaculate white, not the dull white of old age, but the pure white of freshly fallen snow on a virgin peak, or the icy luminosity of the finest silver. Each strand seemed to absorb and reflect the moonlight, creating a subtle halo around her, a natural crown that gave her an aura of her own, almost luminous. And on her face, framed by that snowy hair, were her eyes. A stormy gray color, they possessed an unfathomable depth, like the abysses of a twilight ocean, or the mist that settles on a remote peak. They were not cold, but serene, with an unmistakable elegance and a femininity so tranquil that it seemed to emanate an unalterable peace. Each blink was a soft flutter of wings, each gaze, a promise of untold stories. She was the personification of grace, serenity, and a beauty so pure that it left Tsumiya breathless, his "protagonist" mind already writing the new chapter of his destiny.
Her attire was a simple white dress, devoid of any superfluous ornamentation, no golden embroidery or embedded gems that could distract. Despite its minimalism, or perhaps precisely because of it, its drape and cut were of such exquisite quality that it bestowed upon her an inherent beauty, an innate elegance that needed no pomp. The fabric, which seemed to flow like water over her slender figure, moved with her, softly caressing her curves in a discreet yet evident manner, revealing a feminine form with captivating subtlety. It seemed woven with moonbeams, soft to the eye, and promising delicacy to the touch. It was not clothing designed for display, but for grace and comfort, and in that simplicity lay much of its charm.
Her face, framed by the snowy hair that cascaded like liquid silver to her shoulders, bore a soft and tranquil expression. It was not an impetuous or striking beauty, but a serenity that seemed untouchable, an aura of calm radiating from the core of her being. Her lips, a pale and natural pink, were slightly parted, as if she had just spoken a word or was about to, adding a touch of vulnerability and expectation. She did not seem older than Tsumiya, perhaps around his age in his estimation, or even a couple of years younger, which, for him, made her even more attractive. The combination of that youth, the purity of her attire, and the stillness of her countenance created an image that Tsumiya felt was etched into his memory, an unexpected beacon in the darkness of his new reality. A woman, without artifice, but with a beauty that promised a whole world of possibilities and, perhaps, an even greater purpose than merely being a "hero."
A woman, without artifice, yet of striking beauty in his eyes.
???: [—Jorgen, what are you doing here?]
The voice of the newcomer was soft and tranquil, a melody woven into the very fabric of the night's quiet. It was as harmonious as a lone flute's haunting tune drifting across a still lake, its purity cutting through the lingering tension and the children's hushed squabble. Her words, directed with an almost ethereal precision, sought out the white-haired boy. Jorgen, who had been utterly absorbed in his silent, resentful argument with Julian and Archimedes—his world momentarily shrunk to the petty disputes of childhood—turned his gaze with astonishing swiftness. The transformation on his face was immediate and profound, a complex cocktail of emotions. His previous bravado dissolved, replaced by a mixture of ingrained respect for this figure and, perhaps more tellingly, a palpable touch of fear, or at least a deep apprehension of her disapproval. It was the sudden, undeniable gravity of an authority figure, not just a peer, crashing into his carefully constructed person.
But Tsumiya, for his part, was utterly oblivious to Jorgen's sudden deference, to the children's hushed conversation, or even to the soft, gentle cadences of the woman's voice once it had served its initial purpose. His world had narrowed, his senses acutely focused. His eyes, transfixed, remained fixed on her, devouring every detail of her serene presence. It was more than mere admiration; it was an epiphany. A new, ardent, powerful determination bloomed within him, unfurling like a banner in his soul. This wasn't just about surviving or even about becoming "a hero" in some abstract, game-like sense. In this new world, with this overwhelming and captivating stimulus, Tsumiya Higeri, the self-proclaimed "potential hero," was now truly, irrevocably determined to exert himself beyond anything he had previously imagined. The abstract pursuit of peace, the distant allure of glory, and the somewhat superficial goal of heroism had just acquired a much more profound, tangible, and undeniably personal objective. His very core vibrated with a newfound purpose, a magnetic pull towards this enigmatic figure, rewriting the very narrative of his new existence.
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