The family of Heroes

[VukPauk]

A light morning breeze, steeped in the aroma of blooming sakura and earth damp with dew, lazily stirred the branches of the old maple in the courtyard. Its crimson leaves, like drops of frozen blood, rustled quietly, casting whimsical shadows on the shoji of a traditional two-story house in the Tokyo suburbs. The house was modern, yet built with deep respect for tradition—dark wooden beams, a tiled roof with elegant curves, and a small rock garden at the entrance created a sense of harmony and peace. Adjoining this oasis of calm was the heart of the place—an old but immaculately kept dojo. Its walls of ancient cedar remembered more than one generation of warriors, and its wooden floor, polished to a shine, held the traces of thousands of hours of grueling training.

From inside, through the tightly closed sliding doors, came a powerful, coordinated chorus of voices, shouting a short, sharp "Ha!" with every strike. This sound, like a heartbeat, set the rhythm for the entire household.

An atmosphere of strict discipline and utmost concentration reigned within the spacious hall. The air was thick and warm from dozens of heated bodies. In neat rows lined up on the tatami stood students of all ages. There were very young boys, whose kimonos seemed baggy on them, teenagers from middle school with the first hints of youthful maximalism in their eyes, and several adult men, whose movements were polished and confident. All of them, as one, were practicing kata—a sequence of strikes and blocks, pouring all their energy into every movement.

Between the rows, hands clasped behind his back, their sensei walked slowly. He was an elderly man, his figure radiating the aura of an unshakeable rock. A thick gray beard, neatly trimmed, framed a face etched with deep wrinkles, where the wisdom of lived decades seemed to lie in wait. His long gray hair was gathered into a tight man-bun on the nape of his neck, so as not to obstruct his view. Despite his age, his build remained strong and solid; only his loose yukata concealed from prying eyes the musculature hardened by countless training sessions and time. His gaze was light, almost detached, yet incredibly focused. He noticed the slightest mistake, a barely perceptible loss of balance, or an incorrect angle of the wrist.

From time to time, he would stop, gently but firmly correcting the stance of a faltering student, or with a quiet but firm word, adjust the trajectory of a strike. His touches were barely perceptible, yet they carried such confidence that the student's body would find the correct position on its own.

After walking almost the entire hall, his gaze settled on a figure in the far corner. There, leaning against the wall, sat his own grandson, Saigo. The boy was slacking off again, staring blankly at one spot, clearly bored. A deep, almost soundless sigh escaped the old man's chest. He approached and neatly, without a single creak of his joints, lowered himself onto the tatami beside him.

"Saigo..." The sensei's voice was soft, devoid of reproach, but the grandson flinched all the same. "Since you've come to the dojo, perhaps you could show a little more initiative?"

The boy wearily raised his eyes, which held a world-weary sorrow, to his grandfather, but upon meeting the old man's warm and understanding gaze, he immediately lowered his head in embarrassment. His shoulders slumped.

"Well... I didn't want to come here..." he muttered, barely audible. "Father said it would be good for me and give me confidence... Grandpa, can't you talk to him? Can I stop coming?"

A timid hope sounded in his voice. He was a quiet, withdrawn child, for whom the harsh discipline and physical exertion of the dojo were completely alien. He saw no point in it, only another chore imposed by adults.

The old man felt a momentary pang of awkwardness. A fleetingly embarrassed expression crossed his face as he recalled a recent conversation with his son. It was he, Kenshin Yamamoto, who had insisted on bringing his grandson to the family dojo. The official reason was the desire to strengthen the boy's character, but the real one—a simple, selfish need to spend more time with him.

"Hmm, a difficult question..." Kenshin drew out the words, stroking his beard. "Is it really so uninteresting to you? Think of the strength in it. Martial arts are not just about waving your arms and legs. It is a path to understanding yourself. It is discipline that forges not only the body, but the spirit. Someday, you will meet someone you want to protect. And in that moment, you will be grateful for every hour spent here. Strength is needed not to attack, but to protect what is dear to you."

He spoke sincerely, pouring into his words the philosophy he had forged over a long life. But Saigo just stared absently somewhere through his grandfather.

"These aren't those times, Grandpa," he replied quietly. "You get arrested for fighting now. And if someone bothers you, you can just run away or call for help. It's not necessary."

Kenshin blinked in confusion. His grandson's logic, simple and modern, had thrown him off. He was used to thinking in categories of honor, duty, and protection, while Saigo's world consisted of rules, laws, and smartphones. The old man cleared his throat, deciding to try another angle, resorting to an argument that seemed to him eternal and indisputable.

"In that case... what about female attention?" He winked conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "A strong, trained body always attracts many girls. Trust me, your grandmother wouldn't lie!"

He tried to joke, putting on a sly grin and chuckling quietly. He remembered how his own wife had admired his strength and agility in his youth. But his grandson's reaction was far from what he expected. Saigo only lowered his head further, his ears turning slightly red.

"I'm not interested in that..." he mumbled and fell silent again, staring dejectedly at the floor.

Kenshin sighed wearily. All his arguments, honed over the years, had shattered against a wall of apathy and disinterest. He realized that further persuasion was pointless right now. Gently ruffling his grandson's hair, he rose and walked over to the other students who, unlike Saigo, craved his instruction and were waiting patiently for the sensei to finish his family matters.

The day flew by. As the last rays of the sun painted the sky in orange and purple hues, the training session came to an end. The students, one by one, approached the old master, bowed respectfully, and left the dojo, taking with them a pleasant fatigue in their muscles. Soon the hall was almost empty. Only two remained: Kenshin, who was slowly putting away the training equipment, and his grandson Saigo, who, having retrieved his phone, immediately dove headfirst into the virtual world, tapping furiously at the screen.

Suddenly, the paper shoji screen slid aside with a quiet rustle. A tall, sturdy man with the same sharp features as the old man appeared in the doorway. It was his son, Takeru. Removing his street shoes and stepping onto the wooden floor, he bowed deeply.

"Father! Thank you for looking after Saigo."

Raising his head, he looked questioningly at Kenshin, awaiting a report on his progress. The old man tried to avoid his gaze, feeling as if he had failed an important mission. He just waved his hand, inviting his son to follow him. Leaving the boy alone with his game—he hadn't even noticed them leave—they went into a small utility room that served as both a changing room and a tiny kitchen.

Kenshin silently poured two mugs of steaming green tea and sat down at the low table. Takeru settled opposite him.

"Haaa..." the old man exhaled, taking a sip. The bitterness of the tea cleared his thoughts a little. "He has no motivation at all, Takeru. None. And yet it all started so well... I remember how he nervously put on his dogi for the first time, how his eyes burned with curiosity. He was even excitedly waiting for the lesson to start. But... after just a few dozen minutes, he was exhausted and lost all interest."

He looked tiredly at his son. Takeru listened calmly, his face impassive, but his eyes showed understanding.

"I know, Father. He's always like this," Takeru said quietly. "At home, he barely leaves his room. He has no friends, he doesn't socialize with his peers. Just school, home, and his phone. I could forbid him from using it, but... he doesn't shirk his lessons. He always does his homework, his grades are good. The smartphone is his only window to the world, the only thing that truly interests him. If I took it away, he would withdraw completely."

"But we have to do something! We can't let him become a hermit in his own home," Kenshin set his mug on the table a bit more sharply than he intended.

"I know," Takeru sighed. "I've tried everything. I signed him up for different clubs—soccer, drawing, programming. It's the same every time: an initial burst of interest, and then apathy. He just... loses steam. I thought that you, your authority, the atmosphere of the dojo... that you could handle it. I was hoping he would find himself here."

Despair and guilt sounded in his son's voice. Kenshin saw how much he worried about Saigo. The old master fell silent, lost in thought. The problem was deeper than a simple reluctance to practice martial arts. His grandson was lost in this new, digital world, and the old, proven methods of upbringing didn't work here. He needed to find a different key.

A week passed. Takeru brought Saigo to the dojo again. Everything repeated: the boy changed, bowed, and retreated to his usual corner, his entire demeanor showing indifference to what was happening. Kenshin led the warm-up, assigned exercises to the students, and then, to the surprise of many, headed not toward them, but to his grandson.

He sat down next to Saigo, who glanced warily at his grandfather, expecting another round of lectures. But instead, Kenshin, with a mysterious look, pulled a shiny box from the wide pocket of his yukata. Inside lay a brand new, latest-model smartphone.

"Saigo, take a look," the old man said, turning the smooth gadget over in his hands with genuine confusion. "My son gave it to me. Said my old one was useless. And I... I don't understand this technology of yours at all. There's only one button, and it's on the side. How do you even turn it on? And what are all these symbols? I've never used one of these."

This was only partly true. Kenshin managed his old phone passably well, but this new device truly baffled him. And this helplessness turned out to be the very key he had been searching for.

Saigo's face changed. There was still no enthusiasm, but the apathy had vanished. He was in his element. This was an environment he knew inside and out.

"That's the fingerprint sensor, Grandpa," he took the phone into his own hands. "You have to touch it with the finger you registered. Like this. And these are the home screens, they have app icons..."

Reluctantly at first, he began to explain, showing where to press and how to adjust the settings. The other students glanced at them curiously, but the moment they slowed their training pace, a stern look from their master, which he shot at them peripherally, forced them to return to their exercises with doubled effort.

Gradually, Saigo came alive. Seeing how clumsily the old man handled modern technology, how he tried to press the screen too hard or couldn't find the right menu item, the boy began to show more emotion. First, it was a condescending shake of the head, then a quiet chuckle, and then a full, lively smile when his grandfather failed to answer a video call yet again.

Kenshin rejoiced inwardly. He was willing to look like a complete novice in his grandson's eyes if it helped bring life back to his face.

It became their new tradition. Their sessions in the corner of the dojo continued. Over time, Saigo began to show up not only when his father brought him. He started coming on his own, after school. Besides helping his grandfather with the phone, he, imperceptibly to himself, began to participate more actively in the dojo's life. At first, he just watched, then he began to mimic the movements, and soon he was standing in the general ranks, showing an astounding diligence and talent that had apparently been dormant in his blood.

Their conversations changed too. They discussed news from the internet, argued about politics, shared funny videos. And one day, Saigo showed his grandfather the game he had been playing all this time. It was a colorful fantasy world, full of adventures and mysteries. Kenshin, to his grandson's surprise, also became interested. And this game became another shared topic, another bridge, connecting two different generations.

Two years passed.

A ringing silence filled the dojo, broken only by the ragged breathing of the two fighters in the center of the hall. Dozens of eyes were riveted to the sparring mat. On one side stood Kenshin Yamamoto. It seemed that in these years he had become a little smaller, drier, and the wrinkles on his face had etched themselves deeper. Opposite him, in a fighting stance, stood Saigo.

The old man looked at his grandson, and his heart filled with pride. In these two years, the boy had changed beyond recognition. He had shot up, grown strong, his shoulders broadened. The insecurity had vanished without a trace. He no longer hid his gaze but looked directly into his grandfather's eyes, and in his amber, almost orange pupils, the fire of competitive spirit burned.

The referee for the match was Takeru. He raised his hand and sharply lowered it.

"Hajime!"

The fight began. Saigo launched himself from his spot like a young tiger—fast, sharp, full of energy. He unleashed a series of rapid strikes on his grandfather, but Kenshin moved like water flowing around stones. He didn't block the attacks head-on, but redirected them, parrying with light, almost imperceptible movements of his wrists, using his grandson's own momentum against him.

Saigo attacked furiously, but his every lunge broke against a wall of experience. Kenshin, however, did not attack; he waited, studied, allowing the youthful energy to expend itself. Finally, when the first, barely noticeable gap appeared in his grandson's attacks, the old man went on the offensive. His movements were not fast, but they were impeccably precise and calculated. One short strike to the solar plexus made Saigo lose his breath. A light sweep—and the youth lost his balance.

Kenshin didn't let him fall. He caught his grandson, spun him, and with a soft but strong push, threw him onto the tatami. The throw was perfect. Saigo crashed onto his back, accepting his defeat.

The silence exploded into applause. Takeru raised Kenshin's hand, declaring him the winner.

Saigo lay on the mat, breathing heavily, and stared at the ceiling. And then he laughed loudly, with all his heart.

"Ha ha ha! Looks like I've still got a long way to go to catch you, old man!" he shouted, and there wasn't a hint of disappointment in his voice, only admiration and excitement.

Kenshin, his eyes closed, smiled in contentment. He felt boundless pride and love. And in that very instant, he felt a strange, leaden heaviness spread through his body. His thoughts tangled, his vision began to blur. The world swam before his eyes, and he collapsed to the floor as if he'd been cut down.

...

He awoke to the smell of antiseptics and the quiet beeping of medical equipment. White ceiling, white walls, white sheets. He was in the hospital. Around his bed stood the people closest to him. His son Takeru, his daughter-in-law Yumi, and, of course, Saigo. Next to them stood a doctor in a white coat.

Yumi was crying quietly, her face buried in her husband's shoulder. Takeru looked at his father with a serious, grim expression, but his eyes betrayed him with a tremor. And Saigo was clinging to his bed, crying nonstop, repeating through his tears, "Grandpa, you're awake! You're awake!"

Kenshin sighed wearily. He understood everything. He could feel how the strength that had once flowed through his veins like a roaring torrent was gone, leaving only emptiness and weakness behind. The old body, having given its last resources to that victorious match, had finally surrendered.

Several days passed. Kenshin lay in the ward, hooked up to IV drips. His grandson kept him company. They chatted enthusiastically about all sorts of nonsense and, as before, played their favorite game on the tablet. The old man had changed greatly. His skin had become pale and thin, like parchment, and his limbs trembled weakly. Because of this tremor in his hands, he often couldn't press the screen correctly, missing at the crucial moment and losing fights he used to clear with ease.

"Dammit!" he would snap angrily when his character fell dead yet again. "Never mind, I'll beat this cursed boss! I'll definitely beat him!"

Saigo saw these changes. He saw how his mighty grandfather was fading, turning into a frail old man. But he diligently hid his distress behind a mask of nonchalance, continuing to joke with him like a friend and tell him about new in-game events.

In the evening, as usual, they said their goodbyes.

"See you tomorrow, Gramps! Don't try to clear the Abyss without me!" Saigo shouted from the doorway.

Kenshin watched him go with a warm gaze and turned his head to the window. Twilight was descending on the city, lighting the first fires. He knew that "tomorrow" might not come for him. Life had almost left this old body. But he was glad. After the death of his beloved Akiko, he thought the rest of his days would be dedicated only to the dojo, to teaching nameless students. He had been completely immersed in routine until his only son gave him a grandson. A grandson who was so much like his younger self—just as stubborn, withdrawn, but with a fire inside. And he, Kenshin, had managed to ignite that fire. These last two years, though strange, full of talk about incomprehensible technology and virtual worlds, had been truly happy.

Suddenly, the tablet screen on the nightstand lit up. A notification from the game. It was a reminder that he still hadn't managed to beat the final, most difficult level of that very Abyss.

With a complex expression on his face, he took the tablet in his trembling hands. He would gather the last of his strength. He would do it.

Hour after hour passed. His fingers barely obeyed, his reaction time failed him, but the old warrior did not give up. He tried again and again, changing tactics, selecting characters, honing his rotation down to the hundredth of a second. And then, as deep night thickened outside the window, after countless attempts, he did it. The final enemy fell. The words "Challenge Completed" shone on the screen.

With his last strength spent, with a sense of accomplished duty, Kenshin fell back onto the pillow. His breathing became shallow, his heart slowed its beat. Life was definitively leaving his body. And the last thing he heard was a quiet, melodic sound from the tablet's speakers—a phrase he had heard hundreds of times in the game, but only now understood its true meaning.

"And may your life be just as full. Ad Astra Abyssoque."

To the stars and the abyss. His journey here was over. A new one was just beginning.

 

[VukPauk]

Consciousness returned in a sudden, deafening jolt.

First came the sensation. Piercing, all-encompassing, tearing him apart. Cold. Not the mere chill of an autumn day or icy water—this was a primordial cold that clung to every cell of a body that, it seemed, no longer belonged to him. It was helpless, alien, incapable of even the simplest movement to warm itself.

Then came the sound. A formless, crushing drone, composed of hundreds of echoes merged into one. It beat against his eardrums, distorting, transforming into an unintelligible cacophony in which the distantly familiar, yet now alien, intonations of human speech were drowning.

And finally, the light. A merciless, blinding flood that struck his eyes, which had opened involuntarily. It was so bright it caused physical pain, forcing the world to blur into one solid white smear, across which blurred, gigantic figures slid like shadows.

Panic, cold and clammy, rose in his throat. He tried to scream, but only a thin, piercing cry escaped his lungs—a sound he did not recognize. It was the wail of an infant.

His body, small and weightless, was lifted by someone's hands. Figures flickered before his eyes, passing him from one to another like a fragile parcel. The world spun, a kaleidoscope of light and shadow changing with dizzying speed, until, finally, he found himself in a new embrace.

And in that moment, everything changed.

The cold receded, replaced by a wave of enveloping warmth. The noise subsided, giving way to a quiet, rhythmic beat that resonated somewhere deep inside, calming and lulling. The bright light dimmed, obscured by something soft and large. He sensed the gentle, subtle scent of milk and a woman's skin. The hands holding him were incredibly tender, and the touch was filled with a care he hadn't felt in an eternity. He didn't know who this figure was, but he instinctively pressed closer to the source of warmth, seeking protection. The body, still disobedient to his adult mind, found peace in this on its own. The struggle ceased. The endless fatigue, accumulated over a long past life and the shock of a new birth, took its toll. He fell asleep, feeling completely safe for the first time in a long, long time.

Five years passed.

The village was a lost island of civilization in the midst of a boundless ocean of ancient forest. A few dozen crude but sturdy wooden houses with thatched roofs were scattered across a small valley, surrounded by ancient, towering trees. A winding dirt road, the only thread connecting the settlement to the outside world, was lost in the green thicket. Life here flowed slowly and measuredly, subject to the changing of the seasons. In the morning, trickles of smoke rose from hearths above the roofs; by day, the sound of the woodcutter's axe and the lowing of cattle carried on the air; and in the evening, the village sank into a thick, ringing silence, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the distant hooting of an owl.

On the very edge of this backwater, at the forest's hem, a new structure, strange for these parts, had recently appeared. Someone had cleared a small patch of land of bushes and stones, carefully leveled it, and turned it into an impromptu training ground. In the center of this circle, dug deep into the earth, stood a wooden training dummy. It was carved from the solid trunk of a thick tree, and the places imitating the arms and torso were wrapped in old, worn fabric for durability.

On this training ground, all alone, was a black-haired child. He couldn't have been more than five years old, but his movements held no trace of childish clumsiness. He methodically struck the wooden idol, and with each impact, a dull, confident thud resounded.

The boy was strikingly beautiful. His hair, black as a raven's wing and of medium length, was tossed about by his sharp movements. His face, which had not yet lost its childish plumpness, already possessed sharp, noble features that promised to mature into something extraordinary. But most captivating of all were his eyes—large, almond-shaped, they shone with a bright, vivid amber color. In them, despite his young age, one could read an unchildlike depth and awareness.

He was reflecting, as he always did during training. His thoughts flowed evenly, in time with his strikes. "Strange, all of it..." he thought, landing a precise punch on the wrapped fabric. "I always believed that memory should disappear. A new life—a clean slate. But I... I remember everything. Every wrinkle on my wife's face, every victory and every defeat, the bitterness of loss and the warmth of the family hearth. It's as if I didn't die at all, but simply moved into a new house. Into a new, tiny body."

He shifted, moving off the line of his imaginary opponent's attack, and delivered a series of rapid strikes to the carved sections of the dummy imitating arms.

"The first few years were sheer hell. The mind of an old man, trapped in the body of an infant. Utter helplessness. The inability to speak, to walk, even to control my own needs. And this new language... I had to learn it from scratch, listening as my new parents cooed over me."

His father, Arthur, turned out to be a strong, silent man, a forester, whose hands were covered in calluses from his axe, and whose clothes always smelled of pine and tree resin. His mother, Livia, was a kind and caring woman with a warm smile, whose life revolved around the home, a small vegetable garden, and a few livestock—a pair of goats and a dozen chickens. They were simple, good people, and he, Raine—that was the name they had given him—had grown genuinely attached to them over time.

The strikes against the dummy became faster and stronger. The wood creaked in protest under his assault.

"This place... it's different. Not just a different country, but a different world." He remembered how his father, putting him to bed, would tell him fairy tales. But they weren't the tales he was used to. They were legends. Legends of monstrous beasts that had once nearly destroyed the world. Of the sea serpent Leviathan, whose body could encircle an entire island, and of the land colossus Behemoth, whose tread made the earth tremble. The heroes of antiquity had defeated them, but these stories, told in a whisper by the light of an oil lamp, made him, a grown man, feel a primal terror.

And they weren't just fairy tales. He had already managed to confirm that the world was not inhabited solely by humans. Several times, merchants had passed through their village—and among them, he had seen sharp-eared, graceful elves and stocky, bearded dwarves. And sometimes, armed people whom the locals called "Adventurers" would pass through the village.

A loud crack echoed. One of the dummy's "arms," unable to withstand another powerful blow, broke off and flew to the side. Raine froze, breathing heavily.

"Yes... And the people here are much stronger," he concluded. Ordinary folk, like his forester father, were hardier and tougher than the average person from his previous world. But the real gap lay in the strength of those Adventurers. He had overheard scraps of conversation about "levels" and "blessings of the gods," which gave them inhuman might. This explained why the few Adventurers who passed through their village moved with such ease and confidence, like hidden predators.

He came out of his state of combat concentration. His small body was covered in a light sweat, which ran in streams down his temples and back. Raine closed his eyes and began to perform breathing exercises, steadying his ragged breath.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by a loud, thin shout, which came from the edge of the training ground.

"Raine!!"

He turned. Stumbling over the uneven ground, a boy with a shock of dazzling white hair and large ruby-red eyes was running toward him. It was Bell Cranel. His first and only friend in this new world.

Raine watched Bell run up, a warm smile appearing on his lips. "Grandson..." flashed through his mind. He just couldn't perceive this shy, tearful child any other way. Bell was kind, sincere, and trusting to a fault—the complete opposite of himself, with his cynicism and wisdom of lived years.

They had met a couple of years ago. One evening, a decrepit but suspiciously sturdy old man had knocked on their door, with a little boy hiding behind his leg. They introduced themselves as their new neighbors. Back then, Bell was a total crybaby, constantly clinging to his grandfather and bawling for any reason.

Bell ran up, bent over, and rested his hands on his knees, desperately trying to catch his breath.

"Hah... hah... Raine! Why didn't you... wait for me! We were supposed to... play together!" he panted reproachfully, pouting.

Raine just chuckled and paternally ruffled his snow-white hair.

"I wasn't playing, just doing my warm-ups. I was waiting for you to arrive to start the real training," he replied calmly.

Bell's face immediately lit up. As was their tradition, he pulled his simple village shirt off over his head, remaining in just his trousers. Together, they began to perform simple exercises: squats, push-ups, and then they ran several laps around their training ground. As they ran, they chatted about all sorts of childish trifles.

"...and Grandpa's going to tell a new story about the hero Argonaut today! He said I could invite you to listen! He's really looking forward to seeing you, too!" Bell shared with delight.

Raine nodded, and as he moved on to the next exercise—a stretching routine taken from his past life—he couldn't help but think about Bell's grandfather. That old man always gave him a strange feeling. On the surface—just a decrepit hermit, with an eternal, dopey grin and a supply of lewd jokes. But one look into his eyes, or just being near him, and Raine, with his veteran's intuition, sensed an aura of colossal, restrained power emanating from him. It was a subtle sense of danger, like that of a sleeping predator. At first, it had been unsettling, but over time Raine had simply gotten used to this strangeness and stopped paying it any mind.

After the warm-up, they stood facing each other. They had only started practicing sparring a couple of months ago.

"Ready?" Raine asked.

Bell nodded seriously and took the fighting stance Raine had shown him. Their usual session began. Raine didn't just fight him; he taught him.

"Don't lean forward, Bell. Weight on both feet," Raine commented calmly, easily dodging an uncertain punch. "You don't strike with your hand, but with your whole body. Rotate your hip. Like that, much better."

As the fight progressed, Raine never ceased to be amazed. "This kid is incredible. His potential is just enormous," he mused. Bell was like a sponge. He absorbed everything he was shown. Raine made a light feint, showing a strike to the body but actually aiming for the shoulder. Bell, not yet able to read such deceptive movements, should have reacted to the first, false threat. But instead, his body swayed to the side with a kind of animal intuition, moving his shoulder out of the line of attack. Raine's strike passed millimeters away. "There it is," Raine noted mentally, taking a step back. "I didn't teach him that. That's pure instinct. A reflex that natural-born fighters have. He didn't even realize what he did; he just sensed the danger." This only strengthened his conviction: before him was a flawless, uncut diamond.

The match ended, as it always did. Raine made a deceptive move, forcing Bell to shift, and immediately executed a neat sweep. The boy, losing his balance, fell softly onto the grass. He lay on his back, exhausted but happy.

"You're getting closer, Bell. Your strikes are already much stronger than they were a month ago," Raine praised him.

At these words, Bell's eyes shone brighter than rubies. For him, praise from Raine was the highest reward.

"Want to go for a swim?" Raine suggested, noticing they were both drenched in sweat.

Bell happily agreed. Following their established tradition, they headed to the nearby river. The water was clear and icy, pleasantly cooling their skin, heated from the training. They splashed each other and tried to race the minnows darting near the bottom until they were completely worn out.

Their walking route today took them through the village. Their appearance always evoked fond smiles from the neighbors.

"Oh, look, our handsome boys are here!" an elderly neighbor cooed after them, waving her hand. "Such cuties, one dark-haired, one white-haired!"

At these words, they both blushed, but for different reasons. Bell—from embarrassment, and Raine—from the awkwardness of being called a "cutie" when he was an old man at heart.

On the way, they stopped by Raine's house. His mother, Livia, caught them on the porch. She was a beautiful woman with long, raven-black hair, just like his, and slightly darker skin than the other villagers. Her features were finer and more delicate, which betrayed her as a foreigner. Raine had long since realized that it was from her he had inherited his unusual appearance for these parts.

"My heroes!" she exclaimed, immediately pulling them both into her arms, starting to squeeze and kiss them on both cheeks. "You must be tired! I'll give you something to refresh yourselves!"

Raine, having long since resigned himself to such displays of motherly love, simply surrendered, allowing himself to be turned into a doll for hugging. Bell, however, not used to such affection, stood as red as a beet, shifting awkwardly. Soon, Livia had supplied them with a flask of water and several hefty sandwiches with cheese and cured meat.

Refreshed, they headed to Bell's house. His grandfather, as always, was sitting on the porch in an old rocking chair. He was a gray-haired old man with a sly squint and a beard, perpetually dressed in a simple shirt and trousers. Noticing them, he broke into a wide, good-natured smile, which gathered a net of wrinkles around his eyes.

"Oh, Raine, my friend! Come in, come in! Bell's been bending my ear all about you!" he greeted him warmly.

The boys went into the living room, which was lined with bookshelves. This was an incredible rarity. Raine knew that books were very expensive in this world, and such a quantity of them in a poor old man's house only added to his suspicions about him.

They sat on the floor and began to read. Bell, as always, was glued to the books with stories of heroes, their exploits, and their journeys. His eyes burned, he followed the adventures of the brave warriors with his mouth open, and in those moments, Raine could clearly see how in the soul of this tearful child, a great dream was being born—to become just like them. To become a hero.

Raine, however, was interested in more down-to-earth matters. He greedily devoured books on history and geography. He read about the great kingdoms, about the races inhabiting the world, about the gods who descended from the heavens to live among mortals—which seemed to him like an amusing mythology. He learned of the existence of the giant labyrinth city, Orario, the only place in the world where the entrance to the Dungeon was located. This world was amazing. Full of unknown creatures, monsters inhabiting deep forests and mountains. And magic. What had been only fiction in his past world was very real here—he himself had seen visiting adventurers create fire or water from thin air.

Perhaps the childish nature of his new body was speaking, or perhaps the newfound possibilities of this incredible world had awakened a long-forgotten excitement. Looking at the engrossed Bell, Raine realized that a dream had sparked in his own soul as well. And though their dreams were similar, they were still different. While Bell wanted to become a Hero with a capital H, saving princesses and defeating evil, Raine wanted something different. He wanted to become an Adventurer. An Explorer. A man who would descend into the darkest depths, see all the wonders of this world, and gather its countless treasures.

 

[VukPauk]

Time in this secluded village flowed differently than in the world left on the other side of death. It did not race forward in an inexorable stream, but rather seeped, like tree sap—thick, measured, and filled with the meaning of every day lived. The years that had flown by since his new birth wove themselves into a single tapestry of changing seasons: the snow-white silence of winter, the riotous bloom of spring, the sultry haze of summer, and the crimson of autumn.

By the time Raine turned eight, he had already fully accustomed himself to his new reality. The child's body no longer seemed an alien prison but had become a compliant instrument, one that he, using the knowledge from his past life, tirelessly tempered and developed. His days were subject to a strict routine: rising with the first rays of the sun, a morning training session at his improvised training ground, and then joint practice with Bell. But with each passing day, the awareness that this was not enough grew stronger in his soul. He was part of a family, the son of simple and hardworking people, and the thought of remaining a freeloader, even a small one, was repugnant to his adult worldview.

One summer evening, as the family gathered for dinner, Raine made his decision.

"Father, Mother," he began, setting aside his wooden spoon. His voice sounded unexpectedly serious for an eight-year-old child. "I want to help you. Truly."

Arthur, his father, looked up from his plate and stared at his son in surprise. He was a sturdy man, his face weathered and covered in a network of wrinkles despite his not-so-advanced age. The forest took much from its servants.

"Help?" he repeated, a chuckle in his voice. "You already help, Raine. You feed the chickens, carry water from the well. For your age, that is more than enough."

"No," Raine answered firmly, meeting his father's gaze. "I want to work with you in the forest. And help Mother with the garden and the homestead. Training strengthens the body, but labor is also training. I must become stronger not only for myself, but for the family."

Livia, his mother, looked at her son with anxiety. Her gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

"Raine, dear, the forest is a dangerous place. Even for adult men. You are still too small."

"I will be careful," he persisted. "I'm not asking you to give me an axe. I can carry your tools, Father. Help drag branches, learn about the trees. I won't be a burden. I promise."

Such determination burned in his amber eyes that his parents exchanged a look. They saw before them not a capricious boy, but a small man making a considered decision. Arthur was silent for a long time, studying his son, and then slowly nodded.

"Alright," he pronounced. "Tomorrow, you will come with me. But if I tell you to stand still—you will stand still. If I tell you to run—you will run without looking back. The forest does not forgive mistakes. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Raine exhaled in relief.

That conversation became a turning point. Childhood, filled only with games and training, was over. Life had begun.

Arthur proved to be a harsh but fair teacher. He made no allowances for his son, but he also didn't give him impossible tasks. At first, Raine simply carried his bag with wedges, a whetstone, and a waterskin. He observed. His mind, honed by decades of teaching martial arts, absorbed everything like a sponge. He watched how his father selected a tree, how he determined the direction of its fall, how he made the first undercut with his huge axe. Every one of Arthur's movements was precise and economical, with nothing superfluous—just pure, effective strength.

Over time, Raine began to apply his own knowledge. He noticed that his father, when dragging small logs to where they could be loaded onto the cart, relied solely on his physical strength.

"Father," he said one day, as Arthur was once again grunting and hauling a thick trunk. "What if we use a lever?"

Arthur stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"A lever? What kind of word is that?"

Raine, without a word, found a strong, long branch and a large stone. He deftly slid the branch under the log, resting it on the stone.

"Now, if you press here," he pointed to the long end of the branch, "it will be much easier to lift."

Arthur grunted skeptically but tried it. The log, which moments ago he had struggled to drag, lifted easily. The man's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Where did you learn that, boy?" he asked, looking at his son with new respect.

"I read it in one of Bell's books," Raine lied.

Such moments became more frequent. Raine suggested how to better distribute weight when carrying, how to stack a woodshed more effectively so it was more stable and dried better. His veteran's perceptiveness was also useful. He noticed animal tracks before his father, learned to read the forest like an open book. He learned to distinguish trees by their bark and leaves, edible mushrooms and berries from poisonous ones. The forest, which at first had seemed to him just a chaotic jumble of trees, gradually revealed its secrets to him, its internal logic and order.

Arthur never ceased to be amazed. He saw that his son was not just a child. There was a maturity in him, a wisdom, and some innate understanding of things that he couldn't explain. But he was a simple man and didn't probe. He was simply proud of his son, and this silent, masculine pride was the best reward for Raine.

Work at home was completely different. If the forest was ruled by strength and endurance, here it was patience and care. His mother, Livia, happily accepted his help. She taught him to weed the garden beds, care for the goats, and collect eggs from the chicken coop.

And here, too, Raine found an application for his knowledge. He noticed that his mother hauled water for the garden in buckets all the way from the well, which was quite far. It cost her a lot of time and energy. Rummaging in his father's shed, he found several old wooden gutters. He tinkered for a few days, fitting them together, and eventually constructed a simple but effective system. Now, water from a small stream flowing nearby ran by gravity into a large barrel at the edge of the garden.

When Livia saw it, she gasped.

"Raine, you're a real inventor!" she exclaimed, sweeping him up into her arms and spinning him around, showering him with kisses.

Raine smiled in embarrassment. In moments like these, he felt just like a child loved by his mother. And that feeling was incredibly warm and right.

He learned to fix the leaky roof of the coop, to build new feeding troughs for the goats. His hands, accustomed in his past life to holding only a sword and a bokken, now confidently handled a hammer and saw. This was a different form of creation, and it brought him deep satisfaction.

Years went by. When the boys turned ten, their friendship had only grown stronger. They were inseparable. Their training reached a new level. Raine no longer taught Bell basic stances and strikes. Now he taught him tactics, the ability to predict an opponent's movements, to use the environment to his advantage. Their spars became longer and more complex. Bell, thanks to his prodigious talent, grew at an incredible speed. He still lost, but now Raine had to exert more and more effort to win.

But their friendship was not limited to the training ground. They explored the forest together, venturing further and further from the village. Raine, thanks to his father's lessons and his own cautious habits, was the perfect guide. He taught Bell how to step silently on the forest floor, how to tell direction by the moss on the trees, how to build a fire with just flint and dry grass.

"Never turn your back to the thicket," he told Bell, as they sat by a small fire, roasting fish caught in the river on sticks. "Always watch what's happening around you. The forest isn't an enemy, but it's not a friend, either. It just is. And the one who survives in it is the one who respects and understands it."

Bell listened with wide-open eyes, absorbing every word. For him, Raine was not just a friend. He was a mentor, an older brother, someone he wanted to be like.

Their frequent visits to Bell's house continued. And the older Raine became, the more clearly he understood that his friend's grandfather was the biggest mystery in this quiet village. The old man, whom everyone just called "Gramps," behaved as befitted a village eccentric. He loved to joke with the neighboring women, tell bawdy anecdotes, and pretend to be weak and feeble when help was needed with chores.

But Raine saw what others did not.

One evening, as he and Bell sat in the living room reading, the old man dozed off in his rocking chair. Suddenly, one of the books slipped from a shelf and fell toward the floor with a dull thud. Raine was sure the old man was asleep. But in that same instant, the old man's hand, which had been resting limply on the armrest, shot down with inhuman speed and caught the book an inch from the floor. Then, just as smoothly, he placed it on his lap and continued to snore softly, as if nothing had happened. His eyes never opened.

Bell hadn't even noticed, engrossed in his story of heroes. But Raine froze, and a chill ran down his spine. It was the movement of a master. Instinctive, honed to perfection, one that the body of a normal old man was incapable of.

Another time, Raine found him alone, looking at the starry sky. The smiling, foolish mask had fallen from his face. The old man's gaze was fixed upward, and in it was such a bottomless sorrow, such an ancient grief, as if he were looking not at the stars, but at a long-lost home. Noticing Raine, he immediately started, and his face resumed its usual good-naturedly foolish expression.

"Ah, Raine!" he exclaimed cheerfully, the former sorrow in his eyes instantly replaced by the familiar sly squint. "Admiring the stars? Beautiful, aren't they, the little devils! Just like young elf maidens in a bathhouse! Heh heh heh!"

Raine said nothing, just nodded politely, already used to such jokes. He understood that this was part of the role the old man was playing for some reason.

"Don't stand in the cold," the old man continued, rising from his spot with an exaggerated groan. "Let's go inside. Bell is waiting, I promised him a new story about heroes. And listening to such things dozens of times alone is deadly boring! Your company won't hurt."

The offer was tempting. Bell's grandfather's stories, despite their fantastical nature, always contained grains of information about this world that couldn't be found in books. Raine followed the old man into their modest but cozy home.

Inside, in the small living room, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm, dancing shadows on the walls, which were completely covered with bookshelves. Bell was already sitting on the floor on a soft fur, his ruby eyes burning with impatience. Seeing Raine, he beamed.

"Raine! You're going to listen too! Great!"

Raine sat next to his friend, and Bell's grandfather settled into his favorite rocking chair, which immediately began to creak rhythmically. The old man packed his pipe, lit it, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling, and began his story.

His voice, usually creaky and mocking, was transformed. It became deep and resonant, like that of a true storyteller. Tonight's story was about a hero who alone challenged a monster born in the darkest depths of the earth—a giant, one-eyed cyclops that could crush rocks with its bare hands.

Bell listened with bated breath. His small fists clenched when the hero was in trouble, and he let out a barely audible sigh of relief when the hero found the strength to get up and continue the fight. He wasn't just listening—he was there, next to the hero, fighting shoulder to shoulder.

Raine also listened, but differently. He analyzed. He noted details in the hero's tactics, observed his strengths and weaknesses, assessed the cunning and power of the monster. But most of all, he watched the storyteller. The old man spoke not like a person retelling a legend. He spoke as if he himself had seen that battle. His voice carried notes of pride, bitterness, and immense respect for those who had fallen in that fight.

The story drew to a close. The hero, gathering his last strength, delivered the decisive blow, and the monster fell. The old man's voice faded, and silence hung in the room, broken only by the crackling of wood in the hearth. Bell, overwhelmed with emotion and tired from the long day, couldn't hold on. His head slowly lolled to the side, and he began to snore softly, having fallen asleep right on the floor, leaning against the warm fur.

Raine was looking at his sleeping friend when the silence was broken by the old man's quiet, changed voice.

"He's always like that," the old man said. His voice had lost its elderly rasp, becoming deeper and more serious. "He gives all of himself, with nothing held back. Whether it's a game or a story."

Raine looked up at him. Bell's grandfather was not looking at him, but at his sleeping grandson, and there was no longer a trace of mirth in his eyes. Only boundless tenderness and the shadow of a deep, hidden anxiety.

"Raine," he continued, without turning his head. "Promise me something."

The sudden change in tone put Raine on guard.

"When I'm gone... look after him."

The words fell into the silence of the room, heavy as stones. Raine was momentarily stunned. It was so unexpected, so serious, that his first reaction was to try to lighten the mood.

"What are you saying, Gramps," he tried to smile. "You'll outlive both me and Bell. You'll live another hundred years, at least, scaring the local widows."

He expected the old man to laugh, to return to his usual role. But that didn't happen.

Bell's grandfather slowly turned his head and looked directly at him. And in that moment, Raine felt an icy chill run down his spine. This was not the gaze of an old man. From the depths of those eyes, which a second ago had been merely the eyes of a village eccentric, something else was looking at him. Something ancient, powerful, and filled with such authority that it took his breath away. All the cheerfulness, all the elderly frailty, fell away from him like a husk. Before Raine sat a being whose gaze seemed to pierce right through him, read his every thought, weigh his very soul. The atmosphere in the room became thick, oppressive. His instincts, honed in a past life, screamed of danger—not physical, but something far more fundamental. It was the gaze of one who stood immeasurably higher.

All his prepared jokes and excuses died in his throat. He understood that this was not a request. It was something akin to a sacred oath being demanded of him. The old man's mind within him instantly assessed the full gravity of the moment. The being before him was not what he seemed, and he was demanding an answer.

Raine slowly, deliberately, nodded. His childish voice sounded firm and confident.

"I promise."

The heavy pressure vanished instantly. The incredible power in the old man's gaze faded, replaced by a deep, almost human relief. He was once again just Bell's grandfather—a tired old man, worrying about his grandson's future.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and in that simple word was sincere gratitude.

He carefully rose, walked over to the sleeping Bell, and covered him with a warm blanket.

"It's time for you to go home, Raine. It's late, your parents will be worried."

Raine stood silently, bowed, and left the house. The night greeted him with its coolness and the bright light of myriad stars. He walked down the deserted village street, but he felt neither fatigue nor drowsiness. In his head, the recent conversation replayed over and over.

He didn't know who Bell's grandfather really was. A spirit? A powerful mage? A god? But whoever he was, tonight he had placed a heavy burden on his childish shoulders.

Raine stopped and looked at his hands. They were still small, childish. But tonight, he felt their weight differently. He was bound to Bell not only by friendship, but by his given word. Their paths, which already ran parallel, were now woven together by an unbreakable oath, sworn under the silent gaze of the stars.