The air in the town of Vernhold was crisp that morning, tinged with the scent of baked bread and the distant brine of sea breeze from the southern coast. Colorful awnings stretched over narrow cobbled streets, the clamor of carts, bartering merchants, and chatter filling the atmosphere with life. Yet for Ren, who stood shrouded beneath a dark traveling cloak, the world felt silent. Still. Detached.
He stood at the edge of the old district, his boots planted firmly in a place he remembered all too well.
The inn should've been right here.
Thirteen years ago, it was a humble wooden building with ivy crawling over its walls and a crooked sign that read "The Willow Hearth." The scent of jasmine always clung to the curtains, and inside, laughter rang through like music.
Ren clenched his fists. The building before him now was unfamiliar—an apothecary with polished marble walls and golden-framed windows. People came and went, none with a second glance for the dark figure standing outside.
He stepped inside. The scent of herbs and incense replaced the jasmine of his memory. Shelves lined the walls, and a woman behind the counter smiled professionally.
"Welcome to Serapha Remedies. How can I help you?"
Ren's voice was quiet but steady. "There was an inn here. Thirteen years ago. The Willow Hearth. What happened to it?"
The woman blinked. Then tilted her head. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to. We've always been here."
His heart lurched. That was a lie. He remembered the creaking stairs, the chipped mugs, the warm smiles of two twin sisters—Hana and Hina. The ones who had welcomed him when he first arrived in this world. Not because he was a hero. But because he was alone.
He tried again. "Two sisters ran the place. Hana and Hina. You must've heard of them."
The woman's polite expression didn't falter. "I'm sorry, sir. There's no record of any such establishment."
He left without another word.
He spent two days searching.
Every street. Every merchant. Every city archive he could sneak into.
No one remembered. Or worse—they pretended not to.
Ren's rage simmered beneath his skin. Every memory of the girls—the way they'd argue over who cooked better stew, the shy way Hina would blush when he thanked her, the tears in Hana's eyes when he left for the Demon Lord's castle—fueled the storm in his chest.
Had they been erased? Did no one care?
That morning, on the third day, as he sat under the overhang of an abandoned stable, storm clouds rolled in across the horizon. Thunder grumbled like a warning drum.
Then he heard it: whispers, gasps, and the unmistakable shift in the crowd's energy.
People began gathering in the central plaza.
Ren rose, pulling his hood lower, moving through the thickening throng. He didn't need to ask what was happening. The whispers gave it away:
"The Saint is here! Lady Reika!"
"She's even more beautiful in person…"
"Look, her knight! That's Sir Jiro, isn't it?"
Ren reached the plaza's edge and froze.
There she was.
Reika.
Draped in flowing white robes etched with golden scripture, a glowing staff in her delicate hand. Her hair was longer now, glimmering silver, and her face was as serene as he remembered—an expression crafted to inspire devotion. She waved gracefully at the crowd, smiling, eyes soft.
It was a mask.
He knew it.
A lie.
A face that had turned away as he bled out, betrayed.
The emotions hit him all at once—like a dam breaking.
Anger. Grief. Rage. Hatred.
He couldn't hear the cheers anymore. Couldn't feel the cold wind.
Only the roaring inside his skull.
Bloodlust. It clawed its way to the surface.
He took one step forward.
And then another.
The crowd blurred around him. His breathing was shallow.
His eyes locked onto hers.
And he whispered beneath his breath:
"Reika…"