The golden afternoon stretched over Ondula as Clive arrived at the city gates. The scent of baked bread and dusty roads mingled in the air. As directed by the tavern owner, he spotted three horse-drawn carts lined up next to a towering stack of wooden crates filled with fresh vegetables harvested from the mountain fields.
A middle-aged man with a slightly hunched back from years of labor was lifting a crate of purple radishes. His face was carved by the sun and worry. He moved with the steady rhythm of someone who had done the same job his entire life.
Clive approached with calm steps. "Excuse me, sir."
The man set down the crate with a heavy thud, straightening his back with a sigh. He looked Clive up and down, his gaze sharp and guarded. "Yes? What is it?"
"I heard you're heading to Arion. Is that true?" Clive asked politely.
"Maybe," the man replied curtly, still assessing him. "Depends on who's asking."
"I'm a traveler. I need a ride to get to Arion," Clive explained.
The man let out a dry chuckle, void of humor. "Rides aren't free, boy. These carts need upkeep, the horses need feed, and I need to eat."
"I understand. How much do I need to pay?" Clive reached into a cloth pouch given to him by Wing Shao.
The man glanced at the worn pouch and shook his head. He nodded toward the remaining stack of crates. "I don't need your pocket change. Save it for your meals in Arion. What I need is a strong back and a pair of hands not afraid of hard work. You see all this?"
Clive nodded.
"Help me load all three of these carts until there's not a single crate left on the ground. Then, you can ride in one of them all the way to the Arion market. Fair?"
A genuine smile appeared on Clive's face. For the first time in ten years, someone was judging him by his strength—not his name or his past. "Very fair, sir," he replied. "I'll start now."
The man nodded with satisfaction. "Good. I'm Barto. Just call me that. I'll be watching from over there."
Barto sat on a wooden bench nearby while Clive began working. The first crate felt heavy, but after ten years of training at the Heavenly Temple, it felt light to him. He lifted it with ease and neatly stacked it into the first cart. Then came the second crate, the third, and so on.
There was a rhythm to the task. The earthy smell clinging to the root vegetables, the vibrant colors of the produce, and the satisfaction of seeing the pile on the ground slowly disappear. Sweat soaked his brow, muscles engaged—and for a moment, Clive felt normal. Not an heir who had lost everything, not a seeker of vengeance. Just a young man working under the afternoon sun. And that feeling... felt incredibly good.
An hour later, the last crate was loaded. The three carts were now packed full of the harvest.
"All done, Mr. Barto," Clive said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Barto stood up, his hunched frame seeming a bit straighter. A flicker of admiration shone in his eyes. "Good work, boy. Quick and tidy. You've got real strength." He walked over to the last cart, checking the rope bindings. "Just need to tighten this a bit…"
He reached for the topmost crate—one filled with sparkling crystal yams—and attempted to shift it. But as he exerted force, his face suddenly turned pale. He gasped, his breath caught. His hands released the crate and clutched his chest.
"Mr. Barto!" Clive shouted at the sudden change.
The older man staggered, his eyes wide with terror as he collapsed to the ground like a sack of grain.
Damn it! Clive rushed to his side. Onlookers began gathering, whispering in panic. Clive knelt, ignoring them all. He checked Barto's pulse on his neck—weak and irregular.
Think, Clive, think! What did Grandpa Yuan teach you?
He closed his eyes, pushing aside the panic. Hovering his palm a few inches above Barto's chest, he released a flicker of his Tension—not to attack, but to scan. In his mind, he could "see" the flow of energy in Barto's body—a dark clump clogging the main artery near his heart. A heart attack. A severe one.
I have to help him. But here? Out in the open? Doubt whispered. But Grandpa Yuan's voice rang louder in his mind, "Your power is not just for you—it's for the balance of the world."
Clive made his choice. He looked at the crowd. "Give us space! Quickly, get a healer!" he commanded with surprising authority. His voice made them step back.
Then, Clive placed both palms on Barto's chest. A soft emerald light, like morning dew, flowed from his hands. It wasn't hot or blinding, but cool and fragrant, like moss and earth after the rain. Green Tension. Life energy.
"Stay calm, sir. Don't resist. Let this energy flow," Clive whispered, more to himself.
Cold sweat drenched his forehead. This wasn't a physical fight—it was a delicate operation. He guided his Green Tension with precision, transforming it into a gentle current that entered Barto's veins, seeking the blockage. He found it. Carefully, his energy began to dissolve it, particle by particle, letting it melt into the bloodstream without causing further damage.
Fifteen minutes felt like eternity. Barto's face, once blue, slowly regained color. His ragged breath grew steady. At last, with a long exhale, Barto's eyes opened slowly.
The first thing he saw was the face of a young man drenched in sweat, with a soft green light glowing around his chest.
"What... what happened?" Barto rasped. "I... I saw a dark tunnel…"
"You passed out, sir," Clive replied, withdrawing his energy. Relief nearly buckled his knees. "But you've passed the critical moment. You'll be fine."
Barto looked at Clive with disbelief. "That light... your power... Are you a mage from a Temple? Or a Healer from the Sacred Order?"
Clive shook his head. He helped Barto sit up against the cart wheel. "I'm just a traveler."
Barto chuckled softly, this time full of awe. "Travelers don't wield powers like that. You just pulled me from death's door, boy. I owe you my life. Who are you, really?"
Clive fell silent. It was the question he feared most for ten years. The name he had buried deep. The name that was both a curse and his inheritance. He met Barto's clear and sincere eyes—a man who had just been given a second chance at life.
This is the moment, he decided. Stop being a ghost. Start being myself.
It was a gamble. The first step to reclaim his name.
Clive looked into the man's eyes and said calmly, "My name is Clive." Then, after a pause that felt like eternity, he spoke the words that would change everything.
"...Clive Zenith."
Silence. The evening wind seemed to stop blowing. Barto's face froze. A storm of emotion crossed his eyes: confusion, then understanding, then overwhelming awe—and finally… fear. Not fear of Clive, but of the name and everything tied to it. He remembered the news from ten years ago, the wanted posters he glimpsed in town, and the enormous bounty offered by the Leiva family.
Dead or alive.
And that boy—the one who vanished—had just saved his life.