What’s the most important thing in this life, the lantern you hold against the wind?
That was the last piece of advice the orphanage director handed me as I walked out under a pale morning sky.
What is it?
At least to me: wealth for a lifetime, a beauty at my side, freedom like a stray breeze, a pack of rowdy friends and a heap of drinking buddies, laughter spilling like wine.
Some will call me shallow, a pond that only reflects the moon’s surface.
I can’t deny it—I am very shallow, as plain as sunlight on a tin roof.
Even now, with an Archmage license in my pocket, my head rings with coins and cushions, not higher spellcraft or service to the Empire, not banners, not oaths.
If you think the above is nonsense, then shake my hand—the compass needle in our chests points the same way, steady as iron.
I told the director that. He ignored me, shut the gate with a dry thud, and drew a hard line like chalk on stone.
Maybe it had something to do with me burning through ten years’ rations in a single year and being a walking calamity for ten straight, a storm that never let up.
Oh, not that I overate; every coin went into patching roofs and mending walls—the home drank money like cracked clay drinks rain.
Hm? Why only ten years?
Right, I forgot one thing. I’m the reincarnation of Birand, the Hero, a name like thunder tucked under a cloak.
Hey, don’t walk away; this isn’t adolescent delusion, not fireflies I mistook for stars.
When I was seven, for reasons I still can’t name, I fished up a sliver of memory from the dark—Birand’s memory, a shard glinting like glass in a stream.
I learned how to train Battle Aura and magic, steps traced like constellations on old parchment.
You know the drill after that; it’s the protagonist starter pack, a script written in the clouds.
Among kids my age, I haven’t met a rival yet; their blades and books fall short like shadows at noon.
On every troublemaker ledger, my full name glows: Eli Aestor, a smear of ink that never dries.
I bet that monk director knows me best of all, barring the old gate guard who watched the sun rise and set from his stool.
They say an Archmage named me. It means the one who forgets and loses everything, a boat cut loose on a foggy river.
Given my shallow nature and that faint scrap of memory, you already know what I aim to do, like an arrow drawn and waiting.
Find all of Birand Aste’s memories. Find myself, as if I were a name buried under snow.
Shameful to say, I’m twenty-eight now, and only just found the rough location hidden inside the first memory—the next piece flickers on the Empire’s border like a campfire in the hills.
I checked the itinerary on the table, drained my coffee, and left a letter, the deed, and some cash for my servant—last gifts to my old retainer, laid out like offerings.
And then my journey began, the road unfurling like a gray ribbon.
Or my nightmare began, a howl stitched into the night.
From the capital to the frontier, there’s no direct line, and the roads buck and bite like stubborn mules.
It took four days of rattling to learn that, bones clicking like beads.
I crossed four teleport arrays, lights blooming like lilies, then spent three days in a carriage, bumping along mountain paths until the border finally rose like a dark ridge.
I really ought to report up the chain—our border management might be a bit too lax, the fence leaning like old posts.
See, I’d just stepped off the carriage when a ring of bandits closed in like hungry dogs circling a lone traveler.
“This friend,” Bandit E said, pressing a knife to my neck like a cold leaf, his tone almost calm, “we don’t want trouble. Hand over the money, and we won’t hurt you.”
I blinked, dust floating in a sunbeam. “And if I don’t?”
Bandit E scratched his head, eyes empty as a dry well. “Don’t pay, huh… hey. Big brother, what do we do if he won’t pay? Boss didn’t teach me that.”
Bandit A stared for about five seconds, a flat sky with no birds, then grunted, “We kill you.”
Bandit E nodded and snarled at me, fierceness like a paper tiger. “Hurry! If you don’t pay, my big brother will kill me!”
I bit down a laugh and slanted a look. “Do I look rich to you?”
The five bandits froze, then swept me up and down like a gust through an empty room, and shook their heads in sync. “Nope.”
Right then I wore rough cloth, a battered peasant cap, and two days of sweat clung to me like weeds.
I nodded. “Then what are you wasting time for?”
Bandit A bowed his head, thought for a long beat, then snapped up like a spring. “Right!”
Bandit B bobbed his head, a duck on a pond. “Right, right.”
Bandit D pointed at me, words tripping like loose stones. “B-better s-search him. M-maybe he’s f-faking it.”
You stutter like that and still chose banditry? Wind and rain will eat you.
They pawed my jacket pockets, patted my flat trousers, then Bandit A dug at his nose and snorted. “Tch. Poorer than me. Dead broke.”
I rolled my eyes. I’m too lazy to argue, like a cat ignoring a barking dog.
I rubbed my hands. “So… can I go now?”
Bandit C pulled a crystal ball from his pack, its light pulsing like a jellyfish, waved me off, then turned to Bandit A. “Big Boss says he caught a girl. We should clock out and head back for celebration wine.”
I twitched a smile. Even bandits use crystal balls now; times change like rivers changing course.
Watching them turn on their heels, I had to admit—sorry, Empire. At this level, there’s no urgent need to tighten border security; the weeds can be left to sway.
Next up, it’s my hero-saves-beauty moment. But… any girl who gets caught by clowns like these might need a hospital visit; maybe her brain’s rain-soaked and soft.
Meanwhile, the Demonic Lord—yes, the very one with a crown of night—had been caught by such bandits. She was tied to a pillar, ropes biting like snakes, a wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth, her pretty, small face brimming with grievance like a storm bank. Why is she here, why, why, why!
