After stepping out of the chapel, his eldest looked at him, puzzled, eyes misted like dawn over water.

“Seems your back’s straighter, like a spear?”

The old knight thumped his son’s chest. His fist hammered steel, heat like a brand, yet no pain.

“I’ve got things to do,” he said, voice light as a passing breeze. “Watch your mother. She stays up weaving for your younger ones, though they don’t need that many. And Aurek and Barbara—nothing much to fuss over. But if they cry, you comfort them.”

He gave him another punch, a drumbeat that broke the mutter about how a knight shouldn’t show weakness.

“You’re the eldest,” he said, words like a stone set down.

He swallowed the “take care,” a pebble rolled and finally gulped.

Instructions, blessings, farewells—no need to speak. Kennett would understand, like a river holding its course under ice.

He always would, like dawn that returns.

He took the reins and headed for the frontier town of Toscana. The fire in his chest flared, a coal fanned alive. Even Worby felt that old reckless soul wake, trot swelling into a full gallop like wind through wheat.

As in those years, the blond knight raised spear and sword for a face shining like sun on steel.

He reached his manor, went straight upstairs, burst into his room, hunting for his old armor, his old banner, dust motes swirling like fireflies.

But his wife was there, carefully polishing the armor, her hands moving like rain on bronze.

He had always cleaned it himself, twice a week, without fail. She would huff, “It’s old—who knows if it’s still strong? Buy a new set,” scorn like frost on the plates, never helping.

He’d thought she didn’t understand the honor that regimental harness held, a star pressed into iron.

Now he understood. She feared the moment he rode to war, a fear like a thin knife under the ribs.

“Can’t you… not go?” she asked, voice a cracked reed, eyes timid as a fawn.

It hurt.

He pressed his lips. His wrinkled brow knotted tighter, lines like plowed fields.

“My… my happiest years were when I’d just become a knight,” he said, memory like the first spring wind.

“I had no money. No fine blade. But I had comrades of every color, plains wide enough to ride, people who needed help, and you.”

“Each day, after drills, I’d patrol the frontier. I’d answer pleas, slay beasts, drive off monsters, brag in taverns, and bask in praise like warm firelight.”

“No one forced me. No heavy duty, no weight. It was simple, instinctive kindness. I felt grand then—open and upright, brave, like sunlight on steel.”

“Only in that short stretch, I led no one, wore no fine armor or crowds. I was a plain wandering knight, a leaf blown along the road.”

“I felt…”

“…like I lived as a hero,” he said, a torch held against rain.

She closed her eyes and whispered, afraid he’d vanish like fog, “Robin…”

“Mm, I’m listening,” he said, voice a low drum.

“Can’t you just… not go?”

He shut his eyes and sighed, breath like wind in reeds.

“…”

“…I understand. I won’t stop you,” she said, hands lowering like leaves.

She dipped her head, wiped her eyes with a wrist, then kept polishing, strokes soft as moonlight.

He reached to help, but she pushed his hand back, firm as stone. He found a chair and sat, wood creaking like an old boat.

“You—this armor’s left chain is loose. Watch it. It frays like rope.”

“Mm.”

“The right elbow plate’s bent. Ah—let me pad it with leather. And the visor, and…”

She fussed on, listing things to mind, her words a gentle rain. From the armor’s age she always complained about, to how much to pack, to eating daily—no skipping—he was getting old. And so on, a thread drawn long.

They weighed the other’s needs more than their own. That’s why they had Disputes, minds tangled like vines.

Once they found common ground, their bond ran deeper than any guess, roots gripping stone.

She had quietly packed his gear and coin. Robin wasn’t surprised. Maybe their first Dispute was already the start of mutual compromise, two tides meeting.

He watched his harness go from clean to shining. Her hands were surer than his, deft as swallows.

In the end, every feast thins out. Sweet words meet their last day. Armor too is polished to its final gleam.

He would depart, a ship pushing off a quiet harbor.

He fitted the plates by habit, one piece after another, like stacking moonlit tiles. This time, his wife watched in silence, gaze steady as a lantern.

“Can you come back?” she asked, voice soft as dew.

Seeing him off ended at the door. Tears were spent. No use for flowery sorrow. Decades of marriage didn’t need ceremony, just breath and a hand’s warmth.

“I… I don’t know. I can’t promise,” he said, words heavy as stones.

“Then I hope you come back alive,” she said, hope a small candle cupped in two hands.

He tugged a stiff smile, crooked as a cracked mask.

“Mm. I’ll try.”

Words fell quiet, snow settling.

He would go without regret or shame, heart a clear blade.

Under those plain words, the fire in his chest burned hotter, a coal fanned by quiet wind.

He passed through the garden and saw the twins sparring, blades flashing like sun on water. He ruffled their hair, said his chest was fine, promised next time he’d show his real skill.

Mm—if there is a next time, Robin thought, the thought a ribbon of smoke.

He left the town, greeted folks as usual. He didn’t see his eldest—fine either way—like a cloud slipping past the moon.

The old knight’s road began anew, hooves ticking like rain on stone.

On the way he met all kinds of people. With the skill of the former Grand Captain of the Royal Black Briar Knights, he killed many monsters and Demonfolk, and saved several cities, blood like ink drying. He didn’t count them.

Those weren’t what he chased anymore, trophies dulled with dust.

He met a youth bound for the Time Ruins. By chance, a junior named Sol. He’d never met him, but comrades had praised that fine Black Briar knight, his name passed like a flame.

More reckless than his eldest. Robin vowed to find what made his own son outshine him, pride a stubborn ember.

“I’m heading to the Time Ruins! Joining the volunteer army to resist the invaders!” the youth called, sword lifted, spirits high, banners in a fair wind.

“You could die,” the old knight said, voice flat as iron. He’d seen too many squires without the will to fight; truth proved they weren’t fit for full knighthood, like straw helmets in a storm.

But they had the freedom to choose death or fade from the line, living out their years as common folk, leaves drifting downstream.

He offered only a warning, a pebble tossed into a river.

“Sure. But where isn’t there death?” A shadow crossed Sol’s face, then he brightened. “Captain, a Divine Being gave me counsel this time.”

“Counsel, huh? Sounds like we’re alike—same kind,” Robin said, a smile thin as a blade.

Fools who want to be heroes. He chuckled, urged his mount, and edged ahead, slipping past Sol’s puzzled gaze like a shadow in sunlight.

“Come on, young man. Let’s see whose horse runs faster,” he shouted, grin a glint of steel.

…It was an ordinary place. Hard to believe such a quiet hamlet stood at the front of a Dispute, a storm behind a still pond.

No high towers or forts. Only a few simple houses—and an obelisk that seized the eye from miles away. Its grandeur was a mountain bared to the sky.

Joining the volunteer army was simple. First, you lined up, bodies braided like grain.

Staff, full of respect, set him down. Only heroes came to fight here. The old knight heard a commotion ahead, noise like surf.

“Sorry, you don’t meet the requirements.”

“Why not? Why can’t my adventuring party go in?”

“This isn’t a hunt you can enter and exit at will, nor the monster tide front you know. Please understand,” said the clerk, tone like cool rain on hot stone.

“I know it’s dangerous, but that’s why you need adventurers. I can sign a contract,” the leader said, hands reaching like branches.

It got noisy. Sol hailed a clerk and asked if they needed help, his voice a steady pole in wind.

She gave a wry smile. This wasn’t a problem muscle could solve. Not the first time, it seemed, grooves worn into stone.

Robin opened his mouth, slow as old hinges. He understood. With years of command, refusing adventuring parties for monster fights felt unthinkable, a gate barred in clear daylight.

There must be a battlefield he’d never seen, and a reason hard as iron.

After a time, the party leader accepted the explanation, apologized, and left blushing, steps quick as sparrows. Then it was Robin and Sol’s turn.

“Please tell me your names.”

“I’m Robin Toscana, and this is Sol Bagg. May I ask—”

“We’ll inscribe your names on the obelisk,” said the clerk. She was a short-haired girl in a maid’s dress, sharp-eyed and grave. She turned and pointed at the towering stone behind her, taking the lead from the first word. “It’s the Heroes’ Tower, blessed by a Divine Being. It may be drowned, it may be forgotten, but it will never collapse. History will remember your names—if you can read them up there.”

Robin and Sol were ordinary. They couldn’t read letters carved a kilometer away, eyes only lanterns in human skulls.

“That’s a pity,” she said, voice a breeze that shrugged.

She shook her head and waved, hand flicking like a fan. The world changed at her snap.

Space peeled back, exposing a hollow, a long road to Elsewhere. The Unknown startled them, minds fluttering like birds.

“Wait—this is all it takes to join the volunteer army? We don’t need briefings?” Robin asked, a gate without a guard set before him.

“Yes. Exactly,” the maid said, solemn. She smoothed hair the torn air had ruffled, a calm palm over storm. “Just go in, and you’ll understand. It’s not only disaster; it’s a gift—a gift a Divine Being gives, sized for what your soul can bear.”

“But what’s the situation? What do we do, who do we kill—at least—”

“Once you’re inside, you’ll understand.”

“I mean you—”

“Sol, let’s go,” the old knight said, mounting first, his words a spur.

“But—”

“We’re here already. More questions won’t change it. Come,” he said, voice a clasp closing.

His hand trembled again. Robin gripped his lance. He couldn’t bear the blaze in his chest, a furnace roaring under ribs.

Sol muttered about the clerk’s cold tone, yet he kept close and followed Robin into the Otherworld, steps like shadows clinging.

For a heartbeat, something clenched his heart. He felt near torn apart, then snapped back to normal, glass warmed after frost.

A world made only of time—was it too unfriendly to humans? The thought brushed like drifting sand.

How to survive? How to meet others? How to split fights? Questions rose like crows taking wing.

Robin had thought, but all he knew was this: the human front against invaders from Elsewhere. The rest was smoke and distance.

Once he arrived at the Time Ruins, he understood why the clerk refused to explain, truth a hammer to the mind.

Worby stamped uneasily, hooves tapping like drums before thunder.

No solid position. No formed army. No unified line. Only chaos like torn surf.

Everyone fought and flailed in an ocean of beasts, every moment, every breath, swimmers in a storm.

Winged troops sent glowing arrow-rain at the black earth. Dragons barreled through the beast tide. Sword-light split sky and ground again and again. Black or scarlet blood fell like waterfalls.

Roars shattered eardrums. Shockwaves of charges tore the land, thunder ripping cloth.

This was a mythic battlefield, where even physics felt brittle. No room for mortals at all, moths before a bonfire.

“Sol!”

He shouted, turning to find his companion and pull back. At least this bright youth had to live, hope a banner held high in gale.

But he gaped. Light blossomed on Sol’s face, forming a fine helm and crest. Six wings unfurled behind him. Armor grew ornate filigree, glowing like living gold.

His steed swelled into power and handsomeness. Muscles became iron cables. The whole frame radiated the beauty of strength, a statue come alive.

Sol roared and drove his stallion through the beasts. He fought. Each cut drew rosy light from the sky. Each stride boomed with thunder. He looked like a hero of legend, a song given flesh.

“This is… a Divine Being’s gift?”

Robin waited, thrilled for his own change, heart rising like a kite caught by wind.

But—nothing.

He waited long. His body didn’t change at all, the silence a cold rain on hot coals.

The armor was the same old shell, scuffed like dried bark; the hand, the same aged hand, veined like winter branches.

"Oh," Robin understood, and a bitter smile creaked like rain on rust. "Is it because I'm already old?"

The ache struck first, a pin of cold in the heart. Has my soul cracked like a clay vessel, too broken to hold power? So—old, after all.

He looked out, and dread swelled like a black tide. The beasts came like surf in storm, then, like a hurricane, they were upon him.

"This really is humanity's calamity..." His breath left him like mist at bleak dawn.

He wheeled his horse and lifted his lance; the old knight spoke as if laying a wreath on snow.

He did not call for his comrades’ aid; to drag the field like an anchor for one man was what the former Grand Knight-Commander despised most.

Fear pricked, then he cut it away like a weed. Before he even thought of escape, he outlawed the thought.

We haven’t even met the enemy; how could he speak of defeat? The sail hasn’t tasted the storm yet.

The fire in his chest still burned, a brazier steady in snow, untouched by the gulf in strength.

After all, his wish was to be a hero, a banner in the wind, not merely to grow strong.

"At least, I can still heft a lance, still raise a sword!" The words rang like steel on dawn frost.

The old knight smothered his tremor, then roared at the monsters, at humanity’s enemies, like a lone wolf baying at thunder.

"Royal Black Bramble Knights—Grand Knight-Commander, Robin Toscana!" His name cracked the air like a pennon snapping.

He raised his sword with solemn grace and gave the knight’s salute. Then he took shield and lance, sealed his helm, and touched, like a hearthbrand, the Black Bramble crest on his chest.

"Charge!"

As before, as in the loveliest years, sunshine on mail and wind in mane.

Facing fangs and claws, the knight rode on, spurring toward the wicked tide, storm at his back; beneath this lance, he would not look back.

The Divine Being’s gift had indeed granted him a small blessing. The fatigue of long roads washed off like dust in rain; slack muscles filled like wineskins. Yet before that beast-host, a calamity like wildfire, it still wasn’t enough.

Still...

Where does a hero, in the end, lay his head? After the last ember gutters?

Of course—to die on the battlefield, blood on sand, sunset in the eyes.

For a blessing like this, his heart felt full, a warm cup in cold wind.

"Charge!!!!!!"

In this bright age, people know why they live and why they die; by their own will, they sketch their futures like fire on night.

When the curtain falls, they can still say one word, like an evening bell—satisfied.

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"Charge."

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