Light fell like the hush of a curtain.
And then—
Icariel stood.
His bare feet touched dirt just beyond the city gates. The sky above him was still tinted in the blue-grey blush of morning. Cool wind whispered past his face, tugging at his dark hair, now messy and falling low over his forehead. His new clothes, gifted by the World Tree, fit perfectly—dark like shadows stitched with green emberlight at the chest, where a single leaf-like crest flickered faintly, pulsing with mana.
Ahead stood the city.
A wooden sign creaked in the breeze above the gate, black letters carved deep into it:
WELCOME TO LISSUS
Icariel stared at it, something stirring in his chest. Not fear. Not excitement.
Something in-between.
"Voice," he murmured, gaze still locked on the city, "what did she mean when she said… What if my fear of death isn't even mine?"
No reply.
"Voice? Don't tell me you're mad because I asked her about you."
"…It's not that," the voice finally muttered, low and distant.
"Oh, now you speak. So it is that."
Icariel smirked. "She said you remember… that you choose not to."
"She was wrong."
"You're saying you have no memories of what you once were?"
"Correct. I have none of my original self. I just… know things."
Icariel's tone hardened. "Are you sure?"
The Voice replied, slower now. "So. You trust her over me?"
"No." Icariel's voice was immediate, clear. "I trust you more than anything. You know that."
Another pause.
Then: "With time… everything will come."
"Fine," he sighed. "If you say so. I only asked her because I wanted to help you."
There was a long stillness. Then, softly: "I appreciate it."
Icariel smiled faintly.
"…What now?" he asked.
No answer. Just the creak of the gate in the wind.
He turned toward Lissus.
"It's the first city I'll enter since being born. The tribe doesn't count," he whispered.
The city was nestled in a shallow valley, surrounded by timeworn stone walls cracked by rain, wind, and age. Moss spilled down like veins, a tired fortress barely standing. The gates, iron-bound and crooked, groaned as they opened.
Two guards stood beneath the archway—one clad in rusted chainmail, the other in stitched leather that had seen too many fights. Their weapons weren't polished—they were used. Worn. Real. Yet their eyes were sharp.
This wasn't a city that thrived.
It was a city that survived.
"Go," the voice said.
Icariel nodded and approached.
"Stop right there," the scarred guard on the left barked. "State your purpose."
"What do I say?" Icariel asked.
"Tell them you're a traveler seeking shelter," the voice instructed.
"I'm a traveler," Icariel said aloud, calm. "Just passing through. Looking for shelter."
The guards exchanged a glance. The one with the scar stepped forward.
"You don't look like a traveler," he said slowly. "Where you from? The north?"
"No," Icariel said. "Farther."
"Farther?" the second guard scoffed. "Farther than the North Peaks? What are you, a runaway noble?"
Icariel said nothing. Just stared.
"What are they even talking about…" he thought.
A long beat.
The scarred guard grunted. "Fine. You don't seem like trouble yet. But listen well—one wrong step, and you're out. Or worse."
"Welcome to Lissus," the second guard muttered. "What's left of it."
He stepped inside.
The breath caught in his throat.
The streets of Lissus were paved with uneven cobblestones, smoothed by decades of boots and wheels. Two- and three-story buildings leaned into each other like old men sharing secrets, their stone and timber frames faded by time. Paint peeled like forgotten memories. Chimneys crooked like broken fingers.
Between the houses, laundry lines sagged with colorless clothes, flapping like tattered flags of endurance.
The city moved like a wounded animal—slow, cautious, but alive.
He breathed in. Not forest. Not mountain. Not silence. But soot, and firewood, and life.
Children played in the dirt by a dried fountain. A drunk slumped against a stone wall, humming off-key. Merchants unfurled cracked crates of apples and stale bread. No gold. No glory. Just people.
So many humans. So much noise. So much... world.
"I really was locked away," he thought. "For better. And worse."
"What now?" he asked.
"Three steps," the voice replied.
"Learn the roads. Know how the city moves."
"Second—get a job. You need money."
"Third—discuss your Superhuman Awakening. You're too exposed. If someone with mana sight sees you, they'll know you're an irregular. The human world doesn't play like the elves'."
"…What about sleep?"
Silence.
Icariel smirked.
"Good old floor bed, huh?"
"For now," the voice said.
Yet the people stared.
Not with fear. Just... unease. As though they sensed something was off in the way he moved, or the quiet hunger in his eyes. He didn't understand it, not yet.
He spoke silently to the voice in his head.
"I've figured out the layout," he said. "Three main roads."
The voice said nothing. He went on anyway.
"First one's crowded—merchants shouting, selling anything you can wear or wield. Clothes. Armor. Blades. Even some cheap mana trinkets."
He paused near a food vendor, watching steam rise off skewers of meat.
"Second road's for food. Fruits, meat, grain. No jeprak, though."
He remembered Elena slicing jeprak root, her fingers fast, her voice humming.
"Third road... messy. People eat, drink, sing, brawl, and pass out. I think they call it... restaurants?"
"And the rest are homes," he said aloud, quietly, "and in the center, there's a building like the Elven Princess's castle. Guards are different there—sharp-eyed, cleaner. That's important."
Then, something else stirred in his thoughts.
"I noticed something strange, too," he said slowly. "Weapons. They're everywhere. More than anything else. Every merchant with a booth sells blades, spears, even old crossbows. I thought they were decorations at first… I heard some kids talking in a corner. They said monsters come out at night. One of them swore his brother saw something with black fur and horns last week near the south wall."
A silence passed between them.
"Lissus isn't just a city that survived," Icariel muttered. "It's a city still under siege."
And then it flowed back into:
"We both know you can handle monsters now—but well done," the Voice said. "You've remembered well."
It had taken him three hours to learn the roads.
"Next," the voice added, "is money."
Icariel furrowed his brow. "Money?"
"Yes. It's one of the most vital elements of human life. Without it, most starve. With it, even the wicked thrive."
"I don't understand."
"Think of it like this: you exchange coins for food. The more coins, the better the food. The better the shelter. The safer your life."
"So... coins for survival," he murmured.
"Yes."
"In the mountains, we never used anything like this," Icariel muttered.
"Because you lived by your own hands. Grew your food. Built your home. There you earned food by hunting but here, you must earn survival."
"How?"
"Work. Find something you can do. They give you coin. You trade that coin for food or for what you need."
"That sounds... fair."
"It is. And it isn't."
He wandered for two more hours. His stomach growled.
"I asked the bread shop lady," he muttered. "She told me she doesn't take boys. Asked at two more shops—they said I'm too young."
He stood in the street, frustrated, cursing the sky under his breath. Across the road, a filthy blue-haired girl stared at him from behind a crumbling wall. Barefoot. Wrapped in a shawl too big for her frame.
She flushed red and ducked behind the corner.
A paper fluttered from her hand. Icariel picked it up.
One-on-One Battles – No Rules
10 gold for participating – 20 gold for a win
Location: [Redacted] – Ask the Right Faces
"What is this?"
"Underground fighting," the voice said. "No rules. High reward. Higher risk. Some die. Some kill."
He dropped the paper like it burned. "Not for me."
But the girl was still watching him. He sensed her eyes even if he couldn't see them. Hunger. Fear. Hope.
But he didn't care.
Five hours passed. Every door shut in his face. Too young. Too weak. Too something.
"This city's cursed," he muttered, dragging his feet to a corner inn with cracked shutters and ivy crawling up the walls. A woman was closing up. Old. Stout. Her short dark hair curled behind her ears, tied messily with a strip of faded cloth. Her apron was stained. Her back bent slightly as she turned.
"Excuse me," he said, desperate. "I'm looking for work. Do you need help?"
She looked him over—boots scuffed, hands calloused, but his clothes clung too neatly, untouched by soot or sweat. Like he'd dressed for a lord's hall, not a tavern floor. Too soft.
"You're too young," she said at last. "You wouldn't last a night with the drunkards in here. Go home."
He clenched his fists. Not again.
"Please," he said, voice trembling but firm. "I've been walking all day. Everyone shut their doors because of my age. I'm new here. But I'm strong. Capable. I can do this. Just try me. Once."
The old woman paused. Rubbed her lower back.
"Hmph. My spine is killing me," she grumbled. "Fine. Come tomorrow morning. Do well, I'll pay you three bronze coins a day."
He turned to the voice. "That fair?"
"Yes."
Icariel grinned. "Yes! Thank you!" He took her hands with both of his, bowing his head. "I'll be here early. I won't disappoint you."
She raised an eyebrow. "As you wish. What's your name?"
"Icariel."
"I'm Alna," she said. "Nice to meet you, kid."
As she turned toward the door, she muttered under her breath, "Where have I heard that name before...?"
He stood still in the darkening street, heart calm for the first time in days.
Icariel sat against the wall, arms around his knees.
The wind was cooler now.
Then the Voice spoke again—quiet and firm.
"Now, let's talk about the third thing you need today."
"Third?"
"The night is long. It's time we discuss your Superhuman Awakening."
Icariel lifted his head.
"You've only touched the strength. You don't know anything about the rest."
A pause.
"Tonight, I'll tell you everything. About the skills. The stages. The price. Because right now—you're a sword with no edge. And if someone sees you glowing like this… you'll be hunted."