Morning mist blanketed the garden in a soft veil, dew clinging to the vegetables and wildflowers. Ryuuji crouched quietly by the raised bed, his calloused fingers brushing over sprouting basil and onions. Beside him, Kiko sat cross-legged, her hands balled into tiny fists as she stared intensely at a teacup.
"Papa, look!" she said, brows furrowed with effort. "Gentle Heat!"
The spell fizzled to life—a shimmering glow gathering in her palm before flowing into the ceramic cup.
Ryuuji tilted his head curiously. "Is it warm?"
Kiko poked the tea inside, then squealed. "Too hot! Too hot!"
He laughed, taking the cup and giving it a small cooling spell of his own. "A little strong on the heat. But you're getting better."
She beamed. "Really?"
"Of course." He handed the cup back. "The first time I tried that spell, I blew the whole kettle apart."
Her eyes sparkled. "You did?!"
"Oh yes," he grinned. "Right into my master's beard."
That earned a fit of giggles. "Was he mad?"
Ryuuji's smile faded a little, though it remained fond. He looked toward the distant forest, beyond which the mountain rose like a jagged guardian above the trees.
"No," he said softly. "He just laughed and handed me another kettle."
—
His name had been Dromgul Ironhand. A dwarf unlike any Ryuuji had ever met—towering in spirit, if not in size. He lived in a forge hidden within a volcano, hammering out swords that sang with power, plows that turned soil like butter, and armor that could withstand dragonfire.
When Ryuuji was just twenty—barely surviving in the other world after being ripped from Earth—it was Dromgul who took him in. The old dwarf didn't care that he was human. Didn't even blink when he learned Ryuuji had the so-called Gift of the World.
"Gift or no gift," Dromgul once grunted, "ya can't swing a sword if yer arms are twigs and yer heart's hollow."
Under him, Ryuuji had learned to swing hammers and shape metal. To listen to the breath of a blade. To speak through steel.
When Dromgul passed—peacefully, as all great dwarves do—he left Ryuuji everything. His knowledge, his secrets, his forge's fire.
Now, all those memories lived quietly in Ryuuji's hands. The tools in his small workshop were forged by his own skill. The hoe he used in the garden had adamantium rivets. His woodcutting axe could split stone. Even the nails in the roof were tempered with runes only master smiths knew.
And in the center of his home—mounted above the hearth—rested his old sword.
Yamarashi.
The Demon-Slayer.
Forged from pure orichalcum laced with dragonbone ash. It hummed with magic even in sleep. Ryuuji hadn't touched it in years—since the day he vanished from the war.
But he cleaned it once a week.
Just in case.
—
Later that afternoon, Ryuuji sat on the porch, sharpening a sickle while Kiko practiced Feather Lift—a beginner's levitation spell. She had successfully floated three rocks and a particularly stubborn potato.
Kaen and Yuki—the Crimson Wolves—lay in the shade, resting. Yuki's belly had grown slightly rounder, her breaths calm and deep. Kaen's eyes followed Kiko protectively, though he remained still, always quiet.
Ryuuji glanced up from his work, watching Kiko float a fourth stone into the air.
She struggled with it—her face scrunched in focus.
"Don't force it," Ryuuji said gently. "Magic listens best when you're calm."
Kiko nodded, and exhaled slowly. The rock steadied in the air.
"There you go," he murmured, smiling.
As the stone floated gently down into the pile, Ryuuji leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the breeze wash over him.
So this was what peace felt like.
No blood. No battle cries. No haunted eyes.
Just sunshine. Magic stones. A five-year-old who believed in beetles and breakfast spells.
And yet… something stirred inside him.
He hadn't told Kiko yet, but last night—while fetching firewood near the cliffside—he had felt a presence. A familiar one. A pulse in the air like a dragon's breath—ancient and powerful.
Elysia.
He hadn't seen her since that day—the final battle. She had watched him from the skies, her wings cloaked in ash and fury. And when the war was over, when he vanished into the mists of the world, she never came.
He knew why.
She had kingdoms to return to. People to protect. A throne built on centuries of survival. The Dragon Queen couldn't follow a man who wanted to farm radishes in the woods.
…Could she?
Ryuuji looked up toward the sky, where clouds drifted lazily.
Is that you, Elysia?
Something inside him whispered yes.
—
That evening, Ryuuji lit the lanterns around the cottage while Kiko arranged their dinner: wild mushroom stew, fresh bread from the hearth oven, and berries picked from the western grove.
She even shaped the rice into little bear faces.
They sat around a flat stone table, Kaen and Yuki resting nearby.
"Papa," Kiko asked between bites, "if monsters come... will you fight them?"
Ryuuji blinked. "Why do you ask?"
She chewed thoughtfully. "You're really strong, right? I saw your sword. It has... scary feelings."
He looked at the hearth.
"It's not scary," he said softly. "It's... resting. Like me."
Kiko tilted her head. "But if bad things come?"
Ryuuji reached out and squeezed her hand gently. "Then I'll protect you. Always."
Her face lit up. "Even with that sword?"
"Only if I have to," he replied. "But I'd rather use a shovel."
She giggled. "That's silly, Papa."
"It worked on a goblin once," he said with a wink. "Hit it so hard, it apologized to the carrots."
—
Later that night, after Kiko had fallen asleep curled up between her two wolf friends, Ryuuji sat outside alone, sharpening a tool absentmindedly under the moonlight.
The forest around him was calm.
But the wind carried whispers.
Not of danger. Not yet.
But of someone drawing near.
He stood, walking slowly toward the cliffside.
Far across the ocean, in the deepest horizon, a single glimmer danced between stars.
Not a star. Not a cloud.
A dragon's silhouette.
His heart skipped.
"Elysia…"
He didn't know if she would come. Didn't know if she remembered the promise they never said aloud.
But something had changed.
The world was stirring again.
And for the first time in five peaceful years, Ryuuji felt the faintest pull from the past he had buried.
He looked down at the ring around his neck—a small thing, forged long ago, shaped like intertwining dragon wings.
Then he smiled.
"I'll wait," he whispered.
And walked back toward the cottage, where Kiko dreamed of floating potatoes and magical beetles, safe beneath stars.