The first threads of light crept timidly through the small window, brushing against the thin curtain and casting a soft, golden glow over the modest furnishings. In the corner of the room, where the small bed stood, Ace sat quietly, watching the scene slowly unfold around him. The warmth he felt was not solely from the fabric that covered him, but something deeper—something comforting in its own way.
He rose gently, cautious not to make a sound that might disturb his kind hostess. The night he had spent here was nothing like the others—far from the noise of engines and machines that had roared endlessly during his journey, far from the sting of cold air and watchful eyes. This tranquility felt like a haven after a long and grueling path.
With deliberate steps, he walked out of the room and down the creaking wooden floor. Sounds soon reached him from downstairs—soft yet rhythmic. Descending the stairs, he found her—Emilia—already awake, sitting at a wooden table surrounded by colorful fabrics, bathed in the scattered rays of morning light that danced like waves over a sea of color.
One hand held a measuring tape, the other a slender pencil sketching precise lines across a small notebook. Her eyes sparkled with a passion far greater than her years, her lips parted slightly, and the tip of her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth—a clear sign of deep focus. Her slender fingers moved with a skill that exceeded her age, as if she had been born to master this delicate craft.
She wore a simple morning dress of soft sky-blue fabric that swayed with her gentle movements, paired with a white apron embroidered with tiny flowers, adding an air of innocence and grace to her appearance. Ace recalled hearing her leave her room not long ago, but he hadn't realized she had been awake since then.
It dawned on him that she had probably been immersed in her work the entire time. He didn't want to interrupt her moment of quiet creation. Her dedication was evident, as though it was passion itself that had stirred her from sleep in these early hours—hours that most children her age would still spend lost in dreams.
He smiled faintly and retreated silently upstairs, where he sat by the street-facing window, resting his head on his hand as he watched the day begin. The shops were opening their doors, their owners lifting the shutters. One person dusted off the storefront, another neatly arranged crates of fruit, ensuring they caught the eye of passing customers.
Horse-drawn carts and other light wagons rolled by, carrying wooden barrels exuding the scent of various juices. Some carts bore sacks of white flour, fine dust puffing from them with every bump in the road.
This place was different—not just in appearance, but in its feeling, in its serenity and warmth, which stemmed not only from the sun's rays but from the lives within it, giving it the essence of home.
It wasn't long before the street began to fill with joyful noise—children's laughter and footsteps. A group of kids appeared, clutching small notebooks, some worn from use, others crisp and new. They were a mix of personalities; some walked quietly, whispering secrets, while others ran with glee, their laughter ringing freely.
The sight stirred a painful memory in Ace—a time when he would walk each morning to the train station, through quiet residential neighborhoods, the smell of rain-soaked earth mingling with the aroma of fresh bread from open windows. Those daily walks were more than routine; they were an unspoken escape, a search for something he wasn't sure he could find.
At those times, doors would open, and parents would bid their children farewell for school—some with warm smiles, others with quick kisses. Mothers' voices would float in the air with morning reminders: be careful on the road, don't forget your lunch, be kind to your teachers and friends.
Such scenes always stirred conflicting emotions in him—a deep longing for days gone by and a bitter ache that rattled the locked doors of his past, throwing them open to memories when he had once been part of that scene, before becoming no more than a distant observer.
After about half an hour of quiet sitting, broken only by the street's morning sounds, he heard light footsteps. His eyes lifted to the door, which creaked open slowly, revealing the young girl. Her golden locks fluttered gently in the cool breeze flowing through the window.
Her cheeks were flushed like dewy blossoms, her eyes carrying a mix of fatigue and contentment. She stood at the threshold for a moment, surprised by the chill, then stepped toward Ace, rubbing her arms with her palms to warm herself. She approached with a shy smile on her lips and a look of genuine care in her eyes, then said sweetly:
"I see you woke up early, Mister Ace. How was your night? Did you get enough rest?"
There was a purity in her gaze, as if her morning joy wouldn't be complete without knowing her guest had slept well. For a moment, Ace felt wrapped in a warmth he hadn't known in a long time—not just comfort, but heartfelt hospitality. He smiled and replied gently:
"Thank you again for hosting me. I haven't had such a peaceful, warm night in a long while."
His words were genuine, simple, yet they carried more than they said. Emilia saw it in his eyes, gleaming with gratitude. Her own smile widened slightly, and she tilted her head thoughtfully before asking:
"That's wonderful! Should I make you some breakfast?"
Her small fingers played with the edge of her embroidered apron, as if trying to distract herself from the nervous energy of hosting a guest—perhaps for the first time. Ace noticed it and, for the first time, felt a quiet sense of fondness for the girl. He answered sincerely:
"You're too kind."
She quickly replied with a bright smile:
"Oh, don't worry! I'll make you a delicious breakfast. I was so excited to start taking your measurements and designing your clothes, I forgot to eat myself!"
Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm—spontaneous and genuine, as if her feelings spoke before her mind could catch up. Without waiting, she turned and disappeared into the small kitchen, where ceramic mugs and colorful plates lined the wooden shelves, reflecting the warmth of the space.
Soon, the kitchen was alive with movement: the clatter of utensils, the rhythmic slicing of bread on the cutting board, the stacking of dishes—all forming a cozy domestic symphony.
From her lips came a soft hum, a familiar melody from days past. Meanwhile, Ace continued to watch the street come alive—people filling the roads, some strolling, others rushing as though late for urgent appointments.
Nothing in the view seemed particularly unusual—until he saw them: individuals dressed unlike any others. His brows lifted, eyes widening in curiosity. They were men and women clad in long robes, wearing tall, pointed hats—some adorned with feathers, others with bells or shimmering gems. Their shoes were long and curled, and each carried a staff—some topped with glowing stones that shifted colors with every glance, others plain wooden rods.
Curiously, they bore no swords, daggers, bows, or spears. Instead, thick tomes hung at their waists, bound with tight leather straps, as if guarding secrets not meant for common knowledge.
As they disappeared from view, Emilia emerged from the kitchen holding a wooden tray. The scent of melted butter and fresh pastries floated through the air. Toasted bread steamed invitingly; golden-edged eggs sizzled beside rich, red-tinged bacon, arranged as if part of a culinary painting. After setting the table, she looked up at Ace and said warmly:
"Mister Ace, please, I hope you enjoy the breakfast."
He rose and began to take his seat, but paused, then quietly walked toward the grandmother's room. Emilia was puzzled. Moments later, he returned, holding a box she immediately recognized—the angelic candy box. He asked her for an extra plate. She nodded and hurried to the kitchen, returning with a wooden dish.
Ace arranged all five pieces of candy on the plate. They both sat down—Emilia gazing at the glistening sweets, Ace admiring the hearty meal. He thanked her for her care and picked up a warm slice of bread, and they began to eat.
Emilia longed to reach for a piece of candy but remembered the etiquette: dessert comes after the main course. She hesitated, but Ace noticed her silent yearning. Understanding that no child should have to deny herself a simple joy, he picked up a piece and offered her one too. That small gesture released her from the bonds of politeness and allowed her to accept his kindness freely.
She reached out eagerly, took a piece, and bit into it. The delight that spread across her face confirmed that this candy was unlike anything she had ever tasted—worthy, perhaps, of royal banquet halls.
A sudden idea sparked in her mind: what if they sold this candy in town? Success was almost guaranteed. But she held back from voicing the thought, knowing that even the most promising ventures take time—and time was not a luxury Ace had.
As he ate quietly, his thoughts drifted back to the strange figures he'd seen. His curiosity overcame his appetite. He looked up and asked:
"Emilia, I saw a group passing by—they wore long, unusual robes and carried carved staffs and strange-looking books. Do you know anything about them?"
She didn't react immediately, still chewing a bite of candy. After swallowing, she replied simply:
"They're mages."
Just two words—but they struck Ace with unexpected weight—not shock, but the weight of ignorance. He froze, staring at her as if she had just cast a spell on him. A few seconds passed before he could finally ask, voice low and filled with genuine wonder:
"And what exactly are mages?"
Before he could prepare for her answer, Emilia began to cough—startled mid-bite. Color rose in her cheeks as she reached for the water pitcher. She took small, quick sips, then exhaled deeply, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. Sitting upright once more, she fixed him with wide eyes—a mixture of disbelief and suspicion.
Leaning forward slightly, she asked incredulously:
"Don't tell me you've never heard of mages either?"
Her words were heavy with doubt, as if she were testing the limits of his knowledge—or patience. Ace offered a faint, uncertain smile, not of amusement but perhaps of regret. She couldn't quite tell if he was mocking her, himself, or the entire situation. Letting out a sigh, she leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and pressed her fingers to her forehead as if trying to stave off an oncoming headache.
Silence fell for a moment before she spoke again—half astonished, half exasperated:
"You really don't believe it."
She cast him another assessing glance before, seemingly deciding to treat him like a child unaware of the basics, she straightened and began to explain:
"Mages are individuals with the ability to manipulate magical energy in ways even adventurers can't. Unlike adventurers, they don't rely on physical strength or weapons. Instead, they use spells—complex combinations of words and chants that aren't just gibberish; they're keys to things beyond comprehension, they can move massive boulders as if they were feathers, redirect the course of a river with a mere gesture, and even control the fundamental elements—fire, water, air, and earth—as though they were nothing more than toys to be shaped at will."
She paused, watching his face carefully, searching for even a flicker of belief. But he remained silent, as if her words vanished into a void of disbelief or incomprehension. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She hadn't said anything particularly outrageous—yet his reaction intrigued her. Lifting her eyebrows, she tilted her head and asked with a voice tinged with frustration:
"Let me guess… you don't know anything about magical energy either, do you?"
Her tone was sharper now, as if trying to wrest an implicit confession from him—or at least elicit a reaction that might unveil some hidden truth. She blinked slowly, her brow furrowing as she studied him, and then, as though she were dropping a bomb into the quiet room, she said:
"Mister Ace, I'm starting to seriously wonder if you came from another world."
The moment he heard those words, he froze. Time seemed to halt. His heart pounded beneath his ribs, as if the sentence had pierced directly through him—an arrow hitting its mark without hesitation.
He tried to disguise his reaction with a forced laugh, but it came out more strained than he intended. It wasn't enough to divert Emilia's sharp gaze, which now scrutinized him like he was a riddle to be solved. He quickly reached for a piece of food and stuffed it into his mouth, as if trying to fill the silence with anything—but he knew it was a flimsy escape.
Emilia let out a small sigh, sensing his unease. She softened her tone and resumed her explanation in a calmer voice. Her hands moved subtly, sketching invisible shapes in the air, as if painting the concepts she spoke of:
"Listen carefully, Mister Ace. Magical energy is something everyone possesses, but only a few can actually use. Most of them are adventurers or mages. It's used to perform feats that defy natural law, and mages are especially adept at it. Imagine fire magic—bare hands conjuring a tiny spark that suddenly transforms into a wild blaze, consuming everything in its path. Earth magic? It can summon jagged stone spikes from the soil, ready to tear through whatever stands too close."
Her eyes sparkled as she described it, clearly immersed in the vivid images forming in her mind. As she moved on to wind magic, her hands swirled gracefully through the air, mimicking invisible currents:
"Wind magic can turn the air itself into invisible blades—sharp as knives, slicing through even thick tree trunks like paper."
When she spoke of water, her tone shifted again—quieter, more nostalgic, as if she were speaking of something sacred, a memory etched deep within her.
"Water magic... can be a destructive force, like waves washing away everything in their path. But it can also be beautiful—used to create dancing performances, almost like living art. And it's the only element with healing properties; it can mend wounds, though only slightly."
She stopped speaking. Ace remained silent, unsure of what to say. But one thing was certain—everything Emilia had just described painted a picture of a world he didn't know. Her words felt like revelations, each one dismantling a pillar of his previous understanding. He tried to bridge the gap between what he once dismissed as fantasy and what now sounded like irrefutable truth. But that bridge was shaky, swaying under the weight of her conviction and the sincerity in her eyes.
He might have accepted the idea of life on other planets—that had long been a logical possibility. But the notion that human beings could manipulate nature's elements, bend reality to their will… that was pure fiction to him. Or so he had thought.
Yet there was no hint of exaggeration in her voice, no trace of deceit in her expression. Her words didn't feel like storytelling—they felt like facts. And deep within, a spark flared to life, burning away the remnants of his old beliefs. It illuminated the corners of his mind he hadn't dared explore, revealing just how narrow his perspective had been until now.
Then, a memory surged—fresh and painful. He remembered standing helpless before a force beyond his comprehension. A force that had taken everything from him and left him a powerless witness. At the time, he had felt stripped of agency, as though slapped by the universe itself. But now, in light of Emilia's words, that moment no longer seemed inexplicable. It felt... like truth uncovering itself.
Her story wasn't so impossible anymore. It was becoming something he could begin to understand.
On the other side of the table, Emilia could see how shaken he was. His expression betrayed him—slightly widened eyes, furrowed brows, and a heavy breath that gave away his turmoil. She couldn't help but smile subtly, almost teasingly, before speaking with the playful irritation of a child:
"From the look on your face, I'd say you didn't believe a single word I said."
She paused, waiting for any response. Ace opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. So, she continued, her tone lightening:
"Anyway, don't worry. You'll see it for yourself when we go to the Adventurers' Guild."
Despite the whirlwind in his mind, despite the part of him that still resisted belief, he finally spoke, his voice tinged with awe:
"You know so much... That's amazing for someone your age."
Instead of smiling proudly, something shifted in her expression. A shadow passed over her eyes, dimming their spark. It was the same distant look she'd had at the grand market—a fleeting detachment that Ace hadn't understood at the time.
"Well," she replied softly.
Then fell a moment of silence. She turned toward the wall, where hand-drawn portraits hung. One depicted a man and woman holding a young girl between them, love radiating from their expressions. Beside it was a picture of an elderly woman, smiling gently. Emilia's eyes lingered on those images, as if seeing them for the first time. Then she said:
"As you can see, both my parents were adventurers. They used to take me to the guild with them. From what I understand, not many adventurers have children and stay in the field, so I ended up seeing and learning quite a lot."
She paused before continuing:
"My father didn't have the ability to use magical energy, but he made up for it with his skill in hand-to-hand combat. He relied on physical strength and speed. My mother was different—she could manipulate water. Many said she wasn't just a fighter, but a dancer—her movements flowing with the water, graceful and unmatched in beauty. That's why my parents became well-known among adventurers in the town."
Her lips parted as if to say more, but she hesitated. Perhaps it was a memory too painful to voice, or maybe she simply wasn't ready. Ace noticed her voice falter slightly, betraying a blend of pride and sorrow—as if she were drifting between a cherished past and a present that demanded resilience. In the corner of her eye shimmered a faint light—not quite a tear, not quite a reflection, but something in between.
In that moment, Ace felt the sting of guilt. He had touched a wound she had not yet healed—not once, but twice. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words came out hesitant, incomplete. Emilia sensed it and smiled with quiet strength, as if to reassure him. Then, in a firm voice, she said:
"There's no need to feel guilty, Mister Ace. Some memories hurt, but they make us stronger."
And with that, the conversation ended, leaving behind a silence richer than words. Emilia quickly changed the subject, her cheerful tone returning as she said:
"Let's not dwell on that. You need to eat now—you've got tests ahead, and it wouldn't be wise to face them on an empty stomach."
Ace didn't ask what those tests were. Though curiosity tugged at him, he chose instead to preserve the quiet between them, rather than risk reopening another wound.