Chapter 7
He doesn't remember me.
And somehow, that hurts more than anything else ever has.
I met Zevir when we were children, back when my father served as the head of Nightangle's embassy in the Eastern Empire. Zevir's father worked there too—quiet, humble, not high-ranking, but kind. Somehow, they became close friends. And through them, so did we.
I still remember how he introduced himself the first day.
"Hi. I'm Zevir."
No surname. No title. Just… Zevir.
"Hmm. Elara Valerius," I replied, a bit cold, a bit curious.
At first, I didn't like him. He was loud. Too bold. Always poking around, always asking questions. But over time, something changed. He grew on me—his stubborn warmth, his ridiculous bravery. We became friends. Real ones.
One day, just before everything changed, I asked him, "What'll you do when I leave for Nightangle?"
He grinned, like I'd told a joke. "You're not gonna leave."
"But imagine I did."
His smile faded. He looked at me seriously, like the world had gone quiet just for that moment.
"If you ever leave," he said, "I'll come find you. No matter what."
I wanted to believe him. And maybe I did.
"You couldn't even find your toy when it went missing last week," I teased.
We laughed, both of us pretending that promise didn't matter as much as it did.
But then I left.
My father was named a Count, and we returned to Nightangle. Suddenly, my life became endless lessons and rigid training. The messages between Zevir and me grew fewer, then stopped. One day, I tried to call him again.
No response.
I asked my father to help me find him. All we could dig up were two names—Kaelen and Lyra. His parents. Records said they died in a car crash. That they never had a child.
It didn't make sense. It felt… wrong.
My father searched deeper but still found nothing. Eventually, he stopped.
But I didn't.
For years, I searched. Every city in the Eastern Empire. Every town across Aureola. I followed every lead, every whisper, chasing the ghost of a boy who once made me laugh.
And still—nothing.
Eight years passed.
Then one evening, during a quiet dinner, my father looked up from his wine and said:
"Do you remember that silver-haired boy… Zevir?"
I froze. My breath caught.
"I remember a little," I lied.
He gave me a look—soft, tired, knowing.
"A little? You crossed three empires for him. Whispered his name like it was sacred. You never stopped."
I looked away. My hands were shaking.
And then he said it—gently, like something fragile.
"I found him."
Time stilled.
I didn't believe it. Couldn't.
"You're lying," I whispered.
He didn't argue. Just slid a photo across the table.
And there he was.
Older. Sharper. But still him.
His silver hair like forged moonlight. His eyes—harder now, but still familiar. Still Zevir.
I clutched the photo, holding it like a lifeline. My chest tightened. The tears came quietly, steadily.
I collapsed into my father's arms and whispered, "Thank you…"
Not long after, I saw him again—at Thalorion Arcanum. During the entrance combat trials.
He was brilliant.
Even at a lower cultivation stage, he moved like a storm. His strikes were clean, his instincts sharper than steel. He didn't just fight—he commanded attention. The students around him were stunned.
And I… I just stood there.
Waiting for him to see me.
He waved. Just once. Polite. Casual.
Like I was a stranger.
At first, I thought maybe I looked too different. I'd grown, changed. My face wasn't the same child's face he knew. But still—my name, my features, my family's legacy. No one forgets a Valerius.
So I waited.
But days passed. Then weeks.
He never said anything. Never looked twice.
Not even a flicker of recognition.
Not my name.
Not our past.
Not me.
So I left.
I came to this quiet retreat in the woods, far from the academy. Just to breathe. Just to stop grieving.
But tonight—he stumbled through my door.
Bleeding. Hunted. Half-alive.
He collapsed onto my floor, like a star that had forgotten how to shine.
Even then, he didn't know me.
Still, I healed him.
I bandaged his wounds. Sat him down. Fed him soup.
He thanked me. Gently. Kindly.
Like I was no more than a stranger who showed mercy.
Now he's asleep on my couch, his gunblade resting beside him like a second spine. Even in dreams, his body stays tense—fists clenched, breath uneven, like he's ready to fight his way out of sleep.
And I sit here.
Staring. Remembering.
I want to scream. To shake him and say, "It's me. Ellie. I never stopped waiting."
But I don't.
Because I'm afraid.
Afraid he'll look into my eyes and say the words I'm not strong enough to hear—
"I'm sorry. I don't know you."
So I stay silent.
Let the soup grow cold.
And grieve, alone, beside the boy who once promised he'd find me, no matter what.
He doesn't remember me.
And maybe he never will.
But I do.
And for now, that has to be enough.
——————————
Zevir slept deeply, the steady rhythm of his breath finally easing after the chaos that brought him here. The soup had warmed his body, dulled the edge of pain, and dragged him into exhausted slumber.
Elara stood near the doorway, arms crossed, watching him in silence. Her eyes lingered on the faint rise and fall of his chest before she turned away and whispered into the shadows.
"Kage."
A flicker stirred in the corner of the room. From behind a veil of darkness stepped a woman—tall, graceful, deadly. Her figure was wrapped in a tight combat suit that shimmered like woven midnight, her movements precise as a predator's.
"Yes, my lady," she said, her voice cool as steel.
Elara's gaze hardened. "Track down the man who sent those killers."
"But we don't know who he is," Kage replied. "No name, no face."
"He met with Zevir this afternoon," Elara said flatly. "Find out where he went. Trace his steps. I want him before sunrise."
"Can't we just ask Zevir directly who it was?"
Elara's voice lowered into command. "Do as I say, Kage."
A pause. Then a bow.
"Yes, my lady."
With a blur of motion, Kage vanished into the night like a whisper pulled into the wind.
Elara stood alone once more, the warmth of the fire flickering against her face. She exhaled slowly and glanced toward the sleeping boy on the couch.
His silver hair caught the light like frost in moonlight.
She didn't say his name.
Instead, she turned away and muttered to herself, voice barely audible.
"I should get some sleep too."
———————
"Fuck. Why is there still no news from those bastards?" Erand muttered under his breath.
He was in the middle of his cluttered room—papers burning in a small mana-incinerator, and files transferring from his computer to a sleek, high-grade pendrive. His fingers tapped his phone repeatedly, hoping for a message. Nothing. Just spam from his credit card company and a few irrelevant ads.
No updates. No confirmation.
"Did they… die?"
He scoffed. "Impossible. Two of them were peak Rank-2, and the other three were beginner Rank-2s."
His voice trembled.
"How could a kid—an eighteen-year-old who just reached Rank-2—take them all out?"
Panic crept in.
I got overconfident. He's from Thalorion Academy. They don't admit weaklings. Shit.
The computer chimed.
TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL.
The calm voice of the AI sliced through the tension like a knife.
Erand grabbed the pendrive and a worn, diary-like book from his desk. Without another second wasted, he bolted from his apartment and into the night.
No matter what… Even if they're dead… I'll be out of the country before you even realize I'm gone.
He slipped into his levitating cruiser, a matte-black, high-speed aerial vehicle with stealth plating. The engine purred, then roared as he blasted into the sky, neon lights from the city shrinking below him.
But then—
Out of nowhere—a girl stood midair, directly in his flight path.
"What the hell?!" Erand blinked. "An illusion?"
Suddenly, the car began disintegrating. Not exploding—just… turning to dust.
"SHIT! What's happening?!"
The girl hovered, her silver cloak fluttering in the air. Her expression was calm, too calm.
"You can't attack someone like this in the middle of town! This is against the law!" he shouted. "You'll pay for this, bitch!"
But his screams meant nothing.
The cruiser vanished beneath him, and he plummeted through the air. "FUCK! FUCK! I don't wanna die—!"
He gritted his teeth and slammed his palm onto a rune etched into his belt.
ACTIVATING ARTIFACT: SKYRIDER BOOTS
Blue glyphs flared under his feet. His fall slowed until he hovered midair, regaining balance.
The girl tilted her head, a faint trace of surprise in her eyes.
"Huh… an artifact of that caliber? You're richer than I thought."
Erand didn't wait. He drew his mana-forged sword, channeled power into the blade, and slashed forward. A glowing crescent-shaped energy arc shot toward her.
The girl, Kage, lifted a finger.
With a flick, the arc disintegrated.
Erand growled, now desperate. He summoned multiple floating weapons—javelins, chakrams, daggers—using mana construct techniques and hurled them at her.
"GALE BLADE!"
A torrent of wind surged, blades forming from compressed air, all honed and screaming toward her.
But again—he didn't wait for the result. He knew.
He couldn't win.
He deactivated his artifact mid-air, dropped down onto a nearby rooftop, and began to run. Building to building, leap to leap, mana surging through his limbs to boost speed.
He ran.
For twenty kilometers or more. Sweat soaked his shirt. His lungs burned.
Finally, near an abandoned ruin, he slowed, panting heavily.
Safe. Finally safe.
"Hey."
His heart stopped.
A whisper from behind him.
"Why aren't you running anymore?"
Cold. His spine turned to ice. Blood drained from his face.
He turned. Slowly.
She was there. Standing beside him.
No sound. No flash. Just… there.
"You don't wanna run anymore? Okay then," Kage said gently, as if tucking a child to sleep.
Her hand moved faster than his eyes could track—
A clean neck chop.
His vision blurred.
Then darkness.
Kage caught his falling body effortlessly with one hand, hoisting him over her shoulder.
With a flash of light, her form blurred, and both vanished into the shadows.