Chapter 27: Starfall Legacy
Again, I found myself standing in a cave.
The stone beneath my feet was smooth and cold. Moisture trickled from the walls, echoing faintly through the hollow cavern. I blinked, disoriented. The last thing I remembered was swinging Ashratal—at Raj, no less—and then collapsing from exhaustion.
Now, my body was whole. No pain. No injuries. Only the seals etched across my torso glowed with a soft, eerie light, pulsing gently in the dim surroundings like ancient runes remembering their purpose.
I turned slowly.
The cave was familiar. Too familiar.
There was an exit ahead—a winding tunnel leading into golden light. I followed it, steps echoing with every footfall.
The path opened into a rocky plateau. In the distance, nestled beyond tall stone ridges, stood a dungeon portal—its swirling black mass crackling with barely contained power. Hunters stood outside, clad in standard-issue armor, their helmets marked with the Titan Guild insignia—a bronze shield with a stylized hammer crossing through it.
The vision clicked.
Monkey Saint had told me: seals are attracted to the keys.
This dungeon… it held a key.
And the territory? It was clearly within Titan Guild control.
Next destination decided.
As if acknowledging that I'd understood, the dream warped. The edges of reality shimmered.
And then I woke up.
Light filtered through the slits of my curtain.
I blinked, staring up at the ceiling of my room. It took a moment to adjust to the warmth of reality. My limbs felt heavy but no longer broken. I took in the scent surrounding me—bitter herbs, musky oils, and faint traces of incense.
The air was thick with the comforting pungency of Ayurvedic medicine.
Before the Cataclysm, many had questioned Ayurveda. But once mana arrived, ancient knowledge bloomed anew. Formulas once discarded were now the foundation of modern mana alchemy. Not all of it made sense—some things were outright nonsense—but when it worked… it worked wonders.
I looked down.
My body was swathed in clean, snow-white bandages, crisscrossing my chest and limbs like ceremonial wrappings. My arms ached. My muscles groaned with every small movement. Yet deep beneath it all, my mana pulsed gently—like a river healing its own banks.
Beside me, resting against the armchair with her head slightly tilted back, was Mother.
Her eyes were closed in deep, exhausted sleep. Her hair was slightly undone, and tear-stains marked her cheeks. Dark circles marred her face.
Guilt gnawed at me.
Whatever pain I endured, it couldn't compare to what she must have felt seeing me like that.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly.
She blinked, saw me staring at her, and gave me a tired smile.
"Rough day at work, huh?" she asked softly.
I smirked. "Ask the goblins."
She chuckled dryly, brushing her fingers over my forehead.
"Stubborn idiot," she muttered, checking the bandages. Her movements were practiced, hands firm and gentle.
After making sure everything was in place, she stood and left the room quietly, her presence lingering like a blessing.
I lay there a while longer, staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead. The distant sounds of clinking utensils and boiling water filled the house. The walls were lined with family photos, shelves filled with old books, and faint glyphs carved into wooden beams—protection runes from the time mana beasts once threatened cities.
This house had stood for generations—part ancestral, part post-Cataclysm reconstruction.
Eventually, I sat up.
The motion sent pain lancing through my sides. I grit my teeth and pushed forward.
They said that recovery, if done with the right potions and mana conditioning, could make you stronger than before. I could already feel that something inside me had shifted.
Judging by the subtle pulse of mana woven into my healing, I guessed two Rank 3-grade potions, maybe more, had been used.
Definitely expensive.
I moved through the room slowly, flexing muscles, rotating joints. I was still sore—but mobile.
Downstairs was quiet.
The walls were painted with warm tones. Paintings of constellations, deity sigils, and family achievements adorned the corridor. My bare feet padded softly on polished wooden floors.
I entered the living room.
Raj was seated on the couch, one leg propped up, polishing his spear. Father was sitting at the far end, flipping through a crisp newspaper, glasses perched low on his nose.
They both looked up as I entered.
Their gazes swept over me—bandaged arms, gauze on my forehead, loose pyjama pants, bracers and shin guards still latched in place but shortened in form.
Father's eyes narrowed analytically.
Raj tried—badly—to suppress a grin.
"So… Starfall Requiem, huh?" Father said, tone unreadable.
I blinked. "What?"
Raj smirked and began gesturing exaggeratedly—a clenched fist slamming into the palm of his other hand, complete with sound effects.
Boom.
Recognition dawned.
"Oh. That thing has a name?"
Raj burst out laughing.
Father allowed himself a rare smile.
"You're standing in front of its creator and asking if it has a name," Raj said between wheezes. "You, brother, are really a piece of work."
My cheeks flushed.
I hadn't thought it was anything special. With the elemental infusion, the eye skill, the fall—it felt… instinctual. Personal. But knowing it was borrowed—copied, even—left me red-faced.
How did I even know that move?
As if reading my mind, Father stood, walked to the side cabinet, and pulled out a dusty cassette from a drawer.
He flashed it toward me.
The image hit me like a lightning bolt.
I remembered.
I was three, maybe four. Sitting on Father's lap. His arms wrapped around me. He looked tired. Sad. Grandfather had passed away. He'd regressed to Rank 1. I didn't understand it back then.
But I remembered the tape playing.
Snippets of dungeon fights. Massive beasts. Hunters leaping through flame and fury. And one moment stood out clearly—a spear user falling from the sky, flames and lightning wrapped around him.
Starfall Requiem.
It had mesmerized me then. Maybe that's when it took root.
I sat down slowly.
"Your instincts are strong," Father said. "But instincts built on subconscious memories are still memory. Your style—mana skin, use of flame and lightning, even that storm—it's all a reflection of mine."
I looked at him, seeing not just a stern father—but a man who had shaped me more deeply than I realized.
We talked for a while after that—about training, recovery, combat flow.
Then came the lecture.
"You want battles like this?" Father said, tone sharp. "Fine. But don't ever treat your life like it's disposable."
He leaned back, gaze heavy. "Next time, you fight with prep. With structure. If you want hell, I'll give you hell. But controlled."
Raj laughed again. "You're getting the full regimen, little brother."
I sighed, already regretting surviving.
But somewhere deep down, a fire had ignited.
And this time, I'd learn to wield it properly.