What he saw made his chest tighten, his eyes widening not from horror—but from disbelief.
There, in the dim light of the small home, stood his mother ' Reya' . She was at the hearth, carefully tending to a pot of soup, her frail figure bent slightly as she stirred. Her face carried the marks of hardship—pale, thin, and sickly, as though the weight of years and hunger had drained the beauty that might once have been hers.
Even so, in her gentleness, there was a trace of grace that still lingered, faint but undeniable. Her clothes were ragged, patched and worn thin from long use, yet washed clean with care; a faded dress of gray fabric that clung loosely to her skinny frame. Her hair, once dark, was streaked with strands of white, tied back simply to keep from falling into her eyes.
"Cough, cough…" She pressed a hand lightly to her lips, the sound brittle but not alarming. Then she turned, having heard the gate creak open behind her. A warm smile touched her tired face as she called out in a gentle, motherly voice:
"Honey, is that you? How come you're so late today? Did you have a hard time? Come, sit—eat. I've made soup."
The words struck Rathmur harder than any blow. Relief poured through him, shaking him to his core. His chest loosened, his heart easing in a way he hadn't felt since the dungeon. His mother was alive. Safe. Smiling at him.
And yet… a question gnawed at the back of his mind, refusing to let him fully rest. Why haven't they come for her? Why hasn't Patrick's father made his move? Is the village chief… not here?
Rathmur moved toward her without a single thought for himself. His clothes were torn, and he wore only a pair of black, ragged pants. But his appearance meant nothing to him—his mind was consumed with one thing alone: his mother's wellbeing.
"Yes, Mother… it's me," he said softly, his voice carrying a gentleness he had nearly forgotten how to use. He stepped closer, his chest tightening as he watched her frail form labor over the pot. "I've told you so many times—don't get up, don't cook. It only tires you out." The village doctor had warned her countless times to rest as much as possible, yet she never listened—always insisting on cooking, always pushing her fragile body to work.
Without turning around, still stirring the thin broth in the pot, she answered with a light cough. "Cough, cough… this much work is nothing, honey. I'm really okay. The medicine you brought…" she paused, stifling another cough, "…it's working. I can feel it."
A sweet voice echoed within his mind, carrying no softness this time but a quiet weight. "Her spirit energy is almost gone. That is why her vitality has weakened to this stage," Aemilia said, confirming the truth of his mother's frail condition.
Rathmur's heart jolted, his breath catching. Spirit energy…? His hands clenched as he asked in a trembling voice, "What? Is that really the reason? How did this even happen? And—tell me—can it be cured?"
"Yes," Aemilia replied firmly, her tone stripped of mockery for once, layered with rare seriousness. "It must have been caused by exposure to overwhelming spirit pressure, from someone far stronger than her fragile body could endure. It crushed what little energy she had left. But…" her voice lowered, resonating within his chest, "…there is a cure."
"What?!" Rathmur's voice rose, confusion and desperation tangled together. "How is that possible? She's always been with me—I never saw anyone harm her! And… truly, there's a way to heal her?" His words spilled out in a rush, his eyes burning with hope.
"Of course," Aemilia's voice came smoothly, echoing like silk through his mind. "This much is trivial. Restoring her is nothing beyond you. In fact…" her words pressed deeper, as if resounding from the very core of his being, "…you could cure her in less than an hour."
As Reya lifted the pot of soup from the fire and set it aside, she finally turned around. Her tired eyes landed on the figure standing in the doorway, and the pot nearly slipped from her hands.
A tall, intimidating young man stood before her, wearing only a pair of ragged black pants. His bare chest revealed a lean, muscular frame, every line of his body carved with strength and vitality. He looked nothing like the frail boy who had left the house that morning—yet, at the same time, everything in his features told her otherwise.
Her lips trembled as she whispered, then asked with disbelief, "H-Honey… is that really you? Rathmur? How… how did you change so much? And what happened to your clothes?"
If it had been anyone else, they might have denied that this was Rathmur. He was taller now, broader, his presence radiating an aura that pressed against the air itself. His once-handsome features had sharpened, refined into something striking, noble, almost otherworldly. But a mother could never fail to recognize her own child—no matter how much he changed. Reya's heart told her the truth even as her eyes struggled to believe it.
For a moment, Rathmur stood frozen, caught in a predicament. What could he possibly say to explain his transformation? His mind raced, searching desperately for something believable. After a few breaths, he straightened, forcing a gentle smile onto his lips.
"Yes, Mother… it's really me," he said softly, his tone carrying not a hint of hesitation. "Actually, this morning while I was in the forest, I stumbled upon a divine herb. It shone so brightly, it… enchanted me. Without realizing, I ate it—and this happened." He scratched the back of his neck, adding quickly, "And in the rush of its effects, I must have torn my shirt with my own hands." His expression was innocent, almost childlike, as though there wasn't a single trace of falsehood in his words.
Inside his mind, Aemilia's laugh rang out, smooth and mocking. "Oh, bravo. What a clever excuse. A divine herb, torn clothes—perfectly ridiculous. I'm honestly impressed."
Reya's eyes searched his face, doubt flickering for only an instant. The story sounded unbelievable, yet it was the only explanation that made sense. And more than that—she knew her son. Rathmur had never hidden anything from her before. With a small, weary smile, she whispered, "Is that right…?"
Rathmur nodded firmly, holding her gaze.
Though curiosity lingered, Reya chose not to press him further. In her heart, she believed he would tell her everything when he was ready. Besides, nothing in his presence felt wrong—if anything, he looked stronger, healthier, more alive than ever before. With a gentle sigh, she turned back toward the small table. "Come, then. Let's eat before it gets cold."
After a quick bath, Rathmur joined his mother at the small wooden table, the two of them sitting down to share the simple meal she had prepared. The warmth of the moment was fragile, a quiet reprieve after the storm. But before a single spoonful could reach their lips, a thunderous roar split the silence outside.
"Reya, you bitch! Come out of your house! Today I'll kill you and that bastard son of yours!"
The words crashed against the walls like a hammer, filled with venom and rage. Reya froze, her hands trembling as her eyes widened in shock. She had no idea of the morning's events—no idea what had happened to Patrick or why such hatred was now at her doorstep. Fear spread across her sickly face as she instinctively rose to her feet.
But before she could move, Rathmur caught her hand, squeezing it firmly with his own. His voice was gentle, but there was iron beneath the softness. "Mother, stay inside. Don't come out—no matter what happens."
"But—" Reya's protest was cut short as Rathmur's gaze hardened.
"No." His tone was final, his eyes calm but unyielding. "They won't harm us. I'll handle this." He guided her back, then stepped toward the door. With one last reassuring look, he added quietly, "Just trust me."
And before she could argue again, Rathmur slipped outside, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Rathmur was no more than fifteen years old, yet in that moment he didn't act like a boy. His reborn body had grown into the frame of a nineteen-year-old, and with it came a maturity that steadied his every movement. The dragon's heart thundering within his chest gave him a confidence that felt unshakable, his calmness unnerving. To him, the enraged shouts outside were nothing more than the buzzing of pathetic insects.
Reya had felt it too—the sudden change in his demeanor. The frail son she had always worried over now stood like a man, tall and composed, with a presence that seemed to press against the air itself. She had been terrified of the threats beyond the door, yet when she looked into his eyes, she had found herself unable to refuse.
With a trembling breath, she had given in, helplessly nodding. In that moment, all she could do was trust him.
Rathmur stepped outside and found four village guards waiting, their spears gripped tightly in their hands. They stood in a half-circle around his home, eyes sharp and filled with hostility, every movement brimming with barely restrained anger. The night air carried their rage like a storm about to break.
Between them stood two men in their fifties, both radiating authority and fury. The first was Albert, Patrick's uncle. His frame was fat and heavy, draped in an elegant, colorful robe that flaunted his wealth and status. His fleshy face was twisted with fury, eyes bloodshot as though rage itself kept him standing.
Beside him was Roman, the village blacksmith and father of Oliver and Cliver. Unlike Albert's soft, rotund build, Roman's body was sturdy and muscular, his shoulders broad from a lifetime at the forge. His clothes were simple compared to Albert's, but his presence carried a raw, hardened strength. His scarred hands and sharp gaze marked him as a man shaped by iron and fire—now burning with hatred.
Both men glared at Rathmur with venom, their fury unmistakable. Albert's rage was loud and theatrical, Roman's steady and simmering, but together they made the air heavy with hostility. Backed by the guards' spears, they looked upon Rathmur as though he were already condemned.
Albert and Roman, both men of average height—neither taller than five-foot-eight—stared as a tall, unfamiliar figure emerged from the house. His broad shoulders, lean muscles, and imposing aura were unlike anything they expected, yet there was something hauntingly familiar in his features.
Albert narrowed his eyes, fury twisting his fleshy face. "Who the hell are you? Where's that bitch Reya and her bastard son?" His voice rang out harsh and venomous, spittle flying with every word.
The insult made Rathmur's blood boil, fire rising in his chest. But instead of exploding, he drew in a steady breath and replied in a calm, even tone, his gaze sharp as steel. "I'm Rathmur. And tell me—what right do you have, standing here at evening, causing a scene in someone else's home? Even if you are the chief's family, does that give you the right to disgrace yourself like this?"
His sudden, steady answer made the guards and even Roman glance at one another in confusion. Their expressions hardened, still angry, but now tinged with uncertainty. This wasn't the broken boy they had expected—it was someone else entirely.
Albert's face twitched, his anger faltering for the briefest moment. "You… you're Rathmur?!" he sputtered, disbelief cutting through his fury. His eyes narrowed further as he took in the young man's features. "What the hell happened to you? Why do you look like… that?"
Rathmur cut across Albert's stammering question, his voice sharp as a blade. "It doesn't matter what I look like," he said coldly. Then, his tone dropped, carrying the weight of restrained fury. "Tell me—why the fuck are you standing here at my house, spitting insults at my mother?" His words cracked through the evening, calm yet edged with anger, each syllable carrying an intimidating force.
The change in him was undeniable. Not only his body, but his very presence had transformed. Where once he would have cowered or stammered before men like this, now he stood straight, his gaze unyielding.
In the past, he would never have dared to raise his voice at them—Spirit Refiners whose aura pressed heavily against the air, their power enough to make most villagers tremble. Yet Rathmur's expression didn't falter. He spoke with confidence that shook the certainty of those before him, as if their so-called strength meant nothing.
Though Rathmur's words were calm, there was no mistaking the edge behind them. The cold aura that seeped from his body made the air prickle, sending a chill down the spines of those who faced him. For the first time, the guards and elders felt an unease they couldn't explain—like something dangerous lurked beneath his steady gaze.
Yet his defiance only stoked their fury. Their faces flushed red, their anger burning hotter than fire. With a sharp step forward, both Albert and Roman unleashed their SPIRIT PRESSURE.
The air trembled. Invisible force rippled outward, shaking the ground and grinding loose stones into dust. Small animals caught in the wave collapsed instantly, crushed by the sheer weight of the SPIRIT PRESSURE. Even the earth itself groaned under the weight, cracks forming across the dirt road.
From a distance, villagers gathered, watching wide-eyed. The SPIRIT PRESSURE rolled over them like a storm, leaving many gasping for air. The air grew thick, suffocating, as though the entire street had been dragged beneath deep water. To ordinary people, the scene was unbearable—yet Rathmur stood unmoved.
Albert's face twisted with rage, veins bulging across his forehead. Spittle flew from his lips as he bellowed, "You fucking bastard! You dare ask me why? Don't you know already? Today I'll tear you to pieces!"
His words echoed like thunder, shaking with hatred. With a furious snarl, he clenched his meaty fist, Spirit Energy rippling violently around it. In the next instant, his body blurred—his feet crashing against the earth as he lunged forward with incredible speed, the ground cracking beneath his weight as he launched himself straight at Rathmur.