A few days passed, and Ere was now truly four.
He hadn't expected anything—no celebration, no attention. But when he woke, the house was decorated, and a small cake sat waiting, filling the room with a quiet, gentle joy.
Janna and Mika looked… happy.
Warmth filled the room in quiet, effortless ways—in the soft rhythm of his mother's humming, in the lightness that softened his father's usual heaviness, in the way they moved as if nothing weighed on them.
It should have felt comforting.
Instead, something in his chest tightened.
Not fear.
Something closer to recognition.
Birthdays had never meant celebration to him. In his previous life, they had only ever marked one thing—another year gone, another step closer to the end. And for him, the end had always come sooner than it should have.
Even now, that feeling lingered beneath the warmth, as if joy and dread had learned to exist side by side.
The celebration stayed small.
When it ended, they gave him a gift.
The fire burned low, casting amber light across the room as Mika placed a small pouch in his hands. It was uneven, poorly wrapped, tied with strips of worn cloth—humble, messy, and yet unmistakably careful. The kind of care that made even its flaws feel deliberate.
Janna smiled.
"We've been waiting a long time to give this to you."
Her voice wavered, just slightly.
Ere opened it slowly.
Inside—a dagger.
The blade caught the firelight in quiet silver lines. The hilt was dark, worn smooth—not crafted that way, but shaped by time.
"It was found inside a monster," Mika said quietly. "The day you were born."
Ere looked down at it.
It wasn't large. Not practical. Not compared to the weapons he had seen around the village.
And yet—it fit. Not just physically, but as if it had been forged for him.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the weight settled into place. Light. Balanced. Certain.
As if it had always belonged there.
As if it had been waiting.
His grip tightened.
Not by choice.
Recognition.
He looked up.
They were watching him.
Janna's eyes shimmered with quiet tears. Mika stood beside her, his expression steady, pride held just beneath the surface.
They were waiting—for something from him.
He couldn't stay empty and emotionless.
Not now.
"…Thank you."
The words came out small, uneven—but real.
Before he could pull away, Janna wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. Her tears dampened his hair.
Ere didn't resist.
For a moment—he let it stay.
He drew back and looked at them again.
She was beautiful—white-blond hair falling softly over her shoulders, blue eyes bright in the firelight, her smile warm enough to fill the room.
Mika stood beside her. Quiet. Steady. Present.
In a village like this, a dagger was no strange gift. Futures were simple—paths carved early and followed without question. Farmer. Hunter. Out here, there was no room for anything else.
Strength was survival.
That night, they slept.
Ere didn't.
He stood by the window, turning the dagger slowly in his hand. The moon hung low and full, its silver light spilling across the village and into the forest beyond.
It felt right.
Too right.
Light in weight, yet carrying something deeper—something he couldn't name.
Morning came with the sound of hooves and creaking wood.
The village stirred.
Voices rose. Movement spread.
Ere followed the sound, climbing onto the roof of a nearby house—something he had only recently learned to do. From there, he could see everything.
The royal trading cart stood at the entrance, polished to an unnatural shine that caught the morning light and reflected it back like something that didn't belong. It felt foreign against the rough wood and worn paths of the village, as if it had been placed there rather than arrived.
The merchant stepped down slowly, his weight shifting with practiced ease, fine fabrics draped over him in layers that spoke of excess. His smile stretched wide across his face—too wide, too eager, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
When he spoke, his voice carried easily over the gathering crowd, loud and confident, as if he owned the space he stood in.
He called his visit a blessing.
Ere watched in silence.
The merchant unrolled a scroll, its edges trimmed in gold.
"By the authority granted to me by the king, I am here to collect the fifty percent tax you owe the kingdom."
Half.
The villagers gathered and gave—dried meat, crops, leather, fur, monster parts—everything they had worked for, everything they needed, offered without hesitation, including the food his parents had spent months storing.
For what were they giving so much?
For raising homes from nothing but wood and will?
For standing against monsters night after night, with no promise of dawn?
Where was the protection they were owed?
No one protested, not even a glance of hesitation.
That was what unsettled him most.
The merchant began tossing items to the ground—scraps, worn clothes, cheap luxuries, bottled drinks, blunt weapons.
Things already discarded elsewhere.
And still—the villagers accepted them, their hands closing around scraps as if they were gifts, their faces softening into smiles that didn't falter, gratitude settling over them like something practiced, something learned.
Something in Ere went still—not confusion, not anger, but recognition settling quietly into place.
Different world.
Same pattern.
The weak gave—
the strong took.
Later, his parents handed him new clothes—simple, clean, carefully folded. They smiled as they gave them to him.
Ere looked at the brand new fabric.
Then at theirs.
Worn.
He didn't ask.
There was no answer that would matter.
He simply tightened his grip on the dagger.
———
Then it came, drawn out of something deeper than anger
Stronger than ever before.
The world didn't shatter—it slipped away.
The walls. The light. The quiet breathing of his parents.
Gone.
Darkness.
Endless.
Silent.
He was there again.
The world had no edges—no walls to press against, no ground to anchor him, no distance to measure. Just an endless, suffocating void stretching in every direction.
And at its center—the chair.
Cold.
Waiting.
Familiar in a way that unsettled him more than anything else.
He sat.
As always, he couldn't turn.
Couldn't escape.
But this time—the silence broke.
The shadow spoke.
"Haven't you figured it out yet?"
The voice was calm.
Ere didn't answer immediately.
"…What is there left to figure out?"
A pause.
"You're repeating it."
Silence.
"Different life."
Another pause.
"Same ending."
Ere's grip tightened.
"You think this changes anything?"
"A warmer room. Kinder faces."
"Do you really believe that matters?"
His chest tightened.
"You're still the same."
"Still powerless."
A beat.
Then, quieter—"Still someone who will lose everything."
Images flickered. Images of hunger, cold and blood.
That final breath.
"You remember."
Ere's voice lowered.
"…What do you want me to do?"
The answer came instantly.
"Become something that doesn't lose."
Silence stretched.
"No one saved you before."
"No one will save you now."
A pause..
"And when this peace is taken from you—when they disappear—what will you do?"
Ere said nothing.
The voice softened.
Almost familiar.
"We already know."
A breath.
"We lived it."
A whisper—"You need strength."
Silence.
Then—"This time…"
A pause.
"We will not disappear." both spoke at the same time.