Luke stared blankly at the roof after waking from a strange yet vivid dream.
He recalled his voice—"What are you? Why are you in my dream?"
Aisle's presence took shape like a human being—perhaps a girl. It was subtle, but to Luke, it looked as if she was sitting on a tree stump, her tone was soft but certain.
"I'm a spirit, and the reason I could interact with your dream is because our souls are connected—through a contract."
Luke lay back on the grass field, surrounded by the serene green of the Mystique Valley. Strange, yet familiar to his very own eye.
"Contract — what contract, why didn't I know any of it? Shouldn't I be asked as well?" he asked, confused whether he should be happy or mad about it.
He then remembered one of the books he had read when he was a kid.
'Soul contract'
He stared at the subtle presence of Aisle
"A soul contract need both factions to agree to apply don't they?"
Aisle nodded.
"Well- I mean if they're unconscious, their agreement isn't exactly needed."
She said that, nervous with guilt.
"Explain."
Luke's glare stabbed Aisle in the chest.
"You know how you almost died, well your consciousness was too small for it to be considered an active 'Faction' for a soul contract. It's kind of a gamble you know! If it went wrong, I would have been inside a ghoul instead! "
She tried to convince Luke that there were no ulterior motives behind her actions.
"You reminded me of my past to discourage me at the border of life and death—then steal my body to make it your own vessel. Is that true?"
But Luke didn't give in.
Aisle shook her head, or at least for Luke it looked like she was objecting his statement.
"Y-you're wrong! I'm not discouraging-"
Then her voice rose.
"Moreover! I'm not an evil or wicked spirit, good things will surely come your way from now on, I guarantee."
He turned his gaze towards the ground. If there was a puddle right below him, what he would see was his lifeless corpse-like face.
"So our souls are connected huh…?"
He let out a big sigh.
"I hope you won't regret what you did."
Luke said while closing his eyes.
"I won't."
She smiled, at that moment Luke could see her face clearer than before. Her smiles warmed his heart bringing peace and ease towards him.
"Huh-"
Before he could ask more, the valley began to crumble. Clouds rolled in, swallowing the scene until only her smile remained—calm, radiant, and wordless. Then, darkness.
Luke awoke to the sound of a tent flap opening. A man in uniform entered — tall, broad-shouldered, every movement sharp with discipline. One of the lieutenants.
"Luke! I'm glad to see you alive and well…"
There, he stood by instead of sitting on one of the chair besides him.
He chuckled when he saw Luke's expressionless face.
"Survived at last."
Luke sighed.
"Is a miserable life your kind of humor, Lieutenant?"
"Maybe." He shrugged it off, half-smiling. Then he got closer to Luke, trying to confront him. "Look, I know today was supposed to be your discharge day. But as your lieutenant, I can't just let you walk home in that condition, though your regeneration is somewhat to be praised."
The lieutenant observed Luke's body in astonishment, he had surely been in a life or death condition almost a week ago. Yet he could almost go back on his feet normally, is what he thought.
Luke kept his head up, though his eyes drifted down. His thoughts wandered to the old castle — the sound of training, the echo of his grandfather's voice. Swordsmanship. Etiquette. Patience. His grandfather had been his only support after he lost the ability to improve, and even that light can dim when the old man fell ill when Luke was fifteen.
The executives hadn't exiled Luke immediately; they waited until his grandfather recovered from his illness, so he wouldn't be in shock and pressured. After all he treasured Luke the most out of anyone else in the castle.
"It's not like I have another home outside this place," Luke murmured.
The lieutenant finally sat beside him, lowering his tone.
"Go back home with Ron, he really wanted to thank you. He invited you to his house at Verdan Crest. You shouldn't waste your pot-" He shook his head "You shouldn't waste your life here, Luke. Don't you want to return to where you belong?"
Luke gritted his teeth, saying nothing.
As the lieutenant turned to leave, he paused at the tent's entrance. He stole a glance at Luke's worn-out blade.
"Come over to the Verdant's Blacksmith, and meet Paul. He'll lend you something to hold onto." He raised his hand, indicating a farewell for him.
The lieutenant then left the boy behind him alone, and the boy was barely grasping reality, as if he was lost inside his dream.
Later that afternoon.
The man's watch ticked faintly — marking the hour of Luke's departure. He waited patiently with a horse lead on his hand.
Coni, Mark, and Kayden had already been reassigned to another squadron — one scheduled for a mission that very same day. Perhaps fate's last cruel joke before Luke's farewell, a joke not so funny to him.
Outside the camp, he could smell the world. The smell of cold ash and wet soil. He smiled faintly, waving to the others as he left the camp. Ron was waiting by the horses. Luke mounted the one prepared for him, following the guide as they were lead down the muddy trail.
His decade-long story in the camp ended there. But his name — his effort — would remain.
As they rode into the open fields, Luke felt something lift off his shoulders, a weight finally gone.
Though he knew, deep down, another would take its place soon enough.
He took his time enjoying the majestic vast views of nature, as if it was encouraging him for a new step forward.
Words can comfort people, but for those who don't have anyone beside them, only nature stays. Quietly whispering to the ear, reaching the heart and easing the mind.
---
They reached the town square.
"Verdant Crests, huh…" Luke looked around the prestigious buildings looming tall against the sky after dismounting his horse. "Didn't expect you to be a noble too—let alone rich enough to live here."
Ron laughed, rubbing his neck with a shy grin.
"You see, my wife is a very skilled merchant. Professional, actually."
Luke raised a brow, but before he could reply, Ron abruptly changed the topic.
"Oh boy! Look at the time—we'd better get going!"
They strolled through the cobbled streets, the town alive with chatter and bright awnings. He could see many men armed with weaponry and some who wore a large coat and staff, a few of them were even flying on brooms. Luke's eyes caught on the tallest building with twin banners fluttering in the wind — Twin Crest University. It was where the magic and weaponry factions studied, though divided by status and pride.
Maybe if I were younger, Luke thought, I could've enrolled there with my sister.
He tried to recall her face but let the thought fade. The past was never truly gone — but sometimes, it was better to release it.
After picking up food and clothes from a few extravagant shops, they finally reached Ron's house. It was… large. Too large.
"Hey, Ron," Luke said, staring at the ornate gate. "Mind telling me who lives here?"
Ron pushed the gate open, thinking aloud.
"Let's see… me, my wife, my daughter, and my son—though he's rarely home. Oh, and about eight maids—no, wait, we hired another pair, so ten?"
Luke nearly dropped his bag. Two servants opened the doors as they stepped inside, bowing politely. But something tugged at Luke's thoughts.
"I thought your wife passed away, I mean those are the rumors going on in the camp." He said, frowning. "Why do you always look so… sad when I mention her?"
Ron looked away quickly.
"Ah, well… I never told her I used to be a mercenary lieutenant, and I haven't been home in quite a while, I'm more scared to meet her than sad."
Before Luke could respond, quick footsteps echoed through the hall. A woman in a fine dress appeared, running toward Ron.
"Honey!"
Ron smiled.
"Maybe I was wrong, maybe she will forgive me—"
He opened his arms for a hug—only to be met with a firm pinch to both ears.
"How many times have I told you to avoid combat and dangerous work!?"
Then she noticed Luke standing in the doorway and immediately softened.
"Oh my! How rude of me to ignore our guest. Please, come in!"
Luke entered as Ron's desperate pleas for help echoed behind him.
After some time, Ron's wife joined Luke in the guest room, taking a graceful seat across from him.
"Ron just told me about you," she said warmly. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need. And honestly—Ron's obsession with battle is impossible. Our children can't even spar with him! It's a nightmare!"
Luke sipped his tea politely.
"But don't worry," she added cheerfully. "Ron's decided to stay home from now on—to spar with you!"
Luke choked.
"He wants to kill—spar with me?!"
He remembered all the sayings about Ron's strength and proficiency at swordsmanship.
He stared at her expression—bright, confident, and entirely serious.
"I'm sorry, Mrs.—I wasn't told about this part of the plan."
"Oh dear, don't be so formal. Call me Mrs. Laura."
After the exhausting conversation, Luke retreated to the room prepared for him. He left his belongings with the maids and soon got lost in the mansion's endless corridors. It had been a long time since he'd been inside a place this grand—not that he missed it.
As he wandered, he found a large wooden door slightly ajar. The training hall.
Ron's voice from earlier echoed in his memory:
"Use the hall in my house! The public one's overpriced—and full of sweaty amateurs!"
Inside, several hay dummies stood in neat rows beside a rack of weapons. Luke picked up a longsword, thinner and lighter than his usual one. It almost sang when he raised it — a blade meant to cut through the wind itself. He hesitated, but the wind pushed him forward.
He stepped forward, feeling a strange ease in his movements — light, almost weightless. His right hand tightened around the hilt as he slashed upward. Wind gathered along the blade's edge, forming a shimmering sheet that amplified his strike.
The dummy split apart in a single motion. Hay scattered like feathers in a storm.
Luke stood there, breathing softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
For the first time in years, he felt it — freedom.
As he turned to put the sword back, he went out to find his room. As he left the room he noticed a young girl standing at the doorway, frozen in awe.
"No way…" she whispered. "A person can't destroy an enchanted dummy like that. Was the sword… an artifact?"
The girl went into the training hall.
She picked the sword up, straining under its weight. Before she could attempt a swing, a faint crack echoed. The blade had a fracture she had never seen, its parts of steel were falling to the floor.
The girl stared in disbelief. There was no illusion, nor trick — only the whisper of the wind, telling its quiet story.
---