He cast a quick glance toward the open window, where distant stars shimmered despite the cold air. Then he looked back at her, sensing the seriousness of the question. He exhaled gently, as if the answer itself was a burden he preferred not to carry, but he spoke anyway:
"The machine I used… is a special one. It's complicated. Let's not get into the details now. What matters is that this drawing confirms it for me—and gives me an even stronger reason to head to the capital, as soon as possible."
A hint of hesitation crossed Emilia's face. She took a deep breath before saying:
"I wanted you not to rush… not to be reckless, but…"
She paused, as if the words briefly failed her, then continued, almost as if thinking out loud:
"It seems the breeze of fate I felt back then… really…"
He watched her in silence, wondering what she meant. But he didn't ask. He didn't need to. She lifted her head before he could, her eyes gleaming with a completely different light, as if she had suddenly chosen to change the subject to something simpler:
"Your daughter… how old is she?"
It was a simple question, yet it carried a profound weight. He felt its echo within himself before answering. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he leaned back in his chair. Mixed emotions washed over him, as though the question extinguished the tension inside him—but at the same time, awakened another feeling… a blend of nostalgia and sorrow. He replied in a quiet, almost absent voice:
"She's two and…"
He stopped suddenly, as if the words caught in his throat. For a moment, he seemed flustered, then quickly corrected himself:
"S-seven years!"
Emilia watched him with keen eyes. She said nothing, but her gaze conveyed more than words ever could. His hesitation hadn't escaped her. She had that rare ability to detect unease in voices, to read between the lines, and to distinguish truth cloaked in half-truths and silence. It wasn't a lie—but it wasn't the whole truth either.
Silence hung between them for a moment. Deep within, Ace wondered—just how much could the young girl perceive of what went unspoken? Emilia understood that moment well—the moment when someone tries to reassure a loved one, even while knowing deep inside that the words they offer are merely a shadow of the truth, a feeble attempt to soften the harshness of reality.
How many times had someone whispered to another that everything would be alright, even as the horizon brimmed with storms? Yet, this time felt different. It wasn't just a white lie cloaked in softness; there was something else—something she couldn't identify or even comprehend.
She stared into Ace's face, examining his expression, trying to decipher what lay behind his hesitation. Why did he need an additional moment before answering? The question had been simple, so why the fleeting pause, as if he were searching for the right words—or perhaps concealing what he didn't wish to say? For a moment, she nearly drowned in a swirl of doubt, but she exhaled softly, as if to dismiss the trivial thoughts brushing the surface of her mind. She refused to yield to that draining type of thinking that spins stories out of nothing.
Yet, at the same time, she became aware of the real reason behind her feelings for him. It wasn't just fleeting concern or curiosity since the first time she saw him. It was something else—something akin to what a father might feel for his daughter, or perhaps a sensation undefined, pulsing with nuances too intricate to explain.
And with that, the conversation came to a close. The young girl excused herself to go to bed early, unusually so, after a day that had completely exhausted her—both emotionally and physically. Though brief, the conversation had been filled with emotion, brimming with feelings too difficult to describe. Her decision didn't surprise Ace. He had noticed the slight slump in her shoulders, the weariness etched across her face—a fatigue that wasn't just physical, but emotional too, the kind that sleep alone could not erase.
After telling him he could use the kitchen to prepare a meal if he wished, she brushed off the weight of sitting, rising slowly, as if the air around her had turned viscous, resisting her movement. Her bare feet touched the cold floor, draining what warmth remained in her tired body with every step toward her room. When she reached the doorway, she paused, leaning her back against the wooden frame, as if trying to gather the fragments of strength slipping away bit by bit.
She turned to him. Her gaze was pale, but behind its dimness glimmered a small spark—a flicker of resolve that had not faded despite the exhaustion casting shadows beneath her eyes. In a quiet voice, heavy with an invisible burden, she asked him when he would be leaving to carry out the mission with the other adventurers. He replied that he would depart at sunrise. At that, she furrowed her brows slightly and gripped the edge of the door with tired fingers. Then she said, with unmistakable clarity:
"There's something I want to give you. Don't leave without waking me up, even if I'm still asleep."
Her request sounded like a final instruction—more than a passing reminder. He didn't ask why. He didn't demand an explanation. He gave her that calm look, a silent promise in itself. He nodded, assuring her that her request was simple. Only then did the girl surrender to a wave of relief, wished him a gentle good night, and turned to enter her room, closing the door softly behind her, as if afraid to disturb the silence now seeping through the place.
Inside, with unsteady steps, she headed straight for the bed—her only refuge from the weight of this day. But like any girl, she didn't abandon her sense of order. She didn't ignore the routine of changing clothes. She removed her dress and replaced it with soft nightwear, then sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her golden hair in long, slow strokes, as if combing away the fatigue of the past hours.
When she finished, she collapsed onto the pillow, closed her eyes slowly, and took a deep breath. Yet, just as relaxation began to seep into her muscles, she felt those small aches she hadn't noticed all day, as if her body had only now realized how tense it had been once it was forced to let go. She stared at the ceiling for a few moments, trying to empty her mind, but thoughts tangled like fine threads, delicate yet inseparable.
Sounds, possibilities, fears—all danced in her head, preventing her from falling asleep easily. But little by little, her awareness began to fade, as if she were dissolving into a gentle sea of stillness. Eventually, she surrendered, like a child worn out from a full day of play. Everything around her faded. Only one thought remained, the last flicker in her mind. She whispered before slipping into unconsciousness:
"I hope tomorrow… goes well…"
In the other room, Ace sat quietly, hearing only the sound of his own breathing and the wind brushing against the wooden windows. He could feel the complete stillness that had settled over the place—a clear sign that the young girl had finally given in to sleep.
For a moment, he allowed himself to sink into that stillness as well. But soon, he refocused on the mission ahead. On the table before him, his equipment lay organized, each piece in its place, awaiting his practiced hands. His firearm was disassembled into its basic components, each part reflecting the dim candlelight. He reached for one piece, holding it between his fingers, turning it carefully, ensuring that every detail—from the tiny springs to the metal joints—functioned with flawless fluidity. Then, he began reassembling the weapon, action by action, like solving a complex puzzle he knew by heart.
With one final click of the trigger, he held the weapon, flipped it, examined it, confirmed that everything was in the right place, and set it aside, ready for the next step. His eyes then fell on his military dagger—a black steel blade. He picked it up and studied its sharp edge. He knew that facing a monster that emitted toxic gas would likely render the blade nearly useless.
Still, he couldn't resist testing its sharpness. He sliced it through the air, producing a high-pitched whistle—the sound of wind slipping through stone crevices. That sound alone assured him its edge remained lethal, even if it had proven ineffective against those colorful scales.
Next, he pulled out the explosive grenades, one by one. Three remained. He placed them before him, his eyes analyzing every detail, fingers brushing the cold metal surface. He pressed one, activating its countdown screen—a sign of readiness. He watched it for a few seconds, then powered it down by holding the button again. After testing each one, he returned them to their designated pouch, aware that carrying them could be a risky gamble. The toxic gas surrounding the monster could turn any explosion into a deadly inferno. That much, he had deduced himself.
After that, he cast a final glance over his gear, then leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling, where the faint candlelight flickered, as if painting for him a picture of the end that awaited. Then, he laid his body down onto the cold floor, removing the last piece of clothing, and began a slow series of movements—stretching here, tightening there—until his muscles twisted and flexed beneath taut skin, like finely tuned strings ready to snap. Sweat trickled down his back. This wasn't just exercise—it was a ritual, a preparation for a battle that might be the hardest he would ever face.
Several hours passed in this silent training. When he was done, his body felt as though it had emerged from a quiet war. Every muscle was alert, tensed, ready for anything. He made his way to the bathroom, and cold water crashed down on him like a slap to the soul, making him gasp, then exhale slowly, letting the chill course through his veins, extinguishing the heat ignited by his grueling routine.
Afterward, he returned to his room, collapsed onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling, as if searching for answers, for signs, for something to reassure him that tomorrow wouldn't be harsher than it already promised to be. His eyes remained open, his mind spinning through scenarios, analyzing, anticipating, and planning.