Humanity had once stood on the brink of annihilation, its future hanging by a thread frayed thin by claws and malice.
And yet—so the story went—one mage had risen where countless others had fallen. He became the shield between the world and oblivion, the name history would cradle with reverence long after his bones turned to dust.
The First Wizard King.
A legend born of blood and impossible resolve.
It was a widely known tale, spoken in hushed awe and embellished with every retelling—the story of the First Wizard King. A single mage who stood against a demon that sought to erase humanity from existence itself.
Clover, Spade, Heart, Diamond—every kingdom, every border drawn by human hands—would have been swallowed whole had he failed.
Xierra had heard the story more times than she could count. From wandering merchants who stayed the night in Hage, from old men who spoke as though they had witnessed it themselves, from crumbling books whose pages smelled of dust and neglect.
Still, the question always returned, uninvited and persistent, curling quietly in her chest.
Could someone truly be that powerful?
The demon, as the stories described it, had been a grotesque thing—three eyes that saw too much, four arms that tore villages apart as though they were made of paper and straw.
Entire cities had collapsed beneath its gaze alone, structures reduced to rubble and memory in a heartbeat. Against it, the First Wizard King had wielded a four-leaf grimoire, a weapon steeped in myth and rarity, whispered to bend fate itself in its pages.
As Xierra's thoughts lingered on the legend, a distant roar of voices rolled across the land, carried by unseen currents of magic and wind alike.
Cheers from the royal capital reached even the quiet edges of Hage, swelling and overlapping until they blurred into one thunderous celebration.
"They have defeated the invaders!"
"Three cheers for our Wizard King!"
"Here's to their triumphant return!"
The voices felt out of place here—too loud, too alive for a village that usually breathed in soft murmurs and routine.
Xierra's gaze drifted away from the horizon and settled, as it often did, on the massive demon skull looming not far from her home. Its hollow sockets stared endlessly into the sky, a relic of a past that refused to be forgotten.
Atop it stood the statue of the First Wizard King, forever frozen mid-victory, cape carved to billow against a wind that no longer existed.
Fifteen years had passed.
Fifteen years since that cold, unforgiving night when she had been brought here, wrapped in borrowed warmth and grief she could not yet name.
The story Father Orsi told clung to her like frostbite—dull, distant, but aching all the same.
Far away, in the heart of the kingdom, the crowd erupted once more. Fists were raised skyward as the current Wizard King returned alongside the Magic Knight squads, their triumph echoing across borders and fields alike. They shouted his name as though it were a spell in itself.
Julius Novachrono.
The name threaded through everything—rumors whispered over tavern tables, headlines inked into fresh parchment, lessons etched into history books that Xierra had read and reread until the words blurred.
The sheer volume of their celebration sent a strange vibration through the air, a dissonance so powerful it seemed to ripple across the country.
Xierra tilted her head slightly, listening. She wondered—briefly, curiously—if it was some kind of sound-amplifying magic at work. Otherwise, all they should have seen were faint fireworks against a sunlit sky, distant and silent as stars at dawn. How they managed to hear all this even at the edges of the kingdom was beyond her.
The cheers continued, loud and unrelenting, while Hage remained exactly as it always was—quiet, weathered, and stubbornly alive.
Iron blades bit into the soil with a familiar routine, the earth yielding in dark, damp curls before the farmers' spades. The sound faltered—not stopped, but softened—as the distant roar rolled over the fields like an approaching tide.
One by one, the men paused, hands resting atop worn handles, eyes lifting toward the sky where faint bursts of color bloomed and vanished far beyond the horizon. It wasn't often that Hage was reached by such noise, let alone celebrations meant for kings and knights.
"The capital's losing its mind again," one of them muttered, swiping an arm across his brow. Sweat traced lines down his temple as he leaned heavily against his shovel, gaze fixed on the faraway spectacle as though it might suddenly become clearer if he stared long enough.
Another let out a tired huff, nodding in agreement. "Must be the Wizard King," he said, voice threaded with awe more than certainty. "Every time he comes back, it's like the whole kingdom remembers how to celebrate."
Xierra passed them then, the woven basket in her arms brimming with freshly unearthed produce. The weight tugged at her shoulders, but she adjusted her grip with practiced ease, slowing just enough for their words to catch her attention. She glanced up, curiosity flickering across her features like sunlight through leaves.
"The Wizard King, huh?" she curiously tested, the question gentle, almost thoughtful.
Her voice stood out—clear, composed, carrying a kind of tenderness that didn't quite match the dust-streaked fields or the rough turn of the village life.
Hage was not a place known for refinement. Most learned what they needed through calloused hands and repetition, not books or stories passed down in ink. Yet Xierra had always been different, as if she listened for things others had long stopped hearing.
The farmers turned toward her, momentarily startled. One of them smiled, warmth breaking through his fatigue as he wiped his neck with a cloth darkened by sweat.
"That's right," he said. "Wizard King. Been keeping this place standing longer than any of us have been alive. This kingdom owed its existence to the generations of Wizard Kings who protected us."
She nodded, slow and deliberate, as if weighing the words rather than simply accepting them.
In truth, she already knew. The stories were familiar—etched into memory through half-read texts and whispered retellings. Still, she listened, because sometimes people revealed more in how they spoke than in what they said.
And because here in Hage, even legends sounded different when told by those who lived quietly beneath their shadow.
Books were scarce in Hage—scarcer than coin, scarcer than magic.
The grimoire tower loomed at the village's edge like a promise never meant to be kept, its shelves filled with tomes that chose their owners rather than offering themselves to curious hands. Xierra had learned early on that knowledge here came not from pages, but from passing voices.
Merchants with dust in their hair and stories stitched together from half-remembered truths became her teachers. They knew more of the world than the yellowed volumes tucked away in the small room she shared, their words carrying places she could only imagine.
On slower days, she lingered in Drouot's office, where a handful of books still held her attention. She would reorganize his shelves under the guise of helping, fingers brushing spines she had already memorized, or drift back into the village streets.
When the church's stores ran low, she found herself among the fields instead, sleeves rolled, hands buried in soil, trading labor for food that would stretch a little further through the week.
The farmers' gazes eventually followed hers, drawn—as they always were—to the colossal skull rising from the earth. Time had weathered it into a symbol as familiar as the church bells.
Atop it stood the statue of the first Wizard King, forever frozen in triumph, a silent guardian watching over a village too small to matter in the grand tales of history. Xierra often thought that no palace tower, no matter how tall or ornate, could rival the sheer enormity of that third eye carved into bone.
It watched everything. Remembered everything.
"Oh—by the way," one of the farmers called out, stepping forward with a basket overflowing with nomotatoes, their skins still dusted with soil. "You did great again today, Xierra."
Another laughed, nodding along. "We'll add a bit more from this month's harvest. Make sure the other kids get their fill, yeah?"
Their smiles were open, unguarded—gratitude worn plainly across sun-darkened faces. They had come to expect her presence in the fields, just as they had come to rely on it.
Since the day Xierra began helping in exchange for extra produce, the harvests had grown steadily richer, season after season. When she was absent, even briefly, the land seemed to falter, crops drying faster than they should.
Some whispered of blessings, of quiet miracles bestowed by higher powers. But Xierra never believed it. Fate, she told herself. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.
She startled slightly, the weight of their words sinking in as the basket in her arms slipped. Adjusting her grip, she shook her head quickly. "Ah—no, really," she said, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. "The usual amount is more than enough."
More food would mean fuller plates at the church, fewer nights of measured portions, and quiet hunger. But it would also mean taking from those who had already given so much. The thought sat heavy in her chest.
Was it fair, she wondered, to accept more than her share—when the village itself survived on what these hands coaxed from the earth?
That answer had always been the same, and the villagers had come to expect it. A few of the men exchanged knowing looks, amusement mellowing their tired expressions.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, child," a woman passing by said gently, her voice warm as freshly baked bread. She paused beside Xierra, eyes kind, hands dusted with flour and earth alike. "You help lighten Father Orsi's burden, don't you?"
Xierra hesitated, then nodded, fingers tightening around the basket's handle.
The woman's smile deepened, reaching her eyes. "Then take them," she urged gently, gesturing toward the brimming produce. "That alone makes it worth it."
Laughter broke out before Xierra could reply. One of the farmers threw his head back, loud and unrestrained. "We've got more than enough this year," he said between chuckles. "Giving a little extra won't hurt us one bit."
"Ever since you started helping, things just grow better," another joined in, half-joking, half-awed. He wiped sweat from his brow, chuckling. "The kids look a lot healthier. Even the nomotatoes are bigger. Brighter. Like they're trying to show off."
"I'm sure it's just a fluke," Xierra murmured, her voice nearly swallowed by their laughter. She shook her head, a faint crease forming between her brows. "I didn't do anything special."
One of the men grinned anyway and patted her shoulder with careful restraint. "We'd give you more if we could."
Her expression tightened. Once again, she shook her head. "No—please," she said, polite but firm. "You all have families, too. It wouldn't feel right, taking more just because this season was kind."
She meant it. Truly.
Hage sat far from the kingdom's heart, tucked along its fraying edges. It was never prosperous, but neither was it starving.
The fields gave just enough for winters that bit and summers that burned. Enough to endure. Enough to live. Everyone here carried responsibility in their hands—and Xierra refused to break that balance, no matter how generous the offer.
The woman sighed softly. "I thought you'd say that."
A quiet settled over the group. One man lowered his gaze, another rubbed the back of his neck. They had known her since she was small, long before she carried baskets nearly her own size.
Kind. Dependable. Perhaps too much so.
Watching her haul crates that strained even grown men always left a knot in their chests. She looked as though a strong wind might carry her away—slender, light-footed, almost fragile.
And yet.
Xierra worked smarter than most. Where brute strength failed, thoughtfulness stepped in.
A careful flow of mana, a shift in balance, a subtle redirection of weight—and the burden eased, just enough. What once would have crushed her shoulders became manageable, even familiar.
It was easier than scrubbing floors at the church, she thought.
And somehow, it felt right.
Xierra had half a mind to return later and help again, just as she always did. It had been some time since she last stood beside Sister Lily, sleeves rolled up, hands damp with soap and river water, the steady rhythm of laundry filling the quiet afternoons.
The thought lingered faintly as she adjusted her grip on the basket, weighing habit against the present moment.
Before she could voice it, the farmer waved her off with a firm shake of his head, his expression softening into something resolute and kind.
"Just take 'em this time, girl," he said, a solemn smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Consider it a bonus for your hard work all these years."
She hesitated—and he noticed.
"You've turned down every single bonus we've offered," he continued, pointing gently, not accusingly. "And don't think we haven't seen how the kids at the church look when you do. You wouldn't want to break this old man's heart now, would you?"
A soft spot, they knew.
Xierra flinched at the mention of his feelings, a crooked, helpless smile pulling across her face. Words abandoned her entirely. This—this was why she never won arguments with the elders. They wielded sincerity like a blade, sharp and impossible to parry.
"I—"
"No, no, we insist!" another voice cut in before she could finish. "Take it, take it!"
A woman stepped closer, her tone gentle, her hands folded neatly over her apron. "It isn't every day we have this much to spare," she said warmly, "especially since you started helping us. Think of it as a thank-you—from all of us farmers."
Others murmured their agreement.
"You're like a good luck charm."
"And besides," the woman added with a light chuckle, "you'll be turning fifteen soon. Once you get your grimoire, who knows what kind of path awaits you?" Her eyes gleamed with fond amusement. "We've all seen how you get when you're buried in books or listening to stories."
Before Xierra could respond, a boy passing by perked up at the mention of adventure.
"Ooh! Exciting!" he laughed, spinning on his heel. "You'd be amazing out there! You're super smart!"
His excitement was short-lived—his mother's pointed glare sent him scurrying away, giggling as he went.
Xierra pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a quiet laugh. At last, she accepted the basket, cradling it carefully in her arms. Her fingers traced the woven surface—rough, uneven, threaded with loose ends and age-softened fibers.
The basket bore the marks of countless harvests, seasons stacked upon seasons. It felt older than she was, heavy with history.
"I'm not ready to leave Hage," she murmured, her voice steady, her smile unchanged. "But, I'll accept this. Thank you."
The farmer barked out a laugh. "I've told you before—it's us who should be thanking—"
His words were swallowed whole by a familiar, obnoxiously loud shout that tore through the village, echoing from one end of Hage to the other.
Xierra laughed, bright and unguarded, as the farmers groaned in unison.
"One day, I'd become the Wizard King—!"
"There it is," someone muttered under their breath, pinching the bridge of their nose with the exhaustion of long familiarity.
"—and make you happy!!!"
The response was immediate.
A heavy, synchronized sigh rolled through the field, followed by a ripple of resigned amusement. Their conversation dissolved back into routine, tools lifted once more, yet there was fondness in the way they glanced after Xierra.
Moments like these had a way of softening even the longest days.
"Goodness," the woman beside her sighed, nodding toward the sound resounding across the village, "it's that boy from the church again."
Xierra let out another laugh, this one quieter, edged with fond irritation. She didn't bother hiding the way her shoulders sagged in surrender.
Years of Asta's proclamations had worn that reaction into her bones. Loud, relentless, utterly impossible dreams—especially the part where he married Sister Lily. Xierra would've believed it only if the heavens tore themselves apart and the sea learned how to part.
"That's why—please, marry me!!!"
She exhaled, as if bracing herself against the sheer force of his voice. With the practiced ease of someone who'd done this countless times, she shifted the basket in her grasp, then lifted one hand to wave.
"Thank you very much," Xierra called, gratitude threading through her tone. "Good luck with the field. I'll head back now."
"Careful on your way home, girl," one of them replied.
"I will."
Xierra drew the basket close, arms tightening around its woven sides. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it demanded attention—an unspoken negotiation between balance and strength.
A quiet grunt slipped past her lips as she adjusted her grip. She was thankful she'd helped haul the crops earlier; otherwise, this would've been far more troublesome.
I hope I make it back in time to hear them argue again.
"Up you go," she kept to herself, lifting the basket higher and settling it more securely against her chest.
As she passed the cluster of children near the path, her expression softened. Their laughter spilled freely, shoes kicking up dust and loose pebbles as they waved at her with boundless energy.
She smiled back, unable to help herself, a small chuckle escaping as they darted past one another in a blur of limbs and shouts.
"Be careful!" their mother called after them, concern sharp in her voice as she hurried along, skirts already splattered with mud; she clearly didn't care about.
Xierra shook her head, fond and knowing, and continued on her way.
.
.
.
The church lay only a short distance from the fields, yet the walk toward it never felt rushed.
The day had softened into something gentle—cloud cover dimming the sky without stealing its brilliance. Earlier heat had retreated, leaving behind a mellow warmth that settled comfortably against her skin.
With every step, the road felt kinder beneath her soles, as though even the earth had decided to go easy on her.
Life in Hage had offered her a quiet kind of grace. Xierra hadn't traveled far, nor seen much of the world beyond its borders, but she'd glimpsed enough of neighboring villages to know how fortunate this place was.
Forests pressed close to the outskirts, rivers wound lazily through the land, and wide plains stretched toward endless wheat fields swaying beneath the open sky. Even the distant silhouette of the demon skull had become familiar, looming yet strangely watchful.
Bluebirds nested high among the branches, their clear songs threading through the air, while weathered wooden fences traced the hills in long, unbroken lines—views she held close to her heart.
Xierra let her eyes fall shut, welcoming the breeze as it brushed over her cheeks. Her platinum-blonde hair lifted and streamed behind her, strands weaving and untangling as if carried by invisible hands.
She followed the worn path with ease, passing clusters of wildflowers blooming stubbornly beneath splintered fences. The fabric of her gray skirt skimmed her calves with each stride, accompanied by the muted rhythm of soles against packed earth—and, faintly, the distant laughter of children carried on the wind.
When she opened her eyes again, the church stood before her.
The towering tree beside it cast wide, sheltering shadows, its presence grounding and familiar. The sight alone eased something tight in her chest, as it always did.
Has it always been that big?
A tune slipped past her lips—one she knew well, yet couldn't quite place. It felt borrowed, like a memory half-remembered.
As she drew closer, the breeze seemed to answer her hum, rising and falling in quiet harmony. With every breath, the weight in her arms lessened, the basket growing easier to bear until, just before the gate, a soft rush of wind brushed her hands.
"Yuno."
Her voice found him before her eyes did.
Amber met blue, and for a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to that exchange. His gaze caught her breath every time—golden and steady, reminiscent of sunlit fields heavy with grain, of dawn breaking and dusk settling in equal measure.
She'd always thought she could lose herself there if she wasn't careful.
He acknowledged her with a brief nod, a smile barely there yet unmistakable. It curved and vanished so quickly she might've doubted it if she hadn't been watching closely.
The basket lifted from her grasp, guided effortlessly by the wind as he turned toward the church. He glanced back once, his eyes sharpening for a heartbeat before softening again.
"You should have called me," he said quietly.
The rest went unspoken, lingering gently between them.
Xierra followed him inside, her smile small but sincere—noticed only from the corner of his eye as the church doors welcomed them both.
The church door lingered ajar behind them, its old hinges protesting with a tired groan. The sound echoed faintly through the stone hall, sharp enough to linger in the air. Both of them noticed and silently agreed it would need oiling—another small thing to mention to Father Orsi once he returned.
Xierra let out a quiet laugh, more fond than amused, and shook her head.
"I shouldn't trouble you with something so trivial," she said lightly, waving the thought away. "I can handle it myself. And you're already helping Sister Lily with the laundry, aren't you?"
Yuno paused by the basin, setting the basket down with care. He turned to face her, amber eyes steady, and released a breath that sounded suspiciously like resignation.
"Then we'll switch," he said. "I'll help in the fields."
The words came without hesitation—offered for what felt like the hundredth time. Usually, she met them with practiced excuses, a smile, and a claim that the work kept her strong, that she didn't mind the labor.
This time, though, there was no opening for refusal. His resolve was firm, quiet, unmistakable.
It wasn't much, perhaps. Just an offer. Just words.
Yet the effort alone startled her.
And she wasn't the only one.
"Well," Nash muttered from the doorway, blinking, "that just happened."
"That almost never happens," Rekka added, awe coloring her voice.
Xierra laughed softly with them, the sound easing the moment before it could grow too heavy. Without another word, the two older teens ushered the younger ones away, nodding toward their unfinished chores. The rhythm of the church returned as footsteps scattered and voices faded.
Her gaze drifted outward.
As expected, the sight greeted her with familiar chaos—Asta's voice slicing through the air, loud and impassioned, declaring love with reckless devotion.
She barely needed to look to know how it would end. The crash of conjured water followed soon after, punctuated by his yelp. The pattern had repeated itself so often it had become background noise, almost comforting in its predictability.
Everything was the same.
And somehow, that sameness felt right.
Yet beneath that comfort, something stirred.
A faint tug in her chest—subtle, insistent.
Someone was missing.
Her hand moved on instinct, fingers brushing against the fox mask resting at her waist. It had gone untouched all day, its smooth surface warm from her body heat.
A keepsake. A fragment of a past Father Orsi spoke of gently, carefully, as though afraid the truth might fracture her. He'd told her it came from someone who cared deeply for her.
He never said they left.
She had been too young then to ask.
What is it? Who are you?
The questions followed her in quiet moments, pressing closer whenever the world grew still. Loneliness crept in then—not sharp, but heavy enough to tighten her chest.
And yet...
She never truly felt alone.
There was a presence she couldn't name, something watchful and patient, lingering just beyond her awareness. It never frightened her. Never felt wrong. If anything, it carried a sense of reassurance, like a hand resting unseen at her back.
Xierra trusted that feeling.
So she tucked her doubts away once more, letting them settle for another day. Answers could wait. The world wasn't finished with her yet—and she had time.
Today unfolded like any other.
The sun traced its familiar arc across the sky, clouds drifting lazily as if reluctant to move too quickly. The scent of tilled earth and ripening crops clung to the breeze, carrying the quiet hum of village life. Children's laughter bounced along the fences, mingling with the distant chirping of bluebirds and the soft rustling of leaves.
Nothing was out of place. Nothing demanded attention. Nothing whispered of the extraordinary.
Yet, despite the ordinary rhythm of the day, a peculiar tug lingered at the edges of Xierra's mind.
Moments she had lived countless times—or so it seemed—folded over each other, familiar yet strangely distant, like resonances she could almost, but not quite, reach.
Questions had always perched at the edges of her thoughts, unanswered and patient. They waited for her attention, for acknowledgment, for curiosity sharp enough to follow them down hidden paths.
And among all those questions, one refused to let go:
Where had she seen these scenes before?
To Be Continued...