Ray woke to pain.
Not the screaming, tearing agony from before—
but a dull, pounding headache, heavy and deep, like his skull had been packed with lead and regret.
He groaned softly and cracked one eye open.
Wooden ceiling.
Familiar cracks.
A faint beam of morning light slipping through the window.
…My room?
He blinked again, slower this time, taking stock.
A bed. His bed.
Clean sheets. No blood. No scorch marks. No shadows clawing at the walls.
His arms lay where they should. His legs felt heavy—but whole.
Ray lifted one hand in front of his face.
No burns.
No trembling.
No feeling like his soul was being fed through a grinder.
"…I'm home," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The realization hit him a second later.
Wait.
His breath caught.
I—
I used too much mana.
I remember the fire.
The pain. The screaming.
Soul deterioration.
The thought sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the morning air.
"…That's not survivable," Ray whispered.
He pushed himself up slightly, expecting his body to rebel.
It didn't.
His head throbbed harder, but his limbs responded. His mana—faint, sluggish—was there. Bruised. Exhausted. But intact.
Ray's heart began to race.
No. No way.
I shouldn't be alive.
A voice answered him.
"You knew about soul deterioration?"
The words slid into his ear like silk over steel—calm, amused, utterly unhurried.
Ray froze.
Every instinct he had screamed at him not to move.
Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head.
A man sat in the chair beside his bed.
No—not a man.
An old figure, yet ageless, posture relaxed, fingers loosely folded over the head of a black cane that Ray hadn't noticed before. Long silver-white hair spilled over his shoulders like liquid moonlight, not a single strand out of place. His skin was pale, faintly luminous, as if light had forgotten how to leave him.
And his eyes—
Deep. Crimson. Scarlet like fresh blood caught in candlelight.
They glowed faintly, filled not with hostility, but with sharp, measuring amusement.
Ray's breath hitched.
That description—
His mind raced, scrambling through half-remembered stories, warnings whispered in taverns, rumors that teachers shut down mid-sentence.
The headmaster.
The Archmage.
The Duke.
Kael's father.
Oh.
Oh no.
Ray swallowed hard. "You're—"
"The one you're thinking of," the man said lightly, as if reading his thoughts were the most natural thing in the world.
The corner of his mouth curved upward. Not a smile. Something more dangerous.
Ray's head pounded harder. "Then… I'm dead, right? This is—some kind of afterlife lecture?"
A soft breath of laughter escaped the man.
"No," he said. "If you were dead, I would not be here."
That… was not reassuring.
Ray shifted, every muscle tense. "Then how am I alive?"
The man leaned forward slightly, crimson eyes gleaming.
"Because," he said, voice calm and absolute,
"I decided you would be."
Ray stared at him.
The weight of that statement settled slowly—heavily—into his chest.
"…You healed me," Ray said.
"'Healed' is an inelegant word," the man replied. "I intervened."
Ray's fingers curled into the sheets. "You know what I did."
"I know exactly what you did," the man said, amused. "And that is why I stayed."
Ray frowned. "Stayed?"
The man's gaze sharpened, studying Ray the way a scholar might study a forbidden text.
"You forced your soul beyond its limits," he continued calmly. "Without knowledge. Without training. Without permission."
Ray winced. "…Yeah. That tracks."
"And you survived."
That amusement in his eyes deepened.
"Which makes you," the man finished softly,
"interesting."
Ray swallowed.
"…I don't like the sound of that."
The man chuckled quietly, standing at last. Even that simple movement carried weight, like the room itself adjusted to accommodate him.
"Most people don't," he said.
He looked down at Ray, silver hair catching the morning light, crimson eyes reflecting something old and unreadable.
"Rest," he added. "Your soul is stable—for now. We will speak again when you can stand without your head splitting open."
He turned toward the door, cloak whispering like a shadow in motion.
Just before leaving, he paused.
"Oh—and Ray?"
Ray tensed. "Y-yeah?"
The man glanced back, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
"Next time you decide to burn the world to save yourself," he said lightly,
"try not to do it where I can see."
Then he left.
The door closed softly behind him.
Ray collapsed back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding.
"…I'm screwed," he whispered.
Kael and Nora stood just outside the door for a moment.
Not because they needed to.
Because neither of them quite trusted what they were feeling.
Kael closed his eyes and reached out—not with mana, not fully, just enough to listen.
Warmth. Steady rhythm. A presence that felt… whole.
"…He's fine," Kael said quietly.
Nora's hand flew to her mouth. Her shoulders sagged as if someone had cut the strings holding her upright. "Thank the gods…"
Kael opened the door.
Ray lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling with an expression that hovered somewhere between exhausted and existentially traumatized.
Kael froze in the doorway.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
There was distance there—small, fragile, but real. The kind that formed after fear too big for words. Kael stood stiff, unsure whether stepping closer would break something.
Ray turned his head.
Their eyes met.
"…Hey," Ray said carefully.
Kael swallowed. "Hey."
Nora moved first.
She crossed the room in three quick steps and gently pressed a hand to Ray's forehead, then his cheek, as if checking he was solid, real, alive.
"You scared me half to death," she said, voice trembling despite the smile she forced. "Do you have any idea how pale you were?"
Ray winced. "Sorry?"
Nora huffed, half-laughing, half-crying. "That's not an apology."
Kael stayed where he was, arms at his sides, gaze locked on Ray like he was afraid to blink.
The silence stretched again—awkward this time, heavy with things neither knew how to say yet.
And then—
BANG.
The door slammed open so hard it smacked the wall.
"—KIBA, NO—!"
Too late.
A blur of fur launched itself across the room.
"Kiba!" Nora shouted.
Ray barely had time to turn before something warm and heavy collided with his chest, knocking the air clean out of him.
"ACK—!"
A rough, enthusiastic tongue dragged across his face.
"Wait—Kiba—stop—why are you licking me—"
The wolf-dog whined loudly, tail wagging so hard it threatened to take out the bedside table, paws planted firmly on Ray's shoulders as if pinning him in place.
"Slurp—"
"Oh gods," Ray groaned. "I survived soul deterioration just to die like this."
Kael stared.
Then—slowly—his shoulders loosened.
A short breath escaped him. Not quite a laugh. But close.
"…He missed you," Kael said.
Kiba barked in agreement and licked Ray again for emphasis.
Nora laughed outright this time, wiping at her eyes. "Looks like you're officially alive."
Ray surrendered, turning his face away. "Please tell him I'm fragile."
Kiba barked again, clearly disagreeing.
For the first time since the nightmare began, the room felt normal.
Warm. Loud. Messy.
Alive.