The Elestar: Zero

"Hey, boy... where'd you run off to?"

"I know you can hear me. Running won't help.

You're going to end just like your mom and be just like your mom.

But you know... that'd sort of be a kindness for a weakling like you."

"You wonder under what conditions you left her?

For help, your mother called your name on every breath she took—begging.

But of course, you weren't.

What can your useless, pathetic, heartless son do?"

"You saw her suffer in my embrace … and you did nothing.

You only fled, as the coward you are.

She did it in pain — and you couldn't even handle hearing about it."

While Baskervill's voice thundered in the trees, something in me snapped.

Not from hatred for him—

But hatred for myself.

Everything he said… felt true.

And the more I listened, the more I came to accept it.

I had not even been aware of the cloth across my eyes, that it was wet with tears.

I wasn't sure why I was crying at all—

Did that have something to do with what he said?

Or, you know, because I knew he was correct?

"There wouldn't have been anything to replace you with," Baskervill said with a sneer.

"Your mother could still be alive.

Imagine that.

A mother who trusted her son…

Only to be abandoned."

"She must have had her heart break into a thousand pieces.

How does it feel to know that you're the one who broke it?"

His tongue was worse than a sword.

Still—I kept silent.

I made myself take deep, slow, hidden breaths so I could get through.

But then…

And one of the hounds smelled me.

Baskervill noticed.

He made his way slowly toward the tree I was behind.

Then… he bit his own hand.

Blood poured out instantly—

And he twisted his fingers and the blood turned into a spear.

Suddenly approached the tree, spear readied—

Only to discover an old, bloodstained tunic and a backpack.

No one else.

Baskervill blinked.

"Well, well…

Smarter than I thought."

Then he said, growling, to his hell-hounds:

"FIND HIM!"

By that time, anyway, I was already racing through the forest at a dead run - sword in hand, tears in my eyes.

I didn't want to believe what he said.

But I held on to the last thing my mother said to me:

"Stay alive. No matter what—live."

Those words became my lifeline.

No reason to let her sacrifice be for naught.

I'd not squander the life she died protecting.

[I promise, Mother… I'll survive. I will make your sacrifice mean something. I swear it.]

I ran until I couldn't hear the hounds anymore.

For a moment, I felt safe.

And then I saw something, in the trees— A house.

[Someone lives here! Maybe they'll help me. Maybe…]

I rushed toward it—

When suddenly a hound jumps out on me from the darkness.

I had made a mistake. I had let my guard down. And now, I would pay for it. But I reacted just in time. The beast fell under my sword.

It fell.

But it wasn't alone.

More hounds emerged.

And I knew—

There was no escape.

I fought.

One after another.

Strike. Block. Strike again.

I killed the first.

Then the second.

Then the third.

But they kept coming.

One got its teeth into my leg and pulled me under.

I hit the ground hard—

My sword flying from my hand.

Then they were on me.

Biting.

Tearing.

Clawing.

Pain shot through every limb.

I screamed.

I wished someone in the house would hear.

Somebody may come to help.

Then I saw him.

Baskervill.

Hope died.

"You are much cleverer than I thought," he said coolly.

"Most, I think, when they're insulted, let it consume them with rage. Particularly when you speak about their family. But not you."

He lifted his arm and the dogs retreated.

I drew a shuddering breath, struggling to crawl as the agony pulsed through me.

"But instead of anger…

I see something else in you."

"Not rage… but will.

A desperate will to survive.

Tell me, boy…

What fuels it?

Why do you cling to life with such insistence?"

I heard the question.

But I didn't answer.

"I almost pity you," Baskervill said.

"But I'm not skipping dinner tonight."

He stood over me, turned me over on my back, and pointed his spear at me.

I couldn't move.

I could barely breathe.

My entire body cried out for relief — for it to be over.

But in that moment—

I looked up at the sky.

And thoughts flooded my mind:

[Is this it? Is this how it ends? After everything? If only I'd been stronger… Just like the heroes in Father's tales … Maybe… Perhaps my mother would have lived. Maybe I'd be home right now. If I could go back and just do one more thing… I'd fight. I swear I'd fight.]

Baskervill raised the spear—

The tip was aimed at my heart.

But then—A growl. A bark.

He turned.

"What is it now?!"

Out from the trees stepped … a man.

Aged, bearded, silver hair, and tattered cloth.

The hounds rushed him.

He drew his sword—

And just like that, they were dead.

Baskervill's eyes widened.

"You useless mutts!" he screamed.

"You can't kill one old man?!"

He sent the rest.

They died too.

I could not believe my eyes.

One by one, the hounds fell.

And the man—

Ablaze with anger, he strode up to Baskervill.

Baskervill, furious, charged.

"Old man, you will pay for this! I'm going to feed the rest of my hounds your flesh!"

He struck first.

The old man deflected it lazily.

A second strike—

Baskervill blinked.

For a moment…

The world twisted.

Then—

His head hit the ground.

He didn't comprehend what had even happened.

His body fell moments later.

But his head… his decapitated head… it screamed on.

"You cursed old fool! I'll kill you! I'll—"

Suddenly a green fire kindled in the man's hand.

He burned Baskervill's body along with his broken head and the body of every last hound.

I lay there, too weak to move, and looked on.

Too broken.

I tried to rise—

Except the pain kept dragging me down.

The last thing that my eyes ever beheld—

Did the green fire shine through the gaps in the trees.

Some time later…

I woke up.

Immediately when I attempted to turn over, pain shot through my every nerve.

I couldn't shift my head an inch without agony flaring across my skull.

The blindfold was gone.

I was in a bed — in a cabin I didn't recognize.

The door opened.

The old man walked in.

He went directly to a pot over the fire and started cooking.

He was solidly built, muscle not yet wasted by years.

His beard was streaked with silver.

He wore worn, tattered clothes.

And at last he said—his voice was low and steady:

"Your head hurts?"

"Yes… Where am I?"

"My hut. I rescued you from the demon last night. Brought you here."

"Thank you. For saving me, sir…"

"Valorant. Just call me Valorant."

"I'm Attu."

He turned to me, serious.

"What were you doing in that woods?

Why weren't you home?"

"I have no home.

No family."

"Your parents?"

"Gone.

My mother's murderer was the demon you killed.

And then my father vanished six years ago."

"…I see."

He served stew into a bowl and handed it to me.

"Eat. You'll need strength."

"Thank you.

"Oh, and by the way…where's my sword?"

"Safe. Next to mine."

I ate.

Whether it was because I hadn't had anything to eat in days—

Or maybe the food was really just that good—

It tasted amazing.

I got up after a while and made it to my cabin door through the pain.

Outside, Valorant was chopping wood.

"Where's my blindfold?" I asked.

"Why do you need it?"

"My eyes … don't they frighten you?"

"No."

"…Then please. Train me to wield a sword and fight. And teach me that fire magic you're doing."