As Icariel plummeted through the churning night, the wind screamed like a starving beast tearing at his limbs.

"Tuck in—legs to head, arms too. Protect the skull. You're flexible enough," the voice ordered.

His body obeyed before his mind could rebel. He curled in midair like a leaf folding against a storm. A single tear flared from the corner of his eye—then vanished, devoured by gravity's fury.

"Please... I just want to live."

BAMM.

The river wasn't water. It was a punishment.

It exploded around him—ice-knives slashing his flesh, piercing his ears, stealing breath like a vulture gutting a corpse. His chest caved inward, lungs locked shut in primal refusal. Pain spiderwebbed through his bones as if they'd been shattered from the marrow outward.

Everything turned to blue.

He sank—dragged downward by the weight of agony. The river wasn't wet anymore. It was pressure. Cold iron pressing against his ribs. Salt and blood scraped his throat. And then—

A door.

Not imagined. Not hallucinated.

It stood on the riverbed, ancient and still, carved from stone as old as the mountain itself. Flames danced along its frame. Chains coiled across it like serpents mid-hiss. The symbols weren't writing. They were warnings—alive with a malice that had never forgotten.

Then darkness swallowed him.

Morning rose like a cruel joke.

The ashes of Mjull puffed into the sky like ghosts denied rest. Black beams jutted from collapsed homes, skeletal and broken. Crows screamed from rooftops melted by fire. The village that once smelled of stew and pine now reeked of rotting flesh.

Elektra sat on a wooden chair exactly where Icariel had once hung. Her fingers drummed the armrest, slow and sharp. Her armor was spotless now. Polished.

A figure slithered from the shadow—a man woven of shadow itself. He had no face. Only a grin.

"Took your time," Elektra said, her voice a blade sliding from its sheath. "I almost killed myself from boredom."

"Someone sounds disappointed," the shadow said. His grin widened. "Galien's dead. Your mission's done. Why not smile?"

The air replied first. A breeze dragged the stench of burnt blood between them.

Elektra's lip curled. "A rat got in the way. Stubborn little brat. But it's done. He's gone."

The man chuckled, low. "Must've been a special rat."

"He was just noisy. Let's finish this."

"Gladly."

Gasping.

Icariel surged up from a bed of straw and scratchy wool, pain flashing across his chest like shattered glass.

Herbs and damp wood choked his nose. The ceiling above him sagged with time. His whole body felt packed in broken metal.

"Did I survive...?"

"Barely."

Not the voice.

He turned.

An old man sat beside the bed—balding, bearded, and frowning like life itself owed him an apology.

"AH—!" Icariel recoiled.

"Brat! That how you greet the man who fished your corpse out of a river?!" The man smacked his head—not hard, but not gentle either.

"Ow! You—wait, you saved me?"

"Saw you floatin' face-up like a bloated frog. Unconscious. Freezing. So I dragged your sorry ass out. Should've left you for the fish."

Icariel's instincts tensed, but the voice whispered—thin, distant:

"He speaks the truth."

Icariel swallowed. "Thank you… for not letting me die."

The man blinked. Then laughed like dry leaves rustling. "You're welcome, brat. Thank my granddaughter too. She helped patch your sorry ribs."

The door creaked.

She stepped in.

Short, fire-colored hair framed her sharp eyes. She wore simple clothes, but something in her stance—quiet, observant—spoke of patience honed like a blade.

"Hello," she said softly. "You really worried Grandpa."

"Thanks… I think."

"Worried?! I was praying you'd die quietly so I didn't waste a blanket!"

Icariel flinched. "Sorry, but… you kinda looked like a monster when I woke up."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"

The girl giggled, tugging the old man's sleeve. "He's joking, Grandpa. Don't burst a vein."

Later, Icariel asked, "How?"

"How what?" the old man replied.

"I never saw a house near the village. I know every cliff of that mountain. No one ever lived nearby. Where are we?"

The old man grinned. "Boy, you're not on the mountain anymore."

"That's right," Fronta added, stepping beside him. "Our house is at the river's base—Zogonio River. Its source is on your mountain, but it flows all the way down here."

The name coiled like a snake around his spine.

"…What?"

He'd avoided Zogonio his whole life—not by choice, but by instinct. Chief Helos's stories. Old legends of something sealed within its depths. Something even beasts refused to approach.

"Why do you ask?" Fronta said.

"Because... that's where I came from. I jumped into that river. From the mountain."

Their faces froze.

"You're from Mjull?" the old man barked. "And you survived that fall?! You expect me to believe that?"

"I'm not lying! I don't know how I lived—I just… did."

Even he couldn't explain it.

"Voice… how did I survive?"

The voice answered, thin and drained: "Luck."

Icariel frowned. That didn't sit right.

But even as the word echoed, something deeper shifted—like a lock turning in a drowned tomb. Heat. Stone. Chains.

He shivered, casting the thought away.

"Luck?! What kind of—" But the voice had fallen silent.

The old man sighed. "Maybe you hit your head harder than we thought. Let's eat. You need to recover."

"Fronta, get the boy some food."

"On it!" she replied.

The old man's tone softened. "What's your name, boy?"

"Icariel."

"And who do I owe my thanks to?"

"Steelhearted Groon," the man answered proudly.

Days blurred.

Pain dulled into aches. Ribs slowly knit beneath tight wrappings. The meals were strange but warm. The nights cold, but safe.

Icariel labored.

He hauled water buckets when Fronta's arms failed. Chopped firewood until calluses bloomed again. Fixed sagging roofs. Hunted game with trembling fingers. Groon had protested at first ("Still healing, idiot brat!"), but Icariel had insisted.

In Mjull, there was one law: Earn your food.

And now, every task was a silent thank you—one he didn't know how to say aloud.

Some nights, he sat by the river, staring into its shifting silver. His hands, rougher than ever, traced the edges of fresh scars. When the wind paused just right, something stirred beneath the current.

A tug in his gut. A flash of stone—etched with chains and flame.

He didn't know what it meant. Maybe he didn't want to.

"The pond where I fell..."

"Groon and Fronta… they're great people. The best I could have found in that moment. It's the first time I've truly understood—I've left my small, safe place. My village. This is the first time I've stepped outside that mountain."

Fronta was soon leaving for the city to study. Groon had invited Icariel to stay with him while she was away. With nowhere else to go, it was his best option.

"I still don't understand how I survived, but I'm beyond grateful. The voice had gone almost completely silent. Ever since that fall, it had retreated—like it was watching from far away, or… hiding."

"I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was recovering. Either way, I was on my own now. And I wasn't sure I liked that."

A breeze stirred the grass beside him. Icariel watched the river swirl as thoughts drifted in.

"My sensitivity to mana has deepened", he realized. When calm—truly still—he could see more than ever before.

Not just the direction of the flow or its presence in the air, but color. Intent.

Galien's mana, before his death, had turned red—volatile. Elektra's had been darker, controlled. Lethal.

He exhaled. A leaf spiraled from a nearby branch and touched the water's surface, vanishing in the current.

"There's more to this. I'm sure of it."

"Crimson Bears never used mana directly, or maybe I just didn't see it. I've only seen two colors so far. Still, it's progress."

"Two weeks… Galien, Fin, Irela, and the others…They were good people. Chief Helos too. He blamed me—but deep down, he was just afraid."

"I'm sorry. I didn't avenge you. I probably never will. I'm too busy keeping myself alive. I can't lie and say I'm someone who lives for others. I live to live. That's all I've ever done."

"Sorry I couldn't let go of my need to survive, even when others needed me to fight."

A hollow ache pressed against his chest. Yet, his choice never changed—survival.

"Icariel! The food is ready!" Fronta's voice rang out.

"I'm coming," he said, standing up. "At least for now… things are quiet."

BOOM.

The earth itself trembled.

[End of Chapter 7]