Grant inhaled sharply, his lungs straining for warmth and breath. Relief should have come.

But it did not.

The temperature dropped again.

Grant froze, his golden aura flaring involuntarily. He stepped back, voice tight with disbelief.

“No… way.”

From the frozen haze, Frost rose. His movements were uneven, body showing the marks of the battle. Yet, he forced himself to stand. 

Thin sheets of ice clung to him like fragile glass, having partially absorbed the impact. With each motion, the ice cracked and fell away in fragments.

Frost’s eyes opened again, staring past Grant, and widened.

Greyson was moving.

The older boy rose from the ground, body straight, eyes hollow and empty, almost like a marionette. 

Silver light pulsed across him, and a temporal aura distorted the forest.

The world itself began to bleed backward. Trees shrank, their trunks folding into saplings. Flowers retracted into seeds. Fallen leaves spun backward, undoing decay. The frozen air itself rewound. 

Time had fractured, and the forest was bleeding its own age.

Grant staggered and resisted, but even his golden aura was faltering against it. 

“What… what is this power?” he gasped, eyes wide.

Frost, unshaken by the temporal storm, rushed forward. The strain and fatigue slowed him, and he nearly stumbled. 

Grant shouted, “Stop! Don’t go near him!”

Frost ignored him.

He reached Greyson, cupping the older boy’s cheeks in his small hands. 

“Grey! Look at me! Wake up!” His voice cracked under strain, echoing with both command and desperation.

Time continued to bleed around them. Yet, oddly enough, Frost stayed completely untouched. Something instinctive in the bond between them insulated the younger boy from the Temporal Resonance that threatened to devour everything else.

Frost pressed his forehead against Greyson’s, inhaling the boy’s rhythm. 

Cold radiated from his skin into Greyson’s mind, reaching neurons and synapses, trying to calm him. 

But it did not work.

Greyson did not respond. 

Time continued its violent regression around them.

Frost’s heart pounded as he gritted his teeth.

“Grey!” he yelled once more, desperation finally fraying his usual calm.

Then…

A hand slipped past Frost and rested on Greyson’s shoulder. 

Warm and steady, incredibly human.

It was Grant.

Frost’s eyes widened, the first hint of fear showing in his eyes, showing the verge of collapse.

Grant’s voice cut through, low and controlled. “Focus. Calm him.”

Pushing himself, the Sword Saint flared his divine aura. Golden light cascaded outward, mingling with Frost’s cold and the temporal energy of Greyson’s Resonance. 

Light, cold, and time collided in a torrent of color, shimmering across the forest in chaotic harmony.

Slowly, painfully, the bleeding of time halted. 

The forest stilled mid-reversion. 

Greyson collapsed forward, his body limp and drained.

Frost caught him, but the older boy’s weight proved too much for him, and they fell to the ground together. Despite that, the younger boy continued to hold Greyson, ignoring his own fatigue.

Silence returned to the forest, though it had already lost its years. There were barely any trees left, ground no longer filled with lush green. Only Frost’s cold lingered in the air.

But Frost didn’t care about that.

His eyes softened, forehead pressed against the older boy’s hair, holding what he could of the only warmth left in the battlefield.

They stayed locked in place for a long while before Frost shifted.

He checked Greyson’s pulse, tracing his injuries with care, fingers brushing skin and flesh where the battle had taken its toll.

Apart from the scars of the fight with the Sword Saint, Greyson was intact, alive and breathing.

Then… there it was, a faint flicker of motion.

Greyson’s eyelids fluttered, revealing a single silver gleam. He was completely exhausted but undeniably present. His lips parted in a weak, broken whisper:

“F-Frost…”

The eyelids fell again, and Greyson slipped fully into unconsciousness.

Frost froze for a moment, checking again. Then, he let out a long and quiet breath, relief seeping into him slowly.

Another voice came from the back.

“The boy will be alright now.”

Frost turned his head, and his eyes widened at the sight.

Grant stood there… but he looked much, much younger. 

The man was no longer the towering Sword Saint he had faced moments ago. His divine aura still shimmered, but it lacked the overwhelming presence.

Grant chuckled softly.

“Your friend really helped me regain my youth there,” he joked lightly even amid exhaustion.

Frost said nothing, but the knowledge settled in: Greyson had rewound Grant’s age, undoing not just his body but the accumulated years of experience and the power he had honed over decades.

Grant approached carefully. 

Frost ignored him, attention back to Greyson, cradling his face gently between both hands.

Without hesitation, Grant reached out. His hand brushed and lingered on Frost’s hair. 

“It’s okay now,” he said.

Frost blinked, then looked up.

A voice barely louder than a whisper escaped him. “Why… did you do this for the enemies?”

Grant tilted his head, a faint surprise crossing his youthful face. 

Perhaps the question had caught him off guard. Perhaps he had forgotten that the pale boy was capable of speech. But he answered anyway.

“Because,” Grant said slowly, his voice carrying weight, “you are children. Both of you. Children that should never have been subjected to such cruel fate.”

Frost did not respond immediately. His gaze turned back and lingered on Greyson, whose chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, fragile but steady. 

After a moment, he spoke again quietly, almost like a confession:

“Grey… Greyson will probably lose his memory of everything after this…”

Grant inhaled sharply.

Frost looked at Grant and continued, voice trembling a little, “Could you… take him?”

Grant froze. 

The request weighed heavily. It was not a burden for Greyson, not an imposition upon him, but something Frost carried within himself. 

It was something personal.

“What about you?” Grant asked, his eyes steady, voice gentle.

Frost’s gaze lowered to the unconscious boy again. His pale fingers traced the curve of Greyson’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the small swell of his jaw. 

A slight curve formed at the edge of Frost’s lips. It was relief… but tempered with sorrow.

Frost said nothing more, and Grant did not push. 

He nodded, understanding the quiet cost of a child’s mercy.

The storm had passed, but the aftermath lingered, colder than any ice, warmer than any fire.