But let me slow down: my name is Allen Harvest, I’m nineteen, and I’m a former adventurer. I retired exactly three months ago, on the 11th of Aethernil, Year 508 of the Saturnine calendar. Why? Because my beautiful son Finn Harvest was born—a boy with black hair like his handsome, hegemonic father, yet with a few of his mom’s traits: sky-blue eyes, her nose, pale skin, the shape of his eyes and ears… I’d better stop or I’ll depress myself.
In this lovely, peaceful world I have to get by on my magic skills, which aren’t all that great. If I were as talented as I am good-looking, I’d be ruling three clans already. But I’m not, so I have to cross this blistering desert to reach my father-in-law’s house.
What’s interesting out here, you ask? Sand. Looots of sand. What—were you expecting a more detailed description? Sorry, curious kid, this is a desert, not a paradise.
The only sound that earns a place in this vast wasteland is the hiss of sand blown by the hot wind that lashes our faces nonstop, while in the background my son is crying—probably from the heat. My wife has wrapped him in a transparent capsule that acts like a little room, keeping the air inside around 21 °C. Even so, with her weak magic control, some of the outside heat seeps through.
Right now I’m staring at my wife’s red face—not because I made her blush, but because it’s sunburned. Normally heat or cold isn’t a problem for magicians; they can sheath themselves in a cooling or warming aura. Violet’s control, though, is too poor. All she can manage is that capsule for Finn. Her mana flow is ‘high-quality’ on paper, but she never trained, so her talent is hollow—and we’re paying the price.
After a few more hours we keep walking. The kingdom of Olivion is still two days away on foot. In my heavy pack I’m carrying a friend’s prototype he calls a ‘tent.’ Folded, it’s the size of a kid’s arm; assembled, it’s a shelter—technology is amazing. I also have canteens of water, a few apples, bread, rolls, and some days-old salad—plenty for two days. Oh, and my dagger, which I never part with, not even to sleep. Did I mention I used to be an adventurer? That’s because I’m a physical-type mage, and though I’m only Rank C, I’m veeery strooong. Handsome and strong.
What? I said something different before? Riiight, forget that.
I’m strong—VERY strong.
“Could you stop staring at the sky with that dumb look and help me with our son?!”
Oh, grand entrance! That’s my wife. I mentioned her, but let’s flesh her out: Violet—red hair, blue eyes, freckles, 1.67 m tall, and best of all… two golden nuggets. And I don’t mean the size—
“I’m talking to you!” Thunk. Ow—my forehead… For a moment there I pictured myself and adult Finn on a plush inn sofa, five gorgeous women hugging us… I’m so proud of us, son, I could cry.
“Look at you—making weird faces at nothing. What’s even going on in that head of yours, if anything?”
“Uh-huh, sorry, dear. Just thinking about the future… y’know, my usual.”
“Oh really? Because I’d say the heat’s making you delirious.”
Partly true—I’m starting to see strange things. Like a giant worm dipping in and out of the sand… An illusion, right? …Right?
“A-Allen… w-what the hell is that?!” She points at a distant hole.
“Uh…”
I barely get a word out before a colossal worm—razor teeth circling its round mouth, eyeless, light-orange skin camouflaged in the dunes—erupts and slithers straight toward us. By size it’s no smaller than the obelisk at the center of Galia.
That disgusting beast’s called a “Helmut Larva,” I explain. Long ago people thought it was the offspring of a colossal moth, three times the Holy Palace’s 561 meters, hunted to extinction by fire mages under Arjssøn Helmut.
Now the worm is barreling toward my wife and son. One way or another, I have to stop it.
“Violet, when the fight starts, run as fast as you can!” I draw my dagger and flood it with magic.
I call on my family’s unique art—Ripper-Cut Magic. The air heats, whips into a continuous gust, and fuses heat with wind, forming blades that are impossible to dodge unless you’re insanely agile.
Violet glares daggers at me. “Stop pretending to be a damn hero! You know you don’t stand a chance!”
“I know. I won’t win. Still… I want you and Finn to live. Call it a selfish husband’s choice.”
Who am I kidding? I DON’T want to die! I’m nineteen! Three months ago I cried with joy over my newborn son. I DON’T WANT TO DIE! My soul is screaming silently...
I sweep my hand like a painter and conjure a horse—seventy percent of my mana gone. Didn’t I mention I’m strong?
The horse moves by my will; it charges Violet, nudges her onto its back, and gallops away.
“ALLEN!” she screams.
That cry tears my soul. Sorry, love. This is my last gift.
I hurl the wind blades at the worm—only a foul slime peels away; the skin stays intact. The worm lunges, and my light, goes out...
Violet sobs. The horse Allen made flickers; with its master dead, it will soon vanish. The worm races toward her, but something else freezes Violet’s heart.
“It can’t be…” she whispers. “No, no, NOOOOO!” She realices: the worm is after her and Finn because her beloved has fallen
She clutches Finn, leaps off the horse—swallowed whole. Everything was a long, sad dream unraveling at last. But she and Allen got to see it...
Copying Allen’s spell, she creates an even faster horse, burning every drop of mana. She straps Finn to the saddle and sends him flying across the dunes. A tear slides down her cheek as the worm lunges again.
“At least I’d have loved to watch you grow… Safe travels, son. Your dad and I will always be watching.”
She sees her little boy vanish into the distance—then sees nothing at all.
“I’ll keep in my heart everything I couldn’t give you…” The whisper dies, unheard...
The horse gallops on, its mistress’s will burning brighter than her life.
Two days pass. At the kingdom gates, an old, broad-shouldered man with a white mane waits. The horse, mission complete, fades.
The old man rushes to the crying baby. “…Finn…?” He cradles the child, looking around at the emptiness that has just been born. Tears spill as he hugs Finn tight.
“V-Violet… my daughter…” He falls to his knees on the flagstones, weeping.
In that moment, he knows exactly what he must do.
Five years later
In a peaceful, green forest cabin, wood-chopping echoes. A small black-haired, blue-eyed boy sits on the floor playing with two wooden dolls near a crackling fire.
“Grandpa Lui! Grandpa! Grandpa!” Finn clasps his hands, puppy-eyed.
“What is it, Finn?” Lui pauses, smiling with boundless affection.
“You promised to make me that wooden puppy!”
“Hahaha, of course I did. While I finish here, why not take those flowers to your parents?” Lui ruffles Finn’s hair and nods at a bouquet on the table
Finn nods eagerly, grabs the bouquet, darts outside, and races down a nearby path to a little clearing with a mandarin tree and two graves beneath it, Allen Harvest and Violet Harvest rest there.
Finn kneels, lays four flowers on each grave, closes his eyes, and presses his hands to the stones. “Daddy, Mommy, today Grandpa’s making me a wooden puppy, and I’m gonna play with it a looooot!
“I hope you’re both okay. I’m fine—Grandpa Lui takes great care of me. I get bored sometimes ’cause he works a lot…” He sighs, then giggles. “By the way, Grandpa Lui looks like a shirtless wolf—hehe—like Miss Hargroves’s sheep, but uglier, yuck!”
Smiling wider, he stands. “Dad, Mom, I’m heading back. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what I ate and how it went playing with the puppy. Love you!” Finn blows several kisses at the graves and runs off, that bright child’s smile lighting the world.
As long as Finn keeps running and smiling, good things lie ahead. The world may offer much and take twice as much, but moments like these make us who we are.
In the meantime, let’s keep growing alongside Finn Harvest.
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