It was the sound of footsteps. The figure in the cave grew alert at the presence approaching the entrance.
Wait—this isn't human. His keen senses told him something was off.
With a deep breath, he raised his hand, summoning the energy within. It responded to his will, coalescing into a shimmering arrow of pure force.
The arrow glowed with an ethereal blue light, crackling with raw power.
"Crackle."
His eyes narrowed as he aimed at the cave's entrance. A figure stepped inside, holding a basket filled with herbs.
"Sizzle."
The arrow shot forward unconsciously.
"Agh!" The figure startled, dropping the basket as herbs scattered across the stone floor.
But there was no malice in this presence, no assassin's expertise. Before the arrow struck, he retracted the energy, dispersing it at lightning speed.
A sharp pain surged in his head, spinning violently—as if even this small use of energy was too much for the frail body he now inhabited. He clutched his skull, feeling as though it might split apart.
"Thud." The young boy at the entrance had fallen onto his backside.
"Huff, huff."
"Master, master!" the boy cried. "Was there an intruder? More importantly, are you okay? How did you manage to stand in your condition?"
The figure studied him. The boy's fluffy blue hair framed a pair of dog-like ears, his bright grey eyes unusual against the darker streaks in his hair.
"Master, are you listening? Please sit down."
The boy's handsome face was endearing, though unfamiliar.
Have I seen him before? And why does he keep calling me master?
"Master?"
The boy stepped closer, revealing he was taller by a head.
Wait—how short was I? And why does this body feel so weak?
"Who are you? And who is your master?"
The boy tilted his head in confusion. "Master, it's me—Lowell. Have you hit your head so hard you've forgotten me?"
The figure hesitated. Before he could respond, Lowell's lips trembled, his eyes watering.
What is happening here? That expression… crying. The thing I despise most.
"Sniffle… hmph." Lowell bit his lip, trying to hold back tears, but they fell anyway.
"Tears… crying. I hated it. It made my chest ache with a strange feeling."
"Don't cry. If you do, it'll give me a headache." He patted Lowell's shoulder awkwardly.
Lowell restrained himself, not hugging as expected. The figure didn't mind—he preferred it that way.
But he needed answers. He needed to know how he ended up here.
Lowell's mana—no, his energy—flow was strong, though he didn't look like a warrior. Perhaps he had saved him.
"Lowell."
"Yes, master?"
"I may have hit my head. I don't recall anything. Could you help me?"
Lowell sniffled. "Three days ago, I left to collect herbs. You'd been complaining of headaches with your fever. My gem glowed, warning me you were in danger. When I returned… master, you had stabbed yourself in the chest. I thought I'd lost you. Why would you do something so horrific?"
The figure's eyes widened. "What do you mean, stab myself?"
"Master, don't you remember? Was it the fever?"
He tried to recall—and this time, he did.
He remembered waking to an attack, a light so bright it could blind. Shadows surged against him. He fought, energy blazing, until pain tore through his body. Injured, he fled, the last thing he saw was the shadow pursuing him.
"Hic… sniffle." Lowell clung to his leg, sobbing.
"Master~"
"Enough. Stop calling me master. I have a name… it's—" He faltered. Nothing came.
He looked around. The cave was lived-in: utensils, clothes, herbs, food, all neatly arranged. A makeshift home.
Perhaps Lowell had saved him. Perhaps they had lived together. But his body felt wrong—too weak, too ghoul-like, too disgusting.
He patted Lowell's head. "It seems I've lost my memories. Help me recall."