The training grounds of Riveria were bathed in a perpetual, golden twilight that felt sickeningly artificial compared to the ash-choked skies of Nopheria. Here, the air smelled of ozone and polished steel. In Nopheria, it had smelled of burning thatch and copper.
Clang!
The sound of metal meeting metal echoed through the courtyard. Erin lunged forward, his breathing ragged, his muscles screaming in protest. His practice blade was a blur of silver, aimed at the man standing casually before him.
Zoro didn't even shift his stance. With his left hand tucked into his waistband, he used a single katana to parry Erin's overhead strike. The impact sent a vibration up Erin's arms that felt like hitting a stone wall.
"Too much hesitation," Zoro said, his voice bored but steady. "You're swinging at me, but you're looking at something behind me. Focus."
Erin gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with a spark of the "Heavenly" power he was beginning to cultivate. He pivoted, trying to sweep Zoro's legs, but the veteran swordsman simply stepped an inch to the left. Zoro's blade flicked out, a lightning-fast tap against Erin's shoulder that sent the younger boy stumbling back into the dirt.
"Again," Zoro commanded.
Erin looked at his hands. They were calloused, blistered, and shaking. He was getting stronger—he could feel the mana flowing through his veins with more fluidity than ever before—but standing across from Zoro was like trying to blow down a mountain with a hand fan. Zoro wasn't even using his full strength; he wasn't even using a fraction of it. He was a wall of muscle and scar tissue that Erin couldn't even scratch.
"I can't even make you move your feet," Erin panted, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow.
"You're not supposed to," Zoro replied, finally sheathing his blade with a crisp click. "You're learning to survive. The moment you think you can 'cross' me is the moment you get yourself killed. Pack it up. I'm hungry."
The restaurant in the Upper Plaza of Riveria was a far cry from the cramped, dusty taverns of the wastes. It was open-air, draped in white silks, and served food that Erin once thought only existed in fairy tales.
"Eat up, kid. You can't swing a sword on an empty stomach," Zoro said, already halfway through a massive plate of meat. His party members—a group of high-tier adventurers who treated Zoro with a mix of reverence and exasperation—joined them, the atmosphere light and filled with laughter.
For a moment, Erin almost forgot. He laughed at a joke made by the party's mage, his hand reaching for a piece of bread. He felt... normal. He felt like a student under a master. But every time he looked at the gold-filigree plates, he saw the dirt-covered faces of the people he had failed.
"Zoro," Erin said suddenly, his voice quiet. "Do you think... people can come back? From the dead?"
Zoro stopped chewing, his one good eye narrowing as he looked at the boy. "In this world? Spirits, liches, necromancy... there are ways. But they never come back the same. Why?"
Erin looked down at his plate. "Nothing. Just thinking."
"Alright, enough talk," Zoro muttered the next morning. "The ship is parked just past that hill. Let's go."
Ten minutes later, the party was still walking.
"Uh, Zoro?" the party's rogue asked, looking around at the jagged cliffs. "The hill was back there. We're walking toward the Forbidden Gorge."
"Nonsense," Zoro growled, walking confidently toward a dead-end ravine. "The ship is this way. I remember the moss on that rock."
"Zoro, that's a sleeping rock-crab. And we've passed it three times."
"Shut up! I know where I'm going! The geography moved!"
Erin watched as his legendary mentor argued with a canyon wall, eventually leading them into a cave filled with bats. Despite the weight in his heart, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Erin's mouth. Even a "God of the Blade" was a complete disaster without a map.
That night, Erin lay on his bed in the guest quarters. The sheets were silk, but they felt like sandpaper against his skin. As he closed his eyes, the silence of the room was replaced by the crackling of fire.
The images began to flash, strobe-lighting through his mind.
He saw Nopheria again. The screaming. The smell of charred wood. He saw himself, younger and weaker, reaching out for a boy in the middle of the chaos.
Arkin.
He remembered the weight of the boy's body as he dragged him out of the line of fire. He remembered the blood on his own hands as he tried to stop the leaking wounds. He had failed. He had watched the light leave Arkin's eyes right there in the dirt.
He saw the scene of the burial. He remembered the shovel hitting the frozen earth, the exhaustion, and the guilt as he threw the last handful of dirt over the small, broken body. He had carved a simple marker. He had prayed for the boy's soul.
Then the vision shifted to his return weeks later. He had gone back to pay his respects, to find some peace. But the grave had been torn open. Not by animals—the dirt had been pushed outward.
The grave was empty.
Erin sat up, gasping, his hand clutching his chest where his heart hammered against his ribs. He looked at his hands—the hands Zoro was training to be the strongest in the world.
He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a failure.
He looked out the window at the beautiful, fake twilight of Riveria. Somewhere out there in the dark, the boy he had buried was no longer a corpse. He didn't know it yet, but the "Arkin" he mourned was gone, replaced by a Gatekeeper of Despair who was currently erasing the very world Erin was trying to save.