The village lay tucked away like a forgotten secret among gentle hills and dusty footpaths, so far removed from any great city that even time itself seemed to move more slowly there. The houses, built from weathered wood and simple roofs, bore the marks of years of care and countless repairs made by the hands of those who lived within them—each plank quietly telling a story of effort and belonging.
The air was crisp and clean, laced with the faint scent of burning firewood and damp earth. A soft breeze wandered through the narrow lanes, swaying clothes hung on makeshift lines and coaxing quiet creaks from wooden fences. There was a constant sense of peace—not the shallow kind, but something deeper, almost tangible, wrapping around everything like a silent embrace.
As evening approached, children still ran freely through the streets, their laughter echoing between the houses like carefree music. Some chased one another, kicking up small clouds of dust beneath their bare feet, while others crouched on the ground, sketching crooked shapes with sticks, fully absorbed in their own imagined worlds. There was no rush to return home, no fear lurking in shadowed corners—only the simple certainty that, in that small corner of the world, everything was as it should be.
Nearby, older men and women carried bundles of firewood over their shoulders, speaking calmly among themselves, their sun-marked faces reflecting years of labor. They prepared to reinforce walls, mend rooftops, or simply ensure their homes would endure another passing season.
The small shops remained open, their doors wide and welcoming, goods arranged with modest care as though the very idea of theft had never crossed their owners' minds. Sacks of grain, simple tools, glass bottles, and homemade sweets rested on worn shelves, often unattended, relying solely on the quiet honesty that sustained the community. The occasional clink of coins and the murmur of soft conversations were the only sounds that disturbed the stillness of local trade.
At one edge of the village—far enough to ensure silence, yet close enough for everyone to reach—stood the small hospital, which also served as the home of the village's only doctor.
The building itself was simple, with pale walls and wide windows that welcomed generous streams of natural light, illuminating the interior with a warm, comforting glow. Inside, the gentle scent of medicinal herbs blended with that of aged wood, creating an atmosphere that soothed even before any treatment began.
At that moment, the doctor knelt beside a small makeshift bed where a child with flushed cheeks rested beneath a light sheet. Her tired eyes, heavy with fever, followed his every movement as he worked with practiced calm, carefully preparing medicine in a small vial.
His motions were precise yet gentle, like someone who understood not only the body, but also the quiet fear that comes with illness. After helping the child take the first dose, he rose slowly and turned to the mother, who watched with a mixture of worry and hope.
In a low, steady voice, he explained in detail when the medicine should be given, noting the intervals between each dose and emphasizing the importance of keeping the child hydrated. As he spoke, his gaze conveyed reassurance, as though each word had been chosen not only to ease the child's fever, but also to calm the mother's heart. When he finished, he placed the vial in her hands and gave a small nod, assuring her that with proper care, everything would soon return to normal.
Outside, the village continued its quiet rhythm, unaware of the small battle against fever taking place within. And yet, in a way, everyone remained connected—as if that shared peace itself were an unseen remedy, keeping everything, and everyone, in balance.
After making sure the child had taken the medicine correctly and handing over the vial with careful instructions, the doctor walked the mother and daughter to the door of his home, which also functioned as the village's modest clinic. He opened the wooden door with a soft creak, allowing the golden light of sunset to spill inside for a brief moment, bathing the room in a gentle, welcoming glow.
The woman held her child close, now calmer, her eyes reflecting a sincere relief that needed no words.
"Thank you very much, Dr. Ishida-san," she said with a warm smile filled with genuine gratitude, bowing her head slightly before turning away.
The child, still a bit weak, rested her head against her mother's shoulder, though her eyes no longer showed the same discomfort as before. With unhurried steps, the two made their way down the narrow dirt path, gradually blending back into the village as it slowly drifted into the early night.
The doctor remained at the doorway for a few seconds, watching them leave until they became just two more silhouettes among the many familiar figures. Then a sigh escaped his lips—not heavy with exhaustion, but light and content, like that of someone who finds purpose in what they do. His shoulders relaxed subtly, and a serene expression settled across his face.
Lifting his gaze, he looked up at the sky, now shifting in color as shades of orange and violet spread across the horizon. The first shadows of night stretched between the houses, while a cooler breeze began to move through the village, signaling the end of another peaceful day. There was something deeply comforting in that moment—a quiet pause between labor and rest.
After a short while, he stepped back inside just long enough to tidy up his space, ensuring everything was ready for the next day. Bottles neatly arranged, instruments cleaned, the small bed prepared for whoever might need it next. Satisfied, he picked up a small cloth bag and slung it over his shoulder.
With calm steps, he closed the door behind him and began walking through the village. The streets were still alive, though quieter now, with some children being called home and residents finishing their daily tasks. He walked without haste, greeting those he passed with small nods, always met with friendly smiles in return.
His destination was simple—he needed to buy a few supplies for the next morning's breakfast—but there was no urgency in his pace. For him, that short walk was more than a routine errand; it was a moment of connection with the place he called home, with the people who trusted him, and with the quiet peace that filled every corner of that village.
Walking calmly through the village, Dr. Ishida made his way along the dirt paths with light, unhurried steps, his white coat swaying gently with each movement. The early evening breeze brushed past him, stirring the fabric as the distant sounds of chatter and laughter gradually faded, replaced by a deepening stillness. Warm lights began to glow from the windows of nearby homes, giving the village an even cozier atmosphere—almost as if each house were a small flame shielding that place from the outside world.
As he passed by one of the small shops he often visited, his gaze naturally drifted inside. The door stood open as usual, yet the elderly woman who typically sat behind the counter—sorting coins or quietly observing the street with her kind, attentive eyes—was nowhere to be seen. Ishida slowed his pace, tilting his head slightly toward the entrance before coming to a full stop.
"Hm… she's not here today…" he thought, briefly folding his arms as he examined the quiet interior. His eyes moved across the shelves, noticing something unusual—they were more stocked than usual, filled with items that rarely appeared in that shop.
"Ah… today must be the day her son came back from the city," he reasoned, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "She always gets busy arranging everything when that happens… probably in the back, dealing with deliveries or taking a short rest."
Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, greeted by the soft creak of wood and the familiar scent of grains, timber, and fresh fruit. The space was quiet, but not in an uneasy way—it was the kind of silence that only existed where trust was as natural as breathing.
His gaze wandered leisurely across the shelves as he considered what he needed. "Let's see… something simple for tomorrow," he thought, resting a hand briefly against his chin. "Wheat flour should do… perhaps I'll make something light in the morning." His steps carried him to one of the neatly sealed sacks, which he picked up with ease, feeling its familiar weight settle in his hands.
As he turned, something caught his attention—a watermelon resting in a nearby crate, its dark green rind standing out against the humble surroundings. His brow lifted slightly in surprise.
"A watermelon? That's rare around here…" he murmured inwardly, stepping closer to inspect it. Gently placing a hand on the fruit, he tested its firmness. "It must have come with the supplies her son brought… that makes sense."
A small, genuine smile appeared on his face. "It's been a while since I've had something like this… might as well," he decided, carefully lifting the watermelon and placing it alongside the flour.
For a brief moment, he glanced around again, as if expecting the shopkeeper to appear at any second, but the place remained still. Even so, there was no doubt or hesitation in his actions—only the quiet familiarity of someone who belonged there as much as anyone else.
Making his way to the counter, Ishida set the items down carefully and reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a few bills and coins. He quickly checked the prices scribbled on a small paper pinned to the wall, doing the math in silence. "Flour… watermelon… alright," he thought, separating the exact amount. For a moment, he paused, glancing once more around the empty shop.
"…She always takes care of everyone here," he reflected, his expression softening. "And she never turns anyone away… the least I can do is give something back."
Without drawing attention, he added a little extra money to the total, arranging it neatly on the counter where it would be clearly visible. There was no need for notes or explanations—in that place, actions spoke louder than words.
"That should do," he concluded to himself, picking up his purchases once more. With the same quiet ease with which he had entered, Ishida stepped out of the shop, gently pushing the door closed behind him as the night began to fully settle over the village, preserving that silent sense of trust woven into every small act of daily life.
As he stepped outside, adjusting the weight of the supplies in his arms, Dr. Ishida was immediately met by the cooler night air that now settled firmly over the village. The lights in the houses shone brighter, and the movement had dwindled, leaving only a few villagers finishing their tasks or speaking in hushed tones near their doorways. It was then, just a few meters away, that his attention was drawn to a very familiar figure.
Seated on a small wooden bench in front of one of the oldest houses was the elder—a man of short stature and advanced age, whose mere presence carried a quiet weight of respect. His gray hair, nearly white, fell softly around his timeworn face, and his eyes, though aged, still held remarkable clarity. Regardless of age or status, everyone in the village treated him with natural reverence, as though his existence itself was essential to the balance of that place.
In his hands, he held one of the few radios the village possessed—an old device, slightly worn, yet still functioning. A static-filled sound crackled softly into the night, cutting through the silence. Ishida paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly as he listened.
"We have gone over a week without receiving any news from the hero Ben Te—"
The voice coming from the radio wavered, as if struggling to travel across a great distance, yet it carried a serious, almost urgent tone. Before it could continue, however, the signal abruptly broke into a harsher burst of static, followed by complete silence.
Ishida's brow furrowed slightly, a brief flicker of concern crossing his eyes.
"…No news… for a week?" he thought, feeling a quiet, tightening weight form in his chest. "That's not normal… not for someone like him."
His fingers subtly adjusted the bag of groceries as his thoughts searched for a reasonable explanation. "Maybe it's just interference… or some technical issue," he tried to conclude, yet the faint unease lingered, quiet but persistent.
After a brief moment of reflection, he took a steady breath and began walking toward the elder. His steps remained calm, though now carried a greater sense of care—as if each movement bore an added layer of respect. When he drew close, he stopped at an appropriate distance, standing upright yet humble.
"Good evening, Sensei," he greeted softly, bowing his head slightly.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the now-silent radio before returning to the old man.
"It seems the signal isn't cooperating tonight…" he added in a composed but attentive tone. "Were you able to hear anything else before it cut off?"
As he waited, Ishida remained still, his posture reflecting not just politeness, but genuine regard for the man—someone who, to many, was more than just a villager, but a quiet wellspring of wisdom within their simple community.
The elder slowly raised a hand to his long white beard, stroking it thoughtfully while his eyes lingered on the silent radio beside him. With an unhurried motion, he switched the device off and set it carefully on the wooden bench, as though it still deserved a certain respect despite its age. His breathing was even, his expression free of unrest—marked instead by a serenity shaped over many years.
"I was listening to a report…" he replied, his voice low and raspy with age, yet steady. "One of the rare times I bother with these… technologies."
A soft exhale slipped through his nose, almost like a restrained chuckle, before he continued.
"From what I gathered… it seems the Earth's hero has gone missing."
For a brief moment, silence settled between them—but it wasn't heavy. The elder then placed a hand lightly on his knee and rose at a measured pace, his body showing its years, though without frailty. Standing now, he lifted his gaze toward the night sky, where the first stars had begun to emerge faintly among the deepening shades of dusk.
"Even so…" he went on, his voice carrying an almost unshakable calm, "there is no reason to worry."
His eyes remained fixed on the sky for a few seconds longer, as if searching beyond what could be seen.
"Heroes are not so easily erased from this world…" he said, a faint smile forming at the corner of his lips. "And even if they one day depart… they rarely do so without leaving something behind."
There was conviction in his words—not blind belief, but the certainty of someone who had witnessed enough to understand their weight.
After that brief pause, he lowered his gaze and turned back to Ishida, now wearing a warmer, more open smile that softened his timeworn features.
"But tell me, Ishida…" he asked gently, with genuine interest, "how was your day?"
It didn't feel like a mere courtesy. There was real attention in his eyes—as if, despite uncertain news from the outside world, what truly mattered in that moment was the simple, tangible life before him.
Ishida listened carefully to every word, absorbing the quiet steadiness that seemed to surround the elder. When the question came, he took a few seconds before answering—not out of hesitation, but to reflect honestly on his day. His gaze drifted briefly to the dirt beneath his feet as he adjusted the bag in his hands.
"It was… an ordinary day, as always," he began, his voice calm, touched with a subtle warmth. "A few simple cases… nothing out of the usual."
He paused briefly, lifting his eyes again to observe the houses around them. Light glowed from the windows, silhouettes moving within—families gathered, meals being prepared, lives unfolding in quiet harmony.
"Even so…" he continued, a faint smile appearing, "helping the people here never feels… trivial."
There was something deeper than routine reflected in his eyes.
"Even when it's something small… a mild fever, a minor cut…" he inhaled softly, "seeing the relief on their faces, watching their calm return… it always leaves me feeling… fulfilled."
His expression softened further, almost distant for a fleeting moment.
"This village… has a different kind of peace," he added in a lower tone. "It's not like the city."
A gentle breeze passed between them, stirring his coat as he went on.
"Over there… everything moves faster, louder… there's always something happening," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes… I do miss parts of it. Certain conveniences, the variety… even the constant motion."
He let out a quiet breath—not of dissatisfaction, but acknowledgment.
"But here…" his eyes returned to the elder, now steadier, "there's something I've never found anywhere else."
His small smile carried sincerity.
"A calm… a sense that things are… where they belong."
He fell silent for a moment after finishing, as if nothing more needed to be said. His words weren't grand—but they were genuine, and in that place, that seemed to be more than enough.
The elder listened to Ishida in attentive silence, and when he finished, a soft laugh escaped him—not loud or exaggerated, but sincere, filled with quiet satisfaction. His shoulders moved slightly with the sound, his half-lidded eyes reflecting approval, as though he had heard exactly what he expected.
"That is good… very good," he said, still wearing a calm smile.
He clasped his hands behind his back and took a small step forward, glancing briefly at the ground before looking back at Ishida, like someone choosing his words with care.
"Perhaps you have not yet discovered the true meaning of your life…" he continued, his voice calm but firm, "and that is not a problem."
Despite his age, his eyes held a remarkable clarity.
"The mistake isn't in not knowing yet…" he added, slightly raising one finger as if emphasizing an important point, "but in living with dissatisfaction while searching."
The night breeze passed once more, gently stirring the hem of his clothes as he lifted his gaze back to the star-filled sky.
"The only certainty we truly have…" he said, his tone turning more reflective, "is that, as humans… we will all leave this world one day."
There was no heaviness in his words—only acceptance.
"And because of that…" he continued, now looking back at Ishida with a faint glimmer in his eyes, "we have the duty to live—to experience, to make mistakes, to learn… to explore everything this life has to offer."
His smile widened slightly, carrying a calm, quiet wisdom.
"Whether it's here, in this peaceful village… or beyond it."
He then fell silent for a moment, allowing his words to settle naturally into the air, with no rush to fill the space again.
Ishida kept his eyes on the elder for a few seconds, taking in every word as though they held more weight than they first seemed. Then, slowly, a sincere smile formed on his face—soft and composed, reflecting something deeper than simple agreement. There was understanding there… or at least the beginning of it. A quiet sigh slipped from his lips soon after, light and almost involuntary.
"…I've been sighing a lot lately…" he thought to himself, faintly furrowing his brow in silent complaint. "For someone my age, that's starting to feel a bit odd."
He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, as if brushing the thought aside, and then turned his full attention back to the elder, resuming his respectful posture.
"Thank you, Sensei…" he said, bowing his head slightly, his voice carrying genuine gratitude. "Even if it was a short conversation… it meant a great deal."
His fingers adjusted the bag of groceries he was still holding, as if recalling something, and a small smile returned to his face.
"Ah, that reminds me…" he began, his tone a little lighter, "I just bought a watermelon from the shop. If you'd like, I could—"
Before he could finish, the sudden sound of quick footsteps cut through the moment. A group of children dashed past, their laughter filling the air as they played tag, weaving around one another with carefree energy. One of them nearly bumped into the bench where the radio rested, but managed to steady themselves at the last second, continuing without even looking back.
The scene created a brief pause in Ishida's unfinished words—not an empty silence, but one filled with the lively spirit of the village. The doctor followed the children with his eyes for a moment, his smile growing slightly, almost instinctively.
"…It really is…" he thought, watching them disappear between the houses. "This place is something special."
Slowly, he turned his attention back to the elder, waiting for his response, while the fading echoes of laughter still lingered in the air.
_____________________________________
The children ran without a care, their feet striking the dirt as lighthearted laughter echoed all around them. Their movements were quick—sometimes clumsy—but full of energy, dodging one another in their game of tag as if the entire world existed only in that moment. Small clouds of dust rose behind them, soon left behind as they pushed farther ahead, gradually moving beyond the last houses of the village.
Without even realizing it, their path carried them past the familiar boundaries, where the packed earth gave way to an open field—vast and quiet, covered in a sea of small blue flowers. It was the Nemophila field, stretching as far as the eye could see, like a fragment of the sky spilled across the land.
As they entered the field, their pace didn't slow, but it changed. The children naturally spread out, weaving through the flowers, their hands brushing lightly against the delicate petals swaying in the breeze. The game continued, now wrapped in a quiet, almost magical beauty.
The fading sunlight, soft and golden, settled over the field in a unique way. As it touched the Nemophilas, their petals reflected a delicate glow, as if each flower held a fragment of light within it. The gentle blue seemed to come alive, shimmering faintly, creating the illusion of tiny lights scattered across the field—like stars that had chosen to bloom instead of shining in the sky.
The children, immersed in their joy, ran through that glow without question, their silhouettes crossing the scene like free spirits. Their laughter echoed, blending with the whisper of the wind passing through the field, making the flowers ripple like a calm ocean.
For a moment, everything felt almost too perfect to be real—as if that place existed somewhere between the ordinary world and something far more ethereal. And at the heart of it all, the children's innocence made the scene even purer, as though nature itself shone more brightly just to accompany them.
The gentle breeze continued to sweep across the Nemophila field, causing the small blue blossoms to sway like a tranquil sea beneath the golden light of dusk. The children still ran among them, their laughter free and unrestrained, as if the moment could last forever. Their steps grew lighter, almost like a dance among the shimmering points of light reflected by the flowers, completely absorbed in the simple joy of play.
Then, a voice rose in the distance, softly breaking through the near-magical scene.
"Hey, it's time already!" called an adult, their voice firm yet kind.
They approached the edge of the field at an unhurried pace, stopping where the earth met the blanket of flowers, lifting a hand to their mouth to carry their voice farther.
"Come on, kids! It's getting late… you need to head home and get some rest. You've got class with the Sensei tomorrow!"
The children gradually slowed their pace—some coming to a full stop, others taking a few more steps before turning toward the voice. For a brief moment, they exchanged glances, as if sharing the same thought without needing to say it aloud.
Then, almost like a perfectly synchronized little chorus, they answered together, their voices bright and full of energy:
"Just a little longer!"
Some of them immediately started running again, while others raised their arms or burst into laughter, resuming their game as though the request had only been a formality.
"We'll play just a bit more!" one added, still giggling.
"Then we'll go to sleep!"
"And tomorrow we'll go to class with Ojiisan!"
The adult brought a hand to their forehead, letting out a small sigh, though unable to hide a faint smile. There was no real disobedience in it—just the innocent desire to stretch a happy moment a little further.
Meanwhile, out in the field, the children scattered once more among the glowing Nemophilas, their voices blending with the wind again, as if that small corner of the world existed only for them.
Night had now fully settled in, and the sky stretched above like a vast dark veil scattered with stars, silently watching over the village and its surroundings. The Nemophila field, once lit by the last traces of sunset, now reflected the cool glow of the moon, preserving its almost otherworldly beauty. The children continued playing, their laughter still filling the air—softer now, as if the night itself urged them to slow down.
Then, without warning… something changed.
A light appeared in the sky.
At first, it was just a distant point, barely noticeable among the stars. But within seconds, it became impossible to ignore. A vivid, unnatural green glow tore across the sky at incredible speed, leaving a luminous trail behind it—as if it were ripping through the darkness itself.
In the village, doors opened. Conversations stopped. Faces lifted in unison.
One by one, the villagers looked up.
This was no ordinary shooting star—there was something different… something heavy about its presence. It grew rapidly, descending with an intensity that made the very air feel thicker, as though the environment itself reacted to its arrival.
Out in the field, the children began to notice as well. Some slowed, others froze entirely, their eyes reflecting the green light now dominating the sky above them.
The adult, who had been watching in confusion, stiffened almost instantly. Their eyes widened, and instinct took over.
"Kids!" they shouted, urgency now unmistakable.
They broke into a run toward them, their steps crushing a few flowers along the way—something they would never normally do without care.
"Come here, now!"
There was no room for playfulness in that tone.
"Quickly!"
The green light continued its descent, drawing ever closer to the Nemophila field, bathing everything in a strange, unsettling glow. Shadows warped and stretched, and the air seemed to tremble faintly, as though something immense was about to unfold.
The children, now confused, began to react. Some ran immediately toward the adult, their smiles gone, replaced by uncertainty. Others hesitated a moment longer, gazing up at the sky, mesmerized by the growing intensity of the light.
And then… for a brief instant, everything seemed to hold its breath.
At the center of the village, the calm that once filled every corner shattered abruptly. The green glow, now impossible to ignore, reflected across the villagers' faces like an unknown omen. Conversations ceased entirely, and the brief silence that followed was quickly overtaken by sudden, restless movement.
"The field…" someone murmured, almost in shock.
"The children are there!" another voice answered, louder, urgent.
No orders were needed. The adults began to move.
Hastened footsteps struck the dirt roads, doors were left open, and small groups rushed in the same direction—the Nemophila field.
Ishida, still beside the elder, kept his eyes fixed on the light for just a second longer. His expression, once serene, now carried clear tension—controlled, but undeniable. His thoughts raced.
"…The children."
Without hesitation, he turned to the elder.
"Sensei, forgive me," he said firmly, yet respectfully. "There's no time."
Before any reply could come, Ishida bent slightly, allowing the elder to lean onto his back. With a careful yet swift motion, he lifted him, adjusting his weight with precision—like someone accustomed to carrying more than just responsibility.
The elder did not protest. His eyes, still turned toward the sky, remained watchful and silent.
Then Ishida ran.
His steps were strong and quick, kicking up small clouds of dust as he moved alongside the other villagers. The bag of groceries still hung from him, swaying with each stride, completely ignored. His focus was fixed ahead.
The green light now illuminated even the village paths, casting long, distorted shadows around them. The closer they got to the field, the more intense it became—as if it were calling them all to witness something unavoidable.
The sound of many people running filled the air—quickened breaths, uneven footsteps, voices shouting names.
"Run!"
"The children!"
"Hurry!"
Ishida narrowed his eyes slightly, feeling the weight of the situation tighten within him, yet refusing to slow down.
"…Please… let us make it in time."
The Nemophila field was now visible in the distance, completely drenched in the descending green glow, transforming what had once been a peaceful landscape into something strange—almost unreal.
And still… they kept running.
Time seemed to slow the moment the light finally reached the field.
The children, now gathered near the adult who had reached them first, were pulled back urgently, their small bodies shielded almost on instinct. Some still tried to peek past the arms holding them, wide eyes reflecting the blazing light descending from above.
And then… it arrived.
But there was no impact.
No explosion. No thunderous crash. No sign of destruction.
The green light touched the Nemophila field with an impossible gentleness, as though it were too weightless to harm anything. The instant it made contact, a powerful glow spread across the entire area—not violent, but overwhelming. For a fraction of a second, everything was swallowed by a radiance as intense as the sun itself, forcing everyone to instinctively shut their eyes or raise their arms to shield their vision.
It felt as if the world itself vanished within that single instant.
And then… the light faded.
Slowly, the glow began to recede, revealing the field once more—untouched. The Nemophilas still swayed softly, as though nothing had happened, their petals now reflecting only the natural light of the night.
The silence that followed was deep… almost suffocating.
The adults who had just arrived stopped a few meters away, their breathing still uneven from the run, yet their bodies frozen at the sight before them. Ishida, with the elder still on his back, slowed to a halt, his eyes locked on the exact spot where the light had touched the ground.
Something… was there.
At the center of the field, lying among the delicate flowers, was a figure.
Small.
Still.
A boy.
His hair spread gently over the blue petals, his body resting as if it had been carefully placed there—rather than cast down from the heavens. There were no signs of impact, no trace of destruction—only him, surrounded by a landscape that now felt even more unreal.
For a moment, no one moved.
"…A… boy?" someone whispered, their voice low, almost unable to believe what they were seeing.
Ishida's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind struggling to make sense of the impossible before him.
The light that fell from the sky… had not brought destruction.
It had brought someone.
The silence lingered over the field—heavy and unnatural, as though even the wind had chosen to wait before blowing again. Everyone kept their eyes fixed on the motionless figure among the flowers, trying to understand… or perhaps hoping it would somehow stop being real.
Then, the elder's voice broke the stillness.
"Ishida…" he said calmly from his back, "take me to that boy."
The request came without haste, without hesitation… yet carried a firmness that left no room for doubt.
Ishida remained still for a brief moment.
His eyes stayed on the boy, but his expression shifted slightly—not to fear, but to alertness. His body, already tense from the run, now seemed weighed down by the gravity of the decision.
"Sensei…" he replied, his voice lower, edged with caution, "are you certain?"
He adjusted the elder's position on his back slightly, as if buying time to gather his thoughts.
"We don't know what this is…" he continued, glancing briefly around as if expecting some reaction from the surroundings. "That light… it just fell from the sky."
His gaze returned to the boy.
"He could…" Ishida hesitated for a second—something rare for someone so composed—"he might not be just a child."
The wind stirred again, gently moving the flowers around the still body, as though the field itself had begun to breathe once more.
"There's no guarantee he isn't a danger to everyone here," he added, his voice firm, though still respectful.
Even so, despite his doubts, Ishida did not move away.
He did not refuse.
He simply waited.
Waited for the elder's answer—not because he needed permission, but because he trusted that man's judgment deeply.
And deep down… perhaps he hoped that wisdom would offer some certainty in a moment filled with the unknown.
The elder remained silent for a short while after Ishida spoke, his eyes still fixed on the figure among the flowers, as if perceiving something beyond what others could see. The night breeze passed again, gently stirring his white hair, yet his expression remained calm—almost unshakable.
"If he were a threat…" he began, his voice low but steady, "there would be no reason for him to be lying there, motionless."
He tilted his head slightly, as though considering his own words, though without real doubt.
"Someone capable of falling from the sky like that…" he continued, "would not need to wait. Would not need to hesitate."
His eyes slowly turned toward Ishida.
"He could simply… wipe us all out."
There was no dramatization in his tone—only a plain statement of fact.
"And none of us would be able to stop it," he added with the same calm certainty.
Ishida fell silent, absorbing those words. His expression still carried caution, his instincts sharper than ever. He pressed his lips together slightly before speaking again.
"Even so…" he said, hesitant, "should we really take that risk?"
His gaze returned briefly to the boy, as if searching for any movement—any sign that might make the decision clearer.
The elder let out a quiet breath—not of weariness, but of patient understanding. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Trust me, Ishida."
The answer was simple… but carried weight.
For a brief moment, his eyes softened further, as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.
"There is confusion…" he murmured softly. "A restless mind… lost."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if focusing.
"This presence… feels like that of a boy…" he continued slowly, "someone on the verge of adulthood… but not quite there yet."
His eyes opened again, now fixed on the spot where the boy lay.
"I sense no malice… only disorientation."
Silence returned for a moment—but now it was different. Not filled with fear, but with decision.
Ishida took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. The tension was still there, but something in his gaze shifted. He trusted that man… perhaps more than anything else.
Without another word, he adjusted the elder on his back and took a step forward.
And then… he began walking toward the unknown.
With each step Ishida took, the soft sound of flowers being pressed beneath his feet seemed far too loud in the stillness of the field. His breathing remained steady, but his mind was not—every instinct urged caution, every sense heightened as he approached the fallen figure. And yet, he did not stop.
When he finally drew close enough, he knelt carefully, still keeping the elder secure on his back. His eyes could now see clearly what had once been only a distant silhouette.
And immediately… something was wrong.
The darkness of the night felt thicker in that very spot, as if it refused to fully disperse around the fallen body. The Nemophilas nearby still glowed faintly, yet their light seemed almost repelled by the figure lying there, creating an unsettling contrast.
The suit.
Ishida's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied it. It wasn't ordinary fabric… it wasn't anything he had ever seen before. A kind of second skin wrapped around the boy's body, fitting seamlessly, as though it were part of him. The deep black seemed to swallow the dim light around it, while sharp streaks of vivid green cut across the surface in precise, almost aggressive geometric patterns.
"…This isn't… natural," he thought, a faint tightness forming in his chest.
His gaze moved across the rest of the body—the white belt, the bands along the arms—everything looked deliberate, engineered… not crafted in any conventional way.
"…Is this technology? Or… something beyond that?"
Even without movement, something emanated from the figure.
A presence.
The green lines along the suit pulsed faintly and irregularly, as if whatever powered them was failing. Ishida's brow furrowed as he noticed the unstable rhythm.
"…Like a heartbeat… but not a human one."
He hesitated for a moment… then decided to take a closer look.
With extreme care, he reached out and lightly touched the figure's shoulder, turning him just enough to get a better view. That was when his eyes caught something that made his body stiffen for a brief instant.
At the back of the neck—
A tangle.
Circuits.
It wasn't a normal marking. It was… alive. Dark lines intertwined with glowing green nodes pulsed beneath the exposed skin, perfectly synchronized with the suit's faint glow, as if flesh and machine had become one.
Ishida held his breath for a second.
"…This… shouldn't exist."
His heart quickened slightly, but his hands remained steady. He had seen injuries, illnesses, critical conditions… but this was different. This didn't fit into anything he knew.
And yet… there were no wounds.
No signs of impact.
Only… exhaustion.
Deep.
Absolute.
As if all energy had been drained away.
Resolving to continue, Ishida gently shifted the boy's head to check for vital signs.
And then… he saw it.
The eyes.
For a moment, his body froze.
There were no irises.
No pupils.
Only two circular slits glowing with an intense, feverish red… like warning lights in something on the verge of collapse.
There was no focus.
No response.
Only that fixed, unwavering glow.
Disturbing.
"…Is he… alive?" The thought came hesitantly—something rare for someone so rational.
But even without a clear answer… one thing was certain.
This did not look like an unconscious boy.
It looked like something… broken.
Something powerful.
And perhaps… something dangerously unstable.
Ishida remained there for a moment, kneeling among the flowers, bearing the weight of the elder on his back—and the weight of that discovery in his mind.
"…Sensei…" he murmured, his voice low, yet tense.
Without taking his eyes off the figure, he finished the thought silently:
"…what exactly are we about to get involved with?"