The door creaked open.
I'm back.
Gars was sitting at the table, casually sharpening a knife when he looked up. His sharp eyes narrowed as he took in the sleeping child in the old man's arms.
"Old man… wait, who's that kid?"
The old man chuckled, stepping inside. "Found him running around," he said, adjusting Heide in his arms.
Gars scoffed. "That's called kidnapping. What about his parents? Didn't even bother to check?"
"Oh no," the old man waved a hand dismissively. "I'm certain this one doesn't have parents."
Gars raised a brow. "How so?"
Without another word, the old man lifted Heide's torn shirt, exposing his back.
Gars' expression darkened. Old, deep whip marks ran across the child's skin. He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "...I'll fetch some antiseptics."
"Please do that." The old man carried Heide through the dimly lit hall, stepping into a room where two other people were fast asleep. He gently laid Heide onto Gars' bed.
Moments later, Gars returned, setting the antiseptics on a nearby table with a sigh.
"I'm sorry, Gars. I'll have him borrow your bed for tonight."
"Don't mind," Gars muttered, rolling up his sleeves. He lifted Heide's shirt further, inspecting the wounds. His frown deepened. "...These haven't been treated for months. It's getting bad. Wake up Wanora—she can help."
The old man stroked his beard. "Want me to clean it?"
"No," Gars shook his head. "You must be tired. Please rest—we can handle this much."
The room stirred.
"Wha… what is it?"
Wanora groggily sat up, her bed hair making her look comically unkempt. She rubbed her eyes before glancing at Heide.
"You brought another child, Grandpa?"
Gars cut her off. "You can ask the kid later—first, help him."
Wanora yawned, but when she saw the wounds, her expression turned serious. She quickly gathered medical supplies. "Gars, get some warm water."
He nodded, turning on his heel.
Upstairs, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed.
"Hey, Gars? What's going on?"
A young man rushed down the stairs—his hands stained with grease, his messy clothes smelling faintly of gunpowder.
Gars exhaled. "Sinus... the old man brought another kid. But—his back is full of whip marks."
Sinus wiped his hands on his shirt. "A kid, huh? Been a while since we got another one."
"Yeah... I don't usually like it, but I feel bad for this one."
Sinus glanced toward the lower level. "Sure, sure—anyway, the water's boiling. Take it already."
"Huh?" Gars turned, cursing under his breath as he rushed to take the kettle off the heat. He quickly poured cold water in until the temperature was just right, then carried the basin downstairs.
By then, Wanora had laid out bandages, herbs, and antiseptics. She took the warm water from Gars and carefully began cleaning Heide's back. The child barely stirred.
The process was slow, deliberate.
In the dim candlelight, another figure stirred.
From beneath a thin blanket, a young boy peeked out, watching the scene unfold. His round glasses reflected the flickering light, his nervous eyes darting between the group standing near Gars' bed.
The old man turned, spotting him.
"Monday," he chuckled. "You're up late again, huh? I told you not to spend all night awake."
Monday flinched slightly. His voice came out soft, hesitant.
"I-I was r-reading…"
He avoided their gazes, fingers clutching the blanket tightly.
The old man smiled, patting his head.
Reading, huh? Well… he could hardly blame him.
"Don't strain your eyes too much."
A quiet voice. Followed by the soft rustling of blankets.
"You can read all you want, but at least get some proper rest."
Monday smiled, curling deeper into the covers. The warmth of the fabric swallowed him whole.
Wanora let out a quiet sigh as she finished her work. "Sinus, can you get some fresh bandages? They're on the top shelf in the kitchen."
A pause. Then, a quiet, "Alright."
The boy disappeared through the doorway. A moment later, he returned, placing the bandages into Wanora's waiting hands. She unraveled them, layering them over the wounds already treated with antiseptic. The cloth pressed against the thin, frail body beneath her fingers.
Wanora glanced at the old man. "What's his name?"
The old man chuckled. "We'll ask when he wakes up. For now, let him rest."
With that, they stood, following him out of the room. The door creaked shut behind them, leaving only two figures behind.
Monday turned his head slightly, watching the boy in the dim light.
Then, with a small, tired sigh, he slept once again.
---
A scent.
Warm. Familiar. The soft murmur of conversations in the background.
A café.
The room was bright—too bright. My eyes struggled to adjust.
A voice.
"What are you looking for?"
A girl.
I turned my head toward her, but—I couldn't see her face. The details blurred, like an image half-drawn. I opened my mouth to speak, but—
No sound came out.
Nothing.
I tried again. No voice. No words.
The girl smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow."
She picked up her bag, turning to leave.
Wait.
I tried to move. My body wouldn't respond.
She's leaving.
Further and further away.
Wait.
I'm sorry—
---
My eyes opened.
The room was dark. The ceiling above me unfamiliar.
I sat up slowly, my mind still hazy. The old man had carried me here, hadn't he? Where was this place?
I moved to stand, my limbs sluggish and weak. There was something strange about this body—instincts that weren't my own, movements I wouldn't normally make. Was it the childlike nature of the form I had taken?
A shift in the darkness.
My gaze snapped to the left.
A pair of eyes peered at me through the hole in a blanket.
I blinked.
"…Hi?"
The figure flinched slightly. The boy was older than me, but nervous—his lips moved, whispering something under his breath, though I couldn't hear the words.
I turned to the door.
…Is he scared of me?
I glanced down at myself. Bandages wrapped tightly around my too-thin body, scars barely concealed beneath layers of cloth.
A sudden rustling.
The boy slipped out from under his blanket, his movements jittery, restless. Dark spots clung under his eyes, exhaustion woven deep into his expression. His brown hair was unkempt, bangs falling messily over his forehead.
He swallowed. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper—
"H-Hi. D-Do you like f-food?"
I stared.
"…Yeah?"
The boy's shoulders relaxed. "O-Okay. I-I'll get you some."
He smiled—small, uncertain—and scurried to the door. Light spilled into the room as he stepped outside, and I squinted against the sudden brightness.
Slowly, I followed.
The house stretched before me—a two-story building, its walls built of wood and stone. The air carried the scent of aged lumber, faint herbs, and something warm. It was… beautiful, in its own way. Like a well-kept tavern.
The boy led me into the kitchen, its counters neatly arranged. He moved quickly, pulling out a loaf of bread, heating it over a small flame, then layering cheese over it.
He passed the first piece to me, then took one for himself.
A pause. Then, hesitantly—
"I'm M-Monday."
I blinked. "…Monday? As in the day of the week?"
He nodded.
I stared at him for a moment, then let it go. "…I'm Heide."
I didn't introduce myself as Atrel. Not when I was never adopted by the protagonist's family.
For now, I was just Heide.
For now, that was enough.
"H-How is it?"
Monday's voice was nervous, uncertain.
I looked up from the bread in my hands, blinking at him before offering a small smile. "It's tasty."
And it was.
Warm bread like this—it had been so long since I had something like it. The last thing I could remember eating was the shit in Victor's prison. A disgusting, watery porridge—food meant only to keep me breathing, nothing more.
But this… this was different.
Before I could say more, a new voice entered the room.
"Oh? He's awake?"
I turned.
A girl stood at the entrance—brown hair, sharp features. Her gaze swept over me, studying the bandages wrapped around my thin frame.
"Does it hurt anywhere?"
I shook my head.
"Are the bandages too tight?"
"No," I muttered.
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Monday, take him back to the room. I'll let Grandpa know he's up."
Then, without another word, she left.
I hesitated before following Monday out of the kitchen. The house remained quiet, the warm scent of wood and herbs lingering in the air.
Monday walked silently, his posture stiff, his tired eyes darting back toward me every few steps as if checking to see if I was still following.
The room we entered was simple—four beds lined neatly against the walls.
Monday sat on one without a word.
I sat on the one I had woken up in.
Then, the door opened,
Four figures stepped inside all at once.
The old man was the first one I recognized—the same one who had carried me here. The same one who had saved me.
He stepped forward, bending slightly to meet my gaze.
"Are you alright?"
I nodded.
He smiled. "I'm sorry for bringing you here without asking." A pause. Then, gently, "Do you have parents?"
I shook my head.
A hand landed softly on my head, warm and steady. "Why didn't you go to the temple?"
I couldn't tell him the truth.
That I wanted to join the Arcane Pact.
That I had nowhere else to go.
Instead, I mumbled the first excuse that came to mind.
"I don't like it."
The old man's eyebrows raised slightly. "Oh?"
He was waiting for me to explain myself.
I hesitated. But then, I repeated, "I don't like it."
It was the kind of answer a child would give. An answer that made sense to someone like him. No child needed a deep, logical reason for their choices.
And judging by the way his expression softened, he accepted it.
"Do you like it here?" he asked instead.
I thought about it.
It was warm. It was quiet. It wasn't filled with the sounds of endless prayers.
I nodded.
The old man chuckled. "Alright, then." He straightened. "Do you want to stay?"
I hesitated.
My gaze flickered to the others in the room—the girl from before, Monday, and two unfamiliar faces. They were all watching me.
Children.
Were they… ArcanePact?
If I stayed here, would I be able to join them?
Slowly, I nodded.
The old man's smile deepened. His hand ruffled my hair gently before pulling away.
"Then," he said, "if you want… you can inherit the name Heide Decimus."
…What?
Decimus.
The name rang through my skull like an explosion.
DID HE JUST SAY DECIMUS?
DECIMUS—AS IN THE CREATOR OF THE LEGENDARY BOOK OF DECIMUS?