Garon, Rag’s father, was a former mercenary. During his prime, he had apparently served as an officer in one of the most prominent mercenary bands in the Asterion Sword Kingdom.
His frame had withered in the two years since his injury, but the moment he gripped a dagger, he radiated the unmistakable presence of a veteran warrior.
The former mercenary stood alone in the narrow slum alleyway. The old woman and I sat off to the side, watching him closely.
Garon exhaled slowly. He widened his stance and lowered his center of gravity.
In an instant, the very air around him shifted.
His frail posture snapped upright as if drawn by an invisible thread. His body, though surely rusted by two years of idle recovery, remembered the form it had held on the battlefield.
His first swing was clumsy. Muscles creaked and joints groaned in protest.
But by the second and third, the blade began to merge with his arm, moving as if it had a will of its own.
The whistle of the blade cutting through the air grew sharper with every pass. There was no wasted motion in his weight shifts; his footwork was hushed, and every stroke traced a perfectly honed arc.
It was as if the two-year gap had never existed.
Garon completed his final strike, quietly lowering the tip of the blade. He managed a faint smile while catching his labored breath.
“Forgive me... for my selfishness...”
He handed the dagger back to me. I stood to receive it.
It had been one day since Neneva performed her miracle and healed Garon’s leg. We had returned to Rag’s home to check on their recovery.
Rag was still confined to his bed, but his complexion was much healthier. As for Garon—
“Your leg seems to be holding up well,” I noted.
“It is. And not just my leg—my whole body feels as light as if I've been reborn. Truly, Lady Neneva is a goddess.”
Garon looked up at the second floor of the tenement building. Neneva, Graymond, and Rag were all upstairs.
“With this, I won't be a hindrance to you.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
Garon took a moment to reflect before giving a firm nod. “I am.”
Our objective was to rendezvous with Former Count Bradley, who was laying low in the Asterion Sword Kingdom. Since he had been exiled from the Imuris Kingdom, conventional search methods were useless.
We had hoped to contact the Knight Order Commander, an associate of Bradley's, only to find he was away on an expedition with no clear return date.
When Garon had asked if there was anything he could do to repay us, Neneva had innocently chirped, “I want to meet the Knight Order Commander!” Garon had simply replied, “I’ll make it happen.”
It was a shock to learn he was an old acquaintance of the man. Given his history as a mercenary officer, perhaps it shouldn't have been such a surprise, but it was a stroke of luck nonetheless.
“When do we leave?” Garon asked, wiping his brow. He looked refreshed, as if the sweat from his first practice in years was a luxury.
“In five days,” I said. “Rag should be back on his feet by then.”
“Understood.”
And so, we were set to travel to the Knight Order’s destination with Garon as our guide. It was the very dungeon where he had lost his wife and nearly his life: the Cave of Falling Shadows.
Information gathered from Garon's old contacts suggested that a Parade of unprecedented scale was brewing within the cave. The Asterion Knight Order had been deployed specifically to quell the threat.
“Here, take this.”
I produced a small pouch of gold coins from my pack and handed it to him. This was his fee for the introduction. It would be more than enough to clear his debts.
“...Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Absolutely. You’re guiding us into a war zone and providing a high-level contact. If anything, I'm underpaying you.”
“...Thank you. Truly.”
Garon took the pouch, bowing over and over.
“With this... we can finally start over.”
“Good for you, dearie,” the old woman chirped from her spot by the wall.
She had clearly been a guardian angel for the two of them for a long time. Garon stepped over to her, leaning in close.
“Gran, I’m going to be away for a bit. Look after Rag for me, will you?”
“You leave him to me.”
She raised a withered arm and brandished a fist. For a moment, she looked surprisingly formidable.
“Hey! How much longer are you two going to be?! Lunch is already ready, you know?!”
Neneva leaned out of the second-story window, shouting her protest. The Wind-song Grass Bracelet shimmered on her left wrist.
Perhaps it was Neneva’s mother who had woven these threads of fate together for us.
“We're coming!”
Harried by her shouting, Garon and I hurried back toward the stairs.