The System did not speak again.
Days passed, then weeks, and the glowing interfaces never once intruded on Luke's waking hours. No sudden summons. No countdowns. No urgent missions flashing before his eyes.
At first, that silence made him uneasy.
He had expected the System to demand more—another world, another borrowed life, another impossible wish to fulfill. Instead, it waited. Or perhaps, Luke realized, it simply allowed.
Allowed him time.
That realization was what finally settled his emotions.
Jack's memories no longer surged without warning. Rose's face still appeared from time to time, but it no longer stabbed at his chest. It felt… complete. A story that had reached its proper ending. Luke carried it with him now, not as grief, but as something warm and steady.
I gave him a good life, Luke thought one evening as he sat outside his house, watching the sun dip behind the mountains.
And in return, Jack had given him something too.
Not just skills.
Perspective.
Luke no longer cursed fate when things went wrong. He had seen what destiny looked like when it truly tried to crush someone—and how, even then, a single choice could bend it.
If the System was a chain, then for now, it was a loose one.
One he could live with.
Luke's days settled into a rhythm as old as the village itself.
At dawn, he tended his small plot of land behind the house. It wasn't much—just a rectangular patch of soil bordered by stones—but it was his. He planted vegetables in careful rows, hands deep in the earth, feeling the subtle differences in soil moisture and texture.
He'd never been good at farming before.
Now, somehow, he understood it better.
Not through knowledge, but observation—how leaves angled toward sunlight, how water pooled unevenly after rain. He adjusted without thinking, small corrections that added up. His garden began to thrive.
Afterward came chores: repairing fences, helping reinforce old roofs, carrying produce down to the shared storage shed. Luke worked steadily, efficiently, without rushing or wasting motion.
People noticed.
Not because he talked more—he didn't—but because he seemed… grounded.
Less unlucky.
Less like someone the world enjoyed tripping for sport.
In the afternoons, he sat beneath the old tree near the village entrance, sketchbook resting on his knees.
That was when everything changed.
It started with children.
One boy lingered nearby, watching Luke's hand move across the page. Then another. Soon they were asking questions, pointing, whispering to one another.
"Is that Uncle Chen?""It looks just like him.""How did you draw the wrinkles like that?"
Luke shrugged, embarrassed, and tore out the page to give it away.
The next day, an old woman arrived.
"I heard you can draw faces," she said bluntly. "Can you draw my husband? He passed five years ago. I don't have a picture of him."
Luke hesitated.
Then nodded.
He worked slowly, carefully, letting memory guide his hand as she described the man's eyes, his crooked smile, the way he used to tilt his head when thinking.
When he finished, the old woman stared at the drawing for a long time.
Then she cried.
Word spread faster than Luke expected.
Young couples came, shy and hopeful. Elders came, stern and curious. Some wanted portraits of themselves. Others brought stories—faces they wanted remembered.
Luke never charged money.
Sometimes they left vegetables, eggs, or a bottle of homemade wine anyway.
The village began to change its view of him.
He was no longer just the last young man left behind.
He was the one who could capture people as they truly were.
Luke didn't think of it as talent.
To him, it felt like listening.
One evening, after the crowd dispersed and the sky deepened into indigo, Luke sat alone and flipped through his sketchbook.
Faces filled the pages.
Smiling. Stern. Tired. Hopeful.
Real.
The System's interface shimmered faintly at the edge of his vision, as if acknowledging something unspoken.
No new mission appeared.
Luke closed the book and looked up at the stars.
"I'll go when it's time," he said softly, unsure who he was speaking to. "But not yet."
The wind stirred the leaves above him.
The mountains stood silent.
And in the quiet space between worlds, Luke lived—not as a hero, not as a sacrifice, but simply as himself.