Chapter 6 – Home
There was no pain.
No battle.
No screaming.
Nothing.
Only warmth.
It wrapped around Leon like sunlight after a lifetime of winter.
For a while...
He believed this was death.
Perhaps this was what the priests had spoken of.
Peace.
...
Then...
A sound.
Chirp...
Another.
Chirp... Chirp...
Birds.
Leon frowned.
Another sound.
Someone argued outside.
"You're cheating!"
"I'm not!"
"You moved first!"
The voices became clearer.
Leon slowly opened his eyes.
Warm sunlight filtered through the curtains, dancing softly across the wooden floor.
A cool breeze drifted through the half-open window, carrying with it the scent of damp earth after last night's rain.
For a long moment...
He simply stared at the ceiling.
The silence felt...
Different.
He slowly turned his head.
A bookshelf.
A study desk.
Stacks of academy textbooks piled carelessly in one corner.
A wooden practice sword leaned against the wall.
His breathing grew shallow.
"...No."
He pushed himself upright.
The room spun for an instant before settling.
His bare feet touched the wooden floor.
Every step felt strangely unfamiliar.
He crossed the room without thinking.
The mirror stood exactly where it always had.
He stopped before it.
A young man stared back.
Dark hair.
Clear eyes.
A face untouched by war.
No scars.
No streaks of grey hidden among black hair.
Leon slowly raised his hand.
The reflection followed.
His fingertips met the cold glass.
"...Eighteen..."
His chest tightened.
He tried to breathe.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
His heartbeat quickened.
Air wouldn't come.
He staggered back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk.
"...Breathe..."
Another attempt.
Then another.
The air finally rushed into his lungs.
He doubled over, coughing.
His breathing slowly steadied.
He remained there, one hand pressed against the desk, staring at the reflection.
Three gentle knocks echoed through the room.
"Leon?"
His body froze.
The voice beyond the door was so ordinary...
That it terrified him.
The knock came again.
"Leon?"
Before he could answer...
The door creaked open.
His mother leaned inside.
"There you are."
She smiled faintly.
"I've been calling you for the past five minutes."
Leon didn't move.
She frowned.
"What happened?"
"...Nothing."
His voice sounded unfamiliar.
Younger.
Clearer.
She stepped into the room.
"I thought you stayed up studying again."
Her eyes wandered across the room.
Books scattered over the desk.
Clothes draped across a chair.
She sighed.
"I told you to clean this yesterday."
Leon continued staring.
Every little movement felt painfully familiar.
The way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The way she folded her arms whenever she was pretending to be annoyed.
She noticed his expression.
"...Leon?"
She walked closer.
Without saying a word, she placed the back of her hand against his forehead.
"Hm."
"No fever."
She looked him in the eyes.
"You really did have a strange dream, didn't you?"
Leon opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His throat tightened.
His mother tilted her head.
"...Hey."
"If something's bothering you..."
"You know you can tell us."
Leon forced a smile.
"...I'm alright."
She studied him for another moment.
Then smiled.
"Good."
She gently straightened the collar of his shirt.
"There."
She nodded to herself.
"Much better."
She turned toward the door.
"Oh."
"And your father is already waiting."
"If you don't come downstairs soon..."
"He'll finish your breakfast himself."
A small laugh escaped her.
"You know how impatient he gets."
She stepped into the hallway.
Then looked back one last time.
"And after breakfast..."
"No disappearing."
"We still have to finish preparing your academy documents."
"I'll be waiting downstairs."
The door closed softly behind her.
Silence returned.
Leon slowly raised a hand to his collar.
She had straightened it.
Just like she always used to.
His fingers lingered there.
Then...
His knees gave way.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time in nearly half a century...
His mother had scolded him for leaving his room messy.
And he had never been happier to be scolded.
Leon remained seated for a long time.
Sunlight crept slowly across the wooden floor.
Eventually...
He drew in a long breath.
Then another.
His heartbeat settled.
He stood.
Almost instinctively...
He folded the blanket.
Smoothed the bedsheet.
Straightened the pillow.
His movements were precise.
Methodical.
He gathered the books from the desk.
Placed them neatly onto the shelf.
The chair was pushed back beneath the desk.
The curtains tied properly.
Leon looked around the room.
"...Still can't stop."
A quiet smile appeared.
Forty-nine years of military life had become habit.
He changed into a plain training shirt and stepped outside.
The cool morning air greeted him.
Without thinking...
His feet carried him forward.
A slow jog.
The same route he had taken countless mornings before entering the academy.
The old woman sweeping leaves outside her gate.
The baker opening his shop.
Two boys sprinted past him, laughing.
One stumbled.
The other pulled him back to his feet before continuing their race.
A newspaper landed at the front gate of a nearby house.
The headline caught his eye.
WORLD COUNCIL TO DISCUSS RIFT EXPEDITION FUNDING
Leon stopped.
Only for a moment.
Then continued running.
Not today.
He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
By the time he returned home, the smell of breakfast drifted through the open windows.
His father was already seated at the table, reading the morning paper.
Without looking up, he spoke.
"Took your time."
Leon pulled out a chair.
"So I did."
His father lowered the newspaper just enough to look at him.
"You're unusually quiet."
His mother walked in carrying another plate.
"See?"
"I told you."
"He studied too much."
His father chuckled.
"Good."
"Maybe he'll finally pass the academy entrance without complaining."
"I passed."
Leon answered automatically.
The room fell silent.
His parents looked at him.
Leon blinked.
"...I mean..."
"I will."
His father laughed.
"That's more like it."
His mother placed a plate in front of him.
"Eat before it gets cold."
Leon looked down.
Rice.
Soup.
Fresh bread.
A simple breakfast.
He picked up the spoon.
Neither of his parents noticed the faint smile on his face.
They simply continued talking.
About rising prices.
About the neighbour's new fence.
About whether it might rain again in the evening.
Leon listened.
He barely said a word.
He didn't need to.
After breakfast, Leon returned to his room.
He closed the door quietly behind him.
His father had already left for work.
His mother busied herself downstairs, humming softly as she washed the breakfast dishes.
Leon walked toward his desk.
He opened the drawer.
Inside lay an old leather notebook.
Unused.
Beside it rested a fountain pen.
He smiled faintly.
"...I forgot I bought this."
He sat down.
Opened the first page.
For a long time...
He simply stared.
The pen finally touched the paper.
Year 278
He stopped.
Then continued.
Today... I returned.
The ink dried.
Slowly...
He wrote again.
Why me?
His grip tightened around the pen.
There were people far more worthy than I was.
Commanders wiser than me.
Knights stronger than me.
Saints holier than me.
Men and women far braver than I could ever be.
His writing slowed.
Why was I the one who came back?
His shoulders slumped.
His vision blurred.
Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
He cried.
Not as Humanity's Supreme General.
Not as the Hero of Atlas.
Not as the commander who had carried the fate of mankind.
Simply...
As Leon.
His trembling hand returned to the notebook.
I fought for forty-nine years.
I watched cities burn.
I buried my friends.
I sent thousands of soldiers to battles knowing they would never return.
He stopped writing.
His fingers refused to move.
After several moments...
He forced himself to continue.
I watched humanity reach its end.
Another tear landed on the page, smudging the ink.
...I was tired.
The pen almost slipped from his fingers.
I just wanted to rest.
He lowered his head.
The room fell silent.
Only the ticking of the clock remained.
Outside...
Children laughed.
Birds continued singing.
Life carried on as though nothing had happened.
Leon sat there quietly.
For the first time since waking...
He allowed himself to grieve.
Not for Atlas.
Not for humanity.
Not for the war.
For himself.
For the eighteen-year-old who never truly got to live.
And for the sixty-seven-year-old who never got the chance to stop