It came like a sudden flashback—sharp, violent, and cold. Aron struggled to keep his eyes closed even while asleep, his face soaked in sweat. His breathing was rough, uneven, the kind that comes when pain has crawled too deep inside the mind. He twisted, his fingers trembling, until the pressure became unbearable. His eyes snapped open.
And he found himself standing inside that same broken house.
The shattered walls.
The smell of dust.
The man lying on the ground—motionless, lifeless.
Aron's eyes widened. His chest tightened. He tried to run, but the echoes returned, crashing into him like waves.
"Why did you do it…?"
"You killed him…"
"He was innocent…"
The voices circled his mind, louder and louder, until the whole world bent. His foot slipped, the ground vanished beneath him, and he fell from a huge cliff. The air roared against him as he dropped toward the sharp rocks below. Just as he was about to hit the ground—
He opened his eyes again.
Aron: "I didn't do it… it was a fault!" he shouted, breath breaking.
Balrad heard the scream. The door flew open as he rushed inside. He saw Aron sitting upright, sweat dripping, eyes shaking. Balrad grabbed his shoulders gently but firmly.
Balrad: "Aron! Aron! ARON!"
But there was no reaction. Not at first.
Then Aron blinked, gasped, and looked up. He saw Balrad's worried face.
Balrad: "What happened, son? Did you see a bad dream?"
Aron didn't speak. His throat locked. His eyes filled. The tears came before the words.
Balrad hesitated, not wanting to push him, but unable to stay silent.
"Aron… what happened?"
It was a new day—probably evening, though the sun had not fully set. The sky held that golden tone between hope and quiet. Balrad sat beside him, patient and gentle.
Balrad: "Tell me. Is something taunting you? Is there something you carry alone?"
Aron finally breathed out.
Aron (voice shaking, in despair): "I killed someone who wasn't guilty… in front of his daughter."
The words tore out of him like they were cutting his throat.
He wiped his eyes but they kept coming back—tears of guilt, of horror, of memory.
Aron: "I thought he killed my friend Carlos. That day… when the bandits raided the village. My friend was stabbed in the neck, and his grandpa too. And the real killer was already dead….But I saw footprints in the blood. I followed them… and they led me to a homeless man. Maybe I thought he had answers… maybe I thought he did it. But he didn't."
His voice cracked. He lowered his head.
Balrad listened without interrupting. His chest felt heavy. Inside his mind, he whispered the truth he couldn't say out loud:
That's why he's collapsing. He's only a kid… and he has seen things no child should ever see. Done things no child should ever carry.
Balrad exhaled quietly and stood.
Balrad: "Come with me, Aron."
They walked together—not speaking, only stepping forward. Balrad led him toward the mountain behind the village. It wasn't tall, not like the great mountains of the north, but high enough to see the land clearly. They climbed slowly, letting the silence breathe.
At the top, they reached a wide open view: giant fields stretching endlessly, and a lake shimmering behind the mountain like a silver tail. The sky was clear, the wind soft, carrying the calm whispers of nature.
Balrad sat behind Aron so the boy could face the world freely.
Then the sun began to rise.
Slowly… softly… like wood catching fire.
Golden light spilled across Aron's forehead, warming his cold skin, then reached his eyes, his face, his chest, his whole body. The trees behind them shimmered gently as the light brushed their leaves.
Balrad watched him quietly. For a moment, even he felt taken in by the beauty—the pure calmness of nature, the peaceful rhythm of wind and sunlight.
Aron felt it too. The warmth of the sun. The soft touch of wind. The earth's scent—fresh, clean, almost like his childhood.
But inside him, something twisted.
He looked at his feet. His hands tightened. His breath trembled.
The sadness returned first. Then the guilt. Then the agony.
Aron (whispering to himself): "How do I deserve to be happy…?"
His voice broke. He grabbed his head, the guilt drowning him, and he screamed. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground as the peaceful moment shattered into violence inside his mind.
Balrad reacted instantly, pulling him close as Aron began hitting his forehead on the ground in frustration—not harming himself intentionally, just overwhelmed, unable to handle the storm inside him. Tears streamed down his face.
Balrad held him tightly.
He knew this pain.
He had felt something like it before.
He wished he could take it away from Aron completely.
He just wanted the boy to heal… to grow… to someday live a life where his past didn't chain him.
Meanwhile, in Wingman City, silence ruled the streets.
It wasn't the city it once was—lively, free, filled with voices and movement. Now, most of the people had migrated to distant villages. Only the government and a few stubborn citizens remained.
Inside a damaged, bruised building sat a man—a man who held pride like a weapon and ego like armor. Trail.
He stared at the wall for a long moment, then drank from a white glass. His right hand rose to rub his tired eyes. Everything felt empty.
Trail: "What can we even do…?"
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a match. The flame flickered, then died as the rain began to tap against the windows. The sky turned dark, heavy with storm clouds.
Trail felt frustration tightening inside him.
He slammed his fist into the wooden table—snapping it cleanly in two.
Then came a voice, deep and confident:
Luxorious: "Punching the desk won't help you win wars, Trail."
Trail turned. Luxorious sat calmly on a chair, arms crossed. Trail stared at him, silent.
Trail (quiet, defeated): "I don't have anything to say. I don't think I can do anything now… or that I ever did anything at all."
Luxorious raised an eyebrow.
Luxorious: "What about your authority? Did the government tear that apart too?"
Trail clenched his teeth.
Trail: "Those bastards… what do you expect me to say? Ahh, Luxorious…" His frustration cracked through his voice. "That boy… if he can stay safe, then maybe that's all that matters."
Luxorious nodded slightly.
Luxorious: "It will take time… but leave that aside. I got a letter from Zord. I followed the directions and found only an empty cave."
Trail: "Hand me that."
Luxorious passed the note. Trail didn't even open it—just a glance told him everything.
Trail: "It's from Zord. I can tell."
Luxorious leaned back.
Luxorious: "Maybe I arrived late. Or maybe they knew I was coming."
Trail stood slowly. His eyes sharpened, and for the first time in days, purpose returned to his voice.
Trail: "Luxorious… I have a job for you."