The scent of broth and monster meat wafted faintly through the cold air as Xin stepped into the food pantry. His boots left soft imprints in the fine dust that clung to the stone floor, stirred by the silent movement of others.
Crystalline pots clanged in rhythm behind a makeshift counter, where cooks toiled with tired hands and focused eyes. There wasn't much to go around, but they made it work. The peoples's survival depended on it—civilians, warriors, all bound by the same hunger, the same fragile hope.
Xin's shoulders ached from the hunt.
Each dawn, he descended the jagged mountain with a small hunting group, tracking beasts across the barren terrain to bring back meat. The land beyond the glassy sky was desolate, stripped bare by centuries of misuse, yet the monsters endured. They always did. Just like he did. Their resilience was a grim mirror, It reminded them of what it took to survive in a world that offered no mercy.
He unfastened the thick leather straps of his pack, letting it drop to the table with a dull thud. Inside were chunks of fresh kill, still steaming from the warmth of life. The cooks took them with grateful nods. One, an older woman with gray-streaked hair, gave him a pat on the back. Xin tried to smile in return, but it barely reached his eyes. The effort felt hollow, like trying to light a fire with damp wood.
When he turned to leave, his gaze caught on a figure by the gateway—black armor, motionless, silent. Raven. As always, his presence was a shadow, heavy with things unspoken. He had stationed himself at the gate...the best position for him. Before he got there the monsters would always take a life on a daily basis...But ever since raven arrived no Flying hallows have been able to pass through. Zero. Their eyes met for a brief second. A nod passed between them, simple, wordless. A recognition. A connection. A wound. Xin's chest tightened, but he didn't linger. He couldn't afford to.
He made his way past the stores of preserved goods—jars, ancient utensils, cooking tools—left behind by a civilization long gone. The pantry held the ghost of its old caretakers, their legacy etched into unbreakable stone pots and fire-worn hearths. It had taken weeks to figure out how to open half of it, the mechanisms rusted and stubborn. Yet the people here had adapted, as they always did, turning relics into tools for survival.
One thing he had learned was that a lot of the people here were Beastmen or other races seeking refuge, they managed to plead to their sovereign just enough to leave their world to for fame— spread their name.
But most were just worshipers of said sovereign—regular citizens. By now there were thousands of them just on this summit alone.
"You're overworking yourself again," came a voice, soft but pointed.
Xin turned. Shun, one of the healers, stood with her arms crossed, her dark eyes seeing far more than he wanted her to. She was small but carried an authority that made people listen, even when she spoke quietly.
He offered the same smile he always gave, the one he'd practiced until it was second nature. "It's okay."
Shun frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That smile is going to crack one day."
Maybe it already had.
When the helping was done, when the last kettle had been stirred and the final slices of meat sorted into bowls, Xin lingered. He didn't know why. Or maybe he did. Maybe he didn't want to be alone yet. Being alone meant being quiet, and being quiet meant remembering. Remembering was dangerous. It pulled at the threads he'd carefully stitched over his heart, threatening to unravel everything.
He leaned against the stone wall, eyes cast toward the flickering lantern light. Shadows danced across the room, flicking back and forth like memories he couldn't outrun. He'd been working hard—too hard. Every day, every hour. Helping the cooks. Fighting the beasts. Gathering supplies. Volunteering for watch duty. Fixing weapons. Anything to keep moving. Anything to keep feeling like he mattered. Anything to avoid thinking about that night.
That night when he'd snapped at Belial.
He hadn't meant to. He didn't even know where it had come from—just a storm inside him, sudden and violent. Words had poured out, sharp and cruel, not like him. Not like the Xin he wanted to be. Belial had stood there, surprised at first, then angry. The two of them had argued in front of the others, voices raised, tempers flaring. Accusations flew like arrows, each one landing deeper than the last.
Then silence.
That silence had never quite gone away. It lingered in the spaces between them, in the glances they avoided, in the way Belial's laugh no longer filled the camp. Xin could still see his friend's face, the hurt in his eyes before he'd turned away. The memory was a blade, twisting in Xin's gut.
Why did I say those things? he thought bitterly. Why didn't I just… walk away?
Maybe it was the exhaustion. The missions had gotten harder, the beasts more relentless. People had died. Belial had nearly died. Xin could still see his friend's body slumped in that cave, blood pooling around him, his breaths shallow and ragged. The healers had saved him, but the image was burned into Xin's mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there, helpless, watching life slip away from someone he cared about.
He should have been stronger. More composed. Less selfish. He'd spent so long suppressing everything, burying emotions under the weight of duty, that he hadn't noticed how fragile the ground beneath him had become. One crack, one moment of weakness, and it had all come crashing down.
Xin closed his eyes, pressing his back against the cool stone wall. It did nothing to calm the storm within. His throat tightened, and a quiet drop hit his cheek. He blinked, surprised, his hand rising instinctively to brush the trail of moisture down his skin. He hadn't even realized he was crying.
He bit his lip hard, trying to breathe through it, but the tears came anyway—slow, quiet, like a faucet left open just a crack. They slipped down his face without sound, and he didn't move to stop them. For once, he didn't fight it. He pressed his forehead to the wall, the cold stone grounding him as the weight of everything pressed down.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The words tasted like metal. Bitter. Heavy.
"I didn't mean it, Bel… I didn't mean any of it."
No one answered. Just the hiss of the nearby stove, the clinking of distant cutlery. Life went on, relentless, even when hearts broke. Even when apologies came too late. The guild needed him to keep going, to keep hunting, to keep fighting. There was no time for regret, no space for grief. But in that moment, Xin didn't care. He let the tears fall. Let the mask crack. He didn't sob, didn't tremble. He just… let himself be sad.
Really sad.
For the first time in years.
The pantry was quiet now, the cooks finishing their tasks, the clatter of pots fading into a soft hum. Xin stayed against the wall, his breathing steadying as the tears slowed. He didn't know how long he stood there, lost in the weight of his own thoughts. Time felt slippery, like water through his fingers.
A soft sound stirred him. Footsteps, deliberate and measured. He wiped his face quickly, the motion instinctive, and stood up straight, shoulders squared, breath held. Raven passed by, his black armor catching the lantern light. He didn't speak, didn't stop, but as he moved, he paused. A subtle glance.
Xin didn't know what it meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But somehow, in that fleeting exchange, he felt a little less alone.
He exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just enough to breathe. The pantry was still there, the summit was still there, and so was he. Broken, maybe. Tired, definitely. But still here. Still fighting. Still hoping, in some small, stubborn way, that he could make things right.
He pushed off the wall, his boots scuffing softly against the dusty floor. There was work to be done. There was always work to be done.
But for the first time in a long time, Xin felt something else, too—a quiet resolve, a flicker of determination.
He didn't know if Belial would forgive him, He didn't know if he was alive at all.