The bell above the café door chimed softly as Riven stepped in. He looked… worn. Not just physically. His spirit felt bruised too. The bandages on his arms were still fresh, his body aching from the hundred-man fight that had nearly broken him. But something in his eyes had shifted.
He wasn't going to just remember who he used to be.
He was going to become better.
He walked up to the counter, where his boss—Mr.Han, a gruff but fair middle-aged man with a thick beard and permanently tired eyes—was sorting receipts and sipping coffee like it was oxygen.
Mr.Han looked up and raised a brow. "Riven? You look like you got hit by a bus."
Riven gave a half-smile. "More like a hundred angry ones."
"Dare I ask?"
"No."
Mr.Han grunted, eyeing the bruises. "Alright. What's up?"
"I need time off. A month. Maybe a little more. I have to go somewhere."
Mr.Han leaned back, crossing his arms. "That so?"
There was silence for a moment. Then the man sighed and grabbed a notepad from under the counter.
"You're one of my best workers. Never missed a shift.Even with whatever the hell you've got going on in that dark little world of yours." He scribbled something, then looked up. "You got thirty-two days. Paid time off."
Riven blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, yeah,Mr.Han muttered.
"Thanks",Riven almost screamed with joy.
The bus ride was long.
Outside the window, the towering steel of the city slowly melted away into the warm, earthy tones of the countryside. Neon gave way to trees. The smooth roads broke into cracked paths. Concrete became cobblestone.
Riven got off the last bus at a dusty terminal with a rusted roof and a crooked bench.
A crooked wooden sign read:
"Welcome to Dorvale."
He adjusted the strap of his bag and began walking. The air smelled different here. Fresher. Earthier. There was a quietness to the place—like time had slowed just enough for people to breathe again.
Before heading into the forest, Riven decided to explore the village.
He walked down narrow paths where kids ran barefoot and women sold roasted corn, dried herbs, and steaming bowls of thick stew from wooden carts. He bought a skewer of spicy grilled meat.
He wandered into a market where handmade trinkets dangled in the breeze. Pottery, wooden figurines, woven masks. He paused to admire a mask with red eyes and black patterns—it reminded him of Kael for some reason.
He asked around about the village's guardian.
An old man chewing on kola nuts pointed a shaky hand toward the deep forest. "You'll find him there. But good luck. Not many return with answers."
Riven nodded, bought a small flask of herbal drink from a kind vendor, and walked toward the forest path.
The deeper he went, the quieter it got.
Birds chirped, insects buzzed, and the wind rustled leaves in that ancient language only nature spoke. Roots clawed at the ground like veins. The sun struggled to pierce through the thick canopy.
After hours of walking, he found it.
A small wooden house nestled near a brook. Surrounded by stone lanterns, mossy benches, and wooden training dummies cracked and worn from age.
He walked up the steps and knocked.
Nothing.
He peeked inside. The place was simple—mat floors, training weapons on a wall, scrolls stacked neatly. A teapot still warm.
He's nearby, Riven thought.
His eyes drifted to the corner—an old training book. It was his handwriting.
His heartbeat quickened.
He stepped in. Slowly. His fingers grazed over the scrolls, the tools, the wooden carving of a dragon on the shelf. So many memories came flooding back. He hadn't been here in years.
He turned to look at a weapon rack—there, still untouched, was his first-ever practice blade. The handle wrapped in red string. He smiled, almost forgetting the ache in his ribs he had gotten from when he fought the thugs.
That's when he heard the soft thunk of a wooden bucket hitting the porch outside.
Riven froze.
Footsteps.
He turned slowly as the door creaked open.
The man standing there was older now. His hair, once jet black, now peppered with silver. He carried firewood in one hand, a walking stick in the other. His eyes were sharp, even if age had worn the edges of his face.
The man's back was to him.
"Who are you?" the man asked gruffly, not turning around.
Riven didn't answer.
The man finally turned.
His eyes narrowed.
Then widened.
He dropped the firewood.
"…Riven?"
Silence.
"I thought you were dead," the man said slowly, his voice caught between disbelief and something else. "Or at the very least, I thought you'd never come back. Not after what happened."
Riven looked down, jaw clenched. "Yeah. I thought I wouldn't either."
The old man stepped closer, brows furrowed. "After the way things ended, after the choice you made—do you know how long I waited? Hoping maybe I was wrong about you. But nothing. No word. Just silence."
"I wasn't ready to face you. Or this place," Riven said, eyes heavy. "But I'm here now. Because I need to be."
The man stared at him for a long time. "You were always stubborn. Just like him."
Riven's eyes flicked up. "Don't compare me to him."
"No?" the man asked with a faint smirk. "Then prove it."
A long pause.
"I lost control," Riven said quietly. "Back in the city. A hundred thugs came for me. I barely survived.I don't want to just survive anymore. I want to be better. Stronger. Smarter. I need you to train me again. Not like before. I need you to break me. Rebuild me."
The man studied him closely, the tension still in his shoulders.
"…You really mean that?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
The man nodded slowly, a shadow of a smile forming. "Alright, then. But this time, we do it my way. No shortcuts. No pride."
"Deal."
The man walked past him into the house. "Get some rest, Riven. You'll need it."
Riven dropped his bag, exhaled, and looked around the place that once felt like home—and might become that again.
"Then let's begin".