บท 11: Old Home
I woke up the next day with a pounding headache, my muscles screaming in protest as I slowly sat up. The training with Alfred had taken its toll, leaving me sore and exhausted. I groaned as I forced myself to stand, my body protesting every movement.
Slowly, I made my way back to the mansion, each step a challenge. As I approached the building, the aroma of a delicious breakfast wafted through the air, drawing me in like a magnet. My stomach growled in anticipation, and I quickened my pace, eager to satisfy my hunger.
I entered the kitchen to find August and September already seated at the table, their expressions gloomy and downcast. The atmosphere was heavy, a stark contrast to the tantalizing scent of the food. I grabbed a plate and joined them, settling into my seat with a wince.
"What's going on?" I asked, my voice still rough with sleep. "You both look like someone died."
September looked up at me, his eyes filled with worry. "It's April," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was badly injured on the last mission. He hasn't regained consciousness yet."
My heart sank at the news, a sense of dread settling in the pit of my stomach. April, the gentle giant who had been by my side since I woke up in that prison cell, was hurt. The thought of him lying unconscious, broken and battered, made me feel sick.
I pushed my plate away, suddenly losing my appetite. "How bad is it?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
August shook his head, his expression grim. "We don't know yet," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "The healers of this mansion are doing everything they can, but it's touch and go at the moment."
I nodded, my mind racing with possibilities. I knew I should have been there, fighting alongside my friends. Instead, I was stuck here, training and trying to regain my lost memories. The guilt weighed heavily on my shoulders, a burden I couldn't shake.
September noticed the guilt etched on my face and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, March," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "There's nothing you could have done to change what happened. We all knew the risks when we took on this mission."
I nodded, trying to accept his words, but the weight of responsibility still pressed down on me. I felt like I should have been there, fighting alongside my friends, protecting them from harm.
August leaned forward, his brow furrowed with curiosity. "What were you doing while we were on the mission, anyway?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I should share my training with Alfred. But these were my friends, and I knew I could trust them. "I was training with Alfred," I said, my voice low. "He's been helping me remember how to use my magic."
September's eyes widened in surprise, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "That's great news, March!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine happiness. "I'm glad to hear you're starting to remember some basic usage of magic."
August nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful. "You know, March, you never actually learned the basics of magic before," he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Maybe it's better that you're starting from scratch with Alfred's help."
I looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?" I asked, not quite understanding his point.
September chimed in, his voice filled with excitement. "Think about it, March. When you regain your memories, you'll have a solid foundation in the basics of magic. You'll be able to use your powers in a better, more controlled way than ever before."
I considered their words, a glimmer of hope sparking in my chest. Maybe they were right. Maybe this amnesia, as frustrating as it was, could actually be an opportunity for me to become a better, stronger version of myself.
I nodded, trying to absorb the new perspective that August and September had offered. The idea that my amnesia could be a blessing in disguise, allowing me to rebuild my magical skills from the ground up, was both comforting and daunting. It gave me a sense of purpose, a goal to work towards as I navigated this unfamiliar world.
Just as I was starting to feel a glimmer of hope, January walked into the kitchen. The moment I saw his face, I knew something was terribly wrong. His skin was as white as snow, his eyes haunted and empty. He moved like a ghost, his steps heavy and slow, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders.
December followed close behind, his expression equally somber. The two of them sat down at the table, their presence casting a pall over the room. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the clinking of utensils against plates as we picked at our food.
I wanted to say something, to offer words of comfort or encouragement, but my tongue felt like lead in my mouth. The grief that emanated from January and December was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to suck the air from the room.
After what felt like an eternity, everyone began to excuse themselves from the table, mumbling about needing time to process everything that had happened. I watched as they filed out of the kitchen, their shoulders slumped and their heads bowed.
Soon, only January and I remained. We sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. Finally, January spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Let's go to the city today at evening," he said, his eyes meeting mine. "I want to show you something."
I nodded, curious about what he wanted to show me but also hesitant to leave the safety of the mansion. "Okay," I agreed, my voice sounding small and uncertain even to my own ears.
January nodded, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then, without another word, he stood up and left the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he made his way back to his room.
I sat there for a moment longer, my mind reeling with questions and doubts. What did January want to show me in the city? Especially in this situation.
After breakfast, I spent the rest of the day training with Alfred, pushing my body to its limits despite the lingering soreness. His stern but encouraging presence kept me focused as we worked through combat forms and defensive maneuvers. By evening, my muscles burned with exhaustion, but there was a satisfaction in the progress I'd made, especially in my footwork and reaction time.
The hot bath was a blessing, soothing my aching body. Steam rose from the water as I sank deeper, letting the warmth seep into my bones. I watched the ripples dance across the surface, my mind drifting to the mysterious meeting ahead. The prospect of meeting January kept my mind occupied, wondering what he wanted to show me in the city and why he seemed so intent on taking me there tonight.
I dried off and pulled on fresh clothes before heading to the mansion's main entrance. January was already there, leaning against the wall with an air of casual patience, his mood notably lighter than this morning's gloom. His usual stoic expression had softened slightly.
"Let's go?" He raised an eyebrow.
I nodded, then watched as he extended his hand, fingers splayed in a precise gesture. A portal materialized in front of us, its swirling energy making my stomach turn and my skin crawl with instinctive revulsion.
January let out a soft laugh, the sound unusually warm coming from him. "You never change, do you? Even amnesia couldn't erase your hatred towards portals."
He stepped through and I followed, gritting my teeth against the nauseating sensation of being pulled through space. We emerged in a dimly lit house I didn't recognize, the air musty with disuse.
"This is a system Assassin created," January explained as we walked through the shadowy interior. "He knows houses that never get checked because of their strange position. He created portals between them and this ring" - he held up his hand, where a simple metal band caught the weak light - "is the key. You had one too, but lost it somewhere during your amnesia."
We navigated through a maze-like series of doors, each one seemingly identical to the last, until we reached a busy street in the poor district. The area buzzed with life - merchants hawking their final wares of the day, drunks stumbling about with bottles in hand, while shadier figures lurked in dark corners alongside prostitutes calling out to passersby.
Our destination was a large building with a weathered wooden sign reading "Keifi". Music and drunken shouting spilled out onto the street, along with the smell of ale and roasted meat.
"Look, don't mention your amnesia here, okay?" January whispered urgently as we entered, his hand briefly touching my shoulder in warning.
He spoke briefly with a barmaid whose eyes kept darting between us, recognition and something else flickering in her expression. When she finished talking to January, she gave me a small bow, her hands trembling slightly.
"We are really happy to see you again," she said before hurrying off to the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder as she went.
I followed January to a table tucked away in a dark corner of the room, my mind racing with questions about what kind of history I might have in this place.
As I took in the bustling tavern, with its lively music and the warm glow of the fireplace, a sense of familiarity washed over me. The beautiful woman singing on stage, her melodic voice melting the hearts of the patrons, and the overweight barman pouring drinks and delivering food with practiced efficiency - it all felt like a distant memory, just out of reach, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.
"That's basically our first home," January said, his voice cutting through my thoughts, steady and matter-of-fact as always.
I nodded, my eyes still scanning the room, trying to piece together the fragments of my past. The worn wooden floors, the slight tilt to some of the tables, even the particular way the smoke curled up from the pipes of regular customers - everything sparked something deep within. The barman caught my attention, and suddenly, my mind was flooded with a hazy recollection, like water breaking through a damaged dam.
"You remember Tusk?" January asked, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut, making my breath catch in my throat.
Memories came rushing back, vivid and intense, overwhelming my senses. I saw myself as a child, cold and hungry, huddled with the others on a frost-covered rooftop near a chimney, desperate for warmth. Our thin clothes offered little protection against the bitter wind. We were starving, resorting to stealing food from stalls just to survive, our small hands quick but clumsy with hunger. But one day, we were caught by the owner, his face red with rage, and our fate seemed sealed.
That's when Tusk appeared, like a guardian angel stepping out of the morning mist. He paid for the food and brought us to this very tavern, his large hand gentle but firm on our shoulders. We worked here, under his guidance and protection, learning the value of honest work and loyalty. He taught us so much, not just about survival, but about life itself - how to carry ourselves with dignity even in the poorest district, how to recognize friend from foe.
I remembered Tusk as a respected figure in the district, a war veteran whose battle scars told stories of courage and sacrifice, who had turned down the chance to live among the elite despite numerous offers. He chose to stay with his friends and his tavern, fighting against the division that plagued our society with quiet determination and small acts of kindness. But time took its toll, and the loss of his comrades in a series of tragic accidents broke his spirit, dimming the fierce light in his eyes. In the end, all he sought was peace, retreating further into the comfort of his beloved tavern.
As the memories faded, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest, I turned to January, my voice barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. "Yeah... I remember him."
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