The door creaked open slowly.
The old man stepped in, pausing as he looked around the transformed cabin with a lifted brow. Sunlight filtered in, catching dust motes that didn't exist anymore. The air was crisp, clean. The floor had been scrubbed. Everything sparkled in a way that made him wonder if he was dreaming.
Then he looked at Cian — sitting on the edge of the futon, hair messy, face pale, and body slouched like a man who had been in a bar fight and lost.
"You look tired, lad," the old man said, voice calm but amused. "Did you train all night or get jumped by a raccoon?"
Cian opened his mouth to reply—
[SYSTEM: "It was a 2 vs 1. Cian got beat up… peacefully. Please offer emotional support."]
The old man blinked. "...Huh?"
Cian cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… don't remember, honestly."
"You don't remember?" the old man repeated, half-laughing as he walked over to the cooking area. "Now that's either a good night or a very stupid one."
With a sigh, he rolled up his sleeves and set a wooden cutting board on the counter. A sharp knife clinked against it as he began slicing through thick carrots and potatoes with practiced ease. The rhythm of chopping filled the room with a gentle cadence.
"You ever had mountainroot stew?" he asked, not looking up.
Cian blinked. "Can't say I have."
"Good. You'll love it. It fixes fatigue… or at least distracts you from it."
The old man tossed the chopped vegetables into a bubbling pot already simmering on the small hearth. Steam rose as he added a pinch of salt, some dried herbs, and a dash of something from a small brown pouch that smelled like earth and smoke.
"You know," he continued, slicing chunks of fresh meat next. "When I was your age, I also woke up sore and confused. Difference was, I earned it fighting three drunk mercs behind a tavern. You… well, you just look like someone rolled you up and used you as a pillow."
[SYSTEM: "To be fair, multiple soft entities did use Cian as a pillow. And a mattress. And…"]
"Okay! Okay, I get it!" Cian snapped, glaring at the glowing text only he could see.
The old man looked up briefly. "Talking to yourself now?"
"Something like that."
He chuckled, dropping the meat into the pot. A hiss of flavor burst upward in the steam. The smell of stew began to fill the room — rich, hearty, and nostalgic.
"I won't ask what you don't remember," the old man said at last, stirring slowly with a wooden ladle. "But drink some of this when it's done. You look like you lost a duel to your own dreams."
[SYSTEM: "Correction: He lost a duel inside his dreams. With extreme softness."]
Cian groaned and buried his face in his hands.
The scent of simmering broth drifted from the open door as Cian stepped outside with a bowl in hand, catching the old man seated on a worn wooden stool, gazing fondly at the morning sun rising over the hills.
"Beautiful view," the old man sighed, sipping his soup. "Nothing like warm food and warm light."
Cian joined him quietly, legs still aching. He winced as he sat.
"You alright, lad?" the old man asked, raising a brow. "You look like you swung a sword a thousand times."
Before Cian could answer, the familiar chime of the system echoed in his ears.
[SYSTEM: Technically, it wasn't his sword doing the swinging. More like… the piercing. Twice.]
Cian choked on his soup. "I-I don't remember training..."
The old man just chuckled, completely oblivious. "Well, your body says otherwise."
Inside, a soft sound stirred from the cabin.
Solaira shifted beneath the sheets, the sunlight gleaming across her bare skin as she sat up and stretched, arms high, back arched — her hair tumbling around her like fire. A small, content yawn escaped her lips.
Cian glanced through the door and immediately froze, face turning crimson. "Ah—uh—good morning!"
Solaira blinked at him, then smiled sleepily, completely unbothered by her lack of clothes. "Mm~ Morning, Cian~"
[SYSTEM: Alert. Sudden spike in temperature detected in host. Recommending cold water. Or holy water.]
Cian looked away so hard his neck cracked.
Solaira stepped out of bed, stretching again as the sun bathed her form. Then, with a shimmer of embers, she yawned one more time—and in a brief flicker of light, she was gone.
Where the alluring woman had stood was now a small, curled-up Emberlix, softly snoozing in the sunlight like nothing had happened.
Cian blinked. "Wait… huh?"
[SYSTEM: Summary—mana drained. Transformation limit reached. Mystery: why is your mana also low, hmm?]
Cian rubbed his temples. "Nope. Not thinking about it."
The old man sat just outside the cabin, a wooden bowl of hot soup in his hands, eyes fixed on the distant hills. Morning mist clung to the trees like fading memories, and the breeze carried the scent of pine and earth.
Cian quietly stepped out, settling beside him with his own bowl. The old man didn't look at him right away—his gaze was far, somewhere beyond the horizon.
"She used to stand here," he murmured, voice rough with age but soft with recollection. "Every morning. Same spot. Wind in her hair. Smiling like the world hadn't done a damn thing wrong."
Cian glanced over, curious.
"I'd wake up just to catch a glimpse of her," the old man continued. "Never said much. Just... watched. Like a fool. Heart thumping like it had any right."
A pause. The breeze tugged gently at their sleeves.
"But one day, I saw her there. Not alone." His voice dipped lower. "He stood behind her. Held her. She leaned into him like the moment had always belonged to them."
Cian stayed silent, sensing the weight in the man's words.
"They looked happy. Truly." The old man gave a hollow chuckle. "She turned, met my eyes. Smiled. I smiled back, of course."
He stirred the soup with his spoon. "Never said a word about it. Never needed to. Some things aren't meant to be stories. Just passing shadows that linger a little longer."
Cian lowered his gaze.
"You okay?" he asked.
The old man shrugged. "I've lived long enough to know—some sunrises are meant to be watched alone."
The old man fell silent, eyes still on the horizon where the morning sun slowly climbed, painting the sky in soft hues of gold and peach.
Cian didn't say a word—only sat with him, sipping the soup quietly. The warmth of it filled his chest, but the ache in the old man's voice lingered deeper.
Then—
[SYSTEM: "There are loves not meant to be lived—only remembered. Etched in quiet mornings, hidden between spoonfuls of silence. Respect this man, Cian. He carries a story written in stillness, not words."]
Cian blinked, taken aback by the sudden poetic turn in the system's usual cheeky tone.
It continued, softer now:
[SYSTEM: "Not all scars are worn on the skin. Some are worn in the way a man stares too long at a place where someone once stood."]
He looked at the old man again. His posture was still, but his hands trembled slightly as he sipped from the bowl.
Cian exhaled slowly.
"I'll remember this," he murmured.
The old man said nothing—but his lips curved, just barely, into a knowing smile.