Three days passed.
Xerces counted each by the way the stares lingered longer. By how children no longer played near the barn. By the way conversations hushed when he entered the square.
The villagers never spoke the word "monster." They didn't need to.
Silence is a blade. It cuts just as deep.
He moved like a ghost among them now. Allowed in, but untrusted. Always watched. Whispers followed like wind through the tall grass.
And Mira… she still came.
Not every day. Not at first.
But on the second evening, he found her waiting at the stream with two cups of tea and no smile.
She didn't speak for a long time. Just watched the water move, slow and quiet, as dusk painted the trees gold.
Finally, she said, "You know they're afraid of you."
He didn't lie.
"I do."
"You don't defend yourself."
"I could," he said. "But I think it would only make things worse."
She studied him, then tilted her head. "That's… wise."
He turned toward her. "You're not afraid?"
"I'm not sure," she said softly. "But I don't think you're here to hurt anyone."
A long pause hung between them.
Then, she asked: "Why are you here, Cerric?"
He considered telling her the truth. That he had clawed his way back into the world with hatred burning so hot it scorched the veil between life and death. That he bore a name long forgotten, and a face lost to fire.
But he only said:
"To learn how to live again."
She smiled at that. Not bright. Not wide. But real.
It made something shift inside him. Something he thought he'd burned out long ago.
On the third day, Mira brought a book of local myths.
"I figured if you're going to stay hated," she said, "you may as well know the legends."
He opened it in silence. Pages worn, ink faded, but the words still clung like whispers:
"And from the deep hollows, where roots tangle with bones, the Devourer sleeps. Waiting for the stars to darken. Waiting for the gate to open once more."
He paused.
That name.
The Devourer.
It was written differently than the tales from his old world, but the presence—it matched the mana. The signs. The feeling. If these villagers had faced such a beast in the past…
He looked to Mira.
"Have there been stories… of fields dying before?"
She frowned. "Maybe. Most of them are centuries old. My grandmother said this land was cursed once. But no one believes that anymore."
They should.
The thing in the earth wasn't just testing them. It was remembering.
That night, Mira lingered as the wind grew cold.
She looked up at him, hesitant.
"You feel… heavy," she said. "Like you're carrying more than your name."
He said nothing.
And that silence was louder than any answer.
Then, softly: "I don't know who you were. But I think… I want to know who you're trying to become."
And for the first time in this second life, Xerces felt something that scared him more than death.
Hope.