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"Not bad for your first time."
Setsuna half-ignores Azmaria=Altemax's words as she looks down at him. It's not defiance the searing pain drowns out her praise. His head throbs, as if split open. Tears spill, the agony so intense he marvels his skull hasn't cracked.
A direct hit.
He'd crashed face-first into the gate Azmaria summoned. Midair, stopping was impossible. The impact was inevitable, a bone-shattering jolt through his nose, face, and body. Miraculously, nothing broke.
Sitting cross-legged, he rubs his aching nose, excusing his inattention as her voice passes from one ear to the other.
They're still in the forest, but it's transformed. The oppressive silence is gone, replaced by a ravaged landscape. His spear's clash with the Ouma's lightning orbs unleashed a storm of destruction, uprooting trees and reshaping the terrain.
The green canopy is torn away, revealing a dazzling blue sky. It's eerily familiar, like the skies he knows. Drifting clouds, a radiant sun or something like it gleam above. If this world has a cosmos, a sun, it's strikingly similar to his own.
Wind carries the dust of destruction. A massive crater, dozens of meters wide, scars the ground. Seeing it, Setsuna shudders. Surviving such devastation is a miracle. He was at its epicenter, yet he's whole limbs intact. His leg wound throbs, sensation returning. The Ouma's tail is gone, the bleeding staunched by Azmaria's bandaging. It hurts, but it's better than neglect. He's thanked her for that.
As the facial pain ebbs, Azmaria asks, "Still think this is a dream?"
"No. This is real."
He admits it plainly. The pain face, thigh is undeniably real. A dream would've ended by now, or lacked such visceral terror. If this were a dream, he'd laugh himself to death upon waking. The battle, the spear, all real. Horrifying. He's taken lives monstrous ones, but lives. It shakes him.
And he accepts he was summoned by Azmaria.
"Surprisingly honest," she remarks.
"I'm not an idiot. My mind couldn't conjure this."
"Limited imagination, then?"
"Hey, I'm agreeing with you. Stop nitpicking."
"My bad," she says, clearly unapologetic, her face cool. Untouched by dust, her red hair and robes pristine despite the chaos. How does she stay unscathed while he fought? The thought flickers.
(Wait…)
He recoils, realizing he's accepted fighting as natural.
"You faced many Ouma, weak as they were. Be proud," Azmaria says softly, her gaze warm despite her tone.
He squints at her, still cross-legged in the crater while she stands regally, her crimson hair and robes swaying like flames.
Her praise feels hollow. "What's the point of praising me?"
She smirks, unnoticed as he looks away. "What's the point of me praising you?"
"Flattery to brainwash me or something."
"Brainwashing through praise? If only it were that easy."
"Hmph. Flatter, cajole, then tear me down?"
"What's with the 'then'? Tearing you down ruins it."
"…True."
He nods, outdone. It's just wordplay, not a real argument. No intent to bicker with her.
Stretching slowly, he feels no fatigue despite the ordeal. Adrenaline, perhaps, masks exhaustion. His mind's not normal killing dozens of monsters isn't something you shrug off.
"Your Summoning Armament decided the battle," she says, her gaze softening.
"Summoning Armament?" he echoes, eyes on the black spear planted in the ground. It's the only thing that could've tipped the scales.
Summoned by her suggested words, the two-meter spear is menacing otherworldly, its form instilling fear. Not just its shape; its latent power unnerves him. Touching it, a cold sensation courses from fingers to nerves, sharpening his senses, widening his vision. Surely an illusion, but he rises, gripping and pulling it free.
"This spear?" He raises it lightly. Its glossy tip sliced through Ouma claws, flesh, and bone with ease.
It looks ordinary, but wielding it reveals its ferocity, seeping into his core, stirring both fear and exhilaration.
"Yes. That black spear is your Armament, summoned from another world. Yours alone," Azmaria confirms.
"Summoned by me…" He tightens his grip, recalling the moment he shouted "Weapon Summon." Like game magic.
"I'm impressed," she says, her tone sweet.
"Hm?" He glances at her, caught by her enraptured stare at the spear. Her expression, dripping with allure, could captivate anyone. Even he nearly loses himself.
"Such an Armament is rare," she murmurs.
"Really?"
"Armament Summoning calling weapons like your spear requires knowledge and skill, but something else is vital. Guess what?"
Her golden eyes shift to him, fervent yet calm. He's entranced, her words barely registering.
"Talent," she says.
He snaps back, ears straining in the silent crater. He can't miss this.
"Or aptitude. No effort, training, or knowledge can grant it. It's innate. A roadside stone can't become diamond. Talent alone isn't enough effort can surpass it but you…"
"So?"
"You could be a hero, a champion, if you choose."
He blinks, stunned. (A hero?)
It's like a game. Summoned to another world, wielding great power, becoming a hero. Absurd. He doesn't want it. In dreams, fighting as a hero was thrilling, but real killing—even monsters—leaves a bitter taste.
"Not interested," he says.
"Oh?" Her face returns to its usual scowl.
"I just wanted a normal life. No power, no summoning to this world."
It's true. The spear's power is immense, thrilling to wield, exhilarating to dominate foes with. But he never craved such might. He wanted strength to protect his mother small, personal. Not this forest-ravaging force.
He hates fighting, competing. That's how he's lived. He won't change now.
"Then what?" Azmaria asks.
"I want to go home."
His answer is instant, stronger than the spear's allure. He longs for his mundane, peaceful life with his mother—strong yet fragile. He worries for her.
Azmaria shakes her head. "My Gate is one-way. I can't send you back. It can move you to other worlds, though."
"So I could return?"
"How many worlds do you think exist? Millions, they say. Passing through might land you in another world—not yours. You'd hate that."
"…Right."
Disappointment sinks in. Another world, without Azmaria, means no return here or home. His mother's face fades in his mind. Never see her again?
"It's your fault for crossing my Gate. Accept it and figure out how to live here," she says.
"That's dodging responsibility!"
"No. I called, but you chose to cross. Your will brought you to Ilus Vale."
Her logic stings. He recalls that moment the gate's appearance shocked him, the world warped, but he pushed it open. Why? He could've ignored it, continued his dull, peaceful life. Now, he sees it was filled with tranquility.
Irretrievable.
His vision blurs. He wipes his eyes with his tattered uniform sleeve the last link to his world, too ruined to keep.
"It must be so," Azmaria insists. "You're here by your choice. I set the stage, but you acted. No one forced you."
"Yeah…"
She's right. He opened the gate, his choice landing him here. Gripping the spear, he feels its power flow real, no illusion.
"You've chosen, stepped forward. You're on a path with no return. Look back, but you can't go back. Only forward."
Her words sink in. He doesn't resist. This is reality, no nightmare. Pain, grief they're real. He must face it. Ignoring it solves nothing.
This is another world. No way back. He must live here.
"Look," she urges.
He scans the crater's edge, where trees frame the unknown beyond. The horizon stretches, unfamiliar. The sky, bluer than any he's known, captivates.
This vast world holds unseen wonders. Maybe not so bad.
"Countless paths lie ahead. You're free to go anywhere, unbound. No one can chain you. Choose your path. I can't stop you," Azmaria says.
Her words push him forward.
"Go, Setsuna Kamiya, Black Spear's Armament Summoner."
Her voice at his back, he's already walking, despite the pain in his leg. Once moving, he can't stop. Wind-blown, he advances thoughtlessly.
Where is he? Where can he find people? Thoughts flicker and fade. Dust swirls, and he shields his eyes, looking up.
A clear, boundless blue sky.
(Huh…?)
The sky shimmers, blurring. Heat streaks his cheeks—tears. Something inside him bursts. He screams, wordless, raw.
(Goodbye.)
He bids farewell.
To the maddeningly mundane, unbearably precious days.
To the peaceful, tranquil routine.
To the world of his birth.