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A voice echoed.
Unforgettable, nostalgic a boy's voice.
Screaming.
His soul.
"Your Highness!"
"—!"
Quon's eyes snapped open, meeting Mana Eriksia's worried gaze, her usually serene eyes brimming with tears. He froze, stunned.
He forgot to breathe.
His situation was incomprehensible. He couldn't recall what he'd been doing moments before. His body refused to move, strength drained, leaving only a feverish haze.
"Mana… what's wrong?" Quon asked softly, reaching to wipe her tears with his fingertips. Her crying face was beautiful, but her smile was lovelier. Undeniably so. No one would argue.
"You're awake…!" Mana's expression shifted to a radiant smile.
Quon smiled back, reaffirmed that a person's smile was a wondrous thing, sparking vitality and hope.
"Guess I passed out," he said, piecing it together from her words. The reason eluded him, as did everything before and after. Why he was here, he had no clue.
A breeze brushed his cheek, stirring Mana's hair as she looked down at him. They weren't indoors—the air's scent was different.
"Yes, it was so sudden, we were all frantic!" Mana said.
Quon gave a wry smile, imagining the scene. As leader of the White Shield mercenary band, his collapse would've caused chaos. If Swiel Elgaudi had been there, it might've been different.
A question struck him.
"Huh?"
"What is it?" Mana asked.
"Wasn't Swiel staying behind?"
Quon pictured the rugged, dependable old man Swiel Lanagaudi, the White Shield's de facto second-in-command. The band's smooth operations owed everything to him. Not a fiery warrior, Swiel rarely wielded a sword and had lately stayed at their base, absent from the front lines.
"Gramps said he'd sit this one out, remember?" a gruff voice cut in Wold Mastia, nearby but out of sight. He continued, "And how long you gonna hog my spot? Get up, or my Black Phantom's gonna light you up!"
Wold's Black Phantom, his summoned weapon, implied they were in or just after combat. Summoned arms were primarily for battle, and summoners, per the Continental Summoners' Association's code and moral standards, avoided summoning outside such contexts. An unspoken rule, though exceptions existed those who defined themselves by their summoning ignored it.
Wold, however, was sensible, not one to flaunt his power needlessly. This had to be a battlefield. The air's lightness suggested the fight was over.
Yet a tense undercurrent emerged.
"Your spot? Care to explain, or my Stardust might light you up," Mana said, her smile unwavering, fists trembling.
Quon couldn't laugh it off, though he knew she wasn't serious. Months with them proved they weren't reckless enough to use summoned arms over petty squabbles. Their exceptional skill was clear too.
"J-just a joke! Don't take it seriously…" Wold stammered.
"Joking too, silly," Mana giggled.
"Didn't sound like it…" Wold muttered, turning to another. "You agree, right?"
"Doesn't matter. Quon's safe," Iris replied, her flat tone conjuring her usual stoic face in Quon's mind. Her emotionless expression always tugged at his heart. Nothing had changed since their first meeting, a fact plain to all.
That's why Quon kept her close a natural choice given her skill, unquestionable by anyone.
"Still no charm," Wold grumbled.
"If charm could protect Quon, I'd try," Iris shot back.
"…" Wold fell silent, and Quon couldn't stifle a chuckle.
"Haha, you guys are something," Quon said, slowly sitting up, careful not to bump Mana's head. He scanned his surroundings.
They were in a forest, dense green enveloping them, yet a clear blue sky shone above. The sun blazed, the breeze gentle—not a battlefield's vibe. But the ground told a different story.
In a small clearing, countless beast corpses lay scattered blue-skinned, four-legged Breek demons. Most bore marks of lethal strikes, showcasing Mana and the others' prowess.
The stench of death hit Quon, shaking his senses. He hadn't noticed earlier, likely soothed by Mana's lap.
"Right," Quon said, drawing his companions' gazes. "We were hunting a demon nest."
They'd encountered a Breek pack, sparking a fight. Breeks were no match, and Quon hadn't needed his summoning art. Not arrogance or ease just routine.
His role was to watch his team slaughter the demons. No need for cheers—that would insult them. He trusted and waited.
They'd annihilated the pack as planned.
But then, Quon's mind had latched onto something else.
(I heard a voice…)
Hand on his chest, he felt his racing heartbeat. Excitement at the unexpected gripped him.
(Your voice.)
Quon looked skyward.
"Setsuna…"