"Sometimes, goodbye doesn't feel like a door closing.
It feels like the world holding its breath."
The morning came too quickly.
Light seeped in through the cracks in the old wooden shutters, faint and hesitant, as if it, too, didn't want to disturb what little peace remained inside the small room.
Nate stood still at the doorway, barely breathing.
His mother lay on the bed, curled in on herself, her form reduced to skin and bone. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, almost imperceptible rhythms. The pale sheet covering her looked heavier than she did.
Beside her, his baby sister slept soundly, unaware that the world around her was breaking.
Nate's feet moved without permission, drawn by something deeper than instinct. He knelt beside the bed, reaching out with trembling fingers.
Her hand was cold.
Not like the chill of early morning.
But the kind of cold that lingered.
The kind that frightened.
The realization sent a shiver through him. She had always been warm. Always.
This woman… She was everything to him.
She was the one who held him through cold winter nights when there was no fire to warm their home. The one who gave up her meals so he wouldn't go to sleep hungry. The one who smiled even when she was exhausted, her gentle voice telling stories of heroes and gods, whispering that he, too, was destined for something great.
And now, she lay there, fighting a battle her body couldn't win.
His throat burned.
He wanted to speak.
He wanted to tell her that he would find a way to save her. That he would return. That this wasn't a goodbye—just a temporary parting.
But what do you say when you're not sure if you'll ever see someone again?
The silence between them was deafening.
He wrapped her hand in his, gently. Trying to transfer his warmth. As if that could keep her tethered just a little longer.
"Mom…" he whispered, unsure if he wanted her to wake or continue sleeping peacefully.
A whisper. Barely a breath.
"Nate…?"
His heart clenched.
Her eyes fluttered open, the once-bright gaze now clouded with exhaustion. But even in her weakened state,a small smile broke across her lips—a smile that tried to be strong but cracked under its own weight.
"You're… going, aren't you?"
Nate couldn't answer.
His lips parted, but the words refused to come.
She already knew.
He silently nodded. His voice caught in his throat.
There were too many things to say, and none of them seemed enough.
He wanted to promise he'd be back.
He wanted to say she'd be proud.
But all he could do was hold her hand tighter.
"I'm sorry," he finally whispered.
She blinked slowly, her expression softening. "Don't be."
There was a pause—a long, heavy silence between them that neither tried to fill. The world outside moved on, but time inside this room stood still.
Then, she spoke again, voice fainter now.
"Live, Nate."
Two words.
But they weighed more than anything he'd ever carried.
Her fingers twitched as if trying to hold on, but they were too weak. Her eyes, though dull, lingered on him—memorizing his face, as if afraid this would be the last time.
Nate wanted to promise that he would.
That he'd come back stronger, with enough money to cure her, enough power to change their lives.
But if he said it aloud, it would feel like a lie.
So instead, he squeezed her hand one last time and leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead. The touch of her skin, once warm and soft, now felt thin and fragile—like it might crumble if he lingered. A silent vow
Then, with every ounce of strength in his body, he let go.
His sister stirred in her sleep, letting out a soft whimper.
He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, brushing away a stray curl.
His sister stirred, letting out a tiny whimper.
A small, innocent child. Too young to understand.
Too young to remember this moment if he never came back.
The thought nearly broke him.
But there was no time for weakness.
Not now.
He turned and brushed a gentle hand over her curls. "Be strong for her," he whispered.
The words weren't meant for her. They were a prayer to the world.
With effort that felt like lifting mountains, he stood.
He lingered at the door, a final glance at the two people he loved most in this world, Nate turned and walked away.
For a single moment, his body resisted—an instinct, a quiet, desperate plea to turn back. But there was nothing left for him here, not unless he returned victorious.
He didn't look back.
If he did…
He might never find the strength to leave.
---
The wooden door let out a long, drawn-out creak as Nate pushed it open.
The morning air hit him like a wave—sharp, crisp, unforgiving. It smelled of damp stone, distant smoke, and freshly baked bread. The city was already waking, a world that did not care about his pain.
The world beyond his home was louder than he remembered.
Market stalls were being set up, merchants shouting about their wares. A butcher hacked at slabs of meat with steady, practiced swings. A blacksmith's hammer rang out in the distance, each strike sending a dull vibration through the cobblestone streets.
Life moved forward, indifferent.
The scent of bread baking, smoke rising from chimneys, and damp stone all mixed in the air. It should've been comforting.
It wasn't.
To Nate, the city felt hollow.
Like it no longer belonged to him.
He adjusted the strap across his shoulder, where the dull katana rested. Its chipped edge and rusted hilt weren't worthy of any real warrior, but today it wasn't just a weapon—it was a reminder.
Of who he was.
Of what he had to become.
It felt heavier now. Not because of its dull blade or worn grip—but because of what it represented.
A farewell. A promise. A burden.
For sixteen years, this city had been his entire world. These streets, these sounds, this air—it was all he had ever known.
But now, for the first time, he was stepping into something greater.
Something terrifying.
There was no turning back.
His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse echoing in his ears.
A deep breath.
One step forward.
Then another.
With each step, the weight of his home, his past, his fears—everything—pulled at him.Every inch of distance ached.
But he did not stop. There was no room for doubt anymore.
Because beyond this road, beyond the walls of this city…
The Dungeon awaited.
A labyrinth of mystery, death, and miracles.
A place where the weak were devoured and the desperate were forged.
He didn't know what he would find there.
But if there was even a sliver of hope—of power, of change, of salvation—he had to take it.
He stopped just before the fork in the road, where one path led to the market and the other toward the old west gate.
He looked back, once.
Only once.
The rooftops of his district stood in silent rows. Chimneys exhaled their lazy morning smoke. The worn-out door to his home, still ajar, creaked faintly in the breeze.
A part of him whispered to turn around.
To delay.
To stay.
But he tightened his grip on the katana.
And kept walking.
Because his story didn't belong to the shadows of this city anymore.
It belonged to the unknown.
To the path ahead.
To the Dungeon.
And what lay beyond it.
And so, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Nate walked toward his fate.