Chapter 262: Chapter 262 – Please Tell ME!!!

Under the silver hush of night, the world seemed still.

The moon hung high above the vast stretch of the elven forest, its pale light spilling over the canopy like a river of silk. The ancient trees swayed softly in the midnight breeze, their leaves whispering secrets of a time long past. Crickets sang somewhere distant, and the faint rustle of nocturnal life echoed between the roots and shadows.

Beyond the thick treeline — near the edge of the forest — a single campfire flickered. Its golden flame danced against the quiet dark, sending spirals of smoke into the sky. Around it sat four figures: Rolph,— the man who mirrored Vincent’s face — Gustav, and the Saintess.

From a distance, unseen, Luca and Sylthara watched. Their incorporeal forms lingered near the camp’s edge, faint and translucent under the moonlight.

Luca’s gaze was steady, thoughtful.

Such calm nights must’ve been rare for them, he thought, watching the firelight play across their faces. Even surrounded by peace, they carry the weight of a war that never truly let them rest.

There was laughter — faint, fleeting — but beneath it lay something heavy. The tension was visible in the way Rolph’s shoulders sagged, in the Saintess’s tired smile, in the hollow silence that lingered between breaths.

The crackle of fire broke the stillness as Gustav reached into his cloak and pulled out a small leather pouch. He shook it slightly — a soft slosh echoed within — and smirked.

“Found this earlier,” he said, his tone carrying that rough-edged warmth of a soldier trying to lighten the mood. “Might as well enjoy it before someone burns it for ’holy purification’ again.”

Rolph gave a tired laugh as the pouch was passed around. The Saintess accepted it delicately, took a small sip, and passed it to Victor. When it came back to Rolph, he took a deeper drink, exhaled slowly, and leaned back against a log.

“Now,” Rolph said after a pause, his voice low and calm, “within a few days, we’ll be close to success.”

His eyes drifted toward the fire, the flames reflecting in his tired golden gaze. “So… what are you all feeling?”

The question hung there, unanswered.

Victor said nothing — just stared into the fire, expression unreadable. The Saintess looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the edge of her robe. Gustav shifted uncomfortably. The only response was the crackle of burning wood.

Rolph let out a breath, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Wrong question, I suppose,” he murmured. “Then let me ask this instead—”

He looked around the fire, his tone gentler now.

“What are the wishes you want fulfilled… after the Devil Emperor is defeated?”

Sylthara froze. Her eyes widened, and she turned sharply toward Luca.

“Did he just say… the Devil Emperor?” she whispered.

Luca nodded silently, his focus never leaving the fire. “Keep listening,” he murmured.

The Saintess was the first to speak. She lifted her head, her golden hair shimmering faintly under the moonlight. There was a soft smile on her lips — one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I don’t want much,” she said quietly. “Just that the next generation doesn’t have to face anything like this again.”

Her gaze softened as she watched the fire. “That they can live in peace… without fear, without bloodshed.”

Her words fell like a prayer, fragile and sincere.

Gustav rubbed the back of his neck, hesitating. “I— I don’t really know what I want,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “Haven’t thought that far ahead, I guess.”

Rolph turned to the silver-haired man beside him. “What about you…..Victor?”

Victor lifted his head slowly, his expression calm but distant.

“Me?” he echoed, then gave a faint, almost wistful chuckle. “Well… I’d probably want my family to live in peace. To stay far away from the chaos — no wars, no power struggles. Just… quiet days. Comfortable ones.”

The words lingered in the air — simple, yet heavy.

Luca’s chest tightened as he listened.

So… this is your name. Victor. The ancestor of the Valentine family.

He felt something stir within him — not pride, not awe — but a quiet sorrow. A lineage born from someone who just wanted peace.

The Saintess turned her gaze to Rolph, a faint warmth in her tired smile. “And you?” she asked softly. “What about you, Rolph?”

Rolph leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes glowed faintly in the firelight — not from divinity, but from resolve. He was silent for a moment, then said,

“After this calamity ends… there will be unrest. The world will fracture. People will fight for control, for survival, for belief.”

He paused, exhaling through his nose. “I want to prevent that. I want to make sure no one forgets why we fought in the first place — so that someday, we can all look forward to a better future.”

The others looked at him — the Saintess, Gustav, Victor — and for the first time that night, faint smiles touched their faces. Not of amusement, nor joy, but of quiet respect. The kind of look that said, as expected of you.

Luca found himself chuckling under his breath. “So this… this was the start of today’s Astravia Empire, huh?” he murmured.

Before Sylthara could reply, a sudden loud voice broke through the calm.

“Hey! I know now what my wish is!”

All eyes turned toward Gustav, who raised his hand with a grin.

Everyone blinked — and then he declared, with a laugh that echoed into the night,

“I just don’t want to be forgotten! I want to be remembered forever!”

For a second, there was silence. Then Rolph let out a low chuckle, followed by the Saintess’s soft laughter. Even Victor’s stoic expression cracked slightly — his lips twitching in faint amusement.

The campfire flared as the wind shifted, sparks rising toward the stars — their laughter mingling with the quiet night.

And for a moment, under that silver moon, four heroes of an ancient war sat together — tired, scarred, uncertain — yet united by the fragile, fleeting warmth of hope.

The night had quieted again.

The fire below had burned down to embers — faint orange light flickering against the canvas of the tent — and the forest returned to its rhythm, the soft hum of crickets and the whisper of leaves under the moonlight.

High above the camp, on a slope where the moon spilled its light like liquid silver, two figures sat — translucent, unseen, yet tethered to the world before them.

Luca said nothing. He simply sat there, eyes distant, the reflection of the dying fire glimmering faintly in them. Everything he had just witnessed lingered in his mind — the laughter, the wishes, the way those long-gone heroes carried both weariness and hope in the same breath. It wasn’t overwhelming — just heavy. The kind of weight that made him question what it meant to fight… and what it meant to live after the fighting was done.

The silence stretched — until a sharp glare pulled him back.

Sylthara.

Her golden eyes burned like twin stars under the moonlight, frustration tightening her delicate features. “Now could you tell me what is going on?” she demanded, voice sharp but trembling at the edges.

She took a step closer, her tone rising. “I’m suddenly here with you, without knowing anything! Who are these people? What are they talking about? How is my clan? How is the Mother Tree? You’re not even telling me anything!”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her chest.

For a moment, she stood there — her breath uneven — then closed her eyes and drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry…” she murmured, her tone softening. “I shouldn’t have attacked you directly like that.”

The anger in her voice faded into exhaustion.

“We just wanted to be blessed by our Mother again,” she whispered. “To heal her… to be accepted once more. And then we were betrayed.”

Her voice broke slightly as memories bled through her words. “Hundreds of us were slain. I know it wasn’t your fault — it was my stupidity. I trusted the wrong people. And at that moment I was not in the correct state of mind and couldn’t trust anyone else.”

She looked down, her silver hair falling over her face like a veil of moonlight. “I’m… truly sorry,” she said finally. “But please… tell me what’s going on.”

For a long time, Luca said nothing. He simply watched her.

The moonlight brushed against her skin, its glow tracing the elegant lines of her figure — the contrast between her obsidian skin and silver hair was striking, almost ethereal. The night air seemed to shimmer faintly around her, catching the faint mana still clinging to her spirit form.

Her eyes lifted slowly, meeting his. “So?” she asked, voice quiet but firm. “Will you tell me anything now?”

The question broke through his trance.

Luca blinked, coughed lightly, and looked away, muttering under his breath, “Tch… why does she have to be so beautiful…”

He shook his head, refocusing.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

He began explaining — how his attributes were space and time, how sometimes his ability activated on its own, dragging him across timelines and worlds. How their physical bodies remained in the present while only their spirit forms were pulled here — untouchable, unseen, unable to interfere.

He told her this was not their time — that they were seven thousand years in the past.

That the people they saw — Rolph, Gustav, the Saintess, and Victor — were not ordinary soldiers, but the heroes who once fought against the Devil Emperor himself.

Sylthara listened in silence.

Minutes passed. The only sound was the rustle of leaves and the faint hum of the wind.

Her expression was unreadable — a mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding. The weight of it was too much to take in all at once.

Then, as if realizing something suddenly, she lifted her gaze sharply.

“T-Then…” she stammered, “what they spoke about earlier — the Mother Tree and the elves… what is it about?”

Luca followed her gaze toward the distant horizon, where the first faint light of dawn had begun to touch the edges of the world.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That…” he said, his tone quiet but firm, “can only be found tomorrow.”

The wind stirred, carrying the lingering warmth of the fire toward them — faint, ghostly.

And as the moon began to dip behind the clouds, their forms shimmered faintly, two spirits suspended between past and present, waiting for the answers that tomorrow would bring.

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