A group of children ran through the dense forest, their laughter echoing beneath the thick summer canopy. The day was hot, dry, and unforgiving, but the game was far from over.
“Catch me if you can!” one of the boys shouted, darting between the trees.
“You’re too slow, Rita!” another teased.
Rita gritted her teeth and pushed herself harder. Her small legs struggled to keep up; she was short for her age, something that had earned her no shortage of cruel jokes at school. She tried, always tried, but in sports she was rarely more than the one left behind.
‘Aah, damn it.’
Breathless, she slowed down and leaned against a tree, chest rising and falling. The boys were already out of sight, but she refused to sulk.
As she caught her breath, her eyes drifted to the base of the tree and froze. Half-hidden among the roots lay a memorial stone, worn by time.
The inscription read:
[Laurent Baschar rests here. Volentia’s chief aide.
May peace be granted to his soul in the void.]
‘Laurent Baschar…?’’
Kneeling, Rita traced the faded letters with a finger. No dates. No further explanation. Nothing but a name, tied to a deed that sounded more like a myth than history. She remembered the stories her father used to tell her before bed, of forgotten heroes whose deeds blurred the line between myth and truth.
‘I’ll ask Dad when I arrive back home.’
A short distance ahead, a small shrub bore numerous white flowers with green hearts. With due reverence, she gathered a few, placed them at the grave, and whispered a brief prayer of mercy for the one who had passed.
A square with greenish edges and no background, which looked as though it had been drawn on a sheet of paper and cut out with precision, appeared in mid-air.
Rita knew about spells; she knew this wasn’t something without explanation. Even though she was young, her father had always taught her to seek the reason and not believe in the inexplicable.
She tried to grab the square, but it burst like a soap bubble. Immediately, she felt a warm touch on her shoulder. She turned around, but no one was there.
The girl gave a little laugh.
“Cheap trick…”
“Where’s Rita? Did a wolf eat her?” one of the boys shouted from a distance.
‘I forgot about these bastards.’
Rita laughed under her breath, then pushed herself forward. Her lungs burned, but she clenched her fists, refusing to be left behind again. This time, she would prove she belonged.
**********
The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread. Martio, her father, sat at the table with a newspaper in hand, his glasses sliding down his nose, while Mary, her mother, chopped vegetables with steady, precise strokes.
“Dad,” Rita asked, hesitating, “do you know who Laurent Baschar was?”
The newspaper lowered. Martio frowned lightly.
“Laurent Baschar? That’s… a unique name. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him, sweetheart.”
Mary chuckled softly, glancing over from the counter.
“And where did you hear such a name?”
“I was playing in the forest,” Rita said quickly, “and I found a small gravestone near a tree. It said he was Volentia’s right-hand.”
Martio leaned back in his chair, intrigued.
“Volentia’s right hand, huh? That does sound like someone important. Strange that I’ve never read about him…”
Mary shook her head, smiling.
“If he really lived, he must have been a great man.”
Martio folded the newspaper and tapped it against the table. He wrote biographies, admired forgotten figures, and always hoped his daughter would inherit his passion. The story of Laurent Baschar piqued his interest, but he didn’t want to rob Rita of what might become her very first discovery.
“Tell you what,” he said with a small smile, “maybe you could write something about him one day. And if you do, I’ll help you.”
Rita’s eyes widened.
“Really?!”
Martio chuckled.
“Really.”
“Yay! I love you, Dad!” she said, rushing to hug him.
Martio’s smile softened as he wrapped his arms around her. “I love you too, my little writer.”
As the years rushed by, the girl grew up, always accompanied by her friend who had, regrettably, already died. But that didn’t stop her from talking to him, nor him from interacting with her.
When she was twelve…
…she knelt before the tomb, leaving white flowers.
“They keep calling me short at school. I tried to run faster, but I always lose… Were you short too? Maybe that’s why you were Volentia’s right hand, huh?”
The wind blows, carrying dry leaves. Rita laughs alone.
When she was fourteen…
…she leaned her forehead against the cold stone.
“Mom says I shouldn’t linger here. But… you’re simpler to talk to. At least you don’t cut me off.”
A crow suddenly caws, and Rita flinches slightly.
“…Was that you laughing at me?”
When she was sixteen…
…she dropped her backpack on the floor and almost collapsed in front of the grave.
“They didn’t pick my story again. I worked so hard… and still nothing.”
She sighs, looking at the sky.
“But… I won’t give up. You didn’t either, right?”
A ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds and illuminates the memorial. Rita smiles, as if she had received an answer.
When she was eighteen…
…the grave is covered with fresh flowers. Rita, now taller, wears her school uniform for the last time.
She brushes the dirt from the stone gently, like one would fix a friend’s collar.
“Can you believe it?” she laughs, a little nervous.
She falls silent for a moment, her hand resting on the memorial.
“…Thank you. For listening all these years.”
The wind blows hard, making the flowers sway in unison. For a moment, it almost feels like a farewell.
“I will write your story. I’ll make sure the world remembers you.”
For a heartbeat, the words felt final, unshakable.
‘But there’s one problem…’
She turned her back towards the grave, the flowers rustling behind her like pages turning in the wind.
‘How do I even start…’
After thanking Laurent, she made her way back home.
The house was still, wrapped in the kind of silence that seemed to listen. Only the scratch of Martio’s pen disturbed it, steady and deliberate, as he worked by lamplight in his study. The air smelled of old paper and ink, a scent Rita had always found both comforting and intimidating.
Though typewriters had since become the pride of modern households, and her family could easily afford one, Martio remained loyal to pen and parchment. It wasn’t stubbornness, not exactly. He was known for it, even admired.
She lingered in the doorway, clutching a blank notebook to her chest.
“Dad?”
Martio looked up, tired eyes softening when he saw her.
“Couldn’t sleep, my little writer?”
Rita stepped inside, hesitant. “I…I need your help. I promised Laurent I’d write about him. But…” She held up the notebook, its pages empty. “…I don’t even know how to start.”
Martio leaned back in his chair and gestured for her to sit.
“Every biography begins with a question,” he said. “Not with answers. The question is what drives the story forward.”
“What kind of questions?” Rita asked, curious.
“That depends. Sometimes it’s simple: Who was he? Where did he live? What did he believe in? Other times it’s larger: Why have people erased him?”
Rita chewed her lip, thinking of the lonely gravestone.
“I see…”
“If you want to dig deeper, the first place to look is Themus itself. Old records, public archives, forgotten books… You’d be surprised at what survives in dusty corners.”
“And if I don’t find anything?” Rita asked.
“Then you ask the people. Folk tales, rumors, even drunken stories in taverns. Truth likes to hide inside lies. The trick is learning how to separate the two.”
Rita hugged the notebook tighter, her heart racing.
“…Okay. I’ll do it.”
Martio’s eyes softened. He hesitated, then added:
“And if Themus holds nothing, the world is wider still. The Eastern, Northern, Southern, and Middle Continents all carry pieces of forgotten history. If the trail takes you that far… I’ll help you follow it.”
Rita’s throat tightened. She gave him a sincere smile.
“Love you, Dad.”
**********
The very next day…
[ Themus, Western Continent,
Friday, 14 September of 1132.
Dear diary,
I finally started to look for Laurent’s history. Father says every story begins with a question.
Mine’s simple: Why was he erased?
The streets of Themus feel different when you’re looking for history, instead of bread of gossip. I keep imagining him, a man strong enough to be called Volentia’s right-hand.
I don’t know what I’ll find in Themus. Maybe dust. Maybe silence.
But, I have to try.
Rita Donne. ]
Rita stepped into the city’s archives, the heavy wooden doors creaking behind her. The air smelled of mildew and old parchment, thick with the weight of forgotten centuries.
A clerk glanced up from a cluttered desk. “Can I help you?” he asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of a young girl clutching a notebook.
“I… I’m looking for records on Laurent Baschar,” Rita said, trying to sound confident.
The man’s expression shifted. He leaned back, frowning, as if tasting the name for the first time. “Laurent Baschar…?” He muttered it again, slowly. “I don’t recall seeing that name anywhere…”
Rita swallowed hard, her heart beating faster.
“Well,” he continued, scratching the back of his neck, “there’s… a lot of papers here. I can’t possibly know everything. You might try the Biographies Section, or perhaps Fiction… even the Family Trees. Sometimes names show up where you least expect them.”
‘This will take too long… But, I have to try to find something.’
“I’ll be here for a few days,” Rita said, straightening. “You can send the bill to my father, Martio Donne.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Martio?! I… I can’t do that! Who are you?”
“Rita Donne,” she said firmly, producing a small card made of paper and leather. “Here’s my identification.”
He studied it closely, the seal of the Department of Social Protection glinting under the lamplight.
“…Very well,” he muttered, handing it back.
**********
Ventura, Southern Continent.
A middle-aged man walked down the street. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit over a crisp white shirt, carrying a small suitcase as if he had just left an important meeting. His gaze scanned the street with precision, noting every passerby, every detail.
He turned into a filthy alley and stopped short.
“How did you notice me?”
The man remained silent.
Emerging from the shadows, a young woman appeared. Although she wore fitting attire, her vast combat experience and phenomenal mana pool were impossible to miss.
“Johann von Müller… That’s a nice name, Bas—”
“Who are you?”
“Heh, finally heard your voice. It’s deeper now.”
“Don’t waste my time.”
“Waste your time? Aren’t you immortal? Like a singer from this continent. I am, I was, I will be.”
She stepped forward. “I am the candle that lights up. I am the light that fades. I am the edge of the abyss. I am everything and nothing.”
The air trembled with each word, the pressure of her mana bending reality around them.
“The beginning. The end. The middle. Marie Anglis.”
Each step she took twisted the world slightly, and the weight of the God who watched through her pressed like fire against any living being nearby.
In a blink, she was before Johann.
“I will not set the lives of innocents at hazard, Marie. Let us betake ourselves to a more secure place.”, he said, calmly.
With a gesture, the scenery shifted abruptly. Golden skies stretched above turquoise streams and grass that rippled like fur in the wind. Beauty and danger fused; every blade, every shimmer of water radiated mana powerful enough to crush any unprepared soul.
Marie staggered, her knees hitting the ground under the pressure.
And then the man changed. Black hair faded to long white strands, middle-aged features transformed into those of a young boy, or a young lady. Greenish eyes glowed unnaturally, and small shapes floated around him. He looked… not of this universe.
“Ugh!!!”
“I shall introduce myself.”
Marie opened her mouth to speak, and nothing came out. Silence filled her, though no one had closed her lips.
“You somehow know my true name,” he continued. “I believe only one person on this planet should know it. And you are not her. I am curious… very curious.”
Her attempt at a scream ended in a shuddering gasp.
“I am Laurent Baschar. The Saint. Volentia’s right-hand. The one who achieved eternal life. The one who defeated the void. The one… who doesn’t exist. And so many, many, more.”
The mighty warrior was reduced to a mere ant. It was useless to resist. Her life flashed before her eyes and she began to question whether it had really been worth dying for a simple revenge, the wish of her deceased father. Millions of questions raced through her head, but it was pointless, everything depended on Laurent’s mercy.
“Now… Let’s see what we’re working with.”
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