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  Twenty-one years ago.

  Villages rose where the land allowed cultivation and vanished when trade routes shifted. Maps were updated often enough to seem reliable, but never enough to reflect the full reality.

  Iter traveled alone.

  It was not an official inspection, nor a mission declared by the Council. Unusual movements had been reported in the peripheral regions: small settlements abandoned, signs of combat without survivors, no clear pattern. He had not been formally dispatched, but chose to investigate on his own.

  The village he found that afternoon was silent. Doors left open, utensils scattered, no bodies. The air still carried a recent scent of smoke.

  He walked down the main street without changing his pace when the attack came from the side—fast and direct, aimed at his neck.

  Iter dodged by mere centimeters.

  The attacker used no weapons, only her hands. Black claws tore through the space where his throat had been an instant before. He caught her wrist without difficulty.

  Too light. Too small.

  A girl with green hair, torn clothes, and crimson beast-like eyes.

  She twisted her body to break free. The movement was trained, not instinctive. Iter increased the pressure on her wrist.

  “If you keep forcing it, your arm will break.”

  She responded by pushing harder.

  The bone tore through the skin with a wet crack, but she used the momentum to spin and kick him in the face. Iter released her immediately and blocked with his arms.

  ‘Good grief…’

  Even defended, the impact was strong enough to send him crashing through trees, knocking them down in sequence until his body came to a stop among splintered trunks.

  He stood up, brushing dust off his shoulder.

  “Centuries of being a hero and I still get thrown around by a girl.”

  In a single step, he vanished and reappeared a few meters from her. The girl assumed a combat stance without hesitation.

  Iter narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Is that… a structured martial art?’

  “What happened here? Where are the villagers?”

  “Dead.”

  She lunged again. Iter sidestepped, grabbed both her wrists, and pinned her to the ground.

  “I’m getting too old for this kind of greeting.”

  She resisted for a few seconds but failed to break free. That monster was physically stronger—of that he was certain—but there was something she did not understand about the difference between them. Her resistance gradually ceased, replaced by observation.

  “Did you kill them? You’re a metamorph, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I am. Didn’t kill them. Others like me did.”

  “How many?”

  Silence.

  “Don’t know how to count?”

  “No.”

  Iter released her arms and stood. The girl remained kneeling for a moment. Her deformed arm began to emit a faint glow; threads of mana gathered around the exposed bone, pulling the structure back into the flesh. The skin closed slowly, aligning muscle and bone with surgical precision. Within seconds, the limb was whole again.

  He watched without interrupting.

  ‘Her mana control is impressive… even at that age.’

  She flexed her arm as if testing the reconstruction before standing.

  “Where are the culprits?”

  “Killed them.”

  The wind crossed the empty street. Nothing in her expression suggested a lie. Iter concluded that the villagers had been killed before she arrived, and that the whelp had found those responsible afterward.

  And had done what metamorphs do.

  “Got a name?”

  “Zarabahad.”

  “Surname?”

  She remained silent.

  “I don’t have one.”

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  “Did someone teach you to fight like that, or was it adaptation?”

  “No. But my progenitor showed me a few tricks.”

  “Metamorphs don’t usually leave their young.”

  “She’s different.”

  Iter had lived long enough to recognize an unusual lineage. The articulated speech, the mana control, the disciplined posture—none of it was standard.

  “You tried to kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She took a few seconds to answer.

  “You are strong.”

  Iter stared at her for a moment before letting out a short laugh, more surprised than amused.

  “So you attack anything strong you find?”

  “Yes.”

  He ran a hand through his hair.

  “You’re missing a screw, aren’t you?”

  She observed him carefully.

  “I know you’re hiding your true power. You could have killed me. Why didn’t you?”

  Iter held her gaze.

  “Because you’re still small.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. The expression was difficult to define—confused, thoughtful… perhaps faintly admiring.

  She tilted her head slightly.

  “Are you what they call an idiot?”

  He simply shrugged.

  “Maybe.”

  In the constant cycle between killing monsters and saving lives, that day he broke the pattern.

  And let a monster live.

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  A week had passed since Iter met the monster called Zarabahad—and since then, they had been traveling together.

  The camp was simple, set between two rock formations that shielded the fire from the wind. Iter had worked in silence for most of the day: raising a small canvas structure, reinforcing the ties, improvising a rack to dry clothes.

  Zara now wore new clothes—simple, durable, fitted to avoid hindering movement. The fabric still looked strange on her, too clean for someone used to dust and wilderness. She turned slowly, watching how the hem of the pants followed her steps, even though they were loose.

  “Better,” she concluded, analyzing her shadow on the ground. “I can move without catching.”

  “That was the idea,” Iter replied, tightening the last knot.

  The sun had already set when he stepped away and sat on a higher stone, elbows resting on his knees. The fire crackled softly. The cloudless sky stretched vast and dark above them, stars shining like an ocean of shattered glass.

  He kept looking.

  Zara approached silently and stopped beside him.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “That.” She pointed upward. “Looking at the stars like you want to cross through.”

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “No.”

  Iter took a few seconds before speaking, and when he did, his voice was too neutral.

  “I came from there.”

  She blinked. “From where?”

  “Another world.”

  There was no emphasis. No nostalgia. No pride. Just statement.

  Zara tilted her head. “Another world… up there?”

  “No.” He kept his eyes on the stars. “Just… another.”

  She absorbed that as if assembling an invisible structure inside her head.

  “Are you strong because you’re from there?”

  “No. Don’t get stupid ideas. You alone would already be too much for anything that exists there.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Do you want to go back?”

  The question hung in the air.

  Iter didn’t answer immediately. His silence wasn’t pain; it was distance.

  “No. It doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “Besides, it’s not within my reach.”

  Zara studied his profile in the firelight. There was no visible sadness.

  She thought for a few seconds, evaluating the sky.

  Then she spoke with unsettling simplicity:

  “If you want to go to the stars that badly, I can throw you there.”

  Iter finally turned toward her.

  “You want to kill me that much?”

  “Would you die?”

  “No idea.”

  He let out a small breath through his nose—not quite laughter, but close.

  “But if you throw me up there, what happens next?”

  “Then you see if you like it.” She pointed upward again. “If you don’t, you fall back.”

  Iter held her gaze a little longer. There was no irony in her expression. Only direct logic.

  “That’s not how it works. It’s not a matter of height or distance.”

  The wind passed between the rocks, making the canvas tremble softly.

  Iter looked up again.

  “You’re confusing.”

  “Sorry. I’m old.”

  “Is that an excuse?”

  He watched her longer than necessary, as if trying to understand when that child had begun forming thoughts so direct.

  “Your [Adaptation] is working pretty fast, huh?”

  “It always works fast. But I doubt I can adapt to your strangeness.”

  He snorted softly.

  “Look at that, already becoming a comedian,” he muttered.

  Iter stared at her hand for a few seconds before ignoring it and turning his gaze back to the stars.

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  The village was crowded that day.

  The smell of warm bread mixed with treated leather and heated iron. People argued over prices, children ran between stalls, merchants shouted exaggerated offers.

  Zara walked beside Iter with a sack of grain resting on her shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

  She observed everything.

  People.

  Scents.

  Postures.

  Iter was paying for some dried herbs when he noticed she was too quiet.

  “What is it?”

  She took a few seconds before answering.

  “I am weak.”

  She said it without anger.

  Iter didn’t react immediately. He finished counting the coins before responding.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “For her, I am. I know it.”

  “Your progenitor?”

  “Yes. Her name is Niyx.”

  They started walking again, passing children darting between stalls. One nearly bumped into Zara and recoiled at the weight of her gaze.

  Zara continued:

  “I’ve never even managed to touch her.”

  Iter adjusted the strap on his shoulder.

  “Usually metamorphs don’t care much about their young.”

  “She’s not normal. She insists I become strong—at least strong enough so that my descendant has the potential to be more than she is.”

  She fell silent.

  The wind carried the scent of roasting meat. Zara glanced away briefly, then returned to the subject.

  “I won’t achieve that if I stay like this.”

  Iter cast her a sideways glance.

  “You want to leave?”

  Zara frowned.

  “No. But I need to grow stronger to defeat her in a fight.”

  They had been traveling together for some time now. The days had become too normal. Both of them felt it.

  “This Niyx… are you afraid of her?”

  She answered without hesitation:

  “Yes. Very.”

  Iter raised an eyebrow slightly.

  “And you still want to fight her?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t seem ashamed.

  “But even so… when she’s near…”

  Zara tightened her fingers slightly around the sack of grain.

  “The body understands it can die.”

  Iter observed the gesture.

  “Instinct.”

  “Yes.”

  They stopped in front of a fabric stall. Iter pretended to examine the material while thinking.

  “Let me guess. You were alone when I found you because she left you, right?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just guessed.”

  To Iter, that didn’t look like motherhood. It looked like natural selection.

  “She abandons me and then comes back to see if I produced results.”

  Iter stayed quiet for a few seconds.

  “Do you want her to come back?”

  Zara thought.

  This time she took longer.

  “I do.”

  He looked at her.

  “Even with fear?”

  “If she doesn’t come back, I won’t know if I’ve grown.”

  Iter didn’t answer. Then he looked up at the clear sky above the village.

  So that’s it.

  “She sounds like a problematic kind of mentor,” he commented.

  Zara tilted her head.

  “Mentor?”

  “Someone who teaches.”

  She thought for a second.

  “She doesn’t know how to teach. She just does. Luckily, I learn.”

  Iter almost smiled.

  They resumed walking.

  The noise of the village remained the same. Normal. Small.

  And without realizing it, he began to wonder what that Niyx would be like.

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