On the second day, I woke not to magic, not to noise, but to a smell—

  the smells of childhood, wood, bread, frost.

  And I decided to walk through the village.

  The village… had changed.

  Not drastically—but noticeably.

  New houses had appeared, neat and wooden, as if they had grown straight out of the earth.

  New roofs, new chimneys, new curtains in the windows.

  And most importantly—a shop that hadn’t been there before.

  With a sign burned in runes:

  “Forest Spark — Talvein Branch”

  And by the door—an elf.

  A real one. Alert. So confident that even the way he stood was quiet, like a shadow.

  When he saw me, his eyes widened—

  and he quickly hid something behind the counter.

  As if he were afraid I had come to “inspect” him.

  I stepped closer.

  He looked away.

  Strange.

  I pretended not to notice his nervousness and walked on—toward the forest.

  The forest… was humming.

  Not with wind.

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  Not with magic.

  With life.

  I took a step—and saw:

  — elves carrying long beams;

  — teenagers stringing bowstrings;

  — little children running between roots with wooden swords;

  — people—two of them—working near the forge;

  — small glowing plates with runes placed along the paths.

  Laughter.

  The clang of metal.

  The soft brushing of herbalists’ hands.

  And the rhythm of training.

  The forest had become a city.

  Yet it still breathed silence.

  I took a few more steps and felt dozens of gazes.

  Not hostile.

  But wary.

  I was a stranger.

  A careful kind of stranger.

  The children stopped playing.

  The teenagers straightened.

  Some adults paused in their work and exchanged quiet looks.

  The forest reacted to me the way it reacts to an unfamiliar beast.

  And then—

  Silence covered the clearing like a gentle shadow.

  Heavy footsteps.

  Dull, steady—like the earth itself was giving way.

  And from behind a runic tree, he emerged.

  General Reim.

  A giant.

  A wolf.

  A mountain of stone.

  A living myth.

  His fur was thicker and darker than I remembered.

  The scar on his chest—wider.

  His gaze—heavier, more experienced, calmer.

  He looked at me as if, in this time apart, he had grown three times wiser.

  And said quietly, almost in a whisper:

  — Zen-senpai… you’ve returned.

  The conversations around us died instantly.

  The children froze.

  The adults glanced at one another.

  The forest seemed to exhale.

  Even the birds stopped chirping.

  Reim approached slowly, but each step felt like a heartbeat of the forest.

  He stopped before me—towering, strong, calm.

  And, to my complete surprise, he went down on one knee.

  Breaths were drawn all around us.

  — The Forest thanks you, — he said.

  — For giving us a path.

  — For giving us strength.

  — For giving us hope.

  I froze.

  He raised his head.

  — We have grown.

  — We have become stronger.

  — We did what you feared… but without war.

  And then, softly, he added:

  — The Forest is proud of you. And it awaits your counsel.

  There was no submission in his voice.

  No fear.

  Only the steady, respectful confidence of a leader who had grown—yet remembered who had given him the first spark.

  When Reim rose, all the elves around us bowed as well—

  some with their heads, some to one knee, some simply pressing a hand to their chest.

  Not like slaves.

  Like equals, expressing gratitude.

  And in that moment, I understood:

  I had come to a place that no longer needed me.

  But still awaited me.

  Little Rien ran up, holding a wooden sword, and shouted happily:

  — Zen-senpai is back! Hooray!!

  Only then did the forest come alive again.

  Laughter.

  Noise.

  A return to work.

  Lightness.

  And Reim quietly leaned toward me:

  — Come. The Council of Branches wishes to see you first.