A small voice rings out, bright and full of joy.

Alix turns his head just in time to see a young girl running toward him, no more than six years old, her hair tied into uneven pigtails, her steps clumsy but eager. Her arms are wide open, her smile so innocent it disarms him completely.

"Big brother, let's play already! You're done eating!" she shouts, her small feet pattering against the floor as she throws herself into his arms.

Alix catches her automatically, more out of reflex than thought. He blinks, momentarily frozen. Her warmth feels real—the tiny heartbeat against his chest, the smell of soap and the faint sweetness of jam.

"I…" He looks down at her, uncertain. "Do I know you?"

The little girl pouts, puffing out her cheeks. "Of course you do! You promised you'd play tag after lunch!"

Her words hit him like a distant echo, stirring something long-buried. A promise—vague, faint—made years ago, maybe to this very girl. He can't remember her name, but her laughter feels familiar, like a melody he once loved and forgot.

Sister Marianne glances over from the sink, smiling softly. "You did promise her, Alix. Don't go breaking it again."

Alix hesitates. The logical part of him wants to resist, to remember this is just another trial—an illusion, a test meant to draw something out of him. But as the girl tugs at his hand with that beaming grin, the weight of the moment feels too real to ignore.

He exhales slowly and stands. "…Alright."

The girl cheers, pulling him toward the door. "Come on, come on!"

As he follows her out into the courtyard—the sun bright, the laughter of children echoing through the air.

Alix thought that this might be just a part of the second trial. Everything feels too real—the wind brushing past his face, the rough texture of the orphanage courtyard beneath his shoes, the distant honk of a car somewhere beyond the gates. If this is a trial, then it's not meant to test his strength. It's testing something else.

His childhood on Earth is vague at best. He remembers fragments—cold nights, faint streetlights through the window, Sister Marianne's lullabies—but not much more. It's as if someone had carefully taken a blade and scraped those years out of his mind. He doesn't know why he can't remember them, or why they were so easy to forget.

So for now, he decides to play along.

The little girl—her laughter bright and unguarded—runs ahead into the open yard. The other children follow, shouting, chasing each other between the benches and the old swings.

"Big brother, you're it!" the girl shouts, tapping him on the arm before dashing away.

Alix blinks. "What?"

"You're it!" she repeats, giggling.

He sighs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Fine."

He starts after her—not running at full speed, just enough to keep up. The kids scream and scatter, their laughter echoing through the air. For a moment, the tension in his chest loosens. He almost forgets about the trial.

Every now and then, he glances around, trying to sense mana, or any sign of manipulation. Nothing. No distortion. No system prompts. Just laughter, sunlight, and the faint hum of cicadas in the distance.

He slows near the old oak tree that stands at the edge of the yard. The bark feels coarse under his fingers, rough and real. If this is an illusion, it's a perfect one.

As the hours pass, the children tire out one by one. Some sit on the grass, others collapse under the tree's shade. The little girl—sweating and smiling—leans against his arm, breathing hard.

"You're… really bad at tag," she says between giggles.

Alix chuckles softly. "Maybe I'm just letting you win."

"Nuh-uh!" She crosses her arms stubbornly. "You're just slow."

He raises a brow, feigning offense. "Slow? I'll remember that next time."

She grins proudly. "You always say that, but I always win."

Her words echo faintly in his mind—You always say that…

Did he really? He can't recall.

Before he can think more, Sister Marianne's voice calls from the doorway.

"Alright, everyone! Inside now! The sun's going down!"

The children groan in unison. "Awww!"

"No complaining!" she adds firmly, hands on her hips. "You can play again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," the girl repeats softly, still holding Alix's hand. Her small fingers curl around his.

Alix looks toward the horizon—orange and crimson bleeding together, the sun dipping behind the buildings. For a fleeting moment, he forgets about everything else.

He glances down at her and smiles faintly. "Let's go."

"Okay," she says, her voice light.

That night, the orphanage is quiet.

The laughter from earlier fades into soft murmurs, the kind that drift through old hallways and creaky doors. The faint scent of soap still lingers in the air. Most of the children are asleep, bundled in mismatched blankets. Alix lies on one of the narrow beds near the window, staring at the cracked ceiling.

He doesn't see anything unusual—no runes, no distortions, no signs of the System. Just the faint hum of the old ceiling fan and the gentle rhythm of breathing from the other children.

He exhales slowly. "So this is what peace used to feel like."

For a moment, he almost forgets why he's here. The bed's a little too small, the blanket smells faintly of detergent and dust, and yet… it's comfortable. Warm, even. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him.

For the first time in a long while, Alix sleeps without thinking anything.

—

The night is calm.

Until the scream.

"Fire! Fire!!"

Alix's eyes snap open. The sound isn't distant—it's right outside the dormitory. Another shout follows, then the unmistakable crack of breaking glass.

He sits up instantly. The smell hits him next—thick, acrid, and choking. Smoke.

The door slams open, and one of the older boys stumbles in, his face lit by the orange glow behind him. "The kitchen's burning! Sister Marianne—she's—she's trying to get everyone out!"

For a heartbeat, Alix doesn't move. His mind races. Fire? Here?

He pushes the blanket aside and rushes to the window. Flames are crawling up the side of the orphanage, licking the wooden frames. The courtyard—the same peaceful courtyard where the children laughed hours ago—is filled with smoke.

Screams echo from the hallway.

"Help!"

"Someone's still inside!"

"Where's Sister Marianne?!"

Alix's pulse pounds in his ears. It's strange—he's faced armies, monsters… but this—this sight—feels different. Heavy.

His body moves before he can think. He kicks the door open and rushes into the corridor. Heat slams into him like a wall. The flames are spreading fast, crawling across the ceiling beams.

"Sister Marianne!" he shouts. His voice cracks.

A faint reply comes from down the hall. "Alix! Get the children outside! Now!"

Smoke fills the hallway, stinging his eyes. The building groans as the flames chew through the old wood. He grabs a nearby bucket of water, hurling it toward the nearest blaze—it does nothing.

Then—

A small, terrified cry pierces the chaos.

"Big brother!"

Alix freezes.

That voice—light, trembling, and far too familiar—cuts through everything.

He turns toward the sound, heart pounding, and sees it, down the hall, through the swirling smoke and blazing orange light, a small figure trapped behind a fallen beam. The flames are closing in, licking at the curtains, devouring the walls.

"Big brother!" she cries again, her tiny hands pounding against the glass of the door. The room beyond her is already half-consumed by fire.

Alix's breath catches in his throat. For a moment, everything else fades—the roar of fire, the collapsing wood, the screams outside. All he hears is that one voice.

He stumbles forward, his pulse hammering. The closer he gets, the clearer he sees her—her face smudged with soot, eyes red from smoke and tears, the same little girl who laughed with him beneath the oak tree.

No. Not just that. He remembers now. The smell of smoke. The heat. The fear. This night… he's lived it before.

That's when it hits him—like a blade driven through his chest.

Her name is Lira.

His sister. His only family.

And this is the night he failed her.

Alix clenches his teeth, forcing himself forward through the flames. The wood beneath his feet cracks, the walls groan. His mind flashes with the memory of a younger him—weak, coughing, crying for help as he stood outside the burning room, too afraid to go in. He remembers Lira's voice calling him the same way. Big brother!

And he never answered.

Not this time.