Elegy of the Chosen

After the war ended.

The tribe did not linger long in grief.

Regardless.

People always needed to start anew.

After that Holy Rain.

The mountains, once bare from the tribe's heavy harvesting, sprouted fresh herbs anew.

Even the trees, nourished by that Holy Water, grew faster than before, gradually thickening and rising taller.

Through years of relentless tempering.

A batch of apprentices trained by Huxter had gained the ability to practice medicine independently, gradually becoming healers recognized and trusted by the tribe to save lives and mend wounds.

These Healers began applying specially made poultices to the injured tribesmen, using Flint Knives to excise necrotic wounds.

The craftsmen, meanwhile, hauled timber to rebuild the dwellings destroyed by the monsters.

Everything.

Seemed to be quietly returning to its proper course.

Only.

The Rot Spirit Flower appeared somewhat different.

After those monsters died in the forest.

Their massive bodies were covered in pale blue mycelium, gradually rotting and shriveling away.

Swarm after swarm of Rot Spirit Insects began shuttling back and forth between the two locations.

It looked as though they were transporting the monsters' flesh and blood to the Rot Spirit Flower.

The pale blue radiance of the Rot Spirit Flower in the forest had fully receded.

Its stone petals slowly closed, causing its size to shrink somewhat.

And not far from the Rot Spirit Flower, on the grassy ground of the Blue Forest, six crystalline blue stones had appeared.

Though the astonished people did not know what such a strange transformation signified.

But after careful observation.

The Rot Spirit Insects continued operating as usual, and the people understood that this divine envoy was unharmed, gradually setting their minds at ease.

Still, during this time, they paid extra attention to and kept watch over the various conditions in the Blue Forest.

Boer had been very busy lately.

After experiencing this war.

The repair and reconstruction of various dwellings, the casualties among the people, the anomalies with the Rot Spirit Flower, plus matters concerning the farmland—all required his simultaneous attention.

Under this strain.

Boer's figure gradually grew thinner.

Sometimes, Boer thought of confiding in and seeking advice from his father.

Just as when he was young, he had learned everything bit by bit under his father's guidance.

But in the end.

He did not enter the cave.

This was not due to pride or arrogance.

Rather, Richie's condition had deteriorated to an almost unimaginable degree.

For some reason.

After learning the news of the tribe's victory over the Sea Monster.

This aged chieftain had shown a relieved expression of comfort and inspiration.

However.

After that day.

Richie's illness instead took a sharp turn for the worse.

Sometimes, he even needed the guards' support to get out of bed.

Some in the tribe sighed over this.

No one had ever expected that this great Chosen One, who had led the tribe back to the age of divine grace.

Would in his later years become a frail old man who could barely walk.

This was no different from what the Chosen One had said back then in the Temple.

Nothing is eternal.

Eternal.

There was only the one supreme god.

Though the children were careful not to trouble this aged old man any further.

Yet on one long night.

This old man summoned his child into the cave.

"You've come."

Boer stared blankly at his father, who had sat up.

In the firelight.

He was astonished to see his father, gravely ill, straighten his back from the bed.

That weathered face, somehow, suddenly regained a luster.

What shook him most were those eyes.

Those gray-blue pupils, clouded for years, though revealing endless exhaustion and weakness.

Yet they once again flickered with the color of wisdom.

Like riverbed gravel scoured by a rainstorm.

But Boer knew.

That perhaps, this was the last glow of the setting sun.

"Father."

Boer struggled to open his mouth, wanting to say something, but his body trembled.

He had foreseen this scene countless days and nights.

He thought he had prepared himself enough.

But when the moment truly arrived.

He could only feel as helpless as a child.

"Boer."

"You've lost quite a bit of weight."

In the silent firelight.

Richie simply smiled, looking at his child.

"These past years haven't been easy for you either. You've worked hard."

The aged, stooped God-Chosen gently reached out from the bed, with fingers like withered branches, and softly clasped the young chieftain's hand with pity.

Under that gentle yet steady strength.

The trembling of that hand ceased.

Boer forgot how his conversation with his father began.

Silent, he was just like his younger self, listening to his father's teachings and etching them firmly into his heart.

"You are a merciful chieftain. That is good."

"But sometimes, mercy alone is not enough."

"On the road ahead, you must find your own way."

"If you encounter difficulties, consult your elder brother often."

After Richie said all this, he seemed finally at ease.

"There are still many things waiting for you to do."

"Go on."

"There's no need to stay here. The people of the tribe still need you, don't they?"

After the child had left.

Just as when he had watched Boer run toward the sea.

Richie gazed at the receding figure, a faint smile spreading across his aged face.

A few mornings later.

The moment the guards rushed out in panic.

Richie, lying on the stone bed, this God-Chosen one's path of life had also reached its final end.

In that haze.

This aged God-Chosen had no regrets.

He had devoted his life to the tribe.

And to the god.

His conscience was clear.

Only that he recalled the unfulfilled promise he had made to his wife, feeling a trace of regret and loss.

Just as that consciousness was about to sink.

As the entire world was about to be swallowed by darkness.

A ray of light.

Appeared there.

That light bloomed atop the mountain peak.

Some craftsmen repairing a wooden hut felt something in that moment.

One after another, they raised their heads without prior agreement.

Involuntarily, they looked toward the mountaintop.

In an instant.

The stone hammers in their hands suddenly dropped, and trembling, they knelt and prostrated themselves toward that holy light.

Within that endless, formless radiance.

The old man, whose life-light was about to fade, was also engulfed by that brilliance.

Somehow.

He, who had already exhausted his last breath.

Under the embrace of that warm glow.

Gradually felt that, decades ago, in that same darkness.

The presence of that towering figure that had once appeared for a single moment.

Though he could not see.

Nor hear any sound.

Richie could still know.

God was there.

Watching him.

After a long while.

A sentence that only he could hear.

Gently fell into the ears of this dying God-Chosen.

"You have done well."

That was—

God's praise.

Richie smiled.

Smiled with utter calm... and serenity.

This single word of praise was enough for a lifetime.

This old man, like a child lying in a cradle.

Quietly closed his eyes.

And fell asleep.