The old man gave me this journal, says I should practice my writing. Don’t see much of a point—just a farmer, after all—but he won’t stop nagging, so here I am, talking to myself on paper. Been here a little over a year now, helping him around the farm. It’s the least I can do, after all he’s given me—a roof, a warm meal, a place to rest without fear. Better than scraping by on whatever I could find. At least I don’t have to live on nothing but vegetables anymore. Small mercies. Had to patch up the fence again today. Damn thing always seems to be falling apart, no matter how many times I fix it. Maybe I’m just bad at it. Or maybe the land itself is trying to push back, like it knows I don’t belong here.The old man caught me brooding again and told me I think too much for a farmhand. Maybe he’s right.

Funny how fast things change. A year, and I’m still not used to this place. The people, the smells—none of it feels like home. Not that I remember much of home anyway. Just scattered pieces, blurred and distant. Maybe that’s for the best. Had a dream last night. Jungle trees, thick and endless. Voices I couldn’t quite make out. I woke up with dirt under my nails, like I had tried to claw my way back to somewhere I couldn’t reach. No sense in dwelling on ghosts. This is my life now. A second chance, whether I deserved one or not. Best not to waste it. Ugail is gone. That name belongs to another life. I am Aki now.

I should get some rest. Plenty of work to do tomorrow. I owe Father that much, at least—for his kindness, for giving me something to hold onto when I had nothing. But I can’t sleep. The wind’s different tonight, carrying the scent of something distant, something I can’t name. It stirs up the feeling in my chest I’ve tried to bury—the one that whispers I won’t stay here forever. The old man says a seed only grows where it’s planted. But what if the roots never took hold? What if I’m just waiting for the right storm to rip me away?

The old man says I talk in my sleep. That I mutter things in a language he doesn’t understand. I told him he must’ve been hearing the wind. But I know better. I don’t remember the dreams, not fully. Just glimpses. Dark shapes moving through the trees. A voice calling a name that isn’t Aki. Sometimes I wake with my heart hammering, like I’ve just run for my life. Maybe I have. Maybe some part of me still is. I spent extra time in the fields today, working until my hands ached just to keep my thoughts quiet. It helps. A little.

Another traveler passed through today. A sellsword, from the look of him. Scarred hands, tired eyes. The kind of man who’s seen things that can’t be forgotten. He barely spared me a glance, just stopped for food and a bed before moving on. But for some reason, I haven’t been able to shake the sight of him. I wonder if I look like that too. If my past clings to me in ways I can’t see. I caught myself staring at the road after he left, tracing the path he took until he vanished into the trees. The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. I could go too. Not today. But maybe soon.

It rained today. Not the usual light drizzle, but a downpour that turned the fields into mud and made the house feel smaller than usual. The old man didn’t seem to mind. He sat by the fire, muttering about how the land needed it. How the crops would be stronger for it. I sat with him for a while, but my mind kept drifting. The rain against the roof, the distant roll of thunder—it reminded me of something. I don’t know what. A memory just out of reach. Maybe it was the way the storm smelled, thick with earth and something else, something familiar. Or maybe I’m just looking for ghosts where there aren’t any. Either way, I didn’t sleep.

A trader came through the village today, selling spices, fabrics, trinkets from places I’ve never seen. I stopped to look, ran my fingers over a dagger with an ivory handle. It wasn’t anything special—too pretty for a real fight—but holding it felt… right. Like something I used to know. The trader watched me carefully, like he could see something in me that I couldn’t. He asked if I was looking for work. Said a man with sharp eyes and quiet steps could always find a place in his line of business. I told him no. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I tell myself I’m content here, that I owe the old man my loyalty, my labor. That I don’t need anything more than a roof, a warm meal, and steady work. But then why do I keep looking toward the road?

Father, as usual, is being stubborn about the farm work. Told him I already finished everything, but he still had to double-check—either he doesn’t trust my handiwork, or he just doesn’t know how to sit still. Probably both. He always finds something to fix, something to tend to, like the farm will fall apart the moment he stops moving. I’ve given up arguing with him about it. He just grumbles and waves me off like I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t. Maybe some men don’t know how to live without work keeping their hands busy. Still, I figured I’d make his favorite meal tonight. Maybe if I put a good plate in front of him, I’ll actually catch him resting. Not that it’ll last—his idea of taking it easy just means waking up even earlier tomorrow to make up for the time lost. No arguing with that old cod. I don’t know why he pushes himself so hard. But maybe I understand it more than I want to admit.

Going to try and catch an Otherdian salmon. He always liked it best with rice, and if I’m lucky, I’ll find one carrying eggs for caviar. The old man’s too humble to ask for something that fine, but I know he’d enjoy it. This time of year, the salmon should be migrating upriver, near the end of their lifespan. Should be plenty to catch. I only need one. I heard the flaky flesh is used in rice wines over in Hingashi—something about the oils enriching the fermentation. Maybe I can trade the skin for a bottle. The old man doesn’t drink much, but I wouldn’t mind keeping a little something tucked away for colder nights.

Got one! Took longer than I expected. The schools aren’t as dense as they should be this season. Could be natural, but I wonder if the Garlean ship traffic has been disturbing the waters. Wouldn’t be the first time. The old man says everything in nature follows a balance—but how can anything keep balance when steel hulls carve through the sea like knives? In the end, I had to dive in for it. The river was colder than I expected, but it woke me up, at least. Hope he appreciates me getting soaked for the trouble—though I’m sure he’ll just laugh. Speaking of, I’m sure he’s still at the farm.

Yep. Just as I thought—the old man is still out there, knee-deep in the rice fields. I don’t know what keeps him going. Habit? Duty? Maybe he just doesn’t know how to be anything else. Well, while he does that, I’ll surprise him with a warm meal. Maybe it’ll remind him to take a moment and actually enjoy it. Maybe it’ll remind me to do the same.

Another day, another endless stretch of rice paddies. The old man insists on planting every row himself, even though there’s more than enough to go around. I offered to help, but he just waved me off with that same stubborn grin of his. I’ve been trying to learn the rhythms of this land, but it’s like the soil has its own secrets. It doesn’t speak to me the way the jungle did. In the jungle, you could feel the pulse of things—every animal, every plant, every gust of wind carried a message. But here? The silence is different. The land feels… distant, like it’s waiting for something I can’t name. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just me looking for things that aren’t there. But when I close my eyes, I hear the wind through the trees, calling to me again. It sounds like home, like Ugail, before everything changed. I suppose I’ll be here a while longer.

The trader came back through today. Said he had more goods this time—fabrics, oils, and some foreign trinkets I couldn’t care less about. But his words were different this time. He asked if I was still interested in “work.” His smile was knowing, like he knew something I didn’t. I don’t know what he saw in me. But I can feel his offer gnawing at the back of my mind. I told him no again, but it doesn’t sit right with me. Part of me wants to ask him what he means by it, see if there’s something worth considering. The old man said I’m too curious for my own good. I think he might be right. I thought about asking him if he’s ever wondered if there’s something beyond this place. Something more than the endless work. But I know better than to try. He’d laugh it off, tell me I’m young and restless. But I’m not a fool. I can feel the pull of the road, even if I don’t know where it leads.

It’s been a while since I last wrote. Been too caught up in… well, farming. Seems strange to even say it out loud, considering that’s what I’ve been doing all this time. But when I sit down and put it to paper, it feels like I’m living someone else’s life. The harvest has been a busy one, and it’s not just the fields that need tending. Tensions are rising around here. I’ve heard whispers of unrest, skirmishes and rumors of larger conflicts brewing nearby. The town has started organizing shifts, making plans to keep watch and defend our little corner of the world. Naturally, I volunteered right away. There aren’t many of us who can fight, after all. Most of the people here are getting on in years, and the Viera—well, we’re cursed with long lives, but we’re hardly soldiers. Father taught me a few things about defending myself over the years. How to use a sword, how to protect myself. I’ve asked him more than once how he learned all that, but he always changes the subject. I’ve stopped pressing him. He’s done more for me than I could ever repay, and respecting his privacy is the least I can do. But even after all this time, it makes me wonder what he’s been through before he found me.

Spending time in this place, though, has stirred something in me—a want to travel, to move on. I never planned on staying in this village forever. Not after what happened to my tribe. As much as I appreciate the kindness they’ve shown me, as much as they’ve welcomed me like one of their own, I need to make my own life. I’ve got more to see, more to do. There’s a world beyond these fields, and I need to find it. I’ll think on it for a while before I talk to Father. I’m sure he won’t be against it. But… I’ll carry the guilt of leaving. After everything he’s done for me, it doesn’t feel right to just walk away. Who’s going to cook for this old fool when I’m gone?

Spent most of the day helping the villagers build makeshift defenses. It’s not much, but at least it’ll give us a fighting chance if trouble finds us. I couldn’t help but notice how nervous some of them were, especially the older folk. It’s hard to blame them—they’ve never had to face anything like this. Most of the time, it’s just the occasional wild animal, nothing to worry about. But now? There’s a palpable tension in the air, something heavier than the summer heat. I’ve been training with a few others, brushing up on my basic skills. Sword work and hand-to-hand mostly. It’s been a while, and it feels strange—almost foreign—holding a weapon again. But I guess if the worst happens, it’s better to be prepared. The old man’s been quieter than usual. I think he knows what’s coming, but he hasn’t said anything. Maybe he figures there’s no sense in worrying me. Or maybe it’s just the weight of his own thoughts. I can’t shake the feeling that things are changing faster than I can keep up. But for now, there’s nothing more to do but wait.

The weather’s been odd lately. It’s the middle of summer, but the nights are colder than they should be. I swear, I can almost feel a storm on the horizon. The air’s thick with something—I can’t tell if it’s the season changing or if something else is out there. Spent a bit more time down by the river today, letting the current carry away my thoughts. It’s one of the few places I feel… still. It’s funny how the simplest things can be so grounding. The flow of the water, the rustle of the trees, the distant hum of insects—it all feels more real than the restless thoughts swirling around in my head. I’ve been thinking more about leaving. The village, this place, it feels smaller each day. I’ve outgrown it. There’s a whole world beyond these fields, beyond these simple, quiet days. But leaving means more than just walking away. I’ll leave behind the old man. I’ll leave behind the only home I’ve known for years now. Maybe I’m just restless. But the pull to leave is stronger every day.

The village has been on edge lately. More whispers. More stories of strange movements at the borders—soldiers, mercenaries, and traders who aren’t what they seem. People are looking to me for advice, even though I don’t have any answers. I keep telling them it’s nothing to worry about, that the rumors are probably just that—rumors. But I can feel the tension in the air. The fear is real. I spoke with the old man about it today. He didn’t say much, but I could see the worry in his eyes. He hasn’t been able to hide it for a while now. He’s getting older. I don’t want to admit it, but I can see it. There’s a weariness in his bones that wasn’t there before. It’s hard to face, but it’s the truth. I’ve known it for a while now, but today it hit harder than before. Still, I can’t help but think that if I stay, I’ll be trapped here—stuck in a cycle of endless work, endless waiting. Part of me feels like it’s my duty to stay. Another part of me wants to leave, to see the world for myself. I don’t know what’s right anymore..

Spent the better part of the day with Father in the fields again. He’s been showing me more about the scythe—how to handle it with finesse, how to use it more than just for chopping. At first, I thought I understood it, but there’s a certain rhythm to it that you can’t get unless you’ve practiced for years. He said to me today, “The scythe is like an extension of your body, not a tool. It moves with you, not against you.” I couldn’t quite grasp it at first. I’ve been using the scythe to cut, to harvest, but there’s a difference between cutting for work and cutting with purpose. Father showed me how to stand—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, body leaning forward just enough for balance. Then, the way he holds it. One hand near the top of the handle, the other toward the end. It’s like a fluid motion, almost graceful. At first, I was clumsy, swinging too hard or too fast, but he corrected me, telling me to slow down. He said, “You don’t need strength for the scythe, you need patience and control. It’s not a battle. It’s a dance.” It felt strange to think of it that way, but after a while, I started to understand. There’s a flow to it, a pace that comes naturally when you stop forcing it. The blade glides through the air, slicing the stalks without resistance. The swing becomes something rhythmic, like breathing. I didn’t know Father was so skilled with it. I’ve seen him work the land for years, but never like this—never with this level of care. Every swing seemed so deliberate, each movement so precise. I’ve been using a scythe all my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever used it like he does. It’s like he’s teaching me something deeper, something beyond the simple act of farming. After hours of practice, he finally stopped and looked at me. He didn’t say anything for a while, just watched me as I wiped the sweat from my brow. Finally, he nodded and said, “You’re getting it. It’s not just about the land, Aki. It’s about understanding the tool, the world around you. When you understand that, you’ll be ready for whatever comes.” I don’t know what he means by that, but there’s a weight to his words I can’t shake.

Spent another day working with Father on the scythe. He’s still teaching me, though today it felt a bit more intense. He made me focus on the smallest of details—the way my wrists twist, the angle of the blade, the precision of every swing. I didn’t realize how much there was to learn. I thought I was just cutting grass, pulling weeds—basic, simple work. But with Father’s guidance, it’s starting to feel like I’m learning something more than just the motions. It’s not just about making the cut; it’s about the way the cut is made. Father’s hand moves almost effortlessly, like the scythe is simply a part of him. It’s not just a tool; it’s something he’s mastered, something he’s made his own. I asked him again today why he’s so good with it, and again, he just gave me that same quiet smile. “You don’t become good at something overnight, Aki. You spend enough time with it, and it becomes part of you. That’s how you learn. How you live.” There’s something in those words that feels like it carries more weight than he’s letting on. It’s like he’s teaching me lessons beyond farming—about life, patience, and perseverance. I still don’t fully understand what he means, but every time I practice, I feel something shift inside me. It’s like the scythe is becoming a part of who I am, not just something I use to work the land. I guess that’s what Father’s been trying to teach me all along.

Father and I spent another long day in the fields, though today felt different. He was more patient with me than usual, showing me little tricks with the scythe that made the work easier. I started to realize how much of it came naturally to him. It wasn’t just about cutting through the grass, no—it was about the fluidity, the precision. Every swing was controlled, yet powerful. His movements were effortless, like he had been wielding the scythe his entire life. I found myself staring at him, caught between admiration and curiosity. He’s so skilled, it almost doesn’t seem real. Today, when I asked him again how he became so good, he finally gave me something more. “You don’t get this kind of skill from working the fields alone,” he said. There was a strange look in his eyes, a hint of something buried beneath the surface. “You learn by moving with the blade. And you learn when you have to.” He didn’t say much else after that, but it left me with more questions than answers. I don’t know what he meant by that. I wonder if he’s hiding something from me—something more than just his past as a farmer. For a moment, I saw him practicing the scythe in a way that was different from how he’d been teaching me. His stance changed—more aggressive, more precise, like the blade was an extension of his own arm. It was almost like watching a dancer, fluid yet deadly. I’ve seen people fight like that, but not with a farming tool. It looked too... professional. But he caught me looking, and the moment passed. He didn’t acknowledge it, and neither did I. I’m proud of how far I’ve come with the scythe. Father’s approval means everything, even if he doesn’t always say much. The way he smiled when I made a clean cut today... I knew he was proud. I could see it in his eyes. He doesn’t say it often, but I can tell when he’s pleased. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this than just farming.

Father and I spent most of the morning in the fields again, and it was clear he’s been pushing me harder lately. Each day, he teaches me something new—how to move with the blade, how to feel the rhythm of it. Today, he focused on something different: not just cutting, but how to read the land. He said, “The scythe is only part of the equation. You need to know where to cut, when to cut, and when to let the blade rest. The land will guide you, but you have to listen.” I thought it was strange advice at first, but as I started to pay attention, I realized he was right. There’s a pattern to the way the crops grow, a natural order to it all. The scythe is just the tool, but the real skill is in understanding the land itself. At one point, Father demonstrated a particular technique—something that looked less like farming and more like combat. The scythe’s arc was so clean, so precise, I could almost imagine it cutting through something far more dangerous than weeds. He saw me watching, and for the first time, he spoke more about it. “There’s a time for gentleness,” he said, “and there’s a time for efficiency. When you’ve worked enough fields, you learn when to be both.” His eyes flickered as he spoke, like he was lost in a memory. “It’s not just about strength. Remember I told you this, It’s about control.” I wanted to ask more, to push for the story behind his words, but I stopped myself. Maybe it’s not my place to know. But the way he moved—so precise, so calm—it reminded me of something I’d seen before. There’s a calmness in him that I’ve never truly understood, as though he’s capable of something far more dangerous, something beyond farming. And still, he never speaks of it. He told me today that I was ready to begin working on my own, that I had mastered the scythe enough to be trusted with the bigger fields. There was a pride in his voice when he said it, and I didn’t need him to say anything more. I know he’s proud of me. I just hope I’m ready for what’s next. But there’s always that lingering question. What else does he know about the scythe? Why does he hold it like a weapon, not just a tool? I think he’s finally starting to see I’m capable of more than just working the fields. But I’m not sure what that means for either of us.

It’s been a few months since I first started working the fields on my own. The work has become second nature now, and Father’s been more and more content with my progress. I’ve learned all I can here, and I’ve come to a decision. I spoke with Father today. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the fields as we stood there, the air cool but heavy. I told him what I’ve been thinking for a while—that I need to leave. There’s more to the world than just this small village, and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else I’m meant to do. Something beyond the work, beyond just being the farmer’s son. I didn’t expect him to understand right away, but he did. He didn’t ask me to stay. He didn’t even try to convince me otherwise. Instead, he just nodded slowly, like he’d been waiting for this moment. Maybe he knew it was coming. “You’re ready,” he said simply. “You’ve learned everything I can teach you. There’s nothing left for you here.” It stung a little to hear it, but at the same time, it was the truth. I’ve outgrown this place, and I’ve outgrown the life I’ve been living here. There’s a bigger world out there, one full of possibilities, full of answers to questions I don’t even know yet. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I told him, but I wasn’t expecting what he did next. He disappeared into the house for a moment, then returned with something wrapped in cloth. When he unwrapped it, I saw a scythe—a long, sleek blade, worn but well cared for. “This was mine,” he said. “Before all this. It’s served me well.” I didn’t understand at first. I thought it was just another farming tool. But looking at it closely, I realized it was different. The blade was far sharper than any scythe I’d ever used. The handle was lighter, more balanced. It felt... too perfect to be a mere tool for cutting crops. There was an elegance to it that I couldn’t place, something beyond its purpose. He handed it to me, the weight of it settling in my hands. “Take it with you,” he said, his voice calm but heavy. “If you’re going to make your way in the world, you’ll need to be able to protect yourself. The scythe is more than just a tool—it’s something you carry with you.” I didn’t ask any questions. I knew better than to push him. I just nodded, accepting the weapon with quiet reverence. It felt strange to hold it, like I was holding a piece of something bigger than myself—something from a past I wasn’t a part of, but somehow connected to. “I’ll be fine, Father,” I told him, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “I’ll take care of myself.” He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just gave me a look that I can’t describe, something that held both pride and sorrow in it. I’m not sure if I’m ready for what’s to come, but I know one thing: I can’t stay here forever. This village, this life— it’s not where I belong. But what I do know is this: that scythe is going to be with me for whatever comes next. And whatever path I walk, I’ll always carry a part of my father with me..

I am, sitting on a cart headed toward Kugane. I’m not sure what’s waiting for me there, but I know I have to start somewhere. Find work, get myself situated, and see where this path takes me. Father gave me a contact’s name to help with work—though I can’t help but wonder how he knows them. He never said much about his past, but I’m certain there’s more to him than he lets on. Maybe that’s just the way of it. He’s a man of few words when it comes to his history, and I’ve stopped pushing him. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing good. But... it’s not my place to ask. For now, I’ll follow his advice.

I’ve arrived in Kugane, and I’m still taking it all in. It’s like stepping into a different world altogether. There’s no comparison between this place and the quiet life I’ve known. The buildings are tall, the streets filled with more people than I’ve ever seen in one place. There’s so much to see and hear, it’s overwhelming. The smells are... confusing. They’re not unpleasant, just strange. Every step, every turn, brings something new, something foreign. It’s hard to get a grip on it. I feel like a child again, unsure of what to do or where to look. But, I’m hungry, and the travel has worn me thin. I’ll need to trust what Father taught me, especially with food. He always said, “When you don’t know the world, trust your hands. They’ll guide you better than any map.”

It didn’t take long for the swindlers to find me. A man tried to convince me to buy some cheap weapon—he said it was of fine make, but I could see through it in an instant. The thing looked like it’d snap if you so much as breathed on it wrong. I’m not sure if it’s his desperation or my experience that made me see through his lies, but I’m thankful for the old man’s teachings. Father never taught me much about weapons, but he did teach me how to spot a trick. It was something I never thought much about until now. I suppose it’s more useful than I realized. I’ll have to stay alert in this place—there’s no shortage of people looking to take advantage of someone who doesn’t know better.

Met with the contact Father gave me today. Wasn’t at all what I expected. I imagined someone gruff, like the mercenaries I’ve seen. Instead, the man was well-spoken and a bit too smooth for my liking. But... he seems like he has work for me. Gave me a few tasks to prove I can handle myself, and I’ll be starting those soon. I can’t help but feel a bit unsettled, though. I thought I was done with all the uncertainty. But I suppose that’s the nature of the world. You move forward, unsure of what lies ahead, and you do the best you can. I don’t know when I’ll be able to make another entry. Been spending so much time in my head lately, trying to figure out what’s next. But for now, I’m eager to get started. Work is what I need, and I’ll find it wherever it leads.

Well, I’ve started the tasks that the contact gave me. They’re not as simple as I first thought. The work isn’t just about muscle; it’s about thinking, observing. A lot of it has me running errands, making connections with certain people around Kugane—some of them aren’t the sort you’d want to cross paths with. I’m starting to get a feel for how things work around here. There’s a lot of power at play, and I’m just a small cog in a much bigger machine. I spent most of today dealing with a few shady transactions, passing messages between people who’d rather not be seen. I was careful, kept my head low, and just did what I was told. It’s odd, though. I never expected to be in this sort of world. I’ve always been used to farming, to honest work, even if it was tough. Now, I find myself running in circles, trying not to stir anything up, all while being pulled deeper into things I don’t understand. The contact is still as unnerving as ever. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, there’s always something layered beneath his words. I’ve caught him watching me more than once, like he’s trying to figure me out. Maybe he’s sizing me up, deciding if I’m someone worth keeping around, or if I’m expendable. There’s a coldness about him that I don’t like, but I can’t deny that he gets things done. And right now, getting things done is what I need. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being tested. Whatever Father saw in this man, I’m not sure yet. But for now, I’ll play the part. The work may be questionable, but it’s keeping me busy. The days are blending together here. I’m starting to miss the farm, the simplicity of it. Even the endless rows of crops felt more real than this—more honest. But I can’t go back. I’ve made my choice, and I need to see this through. I just hope I’m not in over my head.

The days are starting to blur into one another, and I’m realizing I’ve done things I never thought I would. The work the contact gave me has been... less than clean, to say the least. Some of the errands have taken me to places in Kugane I’d rather not go. The people I’ve had to deal with are far from the merchants and farmers I’m used to. They’re more... dangerous. Dangerous in ways I didn’t understand at first. Today, I delivered a small package to a man in an alley. No questions asked. He didn’t open it in front of me, but the look in his eyes said everything I needed to know. There was something about that look—cold, calculating—that made me feel like I was already part of something darker than I ever intended. But I kept walking, didn’t stop to question it. I just did the job, like I was told. There was another task today—this one was harder to stomach. I had to pass a note to someone who’s been causing problems for the contact. The note wasn’t just a message. It was a warning. And when the man read it, I could see the way his posture stiffened. It was clear what was being implied: if he didn’t step back, there would be consequences. The kind of consequences you don’t come back from.I’m not sure when it happened, but it feels like I’ve crossed a line. I used to be so sure of right and wrong, of what was worth doing and what wasn’t. Now, I find myself in situations where those lines are blurry at best. I never thought I’d be the one to hand out threats, to deliver packages I don’t know the contents of. But here I am, doing it without a second thought. I don’t know where this path will lead, but for now, I’m too deep in it to back out. The contact trusts me, and I can’t afford to lose that trust. The work is hard, but it’s paying well. And that’s all I can focus on for now.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I last wrote. Time’s been slipping through my fingers. The tasks have become more... complicated. I’m getting used to working with people I’d never have dreamed of associating with before. Today, the contact sent me to deliver a message to a man who runs a small business in the lower districts. He’s been selling information, rumors... and not all of it is the kind the contact appreciates. When I arrived, the man was sitting in the back of a small shop, surrounded by papers. His eyes were wide when he saw me. I don’t think he recognized me at first, but when I handed him the note, I could see the panic in his eyes. I didn’t speak much, just watched as he read it. The note was a warning—either stop selling what he was, or the consequences would be far more severe than just losing his business. I didn’t make him promise, didn’t threaten him directly. But I could tell that after seeing me there, he got the message. I left without a word, but something didn’t sit right. I’m not the type to scare people, not unless I have to. But I could see it in his eyes—he knew what was coming if he didn’t fall in line. I keep telling myself that this is just business, just another step in the world I’ve found myself in. But the more I do this, the more I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be able to walk away. I don’t know if I’m in too deep already or if this is just the beginning.

It’s been a year since I left that damn farm, and a year since my life turned into something... unrecognizable. The work has gotten darker, more dangerous. At first, it was just tasks, deliveries, small errands that kept me busy. But now? Now, I’m doing things I never thought I’d be capable of. I’ve crossed lines I can’t uncross. And I’ve done it so many times that I don’t even think twice anymore. It feels like an extension of myself now, the weight of it in my hands almost comforting. Father must have known something when he taught me how to wield it—how easily it slips through the air, how smoothly it cuts. The first few times I used it, I felt like I was losing a piece of myself. But now? Now, I can’t imagine going into a job without it. It’s strange, but I think part of me feels safer with it. More in control. The tasks have escalated. It’s not just deliveries or intimidation anymore. No, now I’m being sent to eliminate threats—people who have crossed the contact, who’ve become liabilities. Each job is messier than the last. Tonight, I was asked to take care of a former ally—someone who had been working for the contact but had grown too... reckless. He was a liability, and I was the one chosen to handle it. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say it wasn’t as clean as I’d like. It never is, really. And as I stood over him, watching the life leave his eyes, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—guilt, maybe. Maybe it was regret.. But then again, he had it coming. In this line of work, there’s no room for hesitation. Hesitation gets you killed.

There’s something wrong with me, though. Something’s changing inside me, something I can’t shake. At night, I hear my brother’s voice again. It’s faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. Sometimes I think it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but other times... other times, it feels too real. The memories of that day—of the destruction, the fire, the smoke—it all comes rushing back. The village was nothing but ashes, and my brother... my brother was gone. I used to think that leaving the Golmore Jungle was the best thing that ever happened to me. But now, I’m not so sure. I don’t know if I’m running from my past or if it’s running after me. I’ve started to dream about that day again. I can hear the screams, feel the heat of the flames, and the weight of the scythe in my hands. But it’s different now—now, I see my brother’s face in the fire, his eyes accusing me. And in those dreams, I’m the one who’s burning. I don’t know if it’s a warning or just my mind trying to remind me of something I’ve forgotten. Maybe I don’t want to remember. But I can’t escape it. No matter where I go, it follows me..

Another night, another nightmare. This one was different, though. I was back in the jungle, standing among the ruins of my village. The fire was still burning, and I could feel the heat, smell the smoke. But this time, there was no one around. No cries of pain, no screams for help. Just silence. The kind of silence that drowns you. And then I saw him—my brother. He was standing there, staring at me with those familiar orange eyes. But his face was different—twisted in pain, anger. And he wasn’t alone. There were others with him, figures shrouded in shadow, watching me. I tried to speak to him, to apologize for not saving him, for not being there when he needed me. But when I opened my mouth, no words came out. Only blood. I woke up gasping, the feeling of blood in my mouth still lingering. The scythe was beside me, cold and heavy, just like the weight of the nightmares. It’s been so long since I’ve had a dream like that, but now they’re coming more frequently. Each night, it’s the same. The screams. The fire. And my brother’s face, accusing me of something I don’t understand. I’ve been trying to ignore it, to focus on the work, but I can’t anymore. I don’t know if I’m losing my grip on reality or if the past is just catching up with me. Either way, I can’t outrun it. The nightmares are only getting worse. Maybe it’s time to face what happened. Maybe I can’t run from it anymore.

I was working late last night, cleaning my scythe after another... job. The blood was still drying on the blade, and I was trying to focus, trying to make sure it was spotless for the next task. But something caught my eye in the reflection of the blade. At first, I thought it was just the shadows, but when I looked closer... I saw him. My brother. He was standing in the corner of the room, just watching me. His figure was faint, like a shadow I couldn’t quite touch. His eyes—those damned eyes—stared at me with that same expression. I can’t explain it, but there was something different in them this time. Not the anger I’m used to, but something deeper. Something... disappointed. I looked away, rubbed my eyes, and when I looked back, he was gone. I don’t know if it was just my mind playing tricks on me, or if it’s something more. I’ve been seeing him more and more lately. Sometimes when I’m cleaning my blade, sometimes when I’m sitting in the dark, just thinking. Always there, just out of reach. I told myself it was the stress, the weight of everything I’ve been doing.

I was walking through Kugane today, just taking in the sights, trying to clear my head. The market was bustling, and the noise of the crowd was almost comforting. It’s easier to get lost in the movement of a city like this, to forget who I am, what I’ve done. But then, in the middle of all the noise, I saw him again. My brother. He was standing in the middle of the street, just staring at me. His face was calm, but there was that familiar sadness in his eyes. He wasn’t angry this time—no, this time, he just looked... tired. Like he had seen everything I’ve done and was waiting for me to realize what I’ve become. I stopped in my tracks, frozen. The world around me seemed to blur, like I was stuck in some sort of dream. I called out to him, but when I tried to move toward him, the crowd parted, and he was gone. Like a figment of my imagination, vanishing into the chaos of the city. I don’t know if I’m truly losing my mind or if it’s just guilt eating away at me. Maybe it’s both. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s trying to tell me something. I don’t know what, but it’s there, always lingering, just out of reach.

I’ve been avoiding the scythe lately. I know it’s irrational, but every time I look at it, I hear him. My brother. I was sitting in my room, staring at the weapon, the weight of it making my hand ache to pick it up. But when I looked at the reflection of the blade in the window, I saw him again. This time, he was sitting on the floor, just watching me. His expression was... softer, more understanding. He didn’t say anything, but the silence between us felt louder than any words could have been. I reached for the scythe, but the moment I touched it, I heard his voice. “What are you doing, Ugail?” It wasn’t a whisper. It was like he was standing right next to me. But when I looked, he was still there—sitting across the room, just watching me. I don’t know what he wants from me. I don’t know why he’s here, why he keeps showing up. But every time it happens, it feels like a reminder. A reminder that I’ve lost something, that there’s something I’m not seeing. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be able to shake him, or if he’s just a part of me now, following me wherever I go.

The nightmares are getting worse. It’s not just in my sleep anymore. It’s during the day, too. I was walking through an alley today, just trying to get from one place to another when I saw him again. This time, he was standing by the wall, waiting for me. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the smile I remembered. It was the smile of someone who knew everything I’d done. He wasn’t angry anymore. He was... sad. I tried to talk to him, tried to ask him why he was here, why he kept showing up. But when I stepped closer, he faded away, like smoke in the wind. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear him. I don’t know what he wants from me, but I feel like I’m running out of time. I thought leaving the jungle would help me escape my past, but now, it feels like my past is chasing me. I can’t outrun it. And I’m not sure I even want to anymore.

It’s been happening more often now. These conversations. At first, I tried to push them aside, thinking it was just the stress, or my mind breaking under the weight of everything I’ve been doing. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape him. Today, I was just walking through the market again, like I always do to clear my head. The usual noise of the city, people yelling, hawking their goods—everything should’ve drowned it out. But it didn’t. He was there. Right in the middle of the street, just like before. But this time, he spoke to me. “Aki, or Ugail..” he said, his voice so clear, it might as well have been my own. “You can’t keep running from it. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later.” I stopped, frozen in my tracks. People brushed past me like I wasn’t even there, but I could only stare at him. His eyes... they were different this time. There was no anger, no pain. Just a resigned sadness. “Face what?” I asked, my voice low, barely above a whisper. “The truth,” he answered, his voice carrying that same weight it always had. “What happened to us, to our village... the Garleans did this. You can’t keep pretending it’s not your fight. It’s time to make them pay.” I shook my head, feeling the tension rise in my chest. This wasn’t right. I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t—get tangled up in revenge or some blood lust. I told myself that over and over. But his words... they stung like salt on an old wound. I clenched my fists, staring at him, trying to block it out. But his face didn’t change. His expression didn’t soften. He just stood there, watching me with those tired eyes. “It’s not just for you, Aki. It’s for everyone they’ve taken from you. For everyone they’ve destroyed.” I don’t know how long I stood there, caught between the living and the dead. But when I blinked, he was gone. The crowd moved around me, unaware, but I... I was still standing in that alley, shaking. What am I supposed to do with this?

I saw him again. It was the same alley as before, and he was waiting there for me, leaning against the stone wall, just watching me. There was no fear in his eyes this time. Only certainty. “You’ve been running for too long, Ugail,” he said, his voice still heavy but not as painful as it had been in the past. “The Garleans don’t care about you. They don’t care about the people they destroy. You know that now.” I couldn’t even respond. I felt it—the truth in his words. Deep down, I knew it. I’d spent so many years thinking I could outrun the past, that I could bury it and keep my hands clean. But the longer I stayed in Kugane, the more I felt the pull of what I knew I had to do. “You have a choice,” he said, his eyes locking with mine. “You can keep pretending like they didn’t take everything from you. Or you can do something about it.” I clenched my fists, the scythe at my back suddenly feeling heavier than usual. My mind raced—could I do it? Could I really cross that line? “I don’t want to become like them,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I was speaking to him, or just to myself. “You won’t,” he answered, voice calm. “You’ll become something they never expected. You’ll become the retribution they deserve.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t like them, that I wasn’t some killer for revenge. But the words didn’t come. It would be hypocritical of me to say, I was already a killer for gil, how was this any different? And instead, there was just a heavy silence. “You know what you have to do, Aki,” he said, his tone soft but firm now using his given name by his father. “Stop running. They’ve made you a weapon, whether you like it or not. Your father has, maybe this is why he put you in this path, Now use it.” And with that, he was gone again.

It’s hard to focus lately. I can’t stop thinking about the words my brother’s been saying. It’s like they’re buried deep inside me, echoing in the back of my mind no matter where I go or what I do. Today, when I was on a job—just a simple task, some quiet work in the shadows—I saw him again. This time, he wasn’t standing in front of me. He was there, in the reflection of the blade, watching me. I froze for a moment. “Do you feel it, Aki?” his voice came from behind me. “The blood on your hands. You’ve already crossed that line. Don’t pretend like you haven’t.” I could feel the weight of it. I’d killed. I’d done it for work, for survival. But in that moment, I realized something. “You’ve crossed it,” my brother’s voice repeated, and this time, I couldn’t deny it. The path I was on, the choices I’d made—they were all leading me down a darker road. But could I go back? Could I stop this? Or was I too far gone? “It’s not too late, Aki,” he said, his voice so close now it almost felt like he was standing beside me. “But you have to decide now. Are you going to live with this guilt? Or are you going to make them pay for what they did?” The scythe felt heavier in my hand as I stared into the reflection of my brother’s face. I think I already know the answer.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what my brother said, about the path I’m on. About what I’m becoming. He’s right. I’ve been lying to myself, pretending that I don’t care about the Garleans, that I can just move on and forget. But the truth is, I can’t. I’ve already taken so much from them. I’ve already crossed that line. And every time I look at the blade, I see the weight of what I’ve done. But I also see the future. A future where I can take back what was stolen from me. Where I can make them pay for what they did to my village. He’s gone now, but I can still hear his voice, pushing me forward. “It’s not about vengeance, Aki. It’s about justice. OUR form of justice, making them pay for every life they’ve taken.” I know what I have to do. I don’t know when, but it’s coming. And when it does, I’ll be ready.

It’s been years since I made the choice. Years since I decided that the Garleans would pay for what they did to my village. I’ve hunted down countless of them—soldiers, officers, even spies. All of them pieces of the machine that took everything from me. But it’s not enough. Today, I got the first real lead. One of my contacts—someone I’ve worked with off and on—finally gave me the name of the man responsible. The one who ordered the raid on my village. I’ve had suspicions for years, but this is the first real proof, the first confirmation. And the name he gave me? A high-ranking officer, someone tied directly to the Garlean forces stationed near the borders of my homeland. The man responsible for turning our peaceful village into a pile of ash. I’ve spent so long hunting the lower ranks—the soldiers, the ones who were just following orders. But this... this is different. If I’m going to finish this, if I’m going to make them pay for what they did to us, it starts with him. I can’t just let it go. Not now. Not when I’m so close to the truth. The problem is, this man is far from easy to reach. He’s tucked away in Garlean-held territory, with layers of security around him. Getting close won’t be easy, and it won’t be clean. But I’ve never been afraid of a challenge. And with every name I cross off my list, every Garlean I strike down, it gets easier. I’ve become more like them. Silent. Efficient. Deadly. But I won’t stop until this man is in the dirt, and I can finally rest knowing that the flames that took my home are paid for. The hunt begins now.

The more I dig, the more I realize how deep the Garlean influence runs. They don’t just occupy lands—they infest them, like a disease spreading in the dark. But this time, it’s personal. I’m no longer hunting for coin or survival. I’m hunting for vengeance. For the blood of my people. I’ve been working under the radar for the past few months, gathering information, striking only when I know I can vanish without a trace. I’ve learned to blend into the shadows. There are whispers among the Garlean ranks now. They’ve started calling me something—"The Shadow of Golmore." It’s strange, hearing it. They don’t know my real name. They don’t know who I am beneath the mask. But they know me. And that’s what matters. It means they’re starting to fear me. And that’s a good thing. I’ve crossed paths with some higher-ranking officers recently, those who know a little too much about me. I make sure to leave them alive, for now. Let the rumors spread. Let them wonder. They’ll be more cautious, more paranoid. And that makes them easier to track. They’ll make a mistake eventually. One of my contacts gave me a location today. A high-ranking officer who was involved in the raid that took my village. He’s stationed on the frontlines, away from the capital. It’ll be a tough job—he’s protected by a wall of soldiers. But he’s my target now. I’ll see him bleed.

It’s strange how things change when you’ve been hunting the same enemy for so long. At first, it was just another job, another mark to cross off my list. But now, it’s more than that. Every Garlean soldier I kill, every officer I take down—it’s like I’m peeling away at the layers of the past. I’ve just returned from another job. I took down an officer tonight. He was a part of the raid that led the fire to my village, though not the one who gave the orders. But that didn’t matter to me anymore. They’re all complicit in this. The Garleans... they’ve learned to fear me now. That name of mine—the Shadow of Golmore—has started to spread. I hear it more and more, muttered in dark corners or behind closed doors. They’ve started sending out more men to try to stop me. They’ve even offered a reward for information. The more they fear me, the closer I get to them.I’ve learned something new from all this. The Garleans don’t fear death. They’re soldiers; they’ve been trained to face it. What they fear is what’s worse than death: the loss of control. They fear not knowing who’s next. Not knowing where their enemy will strike. They fear the shadow that waits for them in the dark. And that’s what I am now. The shadow in their nightmares.

It’s done. I killed him last night. The man who gave the orders, the one responsible for the destruction of everything I ever knew. I watched him die. Felt his blood spill across the ground like a river of redemption. I didn’t feel satisfaction. I didn’t feel victory. I just felt cold. Hollow. It wasn’t enough. Nothing ever will be. But now that it’s over, I can’t stop thinking about it. The Garleans are still out there. There are still more of them—more officers, more soldiers, more commanders. I’ve taken down one piece of the puzzle, but the rest is still waiting. And every day, I feel the shadow of Golmore getting closer. I’ve heard more rumors, more whispers of my name. The Garleans are starting to fear me more now. Or at least this Unit away from the main force, They’ve offered a reward for my head. It’s not enough. They don’t understand what I’ve become. I’m not just a killer anymore. I’m something worse.

Twenty years. It feels strange to even write it down. Two decades since I first left the farm. Since I first took my first life in the shadows of Kugane. Since I first spilled Garlean blood and called it justice. Since I became a ghost of my past, walking a path with no end. The Shadow of Golmore. The name still lingers, but not as loudly as it once did. The Garleans who feared it are mostly dead, their empire fractured, their banners burned. I still hunt them when I find them—old habits die hard—but it’s not the same. They aren’t the great machine they once were. They’re just another faction, another remnant of something that should have faded long ago. But I haven’t faded. And neither has he. My brother still lingers in the corners of my mind, in the quiet moments between jobs, in the reflections of my blade. His voice is quieter now, but no less persistent. I tell myself I don’t need his guidance anymore. That I walk this road on my own. But even after all these years, I wonder if I’m still just following the path he laid for me. If all of this was ever really mine to decide. I still take contracts—assassinations, protection work, smuggling. The same things I always have. The world doesn’t change, not really. Empires rise and fall, but there will always be men with power who want other men dead. And there will always be people like me willing to do it. I’ve grown older, but the weight on my shoulders hasn’t lightened. If anything, it’s gotten heavier. And now, heavier still. I heard about my father’s passing today. Not the one bound to me by blood, but the one who gave me shelter when I was nothing, who taught me how to use my hands for more than killing, who reminded me that life wasn’t just about survival. I hadn’t seen him in years. Hadn’t written. Hadn’t checked in. Not once. I was too caught up in my hunt, in my revenge, in my need to bury my past under the weight of Garlean corpses. And now he’s gone. I don’t even know how he died. Old age, maybe. Or maybe the world finally caught up to him like it does to us all. No one sent word until it was too late—what would there have been to say? The bastard who disappeared two decades ago wouldn’t have come running, no matter what they said. And maybe they’d have been right. I used to think I had no regrets. That every step I took was one I had to take. That every death at my hands was necessary. But now, sitting here with this journal in my hands, I realize there was one thing I should have done. I should have gone back. Should have seen him, even if just once. Let him see what I became—what I did with the life he gave me. I don't know if he would have been proud. I don’t know if I would have wanted him to be. It’s too late now. I still have work to do. Still have loose ends to tie up. But I wonder… how much longer can I keep doing this before I become one of them? Before I forget who I was supposed to be? Before I forget why I started this at all? Maybe I already have.

Final Entry: I found myself flipping through these pages tonight. It’s been a long time since I’ve really looked at them—since I’ve let myself think about why I even started writing in the first place. It was just supposed to be practice. A way to learn the common tongue. Father thought it would be useful for me, a skill to help me make my way in the world. He was right, of course. He was always right. But this journal became something else. A record of my life, my choices, my regrets. Every page is a reminder of the path I took, the things I lost, the things I let slip through my fingers. It started with simple entries—complaints about farming, about the old man being too stubborn for his own good. Then it shifted, becoming something darker. Blood and vengeance written into every line. And now? Now it’s just heavy. I used to think that putting words on a page would make things clearer. That writing it down would help me make sense of it all. But all I see when I read back is the weight of my own mistakes. A life spent chasing something that can’t be undone. Father wanted me to build something. To carve out a life for myself, to make use of what he taught me. And I did—but not in the way he intended. I don’t know if I’ll keep writing. Maybe it’s time to let this book go. It was never meant to carry all of this. Neither was I. If there's one thing I could ask the old man, the one that gave me everything. Are you proud of me, or have I become one of your mistakes?