The morning sun illuminated Helda village's square. In the wide open space at the village center—the place usually used as a market—mercenaries and villagers gathered one after another. Kestura stood at the edge of the village, watching the scene unfold. Yesterday's events still hadn't left her mind. Darius's announcement about beginning training had spread among the villagers during breakfast. Basic defensive training. Anyone could participate, they said. Kestura had initially decided not to join. Her power was unstable. Dangerous. Wouldn't participating cause trouble for the villagers?—such fears had held her back. But then Eda had visited Kestura's cottage. "Kestura, you must participate as well." Eda's words were quiet, yet carried an inescapable certainty. "But—" "If you can provide magical support for the village, there is nothing more reassuring. The children are watching. They see you moving forward." Those words pierced Kestura's heart. More than a hundred people had already gathered in the square. Darius's mercenaries stood armed, while the village men and boys watched them with keen interest. The women and elderly stood at a distance, observing with caution. Darius stepped to the center. His figure seemed even more striking than yesterday. The deep chestnut-colored short hair caught the morning light. Even the small scar on his left cheek appeared like a mark of countless battles. His amber eyes swept across the entire square. "Magical beasts are increasing. The threat from Moswood Forest grows daily around this village. Those who cannot fight—at least learn to flee. That is the power to survive." His voice was low but carried strength. A tone of confidence that reached every ear. The mercenaries took up their weapons with practiced ease. Swords, spears, bows. Each held their preferred arm. Some villagers' faces grew tense at the sight. Kestura stood at the edge of the square. Several wooden stakes had been set up as targets. One of them was designated for her. "Kestura. Practice casting small-scale magic at that target. If you cannot control it, don't participate. I want to avoid casualties among our own." Darius's words were cold. Merely stating facts, yet they felt like a blade to Kestura. Her power was dangerous. Uncontrollable. That recognition tightened her chest. But— "I will participate." Kestura's voice was quiet, yet resolve lay behind it. Pride too. She hated acknowledging her own helplessness. If she fled now, what would the villagers think? What would the children think? Considering that, there was no choice but to participate. Training began. Darius instructed the mercenaries in sword forms. Foot placement, arm angles, body mechanics. Each movement taught carefully, yet with severity. Another mercenary taught the villagers how to hold shields. Kestura stood before the target. The air around her felt taut and tense. She felt the villagers' gazes fixed upon her. (It's fine. A small fireball. I can control it.) Kestura concentrated her consciousness on her magical power. Deep within her sealed heart, the power that always slept awakened. It was different from ordinary magic. A direct force that needed no earth-sealing structure as medium. It responded to her emotions. That was why it was dangerous. But Kestura carefully, slowly gathered that power into her palm. A small flame took shape at her fingertips. "Fiare Lux." The incantation left her lips habitually. A spell she had chanted thousands of times in her days as a great mage. Its weight now pressed upon her shoulders. The fireball flew toward the target. Small. Controlled. It struck the target, blackening the wood's surface. (I did it.) Kestura felt relief. Her heart lightened slightly. "Kestura, nice work. You're controlling it well." Eda's voice reached her. The villagers murmured. A good reaction. She decided to cast a second time. Kestura gathered her magical power again. That moment— "There, your stance is sloppy!" A loud voice rang out across the square. Darius was instructing one of his mercenaries. Kestura's concentration wavered for just an instant. That was enough. In that moment, the fireball in her palm began to swell. The flame grew beyond her intention. (No—!) Kestura tried desperately to suppress it. But the transformed magical power responded to emotion. Inner turmoil directly amplified the force. Fear. Anxiety. These emotions made the flame grow larger. The fireball in her palm was no longer small. It had grown to the size of a clenched fist, continuing to expand. "Ah—" Kestura cried out. A massive fireball crossed the square. Darius and the mercenaries reacted to the sound. In that instant, the ball of flame passed directly beside the training mercenaries. The blast carved into the ground. "Uwaaaaaaaah!!!" Three mercenaries—Darius's subordinates—were sent flying into the air. They traced an arc through the sky, heading toward the smithy that stood on the village's south side. Over its roof, toward the pile of dried grass stacked behind it. Thud. Thud. Thud. The three landed one after another in the hay pile. The soft sound of their landing seemed almost impossibly fortunate. Silence followed. The square froze. Everyone stared blankly toward the hay pile, unable to comprehend what had happened. Then a man emerged from the smithy. Klev Dorn. The village blacksmith. Forty-eight years old. A giant of a man, muscular and broad. His face bore stubble, his sun-darkened skin marked by years of smithing work. He stood holding his tools, looking down at the mercenaries crawling from the hay. "...So guests fall from the sky now." With that single remark, the villagers' tension shattered. Someone laughed first. The laughter spread. Soon the entire square erupted in laughter. Explosive, uncontrollable laughter. The anxiety the villagers had carried since yesterday's barn incident released in an instant. The mercenaries emerging from the hay, initially shocked, began laughing too. "We're alive...!" "A miracle...!" "Actually, this is pretty comfortable. Better than the lodgings." Kestura's face had turned crimson. (Oh no. Again...) She rushed forward. From the square toward the smithy. Toward the mercenaries. "I'm so sorry! Are you hurt!?" Kestura's voice was filled with genuine remorse. Darius held his head in the square. His posture contained exasperation and the faintest hint of amusement. "Your magic isn't training—it's a weapon." Beneath those words lay a subtle smile. Eda approached and placed a hand on Kestura's shoulder. "It's good no one was hurt. Kestura, next time be a little more careful, yes?" Her tone was not accusatory, but quietly kind. Klev brushed hay from himself as he spoke. "Next time I'll prepare an even softer landing spot." His words carried laughter within them. The villagers' laughter echoed across Helda village's square. The air that had been wrapped in anxiety and tension grew slightly lighter. Kestura, her face red, repeated apologies over and over. Yet even her apologies were now enveloped in the village's laughter. By midday, the villagers gradually returned to their work. But their expressions seemed slightly brighter than yesterday. Darius spoke with Eda. "That woman's power—she can't control it." "No. But I think today's spectacle eased the villagers' fear somewhat." Eda's words were true. Kestura had reaffirmed her power's danger. Yet at the same time, she felt the villagers had not completely rejected her. Within the laughter lay warmth of acceptance. Night fell. Kestura checked on the medicinal herbs in her cottage's garden. Her hands still trembled faintly. The soul-mark inscription on her left wrist showed through in the moonlight. (I failed again.) But— The laughter that had echoed across the square still lingered in her ears. It was not entirely a bad thing. Rather, it carried the faintest glimmer of hope.