Since he could remember, he had already been a member of some ambitious organization beneath Wendel. No family, no name.

He learned alchemy and the arcane arts within the organization. From the first time his fingers brushed a herb's leaf to the day he could independently compound a complete potion—only a few years had passed. He had a natural gift for it—his hands were steadier than most, his nose could distinguish the subtlest scent differences among a dozen similar herbs, and no formula was too complex for him to replicate after a single glance.
He kept silent about the organization's tasks and never asked questions. But that was not loyalty—only indifference. He did not care what the organization planned to do, nor what would become of Wendel. This apathy pleased the organization greatly. In time, he was given his own quarters and permission to move about "freely"—allowed to go out alone to gather herbs and deliver goods. But that was not freedom. It was merely a longer leash. If the organization gave the word, he would die; if he was struck or berated, he could not fight back. He was an asset, and the lines written on his contract weighed more than his life.
For decades within the organization, his life was stable. His colleagues were neither close nor cruel; his subordinates, like he once was, kept their heads down and waited for promotion. If nothing changed, he could do this for the rest of his life—grinding herbs, compounding medicines, organizing cabinets, revising formulas. Until his hands grew unsteady and his eyes dimmed, and then he would be replaced by someone younger. He did not dislike the work. He might even say he loved it. It was the one thing he had, the one thing he was born with.


But he grew tired.
He grew tired of the weather—perpetually muggy, endless rain, air thick with moisture that never seemed to dissipate. He grew tired of his room—not a single window, so that waking and sleeping blurred into one indistinguishable stretch of time. He grew tired of having no say in anything, not even in what he would eat the next day.
He never felt he owned anything. Because he had never truly chosen anything.
He watched the crowds in the streets—those people had directions, destinations, paths they had chosen for themselves. He had only one. One that had been laid down for him since birth, one he had never chosen, narrow, straight, leading to the same tomorrow, over and over again.
He yearned for freedom. That yearning did not come all at once—it accumulated day after day, like powder ground ever finer in a mortar, until it was too fine to be sifted away.
But the lifelong contract was iron law. The organization would never allow the slightest leak of its secrets or proprietary formulas; they had a hundred ways to make a runaway or disloyal member disappear without a trace. He knew it all too well—unless he died, he could not leave.


The turning point came sooner than expected—a raid of no great scale, waged under the pretext of [Fading]. Groups of people were sent off to the distant subjugation forces. The front lines needed hands to compound medicines and treat the wounded, and the organization needed eyes on the ground. He was dispatched. He packed a simple bag, left the windowless room, and did not look back.
In the camps behind the battlefields, chaos was the norm. Wounded soldiers, medicinal supplies, orders, death—everyone was exhausted, scrambling to keep up. He used that chaos to fake his own death. A charred corpse, an organization badge, a few articles of clothing recognizable enough to be identified as his. No one pursued it. No one cared. All they needed was a name to fill a casualty report—as for where the person beneath that name had gone, no one had the time to ask.
The lines that had bound his entire life were crossed out in a scribbled record of the dead.


He left.
No destination, no plan, he simply walked. He went to many places—mountains, rivers, coasts, ruins, villages, small towns. No epic adventures, only a quiet, slow journey. At last, he had time to see what the world really looked like.
Sometimes, when he arrived somewhere and the wind felt different, he would stay for a while. Every room he rented, he insisted on having a window. Along the road, he sold his wares—ointments, powders, simple tinctures. If someone had a headache or a fever, they would come to him; he would clean their wounds and treat their minor ailments.
He began to do things that served no purpose.
For decades within the organization, everything he did had to have a purpose, a yield, an account. But that was no longer required. He drew—his drawings were not particularly good, but he was quiet when he drew. He learned to cook—simple ingredients, but the food was warm when it reached the table. He filled his pack with stones, dried flowers, strangely shaped twigs he had picked up along the way—useless, all of it, but they were his, and that was enough.
He still loved alchemy and the arcane arts. He still loved collecting formulas.


He had truly tasted what freedom meant.
It was not grand or dramatic. It was not what the stories described—arms spread wide, shouting into the wind. It was something quieter, a simple affirmation—if he wanted to do something today, he did it; if he did not want to, he did not have to. No one hurried him, no one dictated his hours, no one flipped through ledgers looking for his name.
He would do anything to hold on to this feeling.
He would never be bound again, no matter what.
That was the only promise he had made to himself.