An Assassin's Journey Beyond The End

Tatsumi had honestly thought that was it. The end. His story, his struggle, his everything... It was all supposed to stop right there. He'd felt it, that sharp, sinking pull when the Supreme Imperial Arm was destroyed. Like his life got yanked out along with it. His knees buckled, the rush of pain and exhaustion hit harder than any enemy ever had, and he just collapsed. Right into Akame's arms. The last place he thought he'd be when it was all over. She was trembling, holding him like she could physically stop death if she clung hard enough. Her voice cracked when she said his name, but he could barely hear anything. His vision was going dark, ears muffled, whole body numb.

"S-sorry, Akame," he muttered, lips barely moving, voice barely audible. "I couldn't keep my promise…"

That one promise. The dumbest, most important one. Don't die. He had looked her in the eye when he made it. Her expression had been cold and sharp like always, but he knew her well enough by then to see the quiet desperation behind it. She'd lost so much. So had he. They all had. But that promise was his way of trying to give her something—hope, maybe, or just a little peace. Now it was broken. Another failure.

He couldn't even tell what was happening anymore. The ground trembled, people screamed, the capital was probably in chaos, but his mind had already begun floating away. Somewhere far. Thoughts strayed to his home village, the small one with the windmills and dusty roads and faces he hadn't seen in what felt like a lifetime. Would they ever know what happened to him? Would they care? Would they even understand what he'd done, how far he came, who he'd become?

And Night Raid... What now? With the Emperor down, the war was technically over. The Revolutionary Army had won. All the bloodshed, all the lives lost—maybe it hadn't been for nothing. Maybe they'd finally get that peace they dreamed about so often, sitting around the fire, eating bad stew, sharing stories in between missions. Maybe people could live normal lives again. Laugh. Build things. Start over.

Akame was yelling something at him, her voice rising, cracking in panic. She was crying, too, he thought. And if not, then his mind was making it up because it felt right. She never cried, not even when Bulat died, not when Chelsea didn't come back. But maybe now, for once, she did. And then…

Nothing.

Just black. Cold. Quiet. Like everything was done. Like he could finally rest.

He figured the next thing was the afterlife. Maybe he'd meet Bulat again, with that big goofy grin and that ridiculous tank top. Maybe Sheele would be there too, holding her giant scissors and smiling gently like she never meant to kill a single soul. Chelsea might be lounging somewhere with a lollipop in her mouth and an attitude like she owned the clouds. Susanoo would be cleaning. Mine would probably punch him in the face before hugging him. That's what he was expecting. That's what he wanted.

But instead of glowing white light or familiar faces, he just… waited. In silence. And waited more. And the weird part was he could still think. Still feel things in a distant, fuzzy way. Like floating underwater with no surface in sight. Then slowly, so gradually it almost didn't register, warmth started spreading through him. Not spiritual warmth. Not metaphorical. Actual, physical warmth. Like being wrapped in something soft and alive. He felt... oddly comfortable.

Then came the weirdest thing.

A slap. Right on his butt.

What the hell?

The hell kind of afterlife slaps your ass when you show up?

He tried to yell, to complain, to curse whoever decided that was appropriate—but all that came out of his mouth was a high-pitched, wobbly noise.

"Wawawawawa~."

His brain nearly short-circuited.

What the actual—?!

Someone smacked him into reincarnation?! No, seriously, that had to be it. Either this was some twisted joke from the gods, or he'd just been reborn in the most humiliating way possible. Someone had literally slapped him into life.

"It's a boy," a flat, emotionless voice said somewhere close by. "Apparently."

Deadpan. Totally deadpan. Like the announcement of his rebirth was just another Thursday.

Then silence.

Everything drifted again. Time didn't seem to work right. Sometimes he'd be wide awake for a few seconds, taking in weird shapes and blurry colors, and other times he'd be knocked out cold, waking up to realize days had passed without warning. He spent most of his time asleep. Not that he had a choice.

And when he was awake, the world made no sense.

First off, there was this tall guy with bright blue hair who looked like he'd stepped out of a fairy tale or something. Handsome in a stupidly perfect way, like those knights from children's storybooks. He had this warm, genuine smile that felt annoyingly trustworthy, and he kept calling Tatsumi "my little boy" in this ridiculously affectionate tone that made Tatsumi want to gag. Not because it was bad, but because it was so... sincere. Like the guy actually meant it.

Then there was the woman. Girl? Elf? She was hard to place. She had silver hair that spilled past her shoulders like snow, and her face barely moved. Always deadpan, always unimpressed, like life itself bored her. Her eyes were sharp, though. Like she was always watching. Always thinking. And those ears. Long, pointy, twitching sometimes when she got annoyed—which was often, especially when she had to feed him.

Yeah. That was the worst part.

She breastfed him. And he remembered.

She'd hold him in her arms like he was some delicate porcelain cup, her expression somewhere between resignation and pure regret. Every time he cried, she sighed. Every time he shit himself, she made the same blank stare, cleaned him up, and muttered something like, "This is stupid." Sometimes she mumbled other things too. Things like, "Why did I agree to this," or "Himmel, you said this would be easy," or "Next time, we're adopting a dog."

Himmel. That was the name of the blue-haired man. He'd heard the woman call him that more than once. And the elf woman? Frieren. That name echoed in his sleepy haze often enough for it to stick.

His new parents.

Great. Just great.

One was a knight straight out of a fairytale with a personality like sunlight, and the other was a tired, awkward elf woman who looked like she'd rather be doing literally anything else. He had been born into a fantasy sitcom.

It was bizarre, surreal, and he was way too aware of everything for a damn baby. He couldn't move much, couldn't speak, but he could think. And boy, did he think a lot. About his old life. His friends. The war. The peace they fought for. And now this. A second chance, maybe. He wasn't sure what the rules were here. Was he supposed to live a peaceful life this time? Become a baker or something? Was he allowed to remember? Would his past ever come back to haunt him?

One night, Himmel picked him up like he weighed nothing, cradled him gently, and started humming some old lullaby that probably meant something in this new world. Tatsumi blinked slowly, watching the guy's face, studying it. So damn earnest. So damn kind. It was stupid. Infuriating. And it made him feel safe in a way that scared him.

Frieren walked in halfway through, looked at them for exactly three seconds, then muttered, "You're spoiling him."

Himmel grinned. "He deserves it."

"He cried for six hours because you wouldn't let him chew on your sword hilt."

"He's exploring his environment."

"He's a menace."

Tatsumi gurgled in response. Frieren shot him a look.

"See? He agrees with me."

Tatsumi mentally flipped her off.

She rolled her eyes, turned around, and walked off with the same sluggish pace she did everything with. But the truth was… she always came when he cried. Always fed him, cleaned him, held him just right. She never smiled, but she never left. There was a rhythm to her care. Mechanical, sure, but steady. Reliable. Safe.

And honestly, even if she was sarcastic and cold and emotionally stunted—he kinda liked her.

He was still wrapping his head around everything. Still not sure what this new life meant. But if he had to be reborn anywhere, at least it was with people like this. Weird, but oddly comforting. Familiar, even.

Still, that didn't mean he was okay with getting slapped into existence.

That part could go to hell.



Time moved in a way that didn't make sense anymore. It wasn't just the slow ticking of days passing like back when he was with Night Raid, constantly planning, fighting, running. It was different now—like he was caught in syrup, slow and thick and stretchy. Moments blurred together. One second it was raining outside, the next there were wildflowers blooming up to the sky. And yet, through it all, he stayed… the same. A baby. A toddler at most. Stuck. Conscious, aware, understanding full sentences and complicated emotions—but physically, just a little squishy thing with stubby limbs and no control over his bladder.

What made it weirder was the language. From the moment he first opened his new eyes, he could understand everything around him. Not just bits and pieces, not just vague meanings—everything. Syntax, slang, sarcasm, tone, context. Like his brain had skipped the baby tutorial completely and jumped to graduate level comprehension. It was frustrating as hell. Imagine listening to deep philosophical debates about good and evil while shitting yourself and crying because you couldn't roll over. He hated it.

Himmel and Frieren didn't seem to notice just how much he grasped. Or maybe they did, and just chose to keep treating him like a normal baby out of convenience. Either way, they kept up their roles as the doting dad and perpetually tired mom. Himmel would carry him around wrapped in a soft blanket and point things out with this proud glint in his eyes like everything was new and exciting.

"Look, Tsumi," he'd say, crouching down near a pond. "That's a rainbow trout. They swim upstream to lay their eggs. Isn't that incredible?"

Tatsumi—no, Tsumi now—would just stare at the fish like, wow, cool, I used to kill people for a living, and now I'm learning fish trivia.

Frieren, on the other hand, rarely explained things. She'd just silently guide his attention toward something with a slight tilt of her head or a gentle movement of her hand, expecting him to figure it out on his own. Which he usually did. Because she was a quiet kind of genius. Efficient. Cold. A little funny sometimes, though he wasn't sure she even noticed when she was being funny.

And the world they lived in? It was everything Night Raid had hoped for and more.

Tsumi had spent his entire previous life fighting for something like this. A world without tyrants. Without fear. Without corruption and mass executions and sick, twisted nobles treating peasants like bugs. And here it was—quiet villages, merchants laughing on roads, kids chasing chickens in open fields. He'd seen Himmel lift a fallen cart for an old lady without even expecting thanks. He'd watched Frieren patch up a sick dog without saying a word and walk off before the owner could even thank her. There was a kind of peace here that made the chaos of the past feel like a fever dream.

Through quiet observation, Tsumi learned a lot. More than most kids his age—though, of course, his age didn't match his appearance. He wasn't quite sure how old he was supposed to be anymore. Mentally? He felt around thirty. Physically? He looked like a damn toddler, even after years had passed. It was obvious something was off.

And eventually, it started making sense.

There was a moment—maybe when he was six, or maybe ten, or maybe fourteen—when he really noticed it. Himmel's hair had started showing silver strands. Just a few, but they were there. And his laugh had gained a deeper tone, like time was finally catching up to him. He was still strong, still bright and sharp and full of that weird optimism that never dulled, but it was clear: he was aging. He was changing. Becoming a man, then a seasoned one.

Frieren didn't. Not even a little.

She was the exact same. Hair as silvery and smooth as ever, face blank and ageless, voice just as dry and unimpressed as the day Tsumi first heard it. Her clothes barely changed, her pace didn't quicken or slow, her eyes remained unchanged. That alone told Tsumi something important. Something about himself.

He wasn't human.

Not fully, anyway.

At first, the idea freaked him out. He remembered dying. He remembered pain. Human stuff. Now he was here, growing at the pace of a glacier, speaking full sentences in his head while his baby body flailed and drooled. Something wasn't lining up. The pieces only fell into place once he saw Frieren stay the same across the seasons, through dozens of festivals, over countless sunrises and sleepy campfires.

And then there were the others.

Eisen. This short, buff dwarf who showed up every once in a while. He had this gruff but warm vibe to him, like a blacksmith dad who'd seen a lot but still liked kids. He'd pat Tsumi's head gently and tell stories about ancient dungeons and traps and fights with monsters bigger than castles. Tsumi loved it, even if he couldn't respond properly yet. Eisen didn't seem to mind the silence. He just chuckled and kept talking, occasionally passing him cookies that Frieren always tried to confiscate.

Then there was Heiter. The priest. Always showing up with booze in hand, wearing robes that looked more stained than sacred. But he had this deep, quiet sadness about him that Tsumi recognized from a mile away. The guy had regrets, buried deep beneath sarcasm and laziness. He'd look at Tsumi sometimes with this strange fondness, like he knew something others didn't. Sometimes he'd say stuff like, "You're gonna outlive us all, kid," or "Enjoy the slow days while you can. Fast ones'll come back eventually."

Tsumi didn't fully understand what Heiter meant at first, but over time… yeah. It started making sense.

Because even after two decades passed, his body barely looked five years old.

It was only around the twentieth year of this weird second life that something shifted. His throat didn't burn when he tried to speak anymore. His tongue didn't stumble. One afternoon, while Himmel was humming a tune and Frieren sat nearby pretending to read but actually keeping an eye on both of them like always, Tsumi opened his mouth and muttered, "That song's a little off-key."

Both of them froze. Himmel's lute slipped from his hands. Frieren blinked once. Then twice.

Himmel leaned in, eyes wide, smile stretching ear to ear. "Tsumi? Was that…? You talked!"

Tsumi nodded, deadpan as hell. "Took twenty years, apparently. I blame my biology."

Frieren squinted at him, her voice as flat as always. "What kind of baby talks like that?"

"I'm not a baby," Tsumi said. "I'm twenty."

Himmel laughed, this loud, joyful laugh that echoed across the hills. He actually picked Tsumi up and spun him around, even though his body was still tiny and toddler-sized. "You've been faking it this whole time?!"

"No."

Frieren didn't laugh, but a small twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away. The faintest hint of amusement. "You're more annoying than I thought you'd be."

And just like that, the weird silence that had followed him since his rebirth started to lift. He could finally speak. Finally ask questions. Finally voice thoughts that had been stuck in his head for decades. And he did. All the time. Nonstop. He asked about the Demon King, about their adventures, about why Frieren never changed and what it meant to live like this. He asked why Himmel always looked tired even though he smiled like nothing was wrong. He asked about magic, about legends, about gods and mortality and what came after.

They didn't always have answers. Sometimes they just sat with him under the stars and listened.

And slowly, painfully slowly, he began to understand what it meant to live like them. What it meant to watch the world move while you barely moved at all. What it meant to love things that would eventually vanish. And maybe… what it meant to protect those things anyway.



Tsumi had Himmel's soft light blue hair that shimmered like the morning sky and Frieren's sharp, beautiful green eyes that always looked a little distant, a little tired. His ears, too, had that slight curve—pointy like hers. And it wasn't just his appearance. The way time barely scratched him, how he watched days pass without ever feeling like he was moving forward with them, how he stayed tiny and delicate long after the other village kids outgrew him—that was her, too.

He was an elf.

It finally made sense.

He remembered sitting on that big rug in the living room, legs crossed awkwardly like he was trying to get comfortable in a body that still didn't feel right, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Frieren sat across from him, hands wrapped around a chipped teacup, her expression unreadable as usual. Himmel leaned against the window, quiet, his fingers drumming a light rhythm against the glass.

"Tsumi," Frieren had said, voice low, calm. "You've noticed, haven't you?"

"Yeah," he replied, arms wrapped around his tiny knees. "I don't grow."

She nodded once. "You're an elf."

That word hit different than expected. He didn't know why. Maybe because it carried weight, ancientness. Not just a fantasy race—no, it was something real, something strange, something lonely.

"I'm like you," he muttered, not looking at her.

"More than you think," she said, and took a sip of tea. "Elves age differently. Time… stretches for us."

"How slow are we talking?"

There was a beat of silence. Himmel shifted uncomfortably. Frieren looked down into her cup like the answer was steeped in her drink.

"I'm 1,344 years old."

The silence after that was suffocating.

Tsumi blinked. Once. Twice. He turned toward Himmel, his gaze searching for some kind of punchline, a laugh, a wink. But Himmel only gave him this soft, sheepish smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.

"That means…?" Tsumi's voice was barely above a whisper.

"You're going to outlive any human," Himmel said gently, his voice cracked slightly at the edge. "Even me."

It wasn't even dramatic. No loud explosion of grief. No yelling or flailing. Just those words. That quiet truth. It dropped on him like cold water, soaked through skin and bone, and settled in his chest like a frozen weight.

And then he was running.

His tiny legs carried him through the hall, out the back door, to the terrace overlooking the hills. The wind slapped his face, and he didn't even care. He collapsed onto the cold stone floor, knees scraped, palms flat, and let the tears fall.

He'd finally felt like he had a family. Something normal. Something warm and stable. Himmel's laugh, Frieren's awkward kindness, the quiet moments shared under stars and next to rivers—they had become his world. And now? Now he had to live centuries while they faded?

It was just like before.

Bulat. Sheele. Chelsea. Lubbock. Susanoo. All of them—brave, kind, strong—and gone. One by one. He was always the one left behind. And now history was repeating itself, cruel and slow.

Why did he always survive?

Why was he always the one who had to remember?

"Tsumi…"

The voice was soft. Behind him. Then he felt those arms. Strong, steady. Himmel wrapped around him from behind, holding him close like he was afraid he'd disappear. Tsumi buried his face in the man's chest and sobbed, muffled and raw.

"My son," Himmel said, pressing his cheek against Tsumi's hair, "I may die what feels like a few days to you—though they'll be years to me. You'll grow so slow you might barely feel the time pass, but for me, every second counts."

"That's not fair…" Tsumi whispered, voice thick.

"I know," Himmel said. "I know it isn't."

"Why do I have to be alone again?"

"You won't be," he murmured. "Not completely."

Tsumi didn't believe it. Not really. But he stayed still, letting the words fall anyway.

"Your mom—well, as deadpan as she is," Himmel chuckled lightly, "she's a nice person. Weird, quiet, doesn't always say the right things—but she'll be with you. She'll guide you in her own way. And Eisen, Heiter… they care about you, too. You're not as alone as you think."

Tsumi wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic, sniffling. "But you… you're my dad."

"I still will be," Himmel said. "Even when I'm gone."

"That doesn't help."

"I know," he whispered again. "But that's why… you've got to cherish this. The time we do have. Every moment. Every trip to the lake. Every time we sit by the fire and I mess up a song. Every time your mom hands you an herb and doesn't explain what the hell it's for."

Tsumi let out a weak laugh through his tears.

"That's what happiness is, Tsumi. It's not some big thing. It's not eternal. It's just… the little things. The memories you can hold onto when everything else disappears."

Tsumi didn't say anything. He just pressed himself tighter into Himmel's chest. Felt the rise and fall of his breathing. Heard the steady beat of his heart. And maybe… maybe that was enough for now.

He knew it would hurt later. Knew he'd cry again. Knew there would come a day Himmel wouldn't be there to sing him to sleep or carry him on his shoulders or tell him dumb jokes about dwarves and dragons. But for now, in this small moment, he could pretend that forever existed. Just for a little while.

That night, they didn't go back inside. Frieren came out eventually, standing a few feet away, her expression unreadable as always. But she sat near them, quiet, close enough that her presence felt like a promise.

They watched the stars rise together. Himmel hummed a lullaby under his breath. Frieren leaned back against the cold stone, eyes half-lidded, and Tsumi, nestled between the two of them, let the rhythm of their breathing lull him into a strange, bitter, peaceful sleep.

The kind of sleep that comes only after knowing you've found something worth losing.



Tsumi made a promise to himself, the kind that doesn't need to be said aloud. He'd already lost too much in his last life—too many faces, too many smiles, too many hands that reached out only to vanish before he could grasp them for long. So now, in this life, in this strange peaceful world with pointy-eared moms and heroic dads and cozy sunlit mornings, he was gonna make every single moment count. No holding back.

He didn't tell anyone about his past. Not Frieren, not Himmel, not even Eisen or Heiter. Some truths were just too weird to unpack, like being a dead guy reincarnated as an elf baby. No one needed to know that the tiny pointy-eared kid with the slow-growing body and stubborn gaze used to be a revolutionary warrior who fought empires and loved a girl with pink hair. He'd keep that to himself. What mattered now was the present, the people in front of him, the warmth in the air, and the sword in his hand.

Yeah—swords. He still had it. The form, the balance, the instinct. Maybe not the muscle memory, since his arms were barely thicker than a birch branch, but the fundamentals? Those were carved deep into his soul. Tsumi was good. Silent good. Secret good. And Himmel… Himmel was insane.

The first time they sparred, Tsumi had tried to show off a little. Just a bit. A few clean steps, a sharp swing—like he used to do when training under Bulat's watchful eye. But Himmel? Himmel didn't even flinch. He parried like he'd seen the move before Tsumi even decided to make it. Then he grinned and said, "Not bad, but you dropped your shoulder a little," like he hadn't just exposed Tsumi's entire technique in half a heartbeat.

From that day on, they sparred almost every afternoon in the backyard, behind the little house Frieren refused to admit she was emotionally attached to. The field behind it was open, grassy, and perfect for long hours of training. Himmel would tie back his hair, roll up his sleeves, and draw his sword with the kind of relaxed confidence that made Tsumi realize just how far he still had to go.

They'd duel under the blue sky, with the wind brushing through their hair and the clang of metal ringing like bells in the peaceful village. And every time Tsumi landed a strike—rare as those were—Himmel would give him this goofy proud smile, like a dad watching his kid learn how to ride a bike for the first time. Not pitying. Not fake. Just… happy.

Meanwhile, Frieren would hover by the kitchen window, not watching but totally watching. She'd stir a pot that smelled like something illegal and half-poisonous, and once in a while she'd mumble, "Don't trip over your own feet," without even glancing up. Her way of cheering, probably.

Himmel was on a whole different tier. Like if you dropped Esdeath into their world, she wouldn't last more than ten seconds against him. That man fought with a grace that felt effortless, like dancing. He didn't waste motion. He didn't need to overpower you. He made you fall into his rhythm and beat you before you even realized the duel had started. Akame and Kurome? They were talented. Trained. But Himmel was beyond. He made their skills look like schoolyard scuffles. And Tsumi knew it wasn't just brute strength. It was experience. Heart. Purpose.

"I've lived for others my whole life," Himmel said one day, while handing Tsumi a cup of water after practice. "That's what gives the sword its meaning."

Tsumi nodded, winded and sweaty. "Yeah… I get that."

"Do you?" Himmel asked, smiling. "You're too quiet sometimes. Like there's a lot in your head you're not saying."

"I said I get it," Tsumi replied. "And I'm not quiet. You just talk too much."

Himmel laughed so hard he choked on his own water, and Frieren, from the window, sighed and said, "Told you."

People loved Himmel. Worshipped him, honestly. He was the Hero who helped take down the Demon King. He had this vibe, like a mix between a rockstar and the village grandpa. Wherever he went, people smiled. Grown men bowed. Kids chased after him, and elderly folks told stories about how they saw him once in the capital. So naturally, Tsumi being his "son" made him sort of a local celebrity too.

Especially with the teenage girls.

When they visited new towns or strolled through markets, girls would bend down and pinch Tsumi's cheeks or coo about how adorable he looked with his snowy hair and giant green eyes. "He's like a doll!" they'd squeal, completely unaware that this "baby" was mentally older than all of them combined.

The best part? Watching their reactions when he opened his mouth and casually said something like, "I'm actually twenty-five. But thanks."

The expressions ranged from awkward laughter to full-blown horror. Himmel, of course, would double over wheezing every time it happened.

"Stop doing that," Frieren said once, after a particularly dramatic girl ran off shrieking.

"Why?" Tsumi shrugged. "It's hilarious."

"She's probably traumatized."

"She touched my face. That was mutual trauma."

Eisen and Heiter visited often. Eisen always brought a bag full of weird, shiny rocks he thought Tsumi would find "cool," and Heiter, despite pretending to be annoyed at the noise and the swordplay, would end up sitting in the shade, listening to stories and chuckling at Himmel's over-the-top retellings of their adventures.

"You should've seen him back then," Heiter told Tsumi, once, poking Himmel in the ribs. "Always charging ahead, swinging that sword like he was invincible."

"I was invincible," Himmel said, puffing out his chest.

"Sure, sure," Eisen snorted. "Tell that to the wyvern that broke three of your ribs."

"Which I still defeated," Himmel added.

They'd laugh. Talk about the past. The great battles. The towns they saved. The monsters they felled. Tsumi never got bored. Listening to those stories was like breathing in a whole new world. And they weren't just tales of glory—they were about friendship, love, sacrifice. He saw the way Frieren's eyes softened when Heiter mentioned certain names. The way Himmel went quiet when talking about one battle in particular. There was grief in those memories. But also joy. Deep, glowing joy.

Life was good.

He knew it wouldn't last forever. Not with how humans aged. Not with how elves didn't. But for now, the mornings were bright, the afternoons were full of laughter and swordplay, and the nights were warm with stories and dreams.

And every moment? He was saving them. Storing them away. Because that's what happiness was—tiny memories stitched into a life.



They were deeper into the woods than Tsumi had ever been, even back when he was a full-grown man fighting for a revolution. The air smelled wild, like moss and pine and damp wood, the kind of scent that clung to your skin and made you feel like you were standing in a memory. Trees towered above them like ancient guardians, their leaves rustling in slow waves. Birds chirped high overhead, and somewhere in the distance, water gurgled over stones. It was a forest, yeah, but it stretched for miles—more like a quiet, untouched jungle where time didn't seem to matter.

Frieren had picked the place. She didn't say much, as usual, but her face had this kind of subtle softness when she talked about it, like she was trying not to sound too excited. Apparently, once every fifty years, there was a meteor shower that painted the whole valley sky in light. Something you couldn't find in a book or recreate with magic. She just said, "It's worth seeing," and Himmel agreed instantly, even though it was clear he wasn't as strong as he used to be.

Himmel rode slowly these days, his old white mare plodding gently along beside Frieren's own steed. His once vibrant blue hair had gone completely white, but his eyes—those eyes were still sharp. Still him. Every time Tsumi looked at him, there was a weird twist in his chest, like part of him was refusing to accept that time was finally catching up to the hero he'd always thought would never fall.

Eisen and Heiter had shown up too, arriving with their usual banter and warmth. Eisen looked the same, more or less—still short, still gruff, still walking like he could tear a tree in half if he felt like it. Heiter, on the other hand, had a few more wrinkles but still held his chin high, like he refused to let the years make him look weak.

Tsumi, despite being forty-five years old, still looked like a damn kid. Eight years old, give or take. He was the same height as always, same small hands, same baby face. It wasn't weird to him anymore—it just was. Elves aged slow. Real slow. So even if he felt like an adult in his head, he still got asked if he needed help climbing onto his horse.

They reached the valley late afternoon. It was stunning, the kind of place that didn't even need magic to feel magical. There was this massive, circular lake right in the center, still and clear like glass, reflecting the sky above. The trees opened up just enough to let the sun spill in golden rays across the water. The whole place looked like it had been waiting for them.

They set up camp near the edge of the lake. Himmel did more supervising than actual helping, but no one complained. He still cracked jokes the whole time—dumb, dad-tier jokes that made Eisen roll his eyes and Heiter pretend he wasn't laughing. Frieren didn't say much, just kept glancing at Himmel whenever he wasn't looking. Tsumi noticed. He noticed everything that day.

That twist in his stomach hadn't gone away. It sat heavy, low in his gut, like something inside him already knew what the night was going to bring. But he kept ignoring it. Kept forcing himself to smile, to laugh at Himmel's jokes, to sit close when they started swapping stories over firelight.

"So," Himmel said, turning to Tsumi with a playful glint in his eyes, "you still haven't grown a single inch, huh? What are you, trying to win a bet with Frieren?"

Tsumi smirked. "I'll grow when I'm ready."

"You've been saying that for three decades."

"You've been making the same jokes for four."

Himmel burst out laughing, this deep, warm sound that filled the camp and made the stars above feel just a little brighter. Then, after a while, his voice dropped. "You know, Tsumi… you've made my life even better than I ever thought it could be."

Tsumi didn't reply right away. He just stared into the fire. "You're gonna make some sappy speech, aren't you?"

"I'm eighty. I'm allowed," Himmel said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "You don't get to run from these kinds of talks forever."

Tsumi didn't pull away. He just closed his eyes for a second, taking in the warmth of that hand. The strength was still there, but just barely. And it hurt more than he expected.

"You were always the kind of person I wanted to be," Tsumi whispered. "Even before I knew you."

Himmel smiled but didn't say anything. He just let the fire crackle between them as the sky darkened and the first streak of starlight appeared.

When the meteor shower finally started, it was quiet. The kind of silence that wrapped around you gently, like a soft blanket. Then the first light zipped across the sky, blazing a golden trail. Then another. And another. Soon, the whole sky was alive—ribbons of color and light cascading across the darkness, reflecting off the lake like a thousand stars were falling into the water.

Heiter leaned back on his pack with a soft whistle. "Well, damn."

"Even better than I remember," Eisen muttered, his eyes wide.

Frieren didn't say anything, but her face—her usually impassive, blank face—held the faintest hint of awe. Just a whisper of something emotional.

Tsumi couldn't stop staring. The lights danced overhead, so beautiful it made his chest ache. The kind of beauty that made you feel small, but in a good way. Like the world was so much bigger than your pain, your worries, your regrets. For a long time, none of them spoke.

Then Tsumi turned, just barely. "Hey, Dad, you're missing—"

But Himmel didn't respond.

His head was leaned back gently, his eyes closed.

At first, Tsumi thought maybe he'd just dozed off. The day had been long, the ride tiring, the stories probably draining for a man his age. But then something inside him froze. He looked closer. No movement. No breath. Nothing.

His voice caught. "Dad?"

Still nothing.

His hands shook as he reached out, touched Himmel's shoulder, gently, then with a little more force. "Dad. Come on."

But Himmel didn't wake up.

Tsumi's breath hitched. A strange numbness crept through his limbs. He couldn't hear the meteor shower anymore. Couldn't hear the fire. Everything felt far away, like he was watching from under water.

Frieren moved next. She stepped over, her expression unreadable. She knelt, placed two fingers against Himmel's neck, then gently closed his eyelids with one hand. The motion was soft. Reverent.

Heiter lowered his head. Eisen didn't say a word.

And Tsumi… he just sat there. Hands in his lap. Eyes fixed on the sky above. The meteor shower continued, painting the heavens in silver and gold.

Himmel, the Hero who defeated the Demon King, the man who laughed like thunder and fought like light, had passed away peacefully, surrounded by the people who loved him most. No pain. No struggle. Just silence and stars.

Tsumi didn't cry. Not yet. Not with everyone watching. But inside, a part of him broke—quietly, cleanly. Like a string snapping somewhere deep.

Because he knew what came next.

The centuries.

The loneliness.

The world continuing without the one person who made it feel like home.

But still, the sky kept glowing.



The funeral had been everything Himmel deserved—grand, full of people who loved him, people whose lives he'd touched just by existing. Heiter had taken the lead, naturally. He kept his voice steady, formal even, as he read the rites and offered words of remembrance, but Tsumi could see the redness in the old man's eyes, the quiver he tried to hide in his fingers. People came from all across the region—kings, nobles, merchants, common folk. All standing shoulder to shoulder for the hero who had once saved the world.

Tsumi had thought he'd be ready. He'd told himself for years that this day would come, had reminded himself over and over what it meant to be an elf, what it meant to outlive nearly everyone he loved. He'd even thought that maybe—just maybe—he'd be able to get through the whole thing without breaking down. But when they carried Himmel's body to the center of the field, wrapped in a hero's cloth, and laid his sword across his chest like the final chapter of a story that could never be retold... Tsumi cried.

He cried, even though he tried not to. Even though he clenched his fists and bit his tongue and told himself not to sob like some grieving child. It didn't matter. The tears came anyway, because losing someone like Himmel was too heavy for quiet acceptance. It hurt.

Some of the mourners glanced his way, murmuring low about how strange it was that Himmel's wife—Frieren—stood there like a statue. Cold. Silent. Barely blinking. They didn't understand. They never would.

But when the moment came—when it was time to lower Himmel's body into the grave, to toss the first handfuls of soil—something cracked. Tsumi watched her step forward, watched her stiff fingers tremble as she took the shovel and pushed it into the dirt. Her movements were mechanical, slow, but then, suddenly, she paused. Her eyes stayed fixed on the grave as the corners of her mouth tugged down and her shoulders sagged. She didn't make a sound, didn't wail or cry out. But the tears finally fell. Silent. Steady.

Frieren, the thousand-year-old mage, cried.

After the burial, people trickled away one by one. Some lingered longer, sharing stories about Himmel's adventures and jokes, his idiocy and heroics, the way he'd always smiled even when things were falling apart. Tsumi listened, grateful, but it all started to feel like a blur. A noisy, bright blur around a cold, quiet truth.

Eventually, only a few remained.

Heiter ruffled Tsumi's hair on the way out. "He was proud of you, you know. Talked about you every damn time we met."

Tsumi sniffed and muttered, "Thanks," but he didn't meet the priest's eyes. He couldn't.

Heiter didn't push. He just patted Tsumi on the back once and walked off, straight-backed and slow.

Eisen left not long after, quiet as always. He simply placed a hand on Tsumi's shoulder—huge and warm—and gave him a nod. It said everything words couldn't. Then he was gone too.

And then it was just the house. The home they had shared. It had never been noisy, not with Frieren around, but Himmel had always filled it with this... light. He talked too much. Made jokes at weird hours. Sang off-key. Greeted Tsumi every morning like it was the first time they'd seen each other in months. He'd snuck sweets into Tsumi's packs whenever they traveled, winked conspiratorially when Frieren scolded him for it. The man was joy incarnate, even when his bones started aching and he needed to rest between steps.

Now, the silence pressed in like fog.

Tsumi sat by the window, knees to his chest, arms looped around them. The sun was going down outside, and the shadows in the room stretched long. He stared out at nothing, ears twitching faintly. His thoughts drifted without shape, without color.

He thought of Heiter. Old, but still strong.

He thought of Eisen. Stoic, steady.

He thought about how both of them would be gone one day, just like Himmel. Maybe in a decade. Maybe in five. It didn't matter. The weight was the same.

And after them?

Would it just be him and Frieren?

Would she leave too, eventually?

He didn't hear her footsteps until she was standing right next to him. Frieren ruffled his hair, fingers soft and slow.

He blinked, startled. "I'm not a child," he mumbled, pulling his head away, trying to shake the touch off like it didn't matter.

"You are 1,350 years younger than me," she replied without missing a beat.

Tsumi frowned and looked back out the window.

"Your father wouldn't want you to sulk like this," she added, and her tone didn't change much—but something in it softened. Just a fraction.

He huffed through his nose. "Hmph."

Frieren crouched beside him, one hand on her knee, the other resting on the floor for balance. She looked at him directly, her green eyes calm. "Then it's decided."

Tsumi turned, confused. "What is?"

"Pack your things," she said. "It's time you started your real journey. With me."

"Huh?" His ears perked in confusion, twitching involuntarily. "You're not serious."

"I'm always serious."

"You mean... travel? Like... leave the village?"

"I mean exactly that."

Tsumi stared at her, heart thumping faster now. "What about the house? What about Himmel's grave?"

"We'll visit it," Frieren said. "But Himmel wouldn't want us to freeze here. He wouldn't want his son to become a shut-in over grief."

"I'm not a shut-in."

"You haven't changed your clothes in two days."

Tsumi looked down. He had, in fact, not changed his clothes in two days.

She stood up again, brushing off her knees. "We'll leave tomorrow. I already restocked the food supplies."

"You... already decided this without me?"

"I decided it when you started crying at the funeral."

"That's cold."

"You're an elf. You'll live for centuries. The world is too big to hide from it."

Tsumi felt a strange mix of annoyance and gratitude bubbling in his chest. He stood slowly, stretched out his limbs, and looked at the sky through the window. The stars were just starting to peek out.

"What kind of journey?"

Frieren walked away, cloak trailing behind her. "The usual," she said over her shoulder. "Dungeons, forgotten tomes, ancient ruins. Maybe some sweets, if you behave."

Tsumi cracked a half-smile, then turned toward his room. He stared at his pack, empty on the floor. His fingers hovered over it for a moment.

He still felt heavy. Still missed Himmel so much it hurt to breathe sometimes.

But something about Frieren's voice—her quiet insistence, her calm certainty—it gave him just enough to move forward.

He started packing.



Author's note: So, here's the idea. An ex-assassin dies, then wakes up in a quiet, peaceful world: reborn as the son of a hero.

I always thought Akame ga Kill was straight fire. Brutal, emotional, and just… raw. But man, there's barely any fanfics out there for it. So I figured, screw it, I'll write one myself.

And then there's Frieren: Beyond Journey's End. That show hit me differently. It's slow, it's quiet, but it says so much with so little. Watching someone who cares so deeply about her friends, knowing she'll outlive every single one of them… it's heartbreak in slow motion.

So I started thinking: what if someone like that existed in a world like Akame ga Kill? Someone who fought for others, someone who once killed without blinking, now reborn into a calm, peaceful life… and slowly realizing that no matter how warm this world feels, the past never really lets go.

This is Tsumi's story. A boy with too much blood on his hands and too much time left to feel it. A journey that doesn't end, even when everything else does.

Join my Discord Server and read this story ahead via early access if are feeling generous!

The morning they left the capital was gray, with thick clouds hanging low over the rooftops and a damp chill threading through the air. There wasn't much fanfare. No parades. No crowds. Just a few early risers sweeping porches or opening their shops, barely glancing up as Frieren and Tsumi made their way to the city gates. Tsumi had a small pack on his back, Himmel's old traveling cloak draped over his shoulders, a bit too big, still smelling faintly like old woodsmoke and sweets. He liked that. It made the ache in his chest feel a little less hollow.

Right outside the gate, Frieren stopped walking. Without saying anything, she rummaged through her satchel and pulled out a staff. It was worn and elegant, carved from pale wood that shimmered faintly in the light, with faint etchings along the sides that almost looked like runes. It had no flashy ornament, no gems or dangling charms—just a simple beauty to it, old but proud.

She held it out toward him.

He blinked. "Huh?"

"This was Flamme's," she said, eyes fixed on the horizon. "My master."

Tsumi stared at it for a second, unsure if she was serious. "Wait. That Flamme? The legendary mage? Like, your actual teacher?"

"Yes."

"And you're just… giving it to me?"

"You'll need it."

He didn't move. "But I don't know any magic."

"You will," she said, that same look crossing her face—the smug, unreadable expression that always made him feel like he was about to be blindsided by something enormous.

He stared at the staff a little longer, then slowly reached out and took it. It felt warm in his hands. Not like sunlight, but like old embers—something that had burned bright long ago and still remembered how.

"Don't break it," she added, deadpan. "It's older than most cities."

He snorted. "No pressure."

And so, just like that, the thousand-year-old elf and her 45-year-old son, who still looked like a kid barely past his first decade, stepped out into the world. The road stretched out before them like a winding ribbon of mystery, and behind them, the capital faded into the morning mist.

They didn't talk much at first. Frieren wasn't big on conversation unless it had purpose, and Tsumi was used to that by now. Instead, he watched the world change around them. The buildings grew fewer, then the trees more numerous. Villages came and went. Meadows and fields rippled under soft breezes. Animals scurried across paths. Time stretched.

He tried twirling the staff once. It clonked against his knee and nearly took his eye out.

"Don't be stupid," Frieren muttered without even looking.

"You didn't even turn around!"

"I didn't have to."

Days passed like that. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... there. Companionable. Occasionally, they'd stop by ruins or forgotten shrines. Frieren would chant something low under her breath, her fingers moving in precise shapes. Tsumi would try to follow, but nothing happened. Not yet. She didn't seem disappointed. If anything, she looked mildly entertained every time he failed.

"You've got talent," she'd say blankly.

"I just blew dirt in my face."

"It's a start."

One afternoon, as they camped beneath a sloping cliff with jagged stones jutting out like broken teeth, Tsumi finally asked, "What was Flamme like?"

Frieren didn't answer right away. She poked the fire with a stick, watching the embers jump.

"She was scary," she said eventually. "Impossibly talented. And annoying."

Tsumi raised a brow. "Sounds familiar."

"I wasn't talking about me."

He smirked, rolling over onto his side. "You miss her?"

"Sometimes."

He let the silence settle again, the crackling fire the only sound. "Do you think I'll be as strong as her someday?"

"You have potential."

"That doesn't answer anything."

"You'll see."

He groaned into his bedroll. "You're worse than the priest. At least Heiter told stories."

"You want stories?" she asked, glancing over.

He peeked out from under the edge of the blanket. "Yeah. Why not."

She paused. "Once, Himmel fell into a river trying to impress a group of kids. He claimed he could jump across the whole thing."

Tsumi stared. "What?"

"He missed by several feet. It was in spring, so the current was strong. We spent an hour pulling him out."

"That sounds like him."

"He tried to pretend he meant to do it."

Tsumi burst out laughing, loud and real, the kind that made his stomach tighten and his eyes sting just a little. Frieren smiled, barely—a tiny tug at the edge of her lips, quickly gone.

They kept walking. More days passed. They came across an abandoned village with stone paths overtaken by moss and ivy. Tsumi wandered through it while Frieren inspected some old magical seals near a collapsed shrine. As he walked, the staff in his hand felt less like a prop and more like something that belonged there. With him. Like it had been waiting.

They met travelers too—merchants, monks, adventurers. Some recognized Frieren. Most didn't know Tsumi, but they all reacted the same way once they learned who he was.

"Wait… you're her son?"

"You do look like her."

"Are you human?"

"Are you actually five?"

He learned to nod, smile, and deflect with vague answers. It was easier than explaining his past life, his human heart inside an elf's slow-growing body. But the confusion never quite left him. Sometimes, staring into a pond or a mirror, he still saw Tatsumi. Still heard Akame's voice. Still remembered that cold night when he'd thought it was the end.

He didn't bring it up with Frieren. Not yet. Maybe one day.

That night, while the stars glinted coldly above them and the forest hummed around their camp, he sat with the staff across his lap and asked, "Do you think Himmel's proud of me?"

Frieren didn't look up from the spell she was scribbling into the dirt.

"Yes."

"Even though I haven't done anything?"

"He saw who you could be."

He ran his fingers along the old etchings, tracing the grooves. "I don't know what that is yet."

"You will."

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

Tsumi exhaled, his breath forming little clouds in the night air. He didn't feel strong. He didn't feel like a hero or a mage or a warrior. Just a kid still trying to make sense of where one life ended and another began.

But as he stared at the staff, at Frieren's calm face bathed in firelight, and the stars that stretched endlessly overhead, he felt something steady growing in his chest. Not peace, not yet—but maybe... the start of it.

Tomorrow, they'd keep walking. And he'd learn. And fail. And try again.

That was the journey.



Together, they wandered across forgotten trails, dug through half-buried ruins swallowed by time, and cleared out old dungeons that smelled like mildew, rot, and ancient failure. Frieren had this habit—an incredibly annoying one—of crawling into tiny treasure chests because "there might be a hidden compartment." There never was. Every single time, she got stuck. And every single time, Tsumi had to grab her ankles and yank her out while she deadpanned instructions like, "A little to the left. No, the other left." He always rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the quiet laughter that bubbled up. Her awkwardness reminded him of Sheele—especially when she clumsily tripped over her own robes or got distracted by a shiny rock. It was the kind of unintentional chaos that made her feel weirdly human despite being over a thousand years old.

But when it came to teaching magic? She was a demon in elf's clothing.

"Again," she'd say, arms crossed, face blank, while Tsumi's hands trembled from channeling too much mana.

"That was my twelfth try—"

"It was wrong. Again."

And he'd do it again. Because with Frieren, there were no shortcuts. No kind reassurances or little ego boosts. Just constant repetition and perfection demanded in every inch of a spell. She didn't even yell. That would've made things easier. Instead, she just stared with those unreadable eyes, like disappointment and apathy were playing poker in her skull.

She started small. Basic conjuring spells—making a small flame or a puff of wind. Then levitation, which he was horrible at. His first attempt flung a tree branch straight into his own face. Then came barriers, which were simple in theory but infuriating in practice. His shields kept forming as thin, paper-like veils that crumpled under pressure. Frieren said nothing, just watched as he kept at it, lips slightly pursed like she was trying not to make a comment.

Eventually, she introduced Zoltraak.

"Isn't that an advanced attack spell?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"You're not bad. You'll manage."

"No I won't."

"You'll try."

He nearly set their tent on fire the first time. The second time, it blew up a boulder. The third, he passed out from mana exhaustion.

Somewhere along the line, though, something changed. His control improved. The flow of mana started to obey him. The conjuring spells stopped flickering. Levitation came easier, smoother. His barriers actually blocked things now, and Zoltraak—well, sometimes it exploded a little too hard, but it worked. And Frieren… she didn't compliment him. Not directly. But he noticed how she stopped hovering. How she stood with her back turned during practice, like she didn't need to watch every move. That was praise, in her own cryptic way.

"Did you ever want me to be a swordsman?" he asked her once, while they rested by a quiet river, the sky smeared with pink and gold from the setting sun.

She sipped her tea and stared across the water. "Himmel thought you'd be a good one. But I knew better."

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

She shrugged. "You swing swords well. But your magic has potential."

"So I'm your project?"

"You're my proof."

He blinked. "Proof of what?"

"That I'm a better teacher than Himmel."

He snorted. "Are you serious? You're using me to win some ancient bet?"

"Yes."

"Wow. And here I thought I was special."

"You are. Just also useful."

He grumbled, tossing a pebble into the river, but he didn't really mind. It was kind of funny, knowing that even now, decades later, she was still trying to one-up the man she'd spent half her life pretending not to care about. And if he was the guinea pig caught in the middle? Well, it wasn't the worst thing. He was learning. Growing. Becoming something he never thought he'd be.

He used to believe his path was set in steel and blood. A sword drawn for justice. A blade turned against tyrants. But this new life had given him another kind of weapon—one that glowed and shimmered with potential. Something quiet. Something vast.

Frieren didn't say it often, but when she did, it stuck.

"You're doing well, Tsumi. Keep going."




By the time Tsumi reached the age of sixty, he still looked like a scrawny nine-year-old kid with messy sky-blue hair that always looked like he'd just woken up and forgotten to comb it. His ears were long and pointy like his mother's, and his eyes—those vivid, contemplative green ones—had started to carry a weight that didn't match his childish face. Most villagers they passed assumed he was a human child traveling with his unusually chill and mysterious mother. They had no idea he was older than their mayor, and had enough magical prowess to vaporize a small mountain if he really wanted to.

His mana had been steadily growing, far beyond what Frieren expected. One quiet morning while they were sitting under the shade of a moss-covered tree, watching dew drip off the tips of leaves, Frieren casually mentioned, "Your mana output is roughly five times that of Heiter."

Tsumi nearly choked on his bread. "Are you kidding? Five times? Seriously? I knew I had good control, but that's insane!"

"It's decent," she said, in that nonchalant tone that always made him unsure if she was mocking or praising him.

"Decent? That's godlike compared to most humans."

"Heiter was a good priest. You're an elf. Mana comes easier."

Tsumi leaned back against the tree and smirked, trying to hide how proud he felt. "Give me a decade. I'll surpass you, too."

Frieren didn't even blink. "I've been concealing ninety percent of my mana since you were born."

He froze. His smirk dropped into a slow, confused blink. "…Excuse me?"

She took a calm sip of tea, looking off into the trees like she'd just commented on the weather. "Ninety percent. Maybe ninety-two. Depends."

He stared at her. "Ninety. Percent."

"Yes."

"You've been walking around with less than a tenth of your power this whole time?"

"Mhm."

"That's… That's insane! That's not fair! That's—"

She turned her gaze to him, as blank and dry as ever. "Would you like me to show you?"

Tsumi hesitated. His pride said yes. His stomach said no. His instincts—which had been sharpened in his last life in a world full of cruel tyrants and deadly women—screamed to run. But he was a Tsumi now. A mix of Tatsumi's stubbornness and Frieren's eternal patience. So he squared his tiny shoulders and said, "Go on. Do it. I can handle it."

"Okay."

The moment she dropped her concealment, he regretted everything.

It was like a massive wall of pressure slammed into his chest. A silent hurricane with no wind, no sound, just a terrifying weight that smothered the air and curled around his skin like invisible flames. His breath caught. His knees buckled. The trees around them shivered, birds scattered into the sky, and the nearby grass flattened as if an unseen wave had passed through.

He collapsed. Hard.

The world spun, blurred, and then everything went black.

When he came to, it was three days later. His head was pounding, and his limbs felt like someone had swapped them with lead pipes. He sat up with a groan and saw Frieren calmly reading a book by the fire, looking unbothered.

"You lasted longer than I expected," she said without looking up.

"You expected me to pass out?!"

"Yes."

"You're horrible."

"You asked."

He groaned again and fell back onto the bedroll. "I saw my life flash before my eyes. All of it. Twice."

"You needed the reference. Now you understand why mana concealment is important."

That was the beginning of his second major training arc: concealment. It turned out that magic wasn't just about how much power you had, but how well you could hide it. Frieren explained that experienced mages—and demons—could detect mana presence like bloodhounds. If you went around flaring your magical signature like a lighthouse, you might as well be begging to get ambushed.

"Especially when you're as strong as you are," she'd said one day, while lazily poking a log in the fire with her staff. "You look like a harmless little elf boy. That's an advantage. Don't waste it."

And so he didn't.

Tsumi dedicated weeks—then months—on suppressing his mana to nearly undetectable levels. At first, it was like trying to hold his breath while running uphill. His magic kept leaking out in tiny spurts no matter how much he focused. Frieren made him practice in villages, around old adventurers, around animals. She'd sometimes suddenly release her mana while he was in deep meditation just to throw him off. It worked. He got better. Fast.

The weird part? It came more naturally than he expected. Like muscle memory, except it wasn't from this life. Something inside him just knew how to restrain power. Maybe it was the old assassin instincts from Night Raid. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, it helped.

By the end of that year, Frieren nodded once—a barely visible approval—but Tsumi felt it like a medal pinned to his chest.

"You're getting there."

"I've been there," he bragged, stretching his arms. "Even you didn't notice me sneak up behind you this morning."

"I was asleep."

"I call that a win."

"You snore."

"I don't—wait, I do not!"

"You do. Like a tiny walrus."

"You know I'm gonna get back at you for that, right?"

"Try."

And he did try. Every day. Because that was their dynamic. A never-ending tug of pride and patience, teasing and training, sarcasm and subtle affection. And through it all, Tsumi was growing. Slowly, steadily, in ways that mattered.

He didn't just want to become stronger for himself. He wanted to live up to Himmel's expectations. To be the proof Frieren had bet on. To honor the lost memories of Night Raid. And maybe, just maybe, to stand one day as her equal—not just her student or her son, but someone who could walk beside her, spell for spell.

But there was still a long road ahead. And a thousand more weird, hilarious, and slightly painful lessons waiting just around the corner.



As promised, they set off to visit Heiter's grave. It had been years since they'd seen the old priest, and Frieren had insisted on bringing along a few bottles of strong liquor—"For pouring, not drinking," she'd said with that perfectly unreadable tone. Tsumi didn't argue. It was Heiter, after all. That man had once drunk three entire barrels of celebratory wine after Himmel's statue had been unveiled, then passed out while sermonizing to a flock of sheep. They figured he'd want his grave properly honored—with booze, sarcasm, and a bit of dry elf commentary.

The three of them—Frieren, Tsumi, and their tired old mule—arrived at the little village cemetery just past sundown. The grass was overgrown, fireflies floating lazily through the air like sleepy spirits. But when they checked the old place, Heiter's grave wasn't there.

There was no tombstone. No fresh flowers. No empty bottles.

Just grass and stone. And silence.

Tsumi scratched his head, confused. "Did they… bury him without a marker?"

"Maybe it faded," Frieren said, narrowing her eyes. "Or maybe they moved it?"

That's when they heard a voice behind them.

"Um… what are you doing?"

Both of them turned.

There stood a girl. Around Tsumi's height, with neat purple hair pulled back in a loose braid, a simple robe, and a wooden mage staff that looked like it had seen more than a few years of travel. Her expression wasn't hostile—just curious. A little cautious.

"We're looking for my friend's grave," Frieren replied plainly. "Heiter."

The girl tilted her head. "Why?"

"To drench it in alcohol."

The girl blinked. "Heiter-sama… isn't dead."

Tsumi stared. "Wait—what?"

"He's alive," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It took a full second for the news to land in Tsumi's brain. Then his ears twitched. His face lit up like a festival lantern. "He's alive?! Are you serious?!"

The girl nodded, a bit startled by his sudden cheer.

"Where is he?" Frieren asked.

"His house. This way."

She led them through a quiet trail into the woods, where the path curved between mossy trees and a brook whispered alongside. Eventually, the little forest cleared, revealing a humble wooden cottage with smoke trailing from the chimney. Vines clung to the sides like nature trying to give it a hug, and a row of herbs hung by the window.

The door opened before they could knock.

And there he was.

Older. Wrinkled beyond belief. His beard was like a tangled curtain of gray, and his eyes had gone more watery than Tsumi remembered. But he stood tall—well, as tall as an old man could. And most shockingly of all… he didn't smell like alcohol.

Heiter blinked once. Then smiled.

"…Frieren? Tsumi?"

Tsumi could barely believe it. "You're alive."

"You're taller," Heiter replied with a chuckle. "Two inches, I'd say."

They stepped inside. The house was warm, cozy, smelling of herbs and dried flowers. The girl made tea while Heiter pulled out a chair and insisted Frieren sit. She didn't refuse.

"It's been twenty years," Heiter said, his voice more gravel than it used to be, but still unmistakably his.

"You were supposed to be dead," Tsumi said, his tone torn between scolding and relief.

"I was close. Liver failed on me, remember?" Heiter gestured to his belly. "Then she showed up."

The girl—now pouring tea—glanced over shyly.

"Name's Fern," Heiter continued. "Found her in a burned-out village. She had nothing. Took her in. She's got a knack for magic."

Frieren eyed the girl for a moment. "You're teaching her?"

Heiter grinned. "Tried. But I think she learns more from my snoring than my sermons."

Fern blushed and quietly handed Frieren her cup.

Tsumi looked between them, the warm light of the cottage flickering in his eyes. He could see it—how peaceful this place was. How full of life. And it made him happy. Even if it also made him realize how long twenty years really was.

He hadn't even noticed the weight in his chest until it started to lift.



Fern looked at him like he was just another kid. Her eyes were curious, maybe a little guarded, but definitely not suspicious of the fact that the so-called "kid" in front of her had already lived nearly five decades. Tsumi knew it the moment their eyes met—if he opened his mouth and told her the truth, it'd crush whatever innocence was left in the way she smiled. He could already imagine it: the awkward stare, the silence, the "…wait, you're how old?" Followed by the inevitable, "…that's creepy."

So he didn't say it.

Instead, he gave her a lopsided grin and asked, "Hey, uh… do you wanna go outside and play?"

Fern blinked, surprised by the question. She looked back toward the cottage, maybe checking to see if Heiter or Frieren would say something. But neither did. Heiter was busy pouring another cup of tea, and Frieren was already eyeing the bookshelf like she planned to spend the next four hours inspecting every single title.

"Play?" she asked.

Tsumi gave a confident nod. "Yeah. Like with magic. Not kiddie stuff."

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the fabric of her robe. Then he leaned closer, lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret, and said, "I've got a staff. A real one. With runes and everything. Wanna see?"

That did it.

Her eyes lit up a little, and she tilted her head. "You have a magic staff?"

"Yep." He swung it around like it was some kind of baton, then caught it mid-spin and tapped it on the floor with a small spark of mana. "Cool, right?"

Her lips curled into a smile. A small one at first. Then bigger. "Okay. Wait for me."

She hurried inside and came back with her own staff—a bit taller than her, made of rough, aged wood with little bits of string tied to the handle. Clearly used, clearly cared for.

Together, they stepped outside.

The late afternoon sun was just starting to dip behind the trees, painting the forest path gold. The light scattered through the branches above, and the wind carried the faint scent of pine and old rain. It felt timeless, like the sort of moment Tsumi wouldn't have noticed in his past life—back when everything had to be about missions and death and survival. Now, it just felt peaceful.

Fern picked a spot under the trees and planted her feet, raising her staff like she meant business.

"You first," she said, clearly expecting him to show off.

Tsumi grinned. "Alright. But don't cry if you get jealous."

He lifted his staff and summoned a basic levitation spell, focusing his mana just enough to lift a few rocks from the forest floor. They floated up lazily, spinning in a slow circle above his head before he sent them dancing around in a figure-eight pattern.

Fern's eyes widened. "Whoa…"

"I can also do this," he added, channeling just a bit more to spark a tiny Zoltraak spell, which he immediately shot harmlessly at a fallen log. It fizzled on impact, leaving a neat little scorch mark.

Fern clapped once, then raised her own staff. "Okay! Watch this!"

She summoned her mana—messier, a little raw, but full of energy. A gust of wind kicked up, stirring the leaves, and then a small ball of light sparked at the end of her staff. She launched it into the sky where it burst like a miniature firework.

Tsumi laughed. "Hey, that's actually pretty good."

"Really?" she looked hopeful.

He nodded. "Better than my first spell. I almost set a chicken on fire."

She giggled. "You're lying."

"I'm dead serious. Ask Frieren."

They spent the next hour just practicing spells, tossing tiny bursts of mana at trees, making stones levitate, and occasionally tripping over their own feet. Tsumi held back, of course. He didn't want to show her just how much he could actually do—not because he was arrogant, but because he remembered what it felt like to be around people who were too far ahead. And Fern deserved to feel proud of herself.

Eventually, they ended up sitting on a rock near the stream. Fern was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed from excitement, but she looked happy. Really happy.

"You're kinda weird," she said.

Tsumi blinked. "Weird how?"

"You talk like an adult."

"Maybe I'm just mature."

She narrowed her eyes. "You also complain like an old man."

He laughed. "Fair. I've had… a lot of years to practice."

Fern tilted her head. "How old are you, really?"

That gave him pause. He stared out at the stream, watching the water twist and slide over stones, the light bouncing across the surface like it was trying to distract him from answering.

"…Old enough," he said eventually.

Fern raised an eyebrow but didn't press.

And he was grateful for that.



Frieren lay awkwardly on her back, half-buried under a mountain of toppled books. Her legs stuck out from beneath the mess, one boot twitching slightly as Heiter sighed and began lifting the tomes off her one by one. Fern stood nearby, nervously hugging her staff, unsure whether to laugh or panic.

"You really need to stop stuffing those top shelves," Heiter muttered, balancing a stack of thick grimoires in one hand while nudging a particularly heavy-looking book off her stomach with the other.

"I was looking for a spell on advanced barrier magic," Frieren mumbled, her voice muffled beneath a worn leather-bound volume titled The Complete History of Ancient Demon Sealing Techniques.

Heiter finally got the last of them off and offered her a hand. She sat up, brushing dust and old parchment fragments off her robes. Her face was as unreadable as ever, but Heiter knew her well enough to catch the tiny crease in her brow. Embarrassment, probably.

"Since we're all gathered," Heiter said, settling back into his creaky chair, "I want to ask you something."

Frieren didn't respond right away. She plucked a bent page out of her hair and gave him a look.

"I want you to take Fern under your wing," he said plainly.

"No," Frieren replied immediately.

Fern flinched, blinking. Tsumi, sitting nearby with a cup of tea, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He just sipped quietly, waiting.

Heiter leaned forward. "She's got real talent. You can see it too, can't you?"

"I already teach Tsumi," Frieren said flatly. "You want me to juggle students now?"

"You're an elf. You've got time," Heiter countered. "Fern's a human. She doesn't."

Frieren paused.

Tsumi glanced at Fern, who was doing a terrible job hiding the hope in her eyes. She was pretending to read a book, but she hadn't flipped a single page in minutes.

"She's a kid," Frieren finally said.

"So was Tsumi when you started teaching him."

"I didn't agree to it. Himmel tricked me into that."

Heiter smiled. "So I'll trick you too."

Frieren narrowed her eyes.

"Look," Heiter said, more serious now. "Once I die, she'll be all alone. I'm old, Frieren. I've been lucky to last this long. You know what it's like to outlive everyone. So does Tsumi. But Fern? She'll be left behind before she even gets to really live. Don't let her grow up thinking this world doesn't care about her."

Frieren looked over at Fern. The girl was still pretending to read, clutching the book tighter than necessary. She reminded her of someone. Or maybe several someones.

Heiter leaned back with a small sigh. "She has potential. Lots of it. You can guide her. Make her strong enough to stand on her own someday."

Frieren still didn't say anything.

Heiter tapped the side of his chair. "And while you're at it, look for a spell of immortality."

That got a reaction.

She blinked. "Immortality?"

"Yeah," he said with a smile, like he'd just asked her to pick up groceries.

"Are you afraid of death?" she asked, curious more than mocking.

"Of course I am. Everyone says they're not, but they are," Heiter chuckled. "I'm not ready to leave yet. I've got people I care about. I want to see what happens next."

"Hm," Frieren muttered. "Never thought of you like that."

"You think I'm brave?" he grinned.

"I think you're loud and drunk."

"Fair."

They sat in silence for a while. Tsumi had put his tea down and was now watching Fern, who had finally given up the act and was just staring at Frieren.

Heiter smiled. "I think Fern and Tsumi will get along just fine."

"They already do," Frieren said softly.

"So?" Heiter raised an eyebrow. "You taking Fern?"

Frieren stared at the girl. Then at Tsumi. Then back at the ceiling like she was weighing every star in the sky.

"…Fine."



Heiter passed away quietly in his sleep just a few weeks later. There wasn't a fuss, no dramatic final words—just the stillness of morning, the kind that feels too quiet, like the world itself paused for a second.

Frieren didn't say much. She was the one who found him, still clutching a book in his lap, a half-filled glass of wine on the table beside him. Tsumi helped prepare the burial. Fern held herself together well—too well for someone so young—but Tsumi caught her wiping her eyes behind her sleeves when she thought no one was looking.

They buried Heiter under the old pine tree behind his cottage, just like he had once said he wanted. The gravestone was simple, the way he would've liked it: Heiter – Priest, Friend, Fool. Frieren poured a bottle of his favorite booze over the grave, just as promised. It soaked into the soil as Fern knelt beside the mound, pressing her forehead to the cool stone, whispering a goodbye only the wind could carry.

Tsumi stood nearby, arms folded, looking down at the grave in silence. He didn't cry, but there was a long ache in his chest, heavy and still. Another friend, gone. And many more to go. He already knew how this would feel, again and again. But it didn't make it easier.

That night, none of them spoke much. Frieren just read in her corner, Fern sat near the fireplace clutching her staff, and Tsumi leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The shadows of the flames danced across the old walls, turning everything gold and flickering like a memory.

The next morning, they packed their bags. The house was left clean, quiet, and still. Just as Heiter would've wanted.

Fern didn't cry when they walked away from the house. She didn't look back either. She just walked forward, her steps quiet but steady.

And like that, the little human girl with the wooden staff began her journey alongside two elves, one 60 and the other over 1,400. It was an odd trio, but somehow, it worked.


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