After that night, I went with her a couple more times before the holidays ended and I had to return to the academy.
Those were the last moments I ever spent with my mother.
When I finished the sixth and final year Alice and I managed to graduate a year early I found out my mother had died on a mission.
My teeth clenched.
My nails dug into the flesh of my palm.
Even though I begged for an explanation, the incident was classified as confidential. Only high-ranking members had access to the details.
Through tears, I begged my father to tell me what had happened. I could see the pain in his eyes... but he said nothing.
No one told me anything.
No one told me anything.
NO ONE TOLD ME ANYTHING!
That's why I'll become a Paladin. I'll force them to tell me what happened that day.
And I'll change this cursed place my mother despised so much.
With every second that passes, I feel my rage rising, like a fire I can't contain.
My body shakes.
My eyes fill with tears...
But just when I was about to explode, I felt two arms wrap around my neck. It was Alice. She didn't say a word. She just held me.
Just like back then.
After Mom's death, I sank into a dark place. I stopped training. I barely ate. My progress came to a halt.
But she didn't walk away.
She stayed with me. Sat with me in my grief until I finally found a way out. Even though it meant slowing down her own progress.
"Thank you. I'm okay now," I whispered.
"Are you sure? We can wait a little longer," she said, worry in her eyes.
"No, it's fine. Let's finish this as fast as we can," I replied calmly.
I used a basic-level skill combustion to burn the man's body. Leaving him there just didn't feel right.
We kept walking, heading deeper into the heart of the slums.
Thirty minutes later, we came across a group of people gathered in the street.
The men, hunched over from hunger, were clawing at the ground with bloodied fingers, as if the dirt could offer them more than dust.
The elderly leaned on gnarled sticks, their legs trembling under the weight of decades of misery.
Some barely moved, dragging their feet across the stone path as if their bodies had already given up.
Sadly, there was nothing we could do. Drawing attention would jeopardize the mission.
We walked straight through. They saw us, but showed no real reaction. Maybe they saw us as the same just more faces shaped by the same despair. A sign that the illusion was working.
Minutes later, we heard shouting.
We moved closer, cautiously. Beneath a bridge, two men were struggling.
I could sense it they had almost no mana. They weren't even at Initiate rank. Just non-users.
One of them, the larger man, held a small knife. The other clutched a piece of bread.
That was the reason for the fight.
If you looked closely, the boy with the bread showed fewer signs of starvation than the man with the knife.
But none of that mattered.
Even though the slums receive food shipments every month, it's never enough for the number of mouths.
That's why life here is a constant battle for a piece of bread. Only the strongest survive.
When George fell, all skill manuals were confiscated. Mid- and high-ranked users who joined the uprising were either killed or imprisoned.
Still, a few low-level users managed to pass on their knowledge to the next generations.
But over time, and with fewer resources, most of that knowledge was lost.
Even so, there are still a few low-level manuals hidden out there.
That's why some people can still use mana. Most of them live in the "center."
Out of all the sectors that make up the slums, the center is in the best condition.
It's where the supply shipments are stored before they're distributed to the other areas.
From what I've heard, the forty kilometers that make up the center are divided into smaller zones, each ruled by different groups. That's where the largest concentration of mana users lives.
Every month, when supplies are sent to the outskirts, each group sends a representative to escort the cargo to a neutral zone where distribution takes place.
Of course, the distribution is far from fair.
That's why the outermost zones suffer the greatest shortages and why there are fewer mana users there.
That's why we're heading to the center. It's the place where we're most likely to find information about powerful users potential suspects in the novice death.
But all this knowledge... I got it over five years ago, from the people Mom used to heal. I don't even know if it's still true.
But it's all we've got.
AAAHHHHH!
A scream tore me out of my thoughts.
The boy with the bread tried to run, but the man with the knife lunged and stabbed him in the thigh.
The boy collapsed, but held onto the bread like it was the only thing keeping him alive like it was his most precious treasure.
They struggled... until—
The man stabbed him again.
He didn't hesitate. He just thrust the blade in.
The knife sank into the boy's side like it was slicing into a half-empty sack.
"Aaaahhhh!"
His screams echoed through the alley, raw with pain.
But hunger was worse.
The wounded boy didn't let go of the bread. He clutched it even as the knife plunged into his chest.
"Aaaaaaahhh!"
His cries grew louder. You could hear his throat tearing with every scream.
The attacker didn't stop. With each stab, he shouted.
"Mine! Mine! My bread!"
Blood splattered across the loaf, but he didn't seem to care.
After a while, the screaming stopped.
There was no more strength in the hands holding that bread.
No more hunger. No more agony.
Ironically, his eyes looked peaceful like, in his final moment, he'd finally glimpsed the exit from this hell.
The attacker stopped stabbing.
He picked up the blood-soaked bread with shaking hands.
Brought it to his mouth and bit down.
It must have tasted awful.
And yet...
His expression was one of the happiest I've ever seen.