Two more years had passed in the secluded valley, years that had seen Bell Cranel grow from a curious six-year-old into a lean, agile eight-year-old. His days were a relentless cycle of training, each session pushing his small body and burgeoning mind to their limits. He was a blur of motion during physical drills, his footwork precise, his dagger strikes economical. His magical aptitude, too, had blossomed under Alfia’s tutelage. He could now consistently cast his "Ekriksi Ichou," controlling its concussive force with remarkable precision, a testament to his rapid learning and unwavering dedication. He had learned the hard lesson of mana exhaustion, never again pushing himself to unconsciousness, always stopping just short of the precipice.
Alfia watched his progress with a quiet, almost grim satisfaction. Bell was becoming strong, undeniably so. He was a reflection of her own discipline, a vessel for the power she both wielded and despised. Her own illness, while still a constant companion, remained stable, held at bay by the profound, if unspoken, purpose Bell’s presence provided. She was forging him, piece by painstaking piece, into the hero she believed Orario would need, a hero unlike any the city had seen.
Their only consistent link to the outside world was Zeus. The old god would arrive every few months, his visits a blend of boisterous affection for Bell and somber updates for Alfia. He would bring supplies, fresh stories, and, increasingly, news of a world still reeling from the Great Feud, a world that was far from the 'era of peace' it claimed to be.
One cool evening, as Bell practiced his dagger forms in the fading light, the rhythmic thump of his footwork echoing softly, Zeus sat with Alfia by the hearth, his usual jovial demeanor subdued. He spoke in hushed tones, his gaze occasionally drifting to Bell, a flicker of concern in his ancient eyes.
"Orario is… restless, Alfia," Zeus began, stirring his tea. "The 'peace' that Loki and Freya boast of is a fragile thing. Built on the ashes of our Familias, it seems to crack under the slightest pressure."
Alfia merely hummed, a noncommittal sound, her eyes fixed on Bell’s movements. "They sought power. They have it. What more could they want?" Her voice was flat, devoid of warmth, reflecting her deep-seated cynicism towards the current power structure.
"Control," Zeus sighed, his gaze distant. "And to erase the memory of what came before. But the past, as you know, has a way of resurfacing. Especially when it’s been buried under so much blood." He paused, then continued, his voice dropping further. "The remnants of Evilus… they stir. Not as organized as during the Seven Days of Calamity, but like a festering wound. Small cells, causing chaos in the shadows. The Guild struggles to contain them fully."
Alfia’s expression remained impassive, but a subtle tension entered her shoulders. She remembered Evilus, their insidious reach, their destructive goals. She had fought them during the 'Seven Days of Calamity,' a period of carnage and destruction that was considered 'normal' in their era. The memory of those battles, the sheer scale of the conflict, was etched into her very being.
"And the 'heroes' of this new era?" Alfia finally asked, her voice laced with a faint, cynical edge. "Are Loki and Freya’s children proving their worth against these 'stirrings'?"
Zeus took a long sip of his tea, his eyes narrowing slightly. "They are strong, yes. Ottarl, Finn, Gareth, Riveria… formidable. But a year ago, Alfia… when Bell was seven… Orario bled again. It was a major Evilus resurgence. Not the scale of the Seven Days, but close enough to shake the foundations of their 'peace'."
Bell, though focused on his training, caught snippets of their conversation. 'Evilus.' 'Chaos.' He didn't fully understand the words, but the tone, the grim set of his grandfather’s jaw, conveyed a sense of danger, of something dark lurking beyond their valley. He knew his Stepmother had fought in a great war, a war that had ended with their Familias banished. He knew she carried a heavy burden from it. He remembered the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her hand when she had demonstrated her powerful techniques, a fleeting glimpse of the cost of her strength.
"The Apate and Alecto Familias," Zeus recounted, his voice heavy with the weight of the recent past. "Two of Evilus's strongest. They launched a coordinated attack. The city was plunged into chaos. Loki and Freya Familias fought valiantly, of course. Finn, Ottarl… they were at the forefront. But it was a brutal, drawn-out conflict. Many lives were lost."
Alfia’s expression remained composed, her gaze unwavering. She processed the information, analyzing the strategic implications of such a large-scale attack, the capabilities of these Evilus factions, and the response of Orario's current dominant Familias. There was no flicker of personal pain or recognition for the specific Familias involved, only a cold, calculating assessment of the forces at play in the city she had left behind.
"The Astraea Familia was heavily involved," Zeus continued, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and sorrow. "They fought with a fierce justice, as always. They suffered terrible losses, Alfia. Many of their adventurers fell. But they were not wiped out. Their goddess, Astraea, rallied them. They endured, though scarred."
Alfia’s eyes remained fixed on the dancing flames in the hearth, her posture rigid. She had heard of the Astraea Familia, of course, their reputation for justice was well-known even in her era. But she had no personal connection to them, no shared history that would evoke a flicker of emotion. Her mind, however, was already cataloging the information: A Familia dedicated to justice, suffered heavy losses but endured. A potential force, if properly directed. The grim reality of the world outside their valley, a world still plagued by the very darkness she had fought, solidified her resolve.
"Zald… he fell during that conflict, Alfia," Zeus said, his voice thick with grief, a raw edge to his tone. "He faced Ottarl. Even poisoned and weakened from his past battles, he fought like the Predator he was. He was trying to be a stepping stone, to make the new generation stronger, even in his death. A sacrifice, in his own way, to push them beyond their limits."
Bell paused his movements, his small ears catching the name 'Zald.' He had heard Zeus mention him before, a legendary figure from the old stories, a companion of his Stepmother. He looked at Alfia, seeing the subtle clenching of her jaw, the slight tightening of her grip on her teacup. He didn't know the full story, not truly, but he understood that this recent attack, and the mention of Zald's death, brought a deep sadness to his Stepmother. He saw the way her gaze hardened, a silent acknowledgment of profound loss and lingering threats.
"The city… they still blame us, Alfia," Zeus said, his voice tinged with bitterness, a rare display of his own lingering resentment. "For 'failing to protect the world.' They threw rocks at our remaining members. They wanted us gone. And Loki and Freya were all too eager to oblige. They solidified their power, built their 'peace' on our banishment, on the narrative that we were the cause of the turmoil, not the shield against it."
Alfia finally turned her gaze from Bell, meeting Zeus’s eyes. Her expression was cold, resolute, a steel mask over her inner turmoil. "Then we will ensure Bell does not fail. We will ensure he is strong enough to protect what truly matters. Strong enough to face the darkness that still lingers, no matter what 'peace' they claim." Her voice was low, but carried an unshakeable conviction. The banishment, the humiliation, the loss of their comrades – it all fueled her resolve. Bell was their legacy, their chance at true redemption.
Bell, though still young, felt the weight of their words. He didn't grasp the full political machinations, the deep-seated grudges, or the tragic history. But he understood the undercurrent of danger, the sense of a world that needed protecting. He understood that his Stepmother, the quiet, strict woman who taught him to breathe and to fight, was preparing him for something immense. He looked from Zeus, who spoke of fallen heroes and a city’s betrayal, to Alfia, who watched him with an unwavering, almost fierce determination. He was a part of something larger, a legacy he was only just beginning to comprehend. The world beyond their valley was turbulent, dangerous, and it was calling. And Bell, unknowingly, was being forged into the answer. The echoes of Orario's past, filtered through Zeus's weary voice, were slowly, inexorably, shaping the hero of its future.