Journey to Become the Zenith

Beneath Quiet Skies

Just as Victor sat deep in conversation with the trio running Fantom City’s shadows, Clara closed the last folder Isabella needed. Home seemed like the right move now. She stood, slipped on her coat, then walked out into the evening air.

Empty now, the guild hall held only dimming light. Papers sat in tidy piles - Clara made sure of that. Over the chair she slumped, Isabella, her deep violet hair spilling across the shadowed cloth of her outfit, tired eyes barely open.

”You know,” Isabella said lazily, tapping the final sealed document with a slender finger, ”if you ever decide to abandon me, I might actually drown in parchment.”

Up went Clara, spine aligned, tugging at glove edges. Down her back ran golden strands, neat as a drawn line. Light from above - gentle, dim - washed her gaze pale, turning purple into something close to moonlight.

”I won’t abandon you,” Clara replied calmly. ”At least not without training your replacement properly.”

Isabella’s lips curved. ”That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

”It’s advice.”

A hush settled, soft and easy. Not related by family ties, yet time filled the gap. Through seasons of effort, through evenings stretched thin, a bond took root. Much went unsaid. Still, it held.

For just an instant more, Isabella watched Clara. Then she looked away.

”You’re distracted lately.”

For a moment, Clara stayed quiet. Then silence stretched before she spoke

She simply gathered her cloak.

”...You noticed?”

”I always notice.”

Clara gave a faint exhale. ”It’s nothing.”

Isabella smirked knowingly but didn’t press further. ”Fine. Go home before I assign you more work out of spite.”

Clara turned to leave, but Isabella’s voice followed her.

”And Clara?”

She paused.

”...Be careful.”

Clara’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

”I always am.”

—

Before going to her house, Clara stopped by the marketplace.

Evening was settling over Fantom City. Lanterns flickered to life one by one. The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced broth drifted through the air. Vendors were closing, but many recognized her immediately.

”Clara! I’ve been waiting for you,” one butcher called out warmly. ”Here’s the storm elk cut you requested. Fresh from the highlands. I added some river trout fillets as well. You looked tired last time—protein helps.”

Clara blinked once, then allowed herself a small smile.

”Thank you.”

The butcher waved dismissively. ”Ah, don’t mention it. You always pay fair. And you saved my nephew from that rogue slime nest last year.”

Clara didn’t linger on praise. She simply handed over coins—and more than required.

”You’re tipping too much again!” the butcher protested.

”I know,” Clara replied.

As she moved through the marketplace, shopkeepers greeted her with genuine warmth.

She was known not only as an A-rank adventurer, but as someone who treated common people with respect. She listened. She remembered names. She paid fairly. In a city divided between wealth and grime, that mattered.

Clara’s boots clicked softly against stone as she walked.

Her thoughts, however, were not in the market.

They drifted backward.

—

Her home now was a modest two-story building in a quiet district. But once... once they had lived in a mansion in the eastern district, where nobles resided.

Marble floors. Servants. Laughter.

Then her father died.

Debt followed like vultures.

Because women could not inherit titles in Skyfall Kingdom, the family name vanished overnight. The estate was seized. Furniture sold. Jewelry auctioned. Pride dismantled piece by piece.

Clara had stood at the gate the day they were forced out.

She remembered her mother’s trembling hands.

And the silence.

After her father’s death and the crushing weight of poverty, her mother shattered. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no screaming. No hysteria.

She simply... stopped speaking.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Her mother would sit by the window and stare at the sky as if waiting for something that would never return.

Clara’s jaw tightened slightly at the memory.

Seeing her mother reduced to a hollow shell... it changed something inside her.

She had two younger sisters.

They were still children.

They still needed warmth.

Food.

Safety.

And Clara had nothing left but a sword her father had used in his youth.

That blade had been the only thing the debt collectors allowed her to keep.

At that moment, she had few choices.

She could sell herself.

She could sell the sword.

Or she could gamble her life in dungeons.

Clara’s violet eyes hardened faintly at the thought.

She had too much pride to sell her body.

And selling the sword would only buy time.

So she chose the path that demanded blood.

She became an adventurer.

At first, it was desperation.

Then it became resolve.

She trained until her hands bled. She fought until her bones ached. She learned quickly that talent meant nothing without endurance.

And she endured.

Clara rose through the ranks faster than anyone expected.

She was disciplined. Efficient. Ruthless when necessary.

Eventually, she conquered a newly discovered dungeon with thirteen floors.

She remembered that battle vividly—the suffocating heat, the echo of her own breathing, the moment she thought she would die on the ninth floor.

But she didn’t.

When she finally stood before the dungeon core, trembling and bloodied, she had laughed.

Not out of joy.

Out of relief.

The treasures she earned from that dungeon allowed her to pay off the remainder of her father’s debt.

She bought this house.

She bought safety.

But some things money could not restore.

Her mother never regained her sanity.

She still stared at the sky.

—

Clara stopped walking.

The market noise had faded behind her.

She adjusted the basket in her hands.

Storm elk.

River trout.

Vegetables.

Her sisters would be happy.

That was enough.

Yet as she resumed walking, a different thought surfaced—uninvited.

Victor.

His black hair. Those unsettling golden eyes.

The way he spoke like someone who had already seen the end of things.

Clara exhaled slowly.

Why does he irritate me so much?

Because he’s arrogant.

Because he acts like everything is a game.

Because he smiles even when things should be serious.

Her grip tightened on the basket.

And because he’s always right.

That irritated her the most.

She admired strength.

She respected intelligence.

Victor had both.

And he knew it.

That was dangerous.

Clara’s chest felt oddly tight.

I don’t like not understanding someone.

Victor was a storm behind calm waters.

And that unsettled her.

She stopped herself.

No.

Focus.

Home first.

Family first.

Everything else later.

Clara continued walking beneath the dim lantern light of Fantom City, unaware of the silent shifts already happening in the shadows.

She did not know what Victor was planning.

She did not know about underworld negotiations.

She did not know about silent power plays.

All she knew was responsibility.

And the quiet weight she carried every day.

Now they live in a comfortable home, but her mother still did not regain her sanity.