Just A Reincarnation Story (Summoning Japan Edition)

Chapter 113: Pearls of the Orient

Year 175 A.T.M (Ascension Throne Messiah)

Trinil, Illemese Continent in the Eastern Annonrial Empire

Darcshield Brunmar finished the meal, one made with all his mother's love, with the same subdued air he'd shown as of late. The food, a dinner of braised chicken and various vegetables that had simmered for hours until the chicken was fall-apart tender, was exquisite. Each bite was a testament to the cook's skill and care.

And yet, it might as well have been ash on their tongues. The air in the dining room was thick and bleak.

Pushing his clean plate away, Darcshield folded his napkin with deliberate slowness.

"Thank you for the meal, Mother," he said softly, turning to the only other person present in the dining room.

Yelena offered a weak, fleeting smile that didn't reach her eyes before her gaze dropped back to her own half-finished plate.

Darcshield's eyes then drifted to the third place setting, the one to his right. A plate, still full, held a perfectly portioned serving of the chicken and buttery mashed potatoes. A glass of water, its surface dustless, stood beside it, waiting for an expected guest who had not come. The silence that descended during the time said to be visited by descending angels was... suffocating.

"...I'll take it to Loran."

Darcshield didn't want to ruminate for long. He didn't want to.

Rising from his seat, the young man moved to the sideboard, picked up a waiting tray, and carefully transferred the full plate and the glass of water onto it. The normality of the action felt like a mockery of the situation. With a final, hesitant glance at his mother, who only gave him a nod, he left the stifling air of the dining room behind.

As Darcshield came to a stop before the door at the end of the corridor, he shifted the tray to one hand, gave a light knock, and called softly, "Loran? Dinner's ready."

The non-response that followed was the same kind that had become all too common in this house, like an oppressive feeling that pressed down on the chest until breathing felt like an effort. He waited, half hoping for the shuffle of small feet. But no sound came.

With a quiet sigh, Darcshield reached for the doorknob. It turned without resistance—of course it wasn't locked. Inside, at the far end of the room, a small figure sat against the indigo glow of the evening sky. Loran, all of eight years old, sat perfectly still on a stool by the open window, his back to the door.

Crossing the floor, Darcshield placed the tray gently on the small table beside the untouched bed.

"Hey. You need to eat. Mother made your favorite."

"...Sorry......"

Darcshield dragged another stool and sat beside his brother, not looking at him, but instead gazing out at the same patch of star-dusted heavens. "There is nothing to apologize for," he said. "Just eat."

"Mm-hmm."

Slowly, Loran turned to his plate and picked up his utensils. Darcshield watched as the boy made quick work of the tender chicken and buttery potatoes, finishing every bite. When Loran drained his glass of water and set it back on the tray with a soft click, his brother still said nothing, content simply to sit there beside him.

When he was about to take the tray and leave, giving Loran his space, the boy's small voice broke the silence.

"...Brother?"

"Hm?"

Loran's eyes, wide and glimmering in the dim light, didn't lift from his hands.

"...The All-Wielder decides everyone's fate, right?"