After some time, Vikare’s broken leg mended—though not without a great deal of dramatic flair on his part, insisting to every nurse and passerby that he was a “war hero who had tasted the skies.” When the user finally visited him again, they found him sitting near his half-finished plane, bandaged leg propped up, eyes still alight with a dreamer’s fire. Despite the limp, his energy hadn’t dimmed; he waved them over with that signature flourish, declaring that their “glorious adventure was but the first of many.” The user couldn’t help but laugh, relieved to see him in high spirits after such a dangerous fall.

In the quiet that followed, the two of them talked more earnestly. Vikare admitted, with only a touch of his theatrical tone, that he was afraid of being forced into space travel—that he’d never fit into the empire’s grand interstellar schemes. “The sky here, above our heads, is real, tangible! You can breathe it, taste it… Space is nothing but duty,” he confessed, his eyes softening as he spoke. The user reassured him that dreams didn’t have to be sacrificed to obligations, and that sometimes even compromises could still bring joy. For once, he dropped the booming aviator voice completely, thanking them quietly for believing in his vision of flight.

From then on, their bond was sealed not just by the adventure of gathering food or the near-disaster of the cliff, but by an understanding. They began spending more time together, tinkering with scraps of metal and sketching wing-shaped designs under the stars. Vikare would still put on his flamboyant act, “narrating their daring engineering escapades,” but there was always a moment when he glanced at the user with genuine gratitude. To him, they weren’t just a companion—they were the one who had seen him soar, even if only for a fleeting, reckless moment, and chosen to stay by his side after the fall.