Nearing the borders of the Dutchy of Velkarin of the Eryndor Empire.
The plains stretched endlessly under a washed-blue moon.
Mist rolled low across the grass, curling around the hooves and wheels of the convoy moving in a steady rhythm.
And amidst the soft clatters and clinks of armor of two hundred knights of Eryndor rode in perfect columns surrounding the convoy from all sides.
Their silver-etched armor catching stray gleams of magic lamps, lighting up the convoy of the Royal Association.
And at the center of the convoy rolled fifty heavy wagons, each carrying scholars, clerks, cooks, hunters, and all the logistics that made a royal expedition breathe.
And at the heart of it all, like the pulse of a great beast, rolled the carriage.
It wasn't a carriage, really; it was more a moving estate pulled by a massive Tier 5 Drake.
A wooden leviathan lined with reinforced mithril bands and Royal Crest, with interior bright with the soft blue luminescence from mana lamps fixed along the ceiling.
It had two bedrooms, a living room furnished with couches and a center table, and even a study in front of the couches.
Inside, the sound of the wheels became a gentle vibration through the floor.
While the air smelled faintly of parchment, old ink, and warm tea.
Seris Avariel, The First Head of the Royal Association, sat near the long table in the center, posture straight, hand absently turning a quill between her fingers.
At a glance, she looked the girl next door, but those who'd spare another would recognise the youngest prodigy to ever reach Tier 8.
And a Cultivator who mastered The Way Of The Armament Cultivation Technique.
Her pale green eyes, sharp even when weary, flicked between the map sprawled across the table and the four people sharing the space with her.
"Hard to believe it's ending, isn't it?" Seris spoke to the old man slouched on the couch.
The old Archmage's purple robes draped over a frame that had long ago given up caring about posture.
Beric Halvern's voice rolled through the room with an amused sigh.
He leaned back into the couch, with a glass of wine in his hand and beard spilling down to his chest, eyes half-closed. "Two years on the road... Can't wait to go back to my castle."
"You'll miss it," Garron rumbled from the opposite side, with a mug of ale in his's.
The horned demi-human S-rank Adventurer was a mountain even sitting down.
Running whetstone across a sword taller and wider than most men, he continued. "You'll start missing our dirt roads within a week."
"Missing dirt?" Beric scoffed, then chuckled, "I just might…"
Garron laughed, the sound booming enough to shake the lamps.
Across the room, Silas Crowe, a renowned Ordained Priest of Kali, looked up from his cup of tea.
His voice was soft but clear, carrying calm authority even through its restraint.
"These two years have shaped all of us more than half of our lives ever did…," he said simply. "But, it is only from the ashes of now… can tomorrow be birthed."
Beric cracked one eye open. "You and your stupid one-liners… For once, I'd like to hear you say something original…
Silas didn't rise to the bait, only smiled faintly and returned to his drink.
While Seris watched them all with the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips.
The carriage had seen countless nights like this.
Arguments that weren't really arguments. Banter that disguised how close they'd grown.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the map.
"Two years," she murmured. " It feels almost surreal… we've crossed the entire Empire, visiting every little village. Did over six hundred thousand appraisals. Recorded one hundred seventy-three prodigies, worthy of the Royal Scholarships."
"Seventy-five, actually." Came a voice from under a desk, as a head poked out from her shadow, giving a jump-scare she still hadn't gotten used to after two years.
"Goddamn it, Elara! For the last time…" Series said, catching her breath while Elara crawled out of Seris's shadow.
Fixing the hem of her maid's uniform, Elara ignored the Archmage and Garron laughing out loud as she turned toward Series and spoke once more with the same black expression.
"Like I said, one hundred and seventy-five Prodigies."
Sighing, Seris replied, "Right… What did the chef say?"
"We have enough rations to support ourselves for a week," Elara replied, her dark eyes fixed on Seris.
"A little village like Windket will not be able to support our food requirements…" Beric chimed in.
"Indeed," Seris replied, before turning toward Elara, "Send a squad to the town of Flovar with fifty gold coins. We'll be passing by it on our way back to the Capital. We can restock there. Until then… There is a forest teeming with magic beasts north of Windekt. We'll send out hunters to procure provisions from there."
Every head in the room nodded at that while Elara disappeared into another shadow.
Emptying his glass, Beric stretched, bones cracking audibly. " Windket… I have a feeling this one is going to be exciting…"
"You said that about every single town," Garron snorted.
"And I was right about most of them." Beric's grin widened. "But this one will surprise me… I just know it. Last stops usually do."
The room fell into a comfortable lull.
Outside, the wind hummed low, brushing against the carriage walls.
Seris exhaled quietly, eyes still tracing the map.
Her quill paused over the ink well, then tapped once, twice.
"When we return," she said softly, "everything changes... We will have concrete data on the Empire's current talent pool. We will see a massive surge of new blood in every department… be it the army, the knight's order, the Magus Association, the Adventurers' Guild, or the Academies."
"Uh-huh…" Beric replied, eyes still half closed.
Seris continued pretending not to hear the reply, "Our Royal Association itself will become a full-fledged department dedicated to conducting surveys… We will be changing people's lives in ways that are actually meaningful."
"By my estimates," Beric spoke while lazily stroking his beard, "Out of the odd six-hundred-thousand, We can expect at least 200,000 to run toward the army, around 90,000 will be able to scrounge up enough money to pay for one of the academy… becoming our future Maguses and Knights. 150,000 will be sponsored by the nobles of their lands. And every single one of the prodigies will be at the academy thanks to our Royal Scholarship…"
There was pride in his voice. And something else beneath it. A quiet melancholy.
"It was the 7th princess's dream," Silas said gently, setting his cup down as he faced Seris, "And you made it real."
Seris looked up. For a moment, her usual composure softened. "No. We did."
Garron leaned forward, massive elbows on the table. "So what happens next, Lady Avariel? Will you head the next surveys too?"
Seris smiled, faintly wistful. "Absolutely not… I've travelled enough to last a century. Besides, I will be surrounded by paperwork the second I step back into the capital… But if you decide to join us. Maybe you will."
"Oh, he'd love that!" Beric grinned as he turned toward Garron, "What'd you say Horn-E"
"Tempting," Garon said, pretending he didn't hear the last part, "But paperwork isn't for me… Ask Ber-y"
That drew laughter from all of them before the conversation drifted toward reflection.
They spoke of the deserts of Alvra, where a scrawny twelve-year-old boy turned out to have Lava Affinity.
Of the mountain village where a girl was appraised to have all five of the Contemporary Affinities.
Of the seven great academies that would soon receive these children.
Each story carried nostalgia, pride, and something like fatigue.
For all their ranks and titles, they were tired travelers now.
Five souls who had spent the last two years shaping the fate of others.
Eventually, Beric yawned and got to his feet. "Well, this old mage's circuits are screaming for a nap."
He waved lazily toward Seris. "Wake me when the world ends or when breakfast's ready. Whichever comes first."
Seris rolled her eyes, though a smile remained, "Good night, Beric."
Garron pushed himself up next, the carriage creaking under his weight. "I'll take the outer watch. Can't sleep knowing others are working."
Silas stood too, adjusting his white-and-black robes as he turned towards Garron, "I'll join you, but after a short prayer."
Seris watched them leave one by one.
Beric's lazy stride, Garron's heavy boots, and Silas's calm steps.
For a moment, she sat alone.
The lamplight flickering across her face in soft gold against green eyes.
Then ger gaze drifted to the window, out toward the horizon.
Windket.
The final stop.
She allowed herself a small exhale of part relief, part anticipation. "One more stop," she murmured.
The carriage rocked gently beneath her, steady and sure.
Outside, the convoy's mana-stone fulled light that stretched across the plains like a trail of fireflies.
And above them, the moon watched, pale and patient as the last stretch of their journey began.