The air in the Emerald Sanctum was thick with the scent of pine and ancient magic, but for Jai, it felt like a choking noose. Seeing Emma—the girl whose laughter had once been the only light in his blood-soaked nightmares—playing and smiling among the Elves, tore a hole in his chest. He wanted to scream her name, to tear off the "Arthur" mask and hold her. He wanted to tell her that the boy she loved hadn't died in the fire.
But he was a "traitor" now. A ghost. A man whose name was etched in the black ledger of the Human Kingdom's most wanted.
Jai took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out toward the sunlight where Emma stood. Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded in the center of his forehead. Alaric had flicked his finger, a move that looked casual to an observer but carried a sliver of the The Combat technique.
THWACK.
The physical impact was minor, but the mental recoil was a tidal wave. Jai's vision swam. The beautiful elven scenery dissolved, replaced by the flickering, hellish orange of the day his world ended. He saw his father's head rolling across the marble floor; he saw his mother's body pinned to a wall by ice-spears. And most vividly, he saw Rayn and that cold-blooded bitch, Rena, standing amidst the gore, their eyes devoid of anything resembling mercy.
"Remember why we are here, you lovestruck whelp," Alaric's voice hissed in his ear, cold as a winter grave. "That girl is a dream. The blood on your hands is the only reality. You want to talk to her? You want to be 'Jai' again? Then kill the people who took your life. Kill the Sovereign, kill the mother, and burn their legacy to ash. Only then can you stop being a lie."
Jai's breath hitched. The longing in his eyes died, replaced by a jagged, golden fury that flickered behind his scholarly "Arthur" lenses. The golden power of the Golden Scourge hummed in his veins, screaming for release. Yes, he thought, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his book. I will drink their fucking blood. I will make Rena watch as I tear Rayn's soul out of his miserable body.
Alaric saw the shift in Jai's aura and nodded. "Good. Now, I need a drink. Acting like a dandy magician makes my throat feel like I've been swallowing sand. Follow me, and keep your fucking mouths shut unless I signal."
Alaric led them toward a structure that looked like it had been grown from the roots of a massive, bioluminescent oak. A sign, carved from silver-wood, hung over the entrance: The Verdant Cask.
As the team stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly from "enchanted forest" to "executioner's block."
The bar was beautiful—circular, with tables made of polished jade and lanterns filled with glowing blue moss. But every pair of emerald eyes in the room turned toward the door with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. To the Elves, humans were not just neighbors; they were a plague.
A bartender stood behind the jade counter, polishing a glass with a cloth made of spider-silk. He was young by elven standards, perhaps only eighty years old, with muscular, olive skin and ears so sharp they looked like blades. This was Mirren.
The moment Alaric's foot hit the floorboards, Mirren vanished from behind the bar. He moved with a speed that would have made a Tier-10 warrior dizzy.
SLAM.
Before Alaric could even tip his hat, Mirren's hand was clamped around his neck, lifting the "magician" off the ground. The bartender's emerald eyes were burning with a Tier-9 killing intent.
"You have a lot of fucking nerve, human," Mirren hissed, his voice like the snapping of dry bone. "Coming into a place of peace with your stench? I should rip your throat out and feed your remains to the root-rot."
James and Maksood moved instinctively, their hands reaching for hidden weapons. Jai's eyes flared gold. But Alaric raised a shaking, gloved hand, signaling them to stand down.
"Ex... excuse me, sir," Alaric gasped out, his voice high-pitched and frail, the perfect image of a terrified performer. "I didn't... I didn't come for trouble. I just wanted a glass of liquor... to wash away the dust of the road... please..."
"Liquor?" Mirren's grip tightened. "What you'll get is a shallow grave. You humans kill our children and then ask for a drink? You're going to die here, you piece of shit."
Across the bar, a dozen Elves stood up, pulling slender, curved bows from their backs. The air was filled with the hum of drawn mana-strings. One twitch, and the four humans would be turned into pincushions.
Suddenly, a door at the back of the bar swung open. A fat, middle-aged Elf with a beard that reached his chest and a belly that strained his embroidered silk tunic stepped out. This was Marshal, the owner.
Marshal's eyes scanned the room, landing on the "human magician" being choked by his bartender. He was about to order the execution when his gaze locked onto Alaric's neck. There, partially hidden by the white collar, was a small, jagged black mark—a "Raven's Talon" brand. It was a secret signal, a mark Alaric had purposely revealed to identify himself to old contacts.
Marshal's heart skipped a beat. He knew that mark. It belonged to the man who had once saved his life during the Great Purge—Alaric Chenwongo.
But Marshal was a veteran of the shadows. He knew that if he suddenly hugged this human, the angry Elves in his bar would burn the place down and hang them both. He had to play the game.
"Stop! Mirren!" Marshal roared, his voice booming like a drum. "Let him go, you hot-headed brat! He's going to die before he can even pay for a drink!"
Mirren didn't let go. "Leave it, Owner Marshal! I'm going to make these human bastards run for their lives! They don't belong in Sylvanis Peak!"
"I said let go!" Marshal stepped forward, his massive hand catching Mirren's wrist with surprising strength. "I told you to treat every customer with respect, even the hairless monkeys from the lowlands! A copper coin is a copper coin, whether it comes from an Elf or a human!"
"But they kill our ancestors!" Mirren screamed, spit flying from his lips. "They take our lands, our artifacts, and what do they return? Nothing but fear and dead bodies! Look at the history books, Marshal! 140,000 Elves lost in the last century alone! Seventy-two percent of our outer rim villages are nothing but ash because of them!"
The Elves around the room cheered, their bows trembling with the urge to fire. "Yes! Kill them! Show these humans that we aren't their prey anymore!"
Alaric hit the floor as Mirren released him, coughing and wheezing. He looked up, and for the first time, his eyes weren't filled with the "magician's" charm. They were filled with tears—fat, salty, pathetic crocodile tears.
"Mister... Mistress..." Alaric sobbed, his voice cracking. "We didn't come to kill your people. We hate the Human Kingdom more than you do! We lost our home because of that fucking Queen and her family! They didn't see us as citizens; they saw us as sacrifices for their dark rituals!"
He crawled forward on his knees, his white suit stained with dust. "Yes! We did horrible things! Our ancestors were monsters! And now, the karma has found us! Our villages are dead! Our wives are gone! I had to carry my son through forests filled with Tier-8 beasts just to find a place where he wouldn't be eaten by his own kind!"
Jai, sensing the shift, dropped to his knees beside Alaric. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with faux-sobs. "Big Brother Helmet... don't say that... if they're going to kill you, let them kill me too. I can't live in a world where everyone hates us for things we didn't even do!"
The atmosphere in the bar shifted. The raw, violent anger began to drain away, replaced by a confused, heavy silence. The Elves looked at the "magician" and his "kid," seeing not conquerors, but broken dogs.
An Elf elder, a man who looked to be at least ninety years old with skin like crumpled parchment, stood up from a corner table. He leaned on a staff made of elder-root.
"Leave them, sons," the elder said, his voice echoing with authority. "They are 'Epoch Walkers' of a different sort. They have no land, no crown. To kill a man who has already lost his soul is a waste of a good arrow. There is a saying in the Epoch Walker chronicles: 'When the world gives you fire, do not become the flame. The greatest strength a species has is to forgive the one who accepts their sins and asks for a chance to change.'"
Jai, acting as Arthur, looked up at the old man, his eyes wide. "Grandpa... you know the Epoch Walker? That book was written by a scholar in our kingdom..."
The old man sighed, a sound of deep regret. "Son, the only human we Elves ever respected was King DD. He was the one who changed our kingdom, who treated us like equals. He made us what we are today. But the fate of the world is a cruel bitch. His own lineage betrayed his teachings. They attacked us, killed so many... we lost track of the bodies. But these men? They aren't the lineage of kings. They're just the dust left behind."
The tension snapped. Mirren, still scowling but no longer murderous, stepped back behind the bar. The other Elves lowered their bows, though they still watched the newcomers with suspicion.
Jai remained on the ground for a moment longer, his head pressed against the jade floorboards. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with fake emotion. "On behalf of every human who isn't a piece of shit... I am so sorry for what happened to your people."
The sight of a human "scholar" kneeling in genuine (appearing) repentance was too much for the Elves. Several of the women looked away, their eyes shimmering with sympathy. Marshal, the owner, cleared his throat loudly.
"Enough of this funeral talk! Mirren, get these men a table! Helmet, get off the floor before you ruin that expensive-looking suit."
The team sat down at a central table. The Elves returned to their drinks, but the hostility had been replaced by a quiet curiosity.
"What can I get you?" Mirren asked, his voice still gruff.
Alaric wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Just the strongest alcohol you have for me. Coffee for my brothers, Clement and Arthur. and an orange juice for my son, the little one."
Mirren nodded and retreated to the kitchen. As soon as he was out of earshot, the Elves from the neighboring tables began to lean in.
"You said your village was 'Hilton'?" one Elven woman asked softly. "What happened there? Why did the Queen attack her own people?"
James (Clement) took this as his cue. He didn't speak; he simply let out a loud, shuddering sob and put his head on the table. It was a masterpiece of "crocodile crying."
"He misses our parents," Alaric explained, his voice trembling. "They died in the fires. We lived in Hilton, a tiny place far from the capital. I was just a magician, making a few coppers to keep the family fed. My parents were retired, sitting on the porch, watching the sun go down. My brothers worked the lease-farms... we didn't have much, but we were happy."
He leaned in closer, his emerald-green disguise-eyes wide with feigned horror. "But then... the rumors started. They said the Queen's daughter and grandson were not human. They said they were Dragons. One day, the sky turned red. The Sovereign's troops came, but they weren't there to protect us. They brought monsters. They burned the town to hide their tracks. My wife, Ashley... she didn't make it. I barely got my son out."
Alaric covered his face with his hat, his body shaking. "They took everything. And for what? To fulfill some 'divine mandate' for a boy who thinks he's a God? To hell with the Human Kingdom! We'd rather die here in the dirt of the Elves than live another day as slaves to those dragon-blooded bastards!"
A ripple of shock went through the bar. The mention of "Dragons" and "The Queen's daughter" hit a nerve. The Elves had long suspected the Human Royalty of dabbling in forbidden draconic bloodlines.
"Those fucking cunts," an Elf at the bar muttered, slamming his mug down. "To do that to their own people... they truly have no souls."
Marshal watched from the corner, a glint of respect in his eyes. He knew Alaric was lying through his teeth, but the performance was flawless. By the end of the night, every Elf in this bar would be willing to hide the "Harrow" family from the authorities.
Jai sat quietly, sipping his coffee. Behind his glasses, his eyes were cold. The "story" Alaric told was a lie, but the core of it—the death of their parents and the destruction of their name—was the absolute, brutal truth. And as he looked out the window toward the peaks of the mountain, he knew one thing for certain.
The "Dragon" boy, Rayn, and his mother would pay. They would pay in blood, in screams, and in the total annihilation of everything they held dear.