The performance in the Verdant Cask had been a masterclass in deception, a symphony of crocodile tears and calculated vulnerability that would have put the greatest actors of the Human Kingdom to shame. But beneath the masks of "Arthur," "Clement," and "Helmet," the three survivors of the Chenwongo bloodline were drowning in a sea of molten rage. The air around Jai seemed to vibrate with a suppressed, golden frequency—a hunger for slaughter that was becoming harder to cage with every passing second.
The Elves in the bar were completely sold. The women were openly weeping into their silk handkerchiefs, and even the grizzled warriors, men who had seen a hundred seasons of border skirmishes, were biting their lips to keep their composure. To them, these were not humans; they were broken remnants of a tragedy that mirrored their own history of displacement.
"It's a fucking crime," one Elf muttered, slamming his fist onto the jade table. "To treat your own kin like cattle for a ritual... those Dragon-blooded bastards deserve to be flayed alive."
A tall, broad-shouldered Elf in polished bark-armor stepped forward. His eyes were a sharp, steely grey, and he bore the insignia of the Royal Guard on his shoulder. This was Hughie, a man whose reputation for honor was as thick as his bicep.
"Mr. Helmet," Hughie said, his voice deep and steady. "My name is Hughie. I serve as a warrior in the Queen's Outer Circle, and my uncle serves as the Mayor of the Silver-Leaf District. You say you need work? You say your brothers are capable in the fields? I will write a letter of recommendation tonight. My uncle is a man who values hard work over bloodlines. He will find a place for you. No one should have to beg for bread while they carry the weight of a murdered family."
Alaric dropped his head, his shoulders shaking in a feigned sob that masked a cold, calculating grin. He looked up, his emerald-green disguise-eyes swimming with fake gratitude.
"Sir... you are too kind," Alaric choked out. "We are just refugees. To receive such an offer... I... I don't know how to thank you. My brothers, Arthur and Clement, are strong. They will work until their hands bleed to prove their worth to your uncle."
Marshal, the bar owner, stepped out from behind the counter, his massive belly jiggling as he crossed the room. He looked at Alaric with a gaze that held a secret, ancient depth.
"The warrior is generous, but a man needs a roof before he needs a plow," Marshal barked. "I have a small estate—a guesthouse at the edge of the lake that hasn't seen a guest in three seasons. It's clean, it's quiet, and it's yours. Stay as long as you need, Helmet. Consider it a gift to a fellow traveler of the 'shitty' road of life."
Alaric lunged forward, grabbing Hughie's hands and then Marshal's, his movements frantic and desperate—the perfect image of a man saved from the brink of suicide.
"Grateful... we are so grateful!" Alaric cried, the tears flowing freely now. "We will remember this for the rest of our lives. But sir," he turned to Marshal, his voice firming up with a touch of 'peasant pride,' "we cannot live for free. We are humans, yes, but we are not beggars. I will pay rent. Every month, as soon as we have the coins, I will pay. I want this to be a business, so I can look my son in the eye and tell him we earned our keep."
Marshal saw the flicker of the true Alaric beneath the mask—the man who would rather die than accept charity from an inferior. He nodded, respecting the play. "Your wish, Mr. Helmet. I understand. You want to support your family with dignity. I'll take your gold when you have it, and not a day sooner. Now, drink! Drink until the ghosts stop whispering!"
As the night deepened, the group left the bar. The Elf Kingdom under the moonlight was a vision of celestial beauty that felt like a slap in the face to the men who carried a graveyard in their hearts.
Jai walked beside Alaric, his "Arthur" glasses reflecting the luminescent flora that lined the paths. "Sir," Jai whispered, falling into his role as they passed groups of Elves. "I was wondering... why are the streets so full? Don't these people have duties?"
Marshal, walking ahead to lead them to the house, laughed. "Today is the Luna-Rest, boy. Our Queen is wise. She ordered that every weekend, the kingdom takes a full day of leave. Efficiency increases when the heart is light, she says. If you work a horse every day, it dies. If you work an Elf every day, he becomes a human—bitter and short-lived."
Jai nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He looked at the emerald fields, the crystalline lake reflecting the silver moon, and the families. Oh, the families.
He saw an Elven father lifting his toddler onto his shoulders to point at the glowing fire-beetles dancing in the reeds. He heard the peals of laughter from children playing tag among the roots of the Great Trees. It was a scene of pure, unadulterated peace.
And it triggered the monster in his mind.
The laughter of the Elven children morphed into a different sound in Jai's ears—the sound of his mother, Mable, screaming as the world turned to blood.
In his mind's eye, Jai wasn't in the Elf Kingdom. He was back in the Chenwongo Manor. He was standing at the entrance of Chenwongo Palace. It was big, Broken and damaged by the dragons.
Rena had entered first. She didn't look like a woman; she looked like a goddess of slaughter. Behind her walked two massive, Tier-2 Drakes, their scales the color of dried scabs, their breath smelling of sulfur and rotting meat.
"Edward... Mable..." Rena had said, her voice smooth as silk and cold as a razor. "You hidden gems of the Chenwongo line. You thought you could win against me? You thought your blood was good enough to beat me and kill my son".
Jai's father, Edward, a man of iron and pride, had stood before her with a broken sword. "You're a bitch, Rena! You're a fucking soul-eating whore! Kill us, but you'll never become the Queen of Human Kingdom!".
Rena hadn't even blinked. She simply made a clicking sound with her tongue.
The first Dragon lunged. It didn't kill Edward instantly. It pinned him to the floor with a claw the size of a shield, the weight crushing his ribs with a sound like dry branches snapping. Edward's eyes had bulged, a spray of crimson mist erupting from his mouth.
"Eat," Rena commanded.
The Dragon lowered its head. It began with Edward's legs. Jai had watched, paralyzed by terror, as the beast's serrated teeth ground through his father's femur. CRUNCH. SNAP. SLURP. Edward's screams had been primal, a sound that tore through the fabric of Jai's soul. The beast tore the muscle from the bone, swallowing it in great, bloody gulps while Edward was still conscious, his fingers clawing at the stone floor.
Then, Mable.
She had tried to run, but the second Dragon caught her by the hair, dragging her back. Rena walked over, stepping in the growing pool of Edward's blood, and grabbed Mable by the chin.
"Your son has good potential," Rena whispered. "I think I'll save him for last. I want him to watch what happens to those who defy the Sovereign."
She nodded to the Dragons. The beast didn't bite. It used its talons to slowly, methodically, peel the skin from Mable's arms, strip by strip, as if it were preparing a fruit. Mable's shrieks had echoed through the manor, a high-pitched, vibrating agony that Jai could still hear every time he closed his eyes.
When the Dragons finally finished, there was nothing left but two polished skeletons and a room painted in the essence of his parents. Rena had stood in the center of the gore, her white robes untouched by a single drop of blood, looking like a saint in a charnel house.
"We're here," Marshal's voice broke the vision.
Jai gasped, his hand flying to his chest. He was trembling, his skin slick with a cold sweat. Beside him, James and Maksood were equally pale, their eyes vacant. They had their own ghosts—their own memories of their parents being systematically dismantled by Rena's "Dragon" squads.
The house was a beautiful, two-story structure made of petrified wood and glass, situated right on the edge of the lake. It was large enough for ten people, far more luxurious than a "magician" deserved.
"Thanks, man," Alaric said, his voice dropping the "Helmet" lilt for a moment as he looked at Marshal. "For everything."
Marshal patted Alaric's shoulder. "Don't mention it. You saved my life back in the Border Wars when your own soldiers were ready to execute me for being a 'pointy-eared spy.' I don't give a fuck what the history books say about the Chenwongos. To me, you're the man who gave me a second chance. I've kept this place ready. I heard the news from the Human Kingdom... a secret contact told me you might be headed this way. I had the house scrubbed and stocked three days ago."
Alaric hugged him—a real hug this time. "I'm glad I have one friend left in this goddamn world."
"Go, get clean," Marshal urged. "My house is right next door. I'll have my daughter bring over some food. Sleep, Alaric. You've traveled through hell."
The team entered the house. The interior was warm, smelling of lavender and dried herbs. One by one, they headed to the baths.
James (Clement) was the first one out. He had washed away the blood and grime of the forest, but he couldn't wash away the tension. He stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom wearing only a pair of loose, dark trousers. His chest and back were a landscape of scars—burn marks from mana-blasts, jagged lines from beast claws, and the faint, silvery brand of a "Criminal" that he had tried to hide with his disguise-magic.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
James walked to the front door, drying his damp, dark hair with a cloth. He pulled the door open, expecting Alaric.
Instead, he found a young Elven girl. She looked to be about his age, with long, braided silver hair and eyes the color of a summer forest. She was holding a large wicker basket filled with steaming bread, roasted meats, and flasks of nectar.
This was Elsa, Marshal's daughter.
She looked up, prepared to give a polite greeting to the "human refugees," but the words died in her throat. She stared at James—at the raw, powerful muscles of his chest, the dangerous intensity in his eyes, and the sheer, masculine heat radiating from him.
James blinked. "Hi. Are you the daughter of Sir Marshal?"
Elsa felt a heat crawl up her neck, her pale skin turning a vivid shade of crimson. "I... yes. My name is Elsa," she stammered, her eyes darting everywhere but his face before inevitably snapping back to his abs. "My father... he told me to bring this. For your dinner."
James, still playing the role of the humble laborer Clement, gave her a small, weary smile. "My name is Clement. Thank you, Lady... I mean, Elsa. We appreciate the kindness. We haven't had a real meal in a long time."
He took the basket from her. His hand brushed hers, and she felt a jolt of static mana that made her heart gallop.
"I... I have to go!" she squeaked, turning on her heel and sprinting toward her father's house as if a pack of wolves were behind her.
James watched her go, a look of genuine confusion on his face. "What the fuck was that about? Did I scare her?"
"No, you idiot," Maksood muttered, walking out of the shadows of the hallway. "You're half-naked and you look like a Tier-8 warrior masquerading as a peasant. You probably just gave her a heart attack."
They ate the food in silence. The bread was soft, the meat was perfectly seasoned, but to the four men, it tasted like ash.
When the meal was done, they climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. But as they lay in the soft, silk-lined beds, sleep refused to come. The moment the lights went out, the silence of the Elf Kingdom became a canvas for their trauma.
Jai saw the Drakes. James saw his father being beheaded. Maksood saw his mother's soul being sucked into a crystal.
The air in the house grew heavy with their collective grief and rage. Downstairs, Alaric sat in a chair by the window, staring at the moon. He could feel their spirits fracturing. If he didn't intervene, they would be useless by morning, their minds broken by the weight of the past.
Alaric sighed, his green eyes glowing with a faint, violet light. "Rest, my cubs. The world isn't ready for your anger yet."
He performed a series of silent hand-seals. "Void Art: The Weaver's Lullaby."
A soft, purple mist drifted through the floorboards, seeping into the rooms above. One by one, the boys' breathing slowed. Their racing hearts calmed as the magic forced their consciousness into a deep, dreamless void where the ghosts couldn't follow.
Once he was sure they were under, Alaric's face transformed. The "Helmet" mask dropped, and the "Magician's" charm vanished. His face was a mask of pure, murderous hatred. He looked toward the direction of the Human Kingdom, his hands gripping the windowsill until the petrified wood began to crack.
"Rena... Rayn..." he whispered, his voice a promise of extinction. "You think you won. You think you can build a throne on the corpses of my kin. But I am coming. And when I arrive, I won't just kill you. I will make you beg for the 'mercy' you showed Edward and Mable. I will turn your kingdom into a bowl for your own blood."
He closed his eyes, casting the sleep magic on himself. As he drifted off, his final thought was a jagged shard of violence.
I'm going to make you lick your own fucking heart before I let you die.