The dawn of Aetheleon was not a gentle affair. It was a celestial assault.
The Twin Suns, Solis and Pyrrha, breached the horizon in a synchronized dance of fire, casting a dual radiance that turned the mists of Sylvanis Peak into a blinding, golden haze. To a commoner, the Elf Kingdom looked like it had been placed under a gargantuan, divine lightbulb. The bioluminescent trees of the night dimmed, their leaves shimmering with a metallic sheen as they drank in the overwhelming mana of the morning.
Inside the petrified-wood guesthouse, the air was still thick with the lingering scent of Alaric's sleep magic. James (Clement) was the first to stir. His internal clock, forged in the fires of survival and the rhythmic "meat-grinder" of the Forest of Thorns, didn't care for elven tranquility.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
A heavy knock echoed through the house, vibrating in the marrow of James's bones. He groaned, rolling out of the silk sheets. His body felt like a coiled spring that had been compressed for too long.
"Arthur... get your scholarly ass up," James rasped, his voice a low, gravelly growl. "Someone's at the door. Probably another 'pointy-eared' nuisance."
From the next room, Jai let out a muffled curse. "Fuck off, James. I'm still in the Void-trance. Go see for yourself. My legs feel like they've been replaced by lead weights."
James snorted, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. He tried calling for Alaric and Maksood, but the only response was the deep, rhythmic breathing of men who hadn't had a proper bed in a goddamn eternity. They were out cold, drowning in the first peace they had known in months.
James stood up, not bothering to fix his attire. He was wearing a simple, thin cotton shirt that he hadn't even bothered to button properly. It hung open, exposing the jagged landscape of his chest—the thick, ropey muscles of a Tier-8 warrior, the deep "V" of his waist, and the hard, defined slabs of his six-pack. To the world, he was "Clement" the laborer, but his body was a temple of violence.
He swung the door open, his eyes narrowed and ready for a fight. "What the fuck do you want—"
He stopped.
Standing on the porch was Elsa, Marshal's daughter. She was bathed in the light of the Twin Suns, her silver hair glowing like liquid mercury. She was holding a large, steaming wicker basket, but her eyes weren't on the basket. They were locked onto the bronzed, scarred expanse of James's chest.
Elsa's milk-white skin turned a shade of crimson so deep it rivaled the sunrise. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she stared at the raw, masculine power radiating from the "laborer" in front of her.
"W-what is it, Miss Elsa?" James asked, his voice losing some of its bite as he realized he wasn't facing an assassin.
"The... the breakfast," Elsa stammered, thrusting the basket toward him as if using it as a shield. "My father, Marshal... he told me to bring this to you. He also asked for the dishes from last night. If you're finished with them."
James took the basket, the scent of fresh honey-bread and roasted nuts filling his nose. "Right. The dishes. Hold on."
He stepped back inside, grabbed the basket from the previous night, and handed it back to her. Elsa took it, her fingers brushing his, sending a jolt of heat through her arm. She peeked into the basket and froze.
The wooden bowls were polished. The silver utensils were gleaming. The stone plates were spotless.
"Sir Clement..." she whispered, her emerald eyes wide with shock. "Did you... did you wash these? All of them?"
James leaned against the doorframe, his half-open shirt fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. "Yeah. Why? My brothers are useless at anything that doesn't involve a sword or a book. If I didn't wash them, we'd be eating off the floor by Tuesday. Is there a problem? If they aren't clean enough, give 'em back. I'll scrub the fuckers again."
Elsa's blush deepened, her ears twitching with a mix of embarrassment and fascination. "No! No, sir... they are perfectly clean. I was just... surprised. In our kingdom, the men do not touch the dishes. They are warriors, scholars, or weavers. The cleaning, the 'low work'... that is for the women."
James frowned. He thought of the Elf Queen, the legendary sovereign who supposedly championed the "efficiency" of her people. So, she makes the women work their asses off in the shadows while the men play with bows and poems? he thought bitterly. He wanted to spit a curse at the hypocrisy, but he caught himself. He was "Clement." Clement didn't care about elven politics. Clement just wanted to eat and stay hidden.
"Well," James said, his voice dropping an octave. "Where I come from, a man who can't clean up after himself isn't a man. He's just a child with a bigger stick. Tell your father thanks for the food, Elsa."
He closed the door, leaving the girl standing on the porch, her heart hammering against her ribs as she stared at the wood of the door, her mind replaying the sight of his muscles and the strange, rugged honor of a man who washed his own plates.
James had barely set the breakfast on the table when another knock rattled the door. This one was different—sharp, rhythmic, and demanding.
"If that's the girl again, I'm going to lose my goddamn mind," James muttered.
He opened the door and found Marshal standing there, his fat belly shaking with a hearty laugh. Behind him stood Hughie, the Royal Guard warrior. Hughie looked official, his bark-armor polished and his face set in a look of purposeful excitement.
"Hello, Mr. Marshal," James said, tilting his head. "What business do you have with us this early? The suns haven't even fully climbed the peak."
Marshal chuckled, patting his stomach. "Early bird catches the mana-worm, Clement! Hughie here couldn't wait. He's been buzzing like a fire-beetle since dawn."
Hughie stepped forward, giving a respectful nod. "Clement. Please, drop the formality. We are allies now. I spoke with my uncle—the Mayor of the Silver Leaf District. He is intrigued by your story. He wants to meet the 'Magician' and his brothers. Now."
James felt a surge of adrenaline. The play is moving. He led them inside to the main room, where Alaric was finally starting to stir. Hughie, eager to show his hospitality, walked over to the bed where Alaric (Helmet) was lying.
"Mr. Helmet! Wake up! Good news from the Mayor!" Hughie reached out to shake Alaric's shoulder.
VROOOM.
The air in the room suddenly turned cold enough to crack glass. In a blur that bypassed the human eye, Alaric's hand shot out from under the blanket. Before Hughie could even blink, he was pinned against the headboard of the bed. A jagged, black-steel knife—a soul-shredder hidden in Alaric's sleeve—was pressed so firmly against Hughie's windpipe that a single bead of blue elven blood began to trickle down his neck.
Alaric's eyes weren't those of a "magician" anymore. They were the eyes of a predator who had spent centuries in the abyss. They were hollow, dark, and filled with a killing intent so raw it made Hughie's bowels turn to water.
"One more inch," Alaric hissed, his voice a necrotic rasp, "and I'll see what your spine looks like from the inside out."
"Brother! Stop! It's Hughie!" James shouted, lunging forward and catching Alaric's wrist.
Alaric's pupils dilated, the "Helmet" persona slowly sliding back over his face like a veil. He blinked, the murderous haze dissipating as he realized where he was. He withdrew the knife with a flick of his wrist, the blade vanishing back into the void-dimension of his sleeve.
"Fuck..." Alaric coughed, rubbing his face. "Sorry, Mr. Hughie. Instinct. We... we just came out of the Forest of Thorns. In that place, if someone touches you in your sleep, it's usually because they want to eat your liver. I'm... I'm not used to the 'kindness' of the living yet."
Hughie slumped against the wall, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. He touched the small cut on his neck, his fingers trembling. He looked at Alaric, then at James. For a moment, he didn't see refugees. He saw a pack of sleeping monsters.
"I... I understand," Hughie managed to say, though his voice was two octaves higher than usual. "The forest... it changes a man. I've seen it in the border scouts. Let's... let's just get some water and go. My uncle is waiting."
After a quick, tense breakfast, the group headed toward the left flank of Sylvanis Peak.
The Silver Leaf District was the playground of the elven elite. Here, the trees weren't just skyscrapers; they were works of art. The leaves were a permanent, shimmering silver, and the walkways were made of translucent crystal that vibrated with the song of the mountain's mana-veins.
They arrived at a sprawling estate surrounded by a garden that looked like it had been stolen from a dream. Rare flowers, some with petals like butterfly wings and others that glowed with a soft, pulsing violet light, filled the air with a dizzying fragrance.
A man stood on the balcony of the main house. This was Mayor Fengyu.
Jai (Arthur) stared at him, his "scholarly" eyes wide with genuine surprise. Hughie had said his uncle was sixty-five years old. Jai had expected a withered old man with a cane. Instead, Fengyu looked like a man in his late twenties—lithe, handsome, with emerald eyes that held the wisdom of ages and skin that looked like polished jade.
Right, Jai reminded himself, his jaw tightening. Elves. High-tier cultivation. These fuckers live forever. He remembered Beatrice, the bitch-advisor of the Human Kingdom. She was over six hundred years old and still looked like she was in her prime. The world was a playground for the long-lived, while humans like his parents were burned away like dry grass.
"Hughie," Fengyu called out, his voice smooth and melodic. "Are these the 'unfortunates' you spoke of?"
Hughie stepped forward, bowing low. "Yes, Uncle. This is Mr. Helmet, the eldest. This is Arthur, the scholar. And Clement, the laborer. And the young boy is Nolan, Helmet's son. They seek only to work and survive."
Fengyu descended the stairs, his eyes scanning them with the precision of a jeweler. He stopped in front of Alaric. "A magician, my nephew tells me. In a world of real mana, a 'trickster' is a rare thing. Can you show me something that doesn't involve simple elemental manipulation?"
Alaric smiled, his "Helmet" charm in full effect. He pulled a silver coin from behind Fengyu's ear, then made it melt into a liquid butterfly that flew into the air and exploded into a shower of harmless, lavender-scented sparks.
Fengyu's eyes widened. "Impressive. Most magicians just use Tier-10 fire-spark. You have a touch of the 'illusory' path. I am building a Grand Pavilion for the Luna-Fest. I need an entertainer who can distract the people from the 'troubles' at the border. You have the job, Helmet. I'll pay you in silver-leaf credits and provide your meals."
"You are a saint among men, Mayor," Alaric replied, bowing so low his top hat nearly touched the grass.
Fengyu then turned to Jai. "And you... Arthur. Hughie says you have a mind for the 'inner workings.' You look at my garden with the eyes of a man who knows more than just the color of a petal."
He gestured to the sprawling botanical nightmare behind them. "My garden is my pride. But it is failing. The Star-Drinker Ferns are yellowing, and the Blood-Soul Orchids refuse to bloom. If you are as good as they say, tell me: what is the sickness in my soil? Identify the plants, their uses, and their importance. Do it, and you shall be my Master Gardener."
Jai felt a cold sweat prickle his neck. This was a test. If he failed, their cover as "skilled laborers" would crumble. But Jai wasn't just a normal prince in Human Kingdom, He was the person who do the gardening in his palace to make himself calm.
He walked into the garden, his "Arthur" persona taking over. He approached a shimmering, blue-leafed plant that looked like it was made of frozen water.
"This is the Glacial Lily, Mayor," Jai said, his voice steady. "It requires a soil pH of exactly 4.5 and a constant feed of lunar-essence. You've planted it next to the Sun-Flare Rose. The Rose is an elemental heater; it's literally boiling the Lily's roots. That's why your orchids aren't blooming—the thermal imbalance is killing the spirit-pollinators."
Fengyu's eyebrows shot up. "Go on."
Jai moved through the garden like a ghost, identifying the Soul-Knitting Vines used for Tier-9 healing salves and the Numbing-Moss used for surgical anesthesia. He explained the symbiotic relationship between the plants with a level of detail that made the Mayor's jaw slowly drop.
As Jai reached the center of the garden, near a fountain of liquid mana, he saw a woman kneeling in the dirt. She was wearing a simple gardener's apron, her back to him. She was carefully pruning a Moon-Shadow Bush.
"And this," Jai said, his voice suddenly faltering as he approached the woman, "is a plant that only responds to the touch of someone with... with a pure heart."
The woman paused. She stood up slowly, wiping a smudge of dirt from her forehead. She turned around.
Jai's world imploded.
The Twin Suns seemed to vanish, leaving him in a cold, dark void. The "Arthur" mask didn't just slip; it shattered.
It was Emma.
She was closer now than she had been in the marketplace. Her emerald eyes were clear, her face framed by loose, auburn curls. She looked at Jai—at "Arthur"—and a small, gentle smile touched her lips. She didn't see the "traitor." She didn't see the boy who had watched her house burn. She saw a man who spoke to the flowers as if they were old friends.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the leaf of the bush near Jai's hand. "I was quite happy to hear that there is a man who loves flowers as much as I do," she said, her voice sounding exactly like the dream he had been chasing through a nightmare. "Most men just want to pick them and watch them die. You... you talk to them as if they have souls."
Jai stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The "Golden Scourge" within him roared, sensing his distress, but he forced it down with a physical effort that made his hands shake.
Emma, he thought, the word a scream in his mind. You're alive. You're right here. And I can't even tell you who I am.
"I... I am just a student of nature, Miss," Jai managed to stammer, his voice thick with a raw, suppressed emotion that made Mayor Fengyu narrow his eyes in suspicion.
Across the garden, Alaric watched the scene, his hand resting on the hilt of a hidden blade. Don't do it, boy, Alaric thought, his gaze cold. If you say her name, I'll have to kill her before she can even blink. Don't make me do it.