The bell above the Elanora Atelier door rang as Kyle entered.
The same tall elf from before looked up from his counter, eyes widening the second he saw Kyle walk in.
"You— again?" The tailor blinked like he'd just seen a ghost. "It's been three days. Three! Do you destroy clothes for fun?"
Kyle dropped his coat on the counter with a straight face. The once-elegant black suit looked like it had gone to war — torn seams, dried blood, a faint smell of smoke.
"Guess your fabric couldn't handle my lifestyle."
The elf's left eye twitched. "My fabric could handle a wyvern attack if the wearer wasn't a walking disaster."
Kyle smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "I tripped once."
"Over a corpse, I assume?"
"...Maybe two."
The elf exhaled sharply, muttering in Elvish before pulling out his tape measure again. "Fine. I'll make something that won't die the second you breathe. But this one's going to cost extra."
"I can pay." Kyle tossed a platinum coin on the counter without blinking.
The elf froze mid-motion. "...That's not 'extra', that's robbery."
"Then keep the change." Kyle shrugged. "Consider it therapy fees."
For a moment, the elf just stared at him, then finally sighed. "You're insane."
"Been told that before."
He got to work, measuring in silence — professional, but muttering curses under his breath. Kyle stood there, hands in his pockets, watching the elf work with thread glowing faintly blue.
Mana-reinforced fabric. Smooth, flexible, and sharp-looking. Perfect.
When the elf was done, he handed it over — a black-on-gray suit set with a slightly ragged aesthetic, combat-ready but still stylish.
Kyle slipped it on, rolled his sleeves, adjusted his collar, and looked at the mirror.
"Not bad," he said. "Feels like I could kick someone through a wall in this."
"That's exactly what it's made for," the elf replied dryly. "Now, please — don't come back tomorrow."
Kyle chuckled, giving a lazy salute as he walked out.
The streets outside were calm.
He noticed it the second he stepped out of the alley — that faint shift in the air. Someone was tailing him.
He didn't look back. Didn't tense up. Just kept walking.
Persistent little rat.
The shadow followed him through three turns, keeping distance, keeping quiet. But Kyle could feel it — the heartbeat, the nervous mana flickers. Amateur spy.
He smirked faintly, ducking into a side path and vanishing around the corner.
When the follower turned the same corner — empty. Just the faint sound of wind.
"…He's gone," the spy whispered, wide-eyed. Then quickly pressed a crystal shard to his lips.
"He's back. The lord… has returned."
The vision shifted.
Miles away — deep beneath a ruined cathedral in the north — a cavernous hall buzzed with voices.
Dozens of hooded figures knelt in formation, chanting in low unison around a black obsidian throne.
At the center sat a man draped in dark furs, his left eye covered with a golden claw-shaped eyepatch. The air around him reeked of iron and blood.
"Speak," he said, voice sharp and calm.
The spy kneeled before him, trembling. "My lord, confirmation received. The aura matches the ancient records. The Reaper… walks again."
For a moment, the hall went dead silent. Then — laughter.
Rough, guttural laughter that echoed through the chamber as the cloaked followers began cheering, striking the stone floor with their fists.
"Praise be to Death!"
"Our lord walks the realm once more!"
"The time of rebirth draws near!"
The man on the throne raised a hand, silencing them instantly.
"Spread the word," he said, eyes burning under the dim light. "The Cult of Death has waited centuries for this day. Prepare our marks, summon our priests. We move at dawn."
The spy bowed. "Yes, Lord Maegor."
The man leaned back on his throne, fingers drumming against the armrest.
A faint smile tugged at his scarred lips.
"After all these years…" he murmured. "Our god finally wakes."
Meanwhile, Kyle was just wondering if he should've asked for an extra pocket in his new jacket.