When the shadow guard simply stared back in silence, Hizer sighed. "Fine, have it your way. Don't blame me if it kills you." He roughly poured the potion into Fantasea's mouth—clumsy but effective, without spilling a drop.
Once Fantasea drifted into deep sleep, Hizer's eyes gleamed with mischief. Seizing the chance, he slipped unnoticed from the room.
◇
At the village entrance, a young man in practical attire hesitated before stopping Old Charlie. "Are you a resident here?"
Social graces never came easily to him; his tone emerged stiff and unnatural.
Old Charlie paused to look him over. When his eyes caught the pansy crest on the young man's sword, his casual demeanor evaporated into dread.
"You know who I am?" The youth followed Old Charlie's gaze to his own blade and understood.
"Honorable knight, how may I serve you?" Old Charlie bowed, voice trembling.
"This place is..."
"Sip Village, sir. I'm the local elder," Charlie answered hurriedly.
The young man's eyes lit up. "Is there a blacksmith here?"
"Y-yes, there's a shop," Charlie stammered anxiously. "Has Francis offended you? He's the finest smith around—any offense would be unintentional, I assure you—"
"Set your mind at ease," the youth cut him off. "I seek him for a favorable matter."
"Please, allow me to guide you—" He broke off, reconsidering. "No, arrange a place for me to stay first."
Old Charlie's milky eyes narrowed sharply at the sight of the violet-gold patterns entwined around the young man's sword hilt. His gnarled fingers unconsciously tightened around his rough-hewn cane. Yellowed legends from parchment scrolls flooded his mind—the pansy emblem was never mere decoration.
The Northern tundra had once been a forgotten corner of fate. Three centuries ago, during the harshest winter, seven great houses had littered the snowfields with corpses in their struggle for crystal veins. When hawks carried severed fingers over scorched earth, when infants learned to sleep through arrow storms, historians tremblingly branded the age "The Eternal Night Chronicles."
Until one drizzly dawn, when Torrs Carlos—disinherited eldest son of Lombard's fading nobility—snapped his ceremonial silver dagger before his ancestors' statue. Two years later, frost-embroidered war banners crowned thirty northern cities. By autumn of Domon Calendar 1043, coronation bells shook maple leaves loose, and pansies thereafter bloomed only on royal crests and the scabbards of Imperial Knights.
Charlie's Adam's apple bobbed. Imperial Knights didn't travel with street urchins, nor should they appear in backwater villages too insignificant for maps. His hunched spine curved deeper as his cracked boots scraped gravel.
"The Moonlight Tavern's just ahead," he honeyed his voice, pointing a bony finger toward the building with a crooked sign. Villagers peered from behind window lattices, never having seen the nightwatchman so cautious—as if escorting an unstable fireball scroll.
The young man moved gracefully through the staring gazes, his cloak hem sweeping through mud yet remaining spotless. When the boy spotted cobwebbed spider nests on the tavern lintel, a shrill cry pierced the air: "We're sleeping in this bug-infested dump?"
"Moses." The knight's scabbard turned slightly, the pansy relief gleaming cold in twilight.
Webb, leaning against the doorpost, snorted. He'd just sensed dissipating magical turbulence from the north—the kind of elemental storms nobles casually conjured that could turn Sprout Village into an ice sculpture gallery. He eyed the boy's flushed cheeks: "The stables are available if you're fussy."
"You!" Moses' eyes welled up, but he bit his lip bloody under the knight's warning gaze.
"My apprentice lacks discipline." The knight's nod revealed a faint magical sigil on his neck—no ordinary noble's mark.
"There's a cluttered attic upstairs," Webb kicked an empty barrel aside, "clean it yourself."
Meanwhile, on the castle terrace, Claude watched a slender figure melting into dusk. The youth drifted past patrols' blind spots like falling leaves, leaving even the alert magic wards undisturbed.
"Now I believe Xezer can rebuild the Rose Manor," Claude spun an ice crystal on his fingertip. "But doesn't such talent unsettle you?"
Barlo's knuckles whitened on the railing. "The curse gnaws at his soul every moment. The battlefield between the Holy Staff and dark forces is that child's consciousness." Moonlight caught his trembling silver hair. "Last full moon, Xezer clawed bloodstains into granite floors from the pain."
Suddenly Claude flung his wine skyward, the droplets freezing mid-air into an ice matrix. "Precisely because the curse coexists with his soul, there's hope." The ice exploded into stardust. "When hounds turn on masters, when shackles become nourishment..."
"You'd throw him into Dragon's Breath Abyss?" Barlo's cloak billowed without wind.
"Starting tomorrow." The Archmage turned, his robes overturning a silver candelabrum. "After all, the boy doesn't yet know what dangerous legacy he's inheriting."
**THUMP!**
The tavern door burst open with brute force. Xize stepped heavily across the threshold, grinding a curse against some old scoundrel between his teeth.
Just moments earlier, while crossing the market square, that persistent old coot Claude had descended from the shadow of the clocktower, riding the wind itself. With a grin that chilled the spine, the old mage delivered news that froze the blood in Xize's veins—his own father, Barlow, had sold him into an apprenticeship with his mortal enemy, a man he'd been crossing blades with mere hours ago.
"Just you wait, boy." Claude's bony fingers traced eerie blue runes in the air. "All your little tricks are stored safely in my memory crystal." With a warp of light and shadow, the old sorcerer dissolved into stardust, vanishing into the twilight and leaving a petrified Xize behind.
*Apprenticeship?* This was outright slavery! A signed and sealed indenture!
"Well, I'll be." Weber's hands, busy polishing a crystal glass, stilled. He took in Xize's livid expression, and his furrowed brow suddenly smoothed into amusement.
The youth flung himself onto a barstool with vengeful force. "A Crimson Requiem!"
"A what now?" Weber deliberately drew out the words.
"Crim—son—Re—qui—em!" Xize bit out each syllable. "That cask of fire-berry wine you brewed. My new name for it. Instantly elevates it, doesn't it?"
Weber rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I'd say 'Weber's Wrath' has more punch."
As the two bickered over naming rights, a faint noise came from the second floor. In a dusty, cobweb-laced guest room, a boy in fine silks stood holding the hem of his tunic, emerald eyes brimming with grievance. "Father, must we truly stay in a place like this?"
Lyster Carlos surveyed the squalor with a silent sigh. Their covert infiltration into Sparrow Village was a matter of royal succession; not a whisper of it could leak out. He was about to offer reassurance when a familiar figure darting past the window caught his eye, making them gleam.
"This concerns your bloodline gift," Lyster said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, though his gaze remained fixed on the cloaked tracker outside. As Jeff slipped silently through the window, the Ninth Prince produced a sealed letter bearing the royal crest. "Take this missive to the blacksmith's forge first. I will personally meet with the legendary smith tomorrow."
A strange, alluring aroma of liquor suddenly wafted up from below. Moses wriggled his nose, breaking free from his father's grip. "What is that smell?"
Downstairs, Xize eyed the strangers descending the creaking staircase, clutching his drink warily. When Moses pointed at the shimmering, ruby-hued liquid and demanded "the same juice," Weber shot a warning glance from the shadows behind the bar. "That's firewater, kid. Could scorch your throat clean through."
"But he's even younger than me!" Moses protested, face flushing crimson as he pointed at the lone drinker. Xize merely swirled his cup idly, the amber liquid forming a tiny vortex within.
A low chuckle rumbled in Weber's throat. "Comparing yourself to a monster?"
Thoroughly enraged, the young noble's body suddenly flared with a pale golden aura of combat energy. Just as he lunged at Xize, the potion-like brew in the cup began to steam with an eerie purple mist. Xize arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the scene unfold. Perhaps this bit of unexpected entertainment could dilute the bitter taste of his fate—being forced to call his enemy 'master.'
Lister made no move to stop Moses this time. Even with his usual composure, he felt a flicker of irritation. If even a child could drink the brew, why single out Moses? Though he always presented himself as magnanimous, a noble's pride still ran deep in his veins. Weber's behavior had genuinely offended him. While keeping a low profile was necessary for this journey, it didn't mean he had to tolerate disrespect.
Moreover, he knew Moses was simmering with pent-up frustration that needed an outlet. A scuffle between youngsters would cause no real harm—at worst, they'd just have to cover the damages. With that thought, he stepped back and watched quietly.
Moses hadn't borne any grudge against Xize initially, but for some reason, the faint smile playing on the boy's lips grated on his nerves. Spurred by Weber's provocation, his fixation on that drink grew until he lunged at Xize without a second thought.
Though untrained in combat, Moses' age and build made him seem like a lion pouncing on a hare next to the slender Xize. As for who the real predator was, Weber might have been the only one in the room who knew.
Xize's eyes widened in disbelief as Moses closed in. Bewildered, he wondered: Why come after me instead of wrecking the place? Had the God of Misfortune taken a liking to him today? Couldn't he even enjoy a drink and watch the drama unfold in peace?
Given more time, he would've cheerfully encouraged Moses: Go ahead, tear the place down—I'll even cheer you on.
But there was no time.
Moves moved with a rush of wind, his left hand snatching at the cup while his right went for Xize's collar. Seeing Xize's stunned expression filled him with grim satisfaction.
Just as his fingers were about to connect, Xize shifted lightly—so fast he left an afterimage in the air—effortlessly evading the attack.
Moses stared blankly at his empty hand. He could've sworn he'd felt the cup's surface, yet when he pulled back, there was nothing.
Refusing to believe it, he tried again, eyes locked on the drink. This time he saw it clearly—his hand passed straight through the cup, untouched by even a hint of liquor.
Moses was no fool. He sensed something amiss and snapped his gaze up at Xize, only to find the boy blinking innocent amber eyes, face full of confusion and curiosity.
His earlier certainty wavered.
Gritting his teeth, he changed tactics. If speed didn't work, he'd try slowness. On his third attempt, his hand moved as if pushing through thick honey.
"Got it!" The solid feel under his fingertips made him exhale in relief. Grinning triumphantly at Xize, he tightened his grip and pulled.
The smile froze. The cup felt immovable, heavy as a mountain. Instead of budging, the tug sent him stumbling half a step backward.
"Huh?" He tried again, with the same result.
A flush of humiliation spread across Moses' face. Arguing with a child before his father was embarrassing enough—now he'd failed repeatedly!
"Give it!" he snarled, hands clamping around the rim, veins bulging as he strained with all his might. Yet the cup remained firmly in place.
"Give it!" he repeated, eyes blazing.
"No," Xize stated firmly.
Moses: "..."
Lister: "..."
The scene defied all logic. To Lister and his son, a child displaying such unnatural strength was enough to shatter their understanding of reality.
Noticing everyone's eyes on him, Xize gently slid the cup free from Moses' grasp, ducked his head shyly, and murmured, "Please, carry on. Wreck the place if you must, or stop him if you will. Pay me no mind."
Weber: "..."
Moses: "..."
Lister: "..."
Suffocating silence once again filled the tavern. Weber massaged his temples in resignation, while Lister and his son stood speechless, stunned by the inexplicable turn of events.
Weber cleared his throat, his gaze drifting unconsciously toward the shadowy corner. "Xize, finish your drink and head back."
"I said, don't mind me." Xize waved him off, moved to another seat, and propped his chin in his hands—the picture of an avid spectator. "Just pretend I'm not here."
Biting back the urge to toss him out, Weber turned to Lister. "That brew is a private reserve, not for sale. But other drinks are available."
"No need," Lister replied, studying Xize intently for a moment. "It seems we misunderstood." Taking Moses by the hand, he headed for the door. "Farewell."
Xize watched their retreating figures with disappointment, then drained the last of his drink. Without the spectacle to accompany it, even the finest nectar had lost its flavor.