The Royal Capital stood beneath an unforgiving sun.
High noon.
Light poured down from a cloudless sky, striking shattered stone and scorched walls with almost cruel clarity. There was nowhere for the damage to hide. Cracks in the streets yawned wide, exposing broken foundations beneath. Walls once polished white now bore blackened scars where magic had burned too hot, too violently.
The undead were gone.
No shambling corpses clawed at the streets anymore. No warped silhouettes lurked behind smoke or mist. The invasion had ended—not with a single decisive victory, but with exhaustion on both sides.
And yet the air still tasted wrong.
Mana lingered everywhere, heavy and metallic, clinging to the city like a second atmosphere. It pressed against the skin, slid across the senses, whispered of spells that had only just faded. Every broken street hummed faintly with residual magic, echoes of death and desperation refusing to disperse.
For most mages, it was overwhelming.
For Lencar, it was familiar.
He stood atop the remains of a fractured watchtower near the capital's outer sector, the wind tugging gently at his cloak. Wisps of mist trailed behind him in slow, lazy ribbons, dissolving and reforming as his mana adjusted to the environment.
From here, the capital lay open before him.
He saw Magic Knights moving in coordinated formations, guiding civilians from collapsed shelters. Healers knelt in clusters, glowing circles of magic blooming beneath their hands as they worked tirelessly over the wounded. Supply carts rolled across uneven streets, their wheels catching in cracks left by massive spells.
Order was being rebuilt.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
But deliberately.
To anyone else, this would look like relief.
To Lencar, it looked like something far more fragile.
"…So," he murmured, his voice barely disturbing the air, "it's finally ending."
There was no relief in his tone.
No pride.
Only acknowledgment.
The Replica core within him remained steady, impossibly dense but perfectly contained. The sheer volume of magic he carried now would have crushed most mages under its weight. For him, it rested in layered harmony—catalogued, aligned, silent.
He watched the capital breathe.
And then—
Something shifted.
Not outwardly.
Not violently.
A subtle distortion brushed the edges of his perception, far beyond the central districts. A thin ripple in the flow of mana, too deliberate to be residue, too quiet to be accidental.
Lencar's gaze sharpened.
His eyes turned east.
"…But it's starting," he said softly.
The words carried weight.
"For them."
The mist around his feet curled tighter, responding instinctively.
"And for him."
That last word lingered.
Who him was did not need to be said.
Lencar stepped back.
Space folded around him, clean and precise.
The Scarlet Hearth should have been silent.
It was still the same day.
Still noon.
The invasion had happened only hours ago.
And yet—
It was alive.
Lencar stood across the street, layered concealment bending light and mana around his presence. The sun glinted off the restaurant's windows, revealing movement inside—people sitting, eating, talking.
Laughing.
He observed carefully.
Magic Knights occupied several tables, armor stacked neatly beside them. Their expressions were tired, but their shoulders were relaxed in a way that only came when danger had momentarily passed. Civilians filled the rest—families, merchants, elderly couples who clutched warm bowls like lifelines.
This wasn't ignorance.
It was defiance.
They weren't pretending the invasion hadn't happened.
They were choosing not to let it define the moment after.
"…You are really dedicated" Lencar murmured, eyes following Rebecca as she moved through the room.
She was exhausted.
Anyone trained to observe would see it immediately—the stiffness in her steps, the slight tremor when she lifted heavier trays. And yet she smiled with genuine warmth, checking on each table, offering reassurance without speaking it aloud.
The Scarlet Hearth was not a fortress.
It was something rarer.
It was normalcy.
Lencar crossed the street.
The wards parted instantly for him, recognizing their creator. Inside, the warmth hit him immediately—heat from cooking, from bodies, from life continuing despite everything.
No one truly noticed him.
Not because he was invisible.
But because he belonged here.
He ascended the stairs, bypassing the dining floor, and folded space for the final step into his room.
The door closed softly behind him.
Sunlight streamed through the window, painting sharp, defined shadows across the room. Noon light was honest—it revealed everything.
Nothing was out of place.
No foreign mana traces clung to the walls. No signs of intrusion, no residual distortions. The room was exactly as he had left it.
"…Good," Lencar said quietly.
He removed his mask and set it on the desk with deliberate care.
Only then did confusion settle in.
He returned to the window.
More people were arriving.
Not fleeing.
Not hesitating.
Arriving.
"…They trust this place," he murmured. "Or they need it."
Perhaps both.
Either way, it was a variable that resisted calculation.
He retrieved the communication crystal from its compartment, its surface warm beneath his fingers. A brief pulse of mana activated it.
> Come to my room.
No explanation.
Mariella would understand.
Lencar sat on the edge of the bed, posture relaxed but alert. His mana spread subtly through the room, not defensive—aware.
Time passed.
The sounds below continued uninterrupted. Noon chatter. Cutlery clinking. Life refusing to slow.
Then—
Footsteps.
Lencar's gaze lifted instantly.
Measured.
Controlled.
One presence was familiar.
Mariella.
The second—
"…Two," he said under his breath.
The second set of footsteps was deliberate, light. Not aggressive. But hesitant. A presence that knew where it stood and did not feel the need to announce itself.
Lencar did not rise.
Instead, space folded microscopically around him, anchors forming beneath the surface. Concealment, mist, spatial lock—layers prepared without escalation.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
No knock.
No sound.
Just presence.
The sun continued to blaze outside.
Inside the room, the air felt suddenly still.
"…So," Lencar murmured quietly, eyes fixed on the door, "you didn't come alone."
The handle did not move.
But whoever stood beyond it—
Was not here by accident.