The soot-stained air of the forge room felt heavy with the scent of iron and ozone. Eon stood in the center of the wreckage, the newly crafted straight razor held between his fingers. It was a small thing, barely the length of his palm when folded, yet it felt heavier than any sword he had wielded since waking up in this world. This wasn't just a tool for grooming; it was a testament to his new Crafting skill, a bridge between the Earth and this world.
Outside the forge, several elves had gathered. They were the ones who had been assigned to clear the debris from the skirmish that had occurred only twenty-four hours prior. They stopped their work, leaning on brooms and rusted shovels, watching their leader with a mixture of reverence and confusion.
Eon stepped out into the light of the sun, the morning sun catching the mirrored finish of the steel.
"Umm, Eon?" one of the younger elves asked, his eyes wide. "What is that? A new type of throwing dagger?"
Eon looked at the boy and gave a faint, mysterious smile. "In a way, it's a weapon. But not for the enemies outside these walls. It's for the enemy in the mirror."
The elves exchanged puzzled glances. Eon didn't blame them. In this world, the concept of a dedicated shaving tool was practically non-existent. Warriors used their daggers if they bothered at all, and the common folk simply let nature take its course.
"Hans, come here," Eon called out.
The old man, who had been supervising the cleanup, stepped forward. His face was a map of wrinkles and wisdom, framed by a thick, slightly unruly silver beard that didn't reach his chest yet. Hans was the image of a dignified elder, but to Eon, or rather, the soul of Jin-ho inside him, the beard felt... wrong.
'When I was in earth, I never would have imagined elves with beards,' Eon thought, suppressing a grimace. 'Legolas didn't have a soul patch. The Elves in the games always had skin like glass. But here? These guys look like they've been lost in the woods for a decade.'
It didn't took him long to figure out, that only a selected few of the younger, more "handsome" elves maintained a clean-shaven look, likely using painful methods like plucking or dull knives. To Eon, seeing a Elf with a scraggly beard was like seeing a Ferrari with a trailer hitch. It was a sin against the aesthetic of this fantasy world.
"Watch closely," Eon said.
He didn't have a mirror, but even without it he flicked the razor open. The steel sang a sharp, clear note. Without soap or water, relying on the supernatural sharpness of the atomic-aligned edge, Eon brought the blade to his cheek. The elves held their breath, some even wincing, expecting to see blood spray across the floor.
Srrrrit.
The sound was tiny, like a dry leaf being torn. With a single, effortless stroke, a patch of dark stubble vanished, leaving behind skin that was as smooth as polished marble. Eon moved the blade with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years preparing for job interviews.
He finished in less than a minute. He wiped the blade on a piece of scrap cloth and folded it shut. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the perfection of the shave.
"That," Eon announced, holding the razor aloft, "is a razor. No more hacking at your faces with kitchen knives. No more plucking. If we are to rebuild our civilization, we will start by looking like a people who have mastered their own lives."
The elves were silent for a heartbeat before a low murmur of fascination broke out. They crowded closer, staring at the device as if it were a holy relic.
"It didn't even pull the skin," one elf whispered. "The edge... I can't even see the thickness of it," another added.
Eon felt a surge of satisfaction. The Crafting skill was already paying dividends. He could see the glow around the item whenever he focused his mana. It wasn't just sharp; it was conceptually sharp.
However, not everyone was impressed.
From the edge of the crowd, Elora Denares stood with her arms crossed over her chest. She was grumbling, her lower lip tucked into a slight pout. Since the pillow fight, she had been following Eon around with a strange, possessive energy, half-hostage, half-annoyed little sister.
"What?" Eon asked, noticing her dark expression.
"It looks stupid," Elora muttered, loud enough for him to hear. She looked at his clean-shaven face and then quickly looked away, a faint pink tint dusting her ears. "You looked more... I don't know, serious before. Now you just look like a pampered brat from the Royal Academy. Why would you want to look like a human noble? Beards are supposed to be a sign of a seasoned warrior."
Eon rolled his eyes. "Elora, having a beard on a face this handsome is a crime against nature. I'm doing the world a favor." he was saying this with a confidence which only a narcissist would possess.
"Narcissist," she hissed, though she didn't stop looking at him from the corner of her eye. She clearly didn't hate the new look as much as she claimed, but her pride wouldn't let her admit that a "baby strap" inventor could actually make something useful.
Eon ignored her jab and turned back to Hans. The old man was looking at his own beard thoughtfully, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out to touch the razor.
"Master Eon," Hans said, his voice grave. "This tool... if we could produce more... the morale of the men... to feel clean and perfect..."
"We'll make more, Hans. But not today," Eon said, his tone shifting. The lighthearted moment was over. He could feel the weight of the mansion's situation pressing back down on him. "We need to move. The Denares soldiers are outside, Alaric is playing his part, but we are still in the center of a storm. We need a plan."
He looked around. The training ground was nearby, and he could sense the distinct ripples of mana coming from that direction.
"Gather the others," Eon commanded. "Liam, find Elsa and Verra. We're going to Teressa's room. We need to be on the same page before the Duke's shadow or those mercenaries falls any further over this house."
The group moved through the estate with a quiet intensity. Eon led the way, with Elora trailing just a step behind him, still occasionally muttering about "face-knives."
They found Elsa and Verra on the training grounds. The two women were locked in a display of magical coordination. Verra was chanting softly, her hands holding Han's wand in the air, while Elsa moved through the attack, dodging, with her blade catching the light. They were practicing "Void-step", a technique to allow a physical fighter to move through a mage's area-of-effect spells without being harmed.
No other elves were nearby. The training ground was a lonely, scarred patch of earth. No humans were visible close to it. 'Hans probably made sure no one comes here, so that we elves can roam around this area.' Eon thought.
"Elsa! Verra!" Eon called out.
The two women stopped instantly. Elsa sheathed her sword in one fluid motion, while Verra let the glowing embers of her spell dissipate into the wind. They approached him, their faces glistening with sweat but their eyes sharp.
"Eon," Elsa said, bowing her head. Her silver eyes flicked to his face, pausing for a fraction of a second on his clean-shaven jaw. She didn't say anything, but a small, approving nod was all the confirmation Eon needed.
"Is it time?" Verra asked, her voice hushed.
"Yes," Eon replied. "By this point, it is safe to say, every neighboring estate and local area is flooded with rumors of us elves freely roaming around this mansion. Not to mentions the soldiers outside the mansion deosn't make the image of this place better to others. We can't just hide behind Alaric and his soldiers anymore. We need to decide what our next move is, whether we fortify here, or prepare to vanish before the North's 'Butcher' arrives in person."
Liam joined them a moment later, his massive frame casting a long shadow. Hans followed, looking more serious than ever.
"We're missing Teressa," Eon said.
"She's in the West Wing," Hans noted. "In the room near the old library. She said she needed some rest after the meal."
"Let's go," Eon said.
The group of six, Eon, Elora, Hans, Liam, Elsa, and Verra, marched through the hallways of the Edger mansion. The atmosphere was tense. Denares soldiers occasionally passed them in the corridors, and though the soldiers looked at the elves with suspicion, the presence of Elora Denares and the memory of Alaric's "mercenary" explanation kept them from interfering.
Elora walked with a newfound confidence, her head held high. Being an "ally" of the elves had given her a purpose she hadn't realized she lacked. Or perhaps she just liked being the only human ally of Eon's, who also know his little secret.
They reached the door to Teressa's quarters. It was a heavy wooden door, intricately carved but showing signs of age. Eon stopped in front of it, raising his hand to knock.
"Teressa?" he called out. "It's Eon. We need to talk."
There was no answer.
Hans frowned. "She was definitely here. I saw her enter like just ten minutes ago."
Eon leaned in closer, his elven ears, far more sensitive than his human ones had ever been, picking up a sound from behind the wood. It was a faint, rhythmic noise. A soft friction of fabric.
And then, a sound that made the entire group freeze.
"Mmm... hhh..."
It was a low, shaky moan. It was unmistakable. It wasn't a cry of pain, nor was it the sound of someone sleeping. It was the sound of a woman caught in the throes of a very private, very intense moment of self-gratification.
"Ah... Eon... please..."
The name hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Eon's hand, which had been about to knock again, stayed frozen mid-air. His face, which he had so carefully shaven to look like a dignified leader, instantly turned a shade of red that rivaled the Denares family crest.
Beside him, Liam's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Hans looked at the floor, suddenly finding his boots extremely interesting. Verra let out a tiny, choked gasp and covered her mouth with both hands.
Elsa, the ever-stoic warrior, remained perfectly still, though her silver eyes narrowed significantly as she looked at the door, then at Eon, then back at the door.
But it was Elora whose reaction was the most explosive.
Her jaw dropped. Her face went from pale to a deep, furious crimson in the span of a single heartbeat. She looked at Eon as if he had personally betrayed her, then looked at the door with a gaze that could have melted the iron hinges.
"Nnn... yes..." another moan drifted through the wood, followed by the soft sound of a bed creaking.
The silence in the hallway was so thick you could have cut it with Eon's new razor. No one moved. No one spoke. The leader of the Elven resistance, the "High Elf" savior, was standing in front of his entire inner circle while a woman inside the room was apparently using his name as a mantra for her own pleasure.
'Oh, god,' Eon's inner Jin-ho screamed. 'Not like this. What an embarrassment. I'd rather face the Duke in a loincloth than deal with this.'
He looked at his companions. They were all waiting for him to do something. Anything. But for the first time since his rebirth, Eon's mind was a total, echoing blank.
The "Absolute Silence" rule had never felt more necessary, and yet, it had never been more broken.
Author Note:
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