As the final hours of the afternoon shift at the Rusty Spoon bled away, the chaotic knot of logistics in Lencar's mind finally unraveled into a clean, straight line. He wiped down his heavy wooden cutting board, the rhythmic motion soothing his thoughts. He didn't need to fabricate an elaborate merchant errand, and he certainly didn't need to create a flawless, walking mud-golem.
The simplest lies were always the most resilient.
He would just be sick. A severe, highly contagious, stay-in-bed-with-the-door-locked kind of sick.
The mechanics of the deception were risky, but they were entirely within his capabilities. He would claim a strict quarantine in his small room at the Scarlet household. Beneath his heavy woolen blankets, he would use a highly modified application of Plant Magic—weaving thick, dense vines to mimic the exact weight, shape, and subtle warmth of his own body. Over that organic framework, a layer of Illusion Magic would project the visual of his pale, sleeping face, complete with the subtle rise and fall of a feverish chest.
To cover the auditory gaps, he would use the Far-Speaker's Mirror modification. By leaving a small, linked obsidian token hidden near his bed, he could transmit the sound of a ragged cough from wherever he was standing in the Royal Capital directly into his bedroom. More importantly, the token would transmit sound back to him. If he heard Rebecca's footsteps approaching, or the heavy click of the iron door latch turning, he would have a three-second warning.
Three seconds was an eternity for a spatial mage. If someone tried to enter, he would simply use Void Step, crossing the hundreds of miles from the battlefield to his bedroom in a fraction of a second, sliding under the covers and dispelling the illusion before the door even swung open. It wasn't completely foolproof—a localized mana disruption in the capital could sever the connection—but it was the most viable, airtight solution he had.
Satisfied with the blueprint of his deception, Lencar hung his apron on the wooden peg by the back door and walked home with Rebecca.
The evening at the Scarlet household unfolded with the familiar, grounding warmth that Lencar had come to fiercely protect. Dinner was a loud, chaotic affair involving a thick mutton stew and Marco accidentally knocking a cup of water into Luca's lap, prompting a small, highly localized war involving thrown peas. Lencar deflected a stray carrot with the back of his hand, laughing as Rebecca laid down the law and forced Marco to clean the floor.
After the table was cleared, the children swarmed the rug by the hearth. Lencar took his usual spot in the worn armchair, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin.
"Alright," Lencar said, lowering his voice into a dramatic whisper that instantly silenced the room. "Tonight is the story of the Great Iron-Bellied Troll of the Northern Wastes, and why you should never, ever try to steal a troll's favorite cooking pot."
For the next half hour, Lencar threw himself into the performance. He mimicked the deep, rumbling voice of the troll, pantomimed the foolish bandits trying to sneak away with a cauldron the size of a wagon, and added exaggerated sound effects that had little Pem giggling uncontrollably. By the time he reached the moral of the story, Luca's eyes were drooping, and Marco was fighting a losing battle against a massive yawn.
Lencar helped Rebecca corral the sleepy children into their shared bedroom, tucking the heavy quilts around their shoulders. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching them sleep, cementing the image in his mind. This was the peace he was fighting for.
With the house quiet, Lencar retreated to his room. He didn't sleep. He retrieved his black cloak and featureless wooden mask, and with a silent pulse of Spatial Magic, he vanished into the roaring, freezing tempest of the Thunder-Crag Peaks.
He spent the next four hours dragging iron-chained boulders across jagged obsidian cliffs in the freezing rain, tearing his muscles apart and forcing them to rebuild denser, stronger, and more resilient. The closed-loop rune required a physical vessel bordering on the monstrous, and Lencar refused to let a weak body be the reason he failed.
The next morning arrived with a pale, weak sunlight filtering through the window of Lencar's bedroom. It was the day before the Star Awards Festival. The day before the capital would burn.
Lencar sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his calloused hands. He took a slow, deep breath and began the physical preparations for his act. He didn't use poison magic this time—it was too risky to leave actual toxins in his bloodstream when he needed peak performance tomorrow. Instead, he relied on intense, localized muscle constriction and temperature control.
He forced the blood vessels just beneath the surface of his skin to constrict, draining the healthy color from his face until he looked ashen and gaunt. Simultaneously, he elevated his internal core temperature just a fraction of a degree, forcing a thin, cold sweat to bead on his forehead and the back of his neck. He practiced a few deep, ragged coughs, scraping the back of his throat until it felt genuinely raw.
From his belongings, he produced a clean, thick linen cloth. He tied it securely over the lower half of his face, creating a makeshift medical mask. It was a common courtesy in the crowded towns when someone came down with a lung affliction, and it perfectly sold the visual of a sick man.
He pushed his bedroom door open and slouched slightly, letting his broad shoulders drop to mimic deep physical fatigue.
When he shuffled into the kitchen, Rebecca was already at the stove, flipping eggs in an iron pan. She turned around to greet him, but the words died in her throat. Her green eyes widened in immediate alarm.
"Lencar?" Rebecca dropped her wooden spatula, rushing across the kitchen. She stopped just a foot away from him, her hands hovering as if she wanted to check his temperature but was afraid to touch him. "Gods, you look awful. You're completely pale, and you're sweating. Are you okay?"
Lencar let out a harsh, rattling cough into the crook of his elbow, deliberately wincing as if the action caused him physical pain.
"I'm fine, Rebecca," Lencar replied, his voice muffled by the thick linen mask and intentionally pitched an octave lower to sound congested. "Just a bit of a scratch in my throat. Must have caught a chill on the walk home last night."
"A chill?" Rebecca echoed, her brow furrowing with deep, maternal concern. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Lencar, you look like you're about to collapse. Your eyes are bloodshot. You are absolutely not fine."
"It looks worse than it is," Lencar insisted, rolling his shoulders and forcing himself to stand a little straighter. He offered a strained, muffled chuckle. "I promise, I can work today. It's just a cough."
"If you don't feel well, you shouldn't go to the tavern," Rebecca argued sternly, blocking his path to the dining table. "Gorn can survive one day without you. You need to get back in bed. I can brew you some willow-bark tea and bring you soup later."
Lencar appreciated her fierce protectiveness more than she could possibly know, but he needed to establish the timeline of his illness publicly. If he just stayed home today, it might look suspicious. If he went to work, struggled through the shift, and then collapsed into quarantine, the story was airtight.