That night, Eiden sat in the hollowed silence of the library, the golden pendant cool against his small, dimpled palm. Outside, the world was settling into the quiet of the early hours. Lanterns cast long, amber shadows across the velvet-white couch, illuminating a king in a cradle's shell.
He was closer now than he had been in nineteen years. His original body. His Infinite Grimoire. His sword, his glove—the scattered fragments of a godhood left behind in the red snow of battle. He thought briefly of the Ten Celestials, beings who could snuff out a nation with a flick of a finger, but he pushed the thought aside. One goal at a time.
A month passed.
Bengie paced the halls, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble. He had checked the main library. Empty. The guest suites? Deserted. Even the gardens were void of the tiny, white-suited enigma.
"Where could he have gone...?" Bengie muttered, his frustration mounting. He retreated to his own master suite, pacing until his foot caught on a faint, hollow click. Beneath the rug, a floorboard sat slightly uneven. A sliver of dim, ancient light leaked through the crack.
Bengie pressed his palm to the hidden crystal behind his dresser, flooding it with the deep, obsidian aura of the black dragon lineage. The floor rumbled, the stone parting like a hungry mouth to reveal a staircase descending into the damp dark.
This was the Forbidden Library, a vault of spells so volatile they had been sealed away for centuries. Every shelf was bare. In the center of the room sat a massive oak table, piled high with eight hundred grimoires, every single one open to its final page. Eiden sat in a creaking wooden chair, his legs crossed, a final book floating before his eyes.
"Didn't expect you to find me so easily," Eiden said, his adult voice cutting through the gloom. "Good job."
Bengie couldn't speak. Eight hundred forbidden spells in thirty days.
"I have a carriage ready for the Linn border," Bengie finally managed. "We leave in an hour. Get ready."
An hour later, the evening air brushed against Eiden's white suit as he stepped into the carriage. Beside him, Bengie sat with wings folded tight, looking troubled. The driver, an elegant woman with grey hair, flicked the reins, and the carriage lurched forward. Eiden watched the kingdom fade—the laughing children, the vibrant pulse of life. He felt a rare weight in his eyelids.
"Wake me only if a monster, demon, or bandit tries to attack us," he muttered, leaning his small head against Bengie's arm. "I may be a baby, but I am an elf. And elves usually sleep for a week..."
Three days passed. The carriage sat in a sun-drenched clearing. Bengie peered inside; Eiden hadn't moved. No food, no water—just the steady, rhythmic breathing of an elven trance.
Nine hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised oranges and golds, the peace shattered. Eiden's eyes snapped open, grey and piercing.
"Stop the carriage."
The horses skidded to a halt. Eiden tore the door open with his mind and floated onto the dirt path. "We have unwelcome guests," he stated.
From the shadows, a figure in black armor emerged, wielding a cursed blade dripping with dark aura. Behind him, three massive silhouettes loomed: Black Ogres, masters of Black Magic and mountain-crushing strength.
"Kill them," the armored figure hissed.
Black beams of magic tore through the air. Bengie's wings erupted, launching him into the sky. He caught the beams in his bare palms, absorbing the energy. "Eiden, stay behind me!" Bengie roared.
The Ogres charged. Bengie dove like a falling star, slamming his fist into an Ogre's jaw. He traded blows with monsters five times his size, breathing torrents of black dragonfire that turned the forest floor to ash. One Ogre teleported behind him with a blade of condensed mana, but Bengie shattered the spell with his obsidian wings.
The Ogres formed Annihilation Sigils in the sky. Three beams of white-hot destruction shot toward Bengie. He weaved through them, but the third scorched his leg, tearing through skin and suit. He winced, gathering his aura for a final, desperate dive.
Suddenly, Bengie's world stopped. He froze mid-air, his rage suspended in time.
"That's enough," Eiden's voice rang out. With a thought, he pulled Bengie from the sky and set him gently on the grass.
"You're not in a state to fight yet!" Bengie wheezed. "You'll get yourself killed!"
Eiden turned his head, his gaze predatory. "Bengie. Do you actually think I'm that weak?"
He stepped toward the four enemies and raised a tiny, pale palm.
"Va'volk."
A golden flicker appeared, and then the world screamed. Reality itself seemed to tear. A beam of blinding, celestial light exploded from Eiden's hand, swallowing the path, the trees, and the enemies in an instant. There was no roar of pain—only the sound of existence being erased.
When the light faded, the forest was gone. Acres of land had been replaced by a barren, glass-smooth crater stretching to the horizon. The Ogres and the armored man had been reduced to atoms.
Bengie stared at the wasteland. "If you could do that," he said, his voice trembling, "why didn't you do it from the start?"
"You told me to stay behind you," Eiden said quietly, looking at the burn on Bengie's leg. "I let you fight because you believed you could handle it. You didn't transform into your full dragon state because you were protecting the driver and me. You weren't reckless, Bengie. You were a guardian."
Bengie's throat tightened. He had expected a lecture on his weakness; instead, he received a god's validation.
"You stood against three Black Ogres alone," Eiden continued. "You proved your strength. Be proud."
Bengie wiped his eyes, turning away to hide the moisture. He felt a warmth he hadn't felt in centuries.
"We leave in five minutes," Eiden said, his cloak fluttering in the wind. "The border is close."
Bengie nodded, his resolve hardened. This wasn't just a quest for a body anymore. It was the beginning of a new era.