The third and final day arrived, and the very nature of reality seemed to bend in anticipation. They were close—so close that the air felt thick and charged, the ancient forest leaning toward the carriage as if eavesdropping on their passage.
Then, the atmosphere didn't just shift; it shattered.
The horses felt it first. Their ears pinned back, their pace faltered, and their breath began to fog in air that had turned instantly, unnaturally frigid. They had crossed an unseen, ancient border. What Dyuke, Iris, and Vaelus expected was gone. In its place was a world transformed into a monochromatic dream. The grass was white. The trees were white. Every leaf shimmered with pale mana, glowing like frost under a permanent moon. The air itself pulsed with a soft, rhythmic hum: the heartbeat of the Whitecrest Woods.
Ahead, a figure stood in the center of the path, unmoving. They radiated such a concentrated amount of white mana that the air distorted around them like a heat haze.
"Halt."
The horses froze. The carriage lurched to a violent stop. Inside, Dyuke's breath hitched and Vaelus's humor vanished. Only Eiden and Selyndra remained calm. The figure—cloaked in white with hair like spun silk—poured a terrifying level of bloodlust into the air. It was a test meant for one person.
Eiden slowly lifted his head, his eyes narrowing. "…So they sent you."
Eiden and Selyndra stepped out without a trace of fear, followed by Iris and Vaelus. Dyuke stumbled out last, planting himself in front of the Sages like a shield. "H-Hello, we are here to reach the Whitecrest—"
He never finished. The figure—Tristan—became a blur of white. He bolted forward, his palm condensed into a razor-thin blade of aura aimed at Dyuke's throat.
In a blink, Eiden was gone. A whisper of movement, a distortion in space, and then—crack.
Eiden stood there, his hand clamped around Tristan's throat, his other hand forcing the aura-blade upward with such force the ground beneath them splintered. "That's enough, Tristan," Eiden said, his voice low and predatory.
Tristan's aura flickered and died. "Let go," he said simply. Eiden released him, and Tristan stepped back, rubbing his neck. He looked up, his grey eyes glowing beneath his hood. "It's nice to see you again, Eiden… and Selyndra?"
Selyndra stepped forward, her golden aura softening. "Hello, Tristan."
Tristan's expression twisted into pure disbelief. "You're alive," he whispered. The forest pulsed in response—a slow ripple of mana rolling through the trees like a breath of recognition. The Whitecrest Woods had finally recognized their lost Divinity.
"Hmph, yes, I know," Eiden replied, as if the trees themselves had whispered to him.
"Please. Follow me," Tristan said, turning toward a massive mountain crowned by a roaring waterfall.
The walk was unnervingly quiet. Tristan mentioned that the news of Eiden's return had caused an uproar of pride, and that Eiden's mother had actually smiled. "That was my first time seeing her smile," Tristan admitted.
Selyndra noticed the changes to the terrain. "Why did you change the route? There used to be a stone pathway."
Tristan's voice grew cold. "After you died, Eiden, people thought our clan was weak. Bandits, ogres, even dragons... they thought we were an easy target."
Iris looked toward the trees and froze. A body hung from a branch. Then another. Hundreds of them—ogres, bandits, and dragons—their heads mounted like trophies. The forest was a graveyard of warnings.
They reached a shimmering pond beneath the waterfall. Tristan raised his palm, causing the water to evaporate and the waterfall to stall, revealing a massive slab of black stone. With a touch, the wall split open like a pair of colossal doors.
Beyond it lay the heart of the clan. Black houses, white-robed elves, and mana that drifted through the streets like falling snow. At the end rose a massive black castle. As they entered, the village went silent. Then, the whispers began.
"He's back..." "The First Divinity..." "Eiden has returned..."
It became a tidal wave of joy. Children, warriors, and elders surged forward, desperate to touch the legend they thought they had lost.
"Everyone, please give the man space."
A commanding voice cut through the noise. A man stepped forward—white robe, brown skin marked with mana-lines, and a white sword at his waist. He walked with absolute authority and stopped in front of Eiden.
"Hello, my son," the man said, a rare, quiet smile touching his lips. "I'm glad you've returned."
"…Father."
The Chief of the Whitecrest Clan stood before him. Alive. Strong.
Dyuke and the knights took their leave, the stone doors sealing shut behind them. The Chief led the Sages through the village, past bowing warriors and weeping elders. They ascended obsidian stairs, past a field of white spider lilies that shimmered in Eiden's presence.
The Chief pressed his palm to the black stone doors of the castle, and the ancient runes ignited. They stepped into the grand hall, their footsteps echoing on the polished black stone. The Chief turned to face his son, the silence heavy and ancient.
"Welcome home, Eiden."