๐ฅ[๐๐ผ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ผ๐๐! ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐พ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฉ๐๐ง๐จ ๐ฉ๐ค๐๐๐ฎ!]๐ฅ
๐๐ ๐๐ง๐ #๐ญ ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฃ๐ค๐ฉ ๐จ๐ฉ๐ค๐ฅ๐ฅ๐๐ฃ๐! ๐๐ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช ๐ฌ๐๐ฃ๐ฉ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐, ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐! ๐๐๐ฉ'๐จ ๐จ๐๐ค๐ฌ ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ค๐ซ๐๐ก ๐ฌ๐๐ค ๐๐จ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ง๐๐๐ก ๐๐ค๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐๐๐ฃ! โ๏ธ
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The afternoon light was fading, casting long, tired shadows across the Old Man's study. Ecatrice didn't move from her spot by the window, her eyes tracking the silhouette of the Western Wall. She had known the man behind the desk for more decades than she cared to count, and yet, seeing him like thisโsurrounded by dust and old books instead of blood and steelโstill felt like a localized glitch in reality.
"You truly have changed, Arthur," she remarked, her voice carrying a faint, melancholic smile. "Who would have thought the great warrior, the man who made the heavens tremble, would become this... peaceful hermit."
The Old Man didn't look up immediately. He continued to clean a small pipe, his movements slow and methodical. "Everyone changes, Trice. It's the one law the System can't override. In my case, I simply stopped fighting the weight of the years and decided to carry them instead."
He finally looked at her, and for a second, Ecatrice saw the flash of the Star Reaper behind the clouded eyes of the grandfather.
"Age?" Ecatrice let out a short, dry laugh, turning to face him. "Don't be a fool. Age is merely the accumulation of time, a mathematical certainty. What actually changes a man is experience. If it were just about years, any human would be an ignorant child compared to an elf or a demon."
She stepped closer to the desk, her silver-stained fingers tapping the wood. "But look at you... those wrinkles and those old bones carry something that the banal romanticism of time cannot explain. You aren't just old, Arthur. You're weathered by things that should have broken you."
Arthur laughed softly, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. "You are still terrible at accepting the kindness of others, Trice. Even when your own soul overflows with it."
"I possess no such weaknesses, you grumpy old man!" she retorted, quickly looking away to hide the flicker of warmth in her eyes. "War leaves no room for kindness. You of all people should know that. It consumes everything until nothingโabsolutely nothingโis left."
Arthur's smile faded into a thin, grim line. He leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. "That is true, in a way... It does consume."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a brass clock on the mantle. Ecatrice didn't let the moment soften. She had come here for a reason, and nostalgia was a luxury they both knew was dangerous in a city built on the edge of a precipice.
"Then tell me, Arthur," Ecatrice started, her voice cutting through the air like a blade unsheathed in a quiet room. "Why did you steal this child?"
The Old Man didn't flinch. He didn't even look surprised by the bluntness of the question. He reached for a small tin on his desk, slowly opening it to reveal dried tea leaves. "It's a long story, Trice. As long as all stories worth telling. But this one... this one I will keep to myself for now."
Ecatrice's eyes narrowed, her silver-stained fingers tightening into a fist at her side. "Do not take the world upon your shoulders again," she warned, her voice dropping into a register of genuine concern that she rarely allowed anyone to hear. "You have already done more than you should for all of us. You've bled for this city, you've sacrificed your name, and you've hidden in this hole for years. You should rest."
Arthur looked up at her, a tired, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes. "Do not worry, Trice. I do not seek revenge, nor do I intend to be the world's savior again. We are both far too old for such nonsense."
"Did you really dare call me old?" she feigned indignation, her chin lifting slightly, but the facade broke almost instantly into a small, sad smile. "But... you are right. We are relics."
She stepped closer to the desk, her gaze dropping to the floor where the shadows seemed to pool around Arthur's feet. "But the boy isn't a relic. He is a 'Level 1 Supreme' who the System has labeled as trash. If he is the reason you aren't resting, then he is a burden that might finally break those old bones of yours."
"He isn't a burden, Trice," Arthur whispered, his voice steady. "He is a choice. One that I made, and one that I would make again, even if the heavens themselves demanded an explanation."
Ecatrice watched him for a long moment, looking for a trace of the arrogance that usually accompanied such statements from powerful men. She found none. There was only a quiet, stubborn devotion.
"Then prepare him," she said, her voice regaining its professional edge. "Because the Elinor Woods don't care about your choices or your secrets. They only care about what they can consume."
Arthur stood up, his joints popping with a sound like dry twigs snapping. He walked toward a heavy iron safe embedded in the stone wall behind his desk. With a series of precise clicks, the heavy door swung open. He didn't pull out a pile of gold or a glowing staff; he reached for a small, wooden box wrapped in treated leather.
"Come here, Leonardo," Arthur said, his voice raised just enough to reach the hallway where the boy had been lingering.
Leonardo stepped into the room, his expression neutral, though his eyes immediately landed on the box. He didn't look like a legendary heir; he looked like a boy who had spent too much time in the sun and not enough time at a dinner table.
"Ecatrice has been busy," Arthur said, nodding toward the woman. "She doesn't believe in sending people into the woods with nothing but good intentions."
Ecatrice took the box from Arthur and opened it. Resting on a bed of dark silk was the daggerโthe Sting. Its blade was a dull, non-reflective gray, and the hilt was bound in simple, rugged cord. It looked functional, almost boring, until Leonardo reached out to touch it.
"It's a Beginner Earth Tier," Ecatrice explained, her voice devoid of the earlier warmth she'd shown Arthur. "In the 12-Tier System, this is the lowest rank of true artifacts, but for a Level 1, it's a death sentence if you aren't careful. It doesn't use your mana to strike; it uses its own edge to sever the mana of whatever it cuts."
Leonardo picked it up. The weight was perfect, balanced toward the hilt. "Why give me this now?"
"Because the Elinor Woods aren't a training ground anymore, Leo," Arthur said, stepping around the desk to stand beside him. "The 'Fringe' is crawling with things that have forgotten their place in the Tiers. You need a tool that can actually bite back."
Leonardo ran a thumb along the flat of the blade. He didn't feel a surge of power or a heroic glow. He felt a cold, sharp reality. "You're sending me out there to do more than just scout, aren't you?"
Arthur looked at Ecatrice, then back at his grandson. "I'm sending you to survive. If you happen to bring back the soul of a Level 1 beast, that's just proof that you listened to your teachers. But the goal is to come back whole."
"I'll come back," Leonardo said, his voice surprisingly firm for a twelve-year-old. He sheathed the dagger at his waist, the click of the leather strap sounding final in the quiet room.
"Good," Ecatrice said, though her eyes remained shadowed. "Because if you don't, I'll have to come find you, and you know how much I hate getting mud on my boots."
Leonardo left the study without another word. The stone corridors of the manor, which usually felt like a sanctuary, now seemed to press in on him, echoing with the weight of the conversation he had just overheard. Every step he took toward the main entrance was punctuated by the slight, metallic clink of the Sting hitting his thigh.
He didn't head for the front gates immediately. Instead, he took a detour through the servant's passage, a narrow, dimly lit stone throat that led to the lower courtyard. He needed a moment to adjust his breathing. The Void State wasn't just a cloak; it was a mental shift. He had to stop being a grandson and start being a part of the background.
The city of Albion was louder than usual. As he emerged from the manor's side exit into the streets of the Upper District, the air was thick with the smell of roasting meats and expensive incense. It was the "Day of the First Spark," a minor festival where the nobility celebrated their Tiers.
Leonardo pulled his hood up, blending into the flow of people. He walked past a group of Level 2 Squires, boys only a few years older than him, who were laughing and showing off their glowing practice swords. Their mana was bright, undisciplined, and loud. To them, Leonardo was invisibleโnot because of his power, but because of his lack of it. He was just a shadow in a city that worshipped the sun.
"Look at that one," he heard one of the Squires jeer, pointing at a merchant's son who had failed his Tier-check. "Another 'Inept' cluttering up the street. They should send them all to the sluices."
Leonardo didn't turn his head. A month ago, those words would have stung. Now, they just felt like distant noise. He felt the cold hilt of the dagger beneath his cloak. He knew where he was going, and he knew that none of those boys would survive a single night where he was headed.
As he moved toward the Western Gate, the architecture began to change. The white marble and gold leaf of the High District gave way to the gray, soot-stained granite of the Middle Ring. The air grew colder, smelling of damp earth and the vast, untamed wild that lay beyond the walls.
The Western Gate was a titan of iron and oak, fifty feet high and reinforced with Level 8 protective runes that pulsed with a steady, golden light. A line of veterans stood guard, their eyes sharp, scanning every person leaving the safety of the walls.
Leonardo approached the checkpoint. A guard, a Level 3 Warrior with a scar running through his eyebrow, stepped into his path, his hand resting on the pommel of a broadsword.
"State your business, kid," the guard grunted. "The woods aren't a playground. Unless you've got a guild pass or a death wish, turn around."
Leonardo didn't look up. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, black iron coinโhis grandfather's personal seal. He held it out in the palm of his hand.
The guard's eyes widened. He looked at the coin, then at Leonardo's hooded face, then back at the coin. He straightened his posture immediately, his bravado vanishing. He didn't ask for a name. He didn't ask for a destination.
"Open the wicket!" the guard shouted to his men. "Let him through."
The smaller side-gate groaned open just enough for a person to pass. Leonardo stepped through the threshold, leaving the warmth and noise of Albion behind. Ahead of him, the paved road ended abruptly, replaced by a dirt track that vanished into the emerald maw of the Elinor Woods.
The moment Leonardo stepped past the shadow of the Western Gate, the world changed. The constant, rhythmic hum of Albion's mana-coreโa sound he had heard every second of his life without ever truly noticing itโvanished. In its place was a silence so profound it felt heavy, as if the air itself were trying to press him into the dirt.
He didn't take the main road. That path was for merchant caravans and Level 5 squads. Instead, he veered left, his boots sinking into the tall, damp grass that bordered the Elinor Woods. He adjusted the strap of the Sting at his waist, his fingers brushing the cold leather.
"The woods don't care about your choices," Ecatrice's voice echoed in his mind.
He looked up. The canopy of the Elinor was a tangled mess of emerald and obsidian, so thick that the orange glow of the setting sun only reached the forest floor in jagged, broken shards of light. The trees were massive, their bark peeling away like dead skin to reveal wood that looked as hard as iron.
Leonardo took a deep breath, and his lungs burned. The air here wasn't filtered by the city's purification arrays; it was raw, smelling of rot, pine resin, and something sharp and metallicโthe scent of wild, unrefined mana.
He didn't activate the Void State yet. He needed to save his stamina, but he allowed his consciousness to drift to that cold place in his chest. He felt his heart rate slow. His vision sharpened, picking out the minute tremors in the leaves and the way the shadows pooled around the gnarled roots.
Crack.
The sound was small, perhaps a hundred yards to his right. Leonardo went perfectly still. He didn't turn his head; he listened with his whole body. It wasn't the wind. The wind in the Elinor was a long, low moan. This was the snap of a dry branch under weight.
He wasn't in the manor anymore. There were no wooden dummies here. There was only the forest, the silence, and whatever was moving through the brush toward him.
Leonardo reached down and unclipped the safety strap on the Sting. He didn't draw the blade, but he felt the cold resonance of the Earth Tier metal vibrating against his palm. He looked at the dark tree line ahead, his violet eye pulsing once in the gloom.
"I'm here," he whispered to the shadows, his voice barely a breath.
He stepped under the first arching branch of the Elinor, and the darkness swallowed him whole.