Martimus leaned forward, his sharp gaze locked onto Uruua, his expression one of absolute seriousness. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and there was an intensity in his stare that would have been intimidating—if not for the fact that Uruua had known him far too long to fall for it.
Uruua had to physically restrain herself from making a face. The sheer dramatics of this man were exhausting. Instead, she sighed, already feeling the headache forming. "It's nearing noon," she answered flatly, arms crossed as she shifted her weight onto one foot.
The second the words left her mouth, Martimus threw his hands into the air and loudly declared, "Wrong! You are wrong, Uruua! It is time—time to go to the arena and partici—"
Before he could finish, Uruua pinched the bridge of her nose and flicked her fingers, a soft shimmer of magic snapping into place around Martimus's mouth. A spell of silence. Sweet, sweet silence.
Martimus froze mid-sentence, his mouth still moving but no sound escaping. His eyes went wide with betrayal, hands grasping at his throat as if he had just been struck by some invisible force.
Uruua exhaled sharply, finally able to speak without interruption. "You are not participating," she stated firmly, fixing him with a tired but pointed stare. "We are not repeating what happened last time. That poor man is still missing part of his face." She lowered her hand and let the silence spell drop, watching as Martimus gasped dramatically for breath like he had been drowning in his own quiet.
"Oh come on, that was one time—"
"And that 'one time' led to said missing face growing legs and causing mischief across the eastern half of Has for three years, Martimus," she deadpanned.
Martimus opened his mouth to argue but then shut it again, his expression shifting to something suspiciously close to pride. "Admittedly," he murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "that was a rather impressive side effect..."
Uruua groaned. "You are the worst—"
"No, no, listen, what if—"
"No."
Martimus pouted. Uruua rubbed her temples. This was going to be a long day.
_______________________________________________
"Haaah… The more time I spend with him, the more I feel like I'm losing my mind," Uruua muttered to herself, exhaling a long-suffering sigh. The delicate porcelain cup in her clawed fingers radiated gentle warmth as she sipped her tea—one of her rare indulgences. An odd pastime for a dragon, perhaps, considering her kind lacked organs in the traditional sense, but she'd long since stopped caring about what was natural.
She glanced toward the horizon, the night sky stretching endlessly above the bustling city of Has. If there were any other dragons here, she'd never hear the end of it. Tea-drinking? How quaint. How disgraceful. How absurd for a being of her stature.
She huffed, rolling her eyes at the imagined scorn of absent peers. "So… what is it? Amali? Or was it Emli?" Uruua asked, barely turning her gaze as her daughter—if one could even call her that—approached.
The girl took a seat beside her with effortless grace, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Amali," she corrected, her tone light but patient.
"Ah. Right." Uruua took another sip. "Sorry, I don't really remember."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Amali was, after all, not truly her child. No, she was the result of one of his ridiculous, ill-advised magical experiments—an accidental creation born from her teacup and his unorthodox meddling. A fusion of both their essences. Uruua still wasn't sure whether she should be impressed or horrified by the implications.
Amali studied her with that unsettlingly keen gaze—one far too intelligent for someone who barely looked older than a human teenager. "Mother," she began slowly, "is it true you'd leave Father?"
Uruua's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Why?" Amali pressed, tilting her head, silver hair catching the moonlight. "Is it because he's an unorthodox mage, like you said? What's so bad about that?"
Uruua turned to her fully this time, a disapproving look crossing her sharp features. "Girl… don't try to play human with me." Her voice was as smooth as it was cold. "I know you're far smarter than even the most esteemed archmages. You don't need to act for my sake."
Amali chuckled softly, her violet eyes twinkling with amusement. "Apologies, Mother. I simply wanted to see your reaction." She leaned back against the bench, expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "But in all seriousness… what is so bad about unorthodox mages?"
Her fingers tapped idly against the wood, the only sign of her inner curiosity. "Everything I've learned about them has been… ambiguous at best and outright lies at worst. So I thought I'd ask someone with actual knowledge on the matter."
She waved a hand dismissively. "I tried asking Father, but—" She sighed, exasperated. "He's an idiot."
Uruua raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.
"A smart idiot," Amali clarified begrudgingly, arms crossing. "But an idiot nonetheless. He spent the entire time trying to hug and coddle me instead of giving me a real answer." She hesitated for a brief second before muttering under her breath, "Not that I hated it or anything…"
Uruua allowed herself a small chuckle before shaking her head. "Amali—tell me, what happens when a mage either consumes an excess of magical energy or releases it too quickly?"
Amali hummed, considering the question. "A magic high," she answered, her voice measured. "A euphoric state where one feels compelled to keep casting spells, to do more. But…" She hesitated for the first time, curiosity flickering behind her eyes. "Is that really so bad?"
Uruua took a deep breath, setting her cup down beside her with a quiet clink. She turned her gaze upward, watching the stars for a long moment before finally responding.
"Yes, Amali. When it comes to unorthodox mages? Yes. It is bad."
Amali's brows furrowed slightly, but she remained silent, waiting for further explanation.
Uruua continued, her tone carefully even. "Traditional mages are trained. They begin with a set amount of magic, one that expands as they grow stronger, as they learn. Their power is passed down from a master who ensures they don't go overboard. Even if they do overreach, the damage is usually contained. A cracked ceiling. A burnt floor. Minor casualties."
Her eyes darkened.
"But unorthodox mages…?" Her voice dipped into something heavier. "They don't have that guidance. They learned magic on their own. Which means they often bite off more than they can chew. They push themselves too far, too fast. And when the magic high takes hold…"
She lifted a single clawed finger and flicked it. A tiny ripple distorted the air in front of them, a minuscule tear in reality that shimmered before sealing itself again.
"We get cart-sized holes in existence itself that I have to clean up every once in a while."
Amali blinked, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Ah. So that's why you spend so much time with Father."
Uruua's jaw tightened slightly.
Amali rested her chin in her palm. "You're not just keeping a promise, are you?" she mused, her voice lilting with amusement. "You're making sure he doesn't accidentally break reality in half while you're gone."
Uruua clicked her tongue in annoyance and looked away.
Amali laughed.
__________________
"Say, Ms. Eldez, could you beat them?" Varin asked, sliding into the seat beside Ms. Eldez as they watched the fighter below clashing in the arena, his every blow driven by the thirst for glory and riches. Varin's eyes sparkled with excitement and admiration for the raw skill on display.
Ms. Eldez offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "Who knows?" she replied nonchalantly, her tone measured yet distant.
Varin wasn't satisfied with that answer. Her voice rose with a mixture of enthusiasm and challenge. "Well… why don't you join? I'm sure if you showed them how strong you really are, they'd let you in," she urged, practically bouncing in her seat.
Ms. Eldez's eyes closed briefly, as if savoring the thought for a moment, but when she opened them again, they were cool and resolute. "I'm not a fan of violence," she said softly. "I much prefer to settle things diplomatically." Her words, delivered with an air of quiet finality, only seemed to egg Varin on further.
"Come on, I really want to see what you can do! Please, Ms. Eldez, I just want to see your strength!" Varin pleaded, her tone rising with each repetition. But no matter how persistently she asked, Ms. Eldez's answer remained unchanged—a calm refusal that left no room for negotiation.
Later that night, when the arena had quieted and the bright lights dimmed into the gentle glow of streetlamps, Varin and Ms. Eldez decided to take a stroll through the bustling streets of Has. The festival had wound down, and the city was alive with the soft murmur of nighttime activity. Varin nibbled on a freshly grilled meat skewer, savoring its smoky flavor, while Ms. Eldez walked beside her, her steps measured and thoughtful.
After a while, Varin's curiosity got the better of her. She looked up at Ms. Eldez with a playful tilt of her head and asked, "Say, Ms. Eldez… what's your last name?"
The question hung in the air like a simple, human inquiry. Ms. Eldez paused, her eyes reflecting a brief, distant sadness as she considered the question. After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke in a quiet voice, almost as if the words carried a personal weight. "It's Eldez—that's my family name."
Varin's face lit up, and she grinned mischievously. "Neat! So, you're Ms. Eldez Eldez? Hah, I wish I knew my last name," she quipped, her tone light and teasing, though a hint of wistfulness danced in her eyes as she spoke.
As Varin and Ms. Eldez continued strolling through the lively nighttime streets of Has, the city pulsed with activity. The warm glow of lanterns bathed the cobblestone roads in gold and amber, casting flickering shadows as merchants called out their final offers of the night. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the laughter of revelers and the distant sound of musicians playing for passing crowds.
Varin, as usual, couldn't keep a question from bubbling up. She glanced up at Ms. Eldez, her sharp eyes reflecting the city lights. "Ms. Eldez… when will we actually start looking for the person you came here to meet? I know you set up a spell and everything, but… shouldn't we be searching too?" She tilted her head slightly, brows furrowing in curiosity.
Ms. Eldez responded not with words at first, but with a small, knowing smile—one that carried a hint of amusement but also something deeper. Something unreadable. "I've already found them," she finally said, her voice calm but edged with a quiet seriousness.
Varin blinked in surprise. "Wait, you did? When?! Then why—"
"I need to wait for the right time," Ms. Eldez interrupted gently, her gaze shifting briefly toward the darkened rooftops above, as if checking for unseen eyes. "Otherwise… it'll get dangerous."
There was something about the way she said it—her tone light, yet layered with an underlying weight. But the part that made Varin pause was the way Ms. Eldez's eyes flickered with something unreadable. A warning? A hesitation?
Still, Varin being Varin, she shrugged it off and took another bite of her meat skewer, licking the juices from her fingers. "Huh. Alright, if you say so," she mumbled through a mouthful of food, not bothering to press further.
But despite her nonchalance, she couldn't help but wonder—who was this person Ms. Eldez had come all this way to find? And more importantly… what made them so dangerous?
_______________________
Amali's curiosity was insatiable—a trait, Uruua suspected, that stemmed from her unusual origins. Apparently, when one creates a homunculus using a teacup infused with dragon spit, the result is an inquisitive nightmare with an endless stream of questions.
"Say, Mother…" Amali began, her golden eyes gleaming in the dim lamplight. "How come there aren't any witches left?" She paused, then corrected herself. "Actually, scratch that—how come there are pretty much no more witches, or dragons, or lion beastfolk?"
Uruua didn't respond right away. Instead, she stared at Amali for a long, exhausted moment before sighing and slamming her forehead against the table with a dull thud. The force of it rattled the tea set, but neither of them reacted—this, apparently, was normal.
"Why," Uruua groaned, her voice muffled against the wood, "do you have to be just like him?"
Amali merely smiled. "Father does say I take after him—"
"That wasn't a compliment."
Amali's expression didn't waver.
With another deep sigh, Uruua lifted her head, rubbing at her temples as if trying to physically push away a headache. "Fine," she grumbled, "but this is the last question I answer tonight." She pointed a clawed finger at Amali. "No exceptions."
Amali tilted her head expectantly, waiting.
"Witches…" Uruua hesitated, her expression tightening for a fraction of a second. "I have no clue. But on the night they disappeared…" Her tail flicked behind her, a rare show of unease. "I felt something. Something terrifying. A magical force far bigger than even mine. Almost close to Mother's…"
A strange silence settled between them.
Amali, as usual, was unfazed. "Mother?" she echoed, raising a delicate eyebrow.
Uruua ignored the question entirely.
"As for the lion beastfolk," she continued, "the gods. That's all you need to know."
Amali narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"And yet, it's all you're getting," Uruua replied smoothly.
Amali pouted but didn't press further.
"And dragons?" she asked instead.
Uruua leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head before exhaling heavily.
"I'm the only one left… normal." The word hung in the air, bitter and heavy. "Most other dragons you'll find have lost their minds. They've turned into mindless beasts of destruction. Living calamities, basically." She let out a dry chuckle. "People love to tell stories about ancient dragons, wise and all-knowing, hoarding treasures of gold and knowledge. But the truth is, if you ever do see another dragon, there's a good chance they'll just try to tear your head off without a second thought."
Amali took this information in stride, nodding slowly.
Then, before she could even think about asking another question, Uruua flicked a hand in a shooing motion.
"Now go. Leave me be, you freak of nature," she muttered. "Sweet dreams, or whatever."
Amali stood, giving her a mockingly deep bow. "Sweet dreams to you too, dearest mother."
Uruua picked up her teacup and took a long, slow sip.
"Brat."
__________________________
"Say… I have a question," came a voice—young, sly, and laced with a greedy chuckle, like a child in a candy shop with no supervision. "When that Edward Terkson kid joined us… why'd you lie about our name? Why tell him we're the Court of Strings? That's not who we are."
The reply came in a tone far older and infinitely more commanding, each word weighted with certainty and a pinch of smugness. "Project Eden must never be known by outsiders," the voice rumbled. "That boy is likely a spy—sent to sniff out something valuable. I'm merely handing him a pretty lie. Let his employers chase shadows while we move forward with our true objective. And remember… there are beings in this world who can glimpse pieces of the future. It is imperative we only speak openly within these chambers. The protections here keep even the most persistent seers at bay."
There was a pause.
Then a soft, delighted laugh from the younger voice. "I see, I see… makes perfect sense." There was the sound of a finger snapping—a gesture more smug than necessary. "Well then, I'll be going. Mr. Caine… do take care of yourself."
The magical communication cut with a shimmer of heatless light.
In the now-silent chamber, the younger man spun around on the heel of his gold-plated boots, arms spread wide. "Ahhh, how interesting," he sang with dramatic flair. "Secrets, spies, lies! It seems I've been handed a golden opportunity!"
He stepped back into his personal quarters—if they could be called that. The walls, floor, ceiling, furniture… all entirely gilded. Even the curtains shimmered like sheets of molten coin. The lighting reflected off every surface like the inside of a treasure chest mid-swoon.
But even that paled in comparison to the man himself. His hair flowed like liquid gold, every strand unnaturally metallic. His teeth gleamed like coins freshly minted. His eyes, somehow, were little whirlpools of polished brass. Even his pajamas (yes, pajamas) were gold-threaded and embroidered with—what else—tiny coins.
This was Don Duvan. Self-proclaimed "God of All Gold." A man whose obsession with wealth went well beyond unhealthy and straight into "hasn't touched a vegetable in fifteen years" levels of deranged.
"Soon," he whispered dramatically, spinning on one toe like a ballerina in a treasure vault, "Don Duvan will rise! God of all that glitters! Gilded King of Capitalism!" He twirled to a stop and threw himself bodily onto his bed in a flourish.
A normal bed might have creaked.
His bed made a clunk.
Because it wasn't a bed. Not really. It was a carefully welded mound of coins, stacked in the vague, haunting shape of a reclining woman.
He laid across her, lovingly cradling what passed for a head, running fingers through the jagged, metallic tangle of what was supposed to be "hair."
"Oh, my darling… what do you think?" he cooed. "My most precious, my beloved treasure, oh fairest thing in all the kingdoms…" His voice dropped, almost shy. "Do you think I'm too ambitious?"
The statue, of course, did not respond. But that didn't stop Don from continuing.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a new coin—untarnished, freshly minted, practically glowing with smug self-worth. "Ah… look at this beauty! Brand new! Just like your dreams, my dear. I think… I think I'll put it in your eye." He gently plucked a coin from the statue's face—one of the "eyes"—and muttered, "Tsk. Lost its shine. We can't have that, can we?"
As he carefully slotted in the new coin, he gave a soft hum, like a surgeon during delicate operation. "There… now you're perfect again."
The scene, objectively disturbing, might've evoked pity from an outsider.
But Don Duvan was no ordinary man.
And this was no ordinary relationship.
Some people talk to their plants.
Some people marry anime pillows.
Don Duvan had conversations with wealth itself.
And he was winning the argument.
_________________________________-
"Heeahh!" A strained grunt echoed through the quiet training room.
"Heauh—!" Another followed it, deeper, weighted.
"Hehhh... huhhh..." A third. Then, abruptly, a long yawn.
"Really?" came the dry, unimpressed voice. "If you're tired, go sleep. Tomorrow's when all the bruised egos from the tournament show up, looking to get patched up by pretty healers and flirt like they didn't just lose in the first round. We can't let them get too handsy."
Ferosa, former adventurer and current pain in gravity's ass, was doing push-ups—slow, controlled, and with Adam sitting cross-legged on her back like he was a meditating monk. His feet dangled slightly as her arms pumped beneath him, silver hair plastered to her temples with sweat, arms rippling with effort. Every exhale was a quiet growl of defiance.
Adam peered down at her back, rising and falling beneath him like a human bench press machine.
"…Say," he began, thoughtfully, "you were an adventurer… and so am I. Why did you say last time that I shouldn't try climbing the adventurer ranks?"
Ferosa made a sharp grunt, pushed herself up in one final rep that popped Adam into the air like a trampoline, then stood up. Adam flailed slightly before she caught him midair like a sack of flour—a very annoying sack of flour—and set him gently on the ground.
"This again?" she muttered, flicking sweat from her brow. "Haaaah, fine. Sit down. No, wait. Water. Get me some water first before I regret not just dropping you."
Adam, smugly prepared, produced a jug of cool water from nearby like a magician revealing a rabbit.
Ferosa deadpanned at him. "...You planned this whole talk, didn't you?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
She chugged the entire jug like it owed her money. Then belched softly and wiped her mouth.
"Alright, listen up, Copper."
"Technically Raw Copper—"
"Don't push your luck, tin-boy."
Ferosa stretched her arms with a crack, muscles taut and gleaming with effort. Then she dropped down again and resumed her push-ups—this time without him. She counted quietly to herself between her words, each number punctuating her thoughts like a metronome.
"Here's how it works. You're Raw Copper. Which means you started at Wood, and you clawed your way up. Fine. Respectable. But to rank up beyond where you are now, you'll need to complete what's called a Mission."
She spat the word like it tasted sour.
"Missions are different than quests. They're personal. Issued directly by a Guild Branch Manager. And they're brutal. Not 'Oh no a goblin stole my turnips' brutal—real brutal. Danger so real it leaves claw marks on your soul."
Adam tilted his head. "So they're, what, like final exams for adventurers?"
Ferosa snorted mid-push-up. "Final exams don't try to eat you."
She flipped onto her back and started doing crunches now, her breath steady, disciplined. Her armor sat stacked nearby, steam still rising off it.
"I'm what they call a Polished Silver. Failed my Gold Mission a long time ago. Left a scar I still feel every time it rains. Not just on my skin—in me. Deep."
Adam stared, but didn't interrupt. She appreciated that, at least.
"You wanna know the real reason I told you not to chase Gold rank?" She paused her crunches, breathing hard. "Because Gold Rankers aren't adventurers anymore. They're monsters in human skin. Even we Silvers used to joke we could beat a Raw Gold in a fair fight—and sometimes we could. But we weren't laughing when we saw what real Gold Rankers did. The kind of horrors they fought."
She sat up slowly now, arms wrapped around her knees, staring ahead.
"There are… what, hundreds of millions of registered adventurers across the continents. Of those, only 50,000 make it to Raw Gold. Just 15,000 reach full Gold. And only 50—fifty people on this entire planet—hold the title of Polished Gold. You know what that means? It means the rest of us are wood, copper, and silver trying to polish rust and call it steel."
She shook her head, eyes distant.
"The Mission I took showed me exactly why I'll never be one of them. And weirdly… I'm kinda glad. Because if I had succeeded, I'd be facing things that make gods tremble."
A heavy silence fell between them, save for the soft sound of her steady breathing and the distant hum of torches flickering on the wall.
"…Still wanna be a hero, kid?" she asked, voice low and rough.
Adam blinked. "...Yeah."
Ferosa threw her head back and laughed, loud and musical and exasperated.
"Idiots. You're all idiots. Brave, shiny, stupid idiots."
She flopped back down, started into a fresh set of push-ups.
"…Ten more sets. You're joining me. No more riding on my back."
"What? Hey, I didn't even—"
"NOW, tin-boy. Let's see if your dreams weigh as much as your stubbornness."
"Heahhhghhhhahh... ha... hah..."Adam collapsed face-first onto the ground, barely managing ten pushups before his arms gave out completely.
Ferosa, not even breaking a sweat, shot him a look as she continued her own grueling set—balanced effortlessly in a wide push-up stance, with Adam's full weight having previously rested on her back like he was just a training sack. She dropped low, elbows forming perfect right angles, and then pushed herself back up in a steady rhythm.
"Ten? That's all you've got?" she muttered, barely out of breath. "Damn mages. Spend all their time learning spells and not a second building their core."
Adam wheezed from the floor, rolling onto his side like a stranded beetle. "Hey... wait a minute..." he said between breaths. "Since when was your hair silver? Last I remember it was blond or something... kinda sunny."
Ferosa paused mid-pushup and glanced at him upside down, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. She rose with ease, dusted off her palms, and sat on the edge of a nearby wooden crate, stretching out her arms.
"Finally noticed?" she teased, flicking a few loose silver strands over her shoulder. "Got cursed a few years back. Some idiot caster thought they were hot stuff. Tried to hex me with 'Premature Aging' or some nonsense."
Adam blinked. "...Wait, what?"
"Yeah," she said casually, picking up a cloth and dabbing sweat from her brow. "They botched it. Turns out the curse had a weird side effect—now I can change my hair color at will. Only between blond and silver, though. Kind of limiting, but hey, I'll take it."
She leaned in slightly, mock-whispering, "Thank the stars I didn't get wrinkles out of it, though. The guild already gives me hell for being one of the older silvers."
Adam let out a snort-laugh, then winced as his arms protested. "Yeah, but silver hair kinda suits you. Makes you look like one of those battle-hardened sages from a storybook."
Ferosa raised an eyebrow. "What, wise and scary?"
He gave her a thumbs-up from the floor. "Exactly."
She chuckled, tossing her towel at his face. "Get up, Sage Boy. You still owe me another fifteen pushups. And this time, don't collapse like a dying worm."
_______________________________
"Madam Leah… Miss Ligh has returned. And with a companion, it seems…" Bouyed's voice echoed through the crystalline throne room as he bowed with practiced formality.
Leah looked up from the reports piled on the arm of her throne, arching an elegant brow. "Companion? Ligh?" she repeated, her voice dripping with curiosity and skepticism. "Who is it this time? Another tiny mage? Was Adam not enough chaos for one century? Or did she get bored without someone to teleport head-first into danger?"
Her fingers tapped thoughtfully on the gilded edge of her throne, memories flashing back to that fateful day when Ligh brought Adam into her court—scrawny, stammering, and wildly unqualified for literally everything. Yet somehow, that ridiculous meeting had changed her life. From queen to Empress of the Veldr Empire. All thanks to one chaotic delivery and a mage who couldn't say no.
Now Ligh was back. Which could only mean two things: trouble… and entertainment.
The great doors creaked open, and in walked the messenger of mischief herself.
Ligh's usual garb was present—ragged cloak, mismatched socks, boots that had seen one too many "accidental fires"—but her infamous clown mask was missing. For the first time in a long while, her actual face was visible. And gods, what a tragic face it was.
Her hair was stringy and greasy, like she hadn't bathed since the last solar eclipse. Dark bags hung under her eyes like she hadn't slept since before Leah's coronation. Her lips were curled into a faint, unsettling grin, and her eyes gleamed with the deeply cursed sparkle of someone whose thoughts were absolutely, 100% not safe for public consumption.
Bouyed took one look at her and visibly flinched. He's going to be yelling about hygiene violations for a week, Leah thought, suppressing a smirk.
And then… there was her companion.
Tall. Scarred. Built like a wall someone had tried—and failed—to burn down. Sword slung lazily over his back. Leah narrowed her eyes.
"Ligh…" she said slowly, voice calm but sharp with disbelief. "Isn't that the mercenary who broke your arm that one time? "
Ligh blinked at her, sheepishly rubbing the back of her head. The ever-mute girl (these days, at least—she'd traded her voice away for teleportation powers in one of her worse ideas) pulled a wooden sign from her cloak and held it up.
In messy handwriting, it read:
"Yeah… it's him. We met at a bar. He wanted a rematch. I wanted to kill him. My mask broke. Sorry. Don't worry, he's safe. Just goes wherever the money is. Or the sword is."
Leah stared at the sign, then back at Ligh. Then at the mercenary, who gave her a lazy wave and an expression that said "I'm only here because someone owes me ale."
With a long-suffering sigh, Leah leaned back in her throne and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Have fun. Don't break anything. Or kill each other. And for the love of the gods…"
Her gaze snapped to Ligh, who was still grinning with that awful, unblinking, permanently suspicious look, like she'd just finished reading fanfiction no one should ever read.
"Don't sleep with each other."
Ligh's grin somehow widened. The mercenary looked mildly offended. Bouyed was already writing a strongly worded hygiene citation.
_____________
Ligh stood across from her so-called companion—Darwell, as he'd introduced himself. Mid-Gold Rank adventurer, allegedly. Which, by the guild's standards, put him just above Gold Rank. Elite. Dangerous. The kind of guy they usually only sent when negotiations failed and someone needed to be removed from existence—cleanly, quickly, quietly.
Ligh did not buy it.
If Darwell had really been that strong during their first encounter, she wouldn't be here today with her limbs intact and her organs still in the correct places. That mission had been a hit contract—her against him. No rules. No backup. Just "one of you walks out."
And yet, here they were again. Alive. Drinking buddies, sort of. And about to try and kill each other again—for fun this time.
Ligh reached into her tattered cloak and drew her dagger. It was small, chipped at the edge, and looked like something you'd use to butter stale bread. Still, she twirled it with expert fingers, her perpetual gremlin grin widening into something more like a dare. Her eyes sparkled with murder and mischief in equal measure.
Darwell, in turn, reached behind his back and unsheathed a completely unremarkable longsword. No inscriptions, no magical glow, not even a cool name etched on the blade. Just plain steel.
Suspicious. Ligh narrowed her eyes.
"This is the sword you brought?" her raised brow seemed to say.
Darwell didn't speak. He just smirked and—snapped his fingers.
BOOM.
The sound wasn't just loud—it was cataclysmic. Metal thunder cracked through the courtyard like the roar of a god. Ligh flinched, then instinctively jumped backward.
Chunks of stone exploded beneath Darwell's feet.
Heavy shackles—black iron cuffs laced with mana seals—fell from his wrists, his ankles, his torso, slamming into the earth with the weight of falling meteors. The impact carved deep craters into the ground, sending up plumes of dust and fragments. The sheer force made the air ripple, and the distant windows of the castle rattled in their frames.
Ligh's grin twitched slightly. Ah. That explains it.He'd been holding back. Those weren't ceremonial cuffs—they were limiters.
Darwell cracked his neck, now standing fully upright, muscles flexing as if waking from a slumber. There was a faint glow beneath his skin, veins lit with mana that pulsed like embers under his flesh. The sword hadn't changed—but now, he looked like he didn't need one.
Ligh's thoughts raced.Okay. Yep. She was about to get obliterated.Fun.
Her grin widened, becoming something feral and unhinged. She licked her lips, tilted her head sideways in that "I know I'm going to die but I'm having the time of my life" way, and crouched.
Then she moved.
A blur. A flicker. A twitch of space and sound. Ligh vanished from her position and reappeared mid-air, teleporting with a flicker of distorted magic, already aiming her dagger straight for Darwell's throat.
She knew she had no chance.
But gods, it wouldn't hurt to try.
Darwell's response was immediate and brutal. He didn't dodge—he caught her. One massive hand gripped her wrist mid-swing. Not too hard—he wasn't trying to break it. Just enough to stop the momentum and make a point.
Ligh vanished again—bamf!—teleporting above him this time, spinning and hurling three knives from under her cloak. Darwell raised his sword, one smooth motion deflecting all three. Sparks lit the air.
Then he moved.
Darwell stepped forward once, and the ground beneath him shattered from the sheer force. Ligh blinked backward, but she was just a beat too slow—his blade came down, slicing a strand of hair and grazing her shoulder, the shockwave behind the slash sending her flying across the courtyard.
She landed hard, skidding, coughing, laughing.
Blood smeared the edge of her lip. Her grin never left.
Darwell approached, sword lowered, amused. "Still want to keep going?"
Ligh raised her hand lazily. Another wooden sign appeared in her fingers:
"Dumb question."
Then she teleported again, already charging back in.
Just as Darwell's sword came down with the force of a landslide, poised to shatter her like glass—
Ligh vanished.
A blink of distorted air, a flash of unstable magic—and she was gone.
Darwell's blade cleaved nothing but stone, the impact splitting the ground into jagged slabs and sending shards flying.
From behind him—whip! whip!
Two daggers soared through the air, precise and fast, aimed squarely at his spine.
"That'll hit," Ligh thought, perched upside-down on a column beam, legs hooked, blood still dripping from her earlier wound. "No human can change momentum mid-swing."
But the daggers never landed.
Darwell simply... wasn't there anymore.
"Wha—" Ligh's mouth opened in alarm, but no sound came.
He reappeared beside her like the world had skipped a frame, his voice cool and conversational as he tapped her shoulder.
"What're you looking at? I'm here, not there."
Ligh screamed—silently—and panicked, teleporting out of pure instinct. She reappeared clinging to a chandelier, holding a half-melted candle like a cat trapped on a shelf.
From below, Darwell tilted his head, clearly amused. She clutched the candle tighter. Her eyes were wide now, pupils dilated, breath erratic. For the first time, she looked—almost—out of her depth.
She hated that feeling.
She hated him for making her feel it.
Memories crept in, uninvited, as they always did when she was cornered.
Back then, on that mission with Leah. The Church had sent elite mercenaries to wipe them out. Gold rankers—monsters in human skin. Darwell had been one of them. She remembered it clearly: the sharp snap of pain when he broke her wrist without even trying.
And now, she was seeing what he was like without the restraints. This wasn't a human. This wasn't even fair.
And worse than that, she wasn't the strongest one in the room anymore.
Gods, she missed being the strong one.She missed Adam.
Teasing him had been the highlight of her week back then. Not in a Weird way—definitely not. Probably. She just liked seeing the way his eye twitched when she'd slip a frog into his bedroll or enchant his boots to hum a demon lullaby. Just normal, totally innocent chaos between friends.
Okay maybe not normal, especially considering she'd once summoned a minor abyssal wretch in his room "as a joke." But harmless! Mostly.
She pictured his face now, that flustered glare he always gave her after her pranks. That stupid half-smile he always tried to suppress. She missed that look.
"I wonder what he'd look like in summoning circle . Not for weird reasons! Just... curious. Aesthetic appreciation. For the vibes."
She giggled to herself in her head, because of course she couldn't giggle out loud. Her grin twisted unnaturally wide, blood still trickling from the corner of her lip, the candle melting in her hand as wax dripped on her sleeve and she didn't even notice.
No one ever really got her. They didn't understand that she wasn't evil, per se.
Just…
Aligned differently.
Okay, so maybe she made a pact with a demon lord once. Or twice. Or seven times. And sure, she only joined Leah's rebellion because they promised her unlimited resources for summoning rituals and access to forbidden grimoires the size of tombstones.
But that didn't make her evil.
Just ambitious.
Unapologetically, violently ambitious.
Still clinging to the chandelier, she tilted her head at Darwell, expression unreadable, eyes glittering with madness.
"Let's go again," her body seemed to scream, even if her mouth couldn't say it.
Darwell raised an eyebrow.
He knew that look.The one where she'd fight even if she had to glue her limbs back on mid-battle.
"You really are insane," he muttered, more impressed than concerned.
And Ligh, if she could speak, would've proudly responded:"Thank you."
Insanity.That was it.That was the thread that stitched her soul together.
Not loyalty. Not morality. Not even vengeance.It was madness—the beautiful, untamed kind. The kind that dances with fire and asks for an encore.
It made sense now, why she was so drawn to Adam. Why, even when he annoyed her or ruined her plans or acted like the world's dullest moral compass, she still stuck to him like blood to a blade.
Because he was broken too.
Not shattered like her—no, his madness was quieter. Slippery. Subtle.The way he talked to himself, not like a man rehearsing, but like he expected someone to answer.The way he taught himself magic by trial and error—literally—how he'd burn his hands, scream at a fish, cry about it, and then do it again while explaining why fish are the true enemy of society.
That kind of madness? That was poetry.
Sometimes he'd sit perfectly still, eyes glazed, voice flat, reciting elemental theory like a priest delivering last rites.Other times, he'd burst into tears over a wilted plant or start laughing uncontrollably after stubbing his toe, as if pain was a joke only he got.
He wasn't stable.He wasn't sane.
And she adored that.
She didn't want normal friends.Normal friends didn't summon demons or play dead for four hours to prank someone.Normal friends didn't understand what it was like to wake up in the middle of the night with your hands shaking from memories that weren't yours, or languages your brain shouldn't know carved into your thoughts.
But Adam? Adam might.Adam might understand her in the way only a fellow disaster could.
He acted like the responsible one, sure. The voice of reason. The one telling her not to melt the innkeeper for a pricing scam.
But she'd seen the look in his eyes when he got really quiet.Not scared. Not angry.Just… distant. Cold. Like he wasn't sure if the world was real anymore, or if he was.
And that's when she knew.
He was just like her.Fractured in different directions, yes, but fractured all the same.
And that made him hers.
Not in a possessive way.(Okay, maybe a little.)
But in the way a broken clock belongs with a shattered mirror.They reflected each other, in the most twisted, beautiful way.
Ligh let her head loll sideways, smiling down at Darwell from her perch, eyes glowing faintly with the kind of energy that could only be described as ill-advised.
"Let's go again," her silence whispered.
Because win or lose, break or bleed, scream or burn—she had a demon in her blood, a boy in her heart, and madness on her side.
And honestly?
That sounded like a pretty good team.
_______________
Ligh was terrified.Not of death. Not of monsters.Not even of Darwell casually snapping steel like twigs.
No.She was terrified of the bath.
She had hidden—wedged herself between crates, smeared herself in grease, masked her scent with ash and fungus spores. It didn't matter.
With a flick of his immaculate wrist, Bouyd—Leah's personal butler and one of Veldra's most powerful mages—snapped a glowing sigil into the air. A magic rope slithered like a serpent of judgment, wrapped around her ankle, and began to drag her screaming across the stone floor.
"No! No! I need the filth!" she wailed internally, clutching at anything she could.Her daggers stabbed into the ground, desperate to anchor her down.Bouyd merely raised one gloved hand, and they popped out like corks from a bottle, flung uselessly aside as the rope continued its relentless pull.
"I am ancient grime!" she mentally howled. "I have cultivated layers! That's—history you're scrubbing!"
She fought. Oh, she fought like a rabid gremlin. Clawed, kicked, bit at thin air. But Bouyd? Bouyd did not care.
He was an artist.And his canvas was unclean.
She was dragged past startled servants and a mildly amused adventurer until she reached the marble-tiled doom: the grand washroom. The water sparkled ominously. Dozens of neatly arranged soaps stood like sentinels, and fluffy towels hung like executioners' cloaks.
Bouyd did not speak. He did not need to.His silence was louder than judgment.He flicked his fingers and the shower came to life.The rope lifted her bodily and tossed her under the spray like a sack of sin.
Steam hissed. Ligh screamed.
Years—years—of filth, sweat, demon ichor, and unidentifiable goo swirled down the drain.The great swamp demons would never take her seriously again. Her stench was heritage. It was identity. It was… gone.
She cried.Full-on, shoulder-shaking, silent sobs.
Bouyd added lavender soap.
That bastard.
He even shampooed her hair. Twice.
By the time it was over, she sat in the corner of the shower like a broken relic, arms wrapped around herself, clean and defeated. Her skin felt raw from cleanliness. Her hair… shined.
The demons would mock her.They'd sniff her and say, "Is that coconut oil?"They'd laugh. Point.They'd revoke her summoning license.
Somewhere deep in her soul, a swamp toad croaked in mourning.
Bouyd handed her a warm towel with perfect composure.Then turned and walked away like nothing had happened.Because to him, it hadn't.
To Ligh?
It was the apocalypse.
_____________________
Sniff.Adam looked up at the sky, nose twitching slightly."…I feel like someone's thinking about me," he muttered.
Next to him, Ferosa—the warrior he'd somehow befriended through a series of increasingly absurd events—tilted her head with mild confusion."Wait, what do you mean? Is that like... a magic spell? Some kind of sixth sense enchantment?"Her tone was casual, but her eyes lit up with interest. "Can I learn it?"
Adam sighed. Not dramatically—just the kind of sigh someone gives when the universe won't stop being weird to them."Sadly, no. I think it's just… instinct," he replied, tapping his temple. "Like when you know you're being watched. Or when something bad's about to happen. But I swear, I can even feel the direction it's coming from. Distance too. Which, now that I say it out loud… might actually be a spell."
Sniff.He did it again, eyes narrowing toward some unseen horror on the wind.
Ferosa raised an eyebrow, studying him more carefully now."…Where are you from, exactly?" she asked, cautiously. "You're not part canine or anything, right? Like, from the Wolf Tribes? I've heard they've got senses sharper than hawks."
Adam blinked at her, then shook his head."Nope. Human. All the way through. I know that for a fact."
That answer came a little too fast.And Ferosa noticed—how he skipped right past the first part of her question like it never existed. Like it was a locked door he wasn't even going to pretend to jiggle the handle for.
She didn't press it.She'd known people with history like that. History they'd rather pretend wasn't still dragging behind them, clinking in chains only they could hear.
So instead, she just nodded slowly."Huh. Well, if whoever's thinking about you is giving you that kind of vibe, maybe we should move away from… whatever direction your nose is twitching toward."
Adam glanced back at her, eyes unusually serious for a moment."…Yeah. It's either something dangerous… or someone insane."
He paused."…Possibly both."