When Lucien returned to the Arkanveil estate, carrying Elric and the little girl, the entire mansion stirred like a disturbed anthill. The grand foyer, with its marble floors and soaring ceiling, suddenly filled with curious faces. Servants paused in their duties, peering from doorways. Guards stood straighter, hands instinctively moving to weapons before recognizing their young master.
Within moments, his family members rushed to surround him—each reaction as distinct as their personalities.
His father, Lord Arkanveil, lifted his thick brows in silent question. The man's imposing figure, draped in the family's traditional midnight-blue robes embroidered with silver, loomed over them all. His red eyes—the same shade as Lucien's—narrowed slightly.
His mother, Lady Arkanveil, offered a curious smile that didn't quite reach her calculating eyes. Her fingers lightly touched the pendant at her throat—a nervous habit she displayed only when truly intrigued.
His older sister Celia looked interested for once, her usual mask of boredom replaced by genuine curiosity. She leaned forward, dark hair falling over one shoulder as she examined the newcomers.
And Aleron, Lucien's older brother and eternal rival, simply raised a brow and crossed his arms, the enchanted bracers on his forearms glinting in the crystal-lit foyer. "What have you dragged home this time, little brother?" his posture seemed to say.
"Who's the boy?" Lord Arkanveil finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.
Lucien, as calm as ever, simply said: "My butler."
The words left everyone speechless for a moment. Even the servants exchanged glances.
"Butler?" Aleron repeated, incredulity coloring his voice. He examined Elric more carefully—taking in the boy's ragged clothes, hollow cheeks, and hard eyes that seemed older than his years.
Lucien nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yes. Elric will be serving as my personal butler from today onwards."
"And her?" his mother asked, stepping closer to gaze at the girl in Elric's arms. The child was barely conscious, her small face flushed with fever, breaths coming in short, labored gasps.
"She's his little sister," Lucien replied, voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Now... part of this house."
Then, without hesitation or further explanation, Lucien pulled out a gleaming vial from his inventory—an A-grade healing potion. The liquid inside shimmered with golden light, power radiating from it in gentle waves that those with magical sensitivity could feel across the room.
Even his grandfather, who rarely showed emotion and had been watching silently from the grand staircase, narrowed his eyes at the sight. The old man's gnarled fingers tightened around his cane.
That potion could fully heal an A-rank warrior, even from the brink of death. The ingredients alone cost more than most commoners would see in a lifetime. Even the most powerful families would hesitate to use one lightly—especially on an unknown child from the slums.
Lucien knelt, unconcerned with the looks of shock around him, and opened the little girl's lips carefully. With gentle movements that seemed at odds with his usual efficient manner, he helped her drink it drop by precious drop.
Golden light enveloped her frail body—spreading from her throat to her fingertips in pulsing waves. Within moments, her fever broke. Her skin flushed with life instead of illness. Her fingers twitched. Her breathing deepened and steadied. She was healing before their very eyes.
"Lucien," his father began, voice stern. "That potion was—"
"Necessary," Lucien finished, rising to his feet. His red eyes met his father's, unwavering. "I'll replace it from my personal inventory."
Something passed between father and son—an unspoken conversation—before Lord Arkanveil nodded once and stepped back. "Very well. See that they're properly settled."
---
Fifteen days passed in the blink of an eye.
Lucien had gone through all the loot from Shambhala—analyzing, testing, and planning every piece in his personal workshop. The raid had been more profitable than even he had anticipated, with several rare artifacts that would significantly boost his combat capabilities.
Elric, who once looked like a walking skeleton, had now filled out with lean, wiry muscles. His sharp cheekbones no longer spoke of starvation but of natural structure. His eyes no longer held helplessness—but purpose. The haunted look had been replaced by determination.
He had started training daily under the guidance of Lucien's instructors, showing remarkable aptitude despite his supposedly "worthless" F-grade Trait. What he lacked in innate talent, he made up for with relentless effort. Dawn would find him already practicing in the courtyard, and twilight would see him still at work long after others had retired.
And as for the little girl—El was her name—she had become best friends with Trisha, Lucien's youngest sister.
Or more accurately—the two had become a chaotic duo, wreaking havoc in every corner of the estate.
Whether it was sneaking into the pantry to steal freshly baked tarts, painting the ceremonial knights' armor with flower patterns, or starting a flour war in the kitchen that left the head chef threatening resignation—they were unstoppable. Two little whirlwinds in dresses, giggling as they ran through halls that had once been far too proper and quiet.
The person who had to clean up their chaos the most?
Surprisingly, Lucien's father.
Each time he was dragged into some nonsense—like being appointed "royal taster" for their mud pies or finding his important documents transformed into paper boats floating in the fountain—the entire household roared with laughter. The once-intimidating lord's exasperated sighs had become a regular source of entertainment.
Even Elric could barely recognize his sister anymore.
She who once acted far too mature for her age, shouldering worries no child should bear...
Now she was a giggling menace, a devil incarnate in a pink dress that Lady Arkanveil had commissioned for her.
But seeing her laugh again—truly laugh, with the abandon only children should know—he smiled. Sometimes, watching from a distance as he practiced his sword forms, he would catch sight of her racing through the gardens, and his movements would falter just slightly.
---
One evening, after a long day of training and a dinner with the entire family, Lucien finally asked Elric something he'd been curious about.
They stood on the balcony outside Lucien's rooms, watching the twin moons rise over the estate grounds. The night air carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens below.
"How did you end up in the slums?" Lucien asked, voice neutral but eyes intent.
Elric's expression darkened.
He told the story in a quiet voice, hands gripping the stone balustrade.
His parents were both S-rankers. His father—a noble knight in service to the Crown. His mother—a gentle healer known throughout the kingdom. They lived in wealth, love, and honor in the capital city.
Until a portal raid changed everything.
His parents went missing during a major incursion. Neither bodies nor survivors were found from their squad.
With both parents declared dead, his mother's brother took guardianship of their estate and assets.
His uncle... embezzled everything.
Sold their home, their heirlooms, even their parents' weapons.
Threw Elric and his sister out like trash when they questioned the disappearing inheritance.
And then came the worst part—at age 14, Elric awakened an F-grade Trait. The final nail in the coffin for any hopes of regaining their position or seeking justice.
"The Faded Touch," he said bitterly. "Barely enough magic to light a candle."
Lucien's red eyes flashed in the moonlight. "Do you want revenge?"
Elric looked down at his calloused hands.
Then slowly shook his head.
"I don't want revenge," he said.
"Revenge is for the weak. I will... collect my own debt. Reclaim what was ours. Make my sister's future secure."
Lucien smiled softly. "Good answer."
---
That night, the Arkanveil family sat together for dinner in the great hall.
Laughter echoed through the halls as Aleron recounted a diplomatic disaster he'd narrowly averted that afternoon. Even Grandfather chuckled, a rare sound indeed.
And as Lucien picked up his spoon to taste the soup before him...
A tiny hand shot out from seemingly nowhere.
Trisha, with food already stuffed in her cheeks making her look like a squirrel, snatched his meat skewer from his plate.
Lucien blinked. "...You again?"
Trisha just giggled and ran, Elric's sister right behind her, both clutching stolen treats like prized treasures.
He sighed. "Troublemakers."
But a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Yes.
The house was louder... messier... and filled with chaos.
But it was also more alive than ever before.
And somehow, Lucien found he didn't mind it at all.