ElaraFiction

B6 - Chapter 62: Challenge

The King disappeared without fanfare.

One heartbeat, he stood above them, a looming presence over the council. The next, he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there at all. Even to Zeke’s senses, there wasn’t the faintest fluctuation, not the slightest hint that magic had been used.

It was a display of power only fellow Space Mages could appreciate.

Zeke lowered his gaze from the empty throne.

So that was it.

In the end, King Midas chose to retreat. It was decisive, as expected from the King of Merchants. The moment Sheol’s letter had appeared, Midas had not hesitated to cut his losses and sever all ties to this ordeal.

Yet Zeke was certain that all of this had been orchestrated by none other than the King himself.

The subtle manipulation of the rules. The sudden advancement of the hearing date. The meticulously crafted obstacles—all of it had been his doing. A noose set around Zeke’s neck, waiting to tighten the moment he stumbled.

And now, Midas had fled.

Not retreated. Fled.

It was outright surrender.

The realization should have brought satisfaction.

It didn’t.

Instead, a hollow unease bloomed in his chest, like a chord struck without resolution, hanging in the air, vibrating just beyond his grasp. His brow furrowed, the weight of it pressing harder with each passing second.

There had been something else hidden in the King’s voice. A note buried beneath the iron decree, beneath the mantle of authority he had worn so flawlessly.

Relief.

Zeke’s mind had caught it like a barb snagging on frayed cloth.

Relief.

It made no sense.

Midas, relieved that his own trap had failed? That the hammer he had crafted so carefully had not found its mark?

Or perhaps... relieved that it had?

The thought twisted through Zeke’s mind like smoke, impossible to grasp fully. He had the distinct feeling there was more to all of this, a play unfolding on a stage he could not see.

It was an infuriating feeling.

But now was not the time to chase shadows.

He smothered the question beneath cold discipline, pushing it down, burying it where it could not distract him. There would be time to exhume it later, when the council’s eyes were no longer upon him.

The present demanded his attention.

Zeke swept his gaze across the council chamber.

The Lords sat rooted in place, their bodies rigid, their faces drained of color. Fear hung heavy in the room, thick enough to choke on. The Speaker, clinging to the ancient parchment like a drowning man to a scrap of wood, seemed smaller now, as if the weight of what had transpired pressed physically upon him.

It reminded Zeke once more that these merchants, though shrewd, were not as familiar with the concept of death as warriors. To see one of their own fall to Sheol’s magic must have rattled them.

It was almost amusing.

These movers and shakers, who dictated the economy of the entire continent, so afraid of death. Meanwhile, every one of their pen strokes decided the lives and deaths of thousands. It was a paradox, to see them so far removed from the consequences of their actions that a single corpse could unsettle them.

He swept his gaze over them, seeing the fear and uncertainty in many of their eyes. A feeling of contempt rose from deep within him.

It was pathetic.

And then, as if summoned by the iron pull of ritual, the Speaker stirred.

Slowly, he turned toward Zeke.

When the man spoke, his voice was strained, each word scraped from a throat grown dry with fear, but it held. Because in this city, law endured even when courage faltered.

"Ezekiel of Tradespire, having satisfied all three requirements of the charter, is hereby recognized as a Merchant Lord of Tradespire."

The words echoed hollowly through the chamber, but Zeke barely listened. His mind had already raced ahead, calculating his next move.

The Speaker continued, reciting from memory, clearly very familiar with the laws of the city, probably second only to Zeke himself:

"As a Merchant Lord, you are entitled to all rights and privileges afforded by the Council. These include: unrestricted, priority access to the teleportation network for all members of your House; the right to maintain residence within the Second Circle; the right to attend, speak, and vote at all sessions of the Council; and the right, if you so choose, to claim a formal House name under the laws of Tradespire."

It was that last right that drew Zeke’s full attention.

The right to form a House.

The very moment he had come across this section in the laws, he had known exactly what he would do. What his first act as a Lord would be.

It was time to reclaim what belonged to him—by right, by tradition, and now, also by law.

He stepped forward, the click of his boots against the marble floor the only sound in the chamber.

"I would like to exercise my right to establish a House," he said, his voice calm, threading through the brittle air.

The Speaker clutched onto the familiar words like a lifeline, slowly regaining his poise. "You are entitled to petition for a House name, provided it passes the verification of the Knowledge Keeper and—"

"No need for that," Zeke interrupted gently, a faint smile brushing across his lips. "I have already chosen."

He could feel the Lords tense, the air thickening with the unspoken knowledge that whatever came next would not pass quietly. They were right. This would not go over well, but whatever protests these paper-pushers had, he would see this matter through.

Right here. Right now.

He stood tall, shoulders squared, heart steady.

The words left his mouth like a blade drawn across the still air.

"I declare my House to bear the name von Hohenheim," he said, each syllable deliberate. "From this day forth, I shall be known as Ezekiel von Hohenheim."

"…Once more," he added quietly in his mind.

The silence that followed was profound and absolute.

Zeke watched their faces shift—surprise, outrage, disbelief—as the name tore through their carefully built illusions of control.

The Empire's stolen narrative, the lies they had wrapped around Maximilian’s legacy like chains of shame, shattered here and now with a single statement.

Maximilian’s name would live again.

Not in the Empire’s twisted version.

But in truth.

And in blood.

And he would be the one to carry it forward.

Then, the silence shattered.

"You cannot!" a Lord roared, slamming his palm against the table hard enough to send a silver goblet clattering across the marble floor.

Another voice rose, sharp and frantic.

“We won’t stand for this!”

“The House of von Hohenheim already stands under Arkanheim's banner!”

“The audacity!”

“To claim it here is a provocation!”

“You endanger the very neutrality of Tradespire!”

The chamber erupted into chaos. Dozens of voices overlapped, accusations flying thick as arrows.

Zeke remained motionless, letting their outrage wash over him like a storm over stone.

The Speaker’s staff cracked thrice against the floor, each strike like a gunshot through the hall.

"Enough!" the Speaker commanded, his voice cutting through the uproar like a blade. "Silence!"

The shouting dwindled to a resentful, simmering hush. But the tension remained, a living thing thrumming under every breath.

The Speaker turned toward Zeke, his face etched with the weight of a man balancing on the edge of a knife.

"Lord Ezekiel," he said carefully, "while it is not unheard of for Houses sharing the same name to exist independently across sovereign states, it is rare. Particularly when the name in question carries such... heavy history."

He hesitated, a flicker of something behind his eyes.

"You have fulfilled the letter of the law," the Speaker continued, "but I urge you: let the past lie. Choose another name. Forge something new. Something untouched by bitterness and blood."

Zeke’s lips twitched—not in amusement, but in contempt barely masked.

These men.

These Lords.

They spoke of peace. They spoke of neutrality, but their every word reeked of something else.

Fear.

Fear of offending the powerful. Fear of consequences. Fear of disturbing the status quo.

Their world had been built on compromise and cowardice for so long that even the scent of defiance sent them scrambling.

Zeke stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply against the stone.

"You lot," he said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. "You were so eager to question my loyalty. Dwarves. Elves. Beasts." He let the words hang like a noose. "And now look at you. No masks left. No shame left. Barking at the first tug of your master's chains."

Several lords stiffened, but none dared respond.

"So what if Arkanheim claims my name?" Zeke continued, his voice sharpening. "You are not here to defend the Empire. You are Lords of Tradespire. Try to act like it. At least while you’re at court."

There was no response.

Their outburst had stripped their masks away. Something like this would never have happened had Lord Fies still been alive. But with their leader gone, the faction was like a boat without a rudder, everyone acting according to their whims.

The result was predictable: the more hot-headed members had shown their true colors at the worst possible moment. Such a display was hard to defend, even by the more moderate voices.

Zeke turned next to the so-called neutrals—those who prided themselves on floating above conflict.

"If this council trembles at the thought of tension," Zeke said, voice darkening, "then it is not neutrality you uphold. It is servitude."

Some shifted in their seats, faces flushing or paling under the weight of his words.

"You speak of preserving peace," he pressed on, "but peace born of fear is no peace at all. Neutrality means strength. Independence. Not cowardice disguised as wisdom."

Finally, his gaze returned to the Speaker, and when he spoke next, it was with the searing conviction of something carved into bedrock.

"…As for the name I have chosen," he said, his voice sharpening like a drawn blade, "it was mine before it was ever stolen by Arkanheim's puppet courts. It was stripped away not by justice, but by political convenience."

The council stared, pinned by the cold flame burning in his golden eyes.

"I am not the pretender," he said, each word ringing like a death knell. "I am the rightful heir."

And nothing in this world would ever change that.

"Let me be very clear," he said, voice hard. "This is not up for debate, and I do not ask for your permission, endorsement, or even support. I am merely informing you of my decision. My House will be named Von Hohenheim."

The chamber fell utterly still.

No one spoke.

"If you do this," the Speaker said after a moment of silence, his tone resigned, apparently realizing he could not dissuade Zeke no matter what, "the Empire will not take this lying down."

Zeke nodded. "I expect nothing else."

The Speaker stared at him for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh.

"The laws of Tradespire protect you, to an extent. But beyond that, you will be on your own to bear the weight of the fallout. I cannot imagine that the newly designated heir will be pleased."

"…Azra von Hohenheim, was it?" Zeke said, his expression hardening. "A former pupil of Maximilian."

The Speaker nodded. "Your declaration could be seen as an indirect challenge to his legitimacy."

Zeke grinned. "I would certainly hope so, because that is very much what I intended. But if I have not been clear enough, I might as well make sure there are no misunderstandings. This man, Azra, is a fraud, a fake successor, and a disgrace to my mentor’s legacy."

A murmur rippled through the rows of Lords. Clearly, they were unaccustomed to such bluntness, to hearing a position stated so directly that no room for interpretation remained.

Well, they had better get used to it.

"I, Ezekiel von Hohenheim, direct and only appointed heir to Maximilian Bombastus von Hohenheim, openly challenge the legitimacy of the pretender Azra. If he takes offense at my words, then he knows where to find me."

Zeke’s expression turned as cold as ice when he spoke his next words. "If that bastard wants my title, he better take it from my cold, dead hands, because that is the only way I will ever give it up."

B6 - Chapter 61: Hearing IV

I might have been going a bit overboard with the cliffs lately. To make up for it, I'll give you the last part of the hearing right now. No need to wait until Monday. Enjoy!

The parchment passed from Ezekiel’s hand into the Speaker’s with a rustle that seemed deafening in the absolute silence of the chamber.

Matthian watched, unmoving, as the Speaker hesitated, just a heartbeat too long, before unsealing the ancient document. His fingers trembled slightly, though he fought to conceal it. The weight of a hundred eyes pressed down on him, yet none burned fiercer than the boy’s steady gaze.

The Speaker cleared his throat.

"This document," he announced, voice thin against the brittle air, "is an endorsement… from Sheol Veylor."

A ripple tore through the council.

Not a noise, an instinct. A crackle of terror passed from one lord to the next, faster than thought. Breath caught. Chairs scraped backward against marble. A half-dozen goblets tilted, forgotten in trembling hands.

Matthian felt it settle deep in his bones, a fracture in the natural order, sharp and irrevocable. Even the oldest lords, the ones who had outlived three wars and buried rivals without shedding a tear, blanched at the name that had been spoken.

Sheol Veylor.

The name meant little to the common folk. No songs were sung of him. No tales whispered at winter hearths. His legend existed only in silence, in the missing pages of history, in the places even scholars feared to tread.

But here, among the lords of Tradespire, there was no ignorance.

Every man and woman in the hall knew exactly what that name meant.

The sovereign who reigned not over the living, but over what came after.

Rumored to be the father of all Death Mages, the great teacher, the keeper of all knowledge, the single most ancient being on the entire continent, his existence preceding the birth of any developed country of the current time.

He was the Exarch of Death.

The Speaker’s hands were white around the brittle parchment, his voice thinning under the weight of the words.

"The endorsement states that Ezekiel of Tradespire is recognized under the sovereign authority of Sheol Veylor, ruler of the Deadlands. That is all."

For a moment, the hall became a tomb.

No breath. No movement. Only the slow, creaking protest of ancient beams high above, as if even the building itself was reluctant to bear witness.

And then, as always, it was Lord Fies who broke the silence.

He rose to his feet with theatrical disdain, a smirk curling his lips. His slow clap echoed across the chamber, a hollow mockery of an ovation.

"Bravo," he sneered, voice loud in the paralyzed hall. "Dwarves, elves, beasts—and now the very King of the Dead. Tell me, honored Lords, should we expect the fairy courts next? Perhaps the stars themselves will descend to kiss his feet?"

A few strained chuckles scattered through the Imperial loyalists' ranks, brittle and thin.

Fies wasn't finished.

"And I ask you," he pressed on, voice dripping contempt, "does anyone truly believe this... relic... was penned by Sheol Veylor himself? Or are we all so bewitched we dare not call this madness what it is?"

Matthian didn’t hear the end of it.

He felt it instead.

The wrongness.

It came without fanfare. Without force.

One moment, the air was tense, heavy with insult.

The next, it was hollow.

Lord Fies blinked once. His lips twitched, whether for another barb or from something deeper, Matthian never knew.

Then he swayed.

A slow, almost gentle movement.

And collapsed.

No cry. No convulsion. No violence.

Just the soft, unceremonious thud of a man who had simply… stopped.

Limp. Still.

Dead.

A strangled gasp came from one of the aides near the back. Another Lord half-rose from his chair, only to freeze mid-motion and slowly sink back down, as if sudden movement might invite the same fate. His face had gone bloodless.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The vast chamber, so often filled with the thundering echoes of argument and laughter, now felt like a tomb—Silent, oppressive, final.

Even the Speaker stood frozen, the ancient parchment clutched tight against his chest like a desperate talisman against the unseen force that had just claimed a life.

Matthian’s gaze swept the room.

The lords sat rooted to their seats, some staring at Fies’ crumpled form, others avoiding it altogether. Fear hung heavy, clinging to every breath.

And yet, not everyone was paralyzed.

Ezekiel stood as he always had: composed, detached, untouched by the storm he had unleashed. There was no triumph in his eyes, no fear, not even satisfaction. It was as if the death of Lord Fies was no more significant to him than a shift in the wind.

Matthian’s stomach twisted.

A Merchant Lord dying outside of old age was an event that would echo through the annals of Tradespire for a generation. They were not warriors. They did not duel or charge into battlefields. They negotiated. They endured. They built legacies that lasted centuries. Death came for them slowly, as it did for kings and architects.

Not like this.

Never like this.

And yet here they were, bearing witness to something that no amount of gold, law, or influence could stop.

Then, from the dais above, a voice cut through the paralysis.

"The proof is accepted."

Matthian turned his eyes upward.

King Midas stood over them all, his presence like a weight pressing down on the hall. His voice had not risen. He had not barked the words.

He hadn’t needed to.

It was a decree, as absolute and immovable as the bedrock beneath their feet.

Without another word, the King turned his head slightly toward the Messenger at his side—a gesture so small it might have been missed entirely. The Messenger nodded once in return.

And then they were gone.

No sound. No flash of light. No ripple of displaced air.

One heartbeat, they were there; the next, the high seat stood empty, as if the King and his attendants had been nothing more than phantoms passing through a dream. No footprints. No farewell.

Just an absence that seemed to bleed into the walls.

For a long moment, no one moved. The lords sat frozen, like statues carved from fear.

Slowly, with the stiffness of a man forcing himself through a nightmare, the Speaker turned back to the council.

He lifted the parchment once more, his voice regaining a shred of its ritual weight.

"Ezekiel of Tradespire," he declared, the words carrying the force of law itself, "having satisfied all three requirements of the charter, is hereby recognized as a Merchant Lord of Tradespire."

The proclamation echoed through the cavernous hall, filling every corner.

But no one cheered.

No one protested.

No one even breathed too loudly.

The Speaker continued, reciting the formal record from memory:

"As a Merchant Lord, you are entitled to all rights and privileges afforded by the Council. These include: unrestricted, priority access to the teleportation network for all members of your House; the right to maintain residence within the Second Circle; the right to attend, speak, and vote at all sessions of the Council; and the right, if you so choose, to claim a formal House name under the laws of Tradespire."

The words rolled forth, ancient and binding.

And through it all, Ezekiel stood as he had from the beginning—still, patient, utterly unmoved.

Not victorious.

Not triumphant.

Simply inevitable.

It struck Matthian then, not as a passing thought, but as a certainty carved into bone. The outcome, the chaos, the death—none of it had rattled the boy. Not once. It was as if everything that had left seasoned lords pale and trembling had already been accounted for, weighed and dismissed as irrelevant.

For the first time in a long while, Matthian felt like a piece on someone else’s board.

The realization was as bitter as it was terrifying.

For a merchant, knowledge was armor. Preparation was power. To be blindsided so thoroughly, to sit helplessly as events unraveled without even understanding the shape of the hand guiding them, was a humiliation he would not soon forget. Nor would he make the mistake of underestimating the boy again.

Slowly, his gaze found Ezekiel once more.

Crimson hair, eyes of molten gold, a stance unbowed by the crushing weight of an entire council’s judgment.

A shiver ran down Matthian’s spine.

What a monster.

He had met only a handful like this before. Individuals so far removed from ordinary ambition, so utterly alien in their depth, that it made one question whether they were made of the same flesh and blood as everyone else.

Aurelia Thorsten.

Nova Fortuna.

Augustus Geistreich.

Giants of their age. Names that shaped empires, crushed dynasties, bent history itself.

And now, a boy who had barely set foot on the first stones of that path.

But Matthian knew, with a certainty he rarely permitted himself:

If Ezekiel lived long enough, his name would be carved alongside theirs.

For better—

or for far, far worse.

Then, for the first time in a long while, the boy moved.

Slowly, deliberately, Ezekiel lifted his gaze, not toward any living soul, but toward the high seat where King Midas had sat only moments before. His eyes locked onto the empty space, studying not what remained, but the absence itself.

Matthian watched, unsettled.

There was a weight to that look. A private conversation held in silence. As if the boy were turning over some riddle too vast, too complicated, for anyone else to grasp.

Then, Ezekiel smiled.

It was not the smile of a victor.

Nor was it triumphant or cruel.

It was faint, almost invisible, an expression tinged with strange, self-mocking amusement. A crack in the perfect facade he had worn so flawlessly throughout the hearing.

It caught Matthian off guard.

For the briefest heartbeat, the boy looked startlingly human.

And then it was gone.

The mask descended once more, smooth and impenetrable, as if the moment had never existed.

Ezekiel turned his attention back to the Speaker, his voice calm, almost courteous.

"Is my appointment valid as of this moment?"

The Speaker, still pale, straightened and gave a shallow nod. "It is."

Ezekiel dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"Then," he said, his words carrying through the stunned chamber, "as the council is still in session, I would like to exercise my rights and make my first official act as a member."

The Speaker blinked, his brow furrowing. "…What act would that be?"

"The right to establish my own House is afforded to me as a titled Lord, is it not?" he asked, voice steady.

The Speaker, grasping for the comfort of familiar law, nodded quickly. Relief flickered across his features like a drowning man who had found a scrap of driftwood. "It is," he confirmed. "You are entitled to petition for a House name, provided it passes the verification of the Knowledge Keeper and—"

"No need for all of that," Ezekiel interrupted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I already know exactly which name to claim.”

Matthian felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

That smile was a warning.

Subtle, polite, almost charming, but it set every instinct he had screaming. Chaos was coming. He could feel it gathering behind the boy’s words, as inevitable as the tide.

The boy stepped forward, squaring his shoulders, and when he spoke again, it was not the voice of a youth making a polite request. It was a declaration, solemn, thunderous in its simplicity, spoken with the weight of a man carving his name into history.

"I declare my House to bear the name von Hohenheim," he said, each word striking the chamber like a hammer blow. "From this day forth, I shall be known as Ezekiel von Hohenheim."

The air itself seemed to flinch.

Matthian’s chest tightened.

Of all the names, of all the specters from the past, he could have summoned, he had chosen that one.

And with it, the true storm began.

B6 - Chapter 60: Hearing III

The silence that followed the box’s appearance had barely begun to settle when the first scroll emerged from within.

The Speaker withdrew a pale length of parchment, bound in green ribbon, sealed with silver wax, and marked with a sigil of curling roots entwined with a blooming crown of leaves. The moment it touched the tribunal table, something shifted.

Not in the air. In the people.

A collective stillness swept through the council, like the intake of a single, shared breath.

Matthian didn’t recognize the seal. Neither did most of the others. And that was what made it dangerous. There was something familiar about the box it had come in—a distant memory that stirred just beneath the surface, threatening to rise but refusing to take shape.

Matthian was certain he had seen something similar before, at some point in his life. But for now, he could only curse his failing memory for not recalling where.

“What is that mark?”

“Elven… I think?”

“No. It’s… too old.”

The Speaker hesitated, visibly uneasy, before breaking the seal. The parchment unfurled with a whisper like falling leaves, its surface delicate and translucent. The ink shimmered faintly in the candlelight, drifting as if alive, flowing within the fibers of the page itself.

His voice, when it came, was softer than before.

“High Council of Yggdrasil,” he read. “Signatory: House Goldleaf of the First Root.”

A silence deeper than awe settled over the chamber.

The room didn’t erupt into murmurs this time. It sank into them, an undercurrent of disbelief and quiet wonder.

Matthian felt the words hit like a hammer to the ribs. House Goldleaf. A name etched into history. One of the founding lineages of the elven race, older than the city of Tradespire itself.

All at once, he remembered why the box had felt so familiar. That majestic aura, unmatched by any other wood in the world. It was made of Yggdrasil wood—the wood of the World Tree.

A treasure no money could buy.

This wasn’t just a contract. It was a statement.

Elves did trade, yes, but never like this. Not through bound contracts, not through official, formalized terms. Their deals were whispers, favors, and fleeting arrangements written on wind and repaid at their whims. The idea of a binding agreement between their kind and a human enterprise was almost blasphemous.

And yet, here it was.

A fully ratified trade accord with House Goldleaf. Clear terms. Clear rights. A ten-year exclusivity clause on the export of all goods bearing the emerald crest. Pricing tiers that turned even Matthian’s head.

He scanned the margins.

Rare timber. Dreamweave silk. Sunroot spice. Even raw Heartwood. All routed through one name:

Ezekiel of Tradespire.

And suddenly, Matthian understood.

This wasn’t just a stroke of luck. This was the answer to everything.

This contract alone was a gold minting machine. It explained the boy’s confidence, his unshakable calm in the face of dwarven debts that would bankrupt entire houses. He had never needed to fear debt. He held the deed to the vault.

Rejecting this boy wouldn’t be a blow to him, but to the council, to the very idea of free trade this city claimed to represent. The boy didn’t need the seat. It was the council who stood to gain from the association.

Matthian frowned. It was truly a shame that the boy would be denied in the end, even after all of that. The rules were the rules, and the council would not bend, no matter how much they stood to gain.

“It can’t be genuine,” Orwin muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

Lord Fies stood again. Predictable. Like a man trying to slice through stone with a kitchen knife.

“Very impressive,” he said dryly. “But perhaps too much so. First the dwarves, then the slaves of Undercity, a Progenitor Beast… and now the elves. One might begin to wonder whether our young petitioner intends to represent Tradespire or a foreign coalition of races.”

He gave a slight bow, mocking.

“A charming list of patrons, for sure, but maybe too much at odds with our own interests?”

There were no laughs. Only silence.

Even those aligned with the Empire had stopped pretending this was mere bluster.

The Speaker cleared his throat.

“Does any lord present submit a formal objection to the legitimacy of this contract?”

No one spoke. No one dared.

Even Lord Fies’ lips were pressed tightly shut. The Elven Matriarchy was not an entity to be disrespected lightly. Their grudges lasted centuries, and their pettiness was legendary. Speaking against them here would be as good as forfeiting one’s position as Merchant Lord.

“No objection recorded. The contract is accepted.”

The gavel struck once, echoing like thunder across marble.

And with that sound, the final piece clicked into place.

The boy, still unmoving, hadn’t flinched once.

Three proofs of trade, presented and confirmed.

The Speaker rose, his tone echoing with finality. “All required contracts have been presented and confirmed. The council shall now receive the second proof: proof of power.”

There was a pause.

Then movement.

Not from the gallery or the boy, but from behind him.

The cloaked figure that had stood silently at Ezekiel’s side throughout the entire hearing lifted its head. In one fluid motion, the shadows clinging to its form unraveled, melting away like mist at sunrise.

Not fabric, not disguise: darkness given form.

Shadow Magic, woven so finely it had veiled even the senses of seasoned Mages.

When the veil dispersed, a man stood in its place.

Black hair streaked with silver. Immaculate gloves. A tailored coat of midnight black. A calm presence, elegant and utterly composed.

Matthian’s eyes narrowed. He knew that man.

David.

One of Ezekiel’s more capable followers. A Grandmage by title and ranking, but never considered near the threshold. If anything, his evaluation had always been... unremarkable.

But now? What was this?

His presence could only mean one thing. He had advanced. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

For a Mage to ascend to Archmage before their first century was a mark of greatness—something even the scions of the great houses struggled to achieve.

And yet, here he stood, as if his appearance were nothing out of the ordinary.

The man didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“I am David,” he said simply, bowing with courtly grace. “By the will of my lord, I return to Tradespire to resume my duties as Head Butler of the House.”

Then he flared his aura.

Not violent.

Not flashy.

A cold, unending shadow. A void that swept through the hall like the passing of nightfall, brushing every corner with an eerie stillness. It didn’t crush. It didn’t threaten. It simply was.

It was a display that left many a Lord in awe.

Even Matthian’s breath caught.

The man’s precise control made it impossible to gauge his true strength, as was the prerogative of Shadow Mages, but the pressure in the room spoke for itself. Power, vast and restrained.

If Matthian didn’t know better, he would have assumed the man had advanced years ago, making this power his own completely. But that was impossible. What had he experienced that allowed him to transform so completely?

Then Lord Fies stood again, ever the opportunist. “A man of your caliber, Grandmage—pardon, Archmage David—ought to consider his loyalties more carefully. I would pay triple what the boy offers. Other benefits too, if you prefer.”

David didn’t so much as glance in his direction. But for a brief instant, a look of utter disdain flashed in his eyes, as if he had just stepped in filth. It was jarring, a stark contrast to the refined demeanor he had maintained. The moment passed as quickly as it came.

“My loyalty,” he said, voice still soft, “cannot be bought. Only earned.”

And with that, he returned to stand behind Ezekiel once more, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

The Speaker didn’t even need to ask.

“Proof of power accepted.”

And now, only one hurdle remained.

The final proof.

Legitimacy.

This was where it would break. Where they all expected it to end. The boy had wielded miracles like a blade, cutting through expectations with every step, but this requirement was different.

Proof of legitimacy.

Recognition by royalty.

The Speaker turned to him.

“And your final proof?”

Ezekiel did not respond.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He simply lifted his gaze.

Upward.

To the high seat above the council. The one adorned with gold filigree and velvet black, veiled by a sheer tapestry behind which sat the ruler of Tradespire.

King Midas.

He hadn’t spoken once since the hearing began. Not when the dwarves were named. Not when Winter’s aura froze the room. Not when the elven contracts were revealed. Not even now.

He sat motionless, fingers steepled beneath his chin, face obscured by the thin fabric that separated him from the rest of the world.

Watching.

Waiting.

Matthian’s breath caught in his throat. His mind finally made the connection that had eluded him all along.

This was the reason, wasn’t it?

The reason the famously elusive King of Tradespire had made an appearance. It was to give Ezekiel his royal endorsement, to ensure that this genius of the age was not lost to a foreign power.

Matthian felt a surge of genuine awe at the King’s foresight.

Not only had the man recognized Ezekiel’s brilliance, but he had also prepared to support him at this final, pivotal moment. A masterstroke that would bind this rising force even more tightly to Tradespire’s interests.

King Midas truly deserved his fame. A mind of that caliber was rare beyond measure.

With renewed anticipation, Matthian turned his full attention to the hearing, eager to witness the moment unfold. His only regret was not heeding his colleagues’ pleas, not supporting the boy from the start with everything he had.

And still, Ezekiel said nothing. He simply waited.

As if he weren’t the one seeking approval. As if he were the one delivering judgment.

As the silence stretched on, Matthian began to sense that something was wrong. Midas did not intervene to save the boy as expected, and Ezekiel made no move to request the endorsement.

This felt different.

Almost like a standoff. A drawing of lines in the sand. There was a sharp, unspoken tension in the air.

It was so thick that not even Lord Fies or the Speaker dared to speak.

The stillness couldn’t last forever.

“…Disappointing,” Ezekiel said at last, lowering his gaze. He didn’t sound truly disappointed—more like someone who had simply confirmed what they already suspected.

The entire hall exhaled at once, some with disappointment, others with relief. Clearly, Matthian hadn’t been the only one to connect the King’s presence with the expected endorsement.

Everyone had been ready to welcome a new member to the council just now, but it seemed that it wasn’t meant to be. For some reason, Midas had chosen not to act, leaving the boy stranded without a path forward.

It was over for him. That fleeting moment of hope had passed, and the hearing was set to end as everyone had predicted. No more surprises. No more miraculous upheavals that left everyone—

“My final proof,” the boy said, his voice low but unmistakably clear, “is right here.”

He raised a single hand.

In it was a parchment, creased, yellowed, and frayed at the edges. The wax seal had long since broken, and the ink had bled in places, leaving the script nearly illegible. It looked less like a legal document and more like something pulled from the depths of a ruined crypt. Even from a distance, Matthian could swear he caught the faint scent of rot curling from its surface.

A breathless hush fell over the chamber.

“…What is this farce?” Lord Fies spat, rising once more. “Some moldy scrap passed off as legitimacy? Have we not indulged this child enough?”

This time, he wasn’t alone.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the council. Laughter echoed from the Empire’s corner. A few lords grumbled about decorum, others called to end the hearing altogether.

Even Matthian felt a knot of doubt twist in his chest. The boy had played his hand masterfully—until now. Was this truly how he intended to end it? With theatrics? With a final act so absurd it undermined everything he had built?

It felt beneath him.

It felt beneath all of this.

Yet Matthian’s eyes widened as they settled on the throne at the far end of the hall.

King Midas.

The founder of Tradespire. The golden sovereign who had observed the proceedings in impassive silence. Unmoved by dwarves, unshaken by elves, unbothered by Progenitors.

Now, he was rising to his feet.

No words. No signal to his retainers.

Just the king.

Standing.

Matthian’s blood ran cold.

Because even through the curtain, he could read the body language as clearly as text on a page. Tense shoulders. A slight tremble. Gaze locked.

It was recognition.

…And fear.

B6 - Chapter 59: Hearing II

The silence in the Council Hall was brittle. Not the brittle of age, but the kind that threatened to shatter with the faintest provocation.

Dozens of eyes remained fixed on the young man standing alone at the foot of the tribunal steps. Ezekiel of Tradespire had arrived without entourage, without herald, without crest or banner to announce his lineage. Yet there was something unnervingly composed about the way he stood there, as if this grand chamber, with its marble pillars and gold-inlaid dais, was no more impressive to him than a parlor.

At his side, a hooded figure stood in silence. Faceless. Featureless. A shadow with hands.

Matthian leaned forward in his seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The council chamber had never felt so still, and yet the air prickled with tension. He studied the boy—young man, really—and tried once more to puzzle out the source of that strange unease.

The Speaker of the Council finally rose, his ceremonial staff striking the floor with a sharp crack.

“We begin this hearing under the authority of the Merchant Council of Tradespire,” he intoned, voice reverberating through the chamber like a judge’s gavel. “The matter at hand: the candidacy of one Ezekiel of Tradespire for consideration as a seated Merchant Lord.”

The hall remained silent as the clerk struck his bell.

“By the laws and traditions of this Council, three forms of proof must be presented by any petitioner: proof of trade, proof of power, and proof of legitimacy.”

Another strike of the bell. Another beat of tension.

“Do you bring these proofs, Ezekiel of Tradespire?”

The boy stepped forward. One step. No more.

“I do.”

The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the stillness. Every syllable landed with the confidence of someone unshaken by scrutiny.

It was hard to believe he was only about the same age as Matthian's youngest son. Placed side by side, his boy would have looked like a toddler next to the towering presence of this young man.

“Then present your first proof,” the Speaker said, gesturing with an open palm. “Let it be reviewed by this council.”

Without a word, the cloaked attendant beside Ezekiel stepped forward. From within the folds of their robe, they withdrew a sealed scroll, bound in black ribbon and marked with a familiar sigil: twin anvils atop a mountain.

Ironhide Hold.

A murmur swept through the chamber like wind stirring dry grass. The dwarves did not deal easily with outsiders, let alone with humans.

The Speaker accepted the scroll with both hands, inspecting the seal before breaking it. The parchment crackled as it unfurled, and Matthian caught the slight twitch of the Speaker’s brow as he began to read the terms aloud.

By the time he finished, the mood in the room had shifted.

“…exclusive rights to raw minerals and stoneglass,” the Speaker concluded, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “Forty percent below market rates, guaranteed for ten years. No tariffs, no delivery fees, no escrow required.”

Silence followed. Then a whisper.

“…Impossible.”

“They gave him those terms?”

“Not even House Verad negotiated that well…”

Matthian felt his jaw tighten. These weren’t just generous terms; they were concessions so extreme they bordered on submission. Had the boy secretly married one of their daughters?

“The council calls for dissent,” the Speaker said, lifting his staff. “Does any lord present challenge the validity of this contract as a qualifying proof of trade?”

The voice that rose belonged, predictably, to Lord Fies.

“Only a question, if I may,” he said smoothly, rising from his seat like oil bubbling to the surface. “The contract is valid, yes. But has anyone bothered to ask how the young man intends to pay for it? This agreement vastly exceeds his declared funds. It is one thing to hold a contract, another to fulfill it.”

Ezekiel turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Fies’s gaze.

“You may not, Lord Fies. This council holds no authority over my business,” he said, his tone flat, polished, and entirely unamused. “But rest assured, my dues to Tradespire will be paid long before yours are missed.”

Laughter stirred from the left side of the chamber, the side that leaned anti-Empire. Matthian noticed even Orla Thorne allowed herself a faint smile.

Lord Fies sat down, scowling.

“No formal objection recorded,” the Speaker declared. “The contract is accepted as the first of three required proofs.”

The next scroll followed, passed once again from the hooded figure to the Speaker. Matthian might have imagined it, but the mysterious attendant seemed to stand a bit straighter as they presented this one, as if taking particular pride in the contents.

The seal bore the crimson chrysanthemum of the Verma family of Korrovan. Silk lords, infamous for their perfectionism and far-reaching influence.

Matthian recognized the mark immediately. He also recognized the hush that followed. The terms this time were not outrageous, but they didn’t need to be.

The scale alone was staggering. The volume of the order, the exclusivity, and the ten-year clause. It was the kind of deal merchants dreamt of: not flashy, but solid enough to feel like the coin was already in hand.

Matthian himself hadn’t closed a contract of that caliber since before his hair began to turn gray. It was the sort of deal that could build a house, even a legacy. Good, honest business.

“Seven hundred bolts per moon,” someone murmured.

“From the southern looms,” said another. “The Undercity’s alive again.”

“Word is he runs it,” came a more hushed voice, two seats to Matthian’s right. “Tens of thousands down there now. Slaves. All his.”

Matthian didn’t move, but his gaze drifted back to Ezekiel. The boy gave no reaction, as if he couldn’t hear the murmurs and whispers at all. It was a demeanor completely unfitting of a boy his age.

Once more, the Speaker called for objections. None came.

“Second proof accepted.”

And then came the final scroll.

It did not look special.

Not at first.

The hooded figure stepped forward once more, extending a gloved hand to offer a scroll sealed within a crystalline case. It struck many as needlessly ostentatious, and several of the lords visibly sneered at the display. It looked like the kind of flourish one might expect from a nouveau riche upstart. Even Matthian had to admit, a kid was still a kid.

But the moment the lid was opened, the air changed.

It was subtle at first, barely noticeable.

A breath of wind from no discernible source. A prickle at the nape of Matthian’s neck. The sound in the chamber dulled, as if muffled by a thin layer of frost in the air.

The scroll still rested within the case, furled, yet its aura was already pressing outward with quiet menace.

Not even the Speaker dared touch it.

He looked to Ezekiel. “Is it safe?”

The young man gave a small nod. “It is.”

Even then, the Speaker hesitated.

When his fingers finally closed around the scroll, a visible shiver ran down his spine. As it unfurled, a wave of frost swept through the chamber, as if winter had arrived early.

Yet none among them were ordinary. Even those who lacked personal strength had the means to shield themselves. Rather than recoil, the assembled lords leaned in, drawn to the mystery of the scroll.

There was no seal, only a single thumbprint dipped in blood, its borders etched in frost.

One of the elder lords leaned forward, squinting at the symbol.

“…What family is that?”

Another lord whispered, “Is that… Valorian Blood Magic?”

“No,” said a voice from the back.

A pause.

Then again, louder this time, with more certainty. “…That's not Blood Magic. That’s Bloodline Suppression.”

Whispers rippled outward. Confused. Curious. Unsettled.

Then someone spoke the word:

“Progenitor Beast.”

The hall froze.

Not from cold, but from recognition.

A few lords rose from their seats.

“That can’t be—”

“A beast lord?”

“Impossible. They don’t... sign contracts.”

Even the Speaker had gone pale.

But before the awe could take hold, Lord Fies stood once again, quick to seize the moment.

“Objection!” he declared, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “This document, whatever it may be, raises two immediate concerns.”

Matthian’s jaw tightened. Here it comes.

“First, the contract refers to ownership rights over the entirety of a mineral vein, but no surveyor’s report has been filed. Without a formal assessment, how are we to verify the trade volume? These numbers could be meaningless.”

A few cautious nods came from his faction.

“And second,” Fies added, raising his voice, “the signee, identified as Winter, is no legal entity at all. Progenitor or not, such beings are, by standard classification, magical beasts. Monsters. Unless we’ve decided to start accepting contracts signed by goblins and ogres, I would strongly urge this council to reconsider the validity of such an agreement.”

This time, the murmurs were louder. Not all were in agreement, many were uneasy. A few lords shifted in their seats, only now beginning to grasp just how far from precedent this moment had drifted.

Matthian remained still, eyes fixed on the Speaker.

It was a stretch. An obvious one. But Ezekiel had no allies. And among merchants, even the thinnest threads of doubt could be twisted into nooses.

The Speaker looked pained, but after a beat, he gave a solemn nod.

“The objection is noted,” he said. “Discussion will commence.”

Ezekiel said nothing.

Nothing would change even if he did. The outcome was already set in stone.

Matthian could already see it: the tide turning against the boy, swept along by the practiced tongues of the pro-Empire faction. No matter what, they still held considerable sway within the council, with ties reaching into nearly every lord’s circle.

Orla Thorne and Harel Vantine, his closest allies, were the strongest voices defending the validity of the contract. Their arguments were sound, even compelling, but logic had little power over those unwilling to listen.

That was the nature of politics. Without the backing of their full faction, their voices carried no weight. And he, as the faction’s leader, had yet to speak.

He had no intention of doing so.

Whether or not the contract was accepted, the boy wouldn’t pass this hearing. Not without a royal endorsement, and everyone knew he didn’t have one. These things were never subtle. Royal endorsements came with parades and processions. Silence, in this case, said everything.

It would be a waste of political capital to support a losing cause.

What puzzled him, though, was how determined the pro-Empire lords seemed to be in tearing the boy down. They had to know, just as he did, that Ezekiel had no path through the final requirement.

The discrepancy made Matthian uneasy, but not enough to change course. It could simply be vengeance. The boy had been a thorn in the Empire’s side for too long.

He watched in silence as the momentum began to shift. Secret deals were struck, favors exchanged. And just like that, the voices of dissent drowned out those still speaking in Ezekiel’s defense.

Ezekiel remained motionless, his gaze fixed ahead.

Not angry. Not surprised.

Simply… watchful.

Lord Matthian felt a cold trickle of unease slide down his spine.

Despite the shifting tide, the boy made no move to protest, no effort to salvage the moment. He didn’t argue, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink as the momentum turned against him. It was as if he had expected this outcome long before stepping into the chamber.

He stood there, still, calm, unshaken, while the lords of Tradespire squabbled over technicalities and twisted precedent to suit their aims. His ears caught every whisper. His gaze moved from speaker to reaction, marking gestures, reading glances. Every nod, every averted eye, every exchanged look of favor was noted.

Like an accountant tallying sins.

There was no emotion in those cold, golden eyes. No hope. No pleading. Only calculation. The clinical assessment of a system laid bare, stripped of its ceremony and dignity. And in the face of that merciless scrutiny, Matthian saw the truth:

They were exposing themselves, revealing their allegiances for all to see.

Even he, through his silence, was choosing a side.

Matthian frowned at the realization. It was not a flattering picture. For a fleeting moment, he wished he had spoken up for the boy, had shown the same fervent resolve as his colleagues.

But the thought passed quickly. Reason prevailed, as it always did.

When the avalanche of protest reached its peak, the Speaker was forced to act. He hesitated, then reluctantly declared:

“…The council does not recognize the final contract. The third proof is denied.”

Lord Fies leaned back with a smirk. Basking in the echo of his small, hard-won victory, he turned slightly toward the young man at the base of the hall.

“A shame,” Lord Fies said, loud enough for the entire chamber to hear. “I was curious to see how many myths one boy could peddle before the ink dried.”

The young man smiled at that.

Not amused. Not insulted.

It was the kind of smile one might give a child proudly brandishing a wooden sword: mocking, indulgent, and… faintly pitying.

“A shame, indeed,” Ezekiel echoed, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “To stand before the Merchant Council of Tradespire and liken a being whose very breath reshapes the land to a beast a child might club in a cellar.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

“How very desperate. How very unsightly,” his gaze swept over the assembly, focusing especially on those whose voices had been the loudest just now.

“…Tell me, honored Lords,” he started slowly, “how many of you would have dared speak as you have in the presence of the being you just disparaged?”

There was no reply, but the boy clearly hadn’t expected one. He called out their hypocrisy and cowardice simply for the sake of exposing it.

“How much worse must it be, then, when you all realize that this disgrace was entirely meaningless?”

“Nonsense!” Fies exclaimed, a flicker of unease crossing his face for the first time.

No response.

Ezekiel didn’t rise to the bait. Didn’t even look at him.

He simply raised a hand.

The cloaked attendant stepped forward in silence, not with a scroll this time, but with a wooden box, long, narrow, sealed with silver clasps.

The figure crossed the chamber without a word and presented it to the Speaker, offering a slight bow before stepping back.

The Speaker hesitated, both hands hovering over the box as if unsure whether to touch it. Every eye in the room was fixed on that single object.

No one moved. No one whispered.

Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

B6 - Chapter 58: Hearing I

The eighth chime of the Tradespire clock tower rang out, solemn and deliberate, echoing through the high arches of the Council Hall’s private antechamber.

Lord Matthian Duskveil stared at the slow swirl of amber in his glass, the silence among his peers louder than any argument. They were waiting for him to change his mind.

He wouldn't.

“You’re making a mistake,” Orla Thorne said flatly, her jeweled fingers tapping the rim of her goblet. “A new seat filled by someone who doesn’t kneel to the Empire? That’s not something we can afford to throw away.”

“I haven’t thrown anything away,” Matthian replied, still watching his drink. “I’ve simply chosen not to interfere, one way or the other. It’s the most I would have done for anyone.”

“He’s not just anyone,” Harel Vantine interjected. “Two records on the unified ranking list before the age of twenty, for fuck’s sake! The whole city’s been whispering about him for weeks. And the boy’s from here, with no ties to any nation, nobody pulling his strings as far as we know…”

“Which only makes it worse,” Matthian said, finally looking up. “We don’t know who he is. We don’t know what he wants. And yet we expect him to help us in this council? Based on what? Rumors and whispers?”

“His hatred of the Empire is well known, far more than just a rumor,” Harel scoffed. “He’s poured millions into it. My people say he has enough dead war heroes in his backyard to start a museum.”

Matthian nodded, not even attempting to deny the claim. The bounty the boy had issued was claiming Imperial lives by the day, and the steady stream of headhunters entering his estate had never stopped.

But that didn’t make the boy an ally.

“He holds a grudge,” he said simply. “That much is clear. He’s driven by emotion, by anger. It will not last. The truth is, we still don’t know who he becomes once that anger fades.”

There was a long pause.

Matthian stood and paced slowly to the wide balcony overlooking the upper tiers of the council hall. Through the enormous crystal panes, he could see the long table being prepared, scribes and aides moving about like ants below. The hearing would begin soon.

“If we intervene or not, we all know how this will end,” he said. “The criteria for joining the council are deliberately rigid. They were designed to keep people out, to prevent this council from being filled with those too weak to shoulder the burden. Trade, connections, power—most don’t even meet one of the requirements. This Ezekiel somehow got his foot in the door. I don’t care how he managed it, but the fact that he’s even on the docket is a miracle on its own.”

“And yet,” Orla said, “you’re content to let that miracle burn.”

“No,” Matthian said quietly. “I’m content to see if it can walk through fire.”

A scoff came from the other end of the table. Orla leaned forward, her fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood. “Don’t pretend this is about principle. The hearing was moved up without warning, and we all know he isn’t in the city. If he misses the vote, he forfeits the seat.”

Matthian met her gaze without blinking. “If Ezekiel is to sit among us, he must prove he belongs. If he can’t overcome something as small as a rescheduled hearing, then he’s not ready to wear a Lord’s chain.”

“Small?” Lord Harel’s voice rose slightly. “We all saw the report. He left for the Wilderness barely ten days ago. This was clearly a move by those empire dogs to break his wings. How is he supposed to return in time?”

“He’s resourceful,” Matthian said simply. “And if he isn’t, then it wasn’t meant to be.”

A tense silence followed. No one spoke, but Matthian could feel the judgment in the room, thick and heavy.

They thought him cold. Harsh. Disloyal to their cause for turning his back on a promising contender.

Let them.

They didn’t see the long game, didn’t understand what it meant to shape a promising stone into a brilliant gem—someone who might one day guide Tradespire through storms that hadn’t yet formed. The boy was gifted, no doubt. But cleverness alone wouldn’t be enough. Not here. Not among those who smiled while sharpening blades.

If they truly wanted the boy to survive in this place, they had to let him struggle first.

Let him bleed.

If he were worthy of the seat, he would take it with his own hands. And if he didn’t, then he was never meant to stand among them.

The distant clang of ceremonial spears marked the hour. It was time.

The merchant lords rose and filed into the main chamber. Matthian followed, his expression calm, though his thoughts churned beneath the surface like a gathering storm.

The hearing began with the usual formalities—reports on grain subsidies, a dispute over silver tariffs, updates from the outer trade routes. Matthian listened in silence.

Then, the Speaker rose.

“Before we adjourn,” he said, his voice echoing through the high chamber, “one final matter remains.”

A ripple of anticipation moved through the gathered lords. They all knew what was on today’s docket. It was no coincidence that so many of the usually absent lords had chosen to attend, especially the ones aligned with the Empire.

They had come to make things difficult for the boy, no doubt.

“The Council will now consider the induction of a new member. All lords are requested to remain or forfeit their voice in this matter.”

Servants closed the tall bronze doors with a resonant thud. The guards moved to their stations along the edges of the chamber.

“Summon the nominee,” the Speaker announced. “Ezekiel of Tradespire.”

A heavy silence followed.

No one moved.

The pause stretched, every second amplifying the absence.

Everyone knew the boy had left the city.

Everyone knew the odds of his presence today.

“…Perhaps Tradespire’s newest prodigy considers punctuality beneath him,” someone murmured, just loud enough to be heard across the chamber.

Matthian recognized the voice instantly. Lord Joseph Fies, his pro-Empire counterpart, and a snake through and through. He was already working to smear the boy’s reputation before the hearing had even begun.

The vultures were circling.

A few chuckles followed, low and derisive. Lords leaned toward one another, whispering in hushed tones.

“I heard he was in the Wilderness,” one voice said.

“Maybe he fled, knowing he wouldn’t pass.”

“Or maybe he never meant to come at all.”

Even Matthian didn’t interrupt the murmuring. Let them talk, he thought. Let them show their hand before the game began.

Then came the sound—boots on stone.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Heavier than they should have been.

The room froze.

Every head turned toward the great bronze doors. The echo of each step rang louder than the last.

A knock followed. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just… firm.

The guards exchanged a brief glance, then opened the doors in unison.

Two silhouettes emerged from the blinding corridor beyond.

One tall and robed, face hidden.

The other young, sharp-eyed, unmistakable.

Crimson hair, wild and vibrant like fresh blood in the snow.

He walked with unhurried confidence, his gaze sweeping over the chamber without a hint of deference.

And when his eyes found Matthian, for the briefest instant, it felt as though the boy were standing above them all, looking down on the lords from the floor below.

How unsettling!

Perhaps it was due to Matthian’s finely tuned senses, sharpened by decades of reading the slightest shifts in expression, but he could tell.

This young man was a predator, his feral nature carefully concealed beneath layers of silken robes and a neutral mask. But he could see through the disguise. There was something unmistakably bestial in his gaze, a haughty kind of arrogance, the likes he had not seen in any man.

Matthian swallowed.

This was the boy rumored to be a clever negotiator, gifted engineer, and magical prodigy?

Him?

If someone had told him Ezekiel had been raised by wolves in the wilderness, he would have been less surprised.

After finishing his inspection of the gathered lords, the young man turned his attention to the Speaker.

“Ezekiel of Tradespire,” he introduced himself, as if responding to a passerby rather than addressing the Speaker of the Merchant Council, a figure who outranked even seasoned lords like Matthian in authority.

A murmur of discontent swept through the crowd. Matthian frowned as well. The boy wasn’t making any friends with this kind of behavior.

“So I see,” the Speaker replied without missing a beat. “Now that your attendance has been—”

“A moment,” a voice interrupted, freezing the entire hall. Even Matthian’s breath caught.

Could it be?

“I will attend this hearing, if the council has no objections,” the voice said.

Matthian finally remembered how to breathe and immediately turned toward the highest seat in the chamber, the one set apart from all the others, positioned a full level above even the Merchant Lords.

It was a seat that was always empty.

The last time its occupant had spoken in this chamber was years ago, when a new law threatened the council’s authority and the future of free trade itself.

Only during moments of great consequence had that voice echoed through these halls.

And now, it had returned.

Matthian’s ears hadn’t deceived him. Behind the curtain shielding the elevated seat, he could just make out three silhouettes. A royal Messenger stood on either side, and in the center sat none other than King Midas himself.

The legendary founder of Tradespire and the richest man on the continent had come in person to oversee the hearing.

The implications… were staggering.

Matthian turned his gaze back to the boy, who was also looking up at the King. He caught it just in time—a flicker of something across the young man's face, an emotion that didn’t belong there.

Hostility?

No. That couldn’t be. Yet Matthian couldn’t ignore what his instincts were telling him.

His thoughts began to race. It was becoming clear that there were many things he didn’t know about this boy and the circumstances surrounding this hearing. The fact that the King himself had made an appearance only confirmed it.

Once again, Matthian silently praised his decision to stay out of the matter.

No matter how gifted the boy might be, he certainly wasn’t worth the risk of wading into such dangerous waters. And judging by the look on Ezekiel’s face, he had never expected anyone’s support to begin with.

He looked at them all the same way, without distinction. Pro-Empire, anti-Empire—it made no difference. This young man saw no allies in the chamber, only prey.

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” the Speaker said after a pause. “It would be our honor to have you preside over this hearing.”

“What about you, Ezekiel of Tradespire? Do you consent to my presence?” the King asked, surprising everyone in the room.

The young man remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the curtain concealing the King's features, as if willing it to open. Then a faint smile touched his lips, softening his expression and revealing a glimpse of the boyish charm expected from someone his age.

“Of course,” he said. “I would prefer to have you close, your majesty.”

B6 - Chapter 57: Crescendo.

Been waiting for the AI image for about half an hour now. Gonna add it when it renders. Sora is not doing well atm

The plush backrest of the sofa offered no comfort, not with a mind in such turmoil.

Sheol’s visit had overturned the entire meaning behind Zeke’s recent actions.

What had once seemed like a clever attempt to raise his standing had turned into a matter of life and death, assuming the King of the Dead had spoken the truth.

But Zeke didn’t doubt him.

Sheol was a being so powerful that even Khai’zar feared him. The dragon had admitted his inferiority without hesitation, something Zeke had never seen it do with anyone else.

No. This wasn’t a fabrication. The King of the Dead hadn’t come to spin tales. Which meant the ruler of Tradespire, Midas, had been behind this entire chain of events—and not with good intentions.

It was baffling.

Zeke had never met the man, but he had always believed him to be a fair arbiter. Even if not an ally, he had seemed at least a neutral party. More than once, his intervention had helped Zeke in moments of need.

King Midas had been among the first to purchase the Gondola at the auction, indirectly vouching for its quality and sparking the wave of demand that became the foundation of Zeke’s fortune.

His royal messenger had helped him during the negotiations with Arkanheim, even turning back time to prevent disaster and giving him a second chance.

Had he misunderstood these actions?

They felt so different from the devious scheme Sheol claimed was in motion.

Zeke tapped the armrest of the sofa, letting recent events replay in his mind.

He recalled how he had been informed of the hearing's conditions—the tight deadline, the trade agreements, the need for a royal endorsement.

Could all of that have been orchestrated? Had there really been a hidden dagger from the start?

But how could Midas have known that he was even capable of meeting the requirements in time? By all logic, it should have been impossible. Even now, he waited for word from his allies about their success. Without it, there was no chance of passing the hearing, not even if he accepted Midas’s offer.

The whole plan felt far-fetched, to say the least.

However, the nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered a darker truth he still wasn’t ready to accept.

King Midas had never needed to know whether Zeke would succeed. He had set the trap regardless. It made the most sense.

If he succeeded, Midas would gain a capable puppet, tied to his city and subject to his will. If he failed, the king would earn the favor of Arkanheim—or whichever other power he had sold him out to.

It was a win-win for Midas and a lose-lose for Zeke.

The only reason Zeke hadn’t seen it sooner was because he hadn’t wanted to. Even now, he resisted the thought. If Midas truly was that kind of man, then his position in Tradespire was more fragile than he had ever imagined. His family, his people, everything he had built was just one wrong move away from ruin.

Zeke let out a quiet sigh and pushed the thought aside. Speculating without a shred of proof wouldn’t help him. Still, that didn’t mean he would sit idle.

If Midas had taken such a gamble, the signs would reveal themselves soon enough.

…Or perhaps they already had.

Zeke extended his mind and connected to his beacon in Tradespire, projecting the image of the space into his thoughts.

He hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t find a letter waiting. But to his surprise and disappointment, an entire stack had already been prepared for him, each envelope still sealed.

Reaching out, he grasped the bundle and found it clutched in his hand a moment later.

He walked to his desk and laid the letters down, scanning each sender.

The first was from his mother. The next came from David, then Margret. Finally, there were two bearing the official stamp of Tradespire.

Zeke’s hand trembled slightly as he held them. Two letters.

Hardening his resolve, he opened the first one. His eyes darted from left to right as he read its content.

To Ezekiel (formerly ‘von Hohenheim’), Citizen of Tradespire,
Holder of Residence-Charter No. 8722‑B,

In accordance with the governing statutes of the Merchant Union and by majority resolution of the seated Council, you are hereby summoned to appear before the Assembly of Lords for the purpose of pleading your merits in consideration for elevation to the rank of Merchant Lord of Tradespire.

The hearing shall be convened in the Upper Chamber of the Tradehall on the third day of the seventh moon, at the ninth hour past dawn.

You are required to present yourself in person and furnish formal documentation attesting to the fulfillment of all relevant criteria as outlined in Article VII, Subsection 4 of the Admission Charter:

• Three qualifying trade contracts, each of no less than ten years’ duration and a projected trade volume exceeding one million gold.

• Employment of a certified Archmage resident in Tradespire.

• Endorsement from the ruling authority of a recognized sovereign nation.

Nonappearance will be taken as forfeiture of candidacy and result in automatic disqualification for the period of one calendar year.

No escort or retinue shall be permitted beyond the outer ring unless bearing proof of vested interest.

On behalf of His Majesty King Midas, Sovereign of Tradespire,
and by the authority vested in this Council,

—Aubren Wex, Chief Scribe of Induction Matters

Zeke read the letter a second time, just to make sure he hadn’t misread.

…The hearing shall be convened in the Upper Chamber of the Tradehall on the third day of the seventh moon, at the ninth hour past dawn…

His brows furrowed. The third day of the seventh moon was the day after tomorrow. That was an incredibly short notice. It was highly unlikely that the sender had only just received confirmation of the meeting.

More likely, it was a calculated move meant to catch him off guard. The fact that the letter had arrived just a few days after he left the city only reinforced that suspicion. Zeke glanced at the letters from Margret and David, hoping at least one of them held good news.

Then his gaze shifted to the second official letter. His stomach twisted at the thought of what it might contain. If Sheol had been right, this was likely the hidden blade aimed at his back.

To Ezekiel (formerly ‘von Hohenheim’), Citizen of Tradespire,
Holder of Residence-Charter No. 8722‑B,

Be it known that, pursuant to Directive 118-A of the Citizen Compliance Ordinance, an official inquiry has been opened into possible historical associations between yourself and the convicted traitor Maximilian von Hohenheim, formerly of Arkanheim.

As per protocol, this investigation is limited in scope to the period prior to your naturalization as a citizen of Tradespire. Any findings establishing collaboration, material assistance, or concealment of treasonous activity—direct or indirect—may constitute grounds for the revocation of citizenship under Section 3.2 of the Foreign Crimes Provision.

Tradespire, as a neutral and sovereign trade capital, does not extend sanctuary to fugitives, war criminals, or any individual proven to have engaged in seditious acts prior to their induction under the Merchant Compact.

You are hereby advised to make available any documentation or testimony that may assist in the impartial resolution of this inquiry. Failure to comply will be interpreted in accordance with Article VI, Clause 19, and may influence future standing within city governance…

Zeke almost burst out laughing from sheer disbelief.

It was absurd, the kind of blatant nonsense that barely warranted a reaction. His relationship with Maximilian was under investigation?

Everyone in Tradespire had known about their connection for as long as he had lived there. Yet now, his esteemed mentor had been labeled a traitor, and their association was being treated as a criminal offense.

The accusation was so transparent, it might as well have been an open threat. He skimmed through the rest of the letter, which stretched across several pages filled with legal jargon, subsections, and obscure provisions.

It would have been nearly impossible to spot anything meaningful at a glance, but Zeke was confident he would find it. He already knew exactly what to look for.

And there it was.

On the final page, buried deep in the fine print, he found what he was looking for.

…Members of the Merchant Council are exempt from the threat of having their citizenship revoked, unless voted on unanimously by the entirety of the council…

Clever.

The fact that it wasn’t presented as an obvious solution but buried in the fine print made it more likely that he would have discovered it on his own, thinking he had found a lifeline to save himself in a storm.

Zeke grimaced. It was a trap designed to exploit one of his better-known weaknesses: pride.

And unfortunately, he was fairly certain it would have worked. Hidden solutions buried in the details were exactly his kind of challenge. He would have felt like a genius for uncovering a last resort in a hopeless situation, already imagining the satisfaction of proving everyone wrong.

Whoever had set this trap understood him far too well.

Without Sheol’s warning, he might have even thanked Midas for offering a way out, once again mistaking him for a benefactor.

That son of a bitch.

Zeke had no more doubts. Only one person could have orchestrated all of this and stood to gain from it. Midas. With the proof in hand, everything became clear. The King of Tradespire was an enemy. A traitor and a—

Calm down. Think.

Zeke took a deep breath, steadying himself with a controlled surge of Mind-aspected Mana. The cool sensation of pure rationality washed over him as he exhaled the charged Mana. Then again. And again.

King Midas.

Was he truly an enemy?

It didn’t matter. Not anymore. Now that his mind was clear, the question felt irrelevant. Ally or enemy—what did that even mean in the city of merchants? There were no true allies here, only shared interests.

When had he grown so soft? So sentimental?

He had known for a long time that in Tradespire, everything had a price. Who could say what Arkanheim had offered for this opportunity? For all he knew, this scheme might have been the king’s final attempt to offer him a way out.

Zeke didn’t know, couldn’t know, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that truly mattered was the fact that he was in serious trouble if he couldn’t secure the promotion to Merchant Lord.

Should he run?

There was probably no point. If Arkanheim had gone this far, they had likely prepared countermeasures. They could flee to another city through the teleportation gate, but who could truly protect them? Valor, perhaps, for a time—but there were no guarantees. No city outside Tradespire had the strength to withstand Arkanheim’s pressure.

And even if one could, the conditions for refuge would almost certainly be harsher than what Midas had proposed.

No. There was only one solution, one way to protect himself while preserving his current standing in the world. He would have to become a Merchant Lord at the hearing in three days.

His eyes sharpened, and his lips pressed into a firm line as Zeke looked at the remaining letters.

Margret and David.

He hadn’t ordered them to succeed, only to try.

It had been a loosely given command, perhaps not even a proper order, and now it might turn out to be the very reason for his downfall. Maybe it had been a mistake. But it was a mistake born of trust.

If they had failed, it would not be because they hadn’t given everything.

Zeke reached out and gently tapped the first envelope, his expression unreadable.

It was time to find out if his faith had been rewarded.

B6 - Chapter 56: The Velvet Snare

Margret spotted the elf the moment she rounded the corner. She recognized the type: stiff-backed, silver-sashed, standing like someone trying very hard not to wrinkle their robe. He was holding something.

Her boots made barely a sound as she approached, but his ears twitched anyway. He turned before she reached him, bowing just low enough to be respectful without seeming servile.

“Flyer 652?” he asked, though he clearly already knew.

She folded her arms. “Yes?”

He extended a letter. Thick parchment. Wax seal. Gold thread woven along the edge. Definitely not the kind of thing given to someone still addressed by a number.

“You are expected,” the elf said. “Immediately.”

Margret took the letter without breaking eye contact. He didn’t meet her gaze. His eyes were already drifting toward the hallway behind her, as if worried someone might see them speaking.

When she broke the seal, a faint scent of crushed mint leaves rose from the page. The writing was elegant and handwritten, signed with a name she didn’t recognize. The place, however, stood out: Heartbloom Villa. She knew it. Everyone did.

“Who sent this?”

The elf blinked, startled, then shook his head. “The Lady gave no name. Only the request.”

Margret stared down at the letter. Her thumb tapped the edge once, twice, then stopped.

“All right.”

As she turned to leave, she heard the elf exhale quietly, like someone releasing a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. When she glanced back, he was already walking away quickly and with purpose, as if afraid she might call him back.

She didn’t.

Even if she wanted to protest, she couldn’t.

The summons was real. The weight of the paper in her hand confirmed it. Someone high up, very high up, had just asked for her by name.

That was never good news.

Margret launched into the air, arms tucked tight, the wind tugging at her uniform like impatient fingers. Her wings of compressed air hummed around her, subtle and controlled, barely stirring the leaves as she banked left, away from the usual patrol routes.

The farther she flew, the more the branches changed. Narrow walkways gave way to broad promenades. Railings sculpted from living bark were now lined with polished stone. Lanterns pulsed with soft light, not flame, but woven magic. Trees here didn’t just grow; they obeyed.

Below, she passed a spiraling tower with a roof that shifted with the sun. A guard leaned against its arch, dressed in embroidered leathers rather than armor. He was reading.

In her own district, guards barked orders. Here, they read books.

Margret adjusted her angle and flew a little lower. The air tasted different, thinner and cleaner. The wind no longer clawed at her; it whispered.

She passed a cluster of homes that hadn’t been built, but bloomed. Walls of translucent petals, doors that folded like leaves. A child looked up from a garden where butterflies fed on glowing fruit. The child’s smile faded when she saw Margret. Then she turned and walked inside.

No one here waved. No one stared. They just stepped aside, quietly, gracefully, as if pretending she wasn’t there at all.

That was worse than insults.

Heartbloom Villa came into view. Perched close to the trunk, its balconies curled like the petals of a flower that had never wilted. White and silver wood, laced with glowing blue veins. It looked alive. No. It was alive. The building moved with the rhythm of Yggdrasil itself.

Margret hovered, circling once before touching down on the landing platform. No guards. No challenge. No demands to identify herself or state her purpos. Just a set of twin doors, already open.

She hadn't knocked.

Margret stepped across the threshold.

Her boots met polished wood that felt warm and welcoming. The floor had a faint give, as if something still living rested beneath her feet, like walking on a tree that hadn’t quite forgotten what it was.

A steward stood just inside the entrance. He wasn’t a guard. No armor, no weapons. Just layered robes and gloves so pristine they probably had their own rotation schedule. He bowed low. Not mockingly, not exaggerated, but as if it were simply routine.

“Lady Margret.”

The title landed heavier than she expected. She almost missed her next step.

“Please follow me.”

He turned before she could answer, and she followed, too stunned to think of a reason not to.

The halls were quiet. Not empty, just quiet.

Servants passed by without a word, their steps soft, their movements practiced and unhurried. No one stared. No one whispered. One paused just long enough to offer her a tray of candied root slices and a napkin stitched with gold thread.

Margret shook her head. She would have liked to try one, but her stomach was too tight to eat. The servant gave no reaction, simply bowed and vanished behind a woven curtain.

Her gaze wandered. This was the first time she had ever seen one of these places from the inside, and it might very well be her last. People didn’t get invited here, her, least of all. There were no paintings on the walls. No portraits. No proud ancestors or grand battles. Only nature. A branch heavy with dew. A leaf caught mid-fall. A single feather drifting through mist.

Every inch of this place spoke of someone who didn’t need to impress, but did anyway.

“Your hostess is waiting,” the steward said as they reached a wide door made of living wood, pulsing softly with ambient light. It opened without being touched, unfolding like a blooming flower.

The steward stepped aside. “She is within.”

Margret didn’t move.

Not because she was afraid, but because this felt far above her station. She had no authority to negotiate anything here. Truth be told, she didn’t have any authority at all.

Originally, she’d been sent to gain experience, not to strike trade agreements. Zeke probably would honor any deal she arranged, but he had never said that outright.

None of this felt right.

Still, someone had summoned her. And she had come too far to turn back now.

She took a steadying breath, then stepped inside.

The room beyond was quiet, wide, and filled with sunlight. One wall stood completely open to the canopy outside, framed by vines that swayed slightly, even though the air was still. A low table sat at the center, surrounded by floor cushions instead of chairs.

Margret spotted the elf sitting at the far end, one leg folded beneath her, the other propped just enough to rest an elbow. Her clothing was simple. There were no sigils, no trim, no ornaments. That didn’t mean she looked plain; nothing about her did. She had the kind of stillness Margret had only seen in people who didn’t need to prove anything.

Born into wealth and power, no doubt.

She didn’t rise.

“Welcome,” the elf said. Her voice was soft, steady, and measured like everything else in this place. “I appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

Margret didn’t respond. She stepped further inside, eyes scanning the room: corners, ceiling, balcony. No guards. No visible enchantments. That made her more uneasy, not less.

What was she playing at?

The elf gestured to a cushion across from her. “Please, sit. The tea is fresh.”

Margret remained standing.

“I assume you’re the one who requested me,” she said, arms crossed.

“I am.”

“Then say what you need to say.”

The elf studied her for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she gave a single nod.

“I was hoping we might talk,” she said, “about a man named Ezekiel.”

Margret’s back straightened at the name. She didn’t flinch, but the shift was there, too small for most to catch, but not for this elf.

The woman met Margret’s eyes and smiled slightly, knowingly. “My name is Lyriel.”

The name meant little on its own. Not without a family attached to it.

Margret didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. She didn’t like anything about this situation. It felt like the woman before her knew everything about her, while she herself was completely in the dark.

“You’re cautious. Good.” Lyriel lifted her cup and took a sip. “I have a few things I’d like answered.”

The silence stretched. Margret didn’t break it. She was already at a disadvantage and saw no reason to widen the gap by giving away more than necessary.

Lyriel took her time with the tea, sipping slowly as if she had nowhere else to be. Eventually, she set the cup down and folded her hands.

“I’ve read about him, you know,” she said, her tone light, almost casual. “A human boy born with three affinities. No remarkable lineage, aside from a severed tie to the Bloodletter family. His mentor, the disappearance, and the fact that he recently broke two major records before turning twenty.”

She gestured toward a nearby stack of materials—books, drawings, letters, and reports piled together in what looked like a disorganized collection.

“…Impressive dedication,” Margret said, her brow tightening.

Lyriel nodded with quiet seriousness. “I’ve read everything available. His relationships, accomplishments, connections. Every scrap I could find.”

Margret said nothing.

That level of research wasn’t done on a whim. Someone high up had taken notice. The only question was why.

Lyriel seemed unfazed by her silence. “You were sent here by him. That’s clear. What isn’t clear is why.”

Margret kept her expression neutral. “What makes you think I know his motives?”

Lyriel smiled faintly, like someone indulging a child. “He sent his right-hand man to Korrovan to lead a rebellion. At the same time, he sends you here…”

Margret didn’t move. “What exactly are you asking?”

Lyriel leaned in slightly, just enough to make the shift obvious. “What is Ezekiel von Hohenheim really after? Is he building alliances? Influence? Or something more permanent?”

There it was.

Margret’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d betray his trust for a cup of tea?”

Lyriel tilted her head. “I think you’re in a difficult position. One that demands clarity.”

Margret stepped closer to the table. “I’m not confused.”

“No,” Lyriel said softly. “But you are cornered.”

That stopped her.

Lyriel’s tone didn’t rise. She didn’t press. She continued in the same calm, level voice. “Anyone who matters knows what Ezekiel of Tradespire is after. Trade contracts. And yet, you’ve been here for months and gained nothing. No contacts. No progress. No trust. My people won’t help him, and you know it.”

Margret’s fingers curled tighter until her nails dug into her palms.

Lyriel went on, her tone neither cruel nor kind. “You’re loyal. That’s rare. But it won’t matter if your loyalty leads to failure.”

Margret looked away, just for a moment, toward the balcony, toward the distant clouds. Then back.

“He never asked me to succeed,” she said. “He asked me to try.”

Lyriel watched her quietly.

Then, for the first time, she nodded. Not out of mockery. Not with amusement.

“Good,” she said. “Then maybe this isn’t a waste of time after all.”

Lyriel reached to her side and drew out a small case. It was flat, rectangular, bound in pale green leather with silver thread woven into the seams. She set it on the table between them.

Margret’s eyes narrowed. The case didn’t hum with power, didn’t glow, and bore no sigils. It looked ordinary. But the way Lyriel handled it, with care and precision, said otherwise.

“I believe this will be of use to you,” she said.

Margret didn’t move.

Lyriel opened the lid.

Inside were six scrolls, each tied with a different colored ribbon—blue, gold, red.

One bore a seal Margret recognized from her long hours in the Flyers Hall: the emblem of the High Council. Another was marked with the twisting runes reserved for high-level magical contracts.

She stepped closer. After everything they had just discussed, it was obvious what the scrolls were.

“These are official?” she asked quietly.

“They are binding,” Lyriel replied. “Recognized across elven lands. They cover trade permissions, research access, and the provisional right to send diplomatic envoys.”

Margret didn’t ask how she had obtained them. It didn’t matter. No one outside the upper ranks could produce something like this.

“What’s the price?” she asked.

Lyriel rested a hand lightly on the case. She didn’t pull it back. “There isn’t one.”

Margret’s eyes snapped up. “You’re giving this away?”

Lyriel held her gaze. “Call it an opportunity. Or a seed. What it becomes depends on what your lord does next.”

Margret looked at the scrolls again. This was everything Zeke had asked for.

After months of closed doors and polite dismissals, it was all here, laid out in front of her like a gift.

She didn’t reach for it. It was too tempting. Even a fool knew that if something looked too good to be true, it usually was.

Lyriel noticed. “You’re afraid to owe me,” she said.

“Favors tend to become the most expensive kind of debt.”

“Then consider this an investment,” Lyriel said, sitting back. “In someone worth watching.”

Margret narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. That sounded like the most ominous thing she’d ever heard. It reeked of strings attached.

Lyriel sighed.

Not the quiet, dignified sigh elves often used to signal disapproval. This was the kind of sigh a dockworker might let out after being told he had to stay late again. It was tired and frustrated.

“Look,” Lyriel said, her tone shifting to something more casual, “we’re in a similar position, you and I.”

Margret opened her mouth, but Lyriel raised a hand to stop her.

“Just listen,” she said. “I was asked to show you goodwill, but since you seem too stubborn to accept a good thing, I’ll speak plainly.”

She pointed to the scrolls. “These? They’re nothing.” She picked up one and tossed it lightly onto the table. “The person I’m representing could issue a hundred of these without blinking.”

She returned it to the case. “This,” she said, tapping the box, “is what I decided to prepare for you after doing my research on what you need most.”

She met Margret’s eyes. “Accept it or don’t. It won’t change anything.”

Margret still didn’t move.

Not until Lyriel slid the case forward with a single finger.

Only then did she reach out and take it.

The case was heavier than it looked.

Margret held it with both hands, the smooth leather cool against her palms. No enchantments activated, no traps triggered. Just silence.

Lyriel stood as she turned to leave.

"One thing," the elf said.

Margret paused at the threshold but didn’t turn around.

"Eyes are on him now. Some curious. Some... less so."

Margret waited.

Lyriel’s voice was calm, even thoughtful. “Tell your lord that power draws attention. It’s a law as old as the roots of this tree.”

Still facing forward, Margret gave the smallest nod she could without turning back. Then she stepped through the open doors.

The halls were as quiet as before. The steward bowed again, saying nothing. No one followed her. No one blocked her path.

Outside, the wind greeted her like an old friend. She launched from the platform in silence, the air catching her with ease. The case was pressed firmly against her chest, locked between her arms and ribs.

She didn’t look back.

As the layers of the city slipped away beneath her—garden balconies, crystal-lit bridges, rising walkways—her thoughts circled.

She had done it. She had what he needed. The contracts were secured. The path was open. She should have felt victorious.

Instead, she felt like a pawn that had just been promoted to bishop.

Still part of the game.

Still on the board.

And now, the real match had begun.

B6 - Chapter 55: The Future of Undercity II

“So, there really was someone pulling the strings from the shadows,” Tanaya Verma remarked, her voice smooth yet edged with intrigue. She swept a delicate hand over the folds of her resplendent gown, the fabric catching the light in shimmering waves. “Quite literally, at that.”

David turned to her with an effortless grace, his expression warm yet unreadable. “It is an honor to welcome you, Miss Verma,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “But I assure you, I am no great mastermind.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Prya interjected, her sharp gaze fixed on him. “It seems pretty obvious that you’re the one in charge here.”

David shifted his attention to the younger woman, his smile fading ever so slightly. Though his demeanor remained polished, there was an almost imperceptible weight to his next words. “You are quite mistaken,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I am merely a servant, carrying out the will of my master.”

“Who is your master?” The question rang out, the voice aged but unwavering, carrying the weight of experience and authority.

David turned smoothly, his gaze locking onto the old veteran with an air of quiet confidence.

“It is someone many of you are already familiar with,” he said, his tone steady. “I serve Ezekiel of Tradespire.”

The name struck the gathering like a spark in dry tinder, igniting a range of reactions. For those unfamiliar with Ezekiel, the revelation elicited little more than mild curiosity. But for others—Prya Varun and Khadan Gemkar in particular—the impact was immediate.

Prya stiffened, her sharp gaze flickering with recognition, while Khadan’s fingers curled subtly. Both had encountered Ezekiel before, though under vastly different circumstances. And now, hearing his name invoked in such a setting, neither could ignore the weight of it.

A heavy silence followed, tense and expectant, before Prya finally exhaled a tired sigh.

“…If that is the case, why was my family invited here?” she asked, her voice edged with skepticism. “I can’t imagine your lord holds any fondness for House Varun.”

David’s eyes sharpened, his composed demeanor hardening ever so slightly.

“An understatement,” he said simply. Then, after a measured pause, he continued, “But as I mentioned before, I am no grand mastermind, and Undercity does not dance to my tune alone. Your family, Miss Varun, is among the most affluent. To exclude you over a personal grievance would be a disservice—not to me, nor to my lord, but to the people of Undercity themselves.”

David’s words visibly caught Prya off guard. For once, she had no sharp retort, only staring at him in disbelief. It was no wonder—Korrovan’s customs differed vastly from the pragmatic approach of Tradespire. Here, feuds and grievances carried as much weight as tangible benefits, and setting them aside so easily was nearly unheard of.

It was the ever-composed Tanaya Verma who smoothly guided the conversation back on track. “How magnanimous of your lord, Mr… Hmmm. May I call you David?”

David inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Very well,” she continued, offering a pleasant yet shrewd smile. “However, I must admit, I’m still puzzled by something you said earlier.”

David met her gaze. “What words are you referring to?”

“You claimed that dismantling this newly established council was not something you would recommend,” Tanaya said, tilting her head slightly. “Surely, you didn’t say that simply because you happened to be present?”

As she spoke, her Mana flared to life, suffusing the hall with an oppressive aura. It was the unmistakable presence of an Archmage—and not a weak one. Aside from the old veteran, she might very well have been the most powerful individual in the room.

“After all,” she continued smoothly, her tone unchanged despite the tension rising around her, “you couldn’t have seriously believed that the presence of a single Archmage would be enough to dissuade us from resorting to violence, could you?”

Gasps rippled through the gathered representatives. No one had expected the poised, motherly woman to be the one to escalate the situation again. And yet, with the weight of her power pressing down upon them, it seemed that violence was now the most likely resolution to this standoff.

Jatan Bandhi’s grin widened as he unleashed his Mana as well, eagerly adding his strength to Tanaya’s display of power. The air grew heavier, charged with raw energy. Even the old veteran allowed a fraction of his own formidable aura to seep into the room—a silent yet undeniable acknowledgment that he was not opposed to a more forceful resolution if it proved necessary.

Yet David, the one in the center of this menacing pressure, remained entirely unfazed. If anything, his smile deepened, his expression unreadable.

“Of course not,” he said, his voice as calm as ever. “That would be ridiculous.”

At that moment, as if responding to an unseen signal, two more auras flared to life within the tower—both unmistakably of Archmage caliber. Though their presence remained outside the hall, their proximity left no doubt that they were close, watching.

“Two more?” Verma muttered, her brows knitting together. “Ezekiel of Tradespire commands three Archmages? But wasn’t it said that he didn’t have a single one under his command?”

Her question was directed at Prya, whose expression darkened. Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, she seemed lost in thought. Absently, she gave a small nod, confirming the discrepancy without offering an explanation.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed the sudden revelation might be enough to quell the rising tension. Even Jatan Bandhi, who had all but invited bloodshed moments ago, appeared less eager for open conflict.

But then, the old veteran spoke.

“This is not enough,” he said, his gaze piercing through David like a blade. “If my senses serve me right, the three of you together wouldn’t even be a match for me alone.”

Before David could respond, a voice from the Chimeroi cut through the tension like a blade.

“You must think of us as mere decorations, old fool,” Elder Tiger growled, her tone laced with quiet menace.

The veteran turned to face her, an almost fatherly smile playing across his weathered features. “I assure you, young lady, I do not. But neither will I exaggerate your significance in battle.”

Elder Tiger bared her fangs in a grin that was anything but amused. “You? You could take me, no doubt. But there are thousands more waiting beyond these walls. Tell me, can you take them all?”

To drive her point home, Elder Tiger threw back her head and unleashed a roar from the depths of her lungs. It was a deep, guttural sound that rattled the very walls of the tower, reverberating through the corridors like a primal war cry.

But that was only the beginning.

In answer to her call, a chorus of voices erupted from beyond—an uncountable number of roars, howls, and snarls rising in unison. The air itself seemed to tremble with their fury.

For a fleeting moment, the quiet city beneath the sands no longer felt like a place of civilization. It had become the heart of the wild, a battleground where countless predators vied for dominance.

To that, the old man had no answer.

Satisfied, Elder Tiger swept a contemptuous gaze over the gathered representatives. “Listen well, humans,” she snarled, her voice carrying a weight that sent an almost primal shiver through the room. “This is our city—OURS! If you choose to fight, I promise you one thing—no matter how many you slaughter, the result will not change.”

The threat hung in the room, as open and unveiled as it could ever be. Now the only question was how the parties would react.

“…The Nair family will negotiate in good faith,” Mohan declared, breaking the tense silence.

“As will the Gemkar family,” Khadan Gemkar added swiftly.

Their decisions came as little surprise. As the only two factions present without an Archmage, they lacked the sheer power to challenge the emerging balance, making negotiation their only viable path.

What did surprise the room, however, was the next party to yield.

“The Verma family also chooses to negotiate,” Tanaya Verma announced, her voice calm and composed. The motherly warmth in her smile had returned, and the overwhelming pressure of her aura had vanished as if it had never been there at all.

“Cowards…” Jatan Bandhi hissed, his voice dripping with contempt. He turned sharply to the old veteran. “What about you, Sir Veerkar? Surely, you are not intimidated by these beasts?”

The old man didn’t so much as glance in his direction as he replied, his tone calm yet cutting. “There is a fine line between courage and foolishness, young man. I suggest you learn where it lies.”

With that, he withdrew his aura, the weight of his presence dissipating. He then turned to Elder Tiger, giving her a respectful nod. “It seems a military solution would be ill-advised,” he admitted. “But if you ever find yourself looking for work, come find me, young woman. Our forces could use someone like you.”

Elder Tiger scoffed and turned her head away, but not before a faint, unmistakable blush dusted her cheeks. “I’ll never serve no humans,” she muttered.

“So…” Prya Varun broke the silence, her tone shifting to one of sharp pragmatism. “Now that violence is off the table, how about we talk business? Mr. David, what exactly are you offering?”

“Labour,” David replied simply.

Prya arched a brow. “So, the same services we’ve always received from Undercity—just at a higher price?” Her words were blunt, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“Not quite,” David countered, his smile returning with a knowing edge. “When I say labour, I don’t mean the crude, bottom tier work of the past.”

“What else could these animals possibly produce, aside from the most rudimentary tools?” Jatan Bandhi sneered.

David turned his gaze to him, his smile widening—not in amusement, but in something far sharper. “I’m glad you asked,” he said, as though Jatan’s remark had been a sincere inquiry rather than a contemptuous jab. “For instance, my lord is in the process of relocating his renowned airship manufacturing almost entirely to Undercity.”

Silence fell over the hall. Even Jatan had no immediate retort.

And yet, David was far from finished.

“In addition,” he continued smoothly, “arrangements have already been made for dwarven machinery and master artisans to arrive within the next few months. If all goes as planned, Undercity will stand among the continent’s foremost manufacturing hubs within a year.”

“That sounds… impossible,” Prya said, skepticism clear in her voice. “It would take an investment of tens of millions to even begin brokering such a deal. And even if someone had the funds, persuading the dwarves to relocate is harder than squeezing water from a stone. How could such an agreement be forged without a single whisper reaching our ears?”

David merely shrugged. “I won’t waste my breath trying to convince the unwilling. The truth of my words will reveal itself soon enough.”

That was enough to stifle any further objections. After all, who would dare tell such a grand lie if it would crumble within the week?

“As I was saying,” David continued smoothly, his tone unwavering. “What we are offering is high-quality labor, along with a selection of new products that we have already agreed to distribute through the Nair family.” He inclined his head slightly toward Mohan in acknowledgment. “For this initial phase, we have chosen to limit our trade agreements to a select few partners—consider it a proof of concept.”

His gaze swept across the assembled representatives, pausing just a heartbeat longer on Tanaya Verma than the others. Then, with a measured smile, he asked, “Now, who among you wishes to be among the chosen few?”

***

In an opulently decorated room, two figures stood before a crystal formation, its surface swirling with light. Within its depths, the events unfolding in the Black Tower played out in perfect clarity, as if they were watching from within the chamber itself.

"Are you certain this is wise, Father?" one asked, his voice laced with unease. "They've seem to have found a way to nullify the effects of the Enslavement Ritual."

"It is of no consequence," the other man replied, his tone calm yet absolute. "So far, everything I’ve seen has only served to benefit me."

"...But is it truly prudent to allow them such freedom so close to our capital?"

For a moment, a flicker of something dangerous passed through the older man's eyes—a storm barely held at bay. "Even if I wished to intervene," he said, "now is not the time."

The younger man hesitated, clearly unsettled. "I've never known you to show such restraint."

The older man sighed, shaking his head. “Even I can't act solely on my own will when it concerns the alliance.”

“I don't understand,” the younger man admitted.

“Ezekiel of Tradespire has challenged the Empire more boldly than some entire nations,” the older man explained, his tone measured. “Reckless as he may be, he's earned the favor of many. Moving against him now would create more problems than it's worth. Besides...” His gaze shifted northward, toward the imposing mountain range that marked the border of Arkanheim. His expression darkened. “That old fox is a far greater threat than you realize.”

The younger man turned to his father, skepticism etched across his face. "No army could make it through those cliffs. It would be a fool’s errand to even try."

The man fixed his son with an unreadable gaze. “Such reckless assumptions could doom an entire nation,” he said, his voice turning heavy, as though recounting a grim legend from a forgotten age. “When Arkanheim moves, the mountains will rise against us. The seas will turn traitorous, the air we breathe will choke us, and the very fire that warms our homes will devour us in our sleep. That is what it means to stand against the elemental nations.”

A shiver ran through the younger man. Never before had he heard his father—revered across the land as the Lightning Exarch—speak with such solemnity about an enemy.

“Mark my words…” the older man continued, his gaze distant, as if staring into the coming storm. “When the true war starts, we will be grateful for every ally… even if it's just a boy with a grudge.”

B6 - Chapter 54: The Future of Undercity I

“This is quite different from what I remember,” an old man mused, stroking his beard as he gazed out the large window. “It seems this new council is indeed quite capable.”

“Are those your true thoughts, old timer? Or are you simply wagging your tail to the tune of your new masters?" a harsh voice cut in.

Mohan Nair, who had been the first speaker, turned to face the man who had so bluntly interrupted. “My tongue belongs to me alone, as it always has, Mr. Bandhi.” Despite the insult, his expression remained calm, entirely unfazed. “But if you believe you could have accomplished something similar, I wonder why the Bandhi family never bothered to try.”

“Why should we?” the second man scoffed. “It is not our responsibility to fix the terrible habits of these livestock. Believe me, we already have our hands full just socializing the ones who come to us.”

Mohan's expression twisted into something between amusement and disgust. “Come to you?” he repeated mockingly. “Ah, yes. I suppose all those rumors about your illegal slave-hunting operations across the world could be framed that way, couldn't they?”

“They are rumors for a reason,” the man replied smoothly. “We've never been found guilty in any of these cases, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t breathe any more life into such slander. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to—”

"Enough, you two," a third voice cut in, firm and authoritative. “Mr. Nair, Mr. Bandhi, let’s not forget why we are here—or who we represent.”

Both men fell silent at once. The speaker was the representative of the Veerkar family, a renowned general and one of Korrovan’s most decorated veterans. More importantly, he was an Archmage—one with extensive battlefield experience.

With his words, silence settled over the grand conference room atop the Black Tower. The assembled factions stood in distinct clusters, each keeping a respectful distance from the others.

Present were the Nair trade family, the Verma cloth emporium, the Gemkar mining company, the Veerkar family representing the royal army, the Bandhi slave traders, and the Varun auction house. Of all those invited, only the royal family—the Raja clan—had yet to make an appearance.

The absence did not go unnoticed.

“I heard the royal family was supposed to attend as well,” a young woman said, her voice clear and bell-like. “Do you know anything about that, Uncle Ranjit?”

At her question, the room grew still. It was a matter of interest to all, yet she was likely the only one who would dare address the Veerkar family's grizzled war veteran with such familiarity.

The old man glanced at her, the rigid lines of his face softening ever so slightly. “All I know is that they’re sending someone.”

The woman chuckled. “Typical. You never care about anything beyond your orders, do you?”

Ranjit merely shrugged, effectively ending the conversation. He resumed his vigilant stance, his posture rigid, as if anticipating an ambush at any moment. It was clear that small talk and gossip held no interest for him, even from someone who seemed well-acquainted with him.

The young woman, however, was unfazed. If anything, she appeared to have expected his curt response. With an air of ease, she turned her attention to the other assembled parties, studying them as if appraising goods at a market.

Her pleasant smile remained as she addressed Mohan Nair with a tone of familiar courtesy. "It has been some time since we’ve had the pleasure of hosting you at our pavilion, Mr. Nair. But I was pleased to hear that your family is thriving again."

Mohan mirrored her smile, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “It won’t be long before we’re in a position to attend your auctions again, little Miss Varun. A shame, though, what happened the last time we sent someone…”

At the mention of that event, a small crack appeared in the young woman’s polished facade. The day her family had schemed to seize the remaining holdings of the Firebrand family—by crossing a rich but nameless foreigner—had become an indelible stain on their reputation.

Who could have predicted that the young man they had so carelessly antagonized would turn out to be a prodigy of renown, wielding both considerable wealth and influence? With every new report of Ezekiel of Tradespire’s achievements, that stain only deepened, a constant reminder of their costly miscalculation.

With a somewhat stiff nod, Prya acknowledged the veiled admonishment and smoothly moved on to the next party. “It has been a while, Ms. Verma. How is business these days?”

The woman she addressed was striking—tall, with effortless poise. Her long, raven-black hair fell over her shoulders in silken waves, framing a face that carried the refined allure of maturity. Though her posture hinted at rigid discipline, her attire told an entirely different story.

She wore a masterpiece of fabric—ornate, vibrant, adorned with intricate frills and elaborate loops. It was about as practical as a bent spoon, but there was no denying its purpose. It was meant to be seen. And seen she was.

The woman’s lips curled into a motherly smile as she met Prya’s gaze. “Look at you, little girl. You can even meet my eyes now.” Though her words carried the unmistakable edge of mockery, there was a warmth in her tone that revealed it was more a playful tease than anything else—one reserved for someone who had known Prya for years.

Prya blushed slightly and raised a hand in protest. “Please, aunty, stop it. That was years ago.”

The woman’s laughter boomed through the room, echoing with a hearty, unrestrained belly laugh. It was far from the delicate giggles one might expect from a refined lady; it was bold and unapologetic. Her deep, velvety voice filled the hall, temporarily silencing everything around them. Only after she had her fill of amusement did her face regain a touch of seriousness.

“Business is good, little girl,” she said, her voice smoothing back into its usual steady cadence. “As it always has been. People will always need clothing, after all.”

Prya shook her head in disbelief. “From what I hear, your booming business has less to do with your latest line of underpants and more to do with that massive contract you landed for sails on warships.”

The mature woman raised an elegant hand, casually fanning her face as if she hadn’t the slightest idea what Prya was talking about. “Cloth is quite versatile, when used correctly,” she replied nonchalantly, her tone effortlessly dismissive.

Prya smiled at the perfectly diplomatic response, deciding not to push the matter any further. Instead, she turned her attention to the last participant of the meeting, the representative of the Gemkar family. However, before she could address him, the large door to the conference room swung open, and several figures entered.

A ripple of gasps swept through the gathered entourages as the light caught the newcomers. The source of their surprise was immediately apparent—these were not exactly "people."

Scales, fur, claws, horns, and hide marked the distinct features of those who entered. While Chimeroi were not uncommon in Korrovan, these figures were unlike any others typically seen, even here. The majority of Chimeroi had a human-like appearance, but the ones who walked through the door had more pronounced animalistic traits. Such individuals were often met with disdain, even on the surface, and were rarely welcomed in mixed company.

For many in the room, it was their first time seeing beings like these.

The attention of most was immediately drawn to a towering figure—a horned reptile who somehow managed to balance on two legs. Its presence alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd.

“What are these creatures doing here…?” the Bandhi representative hissed, his voice dripping with disdain as he made no effort to hide his disgust at the sight.

The reptilian figure fixed him with a predatory gaze, the sharpness of his eyes sending an unmistakable warning. A low growl rumbled in his throat, the sound primal and menacing. Despite the threat, the slaver didn’t flinch. Instead, his Mana surged in response, flaring in a defiant challenge.

“You dare growl at me, beast!?” the man sneered. “Do I need to remind you of your place before your betters?”

His words were not spoken lightly, and the Mana of an Archmage rippled from him, heavy and oppressive in the air. Though he was noticeably weaker than the old veteran, even a weak Archmage was a force to be reckoned with.

“I told you it was a mistake to invite these parasites into our city,” the reptilian man growled, though his words were clearly directed at his companions, not the gathered parties.

“That is hardly fitting behavior for a host, Elder Dragon,” another figure spoke up, stepping forward. His face was gaunt and covered in thick hair, his features more reminiscent of a primate than a human.

“I didn’t start—” Elder Dragon began, but his words faltered under the weight of the admonishing stare.

“It doesn’t matter who started it,” the hairy old man chided, his tone soft but firm. “Your behavior reflects on all of us—and on our city.”

The weight of his words immediately seized the attention of everyone present. The implication was clear, and it didn’t take long for the Bandhi representative to voice his disbelief.

“You!? You are the so-called council?” he sneered, his voice a mixture of mockery and incredulity. “This city is run by a bunch of animals?”

In the thick silence that followed, Elder Dragon pointed at the Bandhi representative, then turned toward their leader, a smug smirk tugging at the corners of his elongated maw. ‘See?’ his expression seemed to convey.

This time, however, even their leader was left speechless by the blatant disrespect. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger briefly breaking through his otherwise calm demeanor.

The Bandhi representative, however, remained completely unfazed by the growing tension in the room. Without so much as a pause, he shifted his attention to the other gathered representatives.

“I have a proposition,” he declared, his voice oozing with confidence. “Let’s do away with this so-called council once and for all. Afterward, the city can return to its previous state, and we won’t have to deal with any of this nonsense.”

His words plunged the hall into silence. For a moment, it was unclear whether the gathered parties were actually considering the proposition or simply too shocked to respond.

Before anyone could voice their opinion though, a new voice cut through the stillness.

It seemed to emanate from the very walls, echoing from every corner and crevice of the room, filling the space with an almost tangible presence. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakably pervasive, like a whisper that you couldn’t shut out no matter how hard you tried.

“I wouldn’t recommend that course of action…”

As the words hung in the air, every shadow in the room began to lengthen, stretching slowly toward a central point in the hall.

Moments later, the dark tendrils met, and from their intersection, a shadowy form began to materialize. It swiftly grew to the size of a human, its features becoming more defined with every passing second.

“Shadow Mage,” someone gasped. “…The rumors were true.”

In that moment, a human figure emerged from the intersecting darkness, dressed in a traditional suit. His smile was the epitome of a refined gentleman, radiating charm and poise. He stood at the center of the hall, his posture rigid and precise, as though he were a student striving to impress even the strictest dance instructor.

“Archmage,” Prya said, her expression shifting.

The man gave a curt bow to the gathered representatives before straightening, reasuming his perfect posture. “Welcome,” he said, his voice calm and formal. “My name is David, and it was I who invited you all here.”

B6 - Chapter 53: Chains of Influence

It seemed like you guys weren't fully against it, so I gave Sora another chance.

"That is quite the toy you have there."

Zeke’s eyes sharpened like blades. Who was this man? Had he been drawn by the power of the cube?

There was no ripple in the surrounding Mana, no sign of magic at work from the stranger. But that fact alone set every alarm in Zeke’s mind screaming. There was no way this intruder lacked Mana.

Which left only one explanation.

He was powerful beyond measure.

Zeke forced himself to swallow the instinct to attack. His body itched to strike first, but his mind knew better. Such a move would almost certainly mean his death. If this man intended harm, there was likely nothing he could do to stop it. Still, that didn’t mean he was without recourse.

He quietly reached out with his senses, searching for the distant pull of the beacon on Winter’s mountain. If it came to it, he would grab the cube and flee. Quite literally, abandon ship.

At first, it seemed cruel, but the best chance the crew had for survival was if this stranger's focus remained solely on Zeke. That was the only mercy he could hope to offer them.

But the plan failed before it even began.

Zeke’s eyes widened in alarm. There was nothing. Not even the faintest trace of his [Beacons]. Worse still, the space around him felt oppressively dense, too thick to pierce. His Sphere of Awareness had collapsed to the size of his own body, unable to extend even a hair's breadth beyond him.

It was as if...

"Domain," he breathed, his voice tight with horror as he stared at the man.

"Indeed," the stranger confirmed calmly. "You are inside my Domain."

"Who are you?" Zeke asked, surprisingly calmer now that he understood the futility of resistance. "I don’t recall offending an Exarch."

A flicker of confusion passed over the man’s face. Then his expression cleared with understanding. "Ah," he said, "you do not recognize this shell, so you fail to see me for who I am. My apologies."

"Recognize you? We have met before?"

"Indeed we have, child of blood."

Zeke’s mind immediately caught on to that peculiar form of address. There had only ever been one person who had called him that.

"Sheol?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Indeed, it is I," the man replied, giving Zeke a small nod of acknowledgment.

Zeke returned the gesture but kept his guard up. He didn’t let himself relax, not for a moment. There was no way this was a coincidence. The King of the Dead had come here, now, of all times, and Zeke highly doubted it was just a friendly visit. Especially since he had given strict orders for his men not to trespass into the Deadlands.

"...Surely, you haven’t come simply because I bypassed your lands with my magic?" Zeke asked cautiously.

Sheol looked almost insulted by the suggestion. "Who do you take me for, some highway bandit?"

Zeke wisely kept silent, offering no answer.

"I do not presume to lay claim to the space between dimensions," Sheol continued, shaking his head. "Nor do I feel wronged by those who choose to circumvent my lands to reach the Wilderness."

Zeke nodded slowly. It would have been absurd if that had truly been the reason for Sheol’s visit. Still, a part of him had hoped it was something so simple. "The cube, then?"

To his genuine surprise, Sheol shook his head once more. "A marvel, certainly," he admitted, his eyes flicking briefly to the artifact. "One that has few equals in this world... but not the reason I am here."

Zeke felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. It was as if an invisible pressure had been squeezing the breath from his lungs, and now, finally, he could breathe again. Somehow, the mere thought of losing the cube had felt as grave as if Sheol had come to claim a part of his very body.

Was that what it meant to be bonded at the Soul?

"What can I do for you, then?" Zeke asked, his tone curious.

Sheol shook his head. "It is not about what you can do for me, but what I can do for you. I have come with a warning and a gift."

Zeke frowned. "A warning? Am I in danger?"

Sheol’s lips curved into a slight smile. "Always. But that is not the kind of danger I speak of. You are at risk of walking into a trap."

"On my way home?" Zeke asked, narrowing his eyes.

"...At home," Sheol corrected.

Zeke paused, thinking it over. Only one possibility came to mind. "You speak of the hearing with the Merchant Council?"

Sheol inclined his head in confirmation.

Zeke’s mind raced. "I doubt anyone would dare try something under the king’s watchful eye. Would they?"

Sheol’s grin widened, sharp as a blade. "It is someone who has no reason to fear the king."

Now, that was a bold claim.

Zeke couldn’t think of a single person who did not fear the wrath of Merchant King Midas. With a flick of his pen, Midas could raise or ruin entire nations. His influence was absolute. In fact, the only person who might not fear him was...

"...the king himself?"

Sheol did not answer, but his grin spoke louder than any words.

Zeke shook his head in disbelief. "What reason would Midas have to trap me? There is nothing I own that he could not buy." His gaze drifted briefly to the cube. "...Or take by force," he added grimly.

Sheol shook his head slowly. "There is something."

Zeke fell silent, mind racing.

Something he possessed that Midas could neither purchase nor seize. Was that even possible?

Sheol chuckled, low and knowing. "You do not need to think so hard. You carry the answer on your body at this very moment."

Zeke's hand instinctively moved to his chest, feeling the outline of a folded letter beneath his clothes. He pulled it free and quickly scanned its contents.

“…This offer will remain valid until the day of your hearing. There is no need to send me a formal response. If you claim my support during the meeting, I will take it as your acceptance of my terms.”

His eyes narrowed as he recalled the conditions of that endorsement.

A permanent presence in Tradespire, and exclusive first purchasing rights to all of his future creations.

“He is after my knowledge? My labor? My potential?”

Sheol shrugged. “Maybe one, maybe all.”

“…Maybe none,” Zeke countered. “What makes you so certain of any of this?”

Sheol fixed him with a steady look. “Though I have not left the Deadlands in thousands of years, do not mistake that for blindness. My eyes, though old, see more than the Seers of Serevan. My ears catch whispers beyond what the Fleshwalkers of Valor hear. And my spies reach deeper than the Shadows of Equinox. There is no scheme on this continent that escapes my notice.”

Zeke’s gaze sharpened. “Do you also know what Augustus is planning?”

A teasing grin played across Sheol’s lips. “Naturally.”

“Will you tell me?”

Sheol shook his head, slow and deliberate.

“…Millions could die in his wars,” Zeke pressed, his voice tight. “The man must be stopped.”

Sheol’s expression hardened, the playful glint vanishing from his eyes. “If I wished to stop him, I would simply end his life.” His gaze turned sharp as a blade, piercing into Zeke. “…But it is not my place to decide who is right or wrong, just or unjust.” He leaned in slightly, his tone carrying the weight of ages. “Otherwise, I might judge that your existence is just as dangerous to the Continent as his, child of blood.”

Zeke swallowed hard. The threat could not have been clearer if Sheol had placed a blade to his throat.

"…I fear we have strayed from the topic at hand," the man continued, his tone once again casual and unhurried. "Midas demands your service, and I doubt he will accept no for an answer."

Zeke considered this for a moment, then, without hesitation, tore the letter of endorsement to pieces and let them fall like snow across the floor. "Then I will simply refuse his offer, if I fail to secure another endorsement."

"You won’t," Sheol replied with quiet certainty.

"I won’t what? Find a different endorsement, or refuse his offer?"

"Neither," Sheol said, leaning back slightly in the armchair, making the old wood creak beneath him. "Can you not see it? The timing, the urgency, the conditions placed upon you? It all fits too perfectly. He is driving you to scramble about, keeping you too busy to notice the blade hanging over your neck."

Zeke’s eyes narrowed. "What blade?"

Sheol gave a nonchalant shrug. "Who can say? Perhaps there will be sudden pressure to deliver you to the Empire, a pressure that can only be lifted if you join the council. Perhaps it will be something else entirely. The only thing that is certain is that you will find yourself desperate, desperate enough to be accepted at any cost."

He gestured to the torn fragments of the letter lying scattered on the floor. "Desperate enough to accept almost any condition."

Zeke's mind raced. He did not take Sheol’s words as absolute truth, but he had to admit they aligned uncomfortably well with his own suspicions. Ever since this ordeal had begun, he had felt it—a hand behind the curtain, moving the pieces unseen, shaping events to fit an unknown design.

Zeke began to pace, his thoughts spinning faster with every step. If Midas had truly set his sights on him, for whatever reason, the implications were staggering. Fleeing from Augustus Geistreich had been one thing; the empire had enemies aplenty, and it was possible to find shelter beyond its reach. But Midas? Midas was different.

There was likely not a single nation on the continent willing to offer him refuge if it meant drawing the ire of the Merchant King.

In many ways, Midas was the true power of the continent. Not through military might, but through influence, through wealth, through countless invisible chains woven between thrones and crowns. His power was soft, but it reached everywhere.

…And it would be strong enough to strangle him.

"Do I run?" Zeke asked aloud, the words slipping from his lips, more to himself than anyone else.

"No need," Sheol replied, his tone light, as if they were discussing nothing more than breakfast.

Zeke’s face twisted with frustration. This was his life they were talking about, the lives of his family, everything he had sacrificed for, planned for, fought for. Everything he was, and everything he hoped to become.

He scoffed. "I have no intention of joining your collection so soon, Death Mage."

Sheol rose from his seat, moving with a grace that seemed both effortless and inevitable. "There is no need for agitation, child of blood," he said calmly. "I did say I came bearing news... and a gift. Or did you truly think I would bother to cross the threshold of life and death just to mock a man with no future? That would be poor taste, even for me."

As he spoke, something shimmered into existence in his hand, solidifying from the air itself. Without haste, Sheol set the object down on the armchair he had just vacated.

"I trust this will aid you in what lies ahead," he said, giving Zeke a final nod. "Until we meet again."

And just like that, he was gone.

B6 - Chapter 52: Coming to Terms

For today's image, I've given the job to the new Sora Image creation tool. The prompt for it was also generated by OpenAI's chatGPT. Let me know what you think.

(Personal opinion? What have you done to Winter and Zeke!!)

Not far away, leaning casually against the crystalline wall of the chamber, stood Winter. The Progenitor looked so completely at home in this frozen environment that Zeke found himself wondering why the man had ever bothered with civilization at all. Compared to the meeting hall where they had first spoken, this setting seemed to suit him far better, as if it was an extension of himself.

"Greetings, Progenitor," Zeke said, making sure not to keep him waiting. Although Winter had always shown him a degree of goodwill, his presence alone was enough to make even the steadiest resolve waver.

Winter inclined his head slightly, his unreadable gaze fixed on Zeke. "Your return is sooner than expected. Has something happened in the human lands?"

Zeke gave a short nod. "There have been... complications."

Winter snorted. "There always are, with your kind. All the scheming and plotting instead of an honest fight. No good ever comes from it."

Zeke chose not to respond.

Combat, while effective, was far from the ultimate solution to every problem. At least, not for him. He still had a long way to go in that regard. Besides, arguing philosophy with the Progenitor was not why he had come.

"So?" Winter prompted. "What do you need?"

Zeke shook his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. Winter's readiness to assist him, even before hearing the details, was unexpected but certainly appreciated.

"I did not come to make my problems your burden."

Winter studied him for a long moment. "Then what brings you here?"

Zeke pulled his robes tighter, the chill in the cavern steadily gnawing at his endurance. "Is there any chance we could speak somewhere else?"

Winter shook his head firmly, leaving no room for debate. "I cannot abandon my watch."

Zeke's brow rose, his eyes drifting toward the depths of the cavern where a dense, icy mist hung in the air. Behind the layers of frost, he could just make out the silhouette of someone seated cross-legged, encased in what seemed like sheets of living ice.

"Is that... Snow?"

Winter nodded, a flicker of warmth breaking through his frosty expression. "You had best watch your back, little Dragon."

Zeke did not take those words lightly. Winter was not the sort to speak idly. If he claimed that Snow was catching up, then it was no empty warning. It meant the little girl was truly closing the gap between them.

That thought... it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

His gaze drifted around the cavern, and now, with greater focus, he noticed something he had overlooked at first. The chill in the air was not solely Winter’s doing. No, the freezing aura, so alike to Winter's own, emanated from deeper within the cave, from the place where Snow sat encased in mist and ice.

Intriguing.

"Is this what the snakes were after?" Zeke asked, referring to the true cause of the recent war.

Winter's expression turned grim. "Quite observant of you," he replied. "Go on, use your third eye to take a closer look."

"Third eye?"

"Whatever power it is you possess to see what should remain hidden."

Zeke gave a slight nod. He was not surprised that Winter had noticed his ability. He had never made a particular effort to conceal his Sphere of Awareness, and anyone paying close attention could likely tell he possessed some form of supernatural sight.

However, as he tried to extend his perception to encompass the cavern, he encountered something that had never happened before. It was not that his vision was blocked, as would happen with a magic-repelling item or a sealed area. No, this was something entirely different. It felt as though the center of the cavern did not merely resist his probe but outright rejected it, overriding his senses completely.

His best guess was that the Mana in that place was so pure, so absolute in its nature, that no other type could coexist with it. It was a domain of pure, unyielding ice, and not even his Spatial affinity could slip through the cracks.

"Fascinating," Zeke murmured to himself.

Winter gave a firm nod. "This is the true nature of Winter’s Heart. The treasure that made me who I am today, and the same one that will raise my girl to those very heights."

Zeke froze as the weight of those words sank in. His mind raced to grasp the full implications of what he had just learned. "It is an honor to be allowed here, Progenitor."

Winter shook his head, his gaze steady. "If you had wanted this treasure, you could have claimed it when I lay on my deathbed. I do not fear your greed."

"Just my knowledge of this place already puts you in danger."

Winter’s lips curled into a feral grin, sharp and wild. "Knowledge is knowledge, and power is power. If they dare to covet what is mine, let them come."

Zeke nodded slowly.

Who was he to worry about a being like Winter? The man had not survived for centuries by being a fool, and his confidence was well-earned. Few could match it, and those who could were not likely to take the risk.

"…That brings me to the reason I’ve come," he said after a short pause. "There is, in fact, something you possess that I do covet."

"You change your tune quickly, little dragon," Winter remarked.

Zeke shook his head. "I am not here to steal or beg. I seek to establish a trade."

Winter's brows drew together, faintly furrowed. "Speak plainly. What do you want?"

Zeke pointed downward, toward the heart of the mountain. "I desire the metal deposits within your mountain."

Winter’s expression stayed unreadable. "My people have already mined as much as they could reach. Surely, you do not expect me to go digging myself?"

A smirk tugged at Zeke’s lips at the image of Winter with a pickaxe in hand, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time for jokes.

"I will retrieve it myself."

"…Then you will need help refining the ore?"

"I have that covered."

"…Then you want my people to ensure its safe transport?"

"I will handle that as well."

Winter gave him an exasperated look. "Enough of this. Speak clearly. What is it you need from me?"

Zeke rifled through his pockets and produced a contract he had prepared in advance. "I need you to sign this."

Winter did not reach for it. "What does it say?"

"It establishes that you and I have come to an agreement regarding the amount and manner in which this trade will take place. Including my compensation—"

Winter waved him off. "Just take it, if you can. It is of no use to us."

Zeke shook his head, holding up the contract. "You don’t understand. I’m not after the metal. I’m after this."

Winter gave him a look as though he had lost his mind. "You are after that piece of paper, the one you brought yourself."

Zeke nodded, a broad grin spreading across his face. "With your signature on it, if you please."

Winter’s frown deepened. "Human foolishness knows no bounds," he muttered, finally extending his hand toward the contract. "Give it here."

Zeke did so without hesitation. As he briefly wondered how Winter intended to sign it, the Progenitor casually dragged his fingertip across one of his sharp canines, splitting the skin. A single drop of blood welled up and fell onto the parchment.

The moment the blood touched the paper, frost began to spread rapidly across it. But Winter pressed his finger down firmly, halting the advance of the ice.

"There. It is done."

Zeke took the contract back, his expression grave. It wasn’t just the unusual method of signing that weighed on him, but the sheer presence radiating from the document itself. Holding it felt like cradling a royal decree, its authority pressing against his senses.

He had originally planned to send the contract straight to his vault in Tradespire through spatial transfer, but now he reconsidered. If anyone happened to inspect it, they might freeze on the spot, overwhelmed by the lingering aura.

That was the power of a Progenitor. Even a single drop of his blood could kill an ordinary human just by being near it.

"You don't intend to read it?" Zeke asked, trying to ease the tension.

Winter gave him an amused look. "What for? Even if you tricked me, do you have the strength to take what I am unwilling to give?" His expression hardened, his gaze sharp as ice. "Let me give you some advice, little Dragon. Do not place your faith in the ways of humans. Words on paper cannot protect you…" He tapped the side of his head. "This can." Then, he lowered his hand to press against his chest. "…And this." Finally, he raised his arm and flexed his bicep. "…And that."

A moment of silence descended as Winter relaxed back into his seat.

"That is all," he declared with certainty. "The rest will fail you when you need it most. Remember that."

Zeke nodded sincerely. The longer he navigated the circle of the powerful, the more he realized this hidden truth. Rules, laws, and agreements were nothing but playthings to be broken when the circumstances made it inconvenient to honor them.

"I do not partake in these customs because I believe they will shield me from my enemies or force them to their knees," Zeke said at last.

Winter’s expression did not shift, but Zeke could tell the Progenitor was listening with sharp attention.

"I follow them to conceal my true motives."

Winter’s gaze narrowed slightly, a glimmer of interest flickering in his icy eyes.

"Explain."

Zeke adjusted the contract in his hands, feeling the cold from Winter’s blood still seeping through the parchment. He did not rush. He let the weight of the moment settle, knowing Winter valued clarity over haste.

"Paper and ink mean little," he began. "But they are not meant for me. They are traps laid in plain sight. In the courts of men, where blades are sheathed and battles are waged with words, a signature can reveal more than the sharpest sword."

He held up the contract between two fingers, letting Winter see the frost still clinging to its edges. "The strong have no need for these games. You do not. But the ones who thrive in shadows, the cowards who cling to titles and laws, they live and die by these scraps of parchment. When they sign, or refuse to, they show their hand."

Winter's face remained unreadable, but Zeke felt a current of approval beneath the stillness, like the undercurrents beneath a frozen lake.

"I follow these customs not to bind myself," Zeke continued, his voice steady, "but to better see the chains wrapped around others, and who holds them. Every agreement, every false promise, every contract signed in blood or fear tells a story. It leaves a trail."

A small, knowing smile curved his lips as he tapped the side of his head, echoing Winter’s earlier gesture. "And when the time comes, I will know where to strike, against whom, and how."

From deep within Winter’s chest came a sound like the grinding of glaciers. It could have been laughter or the echo of ancient power stirring.

"Hah… so you do play their game," Winter said at last, his eyes gleaming like frozen steel. "But only to better tear it apart."

Zeke inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy as a mountain. Then, Winter’s lips curved into a thin, fierce grin.

"Good," he said. "Good. So long as you remember that, little Dragon, you will not lose your fangs."

With a simple flick of his hand, he gestured toward the exit, as if dismissing a storm he had grown tired of watching.

"Go then. Hunt your prey. We will speak again."

Zeke turned, carefully folding the signed contract. He could still feel Winter’s gaze lingering on his back as he left the chamber.

A self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips as he stepped outside. So much for avoiding philosophical debates. Somehow, the Progenitor always managed to draw that side out of him, no matter his intentions.

With that thought, Zeke vanished from the mountain, leaving the Wilderness behind only hours after his arrival.

It had been a short visit, but a fruitful one. He had achieved everything he came for. Now, all that remained was the return trip to Tradespire.

His journey through space ended in the blink of an eye, and a heartbeat later, he stood once more in his personal domain within the cube.

Time to go home.

But as he stepped through the portal and back onto the Alexandria, he immediately sensed that something was wrong.

His eyes narrowed as he slowly turned his head toward the armchair in the corner of the room. There, seated with unsettling ease, was an unfamiliar man, calmly observing him.

B6 - Chapter 51: Return to the Wilderness

Over the next few days, Zeke continued to meditate on the nature of spatial mana by challenging the boundaries of the cube even further.

His recent success had only deepened his determination to explore the mysteries of space. Unfortunately, focused meditation was not something he could maintain for extended periods. The mental toll was simply too heavy, forcing him to take frequent breaks.

Fortunately, there were plenty of other tasks to keep him occupied. For example…

With his small world now steadily expanding, it was time to test the true limits of his control over the space. His first instinct was to try conjuring valuable metals like gold or Voidiron—not in their refined forms, but as they naturally occurred.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

Nor did any of his attempts to summon other precious resources, or even the rare species of trees whose wood he regularly purchased from the elves.

The discovery puzzled him. How could he summon an entire landscape, complete with flora and fauna, drawn straight from memory, yet be unable to produce the very materials he truly desired?

It seemed arbitrary. However, after extensive experimentation, he finally uncovered the common denominator.

Mana.

All of those materials had one thing in common—they were magical in nature.

The reason elven trees didn’t thrive outside their homeland was likely due to the unique aura of the World Tree, Yggdrasil, which nurtured them. As for Voidiron, it could only be mined from the deepest layers of the earth, where ancient, overwhelming magical forces had transformed it into a substance that outright rejected the flow of Mana.

Even gold, as common as it was, held value beyond its shine. Its exceptional Mana conductivity made it essential in the creation of enchanted devices.

The discovery was a bit of a letdown for Zeke, though he admitted he had likely been too greedy to hope the cube's realm could produce limitless wealth on demand.

If such a treasure truly existed, its Mana consumption would likely be so immense that not even Archmage-level figures could sustain it. After all, the cost of conjuring materials varied greatly depending on their properties.

Metal Mages, for instance, could summon iron and steel from thin air, but the difference in Mana consumption often forced them to favor the softer metal. There was even a theory that they could, in theory, summon magical materials too—if only someone existed with enough power to endure the burden.

Zeke wasn’t sure if the theory was true, but it would certainly explain why the cube's conjurations were limited to mundane substances.

[Notice]

Another enemy was spotted just now.

Zeke stepped out of the portal and teleported onto the deck.

He appeared at the bow of the ship, his eyes scanning the horizon with calm precision. In the distance, he spotted movement—a flock approaching fast. Narrowing his gaze, he quickly identified the threat: three massive birds, their wings gleaming with a metallic sheen.

Without another word, he vanished, reappearing in his quarters.

Let them earn their keep for once.

If he took care of every minor threat, the crew would only grow complacent. Besides, the birds didn’t seem particularly dangerous, and with feathers like that, their bodies might fetch a decent price.

Just like that, days passed, and everyone settled into a comfortable rhythm. Zeke only stepped in when the situation truly demanded it. He refrained from using his newly discovered spell.

For one, he didn’t want to waste any more of his highly condensed blood. More importantly, the technique left him utterly drained. It was powerful, yes, but not sustainable. He would avoid relying on it unless absolutely necessary.

Instead, he relied on his blood puppeteering, turning beasts against one another. Their minds were far easier to shatter than those of humanoids, and the resulting chaos often reduced deadly encounters to simple cleanups for the crew.

At dawn on the fifth day, they finally reached their destination.

The forest came to an abrupt halt, as if an invisible giant had carved a line into the earth. Lush greenery gave way to an endless stretch of blackened sand.

The Deadlands.

Zeke ordered the ship to stop before they crossed the boundary. He knew full well that Airships were forbidden from entering this stretch of land. It was one of the main reasons the Wilderness remained isolated from the rest of the Continent.

But Zeke didn’t need the Alexandria to get across.

Standing at his usual spot on the bow, he closed his eyes and extended his senses. It felt like straining to hear a sound only he could perceive.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then, he found it.

A wide smile spread across his face as he locked onto the distant presence of the [Beacon] he had left behind in his cave on Winter’s Mountain.

He turned to the captain. "I’ll be back as soon as I can. Please don’t stray too far from this spot."

The captain nodded, though a deep furrow creased his brow. "How do you plan to return, young lord?"

It was a fair question. [Beacons] couldn’t be placed just anywhere. They needed to be anchored to something solid and stationary. Airships, or empty sky, were unsuitable targets. While Zeke could teleport to the mountain, he couldn’t return the same way.

Originally, he had planned to set up a temporary [Beacon] somewhere in the forest nearby. But that was no longer necessary. He had already created one inside the strange world of the cube. And as long as the portal remained open, he could sense it as if that space was part of this world.

The realization still amazed him.

Still, leaving the cube behind made him uneasy. But it was either that or closing the portal entirely, and he didn’t want to do that. Not yet. There was still the return trip to consider, and he had no desire to waste time replenishing the cube’s energy just to reopen it again.

"Don’t worry," he said, flashing the captain a confident smile. "I have my ways. And please, make sure no one enters my chambers while I’m gone."

With that final instruction, Zeke locked onto the distant sensation of the beacon and vanished from sight. Even the act of folding space around himself and linking to the remote location felt smoother than ever before.

His recent insights into the laws of space seemed to enhance every aspect of his magic, not just the strange, instinctive casting he had discovered. It made sense. The understanding he had gained was foundational, touching the very principles that governed spatial manipulation. Naturally, anything tied to those laws would be improved as well.

In the next instant, Zeke appeared in a familiar room surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Judging by their white hair, sharp teeth, and wolfish features, they were clearly members of the Icefang tribe.

To prevent any misunderstandings, Zeke ripped off his amulet and unleashed the full weight of his draconic aura.

Every single tribesman froze in place, too stunned to move.

"Call Ashen Wolf, please," he said calmly into the sudden silence. When no one responded, he added sharply, "Now."

That got them moving. Within moments, Ash emerged from one of the rooms in the complex.

"Master!"

"Good to see you, Ash," Zeke replied with a grin.

"How come you're here? I thought it would be years before you returned. It's only been, what, a month?"

Zeke sighed. "That was the plan. But you know how plans tend to go."

Ash chuckled, his concern giving way to amusement. "So, what brought you back, Master? Here to visit your fiancée?"

Zeke frowned. "What fiancée?"

"No point playing coy," Ash said with a teasing smirk. "The whole tribe knows about your engagement to Lady Snow."

Silence.

"…You are engaged to Lady Snow, right?"

Zeke sighed. "Let's not talk about that right now. I'm here to see Winter. But first, tell me how the others are doing. Where are Gravitas and Vulcanos? I can't sense them nearby."

Ash nodded. "Gravitas took that group of fanatics you left her with on a little trip."

"...And Vulcanos?"

"She brought him along too," Ash said. "Actually, I think he's the reason for the trip. I'm not too clear on the details, but apparently, it involves a burning mountain and throwing Vulcanos into it." Ash rubbed his temple. "I stopped asking questions after that."

"...You’ve had it rough," Zeke muttered after a brief pause.

"If only you knew, Master," Ash said, letting out a long sigh. "Sometimes, it feels like I'm the only sane one surrounded by lunatics."

"Welcome to the joys of leadership," Zeke said with a grin, taking more pleasure in Ash’s complaints than he cared to admit.

"What about Winter? Is he around?"

Ash gave him a flat look. "You think the big boss shares his schedule with me?"

"...Maybe?"

Ash shook his head. "I'm glad he doesn't. Just thinking about that monster makes my knees go weak. How you can stand being in the same room with him, I’ll never understand."

Zeke smirked. "The trick is having a bigger monster on your side."

Ash rolled his eyes, already turning toward the other room where business likely awaited. "If you want to see Winter, you’ll have to head to the Sanctum yourself."

Zeke nodded, realizing he was in the way. "It was good seeing you, Ash," he said sincerely. "I probably won’t stop by again before I leave."

Ash paused, his expression dimming. "You're in that much of a hurry?"

Zeke nodded. "Every second counts."

It wasn’t a lie. After finalizing the contract with Winter, he still needed to secure the endorsement of a royal. He couldn’t afford to be delayed here any longer than absolutely necessary.

"...It was good seeing you too, Master," Ash said, offering his wrist.

Zeke clasped it before turning and heading out of the headquarters.

He chose not to teleport into the Sanctum, out of respect for the tribe’s customs. Now that the war had ended and order was restored, it felt wrong to act as he pleased.

Thankfully, no one tried to stop him. In fact, many of the tribesmen he passed greeted him with deference. Zeke liked to think it was due to his Draconic aura or his role in the war, but his instincts told him that the real reason had more to do with being Snow’s supposed fiancé.

He shook the thought away as he entered Winter’s Heart.

Following the directions given by helpful tribesmen along the way, he soon found himself in a part of the mountain he didn’t recognize. But the growing chill in the air was unmistakable.

The aura of frigid cold intensified with every step.

Eventually, he arrived at a vast chamber, guarded by no fewer than a dozen elite warriors, each one radiating power on par with Ash.

What was this place?

Zeke stepped inside—and was immediately overwhelmed. Even his body, tempered by Frostscale poison and draconic blood, nearly buckled under the freezing pressure.

"Welcome back, brat," said a voice he recognized instantly.

B6 - Chapter 50: Piercing the Boundry

For the next few days, Zeke fell into a cycle of rest and meditation. Each time he pushed the boundaries of his personal domain within the cube, he could feel the limits within his mind loosening as well.

The progress was tangible, driving him to push even harder. He could sense it, taste it, feel it. He was on the verge of grasping something—an essential principle of spatial manipulation just beyond his reach.

Just a little more, and it would be his. Or so he thought.

However, no matter how hard he pressed, no matter how desperately he reached for it, the knowledge remained elusive. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue, infinitely close yet forever out of reach.

It was maddening.

Waking from another short nap, Zeke stretched in his seat, his gaze drifting away from the portal for once. Instead, he looked out the windows of his cabin, where an endless sea of green stretched beneath them.

Over the past few days, the Alexandria had finally reached the border of the Irroch Jungle, soaring high above its towering canopy.

Zeke scanned the trees warily.

Among everyone on board, he was likely the most familiar with the dangers lurking below. Beasts of legend roamed these woods, and if his memories from the Dreamwaker brew and his encounter with Thea had taught him anything, it was that even dragons and titans could be found here.

...But surely, his luck wouldn't be that bad.

Zeke frowned. Did he really have to tempt fate like that?

Well, if it came down to it, he would deal with it. After all, his last encounter with a Titan had been surprisingly pleasant. Who knew? Maybe it would turn out to be another stroke of luck.

Somewhat reassured, he turned back toward the portal, ready to continue his experiments. However, before he could take a single step, Akasha's voice echoed in his mind.

[Notice.]

There is a disturbance among the sailors. They seem troubled by something.

"Can you sense what it is?"

[Answer.]

Negative. It is beyond my perception, and from their conversation, they do not seem to know either.

"Any chance its Dragons or Titans?" Zeke asked, just to make sure he hadn't actually cursed them.

[Answer.]

Unlikely. However, I suggest Host investigate immediately.

With a reluctant sigh, Zeke tore his gaze from the portal and focused on a spot on the ship’s deck. In the blink of an eye, he appeared beside the captain.

The man whirled around, visibly tense, but relaxed the moment he recognized Zeke.

"Report, young lord," he said with a crisp salute. "We have spotted a dark shape approaching from the east."

"...Any chance it's just a cloud?" Zeke asked hopefully.

The captain shook his head. "Moving too fast for that... and against the wind," he added after a brief pause.

Zeke nodded and stepped toward the railing for a better look. It didn’t take long to spot the source of the sailors' concern—a dark mass closing in on them, traveling at their altitude with considerable speed. But the most unsettling part? It was heading straight for them.

It seemed... deliberate. Still, better to be sure.

"…Lower our speed," Zeke ordered, keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching shape. If it was actually targeting them, the course adjustment would make it veer off track—unless...

His expression hardened as the formless cloud shifted ever so slightly, correcting its path to stay locked onto them.

"Full speed ahead!" he ordered without hesitation. No point in making it easy for their pursuer. A moment later, the ship lurched beneath him as its enchantments surged to their limit.

But Zeke's focus never wavered. His eyes remained locked on the approaching mass. He leaned forward, concentrating on one particular spot. Then, his pupils narrowed into fine slits, and his vision sharpened.

Now, he could see them clearly. It wasn’t a single massive attacker pursuing them but thousands of smaller ones, flying so closely together that they had appeared as one from a distance.

The creatures were bizarre—resembling oversized insects with powerful legs and unnaturally large wings. Their sharp mandibles were not built for nibbling on leaves but for tearing through flesh. Individually, they were likely no threat to him or his crew. But thousands of them?

Even if Zeke could protect himself, the others would be slaughtered in the onslaught. His expression hardened as he expanded his vision again, taking in the full extent of the swarm. He needed to act before it reached the ship, that much was certain.

They were still beyond reach, but as soon as—

Huh?

Zeke paused. The thought irritated him. No, more than that—it offended him. It felt like a thorn in his side, a hidden barb lodged deep in his mind.

Out of reach? Out of reach from whom? Him?

How could anything within his line of sight possibly be out of reach? It was right there, wasn’t it? If he willed it, he could simply extend his hand and...

Without fully realizing what he was doing, Zeke raised a hand and struck out. There was nothing before him, yet instead of hitting empty air, his fist connected with something solid. The sensation was unmistakable—chitin, tough but brittle. His prodigious strength tore through it effortlessly, piercing something much softer beneath.

What... had just happened?

Zeke looked down at his outstretched hand, now coated in deep purple liquid. His gaze snapped to the distant swarm. Near its center, he spotted one of the creatures plummeting from the sky.

He focused, his enhanced vision sharpening. The insect’s shell was shattered, its insides reduced to pulp. It was dead.

Zeke turned his attention back to his fist, still slick with the creature’s blood. He didn’t understand how he had done that. This wasn’t magic. No Spellform had been cast, no Intent imbued, no Will infused. Yet somehow, he had reached through space to kill the creature.

For the first time, he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. He had acted on feeling, on instinct, on that nagging sensation in the back of his mind. And it had worked. The principle behind his success? He couldn’t even begin to put it into words. But one thing was clear—he could still vividly remember the sensation.

His eyes narrowed, and his heart began to race. He was unwilling to let this feeling go. He needed to act quickly if he wanted to capture it fully.

[Notice.]

Does Host need my assistance?

“I got it, Akasha,” Zeke mumbled, his mind already working on the best way to apply the principle he had just begun to grasp.

It was an impossible task.

The more he tried to define it, to understand it, the more it seemed to slip from his grasp. Zeke gave up. There was no point in trying to force himself to understand something that his mind simply couldn’t comprehend.

He could sense it, and that would have to be enough.

Zeke focused all his attention on a single drop of blood forming at the tip of his finger. He compressed it, then compressed it further, until what had started as a drop was now the equivalent of a bucket's worth of liquid.

Next, he infused that feeling, that sensation, that principle of space into the blood. How it worked, he couldn’t explain, but his senses told him it would. The moment he seeded that idea into the drop, he felt his Core stir. It came to life like a carriage wheel suddenly pushed down a steep hill.

There was no stopping it now.

A profound tiredness gripped him as the mana left him. He felt like a dam that had been broken, completely unable to stop the flow. He could feel the strain on his Core, signaling that he was close to failure. But there was nothing he could do. Even if the drain tore his Core apart, he couldn’t stop it.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Before he was completely spent, the drain ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

Zeke’s attention snapped to the drop of blood on his fingertip. It seemed completely unchanged. But Zeke wasn’t fooled. That amount of magic couldn’t have just disappeared without leaving a trace. More importantly, he could sense the change in the blood. It had been altered in a way he couldn’t describe but instinctively understood to be profound.

Zeke smiled at the tiny, marble of blood.

"Let’s see what you can do, little friend."

It was time to find out if he had been right to trust this sensation.

With a small effort of will, he commanded the drop to change form, elongating until it became a fine needle. It almost looked like a claw as it extended from the top of his finger.

Zeke extended his hand, curling all his fingers except one. Now, only his index finger, adorned with the thin red claw, pointed toward the approaching cloud of insects.

He paused. It wouldn’t do to waste this much effort on a single attack, would it?

Definitely not, unless it could completely shift the flow of battle. So, before he released his attack, he decided to incorporate something he had been wanting to try in his spells for a while.

Will.

It was the hallmark of a Grandmage.

He had first encountered it when facing the enemy Progenitor, whose poison had a Will of its own, turning it into a creature that seemed almost sentient. Zeke had no illusion that he could do something similar, but a simple command? That much he could manage.

In his mind, he formed a perfect image of one of the insects approaching them. Then, he pictured a thin red needle piercing its head. That had to be enough.

He focused on that image, solidifying it as much as he could before using it in his spell. As he did so, he felt the seedlings inside him stir, helping him infuse his Will. It was a strange sensation, but he immediately knew when it had worked.

The idea had taken hold. How it would manifest remained to be seen.

With his preparations complete, Zeke pushed his finger forward, and the needle... simply disappeared.

He stood there, dumbfounded, unable to understand what had happened. He couldn’t feel it anywhere; his link to it was completely shattered. It was as if the spell had failed at the last moment, but that was impossible. If so, where had all his blood gone?

“Look!” someone screamed next to him.

The man was pointing east, straight at the cloud.

Zeke followed his finger, and his eyes widened.

There, in the distance, the cloud was... thinning?

Zeke strained his eyes, taking a closer look. What he found shocked him even more. The cloud wasn’t thinning—it was losing insects at an insane speed. Dozens were dying every second, suddenly falling without any visible sign of injury. At least, none that a casual observer could notice.

However, he could see it clearly. It was a very fine puncture wound to their skulls, like the one he had instructed his needle to cause.

However, there was no trace of the spell. Moreover, the insects that fell were not at all close to each other. In one second, the needle struck at ten different places spread across the swarm, as if distance meant nothing to it.

Zeke’s eyes widened at the realization.

With a mixture of horrified wonder, he continued to watch his spell decimate the swarm. At one point, the insects even tried to flee, but the needle was relentless. It had been given a mission, and it would continue until that mission was finished or its magic was spent.

Less than five minutes.

That was all it took for the needle to kill every single insect in the swarm. As the last body fell, the spell ceased. Zeke hadn’t instructed the blood to return, but he was fine with the loss.

His eyes remained fixed on the spot where the swarm had been only minutes earlier. This spell had been the first collaboration of his Blood magic and space, and the effects were far more devastating than he could have imagined.

B6 - Chapter 49: Expansion

Zeke shook his head, trying to fully wake himself. Yet, for a while, his eyes refused to focus. The space in front of him, around him—everything felt surreal.

It took several minutes before his senses adjusted, allowing him to perceive the world in a way that felt familiar again.

That had been strange.

But the reason was obvious.

His gaze shifted to the portal leading into this strange world, then to the cube resting beyond it, securely placed on the wooden floor of his room in the Alexandria.

A small smile tugged at his lips. "It seems something amazing has fallen into my hands this time."

In his attempt to push against the boundaries of space, Zeke had discovered something unexpected. Unlike the real world, where space was a rigid, unyielding force, here, it was far more... malleable.

Not in the way that dough is soft and pliable, but in the way numbers and equations gain meaning in the hands of a skilled mathematician. This world was a playground for those who possessed the knowledge to shape it.

Unfortunately, Zeke did not have that knowledge, a fact that had become painfully clear through his nights of effort. But that was fine. As it turned out, the boundaries of the cube were not just a test, but something more.

They did not simply measure his understanding; they expanded it. They were both an exam and a lesson, a challenge that could be attempted as many times as needed. A door that, with enough time and effort, could be pushed ever further.

Zeke willed the world around him to bend to his command, a surge of excitement bubbling up inside him. Instantly, the furrows marking the boundaries of his domain were joined by a second set of lines, roughly a step further out in every direction.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Not bad."

These were the fruits of his labor, the result of an entire night spent in relentless effort. Some might call it a pitiful gain compared to the time invested, but Zeke was not among them. He looked upon his accomplishment with pride.

The extra step of space itself meant little in practical terms—just a minor increase in storage within his personal domain. But that was not what excited him. No, what truly mattered was what this expansion represented.

It was proof of his growing understanding of Space itself.

Zeke glanced fondly at the place where the invisible walls once stood. What had once been a source of frustration now felt like an opportunity—an open door to something greater.

He still did not fully understand what this knowledge would grant him, how it would shape his magic, or in what ways it would strengthen him. Yet, he was certain of one thing: the insights he had gained over the past few hours were more profound than everything he had ever learned about Spatial Magic combined.

This went beyond spells, beyond the simple cantrips and incantations that humans relied on to wield magic. It was something deeper, something raw and fundamental. A truth woven into the very fabric of existence.

It was not the difference between a novice and a master but something far greater. As if, instead of merely learning to draw, he was learning to shape dreams into reality through sheer force of will. A step so far beyond the trivial tricks of modern magic that the two could scarcely be compared.

…He was getting ahead of himself.

At this moment, all Zeke had truly grasped was the outermost edge of the cube’s mysteries. Just enough to understand how truly vast and incomprehensible its knowledge was, yet nowhere near enough to wield it.

Not yet, at least.

For now, it was time to return to reality and address the more practical matters at hand. As much as he wanted to lose himself in the mysteries of this space, to immerse himself completely in its secrets, that was a luxury he could not afford.

He did not have the centuries it would take to unravel these truths. And even if he did, someone would eventually come for him. Someone stronger, someone ruthless, someone who would pry this treasure from his cold, dead hands.

No. If he wanted to keep the cube, he could not remain as weak as he was now.

His strength, his position, his very existence had to rise to match the artifact in his possession. Otherwise, even the Soul Bond would not be enough to protect it. After all, there was one simple way to sever such a bond—his death.

Zeke turned his focus back to the boundary, gauging his progress.

"About a step, huh?"

The space within the cube was roughly the size of an average room in the Alexandria, large enough to store a few tons of ore if needed. But that was hardly a meaningful advantage for him. He had plenty of rooms.

However…

His gaze drifted beyond, tracing the distant hills. If he could one day expand the boundaries that far, the possibilities would be endless.

Heck, he could dominate the continent’s trade, transporting a nation's worth of resources at will. And that was one of the more restrained ideas racing through his mind. But before he could entertain such grand ambitions, he needed to confirm whether the cube truly functioned the way he imagined.

It was time for another round of experiments.

For the first time in hours, Zeke stepped through the portal, returning to the Alexandria. As before, he felt no resistance, no fluctuations, nothing to indicate he had crossed between two worlds. It was as seamless as stepping from one room into another.

His eyes landed on an object atop Maximilian’s desk—a simple trinket, likely something to fidget with in idle moments. It was an intricate assembly of interlocking components, designed purely to engage the hands and mind.

Perfect. It would serve as the ideal test.

Without hesitation, Zeke picked it up and stepped back through the portal.

The transition was effortless. The trinket passed through without issue, unchanged by the shift from one reality to another.

Curious, he turned the crank. At once, the gears whirred to life, clicking and shifting in perfect harmony. It worked just as it had before.

Zeke couldn't help but smile, a small thrill of success rushing through him. But honestly, he had expected nothing less. His clothing had made the journey both ways without issue, so a slightly more complex object should have been no different.

And it wasn't.

But that was just the beginning. If he could bring something in, why not test bringing something out?

His hands moved toward the nearby stream. He cupped a handful of water and stepped back through the portal.

No resistance. No disruption. The water passed effortlessly from the cube to the outside world, dripping down his arm as he stared at it in disbelief.

Zeke brought it to his lips and drank. Fresh, cold—exactly as it had been inside the portal. The realization was almost surreal.

It meant that everything inside the portal was real. The water, the plants, the mountains, the trees—how was that possible?

The scene had been conjured from his memories, a place he had visited long ago. And yet, somehow, it had become reality again. Would understanding the cube’s mysteries eventually reveal the answer?

Zeke couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling it would.

For now, though, there was no point in dwelling on what he couldn't yet grasp. A more immediate question demanded his attention. He needed to see if the cube could handle something more complex—something alive.

His mind raced through possibilities before settling on a simple choice: a plant. A living organism, small yet not insignificant. His gaze landed on a beautiful flower growing not too far away from the portal, its delicate petals drooping under the weight of its roots.

Carefully, he uprooted it, cradling the fragile thing in his hands as he approached the portal.

The moment the flower passed through the threshold, Zeke held his breath.

It didn’t falter. The plant, dirt and all, emerged into the world outside. No illusion, no trick of the mind. It was real—alive.

He stood there for a moment, letting the enormity of the discovery sink in.

It had worked. It had actually worked.

Once again, he had uncovered another layer of the artifact’s power. Not only could it bend space, but it could also transport things through it seamlessly—from one place to another. Even living things.

And as far as he could tell, there was no limit to this function.

He felt no strain, no drain of energy. Nothing. It seemed as if the only effort required was in opening the portal itself. Once that was done, it simply remained, like a natural part of the world. It wasn’t something that needed constant magic to sustain—just as a door didn’t need strength to keep it open once it had been pushed.

Curious about one more thing, Zeke nudged the cube with his foot, eyes fixed on the portal.

As the cube scraped against the wooden floor, the portal shifted with it, maintaining a constant distance from the artifact that had created it.

How fitting.

The thought struck him out of nowhere, but the longer he considered it, the more sense it made. The artifact was called the World Anchor. And indeed, it seemed to anchor an entire world in place, fixing its entrance to a single location.

There was something more, though. The moment Zeke touched the cube, he felt it—his connection to it, his control. With a single thought, he could close the portal, make it vanish as if it had never existed.

He didn’t.

There was still too much to learn, and he wasn’t sure if he could reopen it once closed. He had felt how much energy it took to activate the portal when the cube was depleted—an amount that would take him weeks to restore with his current strength.

No. He would leave it open for now.

His gaze shifted to the flower in his hands, then to the window where the soft light of dawn filtered in. The pant was fragile but alive, and it had crossed the threshold of the cube without issue.

Just to be sure, Zeke placed the flower in a pot and set it on the windowsill. He would watch it closely, ensure it thrived in the world outside. Only then would he dare to test the cube’s limits further—perhaps with something bigger, something more complex.

For now, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. He had uncovered something monumental—an artifact that could reshape reality itself. And he was only beginning to grasp its true potential.

As he leaned back in his chair, the flower beside him, his mind raced with possibilities. What else could the cube do? What other secrets lay hidden within?

For now, he let the warmth of the sunlight wash over him, letting the excitement settle. He had only scratched the surface. The world, it seemed, was about to open up in ways he had never imagined.

B6 - Chapter 48: Brand new world

One moment, Zeke was immersed in the spiritual plane, pushing against the immovable will of the cube. The next, he found himself staring at the dim glow of the artifact resting in his hands.

His breath came in short, uneven bursts, and a deep, lingering fatigue settled into his bones. What had just happened had drained him—not just physically, but on a level he couldn’t quite define.

Wait… dim glow? Then, he felt it.

A presence—faint yet undeniable—lingering at the edges of his awareness. It was not a voice, nor a thought, but something deeper. A connection.

It was subtle, like an unseen thread woven into the core of his being, binding him to the cube in a way he had never experienced before.

Slowly, he turned it over in his hands, his fingers tracing the intricate etchings along its surface. No longer did it feel cold and unyielding, an inscrutable puzzle meant to keep him at bay. Instead, it pulsed softly—almost imperceptibly—as if responding to his touch.

For the first time since acquiring the artifact, it was no longer an unresponsive enigma, repelling his every attempt to decipher its secrets. More than that—it seemed to be... listening. That was the only way he could describe the strange sensation.

Zeke forced himself to stay calm. Rushing in blindly had brought nothing but frustration before. This time, he needed to proceed with caution.

"Alright," he murmured, steadying his thoughts. "Let’s see what you can do."

He reached out with his mana.

Unlike before, there was no battle of wills, no cold defiance from the artifact. The connection between them had solidified. The moment he willed it, something deep within the cube responded.

A trigger had been pulled. Yet, instead of panic, Zeke felt an overwhelming sense of rightness. It wasn’t an attack, nor a trap—it was an invitation.

He chose to trust it.

A ripple of energy surged through him, foreign yet strangely familiar, as if it had been waiting for him all along.

Then, space warped.

Waves upon waves of spatial mana erupted from the cube—more than he had ever put into it, more than he had ever had to begin with. It was as if an ocean had been compressed within the artifact, now unleashed in a flood of raw power. At least ten times his entire mana reservoir surged outward, gathering into an intricate formation above the pool.

The air itself twisted, bending in ways that defied natural law. A deep hum resonated through the chamber, vibrating in his very bones. Then, with a final pulse of energy, reality tore open.

Before him, a portal materialized. Light and shadow swirled at its edges, an impossibly intricate weave of spatial magic unlike anything he had ever encountered.

Zeke barely had time to process the sheer scale of what he was witnessing. This wasn’t some crude teleportation circle or the structured gateway spells he was familiar with. No—this was space itself, bent and reshaped with effortless mastery. It was a level of magic that should have been beyond reach.

His heart pounded. If the cube could do this, then he had only begun to scratch the surface of its true potential.

Taking a steadying breath, he stepped forward and crossed the threshold.

The transition was seamless. No sudden lurch, no disorienting shift. One moment, he stood in his chamber; the next, he was somewhere else entirely.

A boundless expanse of white stretched in every direction, infinite and featureless, like a blank canvas awaiting its first brushstroke.

Zeke turned back. The portal remained open behind him, revealing the chamber of the Alexandria as if through a perfect window. Beyond that, he could even see the world outside, still moving past as the ship sailed on.

The view was surreal—his physical world framed like a mere picture in the vast nothingness of this space.

Other than the portal itself, there was nothing here. No walls, no floor, no sky—only an endless void of soft, glowing white. A weaker mind might have crumbled under the sheer strangeness of it all.

But Zeke was more impressed than frightened.

“A stable portal,” he murmured, experimentally pushing his hand through the threshold before retracting it.

This shouldn’t be possible. Every book he had ever read on Space Magic insisted that stable, permanent portals were a theoretical impossibility. But here it was, defying every known law.

A slow smile spread across his face.

He turned back to the vast expanse before him.

Time to see what other secrets the cube had in store.

Zeke took a cautious step forward, then another—but before he could take a third, an unseen force halted him in his tracks. It wasn’t a wall or any physical barrier, but something subtler, more elusive—an invisible boundary pressing against him, restricting his movements.

Frowning, he reached out with his senses, probing the edges of his confinement. Almost immediately, the space responded.

Thin, glowing lines flickered into existence, etching themselves into the floor in a perfect square around him, as if acknowledging his curiosity.

That was… unexpected. He had only meant to test the limits of this strange realm. How had it reacted so directly? It was almost as if—

Realization struck.

This space wasn’t just passive. It was responding to him.

His heart pounded as he decided to test a theory. Closing his eyes, Zeke envisioned a sunlit meadow—a place pulled from the depths of his memory. Rolling fields of wildflowers, golden under a clear blue sky. The crisp scent of fresh earth, the distant rustle of trees.

Feldstadt. One of his favorite spots near home. His parents had taken him and his sister there when they were young, and the image had never faded. It was as vivid in his mind now as it had been then.

When he opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat.

The void was gone.

Sunlight streamed down in golden rays. Wildflowers swayed in a phantom breeze, their petals vibrant with life. The air was thick with the scent of summer—warm, fresh, real. Even the distant rustle of leaves whispered through the landscape, exactly as he had imagined it.

Zeke let out a slow breath, half in awe, half in disbelief.

The implications were staggering. If he could shape this space with nothing but thought, then what were its limits? How much of it was truly under his control?

Time for some experiments.

Zeke pictured a bar of gold appearing in his hand. Nothing. Next, he imagined a bucket of water. Still, nothing.

Interesting.

He shifted tactics, focusing instead on something that already existed within the space. He envisioned the distant stream altering its course, redirecting it to pass by his current location.

This time, the space responded.

A moment later, cool water lapped at his feet, the cheerful gurgling of the stream filling the air.

That worked, huh?

Crouching down, Zeke scooped up a handful and took a sip. The water was crisp and clean, just as he remembered from his childhood visits to the countryside. Real water, not some illusion or hollow construct.

This was getting more intriguing by the second.

For the next several minutes, he immersed himself in experimentation, pushing the boundaries of what he could influence. Every discovery led to more questions, more possibilities.

What about this? And if I try—? Oh?

Like a child with a new toy, Zeke explored with unrestrained curiosity, delighting in each small revelation.

But eventually, the fun had to end.

Once he was confident he had a solid grasp on the fundamental rules of this place, he took a step back, letting his mind settle. There was still so much to uncover, but for now, he had learned enough.

These were the rules, as Zeke understood them:

He had the ability to shape the world around him, to manipulate the space and the elements within it. However, there were clear limitations.

He could not create anything that required labor to form or craft. The world would only respond to his thoughts with the most basic, naturally occurring elements. Anything more complex—anything that needed to be worked into shape—remained beyond his reach.

For instance, he could conjure a tree from the ground, cut it down, and then carve the wood into a bucket. But he couldn’t simply imagine a fully-formed bucket appearing in his hands, crafted and finished without effort.

Why that was, he couldn’t say… as of yet. But even as excitement surged through him, a nagging frustration settled in.

His world was still constrained.

Though the illusion stretched endlessly into the horizon, the actual space he could move within was severely limited. He could take only a few steps before an invisible boundary halted him once more.

Frowning, Zeke pressed a hand against the unseen wall. Solid. He clenched his fists and struck out with all his might.

Pain shot up his arm. He winced.

He might as well have punched a wall of dwarven-forged steel—at least that would have a chance of denting. This? This was completely unyielding.

This wasn’t a barrier of stone or metal. It felt exactly like his own [Spatial Barrier]—not a physical obstruction, but a conceptual one. A hardened construct of space itself, woven from mana and will.

His mind raced. If the World Anchor no longer intended to constrain him, then these limits weren’t deliberate. They weren’t restrictions placed upon him by the artifact itself.

They were a reflection of something else.

Something beyond the cube’s power to change.

With a thought, he made the boundaries of his prison visible again. The rolling meadow shrank as deep furrows etched themselves into the grass, forming a clear perimeter around him.

Small…

That was his first thought.

There was no way an ancient artifact of such renown could offer so little. Surely, there were storage bags with more capacity than this. If this was truly the full extent of the World Anchor’s power, then its creator must have been utterly mad.

But if it's not the Anchor then it can only be… me?

The realization made Zeke wince.

Of course, it would be him. As a Grandmage with an average Soul at best, he should never have been able to bind the cube to himself in the first place. The only reason he’d even managed to do so was because of Khai'Zar’s intervention.

Damn.

The question now was: which part of him was responsible for this underwhelming result? Instinctively, Zeke released his Spatial Mana, pressing it against the invisible walls of his confinement, attempting to understand the space with his own perception.

This... felt strange.

It wasn’t a contest of might or strength, as he had expected. The struggle to expand his confines felt less like an exertion of force and more like solving a puzzle—an intricate, abstract challenge.

Zeke immersed himself in the task, his mind fully captivated by this new puzzle.

At some point, he found himself sitting down, meditating within this odd space. Time slipped by unnoticed. Minutes turned into hours, and before he knew it, day had faded into night.

It wasn’t until the sun rose again the next morning that Zeke finally opened his eyes. He exhaled a shaky breath, utterly drained, yet a wide smile stretched across his face.

“It seems something amazing has fallen into my hands this time”

B6 - Chapter 47: The Cube II

After a few days of coding. The old voice is back. Let's hope it stays!

Zeke turned the cube over in his hands, his mind racing through the implications. If this artifact could be bound, what kind of connection did it demand? Was it a pact of will, of blood, of magic? Or something else entirely?

He recalled the fleeting thoughts of the scholar whose knowledge he had absorbed. The man had pondered this very question but had lacked the understanding to answer it. Yet, the mere fact that the cube could be bound suggested something crucial: it was not merely an inert relic. It was meant to serve, to obey, or perhaps to choose.

The realization sent a thrill through him. If he could discover the method, if he could forge this bond for himself, then this ancient artifact would no longer be a mere curiosity, an object of study. It would be his.

“What do you know about bound artifacts?” Zeke asked inwardly.

What was the point of carrying around his own library if he didn’t make use of it in moments like these? There was no need to stumble in the dark when he had a torch at hand.

[Answer]

There are scattered reports of treasures that recognize their rightful owner, responding only to their command. However, these claims are dubious at best.

Zeke frowned. That was not the answer he had hoped for. “What about the methods? How were these objects bound?”

[Answer]

This is where the stories differ the most. Some speak of a battle against the spirit of the artifact, a trial of strength and will. Others tell of a blood pact, forging a connection through sacrifice. There are even tales of those who had to pass a test of wit, proving themselves in ways beyond mere power.

Zeke’s frown deepened. These accounts felt more like the fabrications of an overzealous bard than genuine history. Tales of trials, blood pacts, and spirit-bound duels—how often did reality truly mirror such dramatics?

[Notice]

Despite their differences, all these stories share one common thread—the artifact itself must deem its wielder worthy.

“Do you think it likely there is some truth to that?” he asked.

[Answer]

It is possible. The fact that so many independent sources share that commonality is hard to explain otherwise.

A sigh escaped his lips. “So, how do I prove myself worthy?”

[Answer]

The methods mentioned in the stories should be a good place to start.

Zeke’s lips curled in distaste. This approach felt anything but scientific and more like the desperate grasping of a superstitious fool chasing after an illusion. Yet, as his gaze fell upon the cube once more, his skepticism wavered.

The treasure was real. That much was undeniable.

And if an artifact of legend had manifested in the real world, who was to say that the key to unlocking its secrets couldn’t be found in legend as well?

Zeke’s expression grew solemn as he sifted through the methods Akasha had mentioned. One, in particular, stood out, one that came to him as naturally as breathing.

He drew the dagger from its sheath, its blade catching the dim light, and without hesitation, dragged the edge across his palm.

Warmth bloomed in his hand as crimson droplets welled up and spilled forth. His blood, more than any other, called to him, singing with a resonance as clear and undeniable as a siren’s song. It beckoned him to wield it, to shape it with will and purpose.

But this time, he did nothing to guide it.

Instead, he simply let it flow, allowing the thick, red droplets to fall onto the cube, staining its pristine surface with the essence of his being.

For a while, Zeke watched as his blood trickled over the cube’s smooth metal surface, pooling within the engraved symbols along its sides. He turned it over, repeating the process on all six faces, but nothing changed. There was no surge of power, no shift in resonance—no sign that the cube had accepted him as its master or deemed him worthy.

It was a bust.

Yet, Zeke wasn’t disheartened. He had never expected success on the first try. In fact, he would have been more surprised if it had actually worked.

Under Akasha’s guidance, he moved on to the next method. Then the next. And the next. From striking the cube with force to whispering a lullaby meant to lull it into dormancy, he tried every possibility he could conceive. If nothing else, the bards who had woven these legends were certainly imaginative.

But as the hours passed and each attempt ended in failure, even Zeke’s patience began to fray. It was exactly as he had suspected—none of it worked. And worse, he felt increasingly foolish for having entertained these absurd methods in the first place.

“Enough.” Zeke’s voice cut through the silence just as Akasha was about to suggest the next method. “This isn’t working.”

The Spirit remained quiet, allowing him the space to gather his thoughts.

Zeke did just that. Though he had lost faith in these fantastical rituals, he wasn’t ready to abandon their initial hypothesis. The idea itself wasn’t flawed—they had simply been approaching it the wrong way.

Every legend shared a common theme: the object had to accept its wielder.

For now, that was the best clue he had. But the real challenge lay in figuring out how to gain that acceptance.

Neither blood nor force, neither arcane incantations nor whispered pledges had swayed the cube. And why would they?

He had been looking at this from the wrong angle entirely. Instead of treating this like some ancient enigma steeped in mysticism, he needed to approach it practically.

If the cube wasn’t sentient, then its method of choosing a wielder couldn’t be something abstract either. It had to be something concrete, something logical, something that could be measured and evaluated.

The first thing that came to mind was Mana.

Constructing a system that assessed Mana capacity was entirely feasible. If that was the case, then there was no mystery to solve—he simply lacked the necessary strength to claim the cube. But Zeke found that possibility unlikely.

A test based solely on Mana quantity seemed redundant.

What purpose would such an elaborate system serve if it only measured something so basic? If a person lacked the power to wield the cube, there was no need for it to reject them, the treasure would be useless to them regardless. Conversely, if someone with less Mana could activate it, why exclude them arbitrarily?

No, it had to be something else, something more intricate than a mere measure of raw power. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many legends, would there?

The second possibility that came to mind was far more promising. It was something that could judge a person’s true measure, something deeper than the simple quantity of their Mana.

The Soul.

If there was anything capable of determining a person’s worth in their entirety, it was this elusive force. The Soul was more than just energy—it was identity. It held his memories, emotions, achievements, hopes, and dreams. It was his past and his future, the sum of everything that made him who he was.

A slow, mounting certainty settled over him. His heartbeat quickened, pounding against his ribs as if urging him forward. For the first time since he had begun his experimentation, he felt it—he was close to a breakthrough.

Leaving his body to its own devices, Zeke detached his Soul, only to be stunned into silence in the next moment. Now that he was truly focusing, there was no doubt about it.

The cube had a presence in the spiritual realm.

This was a situation unlike any he had encountered before. Until now, his Soul sight had only ever revealed living beings. But this... this was different. He could distinctly feel the cube, not with his eyes, but through the very essence of his Soul.

It wasn’t like a human Soul at all. Its presence was more akin to an inanimate beacon: silent, unwavering, and not alive in the way he understood. But there was no denying it. It was there, tangible in his Soul sense.

This could only mean one thing:

He had been right.

The test to bind the cube wasn’t a trial of the physical realm, but one of the spirit.

Quivering with excitement, Zeke extended a probing tentacle toward the spiritual beacon representing the cube. This was a method he had grown familiar with—his usual technique for infiltrating another’s Soul. But when he touched the cube, it didn’t react the way he expected anything in the Soul realm to behave.

Instead of feeling malleable or soft, like most spiritual objects he had encountered, the cube felt like an iron fortress. When he pressed against its walls, there was no response. No give, no shift. No matter how he strained, it was as if he were pushing against an immovable object.

This was new.

He had grown accustomed to the delicate balance of exerting his spiritual strength. All too often, his carelessness led to irreparable damage. But this was different. The cube seemed to resist his touch with an almost impervious stillness.

Emboldened, Zeke doubled the size of his probing tendril, careful not to overwhelm the object, and pressed against it once more.

No reaction.

He doubled the size of his tendril once again, this time pouring a significant portion of his Soul into it.

No reaction.

Zeke stopped, utterly baffled. The force he had just exerted was enough to obliterate the Soul of a typical Grandmage. Yet, the cube withstood it effortlessly, as if his efforts were no more than a mild breeze.

This wouldn’t do.

The cube was clearly not as fragile as he had initially thought. The more he considered it, the more ridiculous it seemed that he had ever assumed his comparatively meager strength could even scratch the surface of such an ancient, powerful artifact.

He was done holding back.

Zeke unleashed the full might of his Soul, slamming his entire spiritual force into the barrier that had thwarted all his previous attempts.

To his dismay, even this all-out assault seemed to make little difference. The cube remained as still as ever, a cold and unyielding presence in the spiritual realm.

But he wasn’t about to give up.

He pushed harder, fully exerting himself, feeling an unfamiliar but exhilarating sensation. Until now, all his Soul training had been about restraint, about holding back, but this was different. For the first time, he was pushing for more, forcing his will into the cube with everything he had.

As he pressed on, Zeke noticed a shift. The strain of exerting force became oddly satisfying. It was as if he were digging his heels in, pressing against an immovable boulder. His technique was improving, becoming more refined with every effort.

But despite his growing control, the cube remained unmoved. His exertions felt futile, as though his attempts were no more impactful than a bug pushing against a boulder. He had gone from the strength of an ant to that of a fly—his efforts magnified yet still utterly insignificant.

He couldn’t deny it any longer: he wasn’t going to pass this test.

Just as the weight of that realization began to sink in, a deep, resonant sigh echoed from behind him. Before Zeke could even react, an immense presence manifested. It was so overwhelming, so dense, so utterly suffocating that Zeke momentarily lost control, unable to move an inch.

Then he saw it.

A massive, reptilian claw appeared before him, its scales gleaming with an almost otherworldly sheen.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t aimed at him. Instead, it approached the cube at an angle, its movements slow yet deliberate. Zeke watched in stunned silence as the gigantic limb halted just before the artifact, and then, with a casual flick of a single claw, it struck the barrier.

The impact wasn’t forceful—it was almost delicate.

…And just as quickly as it had arrived, the claw retreated, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

Zeke stood frozen, utterly bewildered by what had just happened.

For a brief, terrifying moment, he had feared for his life—certain that his Soul would be snuffed out. By the time he had pieced together who might have been behind that enormous claw, it was already gone.

But as the shock of the encounter faded, something else caught his attention. The barrier, the unyielding force that had withstood every attempt he made, was crumbling before his eyes.

B6 - Chapter 46: The Cube I

His crimson hair was swept back by the relentless wind, the force pressing against him with such intensity that keeping his eyes open was a struggle. Yet, despite the oppressive gusts, a wide smile stretched across his face as he extended his arms wide, embracing the rush.

Standing at the prow the Alexandria von Hohenheim, Zeke faced the immense pressure of the oncoming wind head-on. In that moment, he couldn't help but wonder—was this what it felt like to fly?

For the first time, a flicker of envy stirred. He had never longed for another’s magical affinities before, but flight... Flight was tempting. To soar freely, unbound by the weight of gravity, to drift wherever the winds might carry him—what could be more exhilarating? How liberating must it be to cast aside all earthly constraints and sail across the endless sky, untethered and unstoppable?

“Faster!” He shouted over the roaring wind, his grin widening with exhilaration. “Give her all you’ve got, Captain!”

But the captain was having none of it. The man—once a loyal lieutenant under Kerim—vehemently shook his head, arms crossed in a firm, unmistakable gesture of refusal.

Zeke pouted, but deep down, he knew his request was unreasonable. While the ship could go faster, pushing beyond this speed was strictly reserved for emergencies. Any further acceleration risked damaging the vessel, and such reckless speeds were meant for dire situations, not indulging in a thrill-seeking whim.

Zeke couldn't help himself. It had been far too long since he last stood aboard the warship, and he had almost forgotten the sheer exhilaration of tearing through the clouds atop such a colossal vessel. Behemoth-class airships were in a league of their own. Was this what it felt like to ride a dragon into battle?

At that errant thought, a derisive snort echoed in the back of his mind. Thankfully, Khai’zar restrained himself to that single, dismissive sound instead of launching into a lecture on the majesty of Dragons.

Grinning, Zeke leaned over the railing, his gaze sweeping across the vast landscape below. They had been heading south since morning, wasting no time after his return. Tradespire was far behind them now, and they were soaring over Invocatia. This was the easiest stretch of their journey—the skies above the land of Summoners were among the safest.

The true test would come when they attempted to cross the jungles of Irroch. That vast wilderness remained untamed, a place where nature reigned supreme and beasts roamed freely. It wouldn’t be wrong to call those creatures the true rulers of the land, rather than the scattered pockets of humanity that eked out an existence there.

Fortunately, most of the more fearsome predators were landbound, unable to interfere with their journey. However, that didn’t mean the skies were safe. The massive trees of the jungle housed enough airborne nightmares to give even a seasoned captain pause before daring to cross that treacherous expanse.

Still, he had insisted on this route.

The Alexandria was no ordinary vessel—it was a warship, armed with cutting-edge weaponry, and he had full confidence in its ability to handle whatever threats lurked below. More importantly, he was no longer the helpless boy who had once fled from a pack of goblins.

No, the Ezekiel of today was a seasoned warrior, more than capable of holding his own in battle. With the elite Grandmages he had brought from his estate and the battle-hardened crew of the Alexandria, they stood a chance against almost anything short of an Archmage-level threat.

His gaze drifted to the horizon, where it almost seemed as if the first signs of that green hellscape were emerging. Of course, that was unlikely—it would still take a couple of days before Irroch truly came into view. But that didn’t mean he had time to waste. This relatively peaceful stretch of the journey was his last opportunity to focus on what he had neglected so far.

His right hand tightened around the unyielding object he held—a small, unassuming cube. The World Anchor. Ever since that fateful day in the Tower of Scholars, it had never left his side. Though he had once been indifferent to it, dismissing it as little more than an oddity, that ignorance had long since faded. Now, fully aware of its true value, he found himself unwilling to let it out of his grasp.

Even though he was certain he had erased all traces of the encounter from the Scholars’ minds, caution was never a mistake. Memories were fickle things and if there was even the slightest chance he had overlooked something… he would rather not take the risk.

Zeke’s expression hardened as his fingers traced the intricate engravings along the cube’s surface. Akasha was working tirelessly, applying everything they had learned in the Tower of Scholars to decipher its mysteries, but progress had been painfully slow. Whether she would ever succeed in unraveling its secrets remained uncertain.

But Zeke was done leaving things to chance.

If this artifact was valuable enough to stir greed in the heart of royalty, then letting it languish in obscurity was no longer an option. He needed every advantage he could seize—every tool, every scrap of knowledge—if he was to carve out a place for himself in this world.

For the first time since their journey began, Zeke left his favorite spot at the prow of the ship, retreating to his chambers. He pretended not to notice the visible relief on the captain’s face as he passed by, though he understood the man’s sentiments. Enduring the whims of someone as reckless as himself couldn’t have been pleasant.

His quarters were the largest and most lavish on the ship—an extravagance unheard of on a typical warship. Yet Maximilian, in his boundless eccentricity, had repurposed the Alexandria for private use, outfitting it with amenities that would have made any noble envious. An attached bathroom, a separate study—luxuries that now served Zeke well.

This was the perfect place for uninterrupted research, and he intended to make full use of it. With strict orders ensuring he wouldn’t be disturbed until they reached the borders of Irroch, he settled in, ready to unlock the mysteries that had eluded him for too long.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Zeke turned the cube over in his hands. He didn’t expect to uncover anything new with this surface-level examination, but skipping steps—no matter how obvious—was not his way. He would be thorough.

The cube was perfectly symmetrical, its proportions flawless. It didn’t even seem like something crafted by human hands—so immaculate was its surface. Despite being an artifact from ancient times, there were no cracks, no seams, no signs of wear or weathering. Not a single imperfection marred its form.

For all intents and purposes, it looked as if it had just been forged, fresh from its creator’s hands. That alone spoke volumes about its extraordinary nature. Few things in this world could defy the passage of time so completely.

The only distinguishing feature on the cube’s otherwise identical sides was the engraved script. Though the symbols clearly belonged to the same language, each face bore a different set of characters. It was maddening—he had come so close to uncovering their secrets, only to be betrayed by the very scholars he had sought for help.

At least he hadn’t left completely empty-handed.

Finishing his visual inspection, Zeke moved on to experimentation. He had long since noticed the faint aura of spatial Mana emanating from the artifact, making it the logical place to start.

He inserted a sliver of his own Mana and waited. And waited. And… nothing happened.

Frowning, he tried again, this time with a greater amount—but the result was the same. However, something was different. Unlike most objects, through which spatial Mana would pass unhindered, the cube absorbed it. His energy was drawn inside and vanished without a trace.

That was interesting.

Zeke had never encountered anything capable of doing that to spatial Mana. By its very nature, space was unbound by physical constraints. It flowed through solid objects as if they didn’t exist, allowing him to perceive his surroundings with absolute clarity.

Yet somehow, this cube not only blocked his Mana—it devoured it.

Intrigued by his discovery, Zeke did the only logical thing—he blasted the cube with as much Spatial Mana as his Core could produce.

If there was a limit to how much it could contain, he was determined to find it. And if the cube functioned like a reservoir, storing energy until it reached a critical threshold, then perhaps it simply needed to be refilled before it would activate.

Encouraged by this possibility, Zeke held nothing back. He flung open the floodgates of his Core, unleashing an unprecedented torrent of Mana into the artifact. It was an unstoppable deluge.

His overdeveloped Core, strengthened by the network of spatial seedlings embedded throughout his body, maintained a steady and continuous flow of energy. Since he wasn’t shaping a spell—only converting the ambient Mana and channeling it—he could sustain the process with minimal effort. But that didn’t mean it was without cost.

Within seconds, fatigue began creeping in. A Core wasn’t designed to operate at maximum output indefinitely; the strain accumulated like the burn of a sprinter pushing past his limits. Even the fittest athlete could only maintain a full sprint for so long.

Recognizing this, Zeke adjusted his approach. The goal wasn’t to force the cube to its limit as quickly as possible, but to expose it to an overwhelming volume of spatial Mana over time.

With a new, far more sustainable pace, he settled in for the long haul. But as the minutes stretched on, a sinking feeling took hold. The sheer amount of Mana he was pouring into the cube was beyond anything reasonable—yet it showed no reaction at all.

That could only mean one of two things. Either, his hypothesis was wrong. Or… the reservoir of the cubes was way beyond what a Grandmage could produce. Honestly, he couldn’t decide which of the two was more likely, both possibilities seeming withing the bounds of reason.

Just before his Core was completely drained, Zeke reluctantly halted his efforts. It would be unwise to leave himself defenseless, and he doubted that a fraction more Mana would yield any significant results.

His gaze turned thoughtful as he studied the cube, which lay still and silent in his hands. There was no change. No glow indicating the presence of absorbed Mana, no fluctuation in its energy signature, and no sign of any reaction to his relentless infusion. It felt as though his efforts had been for nothing.

Yet, despite the lack of immediate results, there was still something undeniably significant. The way it absorbed an almost incomprehensible amount of Mana was in itself an astonishing discovery. Zeke racked his mind, but no object or material he could recall seemed capable of replicating such a function. This alone made the cube a mystery worth investigating further.

Despite his efforts, it seemed that this approach had reached an impasse.

He couldn’t afford to waste endless hours—or potentially even years—filling what could be an insatiable void with Mana. At his current strength, that path was far too inefficient. No, he needed a better strategy.

Zeke sat there, absentmindedly toying with the cube as he sifted through his memories, searching for a new approach. He didn’t have to wait long before a particular memory surfaced. It was triggered by the question that had come to the scholar's mind the instant he realized what Zeke was carrying.

One of his first thoughts had been: Has the Cube already been bound?

But what did that really mean?

From the memories he’d absorbed, Zeke recalled that this was one of the few things the scholar had managed to decipher about the cube. It seemed that it was possible to form some sort of bond with the object—a connection beyond simply physical ownership.

But the specifics of how that bond worked, or what it entailed, had remained beyond the scholar’s grasp. Still, Zeke couldn’t ignore the potential of this lead. It seemed like a promising place to begin his next step.

B6 - Chapter 45: Matriarch Selvanna II

The atmosphere remained tense. Though the ancestor showed no sign of offense at the mention of Cassius Leafless, none dared to treat the topic lightly.

Even the girl who had first spoken the name now looked as if she regretted it entirely. And when the ancestor posed her question, it took her a moment to gather herself enough to respond.

“H-He is doing well, ancestor,” she mumbled. “He didn’t mention any girl in his letters, but he’s still residing in the jungles of Irroch. It seems he has found an interesting research subject there.”

“No wonder,” Selvanna mused aloud. “Aside from our forests, Irroch has the greatest abundance of life. Many species of plants and beasts exist only in that part of the world. Even I am tempted to visit at times...” her gaze settled back on the girl, a flicker of impatience edging into her voice. “What else?”

“Not much,” the girl admitted, looking ashamed. “He didn’t go into detail about his work. The only reason he contacted my family at all was to ask for my father’s help.”

“Your father’s?” Selvanna asked, her tone carrying a subtle weight. “Not your mother’s?”

The girl nodded.

Selvanna fell into thoughtful silence for a moment before speaking again. “And what is it that your father does, child?”

“He serves as an ambassador for our people,” the girl answered. “He travels to the human lands for trade, diplomacy, and other such minor affairs.”

Derisive chuckles rippled through the gathering, and even the girl herself looked ashamed by her own words.

Lyriel winced in sympathy. It was not glamorous work. Serving away from the Tree of Life was almost akin to exile. Their people had little need for trade and even less interest in the politics of the lesser races. To make a living by dealing with them was disgraceful.

However, Selvanna only seemed more intrigued by the revelation. “Tell me, child,” she said, her tone deceptively gentle. “What is it that Cassius wants your father to do?”

“…nothing of importance, ancestor,” the girl stammered, shifting uneasily. “Just a minor task.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Selvanna replied, her voice firm, making it clear she wouldn’t let the matter drop.

The girl swallowed hard before finally admitting, “He… asked my father to find information about a certain person. A human boy.”

“Ho!” Selvanna’s eyes flashed with surprise, an emotion so rare that the air in the gathering seemed to freeze. “This can’t be right, can it?”

A tense silence followed. Even Lyriel, who prided herself on her sharp reasoning, couldn’t comprehend what had unsettled this unshakable woman so deeply. It was just a request, wasn’t it? A fleeting curiosity from an exiled elf?

“A human boy?” Selvanna murmured, almost to herself. “Cassius is interested in a human child? Enough to seek aid from his distant kin?”

Her gaze sharpened, locking onto the trembling girl with an intensity that left no room for hesitation. “What is the name of this child?” she demanded.

The girl swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ezekiel…”

“No last name?” Selvanna pressed, her brow arching slightly in disbelief.

“No,” the girl replied quickly, almost nervously. “…But the letter did mention that he was the heir to a Mage named Bombastus.”

“Ho!” Selvanna exclaimed again, her voice laced with genuine surprise.

For her to be shocked a second time, it must have been a revelation of great significance. Yet, none of the girls, including Lyriel, seemed to know who that name belonged to. The heroes and villains of human society held little meaning in the elven lands. Even the human kings and queens, those who shaped their world, were scarcely known to them.

“That explains it,” Selvanna murmured, her face settling into a calm, satisfied expression.

“Who is that, ancestor?” one of the curious girls near her asked, her voice tinged with innocent curiosity.

In a surprisingly good mood, Selvanna answered with patience. “Maximilian Bombastus von Hohenheim is like Cassius. One of the few individuals known to have crossed the wall with more than one affinity.”

“Outlier...” the girl whispered, processing the information. “Cassius wasn’t the only one?”

Selvanna shook her head. “There are two others, both human. Maximilian von Hohenheim was the youngest, and Aurelia Thorsten, the oldest.”

“The… Aurelia?” a girl asked, and Selvanna gave a small nod in affirmation.

Gasps could be heard from all around, and even Lyriel couldn’t hide her shock.

Aurelia Thorsten.

That name was known to everyone. Despite being human, the Immortal Witch was a figure of such renown that her legacy transcended the boundaries of species. Legends spoke of her power, claiming she could rival even the most formidable elven matriarchs in battle. In fact, she had lived so long that she was said to have been alive during the days of the first elves, when their kind was still young.

Lyriels mind began to spin at the implications. What did it mean, then, to be mentioned in the same breath as her?

Cassius Leafless was a genius of their people, a visionary far ahead of his time. His groundbreaking research had propelled entire fields forward by decades, if not centuries. If Maximilian von Hohenheim was of a similar calibre, then he could not be ignored. No, this was a person to watch. This was someone who had earned a place in history, and any connection to him deserved careful consideration.

“Can you tell us more about him?” Lyriel asked before she could stop herself.

Selvanna shook her head. “That would be pointless.”

“Pointless…” Lyriel echoed, disbelief creeping into her voice. Surely, the ancestor couldn’t be this shortsighted.

Selvanna’s smile softened as she seemed to read the accusation in Lyriel’s eyes. “Maximilian von Hohenheim is already dead. He was imprisoned and killed by none other than his own Emperor.”

“…Then his heir is—” Lyriel started, her thoughts already racing ahead.

“…Either a fugitive or a coward,” the ancestor finished for her, her voice cool. “But given that Cassius is curious about him, it’s likely the former.”

Lyriel’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. What kind of person would be appointed as the heir to someone like Maximilian? As far as she knew, neither Cassius nor Aurelia had ever named an heir. That made this boy a rarity in itself.

“I might know something,” a timid voice spoke up, breaking Lyriel’s thoughts.

Immediately, all eyes turned toward the speaker. It was a petite girl, sitting near the back of the gathering, much like Lyriel herself. It wasn’t surprising. Those of lower standing often had more connections to the outside world, as befit their position. If anyone were to know about a human, it would be them.

Selvanna regarded the girl with a calm, measured expression. “What is it that you think you know, child?”

The girl hesitated for a moment, clearly flustered by the sudden attention, but she held herself better than Lyriel had. “I know about the human boy… Ezekiel,” she finally said.

“Curious,” Selvanna murmured under her breath. “He is already a figure of renown?”

The girl nodded in confirmation.

Selvanna’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “I had expected him to be younger, given that I’ve never heard of him. Was I mistaken?”

“No, you were correct… honored ancestor,” the girl replied, her voice trembling slightly. “He hasn’t yet reached two decades of age.”

A snicker rippled through the gathering, and even Lyriel couldn’t help but smile faintly. Two decades. It seemed far too young. An elf of that age would scarcely be allowed to leave their home unattended, let alone achieve anything worthy of renown. What could this human boy have possibly done to earn recognition at such a young age?

“I see,” Selvanna said, visibly amused herself. “Tell me what you know, child.”

But the girl’s next words extinguished the smiles from their faces, replacing them with stunned silence.

“His most recent achievement was breaking the record for the youngest living Grandmage at just 17 years of age…”

“…he accomplished that while wielding three affinities…”

“…also broke the record for simultaneously cast spells by a significant margin…”

Jaws dropped, eyes widened, and gasps echoed through the room as egos were shattered.

What was true talent? This was talent.

Just moments ago, Lyriel had wondered what an heir to someone like Maximilian or Aurelia would be like, and now she knew. They were beasts of a different kind—prodigies of magic, destined to eclipse all others. For the first time in her life, she found herself genuinely grateful for the short lifespans of humans.

If such staggering talent were nurtured under the protection and guidance of elven traditions, who could say what heights they might reach in a few centuries? The mere thought sent a chill down her spine.

Their ancestor seemed to have been thinking along similar lines, as the lightness in her expression quickly disappeared. Her gaze sharpened, and she focused intently on the girl who had revealed such troubling information. "How did you come to know of this?" she asked, her voice now tinged with seriousness.

The girl shrank under the weight of Selvanna's attention, but she answered dutifully. "He recently sent one of his people to our lands—a woman named Margaret. My mother was the one who processed her entry. She's been keeping an eye on the boy ever since."

"Exceptional judgment on your mother's part," Selvanna said, her tone acknowledging the girl's honesty. "Tell me, what was his purpose in sending one of his people here?"

The girl hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know. Truth be told, we haven't paid her much attention until now."

A brief flash of annoyance flickered in the ancestor’s eyes, but it vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. She quickly regained her composure, understanding that it was unreasonable to expect anything else from the girl or her mother. After all, a random human would not be treated with any special regard, no matter who they were sent by.

"That woman," Selvanna inquired, her voice steady once more. "Do you know where she is now?"

The girl nodded. "She is working as a flyer in one of the lower cities."

Selvanna’s gaze softened in satisfaction. "Then this may be an opportunity. If this boy truly possesses the genius of someone like Cassius, he is certainly worth extending a helping hand to."

One of the girls, her voice laced with uncertainty, spoke up. "Are you sure about this, ancestor? He is human. Who knows if—or how—he might repay your kindness in the future?"

Selvanna’s gaze grew distant, her mind clearly working through the implications of her decision. “A promising seed, nurtured with care, will always repay the kindness a hundredfold…” Her voice softened as she spoke the words, but then, just as quickly, it regained its sharpness. She swept her gaze over the gathered girls, each one under her scrutiny. “The only question that remains is, which one of you is best suited for the task of nurturing such a seedling?”

Her gaze settled on a girl at the very back. Lyriel. The others may not have noticed, but Lyriel felt the weight of Selvanna’s discerning eyes.

"You’ve shown intelligence today," Selvanna continued, her voice steady. "Let this be a test of whether you can perform just as well when the task becomes more difficult."

Lyriel’s throat tightened, a lump of anxiety forming as the weight of Selvanna’s words pressed down on her.

"I will leave this matter entirely in your hands," Selvanna declared, her tone unwavering. "Act as you see fit. If necessary, use my name. I don’t care how you accomplish it."

The room fell silent at this startling permission. Everyone watched, eyes wide with disbelief.

“But…” Selvanna’s voice took on a serious edge, the weight of her next words lingering in the air. “Do not disappoint me. This is your one and only chance.”

B6 - Chapter 44: Matriarch Selvanna I

High among the towering branches of the World Tree, nestled within the verdant crown of the largest tree in existence, stood a grand residence. Unlike structures carved from wood or built upon the boughs, this palace seemed to have grown as an extension of the tree itself, woven seamlessly into its ancient form, as natural as its very roots.

Within its halls, a gathering of great significance was taking place. An ancestor of one of the oldest elven bloodlines had returned, gracing her descendants with a rare visit—an event that occurred only a handful of times each century.

For the younger elves, this gathering represented one of the few opportunities to stand before their revered elder and prove themselves worthy of her attention. Lyriel found herself among them, though she sat about as far away from their honored guest as possible. In the rigid hierarchy of elven society, this was one of the only chances to rise beyond their current station, and the competition for the closest seats had been as fierce as could be.

A competition Lyriel had lost miserably.

“Honored ancestor, favored of Yggdrasil, have you heard of the happenings in the plains?” One of the girls, as beautiful as a flower, asked from close to the front.

The ancestor, surrounded by a circle of eager young girls, turned to the excited speaker with a gentle, motherly smile. It was the first time many of the girls had seen this legendary figure in person. Though she had lived for countless centuries, time had left no mark upon her—her face was unlined, her beauty undiminished, as if she had stepped out of legend itself.

At first glance, she was nearly indistinguishable from the youthful elves around her. Yet, in her eyes lay the first sign of her true nature. Where the bright-eyed girls brimmed with curiosity and excitement, the ancestors’ gaze held an unfathomable depth, a stillness that seemed to stretch across the ages.

The second distinction was in the way she carried herself. Every movement was infused with effortless grace, a quiet poise absent from her younger kin. It was the bearing of one who had seen the rise and fall of nations, who had weathered storms that could break lesser beings.

It was that composure that Lyriel envied above everything else. If only she possessed a fraction of the ancestor’s temperament…

“Which happenings are you referring to, child?” the ancestor asked, her voice warm yet measured.

Lyriel couldn’t help but inwardly smirk at the form of address. Every single one of the gathered girls knew the name of their ancestor—Selvanna Goldleaf—but it was abundantly clear that Selvanna herself hadn’t bothered to learn the names of any of the girls around her. And why would she? They were unlikely to offer anything of true value. Most would inevitably fade into mediocrity, just as they always did in these gatherings.

Though, that was something she would never dare to voice aloud.

“I heard it said that the harvest by the half-bloods is going to be especially abundant this year. The Earth Mother must be blessing us,” the young girl replied, her eyes bright.

Selvanna nodded lightly, but didn’t comment further. However, that seemed enough to please the energetic girl.

Lyriel saw the truth, however. Their ancestor had likely already dismissed the girl from consideration. With a single sentence, the young elf had revealed herself a fool.

To refer to those of mixed heritage as half-bloods might be acceptable in some circles, but to use the term behind closed doors? It only showed how thoroughly she had absorbed the propaganda. Moreover, the Earth Mother's supposed blessing was clearly not at work either. Anyone with half a mind could see that the bountiful harvest was the result of the lowlanders' new seeding techniques, not divine favor.

“Honored ancestor, crown of creation, have you heard the latest news from the far east?” another girl called out.

Selvanna Goldleaf turned to face the new speaker and her smile seemed a touch more sincere than usual.

It was a sight that made Lyriel sigh inwardly. Crown of creation, she had called her? It was an excessive compliment, even for an ancestor. Yet, it was clear that the creative address had at least managed to amuse the elder, something Lyriel could never bring herself to do. She was simply no good at finding the right words or tone to make flattery sound sincere, even if she could bring herself to voice it.

“Are you referring to the war?” Selvanna asked, her voice calm but inquisitive.

The girl nodded eagerly, her eyes alight with excitement. “I’ve heard that the Empire is being pushed back. Now, even the nations who didn’t want to get involved initially are sending troops.”

Selvanna tapped her chin thoughtfully. “And what do you make of these developments?” she asked, her gaze steady on the girl.

Lyriel also sharpened her ears, focusing intently. This was a topic of widespread interest among the elves, even those in the highest echelons of their society. More importantly, it presented a perfect opportunity to gauge the minds of the gathered girls.

The girl took a moment to consider the question carefully, no doubt aware that Selvanna's inquiry was a test. After a brief pause, she spoke, her voice confident. "I think it’s shameful," she said. "It exposes the base nature of human leadership."

Selvanna didn’t react, keeping her expression neutral. “In what way?”

The girl didn’t hesitate. “Though they were allied from the start, many nations hesitated to send aid when the war seemed perilous. However, now that victory is within reach, everyone is flocking to the battlefield like vultures to a carcass. It’s clear they’re motivated by the spoils of war, rather than any true desire to help.”

Lyriel bit her lips, her mind turning over the response. The girl had shown some insight, but had failed to see beyond the obvious. Even a child could have deduced this much. How could this answer be enough to please the ancestor?

As expected, Selvanna swept her gaze over the dozens of eager faces gathered before her, opening the question to the room. “Does anyone have something to add?”

A heavy silence descended. In this setting, no one dared speak carelessly; second chances were a rarity.

For a moment, Lyriel considered speaking up. She actually had something of value to contribute—an original conjecture of her own design. It had come to her not long ago, and ever since, it had lingered in her mind, refusing to be dismissed. The idea had emerged after challenging the long-held elven belief in their inherent superiority, leading her to a conclusion that, while obvious, had been overlooked by everyone else.

Yet, despite her certainty, she knew better than to voice her opinion. This meeting wasn’t meant for the likes of her. She had never been able to compete with the other girls, her logic drowned out by the louder voices of the majority or silenced by the threat of violence.

She could never win, and today... today would be no different.

But then, as her eyes met those of the revered ancestor, something stirred within her. It was as if a current ran through her, awakening a strength she hadn't realized she possessed. Before she even fully understood what was happening, the words were already spilling from her lips.

“I…” she began, her voice wavering slightly. “I wonder what the Empire stands to gain by allowing this situation to continue…”

A hushed murmur swept through the room as all eyes turned toward Selvanna, eagerly awaiting her response to the perplexing statement. Meanwhile, Lyriel’s gaze dropped. By the great spirit of the Earth, what had she done?! What had come over her?

Already, she could hear the dismissive murmurs around her, discussing her foolish outburst.

The ancestor leaned forward, her gaze fixed intently on the unremarkable girl in the back of the room, her full attention seemingly captured by her.

“Explain,” she said.

When Lyriel’s gaze locked with the ancestor’s once more, it felt as though an invisible current surged through her, drawing her in as if she were being pulled into the depths of a bottomless abyss. The tranquil blue of Selvanna’s eyes seemed to absorb everything in its path. Sweat began to form at the back of her neck, trickling down her spine, dampening the fabric of her silken robes.

Yet, amid the rising tension, something else stirred within her—a strange and unfamiliar strength. It was the courage of an animal cornered, desperate and determined to survive. In that moment, she understood with unmistakable clarity that her fate hung in the balance. For better or for worse, the course of her future would be determined by her next words.

“I just… think that…” she started haltingly, but firmed up a moment later. “It’s not very likely the Emperor didn’t foresee this possibility when he started a war. He must have made preparations for this very situation long ago.”

“Why do you think so?” Selvanna pressed, her gaze unwavering, as if daring her to say more, to go even further.

Lyriel hesitated, her mind racing as she searched for the right words. She knew the answer—it was simple, really. But speaking it aloud was another matter.

“Because...” she began, her voice almost faltering as she struggled to gather her confidence, “…he is the smartest being in the world. To assume anything less from him would be the height of arrogance.”

“Preposterous!” one of the others cried out, her voice sharp with disbelief.

The rest quickly followed, their protests rising in chorus. Even those who remained silent either shook their heads or simply looked away. It was an absurd statement to make. How could a human possibly be considered superior to the entire elven race?

The ancestor, however, leaned back in her seat, a small, approving smile tugging at the corners of her lips. With a simple motion of her hand, she silenced the gathering, the room falling into immediate stillness. “What is your name, child?”

“…Lyriel,” she replied, the word slipping from her lips like a whisper, as though it drained the last of her strength.

“Lyriel, Lyriel, Lyriel…” Selvanna repeated the name thrice, letting the sound of it linger in the air. “Tell me, child, why are you sitting so far back?”

Lyriel’s gaze flickered to the girls in the front—the ones who had made it abundantly clear what would happen if she dared to step out of line. For a fleeting moment, the idea of exposing their actions crossed her mind, but it vanished just as quickly. She knew better than to strike with a borrowed hand.

“It seems I was too late to secure a seat at the front,” Lyriel said, the words coming out smoothly, much to the visible relief of the perpetrators.

“I see,” Selvanna said, her voice steady and calm, though it was clear the subtle actions had not escaped her notice. “Try to be on time in the future.”

Lyriel nodded eagerly, like a bird pecking at grain. It was unbelievable. Out of all the gathered girls, she alone had managed to catch the ancestor’s attention—had even received a measure of praise. The turn of events was so far removed from her expectations that her mind struggled to keep up.

Her lips, so often set in a perpetual frown, twitched upward now and then, betraying the elation she could barely contain. Not even the jealous, hostile glances directed her way could dim the triumph thrumming in her chest.

What could they do to her now? Mock her? Beat her? Scorn her? What did any of it matter in the face of what she had accomplished today? One word from the ancestor held more weight than decades of scheming and flattery.

Slowly, the other girls seemed to grasp the futility of their actions. Their attention shifted back to the ancestor, their minds working furiously. If they couldn’t drag Lyriel down, then there was only one path left—to elevate themselves to her level.

Easier said than done.

Among all the topics discussed, none seemed to truly capture the ancestor’s interest. Though she engaged politely, it was clear that she found little value in the substance of their words. Trade, magic, innovations, gossip—no matter what news the eager girls presented, Selvanna remained unmoved, her expression betraying only mild curiosity at best.

That was until one girl dared to speak a name—one known to all, yet spoken only in hushed murmurs.

“…My father recently corresponded with Cassius Leafless,” she blurted out.

Silence fell like a blade. Even Lyriel held her breath. This… was bold. Reckless, even.

Cassius Leafless. His very name was a wound left to fester, a bitter stain on the pride of the elders. A genius among elves, exiled by their own decree—a decision that had long since soured into a source of frustration. Every triumph he achieved outside their lands was another blow to their authority, another reminder of their failure.

Lyriel, like many others, believed his exile had been a mistake. But she, like everyone else, was wise enough never to say so aloud—not even in private.

To everyone’s surprise, Selvanna did not react with anger or disdain at the mention of that name. Instead, the corners of her mouth lifted into a fond smile.

“Cassius…” she murmured, her gaze settling on the girl who had dared to speak it. “Tell me, what has that child been up to lately? Is he still fooling around with that Titan girl?”

B6 - Chapter 43: Preparation

David reclined in the uncomfortably stiff chair at the center of the round hall atop the Black Tower. Lately, he had spent more time here than anywhere else, and with each passing day, his desire for better furniture grew stronger.

His fingers drummed idly against the stiff armrest as he waited, impatience creeping into his posture. Today, at last, he would learn whether the effort of the past few days had paid off. Every possible step had been taken to spread word of their upcoming auction.

To fulfill Zeke’s request for a trade contract worth at least a million gold, they had been forced to accelerate their plans. Their offering was clear—the labor of Undercity.

The problem?

Their labor had become a commodity the people above had come to expect would be freely given. Years of exploitation had ingrained the idea that the poor wretches in Undercity were meant to work for scraps, unworthy of anything approaching a fair wage.

That was the perception they needed to shatter—a daunting, uphill battle, to say the least.

David rose from his chair and walked over to the large window that overlooked the city to the east. His gaze swept downward, taking in the sprawling cityscape below. A contented smile spread across his face as he surveyed the scene.

Dozens, if not hundreds, of construction sites dotted the city, each one a symbol of progress. Every building that hadn't already been remodeled or reconstructed was either scheduled for renovation or already in the midst of it. The scale of the project was staggering—a complete overhaul, a plan so massive it almost defied logic.

However, with thousands of workers, each possessing at least something approaching superhuman strength, even the most impossible tasks became achievable. Watching from above, it resembled an ant colony in motion—each worker carrying supplies many times their own weight, ferrying them to various construction sites.

Needless to say, progress was swift.

Morale had been high ever since the new food source had been secured. With the constant fear of starvation gone, the most basic need for survival was no longer a concern. Freed from that anxiety, the focus had naturally shifted to the next essential need: shelter.

The council, including David, had all been in favor of the project, though their motivations likely varied. David, for example, had primarily supported the initiative to change the city’s image as quickly as possible.

In simple terms: Undercity looked like a dump. Many of its inhabitants lived in little more than shacks or poorly constructed attempts at proper buildings. How could anyone take them seriously? Whether one agreed with it or not, appearance mattered—and Undercity looked like a slum.

But that was beginning to change, and it was evident at a glance to anyone observant enough. One of the reasons David had chosen to hold the meeting in the very halls of the Black Tower, rather than in the city above where proper business was typically discussed, was to highlight the transformation underway.

David's brow furrowed as he sensed a movement in the shadows behind him. He turned just in time to see the figure of Elder Rabbit emerge from behind one of the towering stone pillars. She was getting better at this.

“How did it go?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Elder Rabbit smiled, her tone measured. “It was quite the turnout.”

“Who accepted?” he pressed impatiently.

“Nair, Verma, Gemkar, Veerkar, Bandhi, Varrun, and…” She hesitated, the pause stretching just a moment too long. “…Raja.”

David nodded as she named the first few, feeling a sense of approval. But as she continued, his expression darkened, his impatience growing with each name. When she finally mentioned the royal family of Korrovan, it caught him completely off guard. Although they had invited them out of courtesy, there had been no real expectation that they would actually attend.

The Raja family was not directly involved in any business dealings; they had no need to be. As the ruling family, they took a share of the profits no matter who prospered. Their presence at this meeting could signal trouble, depending on who they would send.

A lower-ranking member of the family could likely be influenced or even disregarded without much consequence. However, if a direct descendant of the Raja family were present, everything would change. Such individuals often had the authority to speak on behalf of the king, and their words carried the weight of royal law.

David sighed, feeling a weight settle on his chest. If it came down to the royal family intervening, there wasn’t much he could do. However, it seemed unlikely that the king would tip the scales at this stage. After all, the true impact of Undercity’s transformation had yet to be seen—whether it would ultimately benefit the kingdom or become a detriment. For a being of such power, it would be easy enough to halt their plans later if things began to take a turn for the worse.

Shaking the thoughts of the royal family from his mind, David focused on the other names Elder Rabbit had mentioned.

The attendance of the Nair family, one of Zeke’s closest allies, was no surprise. Unfortunately, they lacked the resources to sign such a massive contract at the moment. Given a little more time, they might have been ideal partners, but their infrastructure, manpower, and connections had all taken significant hits due to their feud with the Firebrand family.

The Verma family, as far as David knew, was one of the largest cloth and clothing manufacturers in the country. Their demand for labor was nearly insatiable, and their access to the necessary funds meant they could easily afford a contract of such scale. As far as he was concerned, they were one of his favorite business partners—reliable, capable, and with a relatively clean reputation.

The Gemkar family, on the other hand, had a more tenuous connection to Zeke. They were the ones who had provided the information about the mine that contained the Liquid Metal. Once the mine's owners, the Gemkars had lost it during a tragic incident, which had severely undermined their foundation. Yet, they had been recovering steadily. If they struck a deal with Undercity now, it could be their chance to regain their former prestige.

Not a bad choice, either, all in all.

However, the next three families raised more concerns: Veerkar, Bandhi, and Varrun.

The Veerkar family was responsible for training soldiers for the royal forces, and many of their recruits came from Undercity. It was unclear whether their attendance at the meeting was an attempt to strike a deal or to voice their frustrations about the dwindling number of candidates. The Veerkars had long relied on Undercity’s population to fill their ranks, and the recent changes could be threatening that supply.

The Bandhi family was likely in a similar position. As the largest slave traders in Korrovan, a significant portion of their stock had been sourced from Undercity. Though Undercity was often seen as little more than the cesspit of society, occasional talents—mutants with unique abilities—still emerged from its depths. The loss of these individuals would have dealt a severe blow to the Bandhi family’s business, and it was uncertain how they would respond to these changes.

Lastly, there was the Varrun family. They were wealthy, generous, and by far the largest traders in Korrovan. On paper, they appeared to be the ideal partner for a major trade deal. However, to David, they were placed at the very bottom of his list. Their past dealings with his young lord had left a bitter taste, and their underhanded business tactics painted them in a thoroughly unflattering light.

No, if he had any say in the matter, he would avoid signing a contract with the Varruns at all costs.

David broke off his thoughts and turned to the eagerly awaiting Elder Rabbit. “Did they all agree to attend the meeting here?”

The woman nodded, her ears flicking with the motion.

David's brows furrowed in thought. “Even the Royal family?”

Elder Rabbit gave a final, confirming nod. “They did.”

How strange. The Raja family had always been known for their refusal to take shelter in Undercity during the stormy seasons. It was even rumored that the very idea of such a lowly place disgusted them. Yet now, it seemed their reasons weren't rooted in any sense of superiority.

David pressed on, his curiosity piqued. “And the others we invited? How is the mood on the surface?”

Elder Rabbit paused, carefully considering his question before replying. “From the reports, I can’t say for certain,” she said slowly. “But many of my messengers mentioned that the parties didn’t seem completely uninterested, even those who refused to attend.”

David scoffed, understanding exactly what she meant. “Afraid to make the first move, in case this doesn’t work out, huh?”

Elder Rabbit nodded, her expression confirming his suspicion.

It didn’t matter. The families too afraid to take a risk weren’t the ones David needed to worry about.

Now, with the meeting confirmed, the real question was: who would their side send to attend? His presence was expected, but who else could accompany him?

It was crucial to make a strong showing. The other side would likely send Archmages, and unfortunately, his side was running dangerously low on those. Even the two they did have—the dwarf and the fugitive Water Mage—preferred to remain anonymous.

The Death Mage, though sympathetic to his young lord for some reason, wasn’t someone David could rely on or command. As for Ravi Dessai, the leader of the Lion’s Den, he had no real ties to the activities in Undercity. If he made an appearance here, it could even jeopardize his position on the surface.

It was a real conundrum.

A loud creak echoed through the room as the large wooden doors slowly swung open. Both David and Elder Rabbit turned toward the sound. This place, as the council's meeting spot, was not easily accessible to just anyone. Whoever had arrived was likely bearing important news.

The double doors parted slightly, revealing the slender figure of Soria, the Chimeroi whom Ezekiel had favored during his time in the mines. As the first to be freed from her slave bond, she held a unique position in the new administration of Undercity.

But it wasn’t Soria herself that drew their attention. It was the peculiar box she carried. Its mere presence set it apart from anything produced in Undercity, its quality far exceeding what they were capable of crafting at the moment. To David, however, the sight was all too familiar.

“Dwarven craftsmanship...” he muttered under his breath.

Soria stepped into the room and placed the box on the large conference table. “Indeed,” she replied with a smile. “It seems our lord has sent us another surprise.”

David’s brows furrowed at the use of the term ‘our lord.’ As far as he was concerned, he was the only one officially employed by Ezekiel in this room. But he didn’t correct her. The devotion the young woman showed seemed genuine, and given her growing influence, it was wise to keep her on his side.

It took a moment longer for David to fully grasp the implications of her words. If this had been sent by Ezekiel, it meant his young lord had already reached the dwarven capital. David could only hope that Ezekiel had adapted to their ways more quickly than he himself had.

“You didn’t open it?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

Soria shook her head. “It was addressed to you.”

David’s fingers gently brushed against the leather covering. The craftsmanship was precise, clearly designed to protect something delicate within. What could it be? And what could his young lord have sent in such a situation? Surely, it wasn’t an Archmage hidden inside.

He chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. While Ezekiel had incredible foresight, even he couldn’t have predicted their current predicament, let alone prepared a solution for it. A scenario like this was simply beyond the realm of possibility.

With a simple push, the metal latch securing the box’s top snapped open, revealing its contents. Both Soria and Elder Rabbit craned their necks, eager to see what was inside, and even David couldn’t suppress his growing curiosity.

His gaze landed on a row of vials. The craftsmanship was as intricate as the box itself. Inside each vial swirled a mysterious, purple liquid, its misty essence moving in a way that seemed almost alive.

For a moment, the three of them simply stared at the sight, their minds captivated by the mysterious sight. Then David’s eyes caught something tucked behind the row of six bottles—an envelope with the word ‘David’ boldly written across the front.

He quickly opened the envelope and began reading. With each word, his expression shifted, growing more and more perplexed. By the time he reached the end of the letter, his arms went limp, and he stared at the vials with a mixture of disbelief and suppressed excitement.

"Dreamwalker Brew," he muttered softly.

B6 - Chapter 42: Doubts

Zeke felt like a mouse caught in a trap.

At the very last moment—just when escape had seemed assured—the guard had appeared. It was his own mistake. He had allowed himself to grow careless, to lower his guard while still deep in enemy territory. A lapse in awareness, a moment of vulnerability.

His earlier ferocity, the burning desire to fight, did not stir in the face of the overwhelming presence before him. Not even for an instant. The thought of resistance didn’t cross his mind—not because he lacked the will, but because it would be utterly meaningless. A battle against an Archmage? A fool’s errand.

“I…” he began, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. What could he possibly say to explain this situation?

“No need to feel down, laddie,” the guard said, his voice gruff yet oddly sympathetic. The unexpected response sent a jolt through Zeke. “I had a feelin’ it’d end up like this.”

Zeke’s mouth fell open. He… expected this? He had anticipated that Zeke would knock them unconscious and tamper with their minds? What kind of guard was this? No—something wasn’t adding up.

Slowly, Zeke turned his head, following the dwarf’s pitying gaze. What he saw sent a chill down his spine.

Thoren and Balin stood before the inscribed wall, their backs turned to him, utterly motionless. It was as if they had never moved—as if the confrontation, the struggle, the theft of their memories had never happened.

They were standing in the exact same positions as when he had first entered the chamber.

In an instant, Zeke’s mind caught up with what he was seeing—and the opportunity it presented. He turned back to the guard, his face contorted in carefully crafted frustration.

“I… have a referral letter. How could they not even acknowledge me?” he demanded, his voice laced with just the right amount of indignation.

The guard let out a weary sigh, shaking his head but offering no explanation. After a brief, awkward silence, he simply said, “No use waitin’ any longer. He ain’t budgin’.”

Zeke cast one last lingering glance at the two scholars, their backs still rigidly turned toward the wall. With a heavy sigh, he conceded, “I guess you’re right.”

Without hesitation, he shoved the World Anchor back into his pocket and followed the guard toward the exit. As the heavy iron door swung shut behind them, a final, muffled thud echoed from within the chamber.

For a brief moment, Zeke’s breath hitched. Had something collapsed inside? Or was it just his imagination?

Thankfully, the guard either hadn’t heard the sound or simply dismissed it as unimportant. His stride remained steady as he retraced their path through the tower, showing no sign of hesitation or suspicion.

Not a single word passed between them until they reached the entrance. Even as the heavy doors swung open and Zeke stepped back into the open air, the man remained silent. The only acknowledgment he gave was a firm, almost sympathetic tap on Zeke’s shoulder before turning and vanishing back into the Tower of Scholars.

For a moment, Zeke just stood there, struggling to process what had happened.

Had he actually… escaped? Just like that?

His thoughts raced, but there was one question he needed answered above all else.

“Akasha?” he called out mentally. “Was that you?”

[Answer]

The presence of two collapsed bodies posed a significant risk. I chose to animate them to provide better cover while Host was recovering.

Zeke's breath hitched. Animate…

His eyes widened as realization set in. Akasha had used [Blood Puppeteering] on them while they were unconscious. Under normal circumstances, controlling Mages of his own level would have been impossible—but in their suppressed state, they had been easy prey.

“Thank you,” Zeke said inwardly. “You really saved my ass this time.”

In the next moment, Akasha's illusionary projection appeared beside him, walking in perfect sync as he made his way back toward the town.

“There is no need to thank me, Host,” Akasha replied. “My purpose is to serve you.”

Zeke offered a wry smile. “Sometimes, it feels like you'd make a better Mage than me...”

Though his words were lighthearted, there was a kernel of truth behind them that Zeke couldn't ignore. During his solitary march, the thought wouldn’t leave his mind.

The times he had missed crucial details, only to be saved by Akasha, were beginning to add up. More and more, it felt like everything that made him special was tied to Akasha and Khai’Zar. Without them, he couldn’t help but wonder just how much he would have truly accomplished on his own.

Now that the thought had taken root, it refused to leave him alone. As he reflected on his biggest achievements, the truth of it hit him like a sledgehammer.

Even his first major victory—the one that had earned him recognition in the empire’s prestigious school tournament—had been thanks to his Draconic heart. He could still vividly recall the chilling sensation of impending defeat as Leo prepared that final strike. His victory hadn’t been his own; it had been a result of the power granted to him.

As for his title as the youngest Grandmage?

Wasn’t that merely the result of Khai’Zar sharing the knowledge of the Mana Purifying Device, and Akasha recreating the designs while also finding the location of the missing ingredients? What part of it was truly his own achievement? With the help of those two, even a monkey could have managed to pull this off.

Zeke’s thoughts spiraled deeper. Each reflection seemed to undermine his sense of accomplishment. Meanwhile, the Spirit, only visible to him, continued to walk silently at his side, offering no words of comfort or guidance.

It was only when they were nearly at the town that Akasha finally spoke, her voice as detached and emotionless as ever. “What is the purpose of these thoughts?”

“What?” Zeke snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.

“Why does Host entertain such meaningless thoughts?” she repeated, her tone unchanging.

Zeke fell silent. Meaningless? His entire reputation, every achievement he had claimed, had been built upon the backs of others, and yet she dismissed it all as meaningless? How was he supposed to feel any sense of achievement when he was little more than a vessel for two far superior beings?

“Superior beings...” Akasha echoed, her voice betraying his very thoughts.

Zeke remained silent. There was no need for further words. The Spirit already knew his exact thoughts on the matter.

The two continued to walk in silence, with the Spirit appearing to be deep in thought. It was the first time Zeke had seen her like this, and he was beginning to grow curious about what she was pondering for such a long time. For a being such as her, such long deliberation was far from common.

“Back then…” she spoke at last, her voice unusually hesitant, “when you the Dragon in those ruins… did he willingly surrender to you?”

Zeke couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. The memory of the Dragon’s attempt to trick him out of his body had almost become a fond recollection, in hindsight. “That greedy old reptile? How could that be possible?”

Akasha gave a slight nod in acknowledgment.

“What about me?” she continued. “Did I decide to follow Host on a whim, or did we establish a contract, one that both sides agreed to?”

Zeke paused for a moment before answering, his voice steady. “We made a contract.”

Akasha nodded once more, a subtle satisfaction in her gesture, as though pleased with the answers Zeke had given. It almost felt as though she had orchestrated this entire exchange to draw him into some kind of trap. But rather than pressing further, she simply stared at him, her gaze expectant, as though waiting for something to happen.

“What?” Zeke finally asked, the weight of her unblinking stare becoming unbearable.

Akasha shook her head, her expression unreadable. “Host already knows.”

“Know what?”

“…The achievements of the vassals are the achievements of the king,” Akasha replied, her tone oddly calm, as though it were an obvious truth.

Zeke scoffed, the very idea absurd. “I am no king.”

“A king is he who makes others bend their knees,” she countered, her words clipped, as if reciting a passage from one of the countless books in her collection.

Zeke opened his mouth, ready to argue, but the Spirit spoke faster than he could react. “Even if the Dragon would never admit it, he has already made many concessions to benefit you,” she continued, her voice growing more thoughtful. “And I, too, have bent my knees willingly.” She paused, tilting her head as if something wasn’t quite right with the phrasing.

“Metaphorically, of course,” she added. “I don’t actually have physical knees to bend.”

Zeke’s words faltered, caught in his throat. For the first time in a long while, he was left utterly speechless. Had Akasha… just tried to cheer him up? More surprisingly, it was actually working. Rather than comforting him with empty words, she had chosen to checkmate him with cold, hard logic—and in that moment, it was exactly what he needed.

Zeke found his stride returning as his perspective began to shift. Yes, it was true that he wouldn’t have gotten this far without Akasha and Khai’Zar, but that didn’t mean he had simply been handed their assistance.

Hadn’t he risked his very life to bond with the Dragon? Hadn’t he fought tooth and nail for the chance to receive a Summon? In truth, it was his own grit, his cunning, and his willingness to bet everything that had brought him into contact with these two powerful beings. They hadn’t simply given him their support—they had been drawn to him because of his own actions, his own choices. That had to count for something.

Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter as much that it was his Draconic Heart or his Mind Spirit that had allowed him to rise to where he was. After all, if it were truly so easy to gain the aid of such powerful beings, then why didn’t others do the same?

In truth, the accomplishments of befriending a Dragon and securing Akasha’s fealty far outweighed any of the public accolades or titles he had earned. If there was anything Zeke could genuinely take pride in, it was having gained the trust of those two extraordinary beings.

And that, he realized, was no small feat.

[Notice]

I advise Host to leave the city. Once the Scholars awaken, they will likely have questions about what transpired. It is highly probable that Host will be summoned for questioning at that time.

Zeke was jolted out of his thoughts, the faint smile on his face fading into his usual, neutral expression. He hadn’t even noticed when the Spirit had disappeared, but without realizing it, he had followed the subtle trail she had set for him.

Now, he found himself standing in front of a familiar building—the one housing the Portal Network managed by the Mage’s Association.

Akasha was right. It was time to leave the city.

Staying any longer would be too risky, and besides, he had already accomplished everything he had set out to do. The pressure of his looming deadline weighed on him, relentless and unforgiving. His resolve solidified. There was no time to waste. With a sense of purpose, Zeke strode into the building.

“Welcome, Sir. Where would you like to travel?” the receptionist greeted him, his voice polite and routine.

Zeke placed his membership card on the counter for verification, his tone steady. “Tradespire,” he said. “Time to go home.”

B6 - Chapter 41: Soul Searching

Though this was far from his first time invading someone’s Soul, the experience felt so foreign that it might as well have been. In the past, Zeke had approached with hesitation, flinching at the slightest disturbance, as if walking a tightrope over an abyss.

Now, however, he moved with confidence, weaving through the Soul of the ancient dwarf as effortlessly as if he were strolling through the familiar halls of his own home.

Even the faintest impressions lingering in the surrounding matter were enough for him to discern their contents. He followed the fragmented traces with the precision of a bloodhound, instinctively weaving through the currents of memory. It came naturally, allowing himself to move according to an intuition he didn’t fully understand.

His search led him to a memory from Balin’s childhood—one only tangentially related to the World Anchor. Zeke caught only a fleeting glimpse, but it was the moment the scholar seemed to have first encountered ancient scripts and discovered his talent for deciphering them. From there, he traced the path of Balin’s obsession, immersing himself in memories of relentless study, until he arrived at the dwarf’s first discovery of an ancient treasure. That moment sparked a new thread in the tapestry of his memories—vanity.

And Zeke followed it.

From the moment young Balin unearthed the true purpose of a dormant artifact, his life had been irrevocably changed. The accolades, the praise, the funding—everything he had unknowingly craved—came crashing down upon him in one triumphant instant. His once-monotonous life of quiet study had been cast aside, replaced by the intoxicating rush of recognition. And what a rush it was!

Even the great artisans of his race, the mightiest warriors, the wisest scholars—and even his distant relative, the king—had acknowledged him with respect on the day he unveiled his discovery. What glory. What honor.

It was a dividing line in his life. No longer was Balin content to toil away in obscurity. He had tasted greatness, and he would chase that thrill again and again. Projects were discarded the moment they failed to spark brilliance, thrust upon junior researchers while Balin relentlessly pursued his next grand revelation.

Though many had called him ruthless and immoral, Balin paid no heed to the idle chatter of those he had long since surpassed. He had climbed too high, too far, to concern himself with their opinions. The only thing of any real concern was how to make his next discovery.

The discovery of the Compression Forge had elevated his status. The Eternal Hammer had secured him a place as an Elder of the Tower. The refinement of the Manaless Alloy had granted him a seat on the council. Each discovery had propelled him further, yet one pinnacle remained beyond his grasp.

Tower Master.

The highest honor a dwarven scholar could attain. A position of unparalleled prestige. Yet, it had remained vacant for generations, its requirements so steep that none had come close to meeting them. Even Balin, despite his royal bloodline, lacked both the influence and the achievements necessary to gather the votes required to claim it.

Fortunately, no one else met the requirements either—not even his long-time colleague and bitter rival, Thoren Ironhide. In every measure of prestige—whether influence, achievements, or scholarly prowess—the two stood deadlocked, neither able to claim superiority over the other.

The only way to break the stalemate was through a discovery so monumental that it would eclipse all that had come before. But how could such a feat be achieved? They had spent years shadowing one another, pouncing the moment a project showed even the slightest promise. The fear of being outdone was greater than the fear of stagnation.

Yet, in their relentless efforts to keep each other in check, they had squandered time—time that had allowed others to rise. A new generation of scholars had begun to encroach upon their status, their names whispered alongside Balin's and Thoren's. It was maddening. And, in some ways, even worse than seeing his lifelong rival succeed. At least Thoren had earned his respect. These upstarts? They were nothing more than opportunists.

In mere moments, Zeke had unraveled the threads of Balin’s life so completely that it felt as if he had known the dwarf for years. His motivations, his relationships, his relentless ambition—all laid bare before him. Yet Zeke felt no interest, no appreciation for the insight. It was all just noise, an obstacle on the path to what he truly sought.

The moment when Balin had finally found the key to his ascension—the events of this very day.

With every twist and turn, the memories pulled him closer. Zeke could sense them now, just beyond reach, lurking at the edge of his awareness as he traced the lines of Balin’s obsession. Everything led to this singular moment in time—the instant Zeke had placed the World Anchor before him.

There it was.

Though the events had only just transpired, they had already woven themselves deep into the fabric of Balin’s Soul, entangled with everything that defined him—obsession, ambition, desire, greed, and pride.

There was no telling what losing such a pivotal part of himself would do to the man. But Zeke didn’t care. If Balin and his accomplice hadn’t conspired to steal from him—hadn’t planned to take his life once he was no longer useful—none of this would have been necessary.

Without hesitation, Zeke did as the Devourer would have. He consumed the memories of today’s events, along with every thread that connected them.

In an instant, Zeke relived his visit—but this time, through Balin’s eyes.

At first, the dwarf had been dismissive, barely sparing him a glance. He had examined the cube on a whim, expecting little of consequence. But the moment he recognized the ancient script etched into its surface, his emotions surged so violently that Zeke nearly recoiled from the force of them.

A World Anchor.

An artifact spoken of only in the oldest dwarven texts—so rare, so elusive, that most scholars dismissed it as mere myth. A gateway to an independent world, a relic said to have been forged by the Monarch of Space himself in an age when godlike beings still walked the earth.

How had the boy gotten his hands on such a tool?
How much did he truly know?
Had the Anchor been bound?

Dozens of questions flared and died in an instant, leaving only a single, undeniable truth—he could not allow this human to leave with the artifact. No matter the cost.

Zeke continued to relive their encounter through Balin’s eyes. The dwarf had been prepared to escalate the situation if necessary, but he had never truly expected it to come to that. In his mind, the young human before him was nothing more than a spoiled merchant’s brat with a flicker of talent—an insect compared to his own centuries of study and achievement.

All the more shocking was when the boy’s face went utterly blank—void of all emotion—and in the blink of an eye, he vanished like a mirage. Balin barely had time to register the shift before the impossible happened.

The human ripped the World Anchor from his grasp as effortlessly as one might snatch a trinket from a child. The sheer audacity, the raw power behind the act, left him so stunned that he barely registered the brutal kick that followed—shattering his ribs and sending him hurtling across the chamber.

But one thing remained seared into his memory.

Those slitted, golden eyes. Cold. Unfeeling. Watching him without an ounce of concern as he was tossed through the air like a discarded sack of grain.

The rest of the confrontation played out in fragmented flashes. Balin, lingering at the edges, reinforcing the space around them in secret, ensuring the human could not use his magic. He relished the moment Thoren’s metal constructs tore into the boy’s flesh, the satisfaction of seeing him beaten, the sheer triumph as he kicked him down, pressing their advantage.

His ultimatum…

And then—

The sudden, horrifying reversal.3

Zeke awoke with a sharp inhale. Though only a moment had passed in reality, the replay of events had stretched on for what felt like hours. He had not only relived everything that had transpired since setting foot in this room but had also glimpsed countless fragments of related discoveries buried within the dwarf’s mind.

His gaze dropped to Balin’s unconscious form. The dwarf’s already pale complexion had turned ashen, thin rivulets of blood now seeping from his nose, ears, and the corners of his eyes. The removal of such a crucial memory had clearly exacted a heavy toll—both spiritually and physically. Yet, despite his deteriorated state, it didn’t seem life-threatening.

Zeke’s eyes shifted to Thoren next. It was unlikely the other scholar possessed more insight into the World Anchor than Balin, but stopping now was not an option. This wasn’t just about uncovering its purpose—it was about erasing all traces of what had transpired here today.

He had already gone too far.

Now, more than ever, it was imperative that neither of them remembered a thing.

With a deep breath, Zeke steadied himself and turned his focus to Thoren, repeating the same meticulous process. He retraced the dwarf’s memories, weaving through the threads of his past until he reached the present day. The process unfolded just as smoothly as before, and once again, Zeke showed no hesitation in devouring the memories, unconcerned with whatever damage it might cause.

As expected, Thoren possessed no additional insight into the World Anchor. Both scholars had only ever encountered mentions of it in ancient texts—myths and legends passed down through the ages. The few inscriptions they had managed to decipher on the cube had merely confirmed its authenticity but offered no concrete understanding of its functions.

For a fleeting moment, Zeke entertained the idea of imprisoning them—forcing them to work on deciphering the artifact until every secret was laid bare. But that was wishful thinking. It would already be a miracle if he managed to leave this place without his actions being discovered. Pushing his luck any further would be reckless.

A sharp tingling ran through Zeke’s nerves, a stark reminder that he, too, had not emerged from this ordeal unscathed. Though his mind had briefly merged with that of the Devourer, he was under no illusion—he was not that creature. As a human, he could not consume memories freely, nor without consequence. There was always a price to pay, especially with his crude and imperfect methods.

His fingers curled into fists as he fought to still the tremors in his hands. With slow, steady breaths, he endured the discomfort. The sensation of misalignment between body and soul was never pleasant, but thankfully, this time, the effect was minor. Within minutes, he managed to stabilize himself, regaining his equilibrium.

Opening his eyes, Zeke allowed himself a moment of satisfaction—only for it to vanish in an instant.

Standing just steps away was the last person he wanted to see.

The dwarf who had guided him to this chamber was watching him with a hard, unreadable gaze.

Zeke barely had time to react before the air around him grew heavy, pressing down on him like an avalanche. The dwarf’s hand rested on the hilt of his axe, his Mana filling the room with a suffocating pressure.

The weight of an Archmage.

“What in the name o’ the stone is goin’ on here?!”

B6 - Chapter 40: Desperate Measures

Zeke looked down, taking in the state of his body.

Despite his horrendous appearance, he had long since realized the truth. The hastily conjured weaponry of the dwarven Metal Mage was nothing more than a mere inconvenience to him.

The blood that streamed from every wound made it appear as though he was on the verge of death, but that was by design. The relentless outpour concealed the true shallowness of his injuries. Throughout the entire barrage, Zeke had only sustained minor scratches.

Even Akasha’s weakening defense, which seemed like a sign of vulnerability, had been in response to the fact that none of these attacks could truly harm him.

Zeke pinched his skin as hard as he could. It felt soft and supple, but beneath it, he could feel an unyielding layer. It was as if he were wearing a suit of armor beneath his skin. It was at that very layer that most of the attacks had been stopped.

Fascinating.

Zeke’s gaze shifted to the two unmoving bodies sprawled on the ground, their forms stained with his blood.

Though he had hoped to learn more, Balin had granted him a brief but revealing glimpse of the truth in the final moments of the fights. First, the artifact in his hands was of immeasurable value—so much so that its very possession could shatter centuries of tradition, dishonoring even the royal family in the eyes of the continent.

Second, it became clear that Balin viewed the artifact not as a tool for personal gain, but as a weapon to serve a greater purpose—one that benefited a race, rather than an individual. Whatever power the artifact wielded, it seemed it could only reach its full potential when used for the greater good, for the collective rather than the singular.

Though he had hoped to glean more by feigning weakness, he was still satisfied with the outcome.

His gaze returned to the two motionless bodies sprawled on the ground. This was… troublesome. He hadn’t killed them, but striking down two esteemed scholars was no small matter. Worse yet, they weren’t just any scholars; they were elders of the renowned Ironhide and Stoneheart families—pillars of dwarven society.

Of course, Zeke’s actions had been entirely justified, but if word of this incident spread, keeping the existence of the World Anchor a secret would be impossible. No one would believe that two esteemed scholars had turned against him without cause.

It was a difficult problem, one that demanded a solution—quickly.

While considering his next move, Zeke extended both arms. Immediately, the crimson pool coating the hall began to shift. As if drawn into an invisible vortex, it spiraled inward, condensing toward him. But rather than seeping into the floor, the blood defied gravity, streaming upward and reentering his body.

In mere moments, not a single drop remained. Even the stray droplets spilled by Balin had been meticulously reclaimed. Now, the only signs of battle were a cracked section of the wall and the dozens of crude iron projectiles scattered across the floor.

There wasn’t much Zeke could do about those. He was neither an Earth Mage capable of mending stone nor a metalworker who could restore the weapons to their original form without a forge.

Erasing all traces of the fight was impossible—but in the end, it hardly mattered. Even if someone stumbled upon the aftermath, it was likely the scholars themselves who would work to keep the incident buried.

Zeke crossed his arms, his index finger tapping idly against his upper arm. Just like him, they had no interest in making today’s events public. As of this moment, only three people knew of the World Anchor’s existence, and revealing it to anyone else would only complicate their own efforts to claim it.

After all, a secret shared too widely was no secret at all.

His gaze hardened as he studied the unmoving forms of the two greedy scoundrels who had tried to rob and kill him. Even three people knowing about the World Anchor was two too many. If they couldn’t deal with him alone, they would undoubtedly turn to their families for help.

That would be an immense problem. He had just struck a deal with the Ironhide family—one they could easily leverage to strangle him financially. The Stoneheart family, on the other hand, would likely be even more dangerous.

This time, he wouldn’t underestimate how far they were willing to go to claim his treasure. If a so-called scholar had been ready to murder him in cold blood, there was no telling what the more militant-minded dwarves would do once they learned of the World Anchor’s existence.

Should he kill the witnesses?

No. That wasn’t a viable solution either. If both of them turned up dead right after his visit, even a fool could pinpoint the culprit. At that point, the Stoneheart and Ironhide families would turn against him without hesitation. Provoking a dwarven blood feud was the last thing he needed.

It was a troublesome predicament. He couldn’t kill them, but he also couldn’t allow them to spread what they had learned.

Was there a way to ensure their silence?

The Memory Sealing Ritual came to mind, but it wasn’t a viable option. For one, there were ways to bypass its restrictions. Second, he had no means of setting one up here. And third—most importantly—he doubted he could even convince them to swear the oath in the first place.

The same applied to nearly every other ritual he could think of. He simply wasn’t in a position to make any of them happen.

Zeke’s expression darkened as a particular option surfaced in his mind. He could… attempt to erase their memories directly from their Souls.

Theoretically, it should be possible. Unlike the Archmage he had worked on in Undercity, these two weren’t overwhelmingly stronger than him. The danger was significantly lower.

Still, he hesitated.

Tampering with the Soul had always felt like a taboo—one of the few lines he believed should only be crossed as a last resort. Especially by an amateur like himself. Even with the utmost caution, there was no telling how much damage he might cause in his attempt to find and erase every trace of this event from their minds.

Even so, two compelling reasons kept him from dismissing the idea entirely.

First, he had little concern for these two. Even if their Souls were damaged in the process, it wouldn't make much difference. Their journey as Mages had long since reached its end.

The second reason—far more tempting—was the opportunity to learn more about the World Anchor from their memories. Even if he only erased their recollection of recent events, he would inevitably brush against deeper knowledge of the artifact. After all, memories did not exist in isolation; they were a tangled web of past and present, interwoven with countless sensations and insights…

Zeke's brows furrowed, questioning his own thoughts. Where was this certainty coming from?

He had always struggled to grasp the complexities of the Soul—its structure, its workings. But now, the picture had never been clearer. What had once seemed like an intricate web of near-impossible calculations had become as straightforward as simple arithmetic.

With a jolt, he realized the source of his newfound clarity. These insights had not come naturally; they had been gained from two key experiences—his observations of Augustus Geistreich and the assimilation with the Mind Eater. The former had provided structure to his understanding, while the latter had altered his mind in ways that made deciphering the nature of the Soul feel... effortless.

Zeke’s gaze flicked to the two unconscious figures on the ground. In that moment, a firm resolve settled within him. He was going to do it. Not only did he stand to gain immensely, but he also craved the opportunity to test himself and his newfound understanding of the Soul. Chances like this were rare, and he couldn’t say how long it would be before another such opportunity came around.

With a deep breath, Zeke extended his senses and connected to his private beacon in Tradespire. Among the supplies he always kept there was a healthy stock of Supra root. He had learned the hard way how valuable it could be, especially when dealing with a powerful Mage. It was always wise to keep a reserve on hand. After all, one never knew when the need to subdue an opponent might arise.

However, that was not the purpose for which Zeke intended to use the extract now. He had once discovered that when a Mage’s Core was suppressed, their mental defenses became significantly weakened. This, in turn, made it much easier to manipulate the Soul itself.

Without hesitation, Zeke administered a portion of the extract to each of the dwarfs. The potent substance slid down their throats effortlessly, while his telekinesis ensured their windpipes were sealed shut. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he considered the irony—after all the trouble he had gone through to keep them alive, it would be almost absurd for them to suffocate from a mere sip of water.

With all his preparations complete, Zeke settled in to wait. The extract would take a few minutes to take effect, but the passing time felt agonizingly slow. Every second seemed to stretch longer as the possibility of being discovered loomed closer. His gaze darted toward the door far more often than he would have liked to admit.

He couldn’t help himself.

This was the worst possible time to be caught. There was no way to explain why he had drugged the two scholars, and it wouldn’t take much for anyone to realize that his intentions were far from honorable. Drugging an already defeated opponent was hardly a decision that would paint him in a good light.

Fortunately, the guards showed no sign of interrupting his actions. Zeke couldn’t decide if it was out of respect for the scholars or simply a lack of concern for his strength. After all, it was hard to believe that these two respected elders—Mages who had likely lived for centuries—could be in any real danger from a junior like him, someone who had not even reached his twentieth year.

If they had truly believed otherwise, they likely wouldn’t have been so negligent with their security.

Zeke couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could get away with being underestimated. Despite his many achievements, the public perception still saw him as a promising young talent—nothing more than that. He was not yet considered a true threat to the established powerhouses of the world.

Ideally, Zeke wanted to keep that image intact for as long as possible. After all, if word spread that several Archmages—and even a Progenitor—had fallen prey to his schemes, he would never again be able to walk through a room without everyone around him tightening their grip on their weapons. That kind of attention would make things far more difficult.

As he passed the time, contemplating such matters, Zeke felt the Mana within the two dwarfs begin to wane. The once-potent energy that flowed through them grew steadily weaker. Finally, after about a dozen minutes, the fluctuations stopped entirely.

It was time.

B6 - Chapter 39: Violence

The time has finally come. My old narrator voice is no longer officially supported by Elevenlabs. Though not impossible to continue using it, this seemed like a sign to make a switch.

Let me know what you think!

Every nerve in Zeke’s body was sharpened to an edge, his muscles coiled like a tightly wound spring. A chilling calm settled over him, laced with eager anticipation—a sensation that only came in the moments before an inevitable fight.

It was exhilarating!

Yet, he remained unmoving, watching the two scholars with the sharp focus of a hawk. Balin and Thoren widened their eyes, clearly not expecting him to meet their show of force with such unwavering defiance. They had likely assumed intimidation alone would make him back down.

Too bad for them.

With the Draconic Heart pounding in his chest, retreat was almost unthinkable. Only a battle with near-impossible odds of victory might have given him pause—if even that. It was a sobering realization, but Zeke didn’t linger on it. For someone who had never particularly reveled in violence, his newfound eagerness for battle felt, in this moment, like an advantage rather than a concern.

As expected, the two scholars exchanged a glance. With the situation escalating, coordination between them had become even more crucial. However, what had been an advantage during negotiations had now turned into a weakness—Zeke had been waiting for precisely that fleeting moment of distraction.

In the instant their gazes left him, Zeke vanished from his spot, reappearing before Balin in the same breath. His hand shot forward, aiming for the artifact in the dwarf’s grasp.

The moment his fingers brushed against the slick metal surface of the cube, he yanked back with all his strength. But the instincts of a Grandmage were not to be underestimated. Though Balin hadn't been able to track Zeke’s movement, his grip tightened reflexively the moment he sensed something amiss.

Not good.

Zeke couldn’t afford to be locked in place—not while facing two powerful opponents. Mobility was his greatest advantage. Yet, despite his efforts, the dwarf’s grip was unyielding.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. There was an old saying in the Empire: An Earth Mage with his feet on the ground is like a mountain. While a touch dramatic, there was truth to it. Earth Mages were among the toughest defenders, their physical strength unmatched among most spellcasters.

And Balin, a cousin to the king, was no exception. If anything, his dwarven heritage only reinforced his natural resilience, making him an even more formidable opponent.

At least, that would have been true against anyone else.

Zeke’s muscles bulged beyond their limits as his pupils narrowed into slits. In that instant, Balin’s grip felt no stronger than a child’s. With effortless force, Zeke ripped the cube from his grasp, the violent motion scraping the dwarf’s hands raw.

In his accelerated perception, he caught the grimace of pain forming on Balin’s face—but only for a fraction of a second. His follow-up strike sent the old man flying across the room before the pain could even fully register.

The entire exchange had taken place in the blink of an eye—far too fast for either dwarf to unleash even a single spell. However, now the brief window of advantage from his surprise attack had closed. A dense barrage of projectiles surged toward him from behind—Thoren’s response was swift and relentless.

The dwarf had conjured a flurry of razor-sharp metal arrows from pure Mana, an impressive feat given the short time he had to react. However, the rapid assault came at a cost—sacrificing power for speed.

Even so, taking those projectiles head-on would leave him seriously wounded. Fortunately, though physically outnumbered, he wasn’t fighting alone either. While he had been focused on retrieving the artifact, Akasha had seamlessly stepped into the role of defender.

Four spear-like appendages burst from his back, two on either side of his spine. At first glance, they seemed rigid, but the moment they struck, they shifted—whips of crimson energy lashing out to intercept the incoming projectiles. This variation of his [Blood Whips] had quickly become Akasha’s favorite, and Zeke had to admit, it suited her perfectly.

The sheer mental strain of controlling four independent limbs would have been overwhelming for most, but Akasha wielded them with ease. At times, they took on the sharp, segmented precision of a spider’s legs, stabbing and skewering with lethal intent. In the next instant, they flowed like the sinuous coils of a serpent, striking with eerie, fluid grace.

It was an incredibly demanding weapon to master, yet the Spirit wielded it flawlessly, forming an impenetrable defense at his back.

The greatest advantage of fighting alongside Akasha, however, was how seamlessly their actions synchronized. At times, Zeke felt as if the additional limbs sprouting from his back were truly his own—moving exactly as he willed, without the need for thought or command.

This was the power of their bond. By granting the Spirit unrestricted access to his mind, their cooperation transcended mere teamwork; it became instinctual. They didn’t fight as two separate entities but as a single being with two minds, anticipating the other’s every move.

The result was as such.

Not a single shard of metal touched his skin. Every projectile was either slapped from the air or sliced to shreds before it could make contact. But that wasn’t enough to bring down a Grandmage. While Zeke had easily dealt with Thoren’s first spell—rushed and desperate in an attempt to protect his colleague—the dwarf’s follow-up was far more calculated.

Metal, like stone, was omnipresent in the dwarven city. Lanterns, screws, nails, and ornaments—all crafted from metal—now seemed to conspire against him. To Zeke, it felt as though the very room had turned into an enemy. Screeching and slicing through the air, the metal objects—once harmless—had transformed into sharp, jagged spears, hurtling toward him from every direction. Even with his heightened perception, there was no way to dodge. The encircling barrage left no openings, no escape.

Zeke focused on the area next to his second target and reached for the familiar tear in reality. With a thought, he sought to slip through the cracks of space, as he had done countless times before. But this time, to his utter bewilderment and growing alarm, the usually pliable fabric of the world resisted his pull. The spatial tear refused to open, locking him in place.

This… had never happened before.

Before the shock of the situation could fully register on his face, Zeke was jolted by the searing pain of metal slicing his shoulder. The sudden jolt yanked him back into reality, and he realized the extent of the crisis. Though Akasha did her best to shield him, the relentless barrage of projectiles was overwhelming, even for her.

Zeke fought to assist her, evading as many of the incoming strikes as he could. But it was futile. Even when he slipped past one attack, the stakes and blades twisted midair, adjusting their trajectory to follow him. They pursued him like a swarm of angry bees, relentlessly honing in on their target.

Soon, Zeke’s body was covered in bloody lacerations, each strike leaving its mark. It felt as if not a single part of him remained unscathed, his body painted red from head to toe. Even Akasha’s tendrils, once fierce and controlled, seemed to have lost some of their strength as they struggled to even protect his vital areas. Her movements, once fluid and precise, now seemed sluggish, overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught.

After nearly cutting him to ribbons, Thoren’s assault finally began to slow. His face—pale and exhausted—was lit with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed victory was assured.

Freed from the constant barrage, Zeke collapsed to his knees. A massive pool of blood gathered beneath him, its size enough to kill an ordinary man twice over. Yet Zeke remained conscious, though it was unclear for how much longer. The pool continued to grow as his life essence steadily slipped from his grasp.

"Arrogant whelp," Thoren spat, his tone thick with scorn. "Ye've got the stones to challenge Thoren Ironhide, yet yer skill ain't worth a rusty nail."

Zeke gasped for breath, each inhalation a struggle. His voice came out as little more than a rasp, barely audible. “How?” he croaked, the question more a whisper than anything else.

It wasn’t Thoren who responded, but a pained voice from farther away. “Ye thought that wee love tap could put me down, did ye?”

The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the room, each one heavy against the stone floor. Zeke glanced up just in time to see Balin looming over him, his broad figure casting a long shadow across his kneeling form.

The old dwarf had clearly seen better days. A gash ran along the back of his head, likely from the impact with the wall, and his sternum appeared shattered, the deep bruising and swelling evidence of the brutal blow he’d taken. Yet despite the visible injuries, the man was still standing—still very much in fighting shape.

Zeke’s gaze fell to the man’s hands, and there, he found the answer to his question. Clutched tightly between the dwarf’s fingers was an elegantly carved crystal, its surface etched with an intricate web of enchanted nodes. The power of Space practically oozed from the artifact, radiating with an energy that Zeke immediately recognized. He didn’t need to be told—this was the tool that had solidified space and rendered his teleportation useless.

But the artifact had clearly borne the strain of its use. A series of fine cracks marred its outer shell, each one telling the story of its limits. This was a tool on the brink of failure. It wouldn’t be able to hold off a determined Space Mage forever. But that, Zeke thought grimly, was of little comfort in the here and now.

A heavy boot slammed into Zeke's midsection, forcing the breath from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground. The pain was immediate and sharp, but Zeke paid more attention to the warmth of his own blood, spreading out across his back and pooling beneath him. The crimson stain quickly began to spread, covering most of the hall. It was an absurd amount.

Despite the alarming sight, the two dwarves had eyes only for the object clutched tightly in Zeke’s hand. The punishment his body had endured hadn't been enough to make him relinquish the World Anchor. Even now, lying on his back with a boot pressing down on his chest, he refused to let go.

“Got some fire in ye, lad,” Balin grunted, his tone low and mocking. “But spirit alone won’t save ye. Tell ye what,” he went on, the offer coldly insincere, “Ye drop that nonsense ‘bout the cube an’ forget everythin’ ye heard today… an’ I just might let ye walk outta here with yer head still on yer shoulders.”

Zeke let out a snort, a burst of blood flying from his mouth with the motion. “Do you even dare kill me, scholar?” he rasped, his voice edged with defiance. “I am no common scoundrel. I arrived at these halls with the invitation of the Ironhide family, after rendering them great service. Dozens of the guards witnessed this.”

Balin’s lips curled in a brief grimace, but his face quickly hardened, his resolve firming. "Ye talk sense, lad. But ye’ve sorely underestimated the worth o’ the World Anchor." His gaze shifted to the cube in Zeke’s grasp, a hunger, and fervor flickering in his eyes. "If ye had the faintest clue what kind o’ treasure ye be holdin’… Hah! In the right hands, lad, it could be used for far greater things than ye can even fathom."

Zeke’s eyes narrowed, a fierce determination rising within him. “All the more reason not to hand it over.”

Balin let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his voice heavy with resignation, as if he truly regretted what was about to happen. "Then ye leave me no damned choice!"

Zeke felt the stone beneath him shift. It was as if the dwarf was preparing to use the very floor itself to crush him. In a weakened, near-mortal state, there was no way to escape—especially with the ability to manipulate space sealed. The situation appeared grim. Or, it would have, if all was as it seemed.

“What…!?”

As they spoke, the pool of blood that had spread across the hall began to move, a subtle change at first, but quickly growing more pronounced. Only now did the dwarfs notice the unnaturalness of the situation—but by the time they recognized it, it was far too late.

Dozens of tendrils, slick and red, shot up from the blood-soaked floor. The firsts to strike wrapped tightly around both of their ankles, yanking them off balance. Before they could react, the tendrils surged upwards, forcing them to their knees, and then flattened them against the stone.

Caught completely off guard, both dwarfs found themselves helpless in a matter of seconds. Their limbs were completely restrained, and tight coils of blood wrapped around their necks, cutting off their airways. There was nothing they could do. The attack had come too swiftly, the force overwhelming, and the execution as ruthless as it was sudden.

Amidst the chaos of the scene, a bloodied figure stood calmly, watching with cold detachment as the restrained dwarfs struggled for breath. The contrast between the brutality of the moment and the figure's unhurried stance only added to the eerie tension that hung in the air.

B6 - Chapter 38: World Anchor

The aloof scholars had suddenly transformed, their demeanor shifting into something primal. The way they stared at Zeke, eyes gleaming with a hunger that was both unsettling and unnatural, made them appear more like ravenous beasts than the learned men they had been moments ago.

The change was so abrupt that Zeke’s mind struggled to catch up. He had expected his treasure to be valuable, but he hadn’t anticipated such an extreme reaction from these clearly arrogant individuals.

What had they learned that could compel them to abandon their usual air and act with such desperation?

Zeke glanced down at the cube in the scholar’s hand, his fingers tightening for a moment as he pondered his next move. He didn’t owe them any answers, yet he realized that if he wanted their help, he would need to offer them something in return.

“I found it in a ruin,” he began, keeping his tone casual. “It’s a relic left behind by an ancient civilization that once lived underground.”

“Dwarfs?” Balin asked, his voice laced with an eager, almost hopeful note.

Zeke shook his head. “Unlikely. They went by a different name, and they were also masters of Mind Magic.”

The implication hung heavily in the air, unspoken but undeniable. Dwarfs, as far as anyone knew, couldn’t wield Mind Magic.

“Where’s this ruin at, then?” Thoren asked, his voice sharp with sudden interest.

“Arkanheim,” Zeke replied.

There was no need to elaborate further; the mere mention of its location within the Empire made it clear that it was beyond the dwarfs’ reach. Even if they somehow secured the Emperor’s permission, they all knew that nothing of value would ever be allowed to leave his grasp.

The ruin, like everything else within Arkanheim, was the Emperor’s to command.

“Spill it, lad. How’d ye come by this thing?” Balin demanded after a moment of silence.

Zeke shook his head. “I’ve answered enough of your questions. Now, tell me—what is written on the cube?”

For a brief moment, Balin looked as though he was about to explode in frustration, but he caught himself just in time. His expression tightened as he exchanged a quick glance with Thoren—a glance that was clearly meant to go unnoticed. But Zeke saw it.

“We’ll need some time t’ figure this out properly.” Balin finally said, stroking his beard.

“…Few days should do the trick,” Thoren added smoothly, as if they had already reached an unspoken agreement.

Zeke’s brow furrowed. Even if he hadn’t caught the glance they exchanged moments ago, their behavior alone would have been enough to raise suspicion. Balin’s grip on the cube was just a little too tight, his fingers clinging to it as though he feared it might vanish. Thoren, meanwhile, watched Zeke intently, his gaze sharp and assessing, like a predator sizing up its prey.

Zeke had no doubts anymore—they had already deciphered something. Something significant enough to make these two rivals set aside their differences and present a unified front. In other words, they understood the true value of the cube.

His first instinct was to put his foot down. It was obvious—they were trying to get him to leave the artifact in their care, just as he had feared. What had started as a mere suspicion was now a certainty: if he handed it over, he would never see it again.

But he forced himself to stay calm, suppressing the urge to shut them down immediately. If he confronted them outright, they would simply refuse to share any of their findings. And he needed answers.

No, this called for a more delicate approach.

Zeke began stroking his chin, his expression carefully measured. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured, as if weighing his options. “I was planning to leave the city today… Extending my stay on such short notice might be troublesome. Especially if it’s just to indulge my curiosity over what could be a meaningless trinket.”

The dwarves visibly bristled at his words. Their agitation was plain to see—tensed shoulders, clenched jaws, eyes burning with barely concealed greed. Had they been thinking clearly, they might have seen through his act. But they weren’t. Their obsession had made them careless, and to Zeke, they were easy marks.

“It ain't just some trinket!” Thoren blurted, unable to contain himself.

Zeke simply shook his head, as if unconvinced. “You can’t know that, honored scholar. You said it yourself—it would take days to decipher. And what if, after all that, it turns out to be nothing more than an elaborate paperweight? I’m afraid my time is far too valuable to take such a gamble.”

Once again, the scholars exchanged a single glance—silent yet filled with meaning. Despite their usual rivalry, it was clear they understood each other on an almost instinctual level. The kind of unspoken communication they shared was something even longtime lovers might envy.

Balin cleared his throat, loosening his grip on the cube ever so slightly as he lifted it up. “Can't be sayin' fer certain, but we know fer damn sure this ain't no regular artifact!”

Zeke crossed his arms, his gaze sharp. “And what makes you so sure?” he asked bluntly. “Or are you just telling me what I want to hear?”

Thoren shook his head so vigorously that his beard swayed like a pendulum. “Nah, nah, nah! Ain’t no way. This here artifact, it’s somethin' mighty special.”

“Special how?” Zeke pressed, his tone sharp.

Balin gritted his teeth before reluctantly admitting, “It’s tied to them deeper secrets o' Spatial Magic, it is.”

Zeke snorted, flexing his Core and flooding the chamber with raw Spatial Mana. The air shimmered under the pressure of his power. “You think I can’t tell that much?” he scoffed. “Even the storage bags I can buy for a handful of coins are tied to the so-called ‘mysteries of Spatial Magic.’ You’ll have to do better than that.”

“How in th' hells can ye compare a World Anchor to some simple spatial compressin’ enchantment, eh? Yer out o' yer mind, lad!” Thoren burst out before he could stop himself.

Zeke’s grin spread as he finally dropped his act, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides. “World Anchor?” he repeated, his voice laced with curiosity. “Care to enlighten me on what that is?”

Thoren’s face darkened as he realized his mistake, his head dipping in frustration. He clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to dig the hole any deeper. Balin shot him a withering glare but quickly turned his focus back to Zeke. Now was not the time for them to turn on each other.

“Aye, ye’re right, lad,” Balin said, his previous civility vanishing like a wisp of smoke. “We know what this is. But if ye think ye’ll pry any more out o’ us, ye’re sorely mistaken!”

Zeke’s grin widened. Now that he had a name to work with, he was confident he could unravel the rest on his own. Already, he could feel Akasha drawing more heavily on his Core, likely scouring her archives for any mention of a World Anchor.

“…But now that the cards are on the table, let me speak me mind as well,” Balin continued.

Zeke remained silent, curious to see what the old man would try.

“I’d be willin’ to buy this here artifact.”

Zeke didn’t hesitate. “Not interested.”

Balin showed no sign of frustration at the quick refusal. If anything, he seemed to have expected it. “Listen up, will ye?” he said smoothly. “I ain’t speakin’ as some scholar, lad—I’m speakin’ as part o' the royal clan...”

Zeke’s brows furrowed in confusion. Was the mention of the royal family meant as a threat, or was it an enticement? Given the cunning nature of this old bastard, it was likely intended to serve both purposes. Or perhaps he had something else in mind entirely.

“Don’t be thinkin’ I’m a fool,” Balin grumbled, a smug grin pulling at his lips. “Despite me post here, I’ve got me ear pressed to the stone. I know what’s brewin’ in the world.”

Zeke kept his face neutral, though inside, curiosity churned. Where was this man’s confidence coming from? What did he know that Zeke didn’t?

“…If ye be wantin’ to rise up as a Merchant Lord, ye’ll need a king’s mark o’ approval, aye?” Balin asked, a wide grin spreading across his face. His earlier words hadn’t been mere bluster; he was clearly well-informed.

Zeke didn’t respond, but the dwarf hadn’t expected him to. He carried on without missing a beat.

“What ye don’t know, lad, is that not a single king ‘round here’s gonna give that idea a second thought.”

Zeke frowned, his composure slipping. “What makes you say that?”

Balin’s grin only widened. “Ah, it’s simple really. All o’ em been told to turn ye down flat.” he said, dropping a bombshell that sent a chill through Zeke’s core. Asked to deny him? By who? The list of people who held that kind of influence was likely very short, and only a single name came to his mind.

“…Since when do the dwarfs bow to the Emperor?” Zeke asked, disgust rising on his face.

Balin merely chuckled. “Think again, brat. We don’t quake in our boots like ye soft-skins do. Even if Augustus himself marched in here, he couldn’t order me cousin to wipe his arse, let alone tell him who to back.”

Zeke’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Had he really been so wrong? But if it wasn’t the Emperor behind this, then who? Was there some other hidden enemy, one with even more sway than the Emperor himself?

A single name surfaced in his mind, but he pushed it down. He hoped, with every fiber of his being, that he was wrong.

Balin’s voice cut through his thoughts like a snake's hiss. “What d'ye say? Ye wanna be backed by me Stoneheart kin, or would ye rather make an enemy of us?”

Zeke frowned, his focus snapping back to the present. He shook off his musings, anger bubbling under the surface. If Balin thought that name alone would intimidate him, he was gravely mistaken. Zeke had stood against the might of the Empire itself—he wasn’t going to cower before some old man hiding behind his bloodline. If they wanted to make an enemy of him, so be it. He’d dealt with worse.

“Not interested,” he repeated, his voice firm.

For the first time, Balin’s composure cracked. His face twisted, turning red with barely contained fury. “Ye think ye’ve got a choice, eh, lad?!” he growled. “The moment ye brought that Anchor here, it was decided—it stays! Ye can name a price, or ye can walk away with naught!”

In an instant, the atmosphere shifted. Balin flooded the hall with his Mana, a clear declaration. Thoren stepped up beside him, his own energy flaring dangerously.

Zeke quickly assessed the situation. Both dwarves were Grandmages, likely at the peak of their tier. Balin wielded Earth affinity, while Thoren commanded Metal. Individually, either one possessed more raw Mana than Zeke—but together, they completely overshadowed his newly advanced Core.

Yet, not a flicker of fear crossed his face. Mana alone didn’t determine victory. The fact that these two had remained at the Grandmage level despite their privileged backgrounds and long lifespans spoke volumes. They lacked the talent or the experience to ascend to Archmages. More than likely, neither had seen a real fight in decades—perhaps longer than Zeke had been alive.

Meanwhile, he had waded through battle after battle, leaving only drained husks in his wake. His draconic heart pounded with excitement, sending a euphoric rush through his veins. If these old fools thought they could intimidate him, they were in for a rude awakening.

Without hesitation, Zeke slipped into a state of [Bloodbound Clarity], a skill that had become part of his routine. This current version doubled his perception speed without straining his Core, making it feel almost like cheating.

His eyes quickly darted to the door. The guard, who had served as his guide, hadn’t entered the chamber when Zeke had shown off his Space affinity, and he hadn’t come in now either. It was likely the man couldn’t sense the energy fluctuations from outside the chamber.

Better to keep it that way.

While he was confident in his abilities, the presence of guards would turn the tide against him quickly. If reinforcements joined the fray, even escape would be impossible.

Zeke licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Only now, with the blood surging through his veins, did he fully comprehend the extent of the changes brought about by his draconic awakening. He was practically aching for a fight.

The violence, the danger, the rush of it all—it was as if every fiber of his being thirsted for the conflict.

B6 - Chapter 37: Tower of Scholars

The path to the Tower of Scholars was unlike anything Zeke had seen in the dwarven capital. Instead of the bustling forges and hammering of metal that filled the lower districts, here the air was crisp, undisturbed by the constant roar of industry.

The streets wound ever upward, the stone paths expertly carved to ensure steady footing despite the steep incline. Enchantments, faintly glowing in the artificial light, were embedded into the very roads, subtly reinforcing the stability of the ancient city.

Despite the night of drinking, Zeke walked with a steady stride. The effects of ale had long since been burned away by his formidable constitution, his blood pumping strong and clear, his mind refreshed by a quick burst of Mana. He barely felt the strain of the climb, though he noted how some of the dwarves he passed looked winded after ascending to these heights.

For once, there were no mechanical gadgets to aid them. The absence of technology was likely a deliberate choice—to preserve the solemn quiet of the scholars. For all the wonders dwarven machinery could achieve, silence was not one of them. However, this came at a cost, as the burden fell heavily on the workers who had to manually deliver food and supplies to these reclusive sages.

As he approached the tower, its design immediately stood out. Unlike the dense, fortress-like structures that made up the majority of the city, the Tower of Scholars was built with an open, almost airy feel. The stone was smoother, polished to perfection, and massive windows allowed a panoramic view over the entire capital city, the heart of dwarfen culture. It lacked the heavy, soot-stained appearance of the forges below, almost as if it belonged to an entirely different civilization.

The entrance was guarded not by the usual heavily armored sentries, but by dwarves clad in flowing robes. Their beards, unlike those of the smiths and warriors, were neatly trimmed, some even woven with delicate silver runes that pulsed faintly with magic. One of them, an older dwarf with piercing gray eyes, stepped forward as Zeke approached.

“State yer business,” the guardian said, his voice gruff but not unwelcoming. His gaze lingered on Zeke’s human features, though there was no hostility in it—only curiosity.

Zeke reached into his robes and withdrew the note Erlin had given him, holding it out with a measured movement. The dwarf took it carefully, his thick fingers surprisingly dexterous as he unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the contents, and his bushy brows lifted slightly. Without a word, he turned and gestured for Zeke to follow.

The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a vast antechamber lined with towering bookshelves—far taller than seemed reasonable, even for a dwarven hall. Yet, instead of books, the shelves were filled with stone and metal tablets. Some bore only a single word, while others contained brief sentences, but none held more than that.

Zeke stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across the room. He was no stranger to grand libraries, but there was something different about this place. It wasn’t just a repository of knowledge—it was a fortress of wisdom, built not to dazzle, but to endure.

The dwarf who had taken his note handed it off to another robed figure, who examined it briefly before nodding. “Follow me,” the second scholar said, turning without further explanation.

Zeke obeyed, his footsteps barely making a sound against the smooth stone floor. They ascended a winding staircase before weaving left and right through the labyrinthine corridors, the path seeming almost random. Yet, his guide never hesitated—his stride remained steady and sure, betraying an intimate familiarity with the layout.

To anyone else, the sheer complexity of the structure might have been overwhelming, but to Zeke, it was merely an intriguing puzzle. His fortified mind ensured he could retrace his steps effortlessly, though it wouldn’t even come to that. Akasha had seized the opportunity to gather information, logging not just the layout but also the names and functions of the rooms they passed. With each step, the map occupying a portion of his vision updated in real time.

It was a new application of her power, and Zeke got the feeling that she was showing off to him for some reason.

“This is impressive,” he remarked casually.

[Notice]

It is the least a scholar should be able to do.

Zeke smirked, finally grasping the reason for her eagerness. Clearly, the Spirit felt challenged by the Scholars of Lore, whose entire purpose revolved around the preservation of history.

Once upon a time, Zeke had entrusted Akasha with a similar mission—to safeguard all knowledge known to mankind. Now, it seemed she had developed a sort of professional rivalry with these ancient dwarves. The fact that they possessed secrets Zeke desperately needed—secrets Akasha herself could not provide—had no doubt irked her.

Before long, they arrived at a large chamber. The dwarf gestured for Zeke to wait before stepping inside alone. Muffled voices drifted through the heavy doors, but some form of magic prevented him from making out any words. In fact, nearly every room they had passed was reinforced with protective wards, making it all the more impressive that Akasha had managed to map the layout.

Moments later, the guide reemerged. His expression was unreadable as he said, “Th’ Scholar’ll see ye now. I’ll be waitin’ right here 'til yer done.”

Zeke nodded in thanks and strode past. Though the guide hadn’t said as much, his posture carried an unspoken expectation—that this meeting would be brief. Zeke intended to disappoint him.

Inside, he found not one, but two ancient-looking dwarves, their bent backs hunched over a section of stone wall that had been excavated and brought into the Tower of Scholars.

For a moment, Zeke wondered what had captured their attention so intently. Then he noticed the nearly faded etchings on the stone—pictures, letters, and symbols, their meanings eroded by time and the slow decay of the material.

Zeke came to a halt, maintaining a respectful distance, careful not to disrupt the scholars' concentration. Despite several minutes passing, neither of the two made any move to acknowledge his presence. Unbothered by their neglect, Zeke used the time to examine the screens that had materialized next to each of their heads.

The man to the left was Thoren Ironhide, the scholar he had come to meet. The screen displayed his estimated age, past achievements, and known connections—an impressive amount of intel, especially considering the brief duration of their stay and the reclusive nature of the scholars.

The other man was named Balin Stoneheart. The name didn’t immediately ring a bell, but Zeke knew exactly what the last name Stoneheart implied. This man was a relative of the king. Akasha’s information confirmed this, even speculating that the elderly dwarf was likely one of the king’s cousins.

After Zeke had finished studying the screens, the room, and even attempting to examine the section of wall that had so thoroughly captured their attention, the two Scholars still made no move to acknowledge his presence. This struck Zeke as odd. After all, his guide had clearly announced his arrival.

Growing tired of wasting any more time, he cleared his throat loudly.

He saw the two men twitch slightly at the sudden noise, but neither of them turned nor spoke. His brows furrowed. There was no doubt now—they were ignoring him on purpose. The question was why. Had he unknowingly offended them?

Well, that made things easy. If they already disliked him, there was little point tiptoeing around.

"I have come to seek your guidance, Scholar Ironhide," Zeke announced, his voice steady.

Thoren barely acknowledged him, tilting his head slightly and glancing at Zeke from the corner of his eye while keeping his focus on the wall. “I know, brat. Ye somehow managed t’ talk me daft nephew int’ sendin’ ye an invite. But that don’t mean a damn thing t’ me. Gimme one good reason why I should lift a finger fer ye.”

The tone, the expression, even the dismissive air—Zeke recognized it instantly. It was a familiarity he had encountered countless times before. The professors at Elementium, the Merchants of Tradespire, and the Slave Masters of Korrovan all shared this same arrogance. It was blatant, unmasked, and unashamed.

Zeke sighed inwardly. He had methods for dealing with such people, but it was never pleasant.

“This is not a one-sided request, valued Scholar,” he said, keeping his tone even. “The text I need your assistance with is estimated to predate all recorded knowledge, yet it is perfectly preserved. My appraiser could not even determine the material it was carved into.”

Thoren’s expression shifted slightly, though he continued to feign indifference. “Aye, fine then,” he grunted, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Leave th’ script. If it catches me eye, I’ll give it a look when I’ve got th’ time.”

Zeke stood firm, unmoving. “I’m afraid that will be impossible.”

Thoren’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Why?”

“The ancient text is engraved on an artifact. I do not wish to part with it,” Zeke explained.

Thoren scoffed. “Whot, ye worried we’d be eyein’ yer trinkets?”

Zeke remained silent, but his silence conveyed more than enough. While he didn’t fully understand the true purpose of the relic, he knew one thing for certain: if he left it with the scholars and they uncovered its secrets, he might never see it again. Once it was out of his reach, it would be far too easy for them to deny ever having received it.

Zeke knew well the allure of exceptional treasures. Once in the hands of those who understood their worth, they became tools of power and influence—and all too easily lost.

Thoren snorted, his focus returning to the wall. “Then take yer trinket an’ be off, brat. Ye’ve wasted enough o’ me time already.”

Zeke's frown deepened, but he nodded. It was better to leave empty-handed than risk losing the treasure. Now, his only hope rested on Akasha having gathered enough information during this short visit to make some progress.

Just as he turned to leave, a voice stopped him.

"Wait."

Zeke turned to find Balin Stoneheart finally looking in his direction. The second scholar had evidently decided to make his presence known.

“Lemme have a look at that relic,” Balin said, extending his hand as if Zeke owed him a debt. Though the man’s words suggested willingness, Zeke didn’t for a moment believe he was any more benevolent than Thoren. His actions, at least, didn’t seem driven by a desire to help.

Despite his suspicions, Zeke didn’t hesitate. He retrieved the cube from his pocket and placed it in Balin’s outstretched hand. To his surprise, Thoren’s attention also shifted to the cube. Though likely motivated by rivalry toward Balin, Zeke appreciated the added scrutiny. After all, having two scholars examine the artifact was better than one.

““This… is bleedin’ impossible,” Balin muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. He rotated the cube in his hand, inspecting each side with growing wonder. With each passing moment, his eyes widened further, as though the object before him defied all logic.

Thoren, too, was transfixed. His eyes bulged, and he stared unblinkingly at the ancient script, as if it were something both alien and familiar, impossible to ignore.

Zeke couldn’t help but feel a sense of vindication as he watched their reactions. Yet, his brief satisfaction was short-lived. The moment was shattered when both scholars fixed their predatory gazes on him.

“Where’d ye get this, eh?” Balin demanded, his voice sharp as a pickaxe. “Spill it, lad! Tell me everythin’ ye know!”

B6 - Chapter 36: Leap of Faith

Zeke had been mistaken.

He had assumed that after his impressive display, it would be easy to come to an understanding with the Ironhide family. But that had been a miscalculation. Instead of his propositions being met with simple favor, he found himself thrust into a wholly unexpected situation. Rather than smooth negotiations, he was bombarded by an overwhelming avalanche of offers and enticements from several of the elders, each eager to sway him in their favor.

Some of these offers, Zeke was sure, would even result in a net loss for the Ironhide family. But it seemed the dwarves were unconcerned with such trivialities. Their singular focus was to secure him, no matter the cost.

The spectacle he had put on seemed to have shattered even the seasoned composure of these master craftsmen. Their once-pragmatic demeanor had been replaced with an unrelenting drive to sway him, throwing all manner of incentives his way. And to his surprise, it was working.

Even though Zeke only needed to secure a single contract with the dwarves, he found himself sorely tempted by the wide variety of the Elders' offers. Beyond raw materials, tools, components, and labor, the possibilities seemed endless.

For the first time in a long while, he felt uncertain about whether he had the funds to finance everything he desired.

While he had never regretted placing a bounty on the four great families of the empire, the monthly expenses it incurred claimed a significant portion of his earnings. Until now, that had never been a concern. But as he stood before the wealth of opportunities laid out before him, he felt, for the first time, a faint twinge of regret.

Personnel, Materials, taxes—Zeke quickly ran the numbers in his head.

As per the merchant council’s stipulations, he would be committing to a ten-year contract. Fortunately, neither side was required to produce the full amount upfront. Unfortunately, even the annual expenses alone exceeded what he could currently afford. What he desired would cost him several million gold per year—more than his total earnings from the Gondola’s sales.

That didn’t mean he was out of options though. Just because he lacked the income to afford the trade now didn’t mean he wouldn’t have the earnings when the time came. After all, he had no intention of letting those materials gather dust in a warehouse.

His goal was to expand his network and multiply his revenue by utilizing the abundant manpower at his disposal in Korrovan. With dwarven instructors, the thousands of Chimeroi under his command could become a veritable gold mine—if everything went according to plan.

But plans rarely survived first contact with reality.

There were countless obstacles that could hinder his ability to sell his products, and if any of them materialized, he would find himself in a precarious position. While his recent successes had earned him goodwill with the dwarves, he had no illusions that it would last if he failed to uphold his end of their agreements. Trust was everything to them, and a stained reputation was nearly impossible to restore.

In the end, it all came down to a gamble—a wager on his own ability to turn this investment into hard coin before the debt came due.

Zeke’s eyes swept over the list once more, doubt flickering at the edges of his resolve. If he had the time to oversee every detail personally, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. But with everything else demanding his attention, he couldn’t afford to be dashing from place to place, putting out fires.

He would have to entrust this endeavor to his subordinates.

The real question was: did he have enough faith in David and the others to stake his entire fortune on them?

Taking a deep breath, Zeke signed the contract. He reminded himself that his success had never been his alone. While he had set everything in motion, his rise had been built on the shoulders of those who had stood by him, working tirelessly to bring his vision to life. To doubt them now would be the height of disrespect.

And if he lost this gamble?

Then he would rebuild.

With his recent advancement to the Grandmage level and the vast network of connections he had cultivated, starting over wouldn’t be nearly as daunting as it once was. Even if the worst came to pass, he had no doubt—he would rise again.

His actions were met with approval from the dwarven Elders, their eyes gleaming with newfound respect. As one of them took a copy of the signed document, another immediately shoved a heavy mug into Zeke’s hands.

“Not bad, lad,” the dwarf said, clapping Zeke on the shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer. "Th' young should be bold!"

Zeke didn’t so much as flinch under the blow. His body was anything but fragile—his compressed blood made his mass far greater than his lean frame suggested.

The elder blinked in surprise, glancing at his own hand as if wondering whether he had somehow held back.

Unbothered, Zeke raised the mug to his lips and tilted it back. In one smooth motion, he drained it dry, slamming the empty vessel down with a satisfied exhale.

“How could I play coy when you’ve dangled so many tempting offers in front of me?” Zeke said with a smirk.

As he had gone over the numbers, a realization struck him—this wasn’t just a generous offer. The Ironhide family hadn’t made this deal on a whim. It was too precise, too perfectly aligned with his current needs while still pushing beyond what he could comfortably afford.

It felt as if someone had taken a detailed look at his accounts and crafted an offer designed to test his resolve—giving him everything he needed, but at a price just out of reach. That, more than anything, seemed exactly like something the dwarves would do.

The real question was how they had gained such detailed insight into his circumstances. Edna had already hinted that she knew exactly why he was here, but now it seemed the Ironhide family had an even deeper understanding of his financial limits.

Were their intelligence-gathering capabilities truly this terrifying?

Zeke had always believed he’d done a decent job keeping his plans and movements under wraps. But if that were true, why did it feel as though every detail of his strategy was public knowledge?

"Ha! Good lad!" another elder barked, laughin' heartily. "I wish our own young ones had half th' guts ye got at yer age."

Zeke shook his head with a modest smile. “That’s too harsh. We humans mature much faster—it wouldn’t be fair to compare your youths to me.”

One elder snorted dismissively. “No need t' sugarcoat it, heir von Hohenheim. Drogar's near fifty winters old, an' he still lost twice in a row.”

That brutally direct remark soured the mood instantly. Drogar, his parents, and their kin all bristled at the comment, their expressions darkening. Yet, despite their anger, they couldn’t refute the truth. A loss was a loss.

It seemed that even among dwarven families, factional politics reared its ugly head from time to time. However, Zeke had no intention of being used as a wedge between rival factions. He needed to put a stop to this before it escalated.

With a theatrical sigh, he tilted his head back as if in lamentation. “At fourteen, I bested the young scions of the empire and claimed the title of greatest genius. In Tradespire, I stood toe to toe with the elites of the Bloodsword family and the granddaughter of the Eternal Witch, Aurelia Thorsten—yet I remained undefeated. Not even the gladiatorial battles in Korrovan could present a true challenge.”

Zeke finally lowered his gaze, locking eyes with the dwarf who had made the earlier remark. “In my opinion, Elder, losing to me is no disgrace. If anything, it’s a badge of honor—for I do not compete against just anyone.”

His words silenced the crowd, leaving them momentarily at a loss for how to respond. The stillness was finally broken by a raspy chuckle from Edna Ironhide. “I knew ye were a cocky one, ye brat, but I didn’t realize it was t’ that extent.”

Zeke shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips. “I can’t help it if an honest account of my achievements sounds like bragging.”

Many in the crowd shook their heads in wry amusement, but Zeke had accomplished exactly what he intended. The simmering tension had been neatly dispelled, and the atmosphere had noticeably eased. Even those who still viewed Drogar’s defeat as a disgrace found it difficult to voice their objections now.

Of course, this was only a temporary fix, but that didn’t concern Zeke. As far as he was concerned, the family could feud to their hearts’ content—just not while he was being used as a pawn in their squabbles. He had no issue with the power struggle itself; in fact, he understood its necessity. Without healthy competition, any organization would inevitably stagnate and decay.

There was, however, another reason Zeke had chosen to act. His gaze shifted to Erlin Ironhide, who happened to be looking at him at that very moment. With a subtle wink, Zeke made sure to convey to the man that he had intentionally protected his reputation. It was the second time he had helped the Ironhide family save face, but this time, it was specifically Erlin’s branch he had defended.

Erlin’s broad smile was unmistakable, a clear expression of gratitude. That was all Zeke had hoped for. After all, he still needed the man’s support to make introductions to the scholar, and every ounce of goodwill would be invaluable as he prepared to tackle such an uncertain and risky task.

Afterward, the festivities returned to their original purpose, with everyone offering their congratulations to Zeke and Drogar for their impressive performances in the drinking competition. Even members of the other factions didn’t hesitate to commend the outcome. After all, when measured against all dwarven competitors, Drogar had claimed the top spot.

In a way, Zeke's victory seemed to matter less than it might have if they had lost to someone else. As an outsider, his win didn’t jeopardize their standing or prestige nearly as much—if at all. At least, it didn’t seem to influence the mood at the party.

The ale flowed like a river into the early morning hours, and even Zeke was astonished at how much the elders could consume. Their bodies seemed to possess an almost supernatural resistance to alcohol—far beyond what most humans could ever hope to achieve. Only due to Zeke’s own vastly larger volume of blood was he able to keep up with their remarkable capacity.

By the time the last of the elders finally stumbled out of the hall, Zeke felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. He turned to see Erlin standing behind him, a satisfied smile stretched across his face. The hours of praise heaped upon his son had clearly done wonders for his mood. The man barely seemed able to contain the pride swelling inside him.

“Ye’ve done a lot fer me an’ me lad,” Erlin said, looking up at Zeke with an affection that bordered on the adoration a grandfather might have for his favorite grandson.

Zeke smiled but didn’t deny Erlin’s words. Now was not the time for modesty.

Erlin gave a knowing nod, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a hastily scribbled note. "Take this t' th' Tower o' Lore. It'll get ye in. Tell 'em I sent ye, an' me uncle'll meet with ye."

Zeke took the note with reverence, slipping it carefully into his robes as if it were a precious gem. In many ways, it was. This was something money couldn’t buy, something that could only be gained through the right connections. His heart raced at the thought of finally obtaining the answers to a question that had haunted him for years.

That treasure—the ancient relic of the Giger people, who had even managed to enslave a dragon—would soon reveal its secrets to him.

B6 - Chapter 35: Conductor

“Let me lay down th’ rules fer all t’ hear,” Erlin announced, his voice rising to carry across the hall. “Heir von Hohenheim an’ me lad will compete in a smithin’ challenge. Th’ task be t’ forge a tool that'll cleanly sever a gold coin. Th’ first t’ finish th’ task will be declared th’ winner.”

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, yet Zeke still found himself impressed by how quickly the Ironhides had organized everything. What had begun as little more than a passing whim had solidified into reality in the blink of an eye.

Now, standing beside a fully equipped forge, there was no denying that the contest was happening. A few paces away, Drogar stood with his eyes closed, likely centering himself in preparation for the moment the challenge officially began.

In a contest of speed, every second counted—any hesitation could mean the difference between victory and defeat. It was only natural that Drogar took the time to carefully plan his approach before the challenge began.

Zeke, on the other hand, remained completely at ease. He examined the dwarven forge with the wide-eyed curiosity of someone encountering it for the first time—like a child stepping into a workshop, awed by the unfamiliar tools and machinery. And in truth, it wasn’t far from reality. Not once in his life had he operated a dwarven forge. From the tools to the setup to the very layout of the workstation, everything was entirely new to him.

However, the Ironhide family did not see Zeke’s behavior as mere curiosity. The initial excitement in the crowd had begun to shift, frustration creeping into their voices.

“Is this a bleedin’ joke?”

“Did he just accept th’ challenge on a whim?”

“This don’t feel right…”

Yet, rather than outright condemning Zeke, most were more concerned about the fairness of the competition. In a way, it was almost heartwarming. After all, Drogar was no novice—he had trained under the finest smiths since childhood. With his high Metal affinity, he wasn’t just skilled; he was born for the forge.

Compared to Drogar’s expertise, Zeke looked like a complete amateur. It was no surprise that many in the crowd saw this challenge as less of a competition and more of an unfair mismatch. Even if Drogar won, it wouldn’t be a triumph—it would be a hollow victory, a stain on his reputation rather than a testament to his skill.

As the murmurs of discontent grew louder, Edna Ironhide—the very instigator of this challenge—began to shift uncomfortably. Though she had been the most vocal in pushing for the competition, it seemed even she was starting to have second thoughts about her impulsive decision.

Zeke didn’t mind being underestimated, but he couldn’t let this go too far. If the challenge was called off, he would lose his chance to meet the Ironhide family’s scholar—a prospect he wasn’t willing to sacrifice.

Before the crowd’s outrage could escalate any further, Zeke took matters into his own hands. With a casual leap, he landed atop the anvil, his natural height combined with the elevated platform making him loom over the gathering like a mountain. The effect was immediate—conversations died down, and every eye in the hall turned to him.

“I appreciate your concern,” Zeke began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. “But your worries are misplaced. While I may not be intimately familiar with dwarven tools, I have built my wealth on craftsmanship alone. Do not mistake unfamiliarity for incompetence—nor look down on me.”

His steady voice and unwavering confidence silenced all criticism. To argue further would be to dismiss his achievements outright—something few were willing to do. Even those who still found the challenge unfair had no grounds left to object.

However, Zeke couldn’t help but notice the shift in the crowd’s expressions. Many now wore amused grins, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. It was the look of those eager to see arrogance met with the unforgiving hand of reality.

Zeke paid no mind to those skeptical gazes. If he were in their place, he might have thought the same. After all, it was the height of audacity for an outsider—especially a human—to challenge a dwarven prodigy in smithing. By all logic, he had set himself up for failure.

“Ye both ready?” Erlin asked once the crowd had fallen silent, no further objections remaining.

Drogar opened his eyes, sharp and focused. He gave a single, firm nod.

“I am ready as well,” Zeke affirmed.

Erlin gave them one final look before raising his hand.

“Let th' challenge... begin!”

Drogar burst into action, his hands moving with the precision and confidence of a seasoned smith. Every motion was seamless, each movement flowing effortlessly into the next. In mere moments, he was fully immersed in his work, his metal affinity allowing him to manipulate the material before it had even begun to glow with heat.

Before the forge had time to properly stoke the flames, the rough outline of an edge was already taking shape. By using his affinity to mold the metal at its base state, he was shaving precious seconds off the process—an undeniable advantage in a contest of speed.

Zeke, in stark contrast, hadn’t moved a muscle since the challenge began. He stood perfectly still, an unmoving figure amidst the flurry of activity. Yet, the forge was anything but idle.

Tools sprang to life as if guided by unseen hands. From the enchantment table to the smelter, even the delicate mechanisms of fine craftsmanship whirred into motion. It was as if an entire host of invisible dwarven artisans had risen from the very walls of the smithy to assist him.

Meanwhile, Zeke himself bore the expression of a mere spectator—his eyes filled with curiosity and wonder, mirroring those of the astonished onlookers. In truth, he had no idea what Akasha had chosen to create. But he knew better than to question her judgment. If she had settled on a design, then it was, without a doubt, the most efficient and optimal path forward.

Even for him, it was a challenge to keep track of all the simultaneous movements unfolding. He could make out the shape taking form—an intricate tool, somewhere between a shear and a pair of pliers. At first glance, it didn’t appear particularly sharp, but the enchantments of [Hardness] and [Sharpness] that were manifesting on the blades would more than compensate for that lack of initial edge.

The handles, already bearing indentations for the placement of affinity crystals, were being shaped with equal precision. Off to the side, Zeke spotted matching leather-wrapped handle guards being prepared, crafted with equal care. As if that weren’t enough, Akasha had even set aside the time and attention to add delicate decorative inlays and edging along the entire length of the tool, a touch of artistry that would elevate it beyond mere functionality.

The hall was eerily silent, the only sound the steady rhythm of Zeke’s forge in motion. Even Drogar, who had been completely absorbed in his task, paused and glanced over at Zeke’s setup, momentarily distracted.

This was no longer the work of a single person; it was the flawless coordination of a fully equipped team. The efficiency and precision were so remarkable that it felt completely unfair. No matter how many heads or arms Drogar had, he would never be able to match the speed and precision of such an operation.

It was simply beyond the scope of what any one individual could achieve.

For Zeke, the sight was equally astonishing. He had been impressed when Akasha had completed her work in Rodrick's shop earlier that day, but now it was clear she had been holding back.

In this one-on-one challenge, with no other considerations, the Spirit was finally unveiling her true potential. Watching her was like witnessing a master conductor guiding a symphony—each movement perfectly synchronized, every action working toward a singular, flawless outcome. It was nothing short of breathtaking.

Zeke nearly flinched as he felt something latch onto his belt. Looking down, he saw an oversized sheet that had somehow looped itself perfectly around his waist. He barely suppressed a smirk. It seemed Akasha had caught onto his tendency to show off, going completely overboard with her performance.

Not long after, the finished tool—a set of dagger-bladed shears—slid smoothly into the prepared sheath. This didn’t look like the product of a speed-smithing challenge; it resembled more of an heirloom passed down through generations. The tool could have easily been mistaken for an ancient artifact. With its delicate engravings and four enchantments, its actual performance would likely not disappoint, either.

Zeke felt a swell of pride as he caught the admiring gazes of the crowd. While neither the enchantments, the decorations, nor the craftsmanship were in any way superior to what the Ironhide artisans produced every day, the combination of all these elements, achieved in such a short time, was enough to awe even the titans of the industry.

With a flick of his mind, Zeke’s Magic latched onto one of the two gold coins that had been prepared for the challenge. As though drawn by an unseen force, the coin shot toward him at breakneck speed, only to come to an abrupt halt mid-air in front of him.

Zeke unslung the oversized metal shears from his waist and carefully positioned the blades around the coin. With a subtle shift of his focus, he channeled a sliver of Mana into the gems embedded in the handle, and in response, he felt the blades hum with power. Even without applying any additional force, he could sense their edges sinking into the gold. The sharpness they wielded was far beyond what any ordinary smithing technique could achieve.

At this crucial moment, the crowd’s expectant gazes were all directed upon the gold coin in his grasp. Would the tool work?

With a delicate pinch of his fingers, Zeke applied just a fraction of pressure. The coin offered no resistance as it parted, sliced cleanly in half, as effortlessly as a hot knife through butter. The edges of the cut, though made with such minimal force, were flawlessly smooth and precise, as if the coin had been forged that way from the very beginning.

A deep silence had fallen over the room, broken only by the sharp clink of the two severed halves of the coin hitting the floor. The sound seemed disproportionately loud in the stillness, snapping everyone out of their stupor.

“I’ll be damned,” Erlin muttered, the first to find his voice. “How th' hell did ye do that?”

Zeke shrugged, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Warned you.”

Though the accomplishment was entirely the work of Akasha, Zeke felt no shame in claiming the credit. After all, the Spirit was as much a part of him as his own hands and feet. Why should he feel guilty for taking credit for something she had helped him achieve?

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Edna and couldn’t resist a smirk. His gesture, more playful than mocking, was enough to snap her out of her stunned silence. With a snort, she quickly turned away and made her way over to her son, likely to console him.

Zeke had initially worried that Edna might be a poor sport, but the faintly amused grin on her face quickly put those fears to rest. It was exactly what he had expected from the feisty woman, and it felt reassuring to be proven right. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge over a loss.

With that reassurance, Zeke turned to Erlin, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Will you help me set up a meeting?”

Erlin nodded, his expression serious. “A promise is a promise, lad. I’ll keep me word.”

Zeke smiled as he walked past the man, feeling a surge of satisfaction. He was in an especially good mood after this unexpected windfall. Now, all that was left to do was secure trade contracts. Judging by the admiring looks of many of the spectators, he was confident that his proposals would find many open doors.

B6 - Chapter 34: Dwarven Hospitality

The moment Zeke stepped into the hall where the celebration was to take place, he immediately realized that this would be nothing like the stuffy banquets favored by the empire’s nobles or the merchants of Tradespire.

In a word: it was utter chaos.

There was no discernible seating arrangement—family members wandered the hall at will, striking up conversations with whomever they pleased. Even more baffling was the near-total disregard for rank. Lords and laborers, elders and apprentices, all mingled freely, their laughter and voices blending into a lively, unrestrained din.

Amidst this pandemonium, the arrival of any guest, including his own, was hardly noticed by the majority of attendees. It was no wonder Gunner had assured him that making connections would be easy once he got his foot in the door.

“Over here, lad!” someone called out.

Zeke turned to see a dwarven man built entirely of muscle, his presence as solid as the stone halls around them. The dwarf was looking directly at him, his expression expectant.

Zeke didn’t recognize him at first, but the transparent screen hovering beside the man’s head rendered introductions unnecessary. Erlin Ironhide—Drogar’s father. Judging by the warmth in his smile, he was likely the one with the most goodwill toward Zeke in the entire family.

Pushing past a few already drunken dwarves, Zeke made his way to the towering figure of Erlin. Only then did he notice the much smaller Drogar, partially obscured behind his father’s massive frame. Beside them stood a woman who was the complete opposite of the two—slender, with delicate features and a reserved smile.

She exuded an air of refinement, unlike any dwarf Zeke had encountered so far. Instinctively, he straightened his posture, shaking off the relaxed demeanor he had adopted in the festive atmosphere. With a respectful nod, he greeted his hosts properly.

“I am truly honored by your invitation, Mr. and Mrs. Ironhide.”

Erlin nodded as if it were only natural, but his wife—whom Akasha had identified as Edna Ironhide—immediately began to frown. Before her husband could even open his mouth, she voiced her displeasure.

“Who stuffed a stick up yer arse, laddie? Ye seemed like much more o' a man when I saw ye on stage.”

Her voice was deep and raspy, a stark contrast to the refined impression Zeke had formed of her. And her words? Sharp and utterly unfiltered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zeke caught Erlin grimacing. Clearly, he had misjudged the dynamic between them. It seemed the husband was the one who cared more for decorum, while his wife had no qualms about speaking her mind.

Time to course correct.

“I might be a bit stiff,” Zeke admitted, rolling his shoulders, “but that’s probably because no one’s had the decency to offer me a drink yet. Tell me, madame, how is a man supposed to relax when his throat is this dry?” He pointed at his throat for emphasis, feigning the struggle of even getting the words out.

“Truly a crime!” the woman exclaimed, feigning outrage. “Drogar, me dear, be a good lad an’ fetch us a keg.”

Drogar rolled his eyes but obeyed without complaint. As he turned to leave, he shot Zeke a quick wink—an unmistakable sign that he had played his cards well.

“So,” the woman drawled the moment her son was out of earshot, leaning in slightly. “I hear ye came t’ our city lookin’ fer a tradin’ partner.”

Zeke’s eyes widened in surprise. Normally, he had no trouble maintaining a poker face, but her words had completely blindsided him. Not only had she shifted the conversation without warning, but she had also pinpointed his exact reason for being here.

Still, this wasn’t his first time navigating such situations. He glanced at Erlin to confirm that he had no problem letting his wife lead the conversation before returning his attention to Edna. He masked his surprise, replacing it with an appreciative smile. “You’re well-informed, madam. That is indeed my intention.”

"An' th' competition?" she pressed, raising a brow. "Jus' a way t' gather some attention?"

Zeke started to nod but hesitated. That had been his initial reasoning, but things had changed once he actually stepped into the arena.

"In the beginning, yes," he admitted. "But I also enjoy competing. Facing strong opponents has always been my way of pushing my limits. It was an opportunity I couldn't pass up."

The woman studied him, her sharp gaze glinting with interest. "Is tha' wha' ye think o' me son? A worthy competitor? Or ye jus' tellin' me wha' ye think I wanna hear?"

Zeke smiled, appreciating her straightforwardness. Though it felt like she was testing him, he sensed that as long as he was honest, his answer would be accepted, no matter what it was.

"In this competition? Yes," Zeke admitted, his tone thoughtful. "Victory could have gone to either one, depending on luck."

Her expression shifted subtly, clearly understanding the implication. Zeke had implicitly confessed that his performance, appearing immune to the brew, had been an act. Even he, with all his advantages, could have been overwhelmed, depending on what his dreams had turned out to be.

But the woman, tactfully, didn't press further. Instead, she shifted the conversation. "And wha' 'bout outside th' drinkin' contest?" Her voice, once sharp like an interrogation, now softened to one of genuine curiosity, as if she were a mother simply seeking his thoughts on her son. “How do ye rate his chances in a diff'rent kind o' competition?”

Zeke grinned, his tone light. “Zero percent.”

The woman’s brow furrowed in disbelief. "In wha' type o' contest?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

“Any that isn’t based on luck, madame.”

Her expression tightened. She gave him a disapproving look. “Confidence be admirable, Heir von Hohenheim. Arrogance, though, ain't.”

Zeke shrugged nonchalantly. “You asked, I answered.”

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of challenge in them. "Would ye bet coin on—"

Before he could respond, Erlin cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. "Enough!" It seemed his wife had finally crossed a line in his eyes. "I think ye've grilled our guest enough, deary." he continued, casting Zeke a brief, apologetic glance.

Just then, Drogar returned, carrying a massive keg that seemed almost too heavy for him. He carefully set it down on a nearby table before cracking it open and filling a couple of mugs, which he then passed around to those nearby.

“What’s goin’ on ‘ere?” he asked, noticing the sudden silence hanging in the air.

“…Heir von Hohenheim says he could stomp ye in any contest that ain’t based on luck,” his mother replied, not giving anyone a chance to stop her.

Zeke shook his head in mild exasperation. Why ask the question if she didn’t want to hear the answer? Still, he wasn’t embarrassed by her words. After all, his confidence in himself was unwavering, and he had no hesitation in stating his thoughts.

Drogar hummed, his expression one of deep thought. It was clear that this was not the response his mother had hoped for, as her frown deepened in disappointment.

Before the tension could escalate further, his father stepped in, trying to defuse the situation. “That ain’t what Heir von Hohenheim meant,” Erlin said, his voice calm but with a hint of pleading. “He just meant he’s confident ‘bout his chances, aye?”

His eyes flickered toward Zeke, silently imploring him to smooth things over. But Zeke had no intention of retracting his words.

“Not quite,” he replied firmly, his voice unwavering. “I am certain that I would win any competition that isn’t based on luck.” He met Drogar’s mother’s gaze again, this time with an unflinching resolve. “And yes, I would be willing to bet on it.”

To his surprise, it wasn’t Edna who responded, but Drogar himself. “What ‘bout smithin’?” he asked, his tone sharp and direct. “Ye confident ye could beat me at that?”

Zeke’s grin widened. “Smithing, forging, machinery, enchanting… I’m confident in all of them.”

Drogar, clearly not acting on a mere whim, turned to his father for approval. “Think this be a good chance t’ make up fer me previous loss. Ye gonna allow it?”

Erlin slapped his forehead in exasperation, clearly stunned by the turn of events. But the moment of frustration passed quickly, and after a brief moment of thought, his expression shifted. It seemed that, upon reflection, he saw the potential value in the challenge.

This human had just won the drinking competition, besting both his son and the Stormshield boy. If Drogar were to win against him now, it would make a statement—that he was either the best of the three or at least on par with Zeke, the human who had already proven his strength.

Zeke could almost see the gears turning in Erlin’s mind as he weighed the situation. His expressive face betrayed his thoughts to anyone watching, and Zeke knew exactly what was going on behind the older dwarf’s eyes.

“…An' ye’re truly fine with that?”Erlin asked, seeking reassurance.

Zeke shrugged casually. “I could be convinced to compete.” His eyes gleamed, clearly recognizing the opportunity before him.

Erlin sighed deeply. “What is it ye want? Yer contract?”

Zeke grinned, satisfied with how things were progressing. However, he wasn’t interested in a contract—not for this. He was confident he could secure that on his own. No, what he truly wanted from the Ironhide family was something far more valuable—something only they could provide.

“There’s a scholar of Lore in the Ironhide family—Thoren Ironhide,” Zeke said, his tone steady but expectant.

Erlin raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of slight concern. “Aye, he’s me uncle,” he replied, furrowing his brows. “What’s it t’ ye?”

“I’d like to meet him,” Zeke stated simply.

“That’s all ye want? A meetin’?” Erlin asked, his tone incredulous as if trying to gauge if Zeke was serious.

Zeke nodded, his expression resolute. “I’ve come across an artifact that I would like his help deciphering.”

Erlin took a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered the request. “If that’s th’ case, I can make th’ introduction. But if me uncle thinks th’ task’s beneath him, there ain’t much I can do t’ change his mind.”

A smile spread across Zeke's face. He wasn’t concerned about the scholar rejecting the task once he laid eyes on the cube. No, the introduction itself would be more than enough. “Thank you, truly,” he said, his voice sincere, his gratitude evident.

Before Erlin could respond, Drogar’s mother interjected, her tone sharp and laced with disapproval. “Oi, hold up a sec! Why’re ye actin’ like ye’ve already won? Did ye forget how a wager works?”

Zeke nodded, acknowledging the woman's words. She wasn't wrong. Despite his confidence, he couldn't afford to underestimate Drogar. The dwarves weren't renowned as the best craftsmen on the continent for no reason.

“How will we compete?” he asked, his tone steady.

Drogar gave a small nod, clearly pleased that Zeke had stopped acting flippant. "Tha' be up t' ye. I’ve already picked th’ field, so th’ challenge be yer call."

Zeke considered it for a moment, then a smile began to spread across his face. There was one aspect of craftsmanship he was more confident in than anything else.

“Speed,” he said, his voice tinged with barely contained excitement. “I’d like to compete in speed.”

B6 - Chapter 33: Rekindling a Bond

The name meant nothing to Zeke. He could confidently say he had never heard or read about anyone named Azra. That left him with two possibilities—either the man was unremarkable, which Zeke highly doubted, or someone had deliberately hidden his existence.

However, one thing seemed certain: Azra was likely not an Archmage yet. If he had reached that level, keeping his identity hidden would have been far more difficult. After all, Archmages were a nation's pride, and concealing them would only diminish its prestige.

Zeke tucked the name away for later. For now, he had more pressing matters than dwelling on the usurper who had stolen his mentor’s legacy. But if their paths ever crossed, he would make sure the world knew who the true successor to Hohenheim was.

For the moment, his focus remained on Markus and his story.

“How did you manage to leave?” Zeke asked bluntly.

“It was all thanks to Mr. Goldhammer,” Markus said. “I stayed in contact with him after the competition, and when he decided to return to the dwarven capital, he asked me to join him.”

Zeke’s mind churned at the somewhat familiar name. He recalled meeting a man named Jonathan Goldhammer during the forging exhibition in the empire. Back then, the man had been robbed of a well-deserved victory through sheer nepotism. It was no surprise that he had chosen to leave.

The real question was—why had he taken Markus with him?

“Just like that?” Zeke asked, unable to hide his suspicion.

“Well…” Markus hesitated, looking a bit sheepish. “I had to sign a contract.”

Zeke’s eyes narrowed. If Markus had been tricked into some kind of exploitative labor agreement, he wouldn’t rest until his childhood friend was free. “What kind of contract?”

“It’s not that bad, really,” Markus quickly reassured him, clearly reading the murderous intent on Zeke’s face. “It’s just an apprentice contract. It lasts for ten years, and I don’t earn much, but I get the chance to learn from a genuine master. I can always make up for the lost money later.”

Zeke frowned slightly. The terms weren’t entirely unreasonable, and Markus himself didn’t seem particularly opposed to the arrangement. There was really no reason for him to insert himself, even if he wanted to do just that.

Instead, Zeke found himself pondering another matter. He was genuinely surprised the Empire had allowed Markus to leave without making a fuss. Given their history, Markus could have easily been used as a hostage against him.

“Were there no problems when you left?” Zeke asked, his tone cautious.

Markus shook his head, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “Why would there be? I’m nobody special, and my weak affinity doesn’t make me much of a threat. Honestly, the only value I ever had to them was my connection to you. And even that seemed meaningless after you never reached out.”

“…Markus,” Zeke began, but his friend cut him off immediately.

“I’m not an idiot, Zeke. I know exactly why you did what you did. It was the right choice not to contact me.” Markus exhaled sharply, his expression unreadable. “But that’s not how the enforcers saw it. I’m pretty sure they don’t even have feelings themselves. They would never understand.”

Zeke nodded slowly, relieved that Markus had understood his intentions. However, an awkward silence settled between them now that the heavy topics had been laid to rest. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Normally, he and Markus could talk about anything and everything with ease.

But this time, the usual banter didn’t come.

A moment later, Zeke understood why. Their lives had diverged too much. The common ground they once shared had been eroded by the vastly different paths they had taken. Though only a few years had passed, the experiences Zeke had endured in that time could have filled a dozen lifetimes for an ordinary man.

It had been by design.

To strengthen his Soul, he had pushed himself relentlessly every single day. He had to go further, achieve more, experience more, and face greater dangers. He had driven himself to the very limits of human capability—and beyond. It had made him strong.

But now, he found it difficult to relate to his childhood friend. Markus still seemed like a boy in his eyes—mature, perhaps, but untouched by the crucible that had forged Zeke into what he had become.

Zeke shook off those dark thoughts. He refused to believe there was nothing left to talk about with his best friend. His mind raced, searching for the right topic—until it clicked. There was one thing they still shared, something that would always connect them.

With a grin, he asked, “Did you enjoy my little show earlier?”

Markus looked momentarily surprised by the sudden shift but quickly broke into a matching grin. “I’ve never seen Master Onsel so shocked in my life! When you fixed the force converter in a heartbeat, even I could barely believe it.”

His expression turned hopeful. “Any chance you could teach me that trick?”

Zeke shook his head. “I’m afraid it requires a Mind affinity to work…”

That wasn’t the whole truth, but he couldn’t reveal Akasha’s existence to Markus. His friend’s mind was an open book to any skilled interrogator, and unlike Zeke’s own people, Markus wasn’t protected by magical contracts binding him to secrecy.

“…But to be honest, you were almost there. The only thing missing was fixing the stress fractures and putting it all back together.”

Markus snorted. “Easy for you to say. Finding them all and fixing them up is a day's work for the rest of us, you know?”

Zeke shrugged, unapologetic. “I can’t help it, that’s just how awesome I am.”

Markus rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the hint of admiration. “When did you learn all this, Zeke? I don’t remember you being such a good craftsman.”

Zeke’s expression shifted, growing more serious. “I’m really not,” he admitted. “But having access to a lot of Magic lets me cut a lot of corners. Honestly, I probably couldn’t even forge a door handle if I had to use my hands.”

Markus snorted at the thought but seemed a little more at ease with the admission. After all, nobody, no matter how close, liked to hear that their years of practice had been rendered insignificant.

“I actually made most of my money designing an airship,” Zeke explained, beginning to recount the steps that had led him to build the Gondola. As expected, Markus wasn’t particularly interested in Zeke’s ingenious sales strategies, but he quickly shifted his focus to the technical specifications and innovations Zeke had come up with.

Before he knew it, hours had passed, and the two of them had settled into a comfortable rhythm, their conversation flowing as naturally as it once had. Though most of their discussions now revolved around craftsmanship of some kind, Zeke didn’t mind. It was one of his favorite topics, and now that Markus was training under a dwarven master, he didn’t fall behind when the subject turned to intricate details.

[Notice]

It is time.

Only then did Zeke remember that he had an important meeting coming up. As much as he regretted not being able to spend more time with Markus, he couldn’t let himself lose sight of the reason he had come to the city in the first place.

“I have to go,” he said, offering an apologetic smile to his childhood friend.

Markus nodded, his expression falling slightly. “That’s a shame,” he said, trying to lift the mood a little. “It’s not so easy to make friends here when everyone’s the size of a child, you know?”

Zeke chuckled, though he knew the real reason Markus was struggling to make friends was likely because the dwarves preferred to stick with their own kind. He understood that it wouldn’t be easy for Markus to integrate into dwarven society as just an apprentice.

“That might change after today,” he said with a grin. “I give you permission to use my name as much as you want. See if that helps.”

Markus snorted. “Who do you think you are, Mr. Hotshot?”

“I just won the competition, genius,” Zeke countered.

“Ohh,” Markus replied, as if he had momentarily forgotten that fact. He clearly hadn’t fully adjusted to the idea that his childhood friend was now a person of some renown and influence. To Markus, Zeke was still the same boy he had known his whole life. In a way, the fact that Markus hadn’t even thought to leverage Zeke’s newfound status for his own benefit was exactly why he was such a precious friend.

Zeke stood up, and Markus followed suit a moment later. This would likely be the last time they saw each other for some time. Zeke placed his hands on his friend's shoulder and locked eyes with him, his expression suddenly serious.

"If you need anything," he said, his voice cold and steady, "and I mean anything... go find Gunner at his smithy. He will get you whatever you need."

Markus raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "What if I get into a fight with an Archmage?"

The smile quickly faded from his face when he saw that Zeke’s expression hadn’t shifted. Zeke’s gaze remained firm, unwavering.

Markus swallowed, his earlier jest fading into realization. "Oh," he muttered, sensing the full weight of what Zeke was offering.

“And don’t try to be coy about it,” Zeke continued, a satisfied glint in his eye. “I have more money than I know what to do with.”

Markus opened his mouth, no doubt ready to refuse, but Zeke anticipated the protest. With a knowing smirk, he added one final line that would leave no room for argument.

“…You can always pay me back later.”

Markus sighed, as if resigned to the situation. “Fine. I’ll make sure to remember it.”

Zeke smiled, giving his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Just as he was about to leave, he stopped and turned back to Markus, addressing him one last time.

“When your contract’s up, you should come visit Tradespire.”

Markus gave him a puzzled look, clearly wondering why he would ever want to go there.

“My lead engineer is getting on in years, and we’re looking for a successor,” Zeke explained, his tone casual but with an underlying seriousness.

“I don’t want any handouts, Zeke. Not even from you,” Markus replied firmly, shaking his head.

Zeke snorted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What handouts? If you're not up to the task, you can muck the stables, boy. My lead engineer has to be the best of the best. If you’re not confident, then there's no need to even show up.”

With a dismissive wave, Zeke turned and walked away, unaware of the fire his words had sparked in Markus’s heart.

He exited the storage room that had served as their private meeting space and strode through the bustling workshop. The moment he stepped into view, all work ceased. The dwarves watched his every move, their gazes fixed on him as if they could somehow uncover the secrets of the universe from his casual steps.

Zeke found the spectacle rather amusing but refrained from making a scene again. Instead, he walked steadily toward the front of the shop, where the owner and his daughter were still waiting for his return.

Zeke approached the dwarf he suspected was the owner. “Are you Rodrick, sir?” he asked directly.

“That’s right,” Rodrick replied, his voice carrying a note of pride.

Zeke’s expression grew serious. “There’s an apprentice in your employ named Markus,” he began, watching Rodrick carefully for any signs of recognition. The dwarf didn’t disappoint.

“Aye, I know th’ lad,” he said with a nod. “He’s a fair bit tougher than most o’ yer kind.”

Zeke nodded in return. “Would it be possible to accelerate his training?”

Rodrick furrowed his brow. “Accelerate?” he repeated, clearly confused by the request.

“Special lessons, better teaching, superior tools and materials—anything that would help him progress faster?” Zeke elaborated.

Rodrick rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Aye, them things are possible, but they ain't cheap. We save 'em fer th' best o' th' best. Yer friend ain't at that level, an' he likely never will be, not wit' his weak affinity.”

Without saying a word, Zeke reached into his pocket and slid a gold bar across the counter. “How much?” he asked simply.

Rodrick’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the gold, but he quickly regained his composure. “The price’ll depend on what level o' teachin’ yer after. This”—he pointed to the gold bar, which had the number ‘1000’ on it—“will get ‘im a fair bit.”

“What if I want the best?” Zeke asked, his tone unwavering.

Rodrick chuckled, clearly amused. “Th' best, he says. That could cost ya ten times as much...”

Without so much as a twitch of his expression, Zeke produced nine more identical gold bars, stacking them neatly on top of the first one.

“I expect results.”

With those words, Zeke turned and left the shop. A sense of relief washed over him as he stepped into the cool air, the weight on his heart easing. At least he had found a way, even a small one, to repay his friend for all the strain he had placed on their friendship.

His steps were lighter now, the heaviness of the past days lifting with each stride toward the Ironhide mansion. Unbeknownst to him, the meeting with Markus had done more than just rekindle their bond—it had provided a rare moment of peace, soothing the turmoil that had plagued his thoughts and heart for so long. For the first time in days, Zeke felt truly at ease.