《A Weave of Mind: A Tale of Two Brothers [An Isekai Fantasy]》 Prologue: Brothers Prologue: Brothers Tristan Clark never had it easy. He always felt like the world was out to get him. His parents died in a car accident when he was little. His adoptive parents - his uncle and aunt - were abusive. He dropped out of high school. Lived on the streets. Joined a gang. Left the gang. Stole. Ran rackets. Destroyed public property. Had beaten people to half-death. He did it all. And he was only eighteen. He had never crossed the line and killed someone, but he felt like life was leading him there anyway. At least he had his brother by his side. Kal. His twin. From the moment they were born, they were inseparable ¨C always chasing after each other. They even joined the gang together ¨C their only way of surviving the harsh reality they were thrown into. Tristan was the leader between the two ¨C the calculating genius. Kal was¡­a bit of an airhead, but in every good sense of the word. Even now, before a robbery that could change their lives for better ¨C or worse ¨C it was Tristan who was meeting with their contact ¨C Jonathan Shaw. Tristan walked the street slowly, cars passing by, his brother waiting for him in their car, parked a block away. He pulled the hood of his hoodie up, buried his hands in its pockets, and continued forward. Jonathan waited for him in an alley just ahead. ¡®He better not be late.¡¯ Tristan thought. He had dealt with Jonathan before. The guy was always late. But he had status, so no one could ever speak against it. Taking a sharp turn into a side alley ¨C a shortcut ¨C Tristan reappeared on a different street, making his way toward the meeting spot. He knew this neighborhood well. After a minute of silent walking, he reached his destination. Surprisingly, Jonathan was already there. Jonathan was his early twenties, his hair slicked back with too much gel. He wore an oversized suit, something Tristan and Kal always laughed about behind his back. The guy was trying to look like a 1980s movie mobster and failing miserably. ¡°Oh, look who finally made it.¡± Jonathan called out, sounding impatient. Tristan raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised he was on time. ¡°You¡¯re always late, so I thought ¨C ¡° ¡°You shouldn¡¯t think, dog!¡± Jonathan snapped. ¡°We¡¯re not paying you to think.¡± Tristan wanted nothing more than to beat Jonathan¡¯s face into a bloody pulp, but they needed the money. They needed the protection. He forced himself to let the insult slide ¨C more like he tried¡­and failed. ¡°If you were paying me to be on time, I might already be taking your place.¡± ¡®Why the hell did I just say that?¡¯ was the first thought that crossed Tristan¡¯s mind. He was terrible at keeping his emotions in check. Jonathan didn¡¯t like that either. His expression darkened as he pulled a butterfly knife from his suit and stepped toward Tristan. Tristan kept his hands in his hoodie pockets, trying not to escalate the situation further. ¡°Who do you think you¡¯re fucking with, trash?¡± Jonathan hissed, bringing the knife close to Tristan¡¯s face. Tristan knew he wouldn¡¯t use it. It was just a show people like Jonathan put out to save their reputation. But he was ready regardless, his hands curling into fists inside his pockets. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was wrong.¡± Tristan apologized, though he didn¡¯t mean it. ¡°Let¡¯s move on.¡± Jonathan eyed him for a minute, his eye twitching in irritation. Then, finally, he nodded and folded the knife back. ¡°You¡¯re lucky we need you for this job.¡± He shook his head, correcting himself. ¡°Well, not specifically you, but tonight you and your brother are all we have.¡± Tristan didn¡¯t like the way Jonathan referred to Kal, but he fought his inner demons to keep his calm and redirected the conversation. ¡°The job?¡± Jonathan nodded, pulling a paper bag from inside his suit and handing it to Tristan. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Tristan asked, grabbing the bag. It was light, and whatever was inside felt soft. ¡°A teddy bear.¡± Jonathan replied, grinning like an idiot. When Tristan raised an eyebrow, he continued. ¡°No, seriously. It¡¯s a teddy bear. Just leave it there after you leave so they know it was us.¡± Tristan nodded slowly before losing patience just a little. ¡°Dude, I don¡¯t even know what the job is. Pietro just told me it would get me and Kal a ticket into the family. That¡¯s it.¡± Jonathan¡¯s eyes widened before he smirked. ¡°Oh, so that¡¯s what that idiot told you?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Anyway, you¡¯re going to head to 147 West Cortland Street. There¡¯s a liquor store there called ¡®Miller¡¯s Spirits¡¯. It¡¯s one of the many shops under the Vasallo Family¡¯s protection. Arrive at 1 AM. It should already be closed, and you¡¯ll have no problem stealing everything they have in the safe.¡± ¡°Password?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a combination lock. Go 15-2-17.¡± Tristan nodded. ¡°Will it get us into the family?¡± That was the real goal here. He just wanted him and his brother to have that layer of protection going forward. Jonathan smirked. ¡°Don¡¯t fuck up and who knows?¡± Tristan knew it meant nothing, but he had no leverage here. He¡¯d just have to do the job and hope for the best, even when the best was something that never happened to him. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. He turned and left. He didn¡¯t want to spend more time than necessary in Jonathan¡¯s company. ¡°Terry will be joining you.¡± Jonathan called after him. Tristan quickly stopped and turned around. ¡°Not that guy.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Anyone but him, Jonathan.¡± Terry was crazy. Literally. With him, things were bound to go south. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a suggestion.¡± Jonathan said. ¡°I trust him, and I don¡¯t trust you. Pick him up from ¡®The Clover¡¯. You know where that is. Then, after all is done, meet me with the money beneath Blackwell Bridge. I¡¯ll be waiting there.¡± Then, Jonathan turned and left. *** Kalvin Clark was sitting in the driver¡¯s seat of their 1995 Cadillac Seville, blasting some ¡®80s rock on the cassette player. He adjusted his seat backward, practically lying down, his eyes closed, completely immersed in the music. It was his favorite song, and he couldn¡¯t stop moving his fingers, playing an air guitar. ¡°Oh, this part¡­¡± he whispered to himself a second before the guitar solo hit, causing him to move his fingers even faster, mimicking the motions as if he were playing it. Well, he could play it. He had spent most of his childhood with a guitar in his hands ¨C until he and Tristan ran away from their aunt and uncle¡¯s house. Since then, he had only managed to play in stolen moments, sneaking into music shops and pretending to be a potential buyer, just to strum a few notes before the store workers caught on and kicked him out. The passenger door opened, and his brother slid into the seat beside him. Tristan eyed him, narrowing his gaze. ¡°¡¯Winds of Ruin¡¯ again?¡± Kal raised an eyebrow. ¡°What do you mean ¡®again¡¯? You know I need to listen to it at least thirty times a day or I go berserk.¡± ¡°Which time is it today?¡± ¡°Twenty-seventh.¡± Tristan nodded. ¡°My bad. Carry on.¡± Kal continued playing the solo on his air guitar. Then, out of nowhere Tristan playfully punched him in the ribs. He jumped in place, and the seat adjustment mechanism snapped his seat fully upward. If Kal hadn¡¯t raised his hands to stop his ascension, his chest would¡¯ve hit the driving wheel. Kal burst out laughing and Tristan joined him. ¡°God, I hate this piece of junk.¡± Tristan said, hitting the dashboard lightly. ¡°Hey, don¡¯t talk about Mary like that.¡± Kal responded, noticing the paper bag his brother was holding in his hands for the first time. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± He feared the worst. He never wanted them to become full-fledged criminals. Petty thieves? Fine. Hired muscle? Okay. It was better than getting constantly beaten by their uncle and aunt. But he felt like his brother was leading them toward a line he didn¡¯t want them to cross. And the worst part? Tristan was pushing him away. Taking the burden of danger solely on himself. He knew everything Tristan did was with their best interests in my mind. He was the protective type of big brother, despite only being a few seconds older. He had even put his body on the line for him in the past. One time, when they were kids and Uncle Rob wanted to punish Kal for ¡°misbehaving¡±, Tristan jumped in front of the belt aimed at Kal and took the hit of the belt buckle across his back. He ended up needing seven stitches and carrying a nasty scar. But from that point on, Kal couldn¡¯t help but admire his brother ¨C and he wanted to protect him as well. So, he let Tristan lead them, following behind and supporting him at everything. ¡°A teddy bear.¡± Tristan replied, pulling Kal out of his thoughts and tossing the bag to him. ¡°Huh?¡± Kal raised an eyebrow, his face twisting in confusion. He opened the bag. Inside was an actual teddy bear. A pink one. ¡°What the fuck?¡± Kal muttered. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Tristan shook his head. ¡°We need to pick up Terry in about an hour.¡± ¡°Scary Terry?¡± ¡°No. The other one.¡± ¡°Hothead Terry?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡± Tristan confirmed. ¡°You want to grab something to eat first?¡± Kal¡¯s stomach rumbled. ¡°God, I want a cheeseburger so badly.¡± Then, he sighed, recalling their financial situation for the month. ¡°On second thought, forget about it. We don¡¯t have the money.¡± ¡°Take us there.¡± ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Your favorite burger joint. The one you told me about.¡± Kal¡¯s eyes widened. For him, Tristan was the best brother anyone could ever wish for. He smiled, cranked up the volume on Winds of Ruin, and started the car. ¡°Oh, turn it off, please!¡± Tristan pleaded, but Kal wasn¡¯t having any of it. Together, they drove to get a cheeseburger, singing Kal¡¯s favorite song along the way. Eventually, and reluctantly, Tristan even joined in. *** The Vassallos were waiting for them. Tristan had ditched Hothead Terry the second he realized what was up. The crazy guy immediately reached for his gun and started shooting. Tristan, on the other hand, jumped out of the second-floor window of Miller¡¯s Spirits. He rolled to mitigate the damage, but it wasn¡¯t enough ¨C the landing was hard, and it hurt like hell. A sharp pain shot up his leg, and he screamed. His ankle burned. Broken. Still, it was better than getting shot to death. ''At least Kal was safe.'' He thought, glad he had him wait in the car. Tristan tried to scramble to his feet, but he couldn¡¯t. Above, Vasallo¡¯s men rushed to the shattered window, guns in hand. The moment they spotted him on the ground, they started shooting. Tristan threw himself behind a car, barely dodging the bullets raining down on him. Out of nowhere, Kal appeared, crouching behind another vehicle. ¡°I¡¯m coming, Tristan. Hold on!¡± ¡°No!¡± Tristan called out. ¡°Don¡¯t come here. It¡¯s too dangerous!¡± But Kal wasn¡¯t listening. He waited for their attackers to reload, then sprinted forward, making his way from one car to another until he reached his brother¡¯s side. In one fluid motion, he grabbed Tristan, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and dragged him to the backseat of their car before diving into the driver¡¯s seat and flooring it. But of course, Vasallo¡¯s men weren¡¯t about to let them go. Riding in their Lincoln Town Car, they gave chase. Kal gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel as their pursuers closed in. He wasn¡¯t a getaway driver, but he was damn good under pressure. Tristan fought through his pain and to Kal¡¯s surprise pulled out a pistol. He leaned out the window and fired at their pursuers. A bullet shattered the windshield of the Lincoln. The driver swerved, but they kept coming. Kal yanked the wheel hard, skidding onto a side street. Tires screeched. The Lincoln followed, the passengers shooting back at them. Tristan peeked through the opposite window this time and fired again. This time, he hit a tire. The Lincoln swerved wildly. Kal saw it in the rearview mirror ¨C but before he could react, their Cadillac hit a pothole. The wheel jerked in his hands. The car spun. Then, everything flipped. Glass shattered. Metal crunched. The car slammed into a storefront window. When Tristan came to, everything hurt. His body felt broken everywhere. He groaned, shifting slightly, feeling broken glass digging into his skin. The car was tilted on its side, its frame twisted and broken from the crash. The store¡¯s security system was ringing. ¡°Kal¡­¡± His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. He coughed, wincing as pain flared through his entire body. ¡°Kal!¡± No response. His pulse spiked as he twisted his head forward, his heart racing in fear of the worse. Then he saw him. Kal wasn¡¯t in the car anymore. His brother lay outside, face down, sprawled across the shattered glass and shop shelves. He had been thrown through the windshield when they crashed. ¡°No¡­no, no, no.¡± Ignoring the pain, Tristan forced himself to move. He clawed his way toward the car¡¯s broken windshield, barely hauling himself out, biting back screams. He dragged his body across the wreckage, collapsing next to Kal, hands shaking as he reached out to him. ¡°Kal¡­please, wake up.¡± Kal didn¡¯t move. Tristan¡¯s breath hitched. He placed a trembling hand against his brother¡¯s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. A sob wracked through him. His fingers dug into Kal¡¯s jacket, his whole body trembling. ¡°No. No, you can¡¯t die! This is my fault! My fault! It shouldn¡¯t be you!¡± Tears streamed from his eyes. He blamed himself. For dragging Kal into this life. For half-assing things and never having a solid plan for them. For running away from their abusive stepparents too soon. ¡®So what if they beat us ¨C it was better than this!¡¯ Then, footsteps echoed behind him. The gunshots rang before he could even face them. Pain erupted in his chest. He gasped, falling forward, his blood pooling underneath him. As his vision darkened, all he saw was Kal¡¯s lifeless face. He wished he had done things differently. If only he had another chance¡­ ¡®And what price are you willing to pay for another chance?¡¯ A mysterious voice rang in the back of his dying mind, and then everything turned black. 1. Tristan: A Deal with the Devil 1. Tristan: A Deal with the Devil When Tristan woke up, he realized he wasn¡¯t dead. But he wasn¡¯t alive either. That much was obvious. He floated in a vast, endless cosmos, surrounded by darkness so deep it swallowed everything. He expected to feel cold, to shiver from the void pressing against him, but there was nothing. Not temperature, no weight, no sensation at all. He felt nothing. Then he looked down. Or at least, he thought he did. The instinct was there, but the response wasn¡¯t. And there thing that wasn¡¯t there was his body. His arms, his legs, his torso ¨C all gone. There was nothing but consciousness, drifting through the emptiness. He felt like a pair of floating eyes. And then, before fear could take hold, something else appeared. A pair of actual eyes. They were massive, floating in front of him. Yellow in color and elongated in their shape like those of a cat ¨C slitted, sharp, and unnervingly intelligent. Despite being just a pair of eyes, they seem to encompass an entire expression ¨C a curious one. The gaze fixed on him. ¡°So?¡± The voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Tristan stiffened ¨C if he had a body, it would have tensed. That voice. He had heard it before. Just before he died. ¡°I thought I imagined it¡­¡± He whispered, uncertain if everything around him was even real, or just a bad dream. ¡°It is real.¡± The yellow eyes gleamed. ¡°And it can stop being real if I decide you are unworthy of my time and send you to your death.¡± Tristan¡¯s non-existent heart clenched. Death loomed over him. He didn¡¯t know what lay beyond, and he didn¡¯t want to find out. The thought of what came after scared him. ¡°Wait, wait, wait!¡± Tristan called out hastily. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­adjusting. What is this place?¡± ¡°It¡¯s my domain.¡± The eyes replied smoothly, looking smug. ¡°Your soul was headed for limbo, but I heard your dying cries and decided to intercept it.¡± Tristan hesitated. ¡°Who¡­no ¨C what are you?¡± ¡°That does not matter, Tristan Clark. What matters is what I can offer you.¡± A shiver ¨C not physical as he lacked skin ¨C ran through him. This being ¨C whatever it was ¨C knew his name. That only deepened the surreal weight pressing down on him. ¡°You can offer me a second chance?¡± Tristan asked, his voice cautious, connecting the pieces and already bracing for the inevitable catch. ¡°Indeed.¡± The eyes narrowed, as if they were smiling. ¡°What say you?¡± Tristan had been through enough in life to know nothing was ever given freely. ¡°What would that entail exactly?¡± The voice chuckled, pleased. ¡°Straight to the details. How fun.¡± It paused before continuing. ¡°I¡¯ve seen your suffering ¨C your life. You¡¯ve died young, full of promise and wasted potential. I can change that. ¡°You¡¯ll be born into a loving and caring family.¡± Suddenly, the space around Tristan shifted. Darkness turned into light, revealing a sequence of visions. A newborn cradled in the arms of two loving parents. A father teaching his son how to throw a ball, how to ride a bike. A mother wiping away tears on his first day of school, helping him with homework in the afternoons. He realized it was him. In a home warm with love, laughter, and safety ¨C everything Tristan had wished for, but had lost so long ago. ¡°Your childhood sweetheart ¨C the love of your life ¨C will become your wife. Your love will be straight out of a fairy tale.¡± The scene changed to a high school prom, where Tristan danced with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Then, a wedding. His new parents beamed with pride, overjoyed. And then¡­children of his own. ¡°A perfect life.¡± The yellow eyes summarized. It was everything. Every single thing he had longed for. But¡­something was missing ¨C someone was missing. ¡°Where is my brother?¡± Tristan asked, his mind racing. ¡°Ahhh.¡± The being sighed teasingly. ¡°You see, that is where the price I mentioned before comes into play. For this perfect life to exist, the cost will be your brother¡¯s permanent death. His soul will be denied reincarnation for all eternity.¡± ¡°No deal.¡± Tristan¡¯s response was immediate, fierce even. ¡°And if that¡¯s the price you were thinking about, you can send me to my death right now. So long, prick.¡± The eyes¡­laughed. A deep amused sound that echoed around Tristan. ¡°Relax, Tristan. I already knew you would refuse.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Tritan scowled. ¡°Then why bother?¡± ¡°Because I have another suggestion. One I¡¯m rather curious about.¡± ¡°Which is?¡± ¡°What if it were the other way around? What if I gifted this perfect life to your brother instead, in exchange for ¨C ¡° ¡°Yes. In a heartbeat.¡± Tristan cut in without hesitation ¨C without ever letting the eyes finish. He would give everything for his brother. Over and over again. The being laughed again, harder this time. ¡°Beautiful. Humans always romanticize the love between partners, but I find brotherly love ¨C sometimes bound by blood, sometimes not ¨C is just as profound.¡± Tristan ignored the musing. ¡°Well? Are we doing this or not? I told you, I agree.¡± ¡°Not so fast, Tristan Clark.¡± The yellow eyes glowed brighter. ¡°I have a third proposition. One that might interest you more.¡± Tristan narrowed his gaze, untrusting. ¡°If it has something to do with sacrificing my brother ¨C ¡° ¡°No. It does not.¡± The being cut him off. ¡°My last proposition is this: Your brother will live. He will survive the car crash, he¡¯ll be treated in the hospital and released without punishment. He will go on to live a better life, become a famous musician, and always remember you fondly, even naming his firstborn after you.¡± Tristan held his breath. It wasn¡¯t as good as the perfect life deal. But it was still better than Kal dying. ¡°And you?¡± The voice dropped, almost teasing. ¡°You will be reborn into a new world. A different world.¡± The being¡¯s words shook Tristan. It made no sense to him. It was talking about prices, but this¡­seemed like a win-win situation. ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­¡± Then, the being spoke, and it all made sense. ¡°You will not be reborn into a perfect life.¡± It clarified, its voice slow. ¡°You will live a life of hardships. Of challenges. Of battle. Of struggle. Of blood, sweat, and tears. In short, not too dissimilar to your current one, but at the same time a thousand times worse. But you will have a weapon.¡± The voice chuckled before it continued. ¡°You will retain your past soul. A head start. If you are clever enough, if you use your skills well, you may carve out a fate unlike any other. You may become a pivotal figure in this new world. Someone everyone knows. Someone everyone respects.¡± It let the offer settle in. Tristan analyzed the situation. He had always been strong in analytical thinking, but his impatience was his downfall. It often got the better of him, thwarting any attempt of strategic thinking. But now, he took a deep breath and tried to relax ¨C to think things through. His brother would live, pursue his dreams. And he? He would survive as well, but in an unknown world, armed with an edge that could become his greatest advantage. Living a harsh life wasn¡¯t unfamiliar to him. He already knew how it felt. He could survive this. He will survive this. In the end, the choices were simple: 100-0, 0-100, or a 50-50 split. And Tristan felt that the 50-50 choice was the fairest for both of them. But there was one thing he couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°What do you get out of all of this?¡± He asked, narrowing his gaze. The glowing eyes seemed to smile. ¡°That¡¯s none of your concern at the moment. Just tell me if you agree. If not, we¡¯ll part ways here. Yours and your brother¡¯s souls will rot in limbo for a long time before they¡¯re reincarnated again. Decide quickly. I don¡¯t have all day.¡± Tristan¡¯s mind reeled. But deep down, he had already decided. ¡°Okay.¡± He said at last. ¡°I agree.¡± The yellow eyes gleamed. ¡°So, you agree to be reborn into the harsh life I just described in exchange for your brother being alive as well?¡± Tristan took a deep breath, thinking of his twin. ¡®Thank you, Kal, for everything.¡¯ He thought, saying his final goodbyes. ¡®I¡¯ll never forget you. Please live a better life than I ever could. For the both of us.¡¯ With his mind steady and his resolve clear, Tristan spoke. ¡°Yes. I agree.¡± The eyes smiled again. ¡°Very well, Tristan Clark. Then I shall grant you a second chance.¡± Then, a sudden burning sensation spread through Tristan¡¯s body, and unfamiliar, searing force he couldn¡¯t describe. ¡°What is this?¡± He asked, his voice strained. ¡°What¡¯s happening to me?¡± ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡± The being replied. ¡°Your soul is simply being marked by my seal.¡± ¡°WHAT?!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± The eyes assured him. ¡°In the world you¡¯ll be reborn into, it¡¯s standard practice for a human receiving patronage from a god.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a god?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve said too much already.¡± The eyes smiled. ¡°Oh, would you look at the time? If I don¡¯t send you away now, you¡¯ll be late for your own birth. So long, Tristan Clark. We will meet again one day.¡± ¡°But I don¡¯t even know your name!¡± Tristan called out, feeling himself being pulled away ¨C like a vacuum cleaner sucking him somewhere. The eyes smiled one last time. ¡°You may call me Gartan.¡± Then, Tristan was gone. *** Gartan, satisfied with his catch, grinned from ear to ear. ¡°That wasn¡¯t very nice, Gart.¡± A pair of blue eyes emerged in the void, their voice carrying a note of boredom. ¡°You lied to the poor sap.¡± ¡°No, I didn¡¯t.¡± Gartan dismissed the idea. ¡°I never lie, Roxelle. I just¡­fool people. Lead them into traps they blindly refuse to acknowledge.¡± ¡°It¡¯s still not nice.¡± The blue eyes seemed to frown, their glow dimming slightly. ¡°Well, not everyone was born a saint like you, sister.¡± Gartan said, rolling his yellow eyes. ¡°Besides, it was his choice in the end. I simply provided the options. It¡¯s not my fault he was pressured so easily and didn¡¯t ask the right questions when it mattered the most.¡± Roxelle exhaled, her sigh reverberating through the darkness around them. ¡°You¡¯re always like this. Playing these little games. Twisting words. Acting as if everything is just one long, elaborate gamble.¡± ¡°And why shouldn¡¯t I?¡± Gartan asked, amused. ¡°Our world runs on gambles, Roxelle. And Tristan Clark is going to be my Royal Flush.¡± A moment of silence stretched between the two siblings. The void itself seemed to wait for their next words. ¡°¡­He has no idea what he¡¯s truly agreed to.¡± Roxelle finally said, her voice quitter now. ¡°That his brother is ¨C ¡° ¡°No, he doesn¡¯t.¡± Gartan¡¯s grin widened. ¡°And that¡¯s what makes it fun.¡± ¡°Fun?¡± Roxelle scoffed. ¡°You think throwing an unsuspecting soul into that world is fun? That world will chew him up and spit him out before he even learns its name. And you also tricked him with his brother.¡± Gartan chuckled, his gaze turning sinister. ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t be so sure. I already told you ¨C Tristan Clark will be my golden ticket. He has an edge most don¡¯t. He¡¯s been broken before. He knows what suffering is. He won¡¯t shatter the way others did. He will do anything possible to make sure that this life turns for the better.¡± Gartan¡¯s chuckle now turned into a full-blown laugh. ¡°And when he crosses paths with his brother again¡­now that would be¡­unforgettable!¡± Roxelle sighed, tired of her brother¡¯s scheming and ramblings. ¡°What now?¡± She asked, hoping he would reveal more. ¡°Now, I wait.¡± Gartan replied simply, not sharing too many details. ¡°Tristan Clark is an investment. It will take him years to reach his true potential, but I will be here ¨C watching him all the way as he rises higher and higher. Until he reaches the heights mere mortals could only dream of. My beneficiary will make a name for himself, and consequently for me.¡± ¡°And then?¡± Roxelle pressed on, still sounding uninterested. ¡°Then? Who knows?¡± Gartan replied. ¡°It all depends on Tristan Clark.¡± ¡°And his brother, right?¡± Roxelle asked, as if making sure. The yellow eyes grinned. ¡°And his brother, of course.¡± 2. Reborn 2. Reborn A second before Kal died, he wondered what came next. Their parents were Christians. Uncle Rob and Aunt Jill were Christians as well. But he? He never found the appeal of religion. And still he wondered ¨C when he opened his eyes again, would he see clouds and angels guiding him to heaven, or pools of molten lava and imps holding tridents ready to punish him for all eternity? Surprisingly ¨C or not ¨C it was neither. Blinding light. Heat. Pressure. Kal gasped ¨C only, it wasn¡¯t a gasp. It was a shrill. A helpless wail. He found the sound odd. ¡®That didn¡¯t come from me, right?¡¯ he thought. He was being squeezed, his body struggling, forced forward by unsees forces. The sensation was disorienting, suffocating, but he had no control. Then, suddenly, he was free. Cold air surrounded him in an instant, shocking his lungs into action. He cried instinctively, not sure what was going on with him. His vision was blurry, but he could make out flickering lights, movements, and the shadowy figures of people surrounding him. The smell of hay and¡­dung filled his nose. Somewhere in the distance, he heard soft murmuring, hushed voices filled with excitement. ¡°Ruhaka shiv¡¯na, tolma resi?¡± A woman¡¯s voice cooed. ¡°Fethka la no-resh?¡± Kal blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his sight. He just cried ¨C he couldn¡¯t stop himself. He felt himself being wrapped in a warm fabric before being handed over. The hands changed ¨C these one broader, more rigid. ¡°Noltha renh.¡± A deep, masculine voice said. Kal struggled to make sense of it all. The words meant nothing. It wasn¡¯t English. ¡®Maybe it¡¯s¡­Portuguese?¡¯ He thought, then immediately internally facepalmed. ¡®Hell, who am I trying to fool? Even if it was Portuguese, how would I even know?! I never even heard someone speak Portuguese in my entire life!¡¯ His thoughts spun as the realization slowly formed in his mind. He had just¡­been born? No, that wasn¡¯t possible. He had lived. He had died. But here he was ¨C small, weak, wrapped in soft blankets, and cradled like a newborn. The deep-voiced man holding him chuckled, his voice deep and warm. ¡°Shetan maru, lohka te res.¡± The man was big, his arms strong. But he held Kal with a gentleness that contrasted his imposing presence. His features were partially obscured by Kal¡¯s blurred vision, but he could tell the man had a strong jaw, dark eyes and a loving expression. Kal wanted to speak, to ask what was happening, but as he opened his mouth, only more cries escaped. His heart raced. Slowly understanding his new predicament ¨C he was indeed a newborn. Heaven was fake. Reincarnation was real. Then, he heard it. ¡°Kalvin.¡± They had called him Kalvin ¨C his real name. He tried to laugh, but all that came was another infantile wail. ¡®Of all the names they could have given me¡­they chose the one I already had.¡¯ Kal thought. It was comforting. He didn¡¯t believe in fate, but this ¨C this had to mean something¡­right? His new father ¨C his father? ¨C chuckled warmly. Then, gently, he handed Kal off, and suddenly he was enveloped in a different kind of embrace. The arms that cradled him now were softer, the touch lighter, yet just as firm and loving. The warmth was immediate, soothing. He could feel the steady rhythm of the heartbeat beneath him. A delicate hand brushed over his head, finger trailing against his soft scalp with such tenderness that made his heart skip a beat. ¡°Oh, Kal,¡± The beautiful woman whispered, her voice like a melody, smooth and affectionate. The rest of her words he couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°Resihi tolah ka noren¡­¡± Even without comprehension of the new language, Kal felt the meaning ¨C the love, the devotion, the promise to keep him safe from all the dangers and harm the world could bring to him. His vision was still blurry, but he could make out the shape of her face, framed by cascading brown hair. Her scent was light and comforting, like flowers ¨C daisies to be precise. She was breathtaking, not just in beauty but in presence ¨C an undeniable gentleness, a quiet strength, something deeply maternal. ¡®This must be my new mother.¡¯ Kal thought. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. He didn¡¯t even know her name, but somehow, he already trusted her. She had filled with warmth and love he hadn¡¯t felt in years ¨C not ever since his first mother had died¡­ Kal¡¯s mind spun with questions. ¡®If I was reincarnated¡­why do I still have my memories? Why am I still me?¡¯ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall everything ¨C trying to grasp onto the last things he remembered. The crash. The car flipping. The windshield shattering. And his brother ¨C His brother! Panic surged through him. His twin. His other half. What happened to him? Kal tried to think of his brother¡¯s name, but it was like grabbing something intangible. His mind reeled, the name literally at the tip of his tongue, but nothing came. He remembered his face, his blonde hair, his voice, even the way he laughed, but his name ¨C the most important part ¨C was missing. No matter how hard he tried to bring it forward, it just wasn¡¯t there. ¡®Why? Why was that the thing taken from me?¡¯ he thought, feeling his soul was on the verge of tears. His mother hummed a soft tune, trying to calm him. It grew gentler, soothing him. He felt her hand stroke his tiny head again, and against his will, the warmth of her touch steadied him. ¡®Would she be a good mother? Would she love him the way his first mother had?¡¯ This thought filled his mind. And what about his father? He had no way of knowing what kind of people they were. He couldn¡¯t know for sure, but there was no hostility radiating from them. No roughness, no tension. His new father approached his new mother, wrapping a loving arm around her as they both watched him, exchanging words in a language he didn¡¯t understand. Tears welled up in his tiny eyes. He was always a crybaby, but these tears were different. He knew his brother would blame himself for what happened. He hoped ¨C no, he prayed ¨C that his brother had survived the crash and Vassallo¡¯s men. That he would live on. And even if he couldn¡¯t remember his name, he promised he wouldn¡¯t forget what he meant to him. ¡®I don¡¯t know why I was given this second chance¡­¡¯ Kal thought as he felt his new mother holding him tighter, rocking him gently. ¡®But I¡¯ll live this life right. For me. And for you.¡¯
When Tristan opened his eyes, his mind was still reeling from the conversation he just had with that¡­thing ¨C a devil, surely. He couldn¡¯t say for certain, but after that mysterious exchange ¨C and the seal now etched onto his soul ¨C what else could it be? Something was off. But it was too late to take anything back. The being had promised his brother would survive the car crash, that he would go on to live a long and fulfilling life. And Tristan would do anything for his brother. Even be reborn under these cryptic, unsettling circumstances. The being had warned him of a difficult road ahead. But it had also promised that if he played his cards right, he would have a significant role in this new world. Its name was Gartan, though that meant little to Tristan. It wasn¡¯t someone ¨C or something ¨C he knew. Just a pair of floating, yellow-glowing eyes, suspended in an endless void of darkness. The name carried no weight, nothing he could recognize. And yet he was a god ¨C or at least he claimed he was. Another question gnawed at him. ¡®Why me?¡¯ He knew that every day, close to 160 thousand people die worldwide. That¡¯s around one million every week. In the grand scheme of things, his death was insignificant ¨C just another among millions. So why was he the one chosen? He couldn¡¯t say¡­ But one thing was certain: even in death, he had looked out for his brother. He had ensured both of them would survive. They were apart, but they were alive. And for now, that was all the comfort he needed. A rough grip yanked him from warmth, jolting him into the first moments of his new life. The immediate sensation of discomfort, followed by an overwhelming sense of wrongness. Harsh light stung his eyes, and an unfamiliar scent of incense and aged wood filled his tiny nose. His body, so small and fragile, struggled to adjust to its new reality. His blurred vision quickly caught the details of his surroundings. Lavish furniture, golden ornaments, thick and luxurious curtains ¨C in short, wealth. This was not an ordinary home. He had been born into money. This felt wrong. Gartan had promised hardship. But with such riches¡­how difficult could this new life be? A tall young man with ashen hair and rich red eyes, dressed in extravagant robes, held him carelessly, barely sparing a glance at the crying woman lying in bed ¨C Tristan¡¯s new mother. ¡°Kresha vol¡¯nat ferat!¡± The man barked impatiently. The woman sobbed, her voice desperate. ¡°Nesh! Tol revas Kal¡¯tir, neshi, neshi!¡± But the man ignored her entirely. His grip was too tight, his presence radiating something evil, something that made Tristan¡¯s newborn body want to recoil. An old woman ¨C the midwife who had assisted in the birth ¨C shrunk away in fear. The man¡¯s hands felt wrong. Cold. Devoid of feelings. There was something unnerving about him beyond his ashen hair, his harsh demeanor and the fear he summoned in the women ¨C something deeper that Tristan couldn¡¯t quite place easily. It was a sense of control, of absolute power. The robed man turned sharply to another figure in the room, an older man with glasses hunched in the corner. ¡°Maester Flaghern, gashit ilnaien?!¡± The old man, dressed in robes resembling those worn by mages in fantasy novels, approached Tristan cautiously. He studied him for a moment before his eyes widened in shock. He stumbled backward, falling to the floor, hands shaking as he babbled. ¡°Fethka¡­Nesh val¡¯torin! Reshta vol Karnet! La fiedern eha Ifrit!¡± Tristan tried to understand the new language, but nothing made sense to him. But he could tell enough from the tone ¨C Awe. Fear. But why? Why would this old man react with such reverence and terror at the mere sight of him? His new father¡¯s lips curled into the widest of smiles. Then he laughed, deep and almost maniacal, sending a chill through Tristan¡¯s tiny body as he lifted him up in the air. ¡°Val¡¯neti shorn ka resthal. Moa asedar!¡± Whatever he said, it sounded significant ¨C like a promise. Then, the man leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to Tristan¡¯s forehead, but there was nothing loving about it. Finally, he shoved Tristan into his new mother¡¯s arms. She cradled him as though he was the most precious thing in the world, her warmth soothing ¨C the complete opposite of the man who had just held him. This ¨C at least ¨C was comfort. For a moment, he allowed himself to bask in it. To experience this unconditional love he had long forgotten. Then, his thoughts drifted back to his brother. ¡®Wait a minute¡­¡¯ He thought, panic gripping him. ¡®I can¡¯t remember his name!¡¯ His mind scrambled for a name, but there was nothing. A void where it should have been. That thing ¨C that demon, Gartan ¨C had done this. He had taken something from him. Suddenly, his new father spoke again, and one word cut through the haze. ¡°Tristan.¡± ¡®Of course, they had named me Tristan. Figures. All part of Gartan¡¯s vision ¨C whatever it was.¡¯ Tristan¡¯s gaze shifted to the man who held him mere moments ago. The extravagant robes, the cruel glint in his new father¡¯s eyes, the dangerous scar beneath his eye, the opulence of the room. His new father was rich. But he was clearly not a good man. A criminal, surely ¨C but of what level? Tristan closed his tiny eyes, realizing his new life really was going to be a lot similar to his first. ¡®Here we go again¡­¡¯ He thought to himself, preparing for the worst, hoping for the best even when the best was something that never happened to him. Either way, this time he was ready. He won¡¯t let his impatience lead him. This time he would plan, he would strategize, he¡¯ll make something of himself. He was certain of it. 3. Kal: Words and Music 3. Kal: Words and Music Kal had learned a lot in the past nine months since he was reborn. His mind remained sharp, even as his baby body lagged behind ¨C too small, too weak to do the things he once had. But he had made peace with it. For now, he had to focus on learning. His new home was in Terenhill, a quiet farming village nested within the Kingdom of Stulan. The village lay in the kingdom¡¯s south, far from the large cities, but not too far to escape the tensions brewing across the realm. From what Kal had gathered ¨C through careful observation and listening to the conversations between his parents and travelers that passed through their village ¨C there were five great kingdoms in this new world called Terra, each holding dominion over vast lands. But the best part? This world had magic. And he had witnessed it with his own eyes! A lonely traveler ¨C akin to a circus performer ¨C had passed through their village. Gusto the Great, they called him, and he delivered quite a show. He juggled balls with the power of his mind ¨C only the balls were made of fire and dissolved whenever he felt like it. He floated in the air, pretending he was walking up a staircase. And he even disappeared ¨C for only like two seconds, but it was still impressive. That was when the adults used a word Kal didn¡¯t understand. Slowly, he understood the word they were using must have been the word for magic. There was also something about Threads that they constantly mentioned, and Kal wondered what does sewing have to do with magic. Still, Kal couldn¡¯t wait until he was old enough to use magic. He hoped he wasn¡¯t born magicless like the rest of the villagers of Terenhill ¨C including his parents. That would suck. Stulan, his home, was one of the five great kingdoms. It was a land of fertile plains and rich harvests, a nation who had built its prosperity mainly upon the sweat of its farmers. Kuizar, Stulan''s closest neighbor to the east, had long been both a rival and an uneasy ally, and rumors had whispered of a war on the horizon. Kal felt relieved that Terenhill was relatively far away of theses troubles ¨C but the tension remained. The men of the village spoke about the possibility of conscription, and Kal was afraid his father would have to enlist. Stulan and Kuizar weren¡¯t the only ones on the brink of war. Across the sea, another war was steering up, one between Kareth and Ostia, the other two of the great five kingdoms. Their conflict had been simmering for years, and now, many believed it was reaching its boiling point. Overall, the feeling of a great war coming was palpable and Kal wondered if that¡¯s how the people of Earth felt at the brink of World War I and II. Trade routes had been disrupted, mercenaries were on the move, and even a small village like Terenhill felt the effects ¨C fewer goods in the market, higher prices for imported items, and a grand sense of uncertainty. Kal heard it all and was afraid. But for now, he was just a baby. Not much he could do about it. He was a baby in a farmer¡¯s home, with parents who were too young to have seen war firsthand but old and experienced enough to fear it. His father was Reiner Varren. A farmer first and musician second. He worked in the golden rye fields. The long hours under the sun had darkened his skin, and his hands were rough from heavy labor, yet he carried himself with warmth that made him loved by all the villagers. He was always ready to lift Kal into the air no matter how exhausted he was. And when the day was done, he would sit by the hearth of their house with his voutar, which was, for all intents and purposes, an acoustic guitar. The body was slightly rounder, the neck a bit shorter, but the shape was unmistakable. It had six strings, strung over a wooden soundhole, and a fretboard. The tuning pegs weren¡¯t metal ¨C or plastic ¨C but rather wood. But even so¡­this was a guitar. The first time Reinar played it, Kal felt something stir within him ¨C an ache, a longing. He wanted to grab the instrument from his father¡¯s hands and strum all his favorite melodies. But he couldn¡¯t. He was too small, and far too weak. For now, he could only sit, listen, and wait for the day his fingers were strong enough to hold the voutar himself. His father, on the other hand, enjoyed strumming beautiful melodies to him whenever he wasn¡¯t busy working the fields, recognizing Kal¡¯s joy of music. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! His mother, Elara Varren, was just nineteen when she gave birth to him, yet she looked nothing like a teenager her age. She was practically Kal¡¯s age when he died, but she was nothing like him ¨C she was a real, actual grown up. Her brown hair and green eyes made her striking, but it was her patience and control that made her presence felt. She tended to the small olan orchard, cultivating some red fruits that resembled pears, but tasted like plums. It wasn¡¯t her job, though, a hobby at most. And she was always talking to him. Even if she didn¡¯t expect him to understand, she would hum softly as she worked, carrying him in a baby sling. She told him stories about their world, whispering hopes and worries about their future. Slowly, over the past nine months, Kal had learned. He had spent countless hours listening, piecing together the meaning of the words spoken around him. He understood far more than he let on ¨C staying careful. Too much, too soon, and he might scare his loving parents away. He had promised he would make the most out of this life for his sake, and his brother¡¯s. Still, there were moments when he wanted to push things forward. Tonight was one of them. Reinar sat beside the hearth, his voutar resting against his knee as he cleaned it, while Elara sat across him with Kal in her lap. The night was cool, but the fire and their love kept them warm. ¡°Kal,¡± Elara murmured, her fingers brushing gently through his brown curls. ¡°Can you say Mama?¡± Kal blinked up at her, feigning confusion. He had been expecting this. His mother had been trying to get him to speak for weeks now. He couldn¡¯t recall how early he was able to speak in his previous life, so he remained warry. But they were so nice, so loving, he wanted to give them something in return. ¡°He¡¯s still too little for this, El.¡± Reinar interjected. ¡°My father used to tell me kids don''t speak their first words at least until their two. At least that¡¯s how it was for me and my sister.¡± ¡®Challenge accepted!¡¯ Kal thought, determined to prove his father wrong. ¡®Prepare to be amazed!¡¯ Kal furrowed his tiny brows, tilting his head, trying to speak the new language he was listening to all this time. ¡°¡­Mah.¡± Elara let out a soft gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. ¡°Reinar! Did you hear that?!¡± Reinar, immediately turned his attention to them, his expression a mix of excitement and disbelief. ¡°I did.¡± He said, setting the instrument aside, leaning closer to them. ¡°Say it again, baby boy. Mah-mah.¡± Kal scrunched his nose, making sure to appear as if he were really trying. He let the word sit on his tongue slowly, deliberately, repeating. ¡°¡­Mah.¡± Elira laughed, gathering him in her arms and pressing a barrage of kisses to his cheeks and forehead. ¡°My baby is a genius!¡± she exclaimed, swaying him lightly. ¡°Reinar, our baby boy is talking already!¡± Reiner let out a low whistle, shaking his head. ¡°I mean, of course, he is my son after all.¡± Elara rolled her eyes. ¡°That¡¯s the reason. Sure.¡± ¡°Well, he¡¯s your son as well.¡± Reiner tried to salvage the situation. ¡®Oh, my¡­¡¯ Kal internally rolled his eyes at the attempt. Coming to his aid, Kal tried to disarm the tension, trying to get his father to play the voutar. Music can always fix everything. Reaching out with his tiny hands, he gave Reiner an expecting look. Kal wished his father could play ¡®Winds of Ruin¡¯, but for now he¡¯d settle for anything really. The room went quiet. Elara was the first to react. ¡°Reinar¡­did he just¡­?¡± Reinar exhaled slowly, shaking his head in surprise and reaching for the voutar. Kal immediately giggled. ¡°Gods, he understands more than we thought.¡± Reinar reached out, ruffling Kal¡¯s hair. ¡°You want me to play, huh?¡± Kal gurgled, clapping his hands. Of course he wanted him to play. Reiner laughed, pulling the voutar back onto his lap. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t say not to that, can I?¡± Then, Reinar began to play. He strummed gently with his thumb, open chords ringing out with a mellow warmth. The instrument¡¯s resonance was rich and full. The chord changes were simple, shifting between a few familiar shapes in a steady, predictable pattern. The way his father strummed was measured, brushing smoothly over the strings. It gave the song a soft, rocking motion ¨C something that was meant to soothe a restless mind rather than throw off a show. Kal couldn¡¯t help but silently judge his father¡¯s technique. No palm muting to give the chords a sharper sound. No accented strokes to make the melody pop. No variation in picking technique. Just steady, warm chords, held for a little longer for the lullaby effect. The playing was clean, his transitions were smooth, his rhythm never faltered. But Kal still wanted more. Then Reinar began to sing. ¡°Little bird, little bird, gliding so high, What do you seek in the vast, endless sky? Do you race the wind? Do you chase the sun? Do you drift till the night¡¯s begun?¡± His baritone was deep, carrying strength and warmth. He wasn¡¯t a trained singer, but he had a natural richness in his voice ¨C something many professionals could¡¯ve only dreamed of. Then, for the first time ever, Kal heard his mother sing, and it made his world stop. ¡°Tiny bird, tiny bird, where will you go? When the night creeps in and the dusk winds grow? Do you dance with the stars? Do you follow the moon? Will you soar through the dark till the dawn comes soon?¡± Her voice was soft and breathy, complimenting his father¡¯s by contrasting it. But it wasn¡¯t just soft ¨C she had control, precision, and a natural vibrato that made the melody feel alive. More than that, she wasn¡¯t just singing along, her voice didn¡¯t simply follow Reinar¡¯s ¨C it moved just above or below his notes, slipping into harmony rather than singing the same melody. Sometimes she sang slightly higher, sometimes slightly lower, always beautifully. Kal suddenly recognized what she was doing, recalling his music teacher from middle school. ¡®She¡¯s harmonizing¡­¡¯ he thought, remembering some music theory. Elara was creating depth, her voice finding the sweet spots between the main melody. Sometimes she drifted into a third above the note, sometimes a fifth below, shifting with ease. Kal was amazed. Before he even realized it, his tiny hands shot up, clapping ¨C more like hitting ¨Ctogether in pure excitement. A bright laugh burst from his mouth, high-pitched and giddy, stopping the melody. Elara gasped, eyes widening as she looked down at him. Reinar blinked, looking puzzled. ¡®Too much?¡¯ Kal wondered. Then his parents burst out laughing. ¡°Look at that!¡± Reinar grinned, strumming a quick flourish on the voutar. ¡°I think our boy¡¯s got a love for music!¡± Elara¡¯s expression melted as she hugged Kal close, and rained down kisses on him. ¡°Oh, my sweetheart.¡± She murmured lovingly. Kal giggled again, glad he didn¡¯t freak them out. Reinar played a few extra cheerful chords, the music lighting up their house. ¡®It¡¯s not metal¡­but I guess it¡¯s fine too.¡¯ Kal thought. ¡®I wish you could¡¯ve been here too, brother¡­¡¯ 4. Tristan: The Heir 4. Tristan: The Heir If at first Tristan believed that living in wealth couldn¡¯t be as hard as Gartan had promised, he quickly realized how wrong he was. His father wasn¡¯t just any criminal, nor was he merely a crime lord ¨C he was Kain Vortalis. Known as Ifrit, he was likely the most fearsome man in all of Stulan, operating in its capital, Dalina. From the moment Tristan was born, the ashen-haired man had never shown an ounce of love toward him. He barely spoke to him, never held him. All he had were expectations. And even those were passed down through the mansion¡¯s servants, not directly from him. Whenever Tristan actually saw him, the man always sent a shiver down his spine, while not even looking at him. In the six years since his birth, Tristan had rarely set foot outside the mansion¡¯s perimeters. But even within its walls, he could tell ¨C from the lavish robes their visitors wore ¨C that his father¡¯s web of influence ran deep, perhaps even into the royal family itself. As for why he wasn¡¯t allowed outside, it was a precaution set by his father. In fact, only a select few even knew that Kain Vortalis had a son. Tristan assumed it was to prevent anyone from using his existence as leverage against his father, while Ifrit prepared him for adulthood, waiting for the right moment to reveal him to the world. His mother wasn¡¯t in the picture either. Rumors around the household suggested that she had been paid to come from a distant land and carry Kain Vortalis¡¯ son ¨C that it had been nothing more than a business transaction to her. But Tristan knew that couldn¡¯t be the truth. He remembered the fear in her eyes when Ifrit had taken him from her arms ¨C the way she had desperately tried to hold onto him. He remembered how carefully she had cradled him on the night of his birth, and for a few months after that ¨C before she disappeared without saying a word. One day, when he was old enough, he knew he would look for her. But that wasn¡¯t the only thing on his mind. Gartan. He needed to learn more about him. But the problem was, he couldn¡¯t just ask. A six-year-old wouldn¡¯t just ask about some deity who can grant reincarnation. That would be too weird and suspicious. For now, he would have to be patient. First, he¡¯ll learn. Slowly and surely. His father made sure he wouldn¡¯t have a moment of idleness. From the moment he had spoken his first words, his father had arranged private tutors to teach him everything ¨C literally everything. And so, alongside world history, mathematics, etiquette, science, and the intricacies of his father¡¯s criminal enterprise, Tristan had been trained restlessly. No one dared to question whether teaching such things to a young child was logical. Those who did were not heard from ever again. Either way, Tristan had no difficulty learning any of those things. His martial arts training had started as theory ¨C as he was still too small and weak to practice ¨C but for months now, he had been learning how to throw punches, execute holds on dummies, and even swing a sword. His schedule was ruthless. He wasn¡¯t allowed to have a normal childhood. He never had time to breathe, constantly forced to either learn or train. Tristan was always exhausted, but he had made a decision early on: if his life was going to be harsh and unforgiving, as Gartan promised, then he would take everything his father could give him. So, he had shown promise from an early age, building upon his previous life¡¯s knowledge, shocking everyone around him with his unusual focus and comprehension. Everyone ¨C except one person. His father. Ifrit had never once seemed impressed, not even when Tristan had been forming full sentences at only a year and a half. It was as if he had expected it ¨C as if anything less would have been unacceptable. But there was one thing Ifrit wanted Tristan to learn more than anything else ¨C magic. Specifically fire magic ¨C the very magic that had earned him his legendary nickname. Kain Vortalis was obsessed with the idea of his son controlling this power as well. He had constantly pressured Maester Flaghern ¨C the same old man who had feared Tristan on the night of his rebirth and one of his father¡¯s most trusted advisors ¨C to begin his training immediately. ¡°If he can speak, then he can understand speech.¡± Ifrit told Flaghern back then. ¡°Start explaining him the basics. I want him to have as many Threads as possible before he¡¯s ten.¡± But the old man managed to keep Ifrit at bay, insisting that it was too early. That a child¡¯s cognitive abilities were not developed enough to understand the complexities of weaving Threads or the concept of the Inner Eye. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. A compromise had been made ¨C Tristan would begin his training once he turned six. Today was his sixth birthday. And of course, rather than any kind of celebration, his father had already arranged his first magic lesson with Flaghern. As Tristan had expected. ¡°C¡¯mon, Little Demon, Flaghern is waiting.¡± Rosalina, Tristan¡¯s personal bodyguard, called out as she leaned against the threshold of his room, arms crossed. Rosalina was a woman in her late twenties, her short dark hair cropped into a sharp pixie cut. Her tanned skin held a warm, golden undertone, a trait common among people from the southern kingdom of Ostia. She was relatively short, her body incredibly fit, carrying a sixpack of abs. But her most striking feature was the black eyepatch over her left eye. Despite that, she was still one of the most beautiful women Tristan had ever seen ¨C in both his lives. She was also really scary carrying a massive greatsword on her back. From what Tristan gathered, Rosalina was a mercenary from Ostia who had begun working for his father in her late teens. Over time, she had proven her loyalty to him, rising through the ranks to become one of his top officers. But after a terrible accident that cost her an eye, Ifrit had relegated her to ¡°simpler¡± tasks ¨C one of which included babysitting Tristan since he was two years old. When he was younger, and Rosalina rightfully assumed he couldn¡¯t understand her, she often ranted about how humiliating it was to be reduced to a glorified nanny. At first, Tristan felt bad for her ¨C but that feeling had quickly passed. Instead, she had become his primary target for bullying and teasing ¨C the only outlet he had to alleviate the stress of his new life. ¡°I can¡¯t change with you standing there.¡± Tristan said, subtly teasing her. She sighed, incapable of understanding humor as usual. ¡°Trust me, there¡¯s nothing there I haven¡¯t already seen when you were smaller. Just change already.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t until you leave, Rosie.¡± Tristan crossed his arms, grinning after calling her with that nickname ¨C he knew she hated it. Her eye twitched in irritation as she slowly approached him. ¡°Listen here, you little shit ¨C if Flaghern tells Ifrit we were late, guess who¡¯s getting the blame? Me. So get ready.¡± Then, after a brief pause, and before Tristan could retort with another tease, she cleared her throat. ¡°¡­Please.¡± That single ¡®please¡¯ made Tristan pause. He knew he was untouchable ¨C the son of someone powerful ¨C but he didn¡¯t want to abuse it too much. He wanted to keep his humanity in check as much as possible, for as long as possible. ¡°Fine.¡± He exhaled, relenting. Rosalina smiled weakly, showing her softer side for just a moment. ¡°Here, I¡¯ll turn around.¡± Tristan smiled for the third time that week. All of them had been because of Rosalina. He liked her. They got along better than he did with anyone else in his new life. He dressed quickly, but before he could leave, Rosalina reached into her back pocket and pulled something out. ¡°By the way, Little Demon, I got something for you.¡± She extended her hand. ¡°Happy birthday.¡± A small dagger rested in her palm. In her hands, it looked like a big needle ¨C but to Tristan¡¯s smalls hands, it was just the right size for a knife. It had a fairly simple design. A thin silver blade with a golden handle. And that¡¯s pretty much it. Tristan¡¯s heart raced. He blinked in disbelief. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time someone got him a birthday present. In his previous life, he and his brother hadn¡¯t exchanged gifts ever since they ran away from home ¨C their financial situation had been always too tight. At some point, they had just agreed that presents weren¡¯t necessary. Tristan reached for it, gripping the handle and swinging it a few times to test the weight. ¡®A dagger. As a present. For a six-year-old.¡¯ He thought in disbelief. ¡®Gods, Rosalina¡­¡± He really, really liked her. But of course, he couldn¡¯t resist teasing her. ¡°Did you really just give me a dagger?¡± He asked, feigning disbelief. ¡°Damn¡­Dad¡¯s going to be pissed.¡± Her eyes widened in horror. ¡°Shit. You¡¯re right!¡± She lunged to snatch the blade back, but Tristan was fast, expecting her reaction, hiding it behind his back. ¡°It¡¯s mine now.¡± He grinned. ¡°But don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t tell dad. There will be a price, of course.¡± She let out a deep sigh, already regretting her decision. ¡°Figures¡­¡± Then, shaking her head, she motioned toward the door. ¡°We¡¯ll discuss this later. For now, let¡¯s go. Flaghern is probably going crazy already.¡± *** Maester Jorah Flaghern was old. If Tristan had to guess, he¡¯d say the man was well over seventy. And yet, he moved with ease, his steps fluid and healthy. Earth¡¯s elders always had that stiff, slow movement about them. But not Flaghern. Tristan assumed it was because the man was a mage ¨C one his father trusted enough to allow into his inner circle. Ifrit wouldn¡¯t keep someone weak so close. No. Flaghern was one of his top officers. Today, for the lesson, Flaghern wore a light gray robe. ¡®All he¡¯s missing is a ridiculously large matching hat, and he¡¯d literally be The Gray mage from that fantasy novel.¡¯ Tristan mused. ¡®He already has the beard and hair for it.¡¯ ¡°Finally!¡± Flaghern exhaled dramatically as they stepped into the small classroom ¨C a space Ifrit had specifically built for Tristan¡¯s studies. The old mage¡¯s gaze immediately snapped to Rosalina, his expression souring. ¡°You should¡¯ve been here ten minutes ago.¡± Rosalina rolled her eyes. ¡°The Young Master was getting ready. We cannot rush him, don¡¯t forget, Flaghern.¡± The old mage sighed, mirroring her annoyance. ¡°Sure.¡± Then, he turned to Tristan, his gaze still carrying the same wariness it had since the day Tristan was reborn. ¡°Are you ready, Young Master?¡± Tristan didn¡¯t particularly like Flaghern. The feeling was mutual. And Trsitan didn¡¯t mind for now. The old man respected power, that much was obvious. He didn¡¯t really fear Tristan now, but one day he would. And when that day came, Tristan wanted control over him ¨C not friendship. Still, he gave a curt nod. ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡± Flaghern returned the nod and gestured to the single chair in the front of the room, positioned close to the blackboard. Tristan took his seat, excited by the prospect of learning magic. Most people couldn¡¯t ¨C Rosalina, for example ¨C but Flaghern already ensured Ifrit that Tristan was capable. Rosalina stayed close, leaning against the wall near the board ¨C her sharp eye never leaving either of them. ¡°You can leave if you want.¡± Flaghern said, visibly annoyed by her presence. She grinned at him. ¡°I¡¯d rather stay.¡± Flaghern let out a long-suffering sigh, but didn¡¯t argue. Instead, he turned back to Tristan. ¡°How do you feel your math and science studies are coming along, Young Master?¡± Tristan blinked. That was not the question he had expected. ¡°I¡¯ve already spoken with your tutors. I already know your progress is incredible.¡± Flaghern continued, watching him carefully. ¡°But I need to hear your thoughts before we begin.¡± Tristan hesitated. He wasn¡¯t sure how to respond. Back on Earth, before his parents¡¯ deaths, he had been a diligent student, even a promising one. He had always had a passion for academics ¨C but life had never given him the chance to truly pursue it. Now, in this new life, with every possible resource at his disposal, he didn¡¯t even care how strange it must have seemed that a young child grasped these subjects so easily. So, he simply nodded, telling the truth. ¡°I feel like I understand these subjects all too well.¡± Flaghern hummed, tapping his fingers on the desk. Then, after a moment, he smirked. ¡°Then let¡¯s see just how well with a quick test.¡± 5. Tristan: The Inner Eye 5. Tristan: The Inner Eye Flaghern didn¡¯t hold back. He straightened up and fired the first question. ¡°A foreign merchant is selling a bundle of goods for 80 gold pieces. The buyer requests a discount of 6%. Additionally, the city imposes a 12% trade tax, and a separate 5% levy on foreign merchants. After all deductions and taxes, how much does the merchant take home?¡± Tristan barely had to think. He knew many ways to quickly calculate using his mind alone. ¡°Sixty-two point four, one, six.¡± Rosalina snorted. Flaghern¡¯s smirk widened slightly. ¡°Good. Now, for something more theoretical.¡± He folded his hands together. ¡°If an object is falling at a steady, constant acceleration, what happens to its velocity over time?¡± ¡°It increases at a steady rate.¡± Tristan answered immediately, recalling all his physics classes from school. ¡°Assuming no resistance, it will continue accelerating until something external stops it.¡± Silence followed. Flaghern still smiled as he nodded slowly. Rosalina clicked her tongue before winking at Tristan. ¡°Tch. That was too easy for him.¡± Tristan chuckled at her reaction. Flaghern nodded, releasing a low chuckle as well. ¡°As expected of the son of Ifrit¡­¡± Tristan rolled his eyes. ¡®That has nothing to do with that man¡­¡¯ He thought, irritation growing within him. But then Flaghern continued, moving to the interesting part, and Tristan¡¯s anger faded. ¡°I was merely testing you, Young Master.¡± Flaghern adjusted his sleeves. ¡°You see, magic in our world, aside from being hereditary, is heavily reliant on our understanding of the world itself. ¡°There are many ways one may perceive the world, but I am a firm believer in the scientifical approach, and that is the approach I will be teaching you. Your early and remarkable success in your studies only proves that you are well-suited for this method.¡± Tristan remained silent, his curiosity burning hotter than ever. ¡®This was real magic. Not tricks. Not sleight of hand. Real. Magic.¡¯ ¡°Young Master, do you remember when we spoke about Cognition Threads before?¡± Flaghern asked. Tristan nodded excitedly. ¡°Yes, Maester. You told me our understanding of the world builds our magic. Each understanding creates a Thread.¡± Flaghern smiled proudly at the title Maester ¨C exactly what Tristan had been aiming for to feed the old man¡¯s ego. ¡°Exactly.¡± Flaghern clasped his hands together. ¡°To put it simply: for each concept we truly understand, we ¨C unbeknownst to us ¨C weave a Cognition Thread in our mind. This allows us to use magic related to that concept and our level of understanding of it.¡± Tristan¡¯s excitement was immediately dampened. ¡®That was so¡­vague.¡¯ He thought. His expression must have given him away, because Rosalina sighed and ran a hand down her face. ¡°You¡¯re terrible at explaining this, old man. Give him examples or something.¡± Flaghern¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°Ah, ah, ah! I allowed you to stay, but do not interfere with my lesson. You¡¯re not a mage, you silly Ostian.¡± Rosalina rolled her eyes but backed off. Flaghern turned back to Tristan, taking Rosalina¡¯s advice and choosing a different approach. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about fire magic ¨C your father¡¯s signature.¡± A smile spread across his face. Tristan nodded, eager to hear more. ¡°There are five levels of understanding of any concept in our world.¡± Flaghern explained. ¡°Let¡¯s break it down from the scientifical approach perspective, starting with level one ¨C basic understanding of fire.¡± He reached for a small, unlit candle that had been resting on the table beside him. Tristan eyed the candle, then Flaghern, curiosity rising within him. The old mage checked his pockets as if looking for something for a long minute before resigning with a deep sigh. He turned toward Rosalina. ¡°Do you have a¡­some sort of fire starter? I know you smoke¡­¡± ¡°Oh, so now you need this silly Ostian to interfere?¡± Rosalina exhaled, rolling her eyes theatrically. Tristan was surprised by her reaction. He never saw her trying to joke with anyone, especially not with Flaghern of all people. But she quickly showed she wasn¡¯t joking ¨C she was actually growing angry. Flaghern rolled his eyes. ¡°Just be helpful, would you? It¡¯s for the Young Master¡¯s sake.¡± Rosalina twisted her face in displeasure but eventually yielded. With a sigh, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small, wooden matchbox ¨C not a flimsy carton like the ones Tristan had known and used in his past life, but a sturdy case of some light-colored woods, with a roughened strip on the side for striking. She tossed it to Flaghern, who caught it easily. ¡°Much appreciated, dear Ostian.¡± The old man slid the box open, took out a matchstick, and struck it against the coarse edge. With a faint hiss, a small flame bloomed to life at the tip. Then, Flaghern brought it closer to the candle¡¯s wick, flickering it on fire. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Tristan leaned in, his eyes locked onto the fire as he waited for the magic to happen. Flaghern began his lesson. ¡°At its core, fire is the result of a chemical reaction between oxygen and fuel in the presence of heat. Without one of these three elements, fire cannot exist.¡± He brought his fingers next to the wick and snuffed the flame out. ¡°That is why a candle can be snuffed out by removing oxygen, why wet wood refuses to burn, and why an ember dies if it lacks heat.¡± Tristan nodded, knowing these principles from grade school. ¡°Before Level One, a mage must understand these principles to even begin manipulating fire. When he does, he¡¯ll weave a single Fire Magic Cognition Thread and become able of using it¡­to an extent.¡± He pulled out another matchstick and lit the candle again. Meanwhile, Rosalina coughed nervously, whispering. ¡°Stop wasting my matches¡­¡± Flaghern continued. ¡°With a single Fire Magic Cognition Thread, a mage cannot create their own fire. They can only control what already exists ¨C a candle, a torch, a bonfire.¡± With a slow motion, he raised his hand upward, and the flame twitched. Suddenly, it stretched, narrowing and rising higher than it should¡¯ve been able to. Tristan¡¯s eyes widened in excitement. Outside of simple cleaning spells the house servants had used, he was yet to see magic with his own eyes. Well, until now that is. Then, Flaghern slowly moved his hand to the right, and the flame bent sideways, then curled in a spiral, hovering just above the wick. Then, just as quickly, it snapped back to normal. ¡°The first Fire Magic Cognition Thread is what allows you to interact with fire at all. But having it doesn¡¯t mean you can control fire well. That part requires skill ¨C training. Sometimes a mage will have a deep understanding of a magic discipline ¨C one that matches higher levels of mastery ¨C but his skill is too low to implement what he knows. That is true to all magic ¨C not just fire magic. ¡°Take invisibility magic as another example.¡± Flaghern continued, running his fingers through his long beard. ¡°A scientifically inclined mage must understand invisibility as light bending around oneself in order to gain the first Cognition Thread. But if he does not practice his knowledge, he won¡¯t be able to apply it.¡± He paused, eyeing Tristan carefully. ¡°Do you understand, Young Master?¡± Tristan¡¯s mind raced. There was something he couldn¡¯t quite grasp, but before he could open his mouth, Flaghern pressed on. ¡°Back to fire magic ¨C the extent of your capabilities will only grow higher as your understanding deepens.¡± He folded his hands behind his back. ¡°Once you reach the third Cognition Thread, you will no longer need to rely on external conditions. Your flames will burn using your mana ¨C your life force ¨C as fuel.¡± Flaghern gave a small smirk at Tristan¡¯s annoyed expression. ¡°Now, Young Master, your father, Ifrit, has woven five Fire Magic Cognition Threads ¨C the highest possible mastery of flame.¡± Tristan stiffened slightly. He never saw him in action but he already knew his father was powerful. Hearing it framed that way ¨C that he had reached the peak of mastery of something as dangerous and volatile as fire ¨C made him even more fearsome in his eyes. ¡°Ifrit does not summon fire, child. He is fire. He understands it ¨C truly understands it ¨C better than nearly anyone in our world.¡± Flaghern exhaled. ¡°For comparison, I myself have only four Threads, with no real hope of ever reaching the fifth. Not at my age.¡± But Tristan wasn¡¯t focused on Ifrit or Flaghern anymore. One thing still bothered him. ¡°Maester Flaghern, there¡¯s something I don¡¯t understand.¡± He reached a hand toward the candle¡¯s flame. Rosalina snorted. ¡°Well, that¡¯s something I¡¯ve never heard you say before.¡± Flaghern simply nodded. ¡°What is it?¡± Trsitan stared at the flickering fire, his brows furrowing. He focused. He understood the fundamentals of fire ¨C fuel, oxygen, heat. It was grade school knowledge. He even understood heat transfer ¨C how fire spreads through conduction, convection, and radiation. Surely that was enough to grant him multiple Cognition Threads. So why wasn¡¯t the flame yielding to him? Tristan gritted his teeth, frustration growing. His patience snapped. ¡°I understand fire, but I can¡¯t control it!¡± Tristan barked, his small hands curling into fists. Rosalina tensed at his reaction. Stepping closer, Tristan could see her worried expression. Flaghern, on the other hand, merely chuckled. ¡°Slow down, Young Master. We haven¡¯t even opened your Inner Eye yet.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°My¡­Inner Eye?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Flaghern nodded. ¡°At the end of the day, magic is a gift humanity wields because the God of Magic, Eludranth the Great, granted it to us. But before a mage can use magic, he must first open his Inner Eye ¨C his connection to Eludranth.¡± Tristan¡¯s heart pounded, he was growing impatient. ¡°Well, how do we open it?!¡± ¡°Slow down.¡± Flaghern repeated, sounding amused. ¡°Before we get to that, I need you to understand something important.¡± He held Tristan¡¯s gaze. ¡°Thinking you understand a concept does not mean you actually do. If magic were that easy, mages would simply share knowledge with each other, and everyone would reach five Cognition Threads in every magical discipline. But that¡¯s not how it works.¡± He tapped his temple. ¡°A mage must understand a concept down to the very fiber of his being ¨C not just read about it in a book and assume he had grasped it because he understand language.¡± Tristan barely heard any of that. His focus had narrowed to a single thing. ¡°The Inner Eye?¡± He pressed. Flaghern sighed, shaking his head before gesturing to the wooden floor before him. ¡°Come. Sit there in a lotus position.¡± Tristan practically jumped from the chair and did as he was told. Flaghern¡¯s expression turned serious. ¡°To unlock you Inner Eye, you must enter a tranquil state ¨C a heightened form of meditation in which your mind and soul open to the flow of mana within your own body and around you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow. He was no stranger to meditation. ¡°Yes.¡± Flaghern nodded. ¡°Once you reach this state, you¡¯ll feel a tingling sensation ¨C that¡¯s when you need to mentally reach for you Inner Eye.¡± ¡°What happens then?¡± Flaghern chuckled, folding his arms. ¡°Oh, you¡¯ll see. I wouldn¡¯t want to spoil the experience for you.¡± His smirk faded slightly as he added. ¡°The first dive into the Inner Eye is merely a formality. Speak to it, and it shall grant you magic. There is nothing to fear.¡± He gestured toward Tristan. ¡°Go on, Young Master. Close your eyes and reach for it. The next time you open them, you will be able to wield magic ¨C and we shall officially begin your training.¡± Tristan exhaled slowly and did as commanded. He closed his eyes. At first, there was only darkness. But soon, as he reached for his Inner Eye, there was something else. He felt like he was becoming weightless. His body relaxed, his breathing slowed. His thoughts quieted, slowly fading away. And then, he felt the world around him shift. When Tristan opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else entirely. He stood in an endless abyss, surrounded by a vast, endless cosmos. Everywhere around him, countless bright lights shimmered in the distance like stars. Tristan¡¯s heart raced. For a fleeting moment, this place reminded him of his meeting with Gartan ¨C the same vast emptiness, the same endless darkness. But then he noticed the differences. First, he could see his own body. Unlike in Gartan¡¯s void, where he had felt like a pair of floating eyes, here he had form, presence, weight. Second, there was something before him. A massive golden circle floated in the air ¨C a perfect ring, glowing brightly, hovering above him. Surrounding it ¨C making its circumference ¨C were thousands golden lines that resembled threads. Tristan took a step forward, his eyes locked onto the mysterious object. And then, he remembered. ¡®Flaghern told me to speak to it¡­is that the it he referred to?¡¯ Tristan swallowed, steadying himself. Then, carefully, he addressed in. ¡°Are you¡­my Inner Eye?¡± For a long moment, nothing happened. But then, without warning, the ring pulsed once ¨C an unnatural, resonating hum vibrating to the very fabric of this space. Then, it spoke. A voice so powerful, so commanding, that Tristan felt it shake through his little bones. ¡°YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.¡± Tristan¡¯s breath caught. The voice was neither male nor female. It was something beyond human comprehension ¨C something ancient, absolute. Despite his fear, he took a step forward. ¡°What? What do you mean?¡± The ring pulsed again. ¡°YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.¡± He took another step toward it, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. ¡°Explain yourself. I don¡¯t understand.¡± The golden ring began to glow even brighter, fiercer. Then, suddenly, it turned red. The entire space trembled as the ring¡¯s glow flared violently, coloring the entire cosmos with its crimson aura. And then, the voice thundered once more. ¡°YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE, TRISTAN CLARK.¡± ¡°I DENY YOU ACCESS TO THIS WORLD¡¯S MAGIC.¡± 6. Kal: Happy Birthday 6. Kal: Happy Birthday For his sixth birthday, Kal¡¯s parents gave him a lyroca ¨C a small instrument that resembled a lute. It was crafted perfectly for a small frame of a child. The body was carved from rich, dark wood, polished to perfection ¨C so much it gleamed under the sunlight that came from the window. The strings were stretched over a gently curved bridge, and the tuning pegs were wooden. It wasn¡¯t an electric guitar ¨C it wasn¡¯t even his father¡¯s voutar ¨C but it was his own, and it was perfect. Kal stared at it, wide-eyed, his small hands trembling as he ran his fingers over the curves and the strings. His first instrument in this new life of his. ¡°Happy birthday, son.¡± Reinar said warmly, ruffling Kal¡¯s already messy hair. ¡°We know how much you¡¯ve wanted your own instrument.¡± Elara smiled softly, kneeling beside him. ¡°We always see you trying to play melodies on your father¡¯s voutar, but your little hands can never quite reach all the notes.¡± She chuckled, brushing a hand over his cheek. ¡°Now you have one just your size and you can keep sweeping us off our feet, you little musical genius of ours.¡± Kal blinked rapidly, but it was too late ¨C his vision blurred with tears. He clutched the lyroca tightly, his breath hitching. The warmth of his parents¡¯ voices, the kindness in their smiles ¨C it all overwhelmed him. It was happening again. He recalled his father ¨C his first father ¨C and how he taught him to play the guitar. How he gifted him this love for music. How after he died in that car crash, Kal kept playing the guitar ¨C his way of holding onto someone he loved so dearly. He just broke into tears. Elara¡¯s smile faltered, her expression shifting to concern. ¡°Kal? What¡¯s wrong, baby?¡± Reinar frowned, brow furrowing. ¡°Do you not like it? We ¨C ¡° Kal didn¡¯t let him finish. Without thinking, he threw himself into their arms, wrapping his small arms tightly around them both. Elara let out a startled gasp, while Reiner staggered slightly before catching him. ¡°I love you.¡± Kal whispered, his voice trembling. ¡°I love you both so much.¡± Elara¡¯s body relaxed against him, and she let out a soft, relieved laugh as she held him tighter. ¡°Oh, my baby¡­¡± His father chuckled, ruffling his hair again. ¡°You scared me for a moment.¡± Kal sniffled, burying his face against them. ¡°Thank you.¡± Just then, a sharp cry rang out from the next room, making both parents stiffen ¨C Kal¡¯s baby brother, Lucas. Barely a year old. He had been asleep when Kal had woken up to his parents giving him his gift, but now, clearly, he had decided to make himself known. Elara sighed, closing her eyes for a brief moment. ¡°Your turn.¡± Reinar groaned, rubbing his face. ¡°I checked on his last time. It¡¯s your turn.¡± ¡°That was during the night. It¡¯s morning now. That makes it your turn.¡± ¡°Oh, come on, love.¡± Kal pulled back slightly from their embrace, and watched his mother cross her arms and stare at his father expectantly. Reinar sighed in defeat, shaking his head as he walked toward the other room. ¡°Fine, fine. I¡¯m going.¡± Kal watched his father leave, and a feeling of uncertainty gnawed at his mind again. He still didn¡¯t know how to feel about his new brother. On the one hand, he was happy having a little brother. And he always helped his parents take care of him. But on the other hand, he felt that by accepting this new brother into his life, he would be betraying the memory of his twin brother ¨C the one he couldn¡¯t even remember the name of. His hands tightened around the wooden frame of the lyroca. ¡°Well, will you play something for us?¡± Elara¡¯s voice broke through his thoughts, gentle and warm. She smiled at him, and it melted all of Kal¡¯s worries away for that one moment. ¡°Of course!¡± He called out excitedly. He climbed onto his bed and adjusted the lyroca in his lap. It wasn¡¯t the first time he played one ¨C he had practiced on Bertan¡¯s lyroca whenever he visited the woodcarver¡¯s house with his parents. The man had taken a liking to Kal¡¯s passion for music ¨C like every other villager in Terenhill ¨C and let him play as often as he wanted. It had taken some time to adjust ¨C as the lyroca was much different than the guitar ¨C but the transition had been easier than expected. Unlike the guitar¡¯s six-strings, the lyroca had double-coursed strings, meaning he had to pluck two strings at once instead of just one. It had taken some practice to adjust his picking technique, ensuring both strings in a pair resonated perfectly. The shorter fretboard also thrown him off at first, and he had needed to retrain his muscle memory for proper hand placement. And the tuning was different too, so his instinctive knowledge of chords didn¡¯t fully carry over. He had spent hours figuring out where each note actually on the lyroca¡¯s fretboard, too proud to ask Bertan or his father. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. But that was months ago. Now, the lyroca already felt natural in his hands. He took a deep breath, placing his fingers on the frets. And then, he began to play. The song was a simple folk melody ¨C one he had heard his parents play many times over the years. As first, folk music had felt so different from the fast-paced, heavy riffs he had loved in his past. But the more he listened, the more it grew on him. There was something raw about it. Something honest. And that was what music was all about to Kal. As he played, he glanced up at his mother. Elara had closed her eyes, swaying gently, a soft smile on her lips. Then, the door creaked open, and Reinar stepped back inside, carrying Lucas in his arms. The baby had calmed completely since his earlier cries. Now, he was staring at Kal with his wide, sleepy eyes. Rainer smiled proudly. ¡°He stopped crying as soon as you started playing.¡± Kal played a few softer notes, watching as Lucas¡¯ eyelids dropped slightly, his body relaxing even more. Elara chuckled. ¡°I think we might have found a new way to put him to sleep.¡± Kal let out a small laugh, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯ll have to ask for more allowance money then.¡± Reinar snorted. ¡°You mean your nonexistent allowance?¡± He then smiled warmly at his eldest. ¡°Get ready. We have errands to run today.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t stay out for too long, Reinar. We still have the birthday dinner planned. My parents told me they¡¯d be coming.¡± Elara interjected. Reinar nodded, tensing slightly. ¡°Of course.¡± With that, he stepped out of the room, carrying Lucas back to his crib, while Elara followed after him, likely to help settle the baby before she started her own chores. Now alone, Kal set the lyroca gently on his bed and moved to get dressed. His clothes were simple. Just a loose, brown tunic, slightly worn, and sturdy trousers that had been patched up plenty ¨C even before Kal wore them for the first time. His leather boots were well-made but scuffed from use. Elara told him once that these boots belonged to her father, and yeah, they sure looked like it. Kal had never gone hungry, never been without a roof over his head, but it was clear that his family wasn¡¯t rich. Memories of his past life attacked him all at once, filling his heart with fear. He knew life was similar no matter if it was on Earth or on Terra ¨C in the end, money ran everything. One year of drought may affect the village¡¯s income drastically, hurting everyone in the process. Kal knew he was just six, but he already wanted to help provide for his new house ¨C to fight for it. All of this thinking about poverty made his stomach twist as his eyes drifted back to the lyroca on his bed. ¡®How much did they spend on it?¡¯ He thought, growing worried. It was very well-crafted, and his father was a good friend of Bertan who Kal assumed had built it, but surely it couldn¡¯t have been cheap. ¡®Had they sacrificed something just to get this for me?¡¯ Kal took a deep breath and swallowed down his worry. The only thing he could do now was make sure it wasn¡¯t wasted ¨C that he practiced, that he played, that maybe he became a famous musician and make them all rich. Taking a deep breath, he tied his belt, laced his boots, and ran a hand through his already messy brown hair. Just as he finished, his father¡¯s voice called from outside the room. ¡°Kal. Let¡¯s go.¡± Kal moved toward the door, ready to leave, but as he stepped outside, Reinar raised a questioning eyebrow and stopped him. ¡°Aren¡¯t you taking the lyroca with you?¡± Kal blinked. ¡°Huh?¡± Reinar¡¯s lips curled into a grin. ¡°Might as well show it off a little, don¡¯t you think?¡± Kal¡¯s eyes widened slightly. Then, he smiled, ran back into the room and grabbed his very own instrument. *** Reinar Varren came from a long line of farmers who had worked Terenhill¡¯s fields for generations. In the summer they grew golden rye, a hardy grain that thrived under the warm sun. When the seasons turned, they rotated to barley, a crop suited for colder months. Yet despite their history, the fields didn¡¯t belong to his family alone. When Terenhill was founded, the original families ¨C the Varrens included ¨C had invested heavily to establish the village. Transforming the surrounding wilderness into fertile farmland had been one of their greatest expenses, requiring years of effort to turn the land suitable for crops. As a result, the fields were jointly owned by the founding families, rather than any single household. That didn¡¯t mean wealth, however. All earnings the village made each month were shared evenly among Terenhill¡¯s families. No one grew rich, but no one went hungry, either. If Reinar ever decided to sell his share of the land, he could make a decent sum ¨C but that was never an option. Farming was his life. His ancestors¡¯ life. Reinar¡¯s father ¨C Kal¡¯s grandfather ¨C had died a year before Kal was born, taken out by pneumonia after a harsh winter. His mother had passed even earlier ¨C in childbirth, when giving birth to Reinar¡¯s younger sister, Leia. But Kal had never met his aunt. From what he had heard, Leia had left the village one night when she was just sixteen, supposedly choosing to chase her own dreams in the capital and far away from Terenhill. Which meant that by eighteen, Reinar had been left alone to carry his family¡¯s legacy. By then, he had already inherited his role as Terenhill¡¯s Lead Farmer ¨C a position he had been preparing for since childhood under his father¡¯s guidance. And now, he was subtly preparing Kal for it too. It was clear to Kal that his father envisioned him following in his footsteps. Taking over the fields one day, tending the land, ensuring their crops fed families across the kingdom. Kal respected that. Even in his past life. Farming was honest work. His father¡¯s and his farmhands¡¯ hard labor created something real, something everyone depended on. It was an important job ¨C a monumental one, in fact ¨C and he could even see himself enjoying it, in a way. But¡­ Could he really do it for the rest of his life when he had¡­music? To Reinar, music was just a hobby ¨C a pastime, something to be enjoyed but never pursued. He was glad that Kal had taken interest in it, but he saw it as nothing more than a small pleasure in a farmer¡¯s life. Kal knew that, as he grew older, he¡¯d have to make his father see differently. Because one day, when time came to choose ¨C whether he became farmer or a musician ¨C he wanted to make sure he actually had a choice. Reinar led the way as they left their home, stepping onto the dirt path that wound through the village. Their house sat on the outskirts, closest to the golden rye fields and barley that stretched beyond the village¡¯s borders. It made sense ¨C farmers needed to be near their land. Their closest neighbors ¨C also shoved away to the outskirts ¨C were the poultry farmers ¨C the Clayton family, who raised chickens, ducks, and the occasional goose. The constant clucking of hens echoed through the morning air as they passed their premises. Beyond them were the families responsible for dairy. With tall, wooden barns housing cows. Kal spotted buckets of milk lined near the barn doors, waiting to be taken to the market by the Berell family. Right next to the barns, still under the Berells, were wooden pens flanking wooly sheep. The mixture of smells used to make Kal sick when he was younger, but now? It just smelled like home. As they made their way to the village square, Kal was still strumming his brand new lyroca. His fingers plucking at the strings as he played some cheerful melodies he recalled. It wasn¡¯t a performance, but even so, it didn¡¯t go unnoticed. All of Terenhill had heard about the little musical genius that at the age of five could already play some ¨C albeit simple ¨C melodies on the voutar. Most of the villagers offered them warm smiles and friendly nods, while a few others called out greetings, clapping their hands in excitement. Someone even attempted a short folk dance before they passed them. Kal grinned, playing more cheerful notes in response. It was small, but moments like this made him feel alive. At the village square the market stalls were mostly empty this early, but a few vendors were already setting up their goods ¨C all handmade. A large well sat in the middle ¨C Terenhill¡¯s literal center ¨C and around it stood modest homes and shops. The structures were simple, one-story houses made of timber and stone, their roofs covered by red clay tiles. Some of them had flower baskets standing on their windowsills. As they crossed down into the square, accepting a few more friendly greetings, Reinar glanced at Kal. ¡°Are you excited to start grade school next week?¡± Kal¡¯s fingers stilled on the strings. His stomach twisted. His birthday and his parents¡¯ gift had actually made him forget all about it. God, he hated school. 7. Kal: An Offer 7. Kal: An Offer Grade school, middle school, high school ¨C Kal hated them all. He had never been an exceptional student, never cared for academics, and never felt like he fit in. People always called him airheaded, saying he never listened, that his attention span was nonexistent, that he would never achieve anything if he continued having his head in the clouds. It was funny, really. How, in his previous life, despite his twin always hanging out with the worst possible crowd ¨C even before they ran away from home ¨C he still somehow managed to get the highest grades in every subject. His brother was a genius¡­ Kal sighed, rubbing the back of his head. ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯m excited¡­¡± He admitted. Reinar had realized early on that Kal was different from any child his age. It wasn¡¯t just the music ¨C though that certainly set him apart ¨C it was just the way he spoke, the way he understood things without needing to be told, the way he almost never cried as a toddler. His humor, his emotional intelligence, his way of reading people ¨C it was all too mature for a boy his age. But Reinar never minded or questioned it. Quite the opposite ¨C he enjoyed it. Having a sharp, reliable son from such a young age had been a blessing. Now, with Lucas, he was finally experiencing what raising a regular child felt like. ¡°Why not?¡± Reinar asked, curious what kind of mature thoughts Kal would share this time. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Kal replied. ¡°I just don¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t like it?¡± Reinar chuckled. ¡°You haven¡¯t even gone yet.¡± Kal shrugged. ¡°I already know I won¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°How can you tell?¡± Kal sighed. ¡°I just can.¡± He adjusted the lyroca in his arms and started playing again ¨C this time, the melody came out slower, softer, a little sorrowful. Reinar read between the lines. ¡°I think you should give it a chance.¡± He kept his tone light. ¡°If not for gaining knowledge, then for making friends. School is the perfect place to meet people you¡¯ll keep for life.¡± ¡®Friends, huh?¡¯ Kal mused. ¡®How do you even make those?¡¯ In his previous life, his only friend had been his twin, and that felt like enough. Reinar placed a hand on Kal¡¯s head, ruffling his hair with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. ¡°And worst case,¡± he said, ¡°you can always drop out and work the fields with me.¡± Kal swallowed hard. He wasn¡¯t sure if that was supposed to cheer him up or if it was a threat. They reached the first stop in their errand run ¨C the post office. The structure sat at the edge of the village square, low and wide, colored gray. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, its letters faded but readable ¨C the only real sign that it wasn¡¯t just a normal house. Inside, the air smelled like a mix of old parchment, wax, and ink. At the back of the office, stood two wooden shelves: one stacked with scrolls and bound letters. The other with incoming mail. A large oak counter stretched across the room, its surface worn smoothly. Behind the counter stood Maurice ¨C the village¡¯s postmaster, and one of the oldest men in Terenhill. His white hair was still thick despite his advanced age, while his face was wreathed with deep lines. His spectacles sat low on his nose, threatening to slip if he leaned forward just a tiny bit. Kal loved Maurice. He was nice to him and always gave him candy. Beside him, on the other edge of the counter, stood Bella Barnes ¨C the mayor of Terenhill. She was a thin woman in her late thirties with black hair pulled back in a loose braid. She wore tailored trousers and a fitted leather vest, visibly setting her apart from the rest of the villagers. Her arms were crossed, her expression tight, as if she had been mid-conversation with Maurice before they arrived ¨C a tense conversation. When the door creaked open, both of them turned to see who entered. Maurice¡¯s face immediately lit up with a grin. ¡°Ah! If it isn¡¯t the young bard himself!¡± He gestured toward the lyroca in Kal¡¯s hands. ¡°And a fine instrument you¡¯ve got there, lad.¡± He grabbed a small fabric bag from the counter and threw it to Kal. ¡°Catch.¡± Kal caught the bag with one hand and opened it using his teeth. There was candy there. A lot of chocolate too. ¡°Happy birthday, Kal!¡± Maurice called out. Kal felt like he was about to cry. It was something so simple, but already more than he could¡¯ve ever imagined. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. ¡®First the lyroca, now this¡­¡± He couldn¡¯t believe everyone¡¯s kindness. He eventually smiled. ¡°Thank you, Maurice!¡± ¡°Six already, eh?¡± Maurice shook his head with a chuckle, turning to Reinar. ¡°They grow up too fast. One day he¡¯ll be traveling and playing all over the kingdom, I reckon.¡± Reinar grinned, patting Kal¡¯s back. ¡°We¡¯ll see. He¡¯d have to survive school first.¡± Maurice let out a laugh, but before he could say more, the mayor joined in. ¡°Reinar.¡± She said with a nod, her voice calm, though there was something strained behind it. Reinar gave a respectful bow. ¡°Bella.¡± Her gaze flicked to Kal, and though her expression remained troubled, she managed a quick, polite nod. ¡°Happy birthday, Kal.¡± ¡°Thank you, Mayor Barnes.¡± Kal replied, giving her a smile. She returned a brief one back, but her attention had already shifted back to contemplation, her fingers drumming against the counter as if deep in thought. Reinar, noticing the tension but choosing not to press just yet, turned to Maurice. ¡°Any letters for the Varren family today?¡± Maurice perked up, adjusting his spectacles. ¡°Aye, there is.¡± He turned toward the shelf of incoming letters, running a wrinkled hand over the labeled slots before pulling out a sealed parchment. ¡°It looks like your letter to the Ministry of Agriculture got an answer.¡± Maurice squinted at the seal. ¡°That was fast.¡± Kal blinked. ¡®Letter to the Ministry?¡¯ He had heard nothing about that. Before he could ask, Mayor Barnes spoke up. ¡°Is this about the mage you requested from them?¡± Kal¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡®Mage?¡¯ Reinar nodded, taking the letter and slipping it into his satchel. ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Kal¡¯s curiosity burned but he knew this wasn¡¯t a good place to ask him about this. He¡¯ll wait until they exit the post office. Meanwhile, his father turned his attention to the mayor. ¡°You seem troubled, Bella. Something wrong?¡± The mayor sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. ¡°It¡¯s about next week¡¯s festival.¡± Kal¡¯s mind instantly went to the Festival of First Harvest. A yearly celebration marking the end of summer and the start of the school year, the festival was one of Terenhill¡¯s bigger events. The square will be decorated, a stage will be set, food stalls everywhere, as his father and his farmhands brought their first harvested goods of the season to sell. The festival was an open event and was visited by people outside the village as well, sometimes simple travelers too. Mayor Barnes exhaled sharply. ¡°Baron Rodan is coming.¡± Reinar¡¯s brow lifted. ¡°You¡¯re kidding me¡­¡± Bell shook her head. ¡°I wish I was. We always invite him, but he never comes. This time, he confirmed his attendance. Two days ago. And now I have to make sure everything is perfect for his arrival.¡± Kal narrowed his eyes slightly. He didn¡¯t know much about the Baron of these lands, but he assumed that having such a figure visit the festival would definitely be a cause of anxiety for someone like Mayor Barnes. Reinar exhaled sharply. ¡°Damn¡­¡± He turned to the mayor, offering a hopeful glance. ¡°You got this, Bella. Every year it turns out perfect, and this time won¡¯t be any different.¡± She shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s where the problem begins, dear Reinar. You know how crazy Rodan is about the arts and music in particular. Well, guess what? The band I invited from the capital had canceled at the last moment.¡± She said, throwing away the letter which sat on the counter in front of her. ¡°Fucking great¡­¡± Her gaze quickly turned to Kal, and she apologized. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Kal.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t there anyone else?¡± Reinar asked. Mayor Barnes sighed. ¡°I sent letters to the capital, but I don¡¯t expect anyone to come here with such a short notice. And nearby villages and towns don¡¯t have talented enough musicians I could trust.¡± Maurice let out a low whistle. ¡°That¡¯s a real mess, that is.¡± Mayor Barnes shook her head. ¡°We need music. We can¡¯t have the Festival of First Harvest without a musical act, not with Rodan present.¡± She suddenly turned toward Reinar, her eyes lighting up with an idea. ¡°Wait, Reinar. You play the voutar, don¡¯t you? I¡¯m sure we can pair you up with Bertan for a duet. Just like old times.¡± Reinar¡¯s eyes widened slightly, then immediately darkened. ¡°Oh no. You can take anyone else from the village and they¡¯ll do better than me. Hell, take Alphonse and Theresa. They¡¯ll make a perfect duo.¡± ¡°I already have Alphonse and Theresa playing throughout the event, but ¨C and it stays between us ¨C they¡¯re not talented enough to be put on the main stage.¡± The mayor leaned forward, trying again. ¡°Come on, Reinar. I¡¯ve heard you play before. You¡¯re more than capable. And, more importantly, I trust you and Bertan both.¡± Kal was curious, and excited to hear his father play before a big crowd, but Reinar wasn¡¯t. He held up his hand. ¡°Absolutely not. We¡¯re not nearly good enough to impress Rodan. And we don¡¯t have actual time for practice. With the festival coming, I need to make sure the yields are ready ¨C that is my number one priority.¡± ¡°We can send more men to help you out.¡± She countered. ¡°And it¡¯s not about impressing him. It¡¯s about putting on a good performance for the festival.¡± Reinar crossed his arms. ¡°You know Rodan better than I am. If you put a musician before him, he expects greatness, or else he¡¯ll snub us for years to come. Bertan and I can play, sure ¨C but we¡¯d never satisfy his standards.¡± Maurice¡¯s eyes suddenly lit up, and he cut off their discussion. ¡°Then why not let the boy do it?¡± He asked, nodding toward Kal. Kal froze mid-strum, not sure when he even began strumming the lyroca. Reinar¡¯s face twisted immediately. ¡°Absolutely not.¡± Mayor Barnes blinked, confused. ¡°Kal?¡± She looked at him, her gaze skeptical. ¡°He¡¯s talented, sure, but he¡¯s just a child.¡± Kal¡¯s jaw clenched. ¡®I¡¯m not a child, woman!¡¯ He bit his tongue, holding back before he could say something that would get him in trouble. Maurice, however, waved dismissively. ¡°Aye, he¡¯s young, but hear me out. With such a short notice, putting up a young, talented musician such as he ¨C advertising him as a local talent ¨C could do wonders.¡± Reinar shook his head firmly. ¡°That¡¯s not happening.¡± Mayor Barnes tilted her head. ¡°Why? Is he not good enough?¡± Reinar hesitated. Maurice grinned, leaning over the counter. ¡°Think about it, Reinar. Worst case scenario, even if Kal¡¯s performance isn¡¯t the most spectacular thing in the world, the Baron will still be impressed by the skills he already possesses at his young age.¡± He gestured toward Kal¡¯s lyroca. ¡°We¡¯ve got a prodigy on our hands, Reinar. Might as well let him prove it.¡± Reinar sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His eyes flicked to Kal. Kal clutched his lyroca a little tighter, his mind spinning with plenty of different thoughts. ¡®Could I even play in front of a public?¡¯ He thought, his heart threatening to explode. ¡®And in front of a nobleman?¡¯ Kal still had no idea how nobles and commoners interacted in this world. He didn¡¯t¡¯ know what counted as an offense. ¡®What if I played terribly? Could bad music be punishable by death? That would be such a pathetic way to die!¡¯ And yet¡­despite the fear forming in his stomach, he felt excited. An actual performance. Before Kal could sort out his emotions, Mayor Barnes clapped her hands together. ¡°Maurice, you old genius. Now that I think about it, that¡¯s a brilliant idea!¡± Reinar turned toward her, expression flat. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t you start too, Bella.¡± ¡°Why not, Reinar? You can¡¯t deny it covers all our concerns.¡± She leaned forward. ¡°Kal¡¯s young, but that¡¯s exactly what makes it work. If we frame it as a young village talent stepping up to play, we don¡¯t need him to be a master musician ¨C just impressive for his age.¡± Reinar sighed again, deeper this time. ¡°Sure, but¡­I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°You know I¡¯m right.¡± Mayor Barnes added. After a long moment, he turned to Kal, his shoulders still tense. ¡°What do you think, son?¡± Kal¡¯s heart pounded. He swallowed. The right answer was probably to refuse ¨C to avoid the risk and all the pressure. But he knew himself. And deep inside, beneath his fears and uncertainties¡­he wanted this. ¡°I¡¯ll do it.¡± His voice came out steadier than he expected. Reinar¡¯s brows lifted slightly, but he didn¡¯t protest. Mayor Barnes grinned, satisfied. ¡°Well, then it¡¯s settled!¡± 8. Tristan: Magicless 8. Tristan: Magicless When Tristan returned from his first Inner Eye experience magicless, all hell broke loose. Flaghern immediately ran checkups on him, his face contorted with disbelief. ¡°B-but that doesn¡¯t make any sense!¡± He exclaimed, hovering his glowing hands over Tristan¡¯s body. ¡°I saw your mana pool ¨C I can still see it! It''s incredible! Why did it deny you?!¡± Tristan had no definite answer. But he had a guess. Gartan. That was somehow his fault. And Tristan feared that this was only the beginning. His promised ¡°harsh life of struggles¡± was starting now. He didn¡¯t tell Flaghern exactly what the golden ring told him ¨C just that it told him it denied him access to magic. Two days later, Flaghern was found dead in one of Dalina¡¯s slums. Murdered. Brutally. High-ranking officer or not, Kain Vortalis had no patience for failure. Now, Tristan feared for his own life. Because if his father disposed of an elite mage so easily, what would he do to his useless son, the one who had proven himself incapable of wielding magic? The answer was surprising ¨C a conversation. The first time Kain Vortalis ever actually spoke to his son was going to be this ¨C a conversation about his first ¨C and perhaps last ¨C failure. And now, the day of the dreaded conversation had arrived. Tristan stood outside the door to his father¡¯s chambers, shaking in his boots. He didn¡¯t know what to do. He had come into this new world expecting to take it by storm ¨C to use his past life''s knowledge, his father¡¯s power, his influence, his resources to climb to the top. Now? That seemed impossible. He was nothing. Once again¡­ Rosalina was there with him, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, one boot propped up against the stone. She was trying to calm him down, but failed miserably. She sighed, then crouched in front of him, lowering her voice to something softer. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Little Devil, don¡¯t worry.¡± Tristan didn¡¯t feel okay. ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s just a status meeting.¡± She continued. ¡°Ifrit has high hopes for you. Surely, he just wants to see how you both can progress from this situation.¡± She gave him a lopsided grin, tilting her head slightly. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s okay to be magicless. Look at me ¨C I don¡¯t have magic, and I¡¯m cool enough, right?¡± Tristan appreciated her rare attempt at humor, but his mind was elsewhere. His father¡¯s presence was like a storm waiting on the other side. Even through the heavy door, Tristan could feel it ¨C an aura so sharp it pierced through the walls like knives. He tried to calm himself down. ¡®Dude. You¡¯re not actually a kid. Why are you so afraid?!¡¯ He scolded himself, inhaling sharply. ¡®Get a hold of yourself!¡¯ But just when an ounce of courage returned to him, the doors creaked open on their own. A slow, deliberate invitation. ¡°Come.¡± Ifrit¡¯s voice was unmistakable. Calm and piercing, all at once. Rosalina placed a reassuring hand on Tristan¡¯s back, prompting him to step forward. He did ¨C empowered by the fact that she was with him. They both stepped inside, but¡­the room was empty. Completely bare. No furniture. No windows. No light. Then, from nowhere and everywhere, Ifrit spoke again. ¡°Not you, Rose.¡± He commanded. ¡°Wait outside.¡± ¡°As you wish, Ifrit.¡± She said, giving a small bow. Then, she turned to Tristan, offering a supportive smile in one last attempt to lift his spirits. And then she was gone. The doors closed behind her on their own. And the entire room became pitch black. Tristan wanted to call after her ¨C to ask her to stay ¨C but he knew that would only show more weakness. And he couldn¡¯t allow that. Not after what happened with the Inner Eye. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. He forced his breathing to steady, his finger twitching at his sides. And then ¨C without thinking ¨C he slapped himself across the face. A sharp crack echoed in the emptiness. Silence followed ¡°¡­Did you just slap yourself?¡± Ifrit¡¯s voice sounded genuinely confused. Tristan froze. ¡°Y-yes.¡± He replied, turning his head slightly, instinctively trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. But he couldn¡¯t find it. ¡°Why?¡± Tristan swallowed hard. He needed to keep his cool ¨C to regain his confidence This was different from anything he had ever faced before, but he had been in dangerous situations in the past. This one was just¡­slightly scarier. He took a deep breath before responding. ¡°To drop my fears.¡± Silence. ¡°Are you afraid of me?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Tristan admitted. Silence. ¡°Then it didn¡¯t work?¡± ¡°It did.¡± Tristan disagreed. ¡°I¡¯m less scared now.¡± Silence. ¡°Good.¡± Ifrit¡¯s voice was measured. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to be afraid of me. You are my son, after all.¡± Tristan swallowed again, his stomach twisting. He didn¡¯t believe it. He didn¡¯t know where the man was, but his presence was too suffocating ¨C too heavy ¨C for those words to be genuine. Then, suddenly, the floor caught fire. Low flames exploded out of nowhere, rushing across the entire ground ¨C except for one spot. A small, untouched circle, right where Tristan stood. With the room now alight, he raised his head and saw a man. His father. Ifrit. Kain Vortalis looked exactly the same as the day Tristan was born. The same young man. He hadn¡¯t aged a day. His face, though, still carried the same cruelty Tristan recognized back then, and every day since then. He was a hunter, and the entire world was his prey. No exceptions. His ashen hair was thick and full, the strands carrying richness that was hard to describe. He wore a simple black tunic, paired with matching trousers. And ¨C oddly enough ¨C he was barefoot, standing on the flames of his creation, unbothered. Tristan¡¯s gaze met his father¡¯s, and Ifrit smiled. But the smile was cold, and it sent a shiver down Tristan¡¯s spine. ¡°Flaghern is to blame.¡± Ifrit said as he walked around the room, arms crossed behind his back. He stepped on the fire like it wasn¡¯t even there, and the fire responded by not burning him. ¡°He sent you there when you weren¡¯t ready, and we paid the price.¡± Tristan¡¯s heart raced. He couldn¡¯t believe Ifrit was blaming Flaghern for this. But at the same time¡­he was relieved. ¡®You were the one who pressured him, though¡­¡¯ The thought had barely settled in Tristan¡¯s mind, when Ifrit suddenly turned, piercing him with his gaze. ¡°I did.¡± Tristan stiffened as his father pressed two fingers lightly against his temple, his expression calm. Tristan¡¯s eyes widened, realization dawning on him that his father could read his thoughts. ¡°Speak freely.¡± Ifrit said. ¡°Don¡¯t hide things from me. You can¡¯t. You shouldn¡¯t.¡± Tristan swallowed hard. His father wasn¡¯t just extremely powerful ¨C he was inescapable. It was no surprise his influence was so great when he could do something as amazing as reading other people¡¯s minds. Still, if lying wasn¡¯t an option, then he had to be careful about what he thought, specifically the real reason he was denied magic. ¡°I felt like Flaghern was forced to start teaching me early because you ordered it.¡± Tristan admitted. Ifrit nodded, his expression unreadable. ¡°I did pressure him, Tristan. But tell me, my brilliant child, why have advisors if they¡¯re only going to be your yes-men?¡± He shook his head and let out a slow breath. ¡°I have no use for such people. They¡¯ll only bring me more harm than good.¡± Rolling his shoulders, he released a sharp crack from his neck, as if discussing a man¡¯s execution was nothing more than a casual topic. ¡°When Flaghern insisted we wait until your sixth birthday before starting your magical education, did I kill him then for disobeying my orders? For going against my whims?¡± Tristan remained silent as his father continued. ¡°No. Of course not. I respected his knowledge. I respected his ability to stand up for what he believed in.¡± Ifrit shook his head. ¡°But now, he had failed me.¡± He paused for a short moment, letting the words sink. ¡°If he felt more time was needed, he should have told me that. But he was afraid¡­¡± A brief silence fell between them, only broken by the crackling of flames. ¡°Now,¡± Ifrit finally said, ¡°we must deal with this situation. And rest assured, we will, Tristan.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes widened. He had expected this conversation to end with him in the same slum Flaghern¡¯s body was found in. But no¡­his father seemed to still have plans for him. ¡°We¡­will?¡± He echoed cautiously. Ifrit nodded, that cold smile returning. ¡°Of course.¡± He began to approach, and with each step, Tristan felt himself growing smaller. ¡°You¡¯re a brilliant child. A genius in the making. A six-year-old with the learning capability of a young adult.¡± Ifrit¡¯s tone was smooth, almost complimentary, but there was no warmth behind it. ¡°All seven of your tutors had told me that.¡± He continued as he got closer. ¡°You are special. I expected nothing less from my own blood.¡± He sighed. ¡°This magicless state of yours is¡­temporary, at worst.¡± His father finally reached him and placed a hand on top of his head. The touch was not gentle. It was firm, heavy, controlling ¨C not an embrace, but a claim. And Tristan felt it all too well. Yet, the words that followed sounded almost¡­fatherly. ¡°You are my son, Tristan.¡± Tristan couldn¡¯t wrap his head around the man. He was terrifying, and he never even spoke to him properly for six years despite living under the same roof. It weirded him out how suddenly Ifrit was trying to become father of the year. He didn¡¯t trust him. He had no reason to either. ¡°What do we do now?¡± Tristan asked, his voice growing steady as he felt more confident. He wanted to hear what Ifrit would suggest. Ifrit turned his back to him, slowly pacing away, his hands crossed behind him once more. ¡°There are a few options.¡± He said, then tilted his head slightly. ¡°First, we will consult a Vitalis. They are specialists who deal with unblocking mana outputs in the body.¡± Tristan frowned, but Ifrit continued before he could ask further. ¡°Mana outputs get blocked sometimes. The reasons can be psychological, sometimes physical. Stress, trauma, injuries ¨C even improper breathing techniques can interfere with the natural flow of mana. If the issue is with your mana outputs - a skilled Vitalis can assess your condition and attempt to restore the natural balance of your mana circulation.¡± Tristan absorbed the information. It made a degree of sense to him. ¡°And if that is not the issue?¡± Tristan asked, knowing it wasn¡¯t. Ifrit nodded slightly, as if expecting the question. ¡°Then we turn to a Mind Shaper. They specialize in restoring access to the Inner Eye.¡± Ifrit explained. ¡°A mage¡¯s cognition is everything. It shapes our magic. But minds are fragile, Tristan. It is not uncommon for mages to ¡®lose¡¯ Threads they¡¯ve already woven due to a mental illness.¡± Tristan¡¯s stomach tightened, and he fought his hardest to keep his mind free of thoughts. Ifrit continued. ¡°A Mind Shaper guides a mage, through meditation, to fix their Inner Eye. If the issue lies within your mind, they will correct it.¡± Tristan¡¯s mouth felt dry as he asked. ¡°And if that doesn¡¯t work?¡± Ifrit exhaled through his nose, almost as if amused by the question. ¡°Then, we will turn to an alchemist.¡± That was the first one that made sense instantly to Tristan. He already knew about alchemists from all the fantasy fictions he had read in his previous life. ¡°There¡¯s a specific one I know from Ostia. Zacharia is his name.¡± Ifrit¡¯s tone became lighter, but it was an unsettling kind of ease. ¡°A brilliant man, though he speaks too much. But he will brew and brew until something works for you.¡± Tristan¡¯s stomach churned. That was the opposite of reassuring in his ears. And yet, Ifrit wasn¡¯t done. ¡°Of course,¡± he continued, his smirk fading. ¡°These are all solutions we will pursue ¨C but I refuse to waste time. Your magic might be blocked, but that doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t learn how to control magic.¡± Tristan¡¯s breath caught. ¡°But I can¡¯t even ¨C ¡° ¡°That¡¯s why we will turn to a Thread Reaver.¡± A chill ran down Tristan¡¯s spine. He had never heard of this term before either, but this one, compared to the previous two, sounded terrifying for some reason. ¡°A what?¡± He dared to ask. Ifrit stopped walking, turning around to face him fully now, an unsettling grin spreading across his face. ¡°Thread Reavers are those who deal in the acquisition of magic through forceful means.¡± Tristan didn¡¯t like the sound of that. Ifrit continued, finishing their conversation. ¡°They steal mages¡¯ Cognition Threads.¡± 9. The Thread Reaver 9. The Thread Reaver Dante Rivenfall had been a Thread Reaver for the past ten years. Ever since he turned sixteen, actually. He couldn¡¯t deny it ¨C the job was as shady as it gets. Reaching into a stranger¡¯s mind, ripping away something intangible yet vital¡­it was nasty work, to say the least. But it paid too damn well for him to care. Among all the criminal trades in the kingdom ¨C hell, in all of Terra ¨C Thread Reaving stood at the top. Because in a world where only one in five could use magic, the remaining eighty percent refused to sit quietly and accept it. No. They wanted a taste. They wanted to steal someone else¡¯s magic and use it as their own. And that¡¯s where people like Dante came in. Clients offered piles of gold, desperate to experience even a fraction of magic ¨C even if they knew it wouldn¡¯t last. But that was the best part. Because once someone tasted magic, they could never go back. They¡¯d crave it, needing more and more, returning to Thread Reavers like addicts chasing their next high. Dante was more than happy to oblige. But with demand for high level Cognition Threads constantly rising, he had to make sure supply could keep up. And that meant one thing. He needed to Reave. And that was exactly why Dante was here tonight ¨C at the Veilborne Gala, and extravagant masquerade ball hosted by House Valciano, one of the most influential noble houses in Stulan. A gathering of high-profile aristocrats, hiding behind masks, indulging in secrets, politics, and sin. Among them was Lord Lucien D¡¯Arveau ¨C his target. Lucien was a low ranking noble all things considered, but his devastating good looks made up for what his name lacked in power. He had built his influence carefully, climbing his way through Stulan¡¯s political web not with alliances, but with charm, and¡­a tiny bit of magic. You see, Lucien D¡¯Arveau was secretly a mage. And Dante¡¯s informant, Sticker ¨C awful name, but effective man ¨C had assured him that Lucien possessed a Level 4 Cognition Thread in Persuasion Magic. That was valuable. And Sticker was many things, but his information was never wrong. Most of Dante¡¯s clients requested lower-level Cognition Threads ¨C anything below Level 3. Those were easy to get. Easy meant cheap. And he already had plenty in stock, enough to hold him over for the next year without needing to replenish. But the higher-level Threads ¨C the ones that required exceptional cognition and deep world understanding ¨C those were where the real gold was. And came with significant risk. But it paid too damn well for Dante to care. The Gala was held in House Valciano¡¯s estate. It was located in the center of Dalina, Stulan''s capital, and the closest estate to the Royal Palace of Stulan. Their Grand Atrium was prepared for the ball, transformed overnight. With a high vaulted ceiling, glowing with extravagant chandeliers, polished marble floors and simple, yet beautiful, ivory-white walls. A grand staircase split the ballroom into two levels. The upper one reserved for private meetings or conversations, while the lower one remained alive with music, dance, and small talk. On both sides of the staircase were grand corridors leading inside the estate. A quartet of liovas played on an elevated stage in the center, their strings sending rich and piercing harmonies across the ballroom. Accompanying them were the lorrettes, with their many taut strings plucked by trained fingers to produce sounds that were soothing and relaxing. Outside, just through the main doors, was a beautiful, pastoral garden that stretched along the eastern wing of the estate. There were almost a hundred guests here ¨C not all were nobles. And yet, Dante came dressed regardless. He wore a simple, yet elegant robe, tailored well enough to pass as a nobleman¡¯s attire but not extravagant enough to invite unwanted curiosity. After all, he already had enough reasons to stand out. Dante was extremely tall. And paired with his broad shoulders, it was hard to miss his presence. That¡¯s why he needed to take precautions - his suit was black, and his normally vivid red hair was dyed in a matching color for the evening. And his striking yellow eyes? Hidden behind a pair of dark green contacts. By all appearances, he was just another rich snob among many. And that was exactly what he wanted. He wore a white mask with a golden outline, covering the upper half of his face ¨C as per the masquerade¡¯s requirements. The masks themselves made things a bit trickier for his job, but Dante knew he¡¯d manage. He had studied D¡¯Arveau enough to recognize him by his jawline alone. Dante¡¯s gaze swept across the ballroom, until he found him in the far corner. The low-ranking noble was deep in conversation with Lord Cassian Moreau, the unassuming but powerful head of Stulan¡¯s ink and parchment industry. To most, Moreau¡¯s trade seemed insignificant, just another merchant-turned-Lord profiting from books, scrolls, and bureaucratic paperwork. But Lucien D¡¯Avreau was smarter than most. He understood the power of knowledge and its potential as a currency. And who controlled the production and distribution of knowledge in the kingdom? Cassian Moreau. His ink ran through every royal decree, every treaty, every military correspondence, every scroll, every book. If he ever wanted to cripple a government body, all he had to do was tighten his control over supply chains or sell exclusive access to those who could pay. The King surely wouldn¡¯t care. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. A sleeper powerhouse, hidden beneath ink and wax seals. And Lucien had noticed. Additionally, clinging to Lucien¡¯s arm, looking utterly smitten, was Lady Evelyne Varessant, heiress to House Varessant, a noble family that controlled Stulan¡¯s vast network of textile production. Fashion, military uniforms, merchant export, ceremonial robes ¨C even the royal family¡¯s ¨C Varessant fabrics draped the backs of most big cities citizens. If D¡¯Avreau was working his way into Moreau¡¯s world of knowledge distribution, then Evelyn¡¯s family controlled perception itself. A smart match. Dante smirked, impressed by his target¡¯s mind. He adjusted his posture, slipping into movements of a nobleman, and made his way toward them. Along the way, a few guests stopped him, mistaking him for someone else. He exchanged quick pleasantries, careful to remain vague, before excusing himself and drawing closer to his target. But then, a thin blonde woman suddenly stumbled into him, muttering a quick, curt, ¡°apologies,¡± before slipping past him. He knew who that voice belonged to immediately. And then, he could tell ¨C his wrist felt lighter. In a fluid motion, he caught the woman¡¯s arm, pulling her back before she could disappear into the crowd. And ¨C surprise, surprise ¨C there, in her delicate fingers, was his golden watch. ¡°Aw, aw ¨C damn, that hurts!¡± The woman winced, twisting slightly in his grip. He definitely knew who that voice belonged to. ¡°Celine, what the hell are you doing here?¡± Her eyes widened in recognition, but she quickly recovered, tilting her head with a smirk. ¡°Dante?¡± She shook her head, clicking her tongue as she patted his broad shoulders with her free hand. ¡°I should¡¯ve guessed it was you. Really, who else in Stulan could look like a walking brick wall in noble¡¯s clothing?¡± ¡°You thought I was Lord Veyrand.¡± Dante said dryly. Celine grinned. ¡°I totally thought you were Lord Veyrand.¡± She released a soft laugh, shaking her head. Dante snatched his watch back from her grasp, tucking it away into his pocket. ¡°What are you even doing here? Stealing from Valciano? Are you that desperate?¡± Celine shrugged, unbothered. ¡°I could ask you the same thing.¡± Before he could respond, she looped her arm through his, the motion so smooth and practiced that, to an outsider, they looked like a couple enjoying the masquerade together. She scanned the ballroom, her eyes practically twinkling with mischief. ¡°Say, Dante, which of these snobby bastards are you planning to Reave from today?¡± Dante shook her off immediately, checking his pockets just in case she had taken anything else. ¡°None of your damn business.¡± She sighed dramatically. ¡°You better get out of here.¡± He warned, voice low. ¡°You¡¯re way out of your league here, and I¡¯m telling you this as a friendly advice.¡± Celine¡¯s eyes widened, a teasing smirk dancing on her lips. ¡°For it to be ¡®friendly advice¡¯, we¡¯d first have to be friends, which we¡­aren¡¯t.¡± She rolled her eyes, turning away without hesitation. ¡°Not even close.¡± ¡°At least don¡¯t do anything stupid while I¡¯m here. Don¡¯t ruin my night.¡± Dante added. She ignored his words. With a lazy wave over her shoulder, Celine stepped into the shifting crowd. ¡°Later, Dante.¡± But before she disappeared, she winked at him. ¡°By the way, you¡¯re way hotter with your red hair.¡± Dante exhaled sharply, watching her retreating figure, her swaying hips. His jaw tightened as old memories surfaced. ¡®A fling. Nothing more.¡¯ He reminded himself. A tangled mess of bad decisions and toxicity, one he had no intention of revisiting. He pushed the thoughts aside. There was work to do. He eyes swept the Atrium as he caught Lucien moving inside the corridor next to the staircase, leaving Lady Varessant waiting behind. ¡®He likely went into the washroom.¡¯ Dante thought. It made no sense for someone like D¡¯Avreau to leave a gem like Evelyne Varessant behind for long. ¡®Perfect¡¯. Dante stepped into the corridor behind Varessant and slipped into the lavish nobles¡¯ washroom. The walls were polished white marble, accompanied by streaks of gold which reflected the light of the hanging chandelier. Instead of a typical basin, a sculpted stone fountain sat against the left wall, its water flowing continuously from the mouth of a carved lion¡¯s head ¨C House Valciano¡¯s family crest. The air was filled with the scents of lavender and myrrh, courtesy of the three incense burners placed on the counter above the fountain. Three wooden stalls lined the opposite wall, each door carved with the same lion head image. Overall, a ridiculous display of wealth for a place meant for relieving oneself. Near the entrance, standing at the fountain-like washbasin, Lucien D¡¯Avreau rinsed his hands in the cool, flowing water. His posture was casual, his mind clearly elsewhere. He barely spared a glance as Dante entered. Then, his gaze landed on him fully, and he smiled ¨C a charming, confident smile. ¡°Oh, Lord Veyrand. I was told you wouldn¡¯t make it tonight.¡± Dante returned the smile smoothly, satisfied by the fact D¡¯Avreau just made the same mistake Celine did a few minutes ago, without Dante even trying. ¡®This should make things easier.¡¯ ¡°Lord D¡¯Avreau.¡± Dante greeted him back as he inclined his head in greeting. ¡°I must admit, I didn¡¯t think I would make it, but House Valciano¡¯s parties aren¡¯t something you can miss.¡± Lucien let out a soft chuckle, wiping his hands with a silk cloth from the velvet-lined basket at the side of the counter. ¡°That they are, that they are.¡± Lucien took a step closer, extending a hand. ¡°It was a pleasure seeing you, Lord Veyrand.¡± ¡®You¡¯re making it way too easy, D¡¯Avreau.¡¯ Dante thought as he reached for his hand. Before he did, he had already scanned the washroom for other presences using his magically-heightened senses ¨C courtesy of his Level Four Cognition Thread in Perception Magic. They were alone. The moment Dante¡¯s palm met Lucien¡¯s, he activated his lightning magic. It was a subtle pulse, a mere flicker of energy, but the effect was instantaneous. Lucien¡¯s body seized up, his breath hitching mid-sentence. His muscles locked, his limbs jerked violently as a sharp, silent convulsion rippled through him. His chest tightened, and his knees buckled from the sudden loss of control. He opened his mouth to say something, but before any sound could escape, his body went limp. Dante moved instantly, catching him before he collapsed. Then, carefully maneuvering the unconscious noble¡¯s weight with ease, he dragged him toward the furthest stall, kicking the door open before slipping inside and shutting it behind them. The small space was barely enough for them both, but it would have to do. Dante propped Lucien up, resting him against the smooth, sculpted stone bench that served as the lavatory seat. Then, swiftly, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit and retrieved a golden-glowing rope ¨C a Magebinder. He wrapped one end around Lucien¡¯s wrists, pulling it tight before securing the other end around his ankles. The moment the rope was in place, a faint hum pulsed from it, and it froze in place, locking D¡¯Avreau¡¯s body. Satisfied, Dante reached for his second tool. A small metallic half-cylinder, smooth and cold to the touch ¨C a Silencer. He brought it close to Lucien¡¯s slack jaw ¨C and the moment it neared his face, the device reacted. It sprang to life, snapping into place like it was alive, covering Lucien¡¯s mouth completely. Dante exhaled, cracking his knuckles. Now comes the nastiest part of the job. The reaving. Dante reached into the second inner pocket of his suit, pulling out a small glass vial. Inside, writhing constantly, was a pale, worm-like creature no longer than a pinky ¨C a Reaver Worm. He brought the vial close to Lucien¡¯s right nostril, the noble still slumped against the stone bench. Then, holding it just a hair¡¯s width away from Lucien, Dante uncorked the vial. Immediately, the worm shot forward, its thin, sinewy body slipping inside D¡¯Avreau¡¯s nostril. Dante remained unbothered, holding the cork and vial in his left hand as his right reached for the wristwatch in his pocket. Two minutes. That¡¯s how long it would take. Suddenly, Lucien jerked violently as his eyes shot open. His body convulsed as he struggled against the Magebinder, but to no avail. A muffled scream of agony died behind the Silencer clamped over his mouth. It was a terrible pain to witness, no doubt ¨C the sensation of something crawling deep into his mind, burrowing through the delicate strands of thought he had carefully woven. But it paid too well for Dante to care. Dante sighed, glancing up from his watch. ¡°Calm down, D¡¯Arveau. It¡¯ll be over soon.¡± Lucien¡¯s eyes bulged, his entire body arching painfully - as much as the Magebinder allowed it. Dante adjusted his cufflinks, looking bored. ¡°You¡¯ll grow the Cognition Thread back in time. Everyone does. It¡¯s not like they¡¯re gone forever for those who wove them the proper way. You just might feel¡­weirder from now on.¡± Lucien¡¯s back hit the stone seat hard, his rolling eyes turned white, his body trembling violently. Dante clicked his tongue. ¡°And that¡¯s my cue.¡± He brought the empty vial close to Lucien¡¯s nostril once more. A moment later, the worm reemerged, now glowing faint blue. Dante tilted the vial, letting the worm slip inside, then swiftly corked it shut. He rolled it between his fingers before storing it back in his inner pocket. Lucien¡¯s body slumped backwards, unconscious again. Dante took his tools back and left him there, adjusting his mask as he slipped out of the stall, carefully closing the door behind him. Now, all that was left was to leave before anyone noticed. He adjusted his suit, smoothing out any wrinkles as he walked toward the exit, his mind already shifting toward the next part of his evening. A meeting. A very dangerous meeting. Dante had no intention of keeping that man waiting. That would be a death sentence. But¡­things went so smoothly here. He felt like he could still at least take some of the free booze before he leaves. It¡¯ll take some time for D¡¯Arveau to wake up and point the guards at him. That thought lasted for about two seconds before he heard shouting from outside the washroom. ¡°Stop the thief!¡± Dante¡¯s jaw tightened. He didn¡¯t need to guess. Only one person was dumb enough to steal from House Valciano. ¡®Curse you, Celine!¡¯ Now his evening was ruined, his disappointment immeasurable, and he had to leave. 10. Kal: The Festival of First Harvest 10. Kal: The Festival of First Harvest The day of the Festival of First Harvest arrived in a flash. If at first, Kal had told himself that a week was more than enough time to practice the folk song, ¡®Sun on the Fields¡¯, chosen for him by the mayor, he quickly realized it wasn¡¯t. He still didn¡¯t feel confident enough. He wished he had another week. Or two. Or three. His father had been busier than ever, overseeing the final preparations for Terenhill¡¯s largest event of the season ¨C maybe even the year. As the Lead Farmer, it was his duty to ensure that the crops were properly harvested, sorted, and displayed for both the festival¡¯s offerings and the baron¡¯s visit. For the past six days, Reinar and the other farmhands had worked from dawn until the last light of dusk, moving cartloads of golden rye into the central granary, and organizing freshly milled flour to be distributed among the village families. The largest task, however, had been preparing the ceremonial offering ¨C a massive cornucopia filled with golden rye, carefully arranged in the village¡¯s square as a symbol of prosperity and gratitude to the gods of harvest. And since Baron Rodan was attending this year, Mayor Barnes and the village elders had pushed for something grander than usual. The men of the village had worked tirelessly to construct a wooden archway at the festival grounds, adorned with woven strands of golden rye and sprigs of flowers. And a second one, similar but smaller in size, to be placed on the elevated stage that was built in the village square. While his father had been occupied with festival preparations, his mother had her hands full with baby Lucas, keeping their home in order, and preparing some food for the festival¡¯s stalls. Kal helped whenever he could, glad he could experience something like this, but Elara encouraged him to focus on his practice. ¡°I can handle thing just fine.¡± She would tell him with a warm smile. ¡°You just focus on giving us all a good performance, alright?¡± Sometimes when Kal practiced, she would bring Lucas along, sitting him on her lap as she pretended they were an audience, cheering Kal on. ¡°Your big brother is going to play for the whole village.¡± She would whisper to Lucas. Lucas, of course, would gurgle happily, but Kal was unsure if he understood any of it. As much as Kal appreciated the gesture and support, it didn¡¯t ease his nerves. On Earth, the only people who had ever actually heard him play were his parents and his twin brother. This wasn¡¯t much different. His brother¡­He tightened his grip on his lyroca every time he thought about him, pained by the fact he still couldn''t remember his name. Kal had also managed to learn about the mage his father had requested from the capital. It was all tied to the arriving autumn. When autumn settled, the barley fields were at risk of a mold outbreak caused by excessive moisture in the air. When unchecked, this could lead to rot, ruining their stored grain right when winter arrived. For smaller farms, it was merely a frustrating, minor setback ¨C but for Terenhill, where barley was a primary crop in the cold months, it could mean a severe loss for the village¡¯s trade. There were conventional methods of battling this issue, but Reinar decided a mage would speed things up and save them the hassle. So, he made sure to send a formal request to the Ministry of Agriculture as soon as he could, as he had expected them to take their sweet time responding. But the Ministry had surprised him ¨C they had approved the request and a guild mage specializing in crop preservation had been assigned to reach the village any day now. His father hadn¡¯t spoken much about it, too busy with festival preparations, but Kal had overheard his parents talking late at night. His father was glad a mage would arrive so soon ¨C three months before winter starts. His mother was worried that they would need to house the mage in their tiny house for said three months. Having a stranger living with them when they had two small children was an unsettling thought for her. Kal was thinking about the mage, curious to meet another one after Gusto the Great, when his mother called him. ¡°Hey, Kal, baby, I¡¯m sorry to mess with your practice, but can you run to Old Berta¡¯s and pick up some beeswax for me?¡± She had been working all morning, making fresh candles for their home and as village decorations for the festival. Lucas, meanwhile, was fussy as ever, refusing to let go of her. His tiny hands were curled into her tunic, his face scrunched up as if he was thinking about crying. Kal was more than happy for an excuse to take a break and breathe some fresh air. He set his lyroca aside and stood up, stretching. ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll go now!¡± He called out, already eager to step outside and clear his head. Before he could leave, his mother stopped him, her voice gentle but firm. ¡°Kal.¡± He turned back, meeting her serious gaze. ¡°Be careful, alright?¡± She warned. ¡°I trust you with my eyes closed. But there are a lot of strangers passing through the village this week because of the festival. Stay away from people you don¡¯t recognize. Just get the wax and come straight back.¡± The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Kal smirked, rolling his eyes. He was an adult, after all. ¡°Mom, it¡¯s just Old Berta¡¯s. I¡¯ll be fine.¡± ¡°Kal.¡± she repeated, her expression unchanging. He sighed, raising his hand in mock surrender. ¡°Alright, alright. Straight there, straight back. Promise.¡± Elara exhaled, satisfied. ¡°Good. And thank you, baby.¡± With that, Kal stepped outside, the cool air welcoming him, offering to wash away his worries. *** Kal walked the familiar dirt path toward the village. It wasn¡¯t the first time his parents had let him run some errands for them on his own. He showed incredible maturity for someone his age, and the rest of the villagers were all trustworthy people that would keep an eye on him. Before he could make it much farther from his house, a sharp voice called out from his side. ¡°Oi, Kal! Wait up!¡± Kal turned, already recognizing the voice before he saw the speaker. It was Gerrin Berell ¨C one of the dairy farmer¡¯s kids, a boy his age, always full of energy. He had a curly brown hair, sunburned cheeks, and mud stains all over his tunic ¨C or maybe it wasn¡¯t mud¡­ Kal had played with Gerrin plenty of times, along with the other farm kids from the outskirts. They were all friendly enough, but he wasn¡¯t sure if he¡¯d call them friends. Gerrin ran up to him, grinning, climbing the wooden fence and sitting on top of it. ¡°Where ya goin¡¯?¡± He asked immediately, squinting at Kal as if interrogating him. ¡°Just running an errand for my mom.¡± Kal replied. ¡°What kinda errand?¡± Gerrin pressed, his eyes lighting up. Before Kal could answer, he just kept talking. ¡°Wait ¨C oh! Is it somethin¡¯ for the festival? Are ya gettin¡¯ sweets? Are the roasted nuts out yet? I heard the Brandons got honey on ¡®em this time! Or ¨C or ¨C wait ¨C are you goin¡¯ to spy on the Baron¡¯s fancy carriage? It¡¯s Huge! It¡¯s got gold on the wheels an¡¯ everythin¡¯!¡± ¡°Gold on the wheels?¡± Kal echoed, genuinely curious to find out if it was true. Gerrin nodded aggressively. ¡°Did you see it?¡± Kal asked, growing excited. Gerring shook his head, still grinning. ¡°Mom won¡¯t let me.¡± Kal narrowed his eyes. ¡°Then how would you even know?¡± Gerrin shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s just how I imagine a fancy carriage.¡± Kal rolled his eyes, then allowed himself a short laugh, forgetting about his tension for the moment. *** Kal made his way to Old Berta¡¯s house, the roads of the village alive with activity as everyone was busy with last-minute preparations. It was quite literally impossible to walk ten steps without someone calling out to him and wishing him good luck at the performance. As he stepped into the village square, Kal slowed his pace to take in the full sight of the stage. The elevated platform had been built of sturdy wooden beams, standing in the center of the square, hiding the well behind it. Positioned right on top of it, still being worked on, was the wooden arc. Several men from the village stood on ladders, hammering the final nails into place, adjusting the decorations to make sure the arc stood strong for tonight¡¯s festival. One of them, a burly man with thick arms, called out to Kal. ¡°Yo, Kal! Lend a quick hand, would ya?¡± Kal didn¡¯t hesitate, hurrying over. The man was Balric Tonnel, one of the village carpenters, known especially for his size. He was balancing on a wooden beam, securing the last few nails. Kal spotted the hammer the man had likely dropped and quickly grabbed it. He jumped on the ladder and held it out. ¡°Here you go.¡± Balric took it with a thankful grunt. ¡°Good lad.¡± He said, resuming his work on the arc. ¡°You¡¯ll do fine on this stage, don¡¯t you worry.¡± ¡°Break a string, Kal!¡± Harvin, the second carpenter of the village, called, grinning. Balric rolled his eyes, shaking his head. ¡°It¡¯s ¡®break a leg¡¯, you dumbass.¡± Kal let out a laugh, rubbed his arm, and left the men to their work. Before he could leave the square, Kal¡¯s eyes lingered on the wooden platform, recalling all the rehearsals under Mayor Barnes¡¯ supervision, hoping everything will end up okay. *** As the sun dipped below the horizon, the Festival of First Harvest began. The scents of bread, roasted meats, and cinnamon-spiced cider filled the air ¨C coming from the many stalls lined in the village square. While the torches and hanging lanterns lit the village with a warm, golden light. A dozen of long, wooden benches were placed in front of the stage allowing families and visitors to relax and prepare for the show. Separated from the benches, and slightly to the left, was a smaller raised platform where the Baron and his family were seated. Baron Rodan wore a navy-blue attire, his black hair and beard neatly groomed. Beside him, his wife and two daughters sat elegantly, dressed in modest but still very expensive dresses. They exchanged laughs and seemed to be in a good mood, which made Kal relax slightly. Around them stood several guards, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ready for anything. And next to them was a man wearing a blue robe who Kal assumed was the Baron¡¯s private mage. It just made sense to him. When the baron was introduced by Mayor Barnes, he stood up and addressed the crowd shortly. ¡°Dear citizens of Terenhill, you contribution to Stulan¡¯s agriculture are paramount to the growth and prosperity of our kingdom.¡± He said, his voice deep and smooth. ¡°May this prosperity continue for as long as possible. In the name of our king, I thank you.¡± With the formalities out of the way, the festival truly began ¨C mostly religious prayers and official announcements, but also traditional dances and a short play depicting the Spirits of Harvest and their gifts to Leyvan ¨C who people believed was the first human to work the land. Kal sat with his parents and brother, watching it all unfold, his heart hammering in his chest. Lucas, sitting on Elara¡¯s lap, looked happy enough, enjoying the show. Kal wished he could feel that carefree. He thought how an actual six-year-old would probably feel like that. But not he ¨C not with his adult anxiety-poisoned mind. His mother must¡¯ve sensed his nerves, because she gently rubbed his back. ¡°You¡¯ll be wonderful, baby.¡± She said, smiling warmly. ¡°Look for us in the crowd, forget about everyone else, and imagine you¡¯re playing just for us.¡± Reinar suggested. Kal tried to smile, but his stomach felt too tight. It became even tighter when Mayor Barnes returned to the stage and was about to call him. She thanked the play¡¯s performers and turned to the baron, addressing him directly. ¡°And now, my lord, I¡¯d like to introduce a young musician, one whose talent had moved us all. Terenhill¡¯s own, six-year-old Kal Varren, playing the lyroca!¡± A wave of applause followed, and even the baron shot a curious glance and smiled toward Kal who stood up, swallowed hard and made his way to the stage, clutching the lyroca tightly. Kal stepped onto the stage, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Each step felt like a battle, but he forced himself up. ¡®Calm down. Breathe.¡¯ He told himself, but nothing helped. He sat on the wooden stool prepared for him in the center of the stage and adjusted the lyroca on his lap. The crowd was silent, waiting, their gazes on him. His mind drifted to his twin brother. To how they used to karaoke rock songs in their stolen Cadillac Seville. He¡¯d get the lyrics wrong most of the time, driving Kal mad, but he tried his best. He drummed beats against the dashboard as the city lights blurred past their windshield. Beautiful memories. ¡®Why can¡¯t I remember his name¡­?¡¯ Just then ¨C a sharp snap. Above him, the wooden arc broke loose ¨C its heave beams splintering mid-air, its weight rushing down toward him. ¡°KAL!¡± He heard his mother. He looked up. He had seen the incoming danger. But he couldn¡¯t move. It was too fast. Right as he wondered if that¡¯s how his second life ends, the crashing arc suddenly stopped ¨C suspended in the air. The festival square fell silent, all eyes now turned not to Kal, but to her. A short young woman stood just beyond the stage, her hands raised, fingers splayed wide as if she was holding the wooden arc with the power of her mind. She looked young ¨C a teenager, with long black hair that reached down to her knees. A dark green cloak billowed gently around her. The villagers stared in shock at the young mage, amazed by her powers. Kal stared at her in shock believing it was love at first sight. ¡°Tsk. Would you roll away already, kid?¡± She said impatiently, rolling her eyes. ¡°This thing is heavier than it looks.¡± 11. The Guild Mage 11. The Guild Mage ¡°AZMIRA!¡± A sharp voice rang from the second floor of the guildhouse, cutting through the usual chatter of the main hall, making the mugs tremble. Azmira sighed deeply, already bracing herself. ¡®What did I do this time?¡¯ Rykard Aberants, the Vice Guildmaster ¨C and current leader of her guild at the absence of their actual Guildmaster ¨C always had something to say to her. Every single week, without fail, he¡¯d drag her upstairs for a lecture about some mistake she supposedly made during her latest assignments. Did she start a tavern fight? ¡®Yup.¡¯ Did she cast a spell a bit too recklessly during a hunt and revealed their location? ¡®Sure.¡¯ Did she accidentally burn a woman¡¯s eyebrows off because she lost focus and channeled fire magic instead of healing magic? ¡®I swear it only happened once!¡¯ Or maybe ¨C just maybe ¨C she just breathed incorrectly in Aberants presence? ¡®For sure. It had to be it.¡¯ She wouldn¡¯t put it past him. But what frustrated her most wasn¡¯t the fact that Aberants criticized her ¨C it was that he only did it to her. She had never once heard him giving these talks to the other mages. Was it because she was the youngest licensed mage in the kingdom, having passed the qualification test and getting her license at just sixteen? Or¡­ Was it because he was jealous of her long, flowing hair that reached her knees? The guy was bold as a polished stone, after all. Azmira rose from her stool, stretching lazily before cracking her neck. ¡°Want me to come with?¡± Kayla, her best friend, asked, swirling her drink with a smirk. Azmira shook her head. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m good.¡± ¡°Yup, let pipsqueak take care of Aber-baldy on her own.¡± Wayne, her other best friend added, grinning from ear to ear. Azmira rolled her eyes at him before she rolled her sleeves, smirking. ¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯ll show Baldy over there he should stop messing with me!¡± Kayla laughed, clapping her hands enthusiastically before quickly returning to her drink, taking another sip. ¡°Will history be made today?¡± Azmira took a deep breath, ignoring the jab, and made her way toward the stairs. She climbed the stairs with purpose, head held high. ¡®Alright, this time, I¡¯m putting my foot down!¡¯ She told herself, radiating self-confidence all the way from Dalina down to the Ostian Kingdom in the southern hemisphere of Terra as she climbed the steps. She was going to march into his office, flip his table, and let him know exactly how annoying he was. She was going to stand her ground. She was going to ¨C She hesitated. The higher she climbed, the more she remembered Aberants¡¯ enormous size, the way his massive arms were the size of tree trunks, the way his veins bulged whenever he scolded her. And, of course, there was that gleaming bald head of his that somehow made him look even more menacing. Azmira gulped. She glanced down at her rolled-up sleeves, suddenly feeling a lot less confident. ¡®Well¡­actually I¡¯m not really that mad. Maybe I¡¯ll let it slide just this time.¡¯ With slightly less enthusiasm, she reached the top of the stairs and continued down the corridor to Aberants¡¯ office. The large wooden double doors loomed over her, carved with runes of protection and reinforcement made by Aberants himself ¨C he was a War Mage in his past. She knocked on the door twice before stepping inside. Whatever lecture he had for her today, she just hoped it would be quick. And there he was. Rykard Aberants, Vice Guildmaster, former War Mage, and full-time pain in her ass. The man was massive, with broad shoulders and a thick, muscular frame that made him look more like a mercenary that a scholar of magic. He had the face of someone who chewed metal for breakfast and asked why it was so soft and soggy. His bald head gleamed under the sunlight coming from the window behind him. For the ten-millionth time since she met him, Azmira wondered. ¡®Did he¡­oil it?¡¯ ''Probably.'' His guild uniform ¨C a thick, dark green tunic with golden embroidery at the collar ¨C did nothing to soften his appearance. As Azmira closed the door behind her, Aberants sighed heavily, like her very presence was a personal inconvenience. He grunted as he saw her. ¡°Took you long enough, kid.¡± ¡®Kid?!¡¯ Azmira immediately shrunk slightly. ¡°S-sorry, Vice Guildmaster!¡± She stammered, trying not to sound too nervous ¨C failing miserably. Aberants squinted at her, looking even more annoyed. ¡°Uh-huh. Sit down.¡± She did. Quickly. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. She kept her hands on her lap, resisting the urge to fidget under his scrutinizing gaze. Aberants pulled a rolled-up scroll from his desk and slapped it onto the table. Azmira winced at the sound, bracing herself for the worst ¨C an official complaint. ¡°L-look, whatever I did this time, I promise I didn¡¯t mean it!¡± Aberants raised a thick brow. ¡°Relax, kid. You¡¯re not here to get scolded.¡± Azmira blinked. ¡°Wait. What?¡± Aberants sighed. ¡°Yes. I have a quest for you. A solo quest, to be precise.¡± Azmira¡¯s stomach flipped. Her? A solo quest? Her mind immediately jumped ahead, painting images of dangerous tombs, rogue mages, handsome companions, deadly monsters lurking in the wild. This was it. Her first solo quest. She was finally getting recognized, finally being sent on a real adventure! Her first big step toward making a name for herself. Maybe¡­maybe Aberants wasn¡¯t all that bad, after all! ¡°I won¡¯t let you down, Vice Guildmaster!¡± She declared, her nervousness making way for her growing excitement. ¡°You¡¯re going to Terenhill.¡± Azmira¡¯s fantasy came to a screeching halt. ¡°Teren¡­what?¡± Aberants grinned, as if he enjoyed watching her hopes die. ¡°Terenhill. A small farming village in the countryside. Population? Who cares. They got crops. Your job? Making sure those crops don¡¯t get moldy in the winter.¡± Azmira stared at him. Then she leaned forward, her voice flat. ¡°You¡¯re telling me¡­my grand solo quest is¡­babysitting vegetables?¡± Aberants nodded, completely serious. ¡°Yep. Hope you like wheat ¨C ¡° he quickly glanced at the scroll, ¡°sorry ¨C barley, kid.¡± She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. ¡°Vice Guildmaster, with all due respect, do I look like a farmer to you?¡± Aberants raised an eyebrow. ¡°No. Too short and scrawny. But you do look like a mage who has a Level 3 Thread in Water Magic. Which is exactly why you¡¯re going.¡± Azmira opened her mouth to protest, then caught the look he gave here: ¡®This is not up for debate¡¯. She immediately folded, lowering her head slightly. ¡°¡­Understood, sir.¡± *** Aberants had only given her two days to pack and leave. The monster. Azmira stood in her small guild quarters, staring at the suitcase she had barely managed to pack in time. How long would this boring quest even take? She had no idea. She couldn¡¯t believe someone as talented as her was being reduced to such¡­an embarrassing quest. The guys from the academy would probably laugh at her for all eternity if they heard about it. She had stuffed three extra tunics, some decent traveling boots ¨C just in case, a book about water magic ¨C for show, obviously, and a small mirror ¨C because no way in hell was she letting herself look like a disheveled farmhand out there. And a bunch of romance novels. She just hoped Teren¡­whatever had hot baths installed and wasn¡¯t one of those extremely outdated villages where people still bathed in lakes. ¡®EW!!!!¡¯ If she had to wash in a pond with frogs watching her, she was going to blow something up. The guild didn¡¯t provide her with any sort of transport, which meant Azmira had to figure things out herself. Horses? Too expensive. Carriages? Only for the wealthy. Walking? ¡®Are you crazy?!¡¯ So she did what any reasonable young woman would do¡­she caught rides with strangers. And thus, her thrilling adventure to Terenhill began. It started with a grumpy farmer who reeked of cabbages, barely saying a word to her for one whole month before dropping her off halfway to nowhere and moving on. Then, a traveling herbalist who spent two weeks explaining the medical benefits of moss when it¡¯s mixed with peanuts ¨C which she didn¡¯t even ask for! And then, finally, her last ride¡­a young, handsome merchant. ¡®At long last!¡¯ Azmira¡¯s mother was a romance novels author, famous across all Stulan. And so, obviously, her daughter grew up to be a hopeless romantic who had no idea how actual humans interacted romantically. It didn¡¯t stop her from being a dreamer, though. They rode together for three days, and he seemed like a trustworthy enough fellow. It was clear to her ¨C she was definitely falling for him. It was inevitable, really. Three days alone on the road, sharing fireside meals, exchanging stories about their travels ¨C this was exactly how every great love story began. Her mother¡¯s romance novels always had scenes like this. The mysterious woman and the devilishly handsome young traveler, thrown together by fate, slowly realizing their undeniable attraction to each other. And sure, she might have been doing most of the talking, but that was just because the merchant was one of those brooding, quietly amused types. Which, obviously, only made him more attractive. One evening, they rode the carriage, a breath away from each other. Azmira adjusted her cloak, pretending to be indifferent to their proximity. He was tall, with sharp cheekbones and rich blonde hair, dressed in fine robes that hinted he was more than just a regular traveling merchant. And ¨C by the gods ¨C he smelled good. ¡°So,¡± Aldric, the merchant, finally spoke. ¡°Terenhill, huh?¡± It was the last day of their journey together. Azmira sighed dramatically, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t remind me.¡± Aldric chuckled. ¡°Still upset about babysitting crops?¡± She groaned. ¡°Completely wasted potential. Imagine ¨C someone like me, a brilliant mage, a daughter of a general, sent to a tiny farm village to get rid of their mold.¡± ¡°Tragic.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± She glanced sideways at him, still hoping he would finally make the move. ¡°What about you? Are you ready for your big trade?¡± Aldric simply grinned. ¡°Of course.¡± Azmira pressed on. ¡°But why that direction in particular? Is there something interesting around Terenbog?¡± ¡°Terenhill.¡± He corrected her. ¡°And no. Just clients there.¡± Azmira blinked. ¡®That¡¯s it?! But mother¡¯s books¡­¡¯ She tried not to look too disappointed. ¡°Ah. Clients. Of course.¡± Aldric smirked, catching her expression. ¡°Were you expecting something else?¡± Azmira cleared her throat. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡± He let out a soft chuckle. ¡°You¡¯ve been acting like you¡¯re waiting for me to reveal some grand, dark secret for the past three days.¡± Azmira sat up straighter. ¡°I have not!¡± He hummed in amusement. ¡°You¡¯re disappointed that I¡¯m just a simple merchant. That much is clear.¡± Azmira opened her mouth ¨C then closed it. Her entire romantic fantasy was falling apart. Then she remembered a line from one of her mother¡¯s books. ¡°Some men are merchants in occupation, but fighters in heart.¡± Aldric stared at her. ¡°What?¡± Azmira winced. ¡®That sounded¡­way better in my head.¡¯ She cleared her throat. ¡°I mean ¨C everyone has deeper depths.¡± Aldric smirked. ¡°Deeper depths? Really?¡± Before Azmira could die of shame, she just shouted. ¡°Just focus on the road, goddamn it!¡± *** When they finally reached Terenhill, Azmira gladly hopped off the cart, her face still burning as Aldric gave her a polite nod, as if she were a normal person who hadn¡¯t just made a complete fool of herself. She wanted to crawl into a hole. Cover herself in mud. And just die. But before she could do any of that, the sound of laughter and music filled her ears. She blinked, glancing around. The village was aloud with festivity. Lanterns hung from wooden posts, and banners stretched high declaring some sort of ¡®Festival of First Harvest¡¯¡­.? Azmira sighed. ¡°Great.¡± Then, begrudgingly, she adjusted her cloak and stepped into the heart of the village. It was time to find the Lead Farmer and get this stupid job over with. She made her way into the heart of the village, scanning the area for anyone who looked like a menacing, burly man, when her eyes landed on the elevated stage in the village square. A woman in elegant robes stood there, addressing the gathered crowd. ¡°¡­I¡¯d like to introduce a young musician, one whose talent had moved us all. Terenhill¡¯s own, six-year-old Kal Varren, playing the lyroca!¡± The crowd clapped enthusiastically as a small boy stepped onto the stage holding a lyroca. Azmira raised an eyebrow. ¡®Oh, great. A child musician. Figures these boonies would do something like this¡­¡¯ She shook her head. ¡®What¡¯s he going to do? Strum out a lullaby? What a joke¡­¡¯ Ironically, she had no patience for this. She was about to turn away, completely uninterested, when she felt it. An overwhelming wave of mana. Her eyes immediately snapped back to the boy on the stage, her brows furrowing. ¡®What the hell?!¡¯ His mana presence was insane. And the strangest part? It wasn¡¯t controlled. It was wild, unstable, crackling around him like there¡¯s no tomorrow. Azmira¡¯s gaze flickered to a fellow mage nearby, dressed in fine robes, clearly one of the attending noble¡¯s people. ¡®He had noticed.¡¯ She thought. ¡®He had to have noticed as well. But¡­why wasn¡¯t he doing anything?¡¯ Azmira narrowed her eyes, watching the kid walk up to the stool on the stage. His magic aura was going wild, touching things around him without him even realizing it. Including¡­The wooden arc above him. Azmira felt danger immediately, and she stepped toward the stage. Then, right on cue ¨C SNAP. The wooden arc gave way. Gasps rippled through the crowd. ¡°KAL!¡± But Azmira didn¡¯t even think. She was ready. Her body moved fluidly, activating her Level 3 Cognition Thread in Air Magic. She thrusts her hand forward, catching the falling arc with the power of her magic. A smug smile crossed her face. ¡®Lucky for you I showed up when I did, kid.¡¯ But of course, she had to throw a sassy remark right after it to ruin her heroic entrance. 12. Tristan: A New Teacher 12. Tristan: A New Teacher ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re asking me to train a little kid at reaving¡­¡± Dante shook his head, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall of Vortalis estate. ¡°Shut up.¡± Rosalina snapped, her arms crossed as well, gesturing toward Tristan with her head. ¡°Another remark like that toward Ifrit¡¯s son, and you¡¯ll be struck down where you stand.¡± ¡°Another remark? What remark? He is a little kid!¡± Dante snapped. Tristan cut in before she could retort. He refused to let these adults control his situation. He was an adult as well. ¡°Why do you care what age I am? If you know your trade, then you can teach it. The rest will be my problem.¡± Dante smirked, shaking his head. ¡°Listen, kiddo ¨C ¡° Tristan didn¡¯t let him finish. ¡°Don¡¯t call me kiddo, or kid, or anything of the sort.¡± His voice was sharp, carrying and utilizing all the weight of his father¡¯s influence. ¡°Or you will be executed.¡± A tense silence filled the room. Rosalina¡¯s expression shifted slightly, almost like she was impressed. Dante, on the other hand, let out an exaggerated sigh, his eyes narrowing on Tristan. ¡°You don¡¯t even sound like a kid at all¡­¡± Then he turned to Rosalina, ignoring Tristan completely. ¡°Ifrit told me I¡¯d be teaching his son.¡± He said. ¡°I was already surprised to hear he even had one, but I agreed because I thought I¡¯d be training someone¡­older.¡± He gestured at Tristan. ¡°Not this. Not a six-year-old.¡± He threw his hands in the air. ¡°Teaching a kid how to reave? And worse, use reaved magic? Are you all out of your damned minds?!¡± Rosalina raised an eyebrow. ¡°Damn,¡± she said, feigning amusement. ¡°A Thread Reaver with morals? That¡¯s new.¡± Dante ignored her. Tristan took a step forward. ¡°Forget about my age, fool.¡± He said, his voice even fiercer now. ¡°Just teach me!¡± Dante¡¯s eyes widened for a brief second at the insult before his lips curled into a sharp grin. He clearly wanted to retort ¨C to put this brat in his place ¨C but he stopped himself. He had already agreed to the deal. And Kain Vortalis wasn¡¯t exactly someone you could go back on a deal with. Hell, Ifrit was the kind of man you couldn¡¯t even decline an offer from in the first place. Tristan watched as Dante paced around the room, his footsteps slow ¨C he was thinking. ¡®Good.¡¯ Tristan thought. ¡®He¡¯d agree soon enough. The guy was a criminal. All this moral high ground nonsense? That was just for show.¡¯ And then, Dante stopped. His entire posture shifted, his shoulders tight with frustration. ¡°You don¡¯t even fathom what you¡¯re asking for.¡± Dante snapped, growing furious. ¡°It¡¯s one thing to reave, but it¡¯s a completely different thing to use the reaved magic.¡± He turned to Rosalina, his anger boiling over. ¡°Giving something like this to a kid will just make him a junkie for magic from a young age and you know it!¡± Tristan¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡®Junkie?¡¯ Rosalina sighed deeply, rubbing her temples before casting a quick glance at Tristan. There was a flicker of worry in her expression. But it vanished eventually. She turned back to Dante. Her voice steady. ¡°Do what you were paid for, Reaver, or your head will roll.¡± Dante exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression filled with anger. Then, suddenly, he let out a shout. ¡°Oh, fuck it! I don¡¯t care!¡± He threw his hands up. ¡°It¡¯s on your conscience, not mine!¡± His eyes snapped back to Tristan, filled with¡­disappointment. ¡°Come here, kid. I¡¯ll show you what Reaving is all about. How abhorrent it is. Let¡¯s see if you still want it when we finish.¡± Tristan¡¯s heart raced. He took a slow breath, but doubt gnawed at his mind. He still didn¡¯t understand how Thread Reaving worked exactly, nor what long-term effect of using stolen Cognition Threads would be. But the way this Thread Reaver ¨C Dante ¨C spoke about it made it sound a lot like drugs. And Tristan knew a thing or two about those. Back on Earth, he had never taken anything himself. Out of all the crimes he had committed, selling was one thing ¨C but consuming? That would just be stupid. And yet¡­here, he had no choice. The Vitalis couldn¡¯t fix his magic. The Mind Shaper couldn¡¯t either. Which made sense as Tristan knew his problem was tied to Gartan somehow. The Alchemist was still on his way to Stulan. And Tristan knew that if Ifrit couldn¡¯t get his magic active, he would have him consume as many Cognition Threads as he needs to. And if Tristan refuses, he might actually just dispose of him. But Tristan wanted it for himself as well. He wanted the power. After just feeling the presence of Ifrit, he knew that if that¡¯s the strength a person could reach in this world, then he would do anything in his powers to reach it ¨C and even surpass it. He took a deep breath before following Dante. ¡®If this is what it takes, then I¡¯ll do it.¡¯ He told himself. But he wasn¡¯t going to rush in blind. He would watch. Listen. Plan. Surely, there was a way to control this rather than being controlled by it. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The Thread Reaver approached the large fabric bag he left by the entrance. He knelt down on one knee, muttering something inaudible under his breath before he loosened the straps and pulled open the top. Tristan stepped forward instinctively, trying to get a better look ¨C but the moment Dante reached inside, he felt a shiver run down his spine. From the bag, Dante withdrew a sturdy wooden compartment with a glassy, transparent lid. Inside, it was fitted with individual cushioned slots to hold several small glass vials securely in place. The design ensured none of them could knock into the others. But the real horror wasn¡¯t the wooden box. It was what was inside the vials. Tristan¡¯s stomach twisted as he got a closer look. Each vial contained a small, writhing white worm, no longer than a pinky ¨C but their bodies¡­they glowed. Each worm pulsed with a different color ¨C an entire spectrum of them. It was as if something deep inside of them was alive too. Goosebumps rose along Tristan¡¯s arms. Even on Earth, he had hated bugs. But this? This was beyond disgusting. Dante noticed his reaction immediately, and a slow smirk stretched across his face. ¡°Ahh¡­so the little prince isn¡¯t fond of the creepy wormies?¡± He gave the box a slight tilt, letting the worms shift inside their vials. ¡°And here I thought nothing could shake you.¡± Tristan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay still despite the revulsion itching at his skin. Dante smirked, stepping toward a nearby table and placing the wooden box on top before turning back to him. ¡°You¡¯re creeping me out more than the worms, really¡­¡± He studied Tristan carefully. ¡°What did they do to you, kid? You¡¯re not acting like a kid at all.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes widened slightly, but he quickly regained his composure, keeping his expression unreadable. ¡®So, he¡¯s not just muscle.¡¯ Tristan thought. ¡®There¡¯s enough of a brain there as well.¡¯ Before Dante could say anything else, Rosalina stepped between them, her expression darkening as she uncrossed her arms and looked at Dante. ¡°Do. Your. Job.¡± Her words were as sharp as the sword on her back. Dante let out a long sigh, straightening up. He turned his attention back to Tristan and continued reluctantly. ¡°This, kid, is just the beginning.¡± He gestured toward the vials. ¡°If the mere sight of a Reaver Worm is enough to make your stomach turn, just wait until you see what these little bastards do to a human brain.¡± Tristan forced his expression to stay neutral, to assess control, but his skin crawled at the thought. ¡°Reaver Worms¡­¡± Tristan repeated, rolling the term over his tongue. ¡°What are they exactly?¡± Dante¡¯s expression grew serious as he leaned against the table. ¡°People always want what they can¡¯t have.¡± He began as he waved his hand vaguely. ¡°It¡¯s just human nature, I suppose.¡± He lifted the glassy lid and pulled one of the vials out, tilting it slightly to watch the worm inside squirm. ¡°And for the vast majority of people on Terra, that ¡®thing¡¯ they can¡¯t have¡­is magic.¡± He set the vial back to its place, his gaze returning to Tristan. ¡°No matter how smart someone is, not matter how much they understand the world, not matter how much power and status they hold, if they aren¡¯t born with an Inner Eye, they would never be able to weave Cognition Threads and use magic. And that¡­didn¡¯t sit well with some people.¡± ¡°That¡¯s an understatement.¡± Rosalina interjected. Dante rolled his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m trying to keep it kid-friendly here.¡± ¡°I already told you before ¨C don¡¯t treat Ifrit¡¯s son like a child.¡± Rosalina said. ¡°You¡¯ll explain everything in detail, or I will. The Young Master can take it all. This was Ifrit¡¯s wish.¡± Dante sighed deeply. Clearly, he wasn¡¯t enjoying this deal at all. ¡°Fine.¡± He said, turning to Tristan. ¡°There were wars. Between mages and non-mages. Many of them. There were human experiments. I won¡¯t go into detail despite what your babysitter wants me to do, but let¡¯s just say it was a dark age to live in.¡± He turned to Rosalina sharply. ¡°Better?¡± Rosalina nodded slowly. Dante continued. ¡°For centuries, people tried to artificially give magic to themselves. To steal it from the mages if needed. But there was no way to do it. Until¡­one man changed everything. His name was Velren Daemir.¡± The name hung in the air, unfamiliar to Tristan, but still sounding eerie enough to make him uncomfortable. ¡°Who was he?¡± Tristan asked. ¡°A genius. A madman. A disturbed individual, that¡¯s for sure. And a wanted criminal who was never caught.¡± Dante replied, tapping on the lid of the box. ¡°He was the one who figured it out. The one who finally found a way to transfer magic.¡± Tristan¡¯s gaze flickered to the worms inside the vials as he made his way closer to the table. ¡°Through these things?¡± Dante nodded. ¡°Reaver Worms. In the past they were simple, regular worms. They were just harmless little things that burrowed in wet soil and ate decayed matter. I bet they even had a scientific name, but that was so long ago, no one actually remembers what it was. ¡°Velren Daemir discovered something incredible. He learned that these worms had an unusual trait. When they consumed something, they didn¡¯t digest it right away. They stored it. Held onto it. Slowly absorbing the essence of whatever they ate before breaking it down. For how long? It depended on a lot of factors, but sometimes it could be years.¡± Dante cleared his throat before he continued. ¡°But his second revelation - the wildest of the two - was that they could consume Cognition Threads.¡± Tristan shook his head. It didn¡¯t make sense to him. Cognition¡­it was something mental. It wasn¡¯t physical. A product of the mind. How could a worm eat something like that? Dante seemed to understand Tristan¡¯s confused expression right away as he continued almost immediately. ¡°These little things don¡¯t just latch onto your brain. No. If you''re a mage, they go straight for the Inner Eye. They make their way straight into the gateway to magic itself and rip a Thread right out.¡± Tristan stiffened. His jaw clenched at the disturbing explanation. He couldn¡¯t stop imagining these little worms crawling inside someone¡¯s head. It made him want to vomit. Rosalina exhaled sharply, shaking her head. ¡°You make it sound cleaner than it is.¡± ¡®This was the clean version?¡¯ Tristan wondered. Rosalina continued, turning to Tristan. ¡°A Cognition Thread is deeply woven into the mage¡¯s being. It¡¯s not something that is just grabbed. No one knows what pulling one out will do to the person until it happens. Some mages never recover from it.¡± Dante clicked his tongue. ¡°That¡¯s just objectively wrong. Most mages recover and grow their Threads back.¡± He turned to Tristan. ¡°Once you understand something so deeply you weave a Thread, that understanding doesn¡¯t just go away because a Thread Reaver took it. In time, the mage recovers it.¡± ¡°But not always.¡± Rosalina interjected again, turning her gaze to Tristan. ¡°Don¡¯t let him dress this up as something cleaner than it is. These are the lies Thread Reavers tell themselves so they can sleep at night.¡± Dante rolled his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear it from the Devil¡¯s slave.¡± She ignored him, keeping her gaze locked with Tristan¡¯s. ¡°If you¡¯re going to do this, you need to know the whole truth.¡± Tristan studied her carefully. ¡®Is she trying to get me to drop this?¡¯ Tristan wondered. ¡®But she knows this isn¡¯t an option. It was Ifrit¡¯s decision. Not mine.¡¯ Besides, the way Tristan saw it, he needed this. His life of hardships would just be even harder without magic. ¡®Gartan already fucked me over.¡¯ He needed this. So, instead of wasting time debating morality, Tristan turned to Dante. ¡°You explained the extraction part,¡± he said. ¡°But what about the recipient? How does it work? What are the downsides?¡± Dante flicked his eyes toward Rosalina, silently judging her, perhaps waiting for another interruption. But when none came, he leaned forward and continued. ¡°It works the same way, but in reverse.¡± He gestured toward Tristan. ¡°The worm enters the recipient¡¯s body, just like it enters the mage it steals from. If the recipient is also a mage, then it finds its way to their Inner Eye. If they¡¯re not, then it goes to the next closest thing ¨C the human brain.¡± Dante pointed at himself. ¡°This is where Thread Reavers come in. Just like how we can influence the worm to steal the specific Thread we need among the many the mage might have, we can influence it to leave behind the stolen Thread instead of digesting it. Don¡¯t ask me how because I won¡¯t reveal it for now ¨C trade¡¯s secrets.¡± Tristan analyzed his words. He had an Inner Eye. But it wasn¡¯t working. Would he pass as a mage or was he a regular human at this point? ¡°Keep telling him everything.¡± Rosalina pressed on. Dante sighed heavily, visibly struggling with the entire conversation. ¡°Regardless of who the recipient is, the worm¡­it does damage, okay?¡± His voice became quieter. ¡°Each use leaves a mark. The more you do it, the worse it gets. Until, eventually¡­¡± He remained silent. Rosalina sighed in annoyance, finishing his words. ¡°Until they turn into husks. Empty shells of the people they once were.¡± Dante sighed, rubbing his temples. ¡°Goddamn it, Ostian¡­¡± ¡°You know it¡¯s true.¡± ¡°Which is why I didn¡¯t want to do this. Not like this!¡± Dante snapped. ¡°Making a six-year-old rely on stolen magic? Kid¡¯ll be brain-dead before he turns twelve!¡± Rosalina¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Enough.¡± Tristan, meanwhile, had gone quiet. He was thinking. Processing the new information. The damage, while severe, didn¡¯t really matter. He¡¯ll just have to make sure not to overuse it. Even if the stolen Thread scarred his mind each time he used it, the tradeoff was too good to ignore. He could skip ahead, jump past years of study and effort required to master a magical discipline. It could give him power instantly. ¡°Seems like a fair trade.¡± Tristan finally said. ¡°Obviously, the damage is worth the opportunity.¡± Then, Dante shattered Tristan¡¯s expectation. ¡°It doesn¡¯t last, kid.¡± He said, ¡°Since the magic isn¡¯t yours ¨C artificially planted ¨C your mind denies it.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Each Cognition Thread planted by a Thread Reaver only gives you about two hours of control.¡± Dante clicked his tongue. ¡°And that¡¯s why Thread Reaving was and will forever remain a profitable business.¡± 13. The Bodyguard 13. The Bodyguard Rosalina Valcazar was an outcast her entire life. Even in her own household. She was the youngest of seven children ¨C born into poverty, struggle, and expectations to feed her entire family. While the eldest siblings had the opportunity to study, to seek out apprenticeships, to build their futures, she had none. She had to work to sustain her parents and siblings. That¡¯s how it worked. So, by the time she turned sixteen, Rosalina had two choices: The Ostian brothels, or the blade. Ostia was a kingdom of war and mercenaries. The whole of Terra preferred to hire its warriors from the brutal training grounds of Ostia¡¯s lawless lands, making the mercenary life one of the few viable paths for survival. So, the choice was simple. She picked up a sword. Being magicless didn¡¯t help. Most of the top mercenaries in Ostia were mages ¨C capable of turning battles in their favor with a flick of their fingers. She had no such advantage. Which meant she had to work a thousand times harder than anyone else. To reach the peak of human condition. To stay ahead of the curve. Rosalina made sure to keep up with Terra¡¯s technological advances ¨C learning everything she could about the new weapons being developed, the latest improvements, and even the smallest tricks that could bridge the gap between her and the magically gifted. She sharpened herself into a weapon of pure skill, relying on speed, precision, and strategy rather than raw power alone - though, she didn¡¯t lack that either. And it worked. More times than it didn¡¯t. When she turned eighteen, Terra¡¯s most dangerous man noticed her. Ifrit. Kain Vortalis from Stulan. The man the entire world had feared. One of his top officers had scouted her. At first, Rosalina thought it was a joke ¨C why would a man like Ifrit have any interest in a lowly Ostian scum like her? But it was the truth. And Ifrit tested her. He had personally assigned her a mission: to infiltrate an Ostian warlord¡¯s stronghold alone, assassinate him, and escape undetected. It was suicide. But Rosalina, recognizing opportunity, bit her lip and pulled through. She barely survived. Bleeding, battered, every inch of her body screaming in pain after a gruesome one-on-one with the warlord ¨C but she did it. And Ifrit was impressed. From that moment on, her path to becoming one of his top officers was clear. He had personally nicknamed her Rose ¨C a name that stuck. Her family didn¡¯t need for anything. She provided all the money they ever needed. It didn¡¯t make her the favorite child, though. But, it didn¡¯t matter¡­ Or at least, until¡­the world decided to laugh at her that one time. It had been a good day. A successful mission. A huge payout. A satisfied Ifrit. She and her men were celebrating in one of Dalina¡¯s rougher taverns ¨C cheap drinks, loud laughter, music ringing in her ears. She let herself relax, just a little. To allow herself to enjoy the moment. To feel like she made something of herself. To think she was at the peak of the mountain. But when you reach the peak, the only thing left is the fall¡­ A careless moment. A broken bottle. A piece of glass. A mistake. She didn¡¯t even see it coming. One second, she was turning to respond to one of her men¡¯s jokes ¨C the next, a shard of glass had cut her eye. She stumbled backward, blood pouring down her face. The pain was immediate, but she was hardened enough to not notice it. The humiliation, on the other hand? Unescapable. She had fought hundreds of battles, survived impossible odds, and this was how she lost an eye? She couldn¡¯t believe it. Even now, years later, she couldn¡¯t recall exactly how it all happened. A tavern brawl? A drunken mistake? An idiot trying his luck? Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. It didn¡¯t matter. She had lost her damn eye. And with it, she thought she had lost everything. She had been certain Ifrit would drop her. After all, out of her many famous skills and fortes, she was known as the Sharpshooter ¨C bow, crossbow, even throwing daggers ¨C Rosalina Valcazar didn¡¯t miss. But after the incident? Without depth perception? She was practically useless in that regard. Dropping into a lower level at others as well. No one would hire a half-blind mercenary. No one would bet on a crippled marksman. Let alone someone like Ifrit. She had clawed her way up from the gutter ¨C fought, bled, and earned her place among Ifrit¡¯s best. And then, it was all over. Or so she thought. Because Ifrit had surprised her. He let her stay. At first, she had been grateful, unable to imagine a world where she had to explain to her parents how she was unable to sustain the family any longer. But looking back now? She wondered if she should¡¯ve preferred it if he had just let her go. Because what followed was far worse. The first mission after her injury? Guard duty. Not guarding an important shipment, not a dangerous negotiation, not a possible assassination target, not even Ifrit himself ¨C not like he needed any protection. No. She was watching over a storage warehouse in the slums district of Dalina hidden deep in its outskirts. A warehouse. Like some fresh recruit who couldn¡¯t handle a real job. She thought it was a one-time thing. That Ifrit was testing her, waiting to see if she¡¯d prove herself again. So, she endured it. But then? The next job was escort duty¡­for a merchant. Not a weapons dealer. Not a smuggler who Ifrit knew personally. Just a simple merchant. Nothing more, nothing less. It was humiliating. And when she returned, hoping for something ¨C anything ¨C to prove herself again, what did she get? Guard duty. Again. Not for a warehouse this time. No. For an accountant. Rosalina wasn¡¯t stupid. She could read between the lines. Ifrit didn¡¯t trust her anymore. Not in the ways that mattered. He still kept her around, still paid her well, still let her wear the badge of an officer. But he wouldn¡¯t send her on anything that truly mattered. Because in his mind, she was no longer necessary. She was a gamble. A broken piece he could afford to lose, but was curious enough to keep. For someone like Rosalina, a pure-blooded Ostian who had crawled up from the lowest of the lows, pride was everything. Being reduced to nothing hurt her ¨C physically. She wanted to leave. But Ostians valued loyalty above all else. And so, despite becoming a nobody, despite receiving countless offers from Ifrit¡¯s enemies, she had refused to abandon him. She knew she needed to prove herself to her master, no matter how long it took. So, when Ifrit summoned her for a one-on-one meeting, completely out of the blue, Rosalina had hoped for the best. Maybe ¨C finally, after all these degrading guard and escort missions ¨C he had noticed her again. But then he told her he had a son. She couldn¡¯t believe her ears, at first. But¡­it made sense. Why wouldn¡¯t Ifrit want a heir? So what if he was just in his mid-twenties? He had an entire empire to lead. Thinking about the future was only natural. Powerful men secured legacies. But before she could even fully process the thought, Ifrit¡¯s voice rang in her ears. He was giving her a new mission. One she could¡¯ve never expected. Ifrit approached her slowly, the fires of his empty chamber swirling everywhere but where she stood. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. ¡°You will be his shadow.¡± Rosalina¡¯s fingers twitched. ¡°You will guard him.¡± Ifrit continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. ¡°Every second of his life. From the moment he wakes up until he sleeps, and even beyond that. You will not leave his side unless I said so.¡± She swallowed. ¡°No one is to approach him unless I approved them beforehand.¡± His voice dropped lower, turning sharp, cutting like a knife. ¡°No one is to harm him. And if they try¡­¡± He exhaled slowly. ¡°You will kill them.¡± Her shoulders tensed. ¡°You will follow him wherever he goes.¡± Ifrit¡¯s voice remained steady, unwavering. ¡°Even if he chooses to act independently, you will shield him from danger, from weakness, from anyone who wishes him ill.¡± His red eyes bore into her, unblinking. ¡°And if they day comes when your life is required to keep him safe, Rose ¨C ¡° He stepped away, his arms crossed behind his back. ¡°- then you will give it.¡± Rosalina didn¡¯t know what to say at first. On one hand, very few people even knew Ifrit had a son. The fact that he was trusting her with that information meant something. It had to. But on the other hand¡­He had reduced her even lower. To a babysitter role. A glorified nanny with a great sword she would never have to use ¨C because who in his right mind would even try to cross Ifrit? She clenched her fists. Oh, if her parents had heard about this¡­They would have laughed in her face. They would have told her that, no matter how much gold she was being paid, she would have been better off selling her body in a brothel. Even that was more honorable than playing wet nurse to a crime lord¡¯s whelp. But then Tristan Vortalis came into her world. She hated him at first. He was a baby ¨C a newborn, small and fragile ¨C but she still hated him. She hated what he represented - her failure. Her punishment. Her new reality. But quickly, she couldn¡¯t feel that way anymore. It started with the smallest things. At first, she barely noticed. The way her gaze would linger whenever a servant held him too carelessly. The way she would step forward when he stumbled on his chubby little legs, catching herself just before she reached out. The way her ears would tune in to the slightest whimper from his crib. She worried about him, even when she told herself she didn¡¯t. And Tristan? He tormented her. He had the gall to be amusing. Rosalina had assumed all children were stupid ¨C loud, obnoxious, drooling little monkeys. But Tristan was smart. Too smart. At two years old, he could already speak in full sentences. ¡®As expected of Ifrit¡¯s spawn¡­¡¯ She thought at the time. She had nicknamed him ¡®Little Devil¡¯ as a joke. Because if Ifrit was the Devil, then what else could his son be? And yet, somewhere along the way¡­she grew attached. She was there when he took his first steps. There when he first fell, scraped his knee, and didn¡¯t cry ¨C only stared at the blood in fascination. She was there when he first lied, stealing sweets from the kitchen. She was there when he first demanded she teach him how to fight with a sword, at the ridiculous age of four. His hands were so tiny, he could barely hold a wooden spoon, so a sword? She was there when he first asked about Ifrit ¨C about why he wasn¡¯t around. And she was there when he first realized Ifrit wouldn¡¯t be a father to him. He couldn¡¯t be. Without noticing, he had become a part of her world. She had begun to care. Not just as a protector. Not just as a bodyguard. Something deeper she couldn¡¯t quite explain. She wanted to see what he would become. She wanted to be there when it happened. And if the whole world turned against him, she would cut it down, piece by piece, until only he remained. And even now, as Ifrit ordered his six-year-old son to learn how to Reave from supposedly the best Thread Reaver alive ¨C a task unthinkable for a child his age, health-wise, skill-wise and morally ¨C she knew he could do it. But she didn¡¯t want him to. Not because she doubted him. Not because of his abilities ¨C even magicless, Rosalina knew that Tristan could conquer the world. She could feel it. But because of his age. Because she cared. Deeply. Users of stolen magic always ended up as cripples. That¡¯s why she never dared to use it. She had seen so many men and women go down that path. Brilliant warriors, strong people, ambitious as well ¨C all ended up losing themselves for an extra bit of power. She didn¡¯t want that for him. But the alternative? The alternative was death. Ifrit had no patience for weakness. If Tristan doesn¡¯t prove that his magicless situation is just a minor setback, his own father would erase him without a second thought. And so, no matter what happens, she would be there. Always. And no matter what road the Little Devil chose ¨C even if he one day turned against his own father ¨C she would be there. She would give her life for him. 14. Kal: Love at First Sight...? 14. Kal: Love at First Sight...? Kal couldn¡¯t believe his eyes. The young woman was breathtaking. And her long, flowing hair? It drove him mad. In a good way. After the arc snapped and nearly crushed him, after he was saved by the young mage, the festival was abruptly canceled, and the beginning of the school year was delayed by three days. Kal never got the chance to play for the Baron. But, somehow¡­ He didn¡¯t care. He was just glad to be alive. Dying twice in six years sounded both terrible and pathetic. Reinar and Elara were mad with worry but just as equally grateful to the mage who saved him. So much so that they invited her into their home to properly thank her. When Reinar learned that the young woman was actually the mage sent by the Ministry to help with the crop situation, he was genuinely stunned. ¡°It¡¯s fate!¡± He declared, holding Lucas in one arm while pulling Elara ¨C and Kal ¨C into a hug with the other. Kal caught the young woman rolling her eyes at that comment. And¡­he got it. ¡®She¡¯s probably an atheist too.¡¯ He thought. Elara, still holding onto Kal like she refused to let him go, looked at her. ¡°How can we thank you, Miss¡­?¡± The young woman straightened, grinning proudly. ¡°Azmira. Azmira Morvain.¡± Then, her grin widened even more. ¡°Only the youngest certified mage in all of Stulan¡¯s rich history.¡± Elara nodded, not caring about the last detail, still clutching Kal tightly. ¡°Thank you, Miss Morvain.¡± Azmira waved it off, though her expression betrayed how much she wanted more praise. Kal noticed. ¡°How old are you?¡± He asked, finally breaking out of his love-at-first-sight trance. He had to make sure. Since he died at eighteen and reincarnated immediately as a baby, he still saw himself as an eighteen-year-old ¨C despite technically being twenty-four in total across both lives. ¡°I¡¯m eighteen.¡± Azmira replied, her grin still intact. ¡®Perfect.¡¯ Then he squinted, taking another look at her small frame. ¡°She does long younger because of her height.¡± The room went dead silent. Azmira¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°I¡¯m not short!¡± She jumped from her chair, fists clenched. And that¡¯s when Kal realized his thoughts hadn¡¯t stayed in his head. He actually said it out loud. He was ruining his chances with her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry!¡± He blurted, panic rising fast. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to!¡± Reinar coughed loudly, trying to calm the situation. ¡°So¡­Miss Morvain, since you¡¯re here to assist me with our barley crops ¨C and a lot earlier than expected, I have to add ¨C especially after saving my son, I feel like I must make sure you are comfortable during your stay. A proper place to stay, meals, whatever else you need. Please let me know if you already paid for accommodations here ¨C we¡¯ll reimburse you.¡± Azmira eyes widened instantly. ¡°W-what do you mean ¡®earlier than expected¡¯?¡± Reinar rubbed the back of his head, looking a little sheepish. ¡°You see, I¡¯m used to the Ministry responding to my letters way too late ¨C long after we actually need their help. So, this year, I decided to send my request much earlier than usual, thinking it would take them just as long to respond.¡± Reinar sighed. ¡°But¡­you arrived on the day of the Festival of First Harvest. We just finished collecting our golden rye, and we won¡¯t even begin switching to barley until next week.¡± Azmira blinked. ¡°¡­Okay? So?¡± Reinar cleared his throat. ¡°So¡­there¡¯s really not much for you to do at the moment. We won¡¯t actually need your help until we¡¯ve planted the barley and it reaches the crucial preservation stage ¨C when we need to prevent mold before sending it away. It¡¯ll take anywhere between three to four months.¡± Azmira¡¯s entire face fell. Then, her eyes widened even further, like she was about to explode. ¡°YOU MEAN I NEED TO STAY HERE FOR FOUR MONTHS?!¡± *** Despite clearly wanting to escape Terenhill as soon as possible, Azmira had no choice but to stay in the village until she finished her assignment. She could have stayed in the village¡¯s only inn, but since she was going to be stuck here for four months, that wasn¡¯t the best option. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Regardless, Elara outright refused to let her stay there, doing a 180, insisting that after saving Kal, Azmira was basically family and needed to be treated as such. And that¡¯s how Azmira ended up living with them, staying in the guest room - much to Kal¡¯s satisfaction. ¡®Thank you, Mom!¡¯ The first days were¡­awkward. It was painfully obvious that Azmira wasn¡¯t used to village life. Her facial expressions alone gave her away ¨C especially whenever the smell of cattle was heavily present in the air. She visibly suffered from the stench of livestock and the overwhelming odor of manure fertilizer. And worst of all? She had absolutely nothing to do. So, for the first two days, she spent most of her time reading novels ¨C romance novels, at that. Kal noticed her nose constantly buried in a book, and his curiosity got the better of him. ¡°So, you like reading this stuff?¡± He asked. Azmira rolled her eyes, barely sparing him a glance. ¡°Yes.¡± Kal smirked to himself. ¡®I like romance too.¡¯ He was a musician, after all. He had to be a romantic at heart. ¡°I like it too.¡± He said. Azmira snorted, still not looking up from her book. ¡°Kid, I¡¯m pretty sure you can¡¯t even read.¡± Kal felt like he had just been struck by an arrow - Cupid''s arrow. And, just like that¡­he fell for her even harder. ¡°I¡¯m a musician.¡± He added, hoping to impress her. Azmira finally glanced at him, but her expression was clearly bored. ¡°That¡¯s cute.¡± Then, she immediately went back to her book. ¡®How did brother make it look so easy in my previous life?!¡¯ Tristan wondered. Kal vowed that day that he would make Azmira fall for him. No matter how long it took. *** Kal wasn¡¯t sure how much progress he had made with Azmira. But then, one evening ¨C exactly three days after she saved him, and a day before he started school ¨C something unexpected happened. Azmira requested to speak to his parents. ¡®I¡¯m a bit too young for you to ask my parents for my hand, my beautiful Azmira¡­but I¡¯ll allow it.¡¯ He grinned internally. But unfortunately, that wasn¡¯t what the conversation was going to be about. The entire family ¨C outside of Lucas who was sleeping in his crib ¨C was seated at the table for tea when Azmira finally spoke. ¡°Mr. and Mrs. Varren, I have something I must tell you about your son. About Kal.¡± Elara stiffened immediately, her expression growing worried. ¡°What is it, Miss Morvain?¡± She asked. ¡°Oh, no, it¡¯s not something bad.¡± Azmira quickly tried to reassure her. ¡°And please, call me Azmira.¡± Still, Elara¡¯s hand instinctively reached for Kal, pulling him closer. ¡°Then, what¡¯s wrong?¡± Azmira shook her head aggressively. ¡°There''s nothing wrong!¡± She sighed deeply, looking frustrated, as if she couldn¡¯t believe she was about to say what she was about to say. ¡°It¡¯s just ¨C Kal¡­I¡¯ve been watching him for the past three days, ever since I arrived. I don¡¯t understand how, since both of you told me you¡¯re not mages, but Kal¡­¡± ¡®She¡¯s been watching me?!¡¯ Kal got excited. She took a deep breath before continuing. ¡°¡­He has an immense mana pool. He¡¯s a mage. There¡¯s not a doubt in my mind.¡± Kal¡¯s heart stopped. ¡®Wait, what?¡¯ Reinar exchanged a glance with Elara. A long silence followed. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. Azmira stared in disbelief. ¡°¡­Huh?¡± Reinar wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head. ¡°Miss Morvain, I think you know better than I do that magic is hereditary. There¡¯s no way Kal could be a mage when neither my family nor my wife¡¯s ever had a single mage in our bloodline.¡± Elara nodded, holding Kal closer. ¡°That¡¯s true. No one in our line was ever a mage. At least not in the past two centuries.¡± Azmira¡¯s eye twitched. It looked like she was about to suggest something but quickly silenced herself and said something else. ¡°Then, it might¡¯ve been before that!¡± She snapped. She looked like a child throwing a tantrum ¨C one that hated being treated like a child. ¡°I know what I saw!¡± Kal¡¯s parents exchanged another glance, both of them startled by Azmira¡¯s outburst. She noticed their surprise immediately and sighed, trying to salvage the situation. ¡°Listen, I¡¯m no expert, but I¡¯ve studied Magical Genetics extensively, and many scholars say that while magic is always hereditary, it doesn¡¯t have to pass down from every generation. Sometimes, even an ancestor from half a millennium ago who was a mage is enough for someone to be born with magic.¡± She crossed her arms, her confidence shaky. ¡°No one really understand how it works¡­It¡¯s just guesses, really¡­¡± Reinar and Elara looked at each other again, still unconvinced. Elara began. ¡°Still, I don¡¯t think ¨C ¡° But Azmira quickly cut her off. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mrs. Varren, but like I said ¨C there¡¯s no doubt in my mind.¡± She said firmly, her green eyes burning with resolve. ¡°On the night of the festival, it was Kal¡¯s magical aura that made the arc snap. It went violent. I saw it with my own eyes.¡± She leaned forward, growing extremely serious. ¡°That¡¯s why I was there to save him. Because I saw it coming.¡± Reinar and Elara kept exchanging glances, unsure what to say. Meanwhile, Kal finally snapped out of his trance. ¡®Wait a minute¡­did she just say I crashed the arc?¡¯ Azmira continued, her voice growing more urgent. ¡°At first, I thought I had imagined it, but¡­like I told you before, I¡¯m the youngest mage in Stulan¡¯s history. I know a thing or two about the magical aura a child should have. Even if it¡¯s a prodigy like myself.¡± She gestured toward Kal. ¡°But Kal¡­his mana pool is already larger than many of my adult guildmates! He could be a genius mage who needs his talent nurtured ¨C ¡° ¡°Wait, wait, wait,¡± Reinar lifted a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re exaggerating things¡­¡± He said slowly. ¡°Let¡¯s say I entertain the idea that a distant ancestor of ours was a mage. Still, so many years later, their blood should be so diluted it wouldn¡¯t hold enough magic to make Kal¡¯s mana as strong of that of an adult.¡± ¡°That¡¯s definitely not how it works.¡± Azmira disagreed, shaking her head. Elara ignored her, nodding in agreement with her husband. ¡°As much as Kal is a genius, magic is a whole different thing.¡± She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss on Kal¡¯s head. Kal, meanwhile, still wasn¡¯t sure what to think of it all. ¡®I¡¯m a magical prodigy?!¡¯ His heartbeat quickened. He had hoped he could use magic. He had no idea it was hereditary. But hearing Azmira he got extremely excited. ¡°Can I use magic?¡± He finally blurted, unable to stay quiet any longer. Azmira nodded eagerly. ¡°You should ¨C after we open your Inner Eye.¡± ¡°¡­Inner Eye?¡± Kal echoed, tilting his head. Reinar shook his head, letting out a deep sigh. ¡°Listen, Miss Morvain, I¡¯m grateful that you came to help with our crops and for saving my son. We¡¯re forever indebted to you. But¡­my son is not a mage. He can¡¯t be.¡± ¡°But, I just want to check some things ¨C ¡° Azmira tried, but Reinar remained unyielding. ¡°No.¡± he said. His voice was final. ¡°My son is not a mage. And he starts school tomorrow.¡± Elara looked torn, glancing between Azmira and Kal, uncertainty visible in her expression despite what she said next. ¡°That¡¯s right. Kal cannot be a mage. That¡¯s impossible.¡± Kal¡¯s excitement dimmed. Confused by their outright rejection of the idea. He couldn¡¯t understand why they were so against it. Luckily, Azmira wasn¡¯t giving up so easily. ¡°Please, Mr. and Mrs. Varren. Just let me check.¡± Her voice softened. ¡°I won¡¯t be able to live with myself if I end up leaving Terenhill without confirming whether I was right about Kal or not.¡± She clenched her fists, her expression suddenly turning gravely serious. ¡°We mages¡­We¡¯re a dying breed. If Kal is a promising mage, and I missed him ¨C if no one helps him ¨C then I¡¯d feel like I failed all mages worldwide.¡± Reinar sighed heavily. Elara looked at Kal, her eyes filled with warmth and love. ¡°I want to try, Mom.¡± Kal said softly, hoping for her approval. Reinar looked at him as well, shaking his head. But Elara has already made up her mind. She turned to her husband. ¡°Honey¡­Miss Morvain is staying here for four months regardless. What¡¯s the harm in letting her check? We do owe her for saving Kal, after all.¡± Reinar clicked his tongue, looking like he wanted to protest. But those last words silenced him. After a few moments, he exhaled sharply and rolled his eyes. ¡°Fine¡­¡± Azmira¡¯s face instantly lit up with excitement. ¡°Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!¡± She cheered, practically bouncing off her seat. Then, she turned to Kal, her grin widening. ¡°Oh, this will be so much fun!¡± His heart skipped a beat. ¡®You had me at ¡®oh¡¯.¡¯ 15. Kal: Magic and Family 15. Kal: Magic and Family Kal¡¯s first experience with the Inner Eye was the wildest thing that had ever happened to him. It was like walking in space ¨C on space ¨C but without a spacesuit. There was no air, no ground, yet he could still walk, stepping on something. And then there was the ring¡­ A massive, glowing golden ring, suspended in the vast cosmic void. It pulsed when Kal approached it, releasing a soundless vibration that resonated deep within him, making his very soul tremble. Then, a voice followed - something divine. ¡°YOU ARE WORTHY.¡± The space around him suddenly shifted. For a split second, everything warped ¨C streaks of gold flashing across the never-ending darkness, reminding Kal of shooting stars. Only these left a golden trail behind them that lasted. It was still mostly cosmos, but now it wasn¡¯t just blackness and stars. The trails were threads. Golden threads stretching infinitely into the void. Seven of them, to be precise. Some were thin as a single strand of hair, barely visible against the darkness surrounding them. Others were thick, woven together like a rope. All of them shimmered and glowed. ¡°THIS IS YOUR COGNITION MADE MANIFEST.¡± Kal blinked. ¡°Uh¡­what?¡± ¡°THESE THREADS ARE YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE WORLD.¡± Kal¡¯s confusion only grew. ¡®If these threads are my understanding of the world and there are only seven of them, does that mean I¡¯m that stupid?!¡¯ ¡°EVERYTHING YOU KNOW, EVERYTHING YOU HAVE LEARNED, IS WOVEN INTO THESE THREADS. THEY ARE YOUR MAGIC.¡± Kal squinted at the golden strands surrounding him. He reached toward one. It was thin, almost fragile, and when his fingers brushed against it, it trembled, sending a ripple through the cosmos. The sensation that followed was¡­strange. It was almost like he had just plucked a guitar string tied to his very being. And then, a whisper followed. ¡°Air.¡± Kal froze. ¡°What the hell¡­?¡± He whispered. Then, his gaze fell on one much larger thread ¨C it was woven from four smaller ones. Slowly, he reached for it as well. The moment his fingertip touched it, another ripple was sent through space, this one sounding lower. ¡°Emotion.¡± He was still confused, so he began touching the other threads. ¡°Fire.¡± A single Thread. ¡°Water.¡± A single Thread as well. ¡°Rhythm.¡± Three Threads woven together. ¡°Light.¡± Another single Thread. ¡°Gravity.¡± Yet another single Thread. The ring¡¯s words finally clicked. Each Thread was a different type of magic he could control. The thicker the Thread, the deeper his comprehension and¡­power of magic? ¡°There are only seven¡­¡± He murmured, shaking his head. That still didn¡¯t seem right. Surely, he understood more than these seven concepts. He lifted his head, addressing the ring cautiously, wondering if it would help him. ¡°Hey, Mr. ... or Mrs. Ring, how come I have so few Threads? Surely, I understand more than what I see here. What about¡­¡± He thought for a moment, then his eyes brightened. ¡°Electricity!¡± He exclaimed. ¡°I know how it works scientifically! I learned about voltage, current, conductors and¡­¡± he rubbed his chin, trying to recall. ¡°Circuits¡­I think it was circuits.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Anyway, shouldn¡¯t I have a Thread for that too?¡± For a moment, there was silence. But then, the answer came. ¡°KNOWLEDGE DOES NOT EQUAL UNDERSTANDING.¡± Kal blinked, but he was glad the ring responded. ¡°REPEATING FACTS IS NOT COMPREHENSION. A TRUTH MUST RESIDE IN YOUR SOUL, NOT JUST YOUR MIND.¡± Kal frowned. ¡°What does that even mean?¡± The ring¡¯s light flared before it replied. ¡°MAGIC IS THE REFLECTION OF ONE¡¯S SOUL. EACH PERSON¡¯S THREADS ARE SHAPED BY THEIR INNER WORLD, THEIR EXPERIENCES, THEIR PASSIONS.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°YOU DO NOT POSSESS AN ELECTRICTY THREAD BECAUSE YOU DO NOT TRULY KNOW ELECTRICTY. YOU KNOW ITS DEFINITIONS BECAUSE YOU¡¯VE READ ¡®FUNDAMENTALS OF PHYSICAL SCIENCE: GRADE 8¡¯, NOT ITS ESSENCE.¡± Kal opened his mouth, then shut it. ¡®The hell¡­it even knew the school book?¡¯ One thing was clear though ¨C to weave Threads, one must truly understand what they¡¯re talking about. ¡°Can I get more?¡± He asked. ¡°YOU CAN.¡± ¡°How?¡± ¡°BY UNDERSTANDING THE WORLD BETTER.¡± ¡®That was vague¡­¡¯ ¡°Is there an easy way to do that?¡± ¡°THERE ARE NO SHORTCUTS. AT LEAST NOT THOSE THAT ARE WORTH CHASING.¡± Kal sighed, deciding to drop it for now. He would just ask Azmira later. His attention shifted to his existing Threads. Out of the seven he possessed, Rhythm and Emotion were the thickest ¨C forming something deeper. But why those? It didn¡¯t take him long to figure it out. ¡°Music!¡± he yelped. Rhythm ¨C he had spent years immersed in it, playing, feeling the flow of a song, keeping perfect timing. It wasn¡¯t something he simply knew ¨C it was ingrained in his entire body. And Emotion¡­wasn¡¯t music all about emotion? The way a song could fill someone with joy, make them cry, or stir something deep in their soul? A wide grin spread across his face, proud of himself for figuring it out. But then¡­the excitement wavered. It still didn¡¯t make sense. If he truly understood Emotion, then shouldn¡¯t he be able to explain it in detail? Put it into words like a psychology professor could? But he couldn¡¯t. Emotion wasn¡¯t a thing he could explain in words. It was just something you¡­feel. So¡­why did he have four threads in it? ¡®Is four even a lot?¡¯ His gaze flicked to the thinner Threads ¨C Air, Water, Fire, Light, and Gravity ¨C and his stomach twisted. ¡®Wait¡­what if four isn¡¯t high at all? What if I actually suck?¡¯ If four wasn¡¯t impressive, then having just one thread in the others meant he was even worse than he initially thought. Then, the ring spoke again, as if reading his mind. ¡°THE MAXIMAL UNDERSTANDING OF ANY CONCEPT IS FIVE THREADS.¡± Kal froze. His heart pounded in excitement. So¡­four in Emotion was high. Three in Rhythm was too ¨C relatively speaking. His worries melted slightly as he realized ¨C he was actually good at something. His new parents made him feel special every day, constantly reaping praise on him and especially on his musical talents. And still, he felt like a fake. Kal could only play so well at six, because he wasn¡¯t actually six. Of course, he couldn¡¯t tell anyone about that, though. But this¡­this was different. It was the first time the universe gave him something ¨C a proof. But recalling his parents made him remember something else ¨C something he was afraid to learn the answer to. ¡®What if the golden ring suddenly realized this was all a mistake and took my magic away?¡¯ Still¡­he had to ask. Swallowing hard, he spoke, his voice cautious. ¡°Ring, why do I¡­have magic? My parents aren¡¯t mages, so¡­how?¡± A long silence stretched across the cosmos and Kal felt that this was it. ¡®This is where I lose it.¡¯ He thought. ¡®I was only a mage for like five minutes.¡¯ Then, the ring spoke. ¡°A PRICE WAS PAID, KALVIN CLARK.¡± ¡°GARTAN IS TO BLAME.¡± Hearing his real name ¨C his name from Earth ¨C snapped him out of focus. The cosmos around him began to disappear as he couldn¡¯t keep his concentration and stay in his Inner Eye. And then he opened his eyes, back on the floor of his living room in a lotus position. Reality rushed in as he was met with an ecstatic Azmira grinning at him from ear to ear. ¡°Well?!¡± She asked excitedly. ¡°Tell me how it went!¡± *** Kal¡¯s parents watched in silence as he recounted everything he had experienced within his Inner Eye to Azmira. Well¡­almost everything. He didn¡¯t mention how the ring called him by his Earth name. Or that it had blamed a certain Gartan ¨C whoever they were ¨C for him having magic. ¡°Talking ring¡­¡± Azmira repeated, then suddenly cracked into laughter. ¡°It¡¯s not a talking ring, silly ¨C it¡¯s a projection created by Eludranth, the God of Magic. In a way, it¡¯s almost like he spoke to you through messages he had already recorded in your Inner Eye. He does this for all mages. The Ring is there to advise and help us.¡± Kal frowned. ¡®So, the messages were recorded? That doesn¡¯t make sense¡­How would a recorded message know I was Kalvin Clark?!¡¯ His thoughts were interrupted when his father spoke. ¡°So¡­my son is a mage?¡± Reinar murmured, shaking his head as he covered his face with his hand. Kal couldn¡¯t understand his reaction. ¡®What¡¯s the big deal? Shouldn''t he be happy?¡¯ ¡°Definitely is.¡± Azmira jumped up with a grin. ¡°Tooooold you.¡± His mother, on the other hand, was absolutely elated. ¡°Our son is a mage!¡± She called out, beaming as she pulled Kal into a crushing hug, raining kisses all over his forehead. ¡°My little genius!¡± Reinar shook his head again, exhaling sharply. ¡°Our son? I¡¯m not sure about that anymore¡­¡± Kal¡¯s breath caught in his throat. ¡®What?¡¯ Elara stiffened with anger, but she kept her defining calmness. ¡°If you¡¯re insinuating what I think you¡¯re insinuating,¡± she said, not even looking at her husband, ¡°then you better stop now before you say something there might be no coming back from.¡± Reinar clenched his fists. ¡°Well, tell me I¡¯m wrong to think this!¡± he snapped. Azmira¡¯s smile vanished. Her gaze dropped to the wooden floorboards. ¡°Of course you¡¯re wrong, you big oaf! Why would I cheat on you?!¡± Elara shot back, her voice rising. ¡°With who?! Oh, right, because there¡¯s an abundance of mages in Terenhill! I just need to pick one, right?!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± Reinar barked. His hands moved wildly as he spoke. ¡°Maybe the mage you¡¯re seeing opens a portal and appears here while I work the fields! How the hell would I know how they operate?!¡± ¡°Then maybe you shouldn¡¯t talk about things you know nothing about!¡± Elara snapped. ¡°I was the one who insisted Miss Morvain check Kal. Would I do that if I wanted to hide that he could be a mage¡¯s son?!¡± Kal¡¯s heart pounded. His parents had never argued like this before. He wanted to say something ¨C anything ¨C to make them stop, but the words lodged in his throat. The Ring had been pretty clear: This Gartan was the reason he had magic. But who was Gartan? Could it really be possible that his mother¡­No. No way. He knew for certain that she wouldn¡¯t. She only ever had eyes for Reinar. Luckily, Azmira interjected. ¡°Mr. Varren, like I told you before, magic doesn¡¯t have to pass down every generation ¨C ¡° ¡°Stay out of this, Miss Morvain!¡± Reinar snapped. Azmira flinched, taken aback by the hostility in his voice. And then, the arguing continued. Kal stood there, helpless, his mind racing. ¡®There has to be something I can do!¡¯ He assumed that the Emotion Threads allowed him to influence emotions. If that¡¯s the case¡­couldn¡¯t he just calm them down? He focused hard on that thought. He wanted to take away their anger. He wanted to make them see it was just a misunderstanding. But nothing happened. Fantasy novels and movies always made it seem so easy. The young prodigious protagonist just had to think about something hard enough, and it would happen. Because¡­plot reasons. But this wasn¡¯t a novel. This was real. And in reality, nothing was happening. The fear in his chest twisted. He couldn¡¯t let this happen. He had already lost his first parents. He missed them every single day. Even now. Then, he got his new parents. They were one of the best things that ever happened to him. But now¡­he was going to lose them too? No. He refused. He did the only thing he could. ¡°Stop!¡± He shouted, his voice cracking as tears welled up in his eyes. The room fell silent. His mother¡¯s eyes widened before she immediately dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. ¡°Oh, baby,¡± she whispered, pulling him close. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Don¡¯t cry. Everything will be okay. Your dad and I just¡­¡± Reinar, his face shocked as well, knelt down beside them and hugged them both. ¡°Yes, don¡¯t worry, Kal.¡± He said. His voice softer now, far from the anger that had filled it earlier. ¡°We just¡­get heated up sometimes, that¡¯s all.¡± They stayed like that for a long while, holding each other close. Kal hoped this was the end of this issue. That after tonight, it would all go back to normal. Maybe it would. But tonight¡­His father slept on the couch. 16. Tristan: First Job (I) 16. Tristan: First Job (I) Dante was scheduled to return to the Vortalis estate once every week to continue his teachings on Reaving ¨C both the aspect of stealing magic and using stolen magic. For now, he had handed Tristan and Rosalina five vials with Reaver Worms ¨C each one containing a different Level One Cognition Thread. Before leaving, he had explained that these Reaver Worms had already gone through Thread Priming ¨C a process Thread Reavers put them through to prepare them for use and ready for distribution. ¡°You need to get the vial right next to your nostril before opening it.¡± Dante had warned. ¡°If you open it too soon, it might run away.¡± Tristan had frowned. ¡°And after it¡¯s done¡­does it stay inside my brain?¡± ¡°Yes and no.¡± Dante had replied. ¡°It vomits the Thread inside the Inner Eye or the brain so you can use it, but after that, it¡¯s left without sustenance. The Thread Priming makes the worm unable to consume any Cognition Threads from the recipient, and so it goes hungry and dies within an hour. After a week, it should already disintegrate inside your body entirely.¡± ¡®That only made it sound worse¡­¡¯ Then, Dante left, giving Tristan homework ¨C to try out each of the Reaver Worms and practice the magic they contained ¨C he said it was easy. But more importantly, he told him to practice withstanding the pain of using them. Dante had once again made it obvious how he was against the whole idea. Three days had passed since then, and Tristan refused to try even one. If before he had been set on using reaved magic despite the damages it might bring, learning that it would only last two hours per use ¨C and that he¡¯d likely go braindead by twelve if he relied on it ¨C had made him reconsider. Or at the very least, stall. Until Ifrit leaves him with no choice. He knew that he either needed to find a way to use Reaver Worms without hurting himself at all or figure out how to contact Gartan ¨C hell, to figure out who Gartan really was. That so-called god brought him into this world and was the root of his current problem. But, for now, Tristan kept the vials stored in a handmade pouch sewn especially for him by his father¡¯s personal seamstress ¨C Mrs. Dolores Rine. The pouch was secured to his belt, always within reach but never opened. Right now, he was lying on his bed, thinking ¨C overthinking ¨C about everything, like he always did. Finally, after Rosalina had been called away for something, he could be alone. But then, the peace had shattered when she returned. ¡°Come on, Little Devil.¡± Rosalina¡¯s voice rang throughout the room. ¡°We have a job to do.¡± Tristan groaned but sat up anyway, raising a brow. ¡°A job?¡± *** It was Tristan¡¯s first time outside the estate, and to say he was overwhelmed by Dalina would be an understatement. The capital felt like an entirely different world ¨C and well, it was. The streets were wide, paved with cobblestones, and bustling with movement even under the fading light of evening. Lamp posts ¨C infused with magic ¨C provided some extra light as carriages rattled the roads, pulled by fancy-looking horses. Commoners roamed the streets, carrying baskets or just idly passing by. Everyone was talking. The constant hums of voices filled the air. The smells were mixed. Alongside the scent of baked goods, you could also sense piss, sweat, and then flowers again. It was like the city wasn¡¯t sure what it wanted to smell like. In a sense, Dalina reminded Tristan of his home city on Earth. ¡°Stay close.¡± Rosalina¡¯s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he upped his pace. They were approaching the Harbor District, and the atmosphere changed drastically. The cobbled streets changed into wooden walkways that creaked underneath their steps. The scent of the ocean grew stronger, laced with salt, fish, moss, and the occasional waft of tar from the docked ships. The water, dark under the late evening sky, lapped gently against the piers. But the most noticeable thing about this district was the lack of people in it. Outside the occasional drunk or junkie, no normal citizen seemed to be walking here at this hour. Warehouses lined the harbor. Massive wooden structures reinforced with iron. Some of them bore crests which Tristan recognized from his history studies to belong to some of the noble families, while others were under the protection of different guilds. Ahead, a single warehouse stood apart from the others, its door slightly ajar, a sliver of light coming through the crack. A man stood on guard duty next to the door, dressed fully in black robes, his arms crossed. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Why am I here?¡± Tristan finally asked, still reeling from the fact that Ifrit had actually let him leave the house for once. Rosalina exhaled heavily, her expression visibly frustrated. ¡°Ifrit¡¯s orders.¡± She muttered, glancing at him with a sigh. ¡°Your father¡­he¡¯s a very direct man. He believes that throwing someone into deep water is the best way to make them learn to swim. He¡¯s been like this for as long as I¡¯ve known him. And now, he¡¯s doing it with you.¡± She turned to him, her voice dropping lower. ¡°He thinks that since you can already use reaved magic, you can defend yourself. That means, in his eyes, it¡¯s time for you to prove your worth.¡± Tristan sighed. He had expected this to happen. And¡­he was ready. ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± Rosalina tried to reassure him. ¡°It is also my first mission in a long time, so I¡¯ll support you in any way I can. If things go south, I¡¯ll protect you, of course. But I don¡¯t think we have much to worry about.¡± Tristan ignored the first part. ¡°What makes you think that? What is this warehouse anyway?¡± Rosalina ran her hand through her short dark hair, exhaling sharply. ¡°This warehouse ¨C and many others around here ¨C belongs to your father. Officially, it¡¯s registered under one of his merchant companies ¨C Vortalis Imports ¨C which mostly deals with transporting rare spices, dyes, minerals, medicinal herbs, and textiles from across Terra.¡± She gestured at the building ahead. ¡°On paper, it¡¯s a legitimate business. Legally, the Peacemakers ¨C Dalina¡¯s city guard ¨C can¡¯t fault it.¡± Tristan narrowed his eyes, connections forming inside his mind to some of the things he was taught by Bridges, his Criminal Activities tutor. ¡°And off the books, I assume it is used for smuggling more¡­exotic things?¡± He asked. Rosalina smirked, nodding her head. ¡°Indeed, it is. It is one of several key storage hubs for Ifrit¡¯s smuggling network. High-value contraband comes in through the harbor, hidden among legitimate goods. Some of those ¡®medicinal¡¯ herbs are the base ingredients for much more valuable ¨C and often restricted ¨C alchemical concoctions. Enhancers, sedatives, stimulants, poisons, mana catalysts. All things that certain people would pay a lot of gold ¨C and more importantly, favors ¨C to get their hands on.¡± Tristan nodded. Hearing about the logistics of his father¡¯s empire, being here physically, made it more real. ¡°Favors?¡± Rosalina nodded. ¡°Ifrit is a brilliant man. He knows the world works on favors. He doesn¡¯t need more gold. But having a certain someone owing him a favor? Now that¡¯s far more valuable than any metal or gemstone.¡± Tristan nodded once more. He agreed with this vision as well. On Earth, it was similar. ¡°I thought everyone knew my father.¡± Tristan said, raising a point he didn¡¯t quite understand. ¡°And yet, despite this company literally having his last name, it¡¯s allowed to operate freely?¡± ¡°First of all, it¡¯s your last name too.¡± Rosalina made sure to remind him. ¡°Second of all, it¡¯s not like anyone can do anything to Ifrit. Everyone and their mother knows who Kain Vortalis is, but organized crime ¨C especially on the scale your father operates ¨C is¡­accepted. To a degree.¡± She tilted her head and sighed. ¡°Appearances need to be kept, and so we all play this game.¡± ¡°It¡¯s ¡®secondly¡¯¡­¡± Tristan corrected. Rosalina narrowed her eyes and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ¡°Really?¡± Tristan nodded. She remained silent for a second before shrugging and pointing at the warehouse. ¡°Anyway, to answer your earlier question, someone raided the warehouse this morning.¡± Tristan tensed. ¡°Who in their right mind would try to steal from him?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a great question.¡± Rosalina nodded. ¡°And the reason why I said we probably don¡¯t have much to worry about. Chances are, some foolish punks got too drunk, forgot how to read, and thought this warehouse was a good place to rob.¡± She smirked. ¡°As you said, no one in his right mind would cross Ifrit.¡± They reached the entrance and the man guarding it. His face was entirely covered by black fabric ¨C including his eyes, and Tristan wondered if he could even see. A scimitar rested against his hip. As they stepped closer, the man stiffened and saluted. ¡°Commander Rose.¡± ¡°Shut up, Partan.¡± Rosalina rolled her eyes. The man chuckled, his stance instantly relaxing. His gaze then shifted to Tristan. ¡°Ah, the prince has arrived.¡± He gave a short bow. ¡°Tristan Vortalis, this humble tool of the Vortalis family greets you.¡± ¡°Who are you?¡± Tristan simply asked. ¡°A tool.¡± The man replied, keeping it vague. ¡°He¡¯s a Partan.¡± Rosalina explained instead. ¡°It¡¯s what we call people from his unit. Black robes. Face covered. They handle all sorts of physical work for Ifrit.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± The man agreed. ¡°We¡¯re also very humorous.¡± ¡°You are very humorous.¡± Rosalina corrected dryly. ¡°This Partan ¨C David ¨C is especially talkative. He shouldn¡¯t be. Partans are supposed to be mute unless spoken to.¡± David let out another laugh, a deep, amused chuckle that made Rosalina¡¯s lips twitch ever so slightly into a weak smile. Tristan caught it. A small moment, fleeting, but telling. There was history there. He decided not to pry and instead remember it for future use. ¡°Did the Peacekeepers leave already?¡± Rosalina asked, cutting straight to business. David nodded. ¡°An hour ago. You¡¯re slow, Rose.¡± Rosalina didn¡¯t react, simply exhaling through her nose. ¡°Did they find anything?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t rightly say.¡± David replied. ¡°Fenek is checking their station as we speak.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Rosalina replied. ¡°Keep us updated.¡± ¡°Will do.¡± ¡°Was anyone killed?¡± She followed up with another question. David shook his head. ¡°No.¡± She nodded. ¡°Then, we¡¯re heading inside.¡± She turned to Tristan. ¡°Let¡¯s go, Little Devil.¡± David stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish, theatrically bowing as they passed and entered the warehouse. As Tristan stepped inside the warehouse, the first thing that struck him was the overwhelming blend of scents. The air was a mixture of spices, herbs, and metal. The space itself was immense with high wooden beams stretching toward the rafters where thick ropes hung loosely. Large barrels and crates were stacked neatly along the sides, each labeled with an almost unreadable handwriting. Despite the general orderliness, signs of the raid were easy to spot. Several crates had been pried open, their contents partially spilled onto the floor. A shattered ceramic jar leaked green dye, staining the wooden planks beneath it. Some barrels had been forced apart, their iron hoops bent. Tristan¡¯s eyes caught boot prints in the dust ¨C too many to belong to just the thieves. The Peacemakers likely. Some crates had been marked by white chalk as well. ¡°The chalk indicates that the Peacemakers had inspected the contents of that crate, barrel, or jar.¡± Rosalina explained, catching Tristan¡¯s glance lingering on the white symbols. Tristan nodded, examining the warehouse further. It was weird. For all the chaos inside, most of the stock remained untouched. It hadn¡¯t been a large robbery ¨C more likely a carefully selected theft. The question was, what had been taken? Rosalina let out a low whistle. ¡°Well, at least they weren¡¯t greedy.¡± She nudged a broken crate with her boot, kicking aside some spilled saffron threads. ¡°They knew what they wanted.¡± Tristan said. Rosalina immediately smiled, nodding slowly. ¡°Good observation. What do you suggest we do now, Little Devil?¡± Tristan took a deep breath, a plan forming in his mind. ¡°First, we figure out exactly what¡¯s missing.¡± He said. ¡°Then, we figure out why, and who might¡¯ve needed it.¡± He turned to Rosalina. ¡°Do you still think they were drunken fools?¡± Rosalina shook her head. ¡°Not sure about the drunken part anymore, but the ¡®fools¡¯ bit? Definitely.¡± 17. Tristan: First Job (II) 17. Tristan: First Job (II) ¡°Is there like a ledger we can check?¡± Tristan asked. ¡°So, we can compare and find out what¡¯s missing?¡± ¡°There are faster ways to do this.¡± Rosalina replied, her voice going lower. ¡°You¡¯re thinking like a fish, Little Devil. Think like a shark.¡± Then, without waiting for Tristan¡¯s response, she called out. ¡°Partan! Come over here.¡± Still standing outside, David responded. ¡°I can¡¯t leave my post, Rose.¡± Rosalina turned her gaze toward Tristan as if expecting him to do something about it. Recalling David¡¯s words from outside, Tristan quickly understood the hint. ¡°Partan, I order you to come here right now!¡± He called out. Rosalina nodded approvingly. A moment later, David the Partan rushed inside the warehouse, giving Tristan a small bow. ¡°Yes, Young Master?¡± Tristan knew it would take him some time to get used to it. Still, he cleared his throat and spoke. ¡°You and your partner ¨C Fenek ¨C were here all day, right? What was stolen?¡± David didn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Only one thing ¨C Refined Defeorica. The whole shipment. The rest of the mess here was created by our lovely Peacekeepers.¡± Tristan¡¯s brows furrowed. He had no idea what Defeorica was, but if it was the only thing taken, that only solidified his hunch from before ¨C the thieves knew what they were taking. This robbery wasn¡¯t random. ¡°What¡¯s Refined Defeorica?¡± David shrugged. ¡°As far as I know it¡¯s a rare medicinal herb. But I¡¯m afraid this humble servant can¡¯t tell you much more than that, Young Master. We Partans are your muscle, not brains.¡± Then, he rolled his head theatrically toward Rosalina. ¡°If only there was an alchemist among us to tell you more about it¡­¡± Tristan¡¯s gaze snapped toward Rosalina. He couldn¡¯t believe his fearsome bodyguard was also an alchemist. ¡°You¡¯re an alchemist?¡± He asked, genuine surprise filling his voice. ¡°How come you never told me?¡± Rosalina sighed. ¡°You were to learn about it when we began your alchemy teachings. I was to be your teacher. But since your father had already asked for Zacharia, he had decided he would be your new teacher.¡± ¡°Oh¡­¡± Tristan felt a pang of disappointment. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Little Devil.¡± Rosalina assured him. ¡°Zacharia is far more knowledgeable than I am. He¡¯d be a better teacher for you.¡± Then, she cleared her throat. ¡°As for your question, Defeorica is indeed a rare herb used in both high-tier alchemy and illegal drug production ¨C specifically for the creation of ''Vintage'', a drug all of Dalina¡¯s high society had tried at least once in their sorry lives.¡± Tristan¡¯s mind analyzed the new information, but he still needed to know more. ¡°How valuable is it?¡± ¡°Very valuable.¡± Rosalina replied. ¡°It¡¯s rare, high in demand, and tricky as hell to process. Not many underground alchemists can refine it properly. Since the stolen shipment was already refined, were talking about a lot of lost gold...¡± Tristan nodded slowly. ¡®So, a high-society drug¡­that¡¯s interesting.¡¯ For now, without any additional clues the Peacekeepers might¡¯ve confiscated, Tristan¡¯s mind began running through possible culprits. Desperate nobles? Unlikely. Nobles would likely negotiate for supplies, not steal them, especially not from someone like Ifrit who had his web of influence go way up. A rival syndicate? Someone new trying to challenge Ifrit¡¯s monopoly? Possible. But if they were a serious competitor, they would¡¯ve stolen more or burned the entire warehouse down to send a message. Foreign-funded smugglers? Plausible. The tension between Stulan and Kuisar had never been higher. It is possible that a local group, funded by Kuisar, is trying to destabilize Dalina¡¯s black market, attempting to create chaos before making a bigger move across the map. Out of the three options, Tristan presented the third one to Rosalina and David, believing it was the most logical one. Rosalina nodded. ¡°Could be. It still leaves us with finding this group.¡± ¡°We need to know what the Peacekeepers found here in their investigation.¡± Tristan said, turning to David. ¡°You said no one was killed. And I can see that the scene is fairly clean. Could this be an inside job?¡± Silence stretched among the three. ¡°It¡¯s hard to believe anyone would betray Ifrit, Little Devil.¡± Rosalina said eventually. ¡°No money in the world would be worth getting burned to cinders, getting healed, then burned again, over and over.¡± Tristan¡¯s skin crawled from her description, but he shook the uncomfortableness away. ¡°It¡¯s not always about money. Could be threats to family members.¡± ¡°So, by saving their loved ones from one crime lord they are condemning them to a worse fate by Ifrit¡¯s hand?¡± Rosalina shook her head. ¡°Again, unlikely.¡± Tristan sighed. He didn¡¯t rule out this possibility yet, but for now, he decided to chase other theories. ¡°Then who else knows about this place outside of Ifrit¡¯s ¨C I mean, Father¡¯s ¨C people?¡± ¡°Now that¡¯s a better question.¡± Rosalina said, turning to David. ¡°Well?¡± David shrugged, then turned to Tristan. ¡°Anyone who¡¯s ever stepped inside this warehouse is either one of Ifrit¡¯s people or someone sitting on his payroll.¡± A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°Then maybe some curious dock workers?¡± Tristan raised the possibility. ¡°Could be. Most of them work for Ifrit indirectly. But not all.¡± David replied. Rosalina shifted her weight. ¡°Is this the lead you want to pursue, Little Devil? We can track down which dock workers were on shift when the Defeorica shipment arrived and go from there.¡± Tristan still had the nagging suspicion this was an inside job, but for now, this was the best lead they could follow, in his opinion. ¡°Yes.¡± He nodded, turning back to David. ¡°Update us as soon as your partner returns.¡± *** After questioning the Dockmaster, cross-checking names, and eliminating those already on Ifrit¡¯s payroll, only one name remained ¨C a dock worker named Brayden Holt. Under Rosalina¡¯s deadly gaze, the Dockmaster quickly gave them Brayden¡¯s address ¨C in a not-so-faraway district of Dalina called ¡®Fort Glus¡¯ ¨C another slum. By the time they arrived at the man¡¯s house, the city had quieted significantly as night was upon them. Tristan was exhausted. He might be an adult, but his body was still a child¡¯s. Walking around the city for hours had taken its toll on him despite the physical training he had gone through the past year. Rosalina noticed. ¡°Stay close. Things might turn ugly. Either way, I¡¯ll handle it. But you ¨C I want you to watch everything.¡± ¡°I know how it goes.¡± Tristan said, recalling all the nasty things he had done in his previous life. How he had beaten people for not paying on time when he was in a gang. ¡°Really?¡± Rosalina asked, doubt evident in her voice, but she didn¡¯t push the matter further. They stopped before a small stone house. No light was coming from inside it. Rosalina stepped forward and knocked on the wooden door. Seconds passed, and she knocked again. Eventually, after the third knock, the door creaked open. Brayden Holt was a disheveled man with tired eyes and a lingering stench of cheap booze. His shirt was only half-buttoned yet fully wrinkled. His irritation was evident when he squinted at Rosalina and Tristan. ¡°The hell do you want?¡± He muttered, voice hoarse from sleep or drink ¨C or both. Rosalina didn¡¯t waste a second. She slammed her boot into the door, kicking it open with brutal force. The wood cracked, and the impact sent Brayden stumbling backward into his own home, hitting the ground hard, groaning. ¡°Bad start, Holt.¡± Rosalina said, stepping inside like she owned the place. ¡°Let¡¯s try again. I''ll start. Where is the Defeorica you stole from Ifrit?¡± Tristan entered the house slowly, watching as Brayden pushed himself up, rubbing the back of his head. His expression shifted from drunk confusion to fear, but he definitely tried to hide it. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about!¡± He barked, voice growing louder. ¡°Now get out of my damn house!¡± He barely had time to blink before Rosalina¡¯s fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He doubled over, gasping for breath. ¡°Wrong answer.¡± Rosalina¡¯s voice was deadly calm. ¡°Brayden?!¡± A woman¡¯s voice rang out from deeper in the house ¨C likely the man¡¯s wife. She appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a nightgown, her expression shifting immediately from confusion to sheer terror. Brayden tried to straighten up, clutching his gut. ¡°Stay there, Mira! I¡¯ll handle this!¡± But Rosalina grabbed him by the collar before he could regain his breath and drove him backward into the nearest wall so hard, the wooden shelf on it dropped to the ground. His wife let out a sharp gasp, gripping the stair rail. ¡°Please, whoever you are, don¡¯t ¨C ¡° ¡°Shut your mouth before I break his jaw in front of you.¡± Rosalina snapped at her and the woman almost fainted. Brayden coughed again, trying to shove Rosalina off, but she didn¡¯t budge. ¡°I ¨C I swear I didn¡¯t steal anything!¡± Rosalina brought her fist to his face and a knife shot out above her hand, escaping her vambrace. The man¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°I know you didn¡¯t steal anything. I¡¯ve seen enough from you by now to tell you¡¯re too pathetic to do something like that.¡± Rosalina said, her voice cold, devoid of emotion. ¡°You have one last chance to tell me the truth.¡± ¡°Okay, okay, okay!¡± He gasped. ¡°I just told some guys about it! Two men! They paid me to tell them when the shipments came in and mark the crate with invisible ink! That¡¯s all! I didn¡¯t know they were going to rob it!¡± ¡®What else would they do with it, idiot?¡¯ Tristan wondered if the man was even in his right mind to suggest something like that. ¡°Who? Where?¡± Rosalina pressed for details. Brayden swallowed hard. ¡°They ¨C I ¨C I met them at an old dockside tavern. The White Gull. It¡¯s abandoned now after the owner was arrested for double homicide. They¡¯re probably started using it ever since.¡± He shook his head aggressively. ¡°But I don¡¯t know who they are! They didn¡¯t tell me their names and it was dark! I swear!¡± Rosalina held her gaze for a long moment, reading him. Then, with a sharp jerk she pulled her vambrace away and the knife snapped back inside. Brayden, on the other hand, dropped to the floor, shaking. His wife rushed forward, collapsing beside him, clutching at his arm as he gasped for air. Rosalina stood over them, her back to Tristan. Tristan was confused as to why they were still there despite already getting the information they needed. ¡°Is there something else?¡± Tristan asked her. ¡°Yes.¡± Rosalina replied, not turning around. She paused for a moment, then spoke, her voice casual, almost detached. ¡°Should I kill them?¡± Brayden¡¯s wife yelped. Tristan¡¯s stomach dropped. ¡°What?¡± Rosalina didn¡¯t flinch. She simply gestured toward the couple with her hand. ¡°You¡¯re that Master¡¯s son. You decide.¡± Tristan stared at her. She never joked. And definitely not like this. She meant it. ¡°He sold out Ifrit. Took payment for it. Who¡¯s to say he won¡¯t do it again? Who¡¯s to say people won¡¯t look at him as proof they can cross Ifrit without getting punished?¡± Rosalina said calmly. ¡°Killing them will send a message. But if you think they deserve to walk away, say the word.¡± "I''ll never - " Brayden tried to defend himself, but Rosalina quickly shut him up. "Shut up or I''ll kill the both of you in an instant." Tristan felt his heartbeat in his throat. ¡°But, I¡¯m just a ¨C ¡° ¡°It¡¯s doesn¡¯t matter, Little Devil.¡± Rosalina interrupted. ¡°Your father does not care for your age. Tonight, you represent Vortalis. He¡¯d want you to protect the family¡¯s name.¡± Tristan¡¯s heart pounded even harder. He had never killed anyone. Not personally. The closest he had come to was shooting Vasallo¡¯s men on the night of his death, but even then, it wasn¡¯t something he had ever prepared for. It had been pure survival. And even then, that had been the first time he ever used a gun against someone. But now? Now he was being asked to sentence people to death. Brayden coughed again, and his wife left his arm, noticing the hesitation in Tristan¡¯s eyes. ¡°Please!¡± She begged, shifting onto her knees and crawling toward him, though it was visible in her eyes, she was shocked she had to beg a child for her life. ¡°Please, my lord, he won''t do anything like that ever again! Please!¡± Rosalina stepped forward, her boot slamming down between them with a sharp smack. ¡°Don¡¯t come near him.¡± She warned. ¡°Not another inch.¡± Brayden¡¯s wife whimpered, her hands shaking. Tristan clenched his fists. This wasn¡¯t right. None of this was right. But if this was what Ifrit had expected from him, then he must order their execution. Surely, his father won¡¯t approve of leaving them alive. And if he did let them live? Then Ifrit would dispose of him. His magicless son who is also a wimp that shows weakness. Rosalina was right. Ifrit doesn¡¯t care that he was a six-year-old child. Seeing his maturity, he wanted to prepare him for the ruthlessness of their life as early as possible, not withholding anything back. Tristan knew he had no choice. It was either them or him. But just when he was about to give Rosalina the command to kill the couple, he heard it. Footsteps. A soft patter of bare feet from the stairs. Tristan looked up, noticing a little girl, likely younger than him, staring in horror at her parents on the floor. She didn¡¯t speak ¨C too scared ¨C but her hands clutched the wooden stair rail with a desperation that pierced straight through Tristan. His breath caught as he recalled his previous life. His parents there. It only took him a moment to change his mind. ¡°We¡¯re leaving.¡± He finally said, jumping to his feet and turning around. ¡°As you wish.¡± Rosalina said, following behind him. ¡°Oh, thank you! Thank you!¡± The wife called after him, but he ignored her. Before stepping out, he spared one last glance at the little girl peering from the stairs. She didn¡¯t say anything. She just watched him go. Her gaze was so, so heavy on him. 18. Kal: (Second) First Day of School 18. Kal: (Second) First Day of School Kal hated school with a passion. He just never understood how the education system could kill creativity so easily. On paper, school was supposed to encourage learning, to expand young minds, to make students curious about the world. But in reality? It felt like a factory assembly to him. A place where everyone had to think the same, learn the same, and answer the same. If you stepped outside of the norm, you were wrong. If you dared to ask the wrong kind of question, you were ridiculed. Kal could still remember how in middle school his history teacher had shut him down when he just tried to ask if two seemingly unrelated events were actually connected to each other. The teacher had told him it was irrelevant and that he should focus on remembering the facts and dates instead. And it wasn¡¯t just this specific teacher ¨C it was most of them. He could count on one hand the amount of normal teachers he had over the years. He had wanted to learn. At first. He really had. But after getting dismissed over and over, he had given up. And it¡¯s not like Uncle Rob or Aunt Jill tried to help him or anything. They never cared about his studies either. They only cared when he got terrible grades and they were called to school. Eventually, he found himself drifting through school, zoning out, daydreaming about music, sketching doodles and scribbling song lyrics in the back of his notebooks. That¡¯s when everyone began calling him an airhead. His twin brother, though? He was the opposite. Even when he wasn¡¯t paying attention, half asleep on his desk and whatnot, he somehow always knew the answers. Every time a teacher called on him, expecting him to be lost, he would answer perfectly. Effortlessly. He never told him how he always managed to do it. By the time he and his brother ran away from home, school had already become a distant, meaningless memory. He never even looked back. And now, in this new life, as he sat in his tiny classroom in Terenhill, he just wanted to leave. With so few children in the village, it made no sense to separate them into individual grades. Instead, all children aged 6 to 9 shared a single classroom, where they studied together for three years ¨C each student receiving personalized assignments based on their age ¨C before advancing to the 9 to 12 class, where they spent another three years. After that, it was up to the parents as middle school and high school weren¡¯t mandatory. If a child showed exceptional promise, their parents could send them to Estenford, the closest town with actual academical facilities. But since Estenford was too far away to travel back and forth daily, the only option was boarding there ¨C something most families in Terenhill simply couldn¡¯t afford or were just outright against. So, for the majority of kids here, primary school was the beginning and also the end of their education. Kal drummed on the table with his fingers, already looking for an escape route as the children waited for their teacher to finish a conversation she was having outside, and enter the classroom. Meanwhile, he scanned the faces of his already familiar classmates ¨C in Terenhill everyone knew each other. Gerrin Berell, the dairy farmer¡¯s son, who had proudly called Kal his best friend, even though Kal still wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about that title. Then, there was Stella Lynn, Bertan¡¯s ¨C the woodcarver and musician who constructed Kal¡¯s lyroca ¨C daughter. She was their age as well and Kal couldn¡¯t forget how his parents had already shipped them since they were babies because Bertan was their good friend. She had dark brown hair always tied in two pigtails, and a pair of light blue eyes ¨C the color of the sky on a sunny day. She was a very shy girl, and yet, she constantly tried to get Kal¡¯s attention. Today was no different in that regard as she kept nagging him about when he¡¯ll come to visit their house, that her father wanted to hear him playing the lyroca he made for him. Kal really didn¡¯t know what to answer. ¡°Whenever my parents decide to¡­?¡± The older kids had already been here for a year or more. Dain Holloway, 9, was the eldest. He was the son of the village¡¯s blacksmith, and he already had the frame to match it ¨C even at his age. He was tall and stocky, already looking ready to hammer metal if his father let him. He wasn¡¯t exactly friendly and mostly kept to himself. Lena Faeran, also 9, was the oldest girl. She was the daughter of the village herbalist and healer, and Kal had seen her helping her mother to collect plants more than once. She was very talkative and often started conversations with Kal about the most random subjects. Kal always wondered if there was a catch to those, but even if there was, he was yet to figure it out. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The last two were 7 and 8 years old, a girl and a boy. Herron Miles, 8, came from the village hunter¡¯s family. He was thin, quick, constantly sneaking up on people just to make them jump and show off how his father had taught him the silent walk of a hunter. And finally, Tessa Tonnel, 7, Balric¡¯s ¨C the carpenter ¨C daughter. She was always laughing with everyone and doing pranks. Kal was scared of her, afraid of getting pranked. And so, he had exchanged less than fifteen words with her since he had met her. The rest of the kids in the village were either too young or too old to attend this class. Kal would have much rather been home with his mom and Azmira. After his parents¡¯ argument the night before, things had still felt tense at breakfast, but one thing was agreed upon ¨C Azmira would be teaching Kal magic for the duration of her stay in Terenhill to make sure he doesn¡¯t hurt himself and others around him. There were no promises beyond that, though. Even if he truly turned out to be some genius mage, what would happen after Azmira left? Would he find another teacher? Or would his parents make him forget all about it and focus on the fields? He didn¡¯t know, but honestly, for the moment, he didn¡¯t care. All he knew was that in the next four months, he¡¯d get to spend time with Azmira ¨C one-on-one. ¡®God, I know I never believed in you, but thank you!¡¯ He kept thinking to himself. His parents had given him one strict rule ¨C don¡¯t tell anyone. If the village found out he was a mage, the entire Varren family¡¯s status could change overnight. He could be treated differently, seen as an outsider, maybe even feared. After all, there were no mages in Terenhill, and Kal was born to non-mage parents which made the whole ordeal even more peculiar. It made sense. Kal understood the risk, and he promised to be careful. The classroom hushed suddenly as the door swung open, and in stepped Mrs. Keller, their teacher. She was a kind-looking woman in her mid forties, with auburn hair pulled onto a single braid behind her back. Even though her expression felt soft, there was a certain steadiness in her gaze. ''The kind of gaze that only came from years of battling restless children into submission.'' Kal assumed. ¡°Good morning, everyone.¡± She smiled as she set down a stack of parchments and a small wooden writing board on her desk. A chorus of greetings filled the room and even Kal joined in. Then, Mrs. Keller turned her attention to her three new students who were all seated together around the same wooden round table. ¡°Our new scholars.¡± She smiled warmly. ¡°Welcome, Kal, Stella, and Gerrin.¡± Kal shifted slightly in his seat as all eyes landed on him. ¡°This is their first year in school, so I expect the rest of you to be good examples.¡± She said, looking at the older children. Then, she turned her attention back to the newcomers. She gave Kal a small nod. ¡°Your father must be proud to have you start school today.¡± Kal simply shrugged, not sure how to respond. If Reiner was proud, he didn¡¯t show it this morning, disappearing to the fields fairly quickly. Elara and Lucas were the ones who escorted him to school today. Mrs. Keller turned to Stella, who was playing with the end of her sleeve. ¡°And how are you feeling, Stella?¡± The girl hesitated before mumbling. ¡°¡­okay.¡± ¡°That¡¯s great to hear.¡± Mrs. Keller¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver as she turned to Gerrin. ¡°And you, Gerrin? Excited?¡± ¡°Very!¡± Gerrin bounced in his seat. ¡°I already learned how to count to a thousand!¡± Some of the older students chuckled, and Mrs. Keller let out a soft laugh herself. ¡°Well, then, I look forward to seeing just how much you three will learn this year.¡± She clapped her hands once, signaling the start of the school year. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s begin.¡± Then, she walked to the blackboard, picking up a small piece of white chalk. ¡°For our younger students, you should¡¯ve already studied the alphabet with your parents, so we¡¯ll start with some reading and writing of simple words. Our older students will continue practicing longer reading passages and some short writing exercises.¡± She pointed at a wooden shelf at the side of the classroom. ¡°You¡¯ll find your writing slates there. Older students, pick yours up and start copying today¡¯s passage. Younger students, you¡¯ll be practicing with me.¡± Kal sighed internally. ¡®Here we go again¡­¡¯ Writing wasn¡¯t something new to Kal. After all, he already knew how to write in his past life ¨C just not in Stulan¡¯s script. But even that wasn¡¯t a challenge. Growing up, he begged Elara to teach him how to write and read, and by now, he had mostly caught up. His motor skills were also way more advanced than those of children his age thanks to his mother, and his lyroca training. So, as Mrs. Keller guided Gerrin, Stella, and Kal in practicing letters and simple words, Kal¡¯s hand moved steadily, forming each symbol without hesitation. Meanwhile, Gerrin gripped the chalk too tightly, making thick, uneven strokes, while Stella wrote so slowly and carefully that she barely finished a single line before Kal had already filled his slate. Mrs. Keller walked over to check on their progress, her gaze landing on Kal¡¯s neat handwriting. She blinked in surprise. ¡°Oh¡­you finished already?¡± Kal nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°How?!¡± Gerrin yelped, glancing over. ¡°Gerrin, focus on your slate, please.¡± Mrs. Keller told him, turning back to Kal¡¯s assignment. Her brows furrowed slightly as she compared his work to the others. Then, without another word, she erased his slate and pointed at a more advanced set of words. ¡°Alright, try this instead.¡± Kal shrugged and started again. This was still too easy. By the time Gerrin had just managed to get halfway through his first line, Kal had already set his chalk down again. Mrs. Keller frowned. ¡°Already?¡± Kal nodded again. She leaned in, examining his letters closely ¨C checking for mistakes. But there were none. She straightened up, a warm smile spreading across her face. ¡°My, my, Kal. Someone was studying this summer! I¡¯ll make sure to tell your mother how great of a job she had done.¡± Then, her expression turned thoughtful. ¡°But for now, let¡¯s try¡­¡± She walked over to the older students¡¯ desks, picked up one of their slates, and brought it to Kal. ¡°Let¡¯s see how you do with this. The words here are harder. And there are a lot more of them as well.¡± Kal glanced at the paragraph written on the board ¨C the same assignment the older children had been working on for a while now ¨C something about a cat stealing its owner¡¯s meat. Kal sighed. ¡®Still easy.¡¯ He grabbed the chalk and copied the passage down effortlessly, finishing in under a minute. Mrs. Keller watched him the entire time, her expression shifting from a mild surprise to full shock as he set the slate down. ¡°Done.¡± She picked it up, expecting to find mistakes or sloppy writing ¨C but there were none. The older students, still halfway through their own assignments, turned toward him, their expressions curious. Mrs. Keller exhaled. ¡°Kal¡­¡± She hesitated, clearly not expecting this. ¡°This is¡­very impressive.¡± Kal tilted his head, confused. ¡°What¡¯s the big deal? It¡¯s just writing.¡± 19. Kal: Emotions 19. Kal: Emotions Kal¡¯s second first day of school turned out to be¡­amazing? It was a short school day ¨C only four hours ¨C but after they finished their writing and reading exercises and moved to simple arithmetic, Kal once again shocked everyone, getting more praise from his teacher. He didn¡¯t understand what the big deal was. Or rather, he did, but he just found it weird. He had done nothing special. It was just basic grade school math. No one should be praised so much for doing simple arithmetic. Still, it felt nice. Not how school usually went for him. It became even better when Mrs. Keller stopped his mother after class when she came to pick him up, carrying Lucas, just to praise him. She asked Elara how she had taught him to write so well over the summer, looking genuinely impressed. Watching Elara¡¯s smile widen with pride had filled his heart with warmth. But then¡­he overheard something that nearly made him choke. ¡°It¡¯s still early to say, but if he continues at this pace, he might be able to skip a year or even two and move up to the 9-12 class sooner.¡± Mrs. Keller said. Kal stiffened. ¡®Nope. No thanks!¡¯ Higher class meant more homework. More homework meant less time for music. Less time for music meant the destruction of his spirit. ¡®Absolutely not!¡¯ He quickly latched onto Elara¡¯s hand, tugging her away before she could agree to anything that could ruin his new life. ¡°Goodbye, Mrs. Keller! See you tomorrow!¡± He called hurriedly, forcing a bright smile as he practically dragged his mother and brother toward the door. The teacher laughed. ¡°See you tomorrow, Kal!¡± As soon as they were out of earshot, Kal sighed in relief. ¡®Crisis averted.¡¯ Now, he could finally spend the rest of the day focusing on what truly mattered. After music, of course. Magic. His heart raced at the thought. He was going to learn magic with Azmira. *** Azmira sighed loudly, her arms crossed as she tapped her fingers on her arms, her expression unimpressed. They were seated on the wooden floor of Kal¡¯s room. Alone. Together. Normally ¨C at least that¡¯s what Azmira said ¨C practicing outside would¡¯ve been better. But since Kal¡¯s parents wanted to keep Kal being a mage a secret from the village, the house was the only place they could practice in. ¡°I really thought this was going to be more exciting.¡± She suddenly said. Kal swallowed, shifting with unease. ¡°Uh¡­what do you mean?¡± Azmira leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. ¡°I mean, here I am, expecting a promising young mage to teach, and instead, I get you.¡± Kal¡¯s heart stammered a bit. He had been waiting all day to sit down with her like this. And yet, here she was, so thoroughly unimpressed with him¡­ ¡°I ¨C I thought I was doing fine?¡± He asked hesitantly. Azmira groaned. ¡°That¡¯s the problem! You are doing fine! You¡¯re doing too fine! You¡¯re infuriatingly fine, and you¡¯re just six!¡± She waved her hands dramatically before crossing her arms again. ¡°Do you know how long it took me to get a first feel for my Threads? I¡¯m considered a genius, and it took me a week! You?¡± She flicked his forehead lightly. ¡°Less than an hour!¡± Kal¡¯s face flushed red from her touch, oblivious to the fact it could¡¯ve been interpreted as an insult. ¡°But¡­isn¡¯t that a good thing?¡± Azmira rolled her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s a great thing. Infuriatingly great. If I¡¯m a genius, then what are you?!¡± She shook her head. ¡°Here I was, thinking I found myself a side-quest until your damn barley grows. But noooo, you just get everything instantly.¡± Kal swallowed hard, worried that his time with Azmira was coming to an end after just one meeting. ¡°I still need training, though! Without you I¡¯ll just keep breaking wooden arcs, right? Please, keep teaching me, Master!¡± Azmira looked like she was struggling to keep her serious expression as hints of a smile constantly kept breaking through her fa?ade. ¡°Okay, okay, I¡¯ll keep teaching you. Don¡¯t get all puppy-eyed about it.¡± Kal instinctively smiled. He couldn¡¯t help it. She was so cool. So pretty. She was a real mage. And she was here, spending time with him. He wasn¡¯t stupid ¨C he knew she only saw him as a kid ¨C that much was obvious. But still¡­if she was going to be his teacher, maybe one day, when he was older ¨C Azmira suddenly clapped her hands together, pulling him out of his thoughts. ¡°Okay, since it seems like you find it waaay too easy to enter your Inner Eye, and you already grasp most of the basic theory, we¡¯ll move straight to practicing.¡± She declared. ¡°Which Threads did you say were the thickest in your Inner Eye?¡± ¡°Three in Rhythm and four in Emotion.¡± Kal replied quickly. ¡°Hmmm.¡± She made a thoughtful gesture, then leaned back on her hands. ¡°I don¡¯t know much about Rhythm, but Emotion magic is fun. People often confuse it with Persuasion, but it¡¯s actually two completely different things. Do you know why?¡± If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Because emotion is a feeling, while persuasion is a thought?¡± Kal answered with a question, then immediately continued. ¡°The first one nudges people, the other pushes them forcefully.¡± Azmira rolled her eyes. ¡°Of course, you understand this, why do I even ask?!¡± Then she groaned. ¡°How are you six?!¡± Kal shifted under her scrutiny, suddenly feeling like he was under a magnifying glass. He briefly wondered if he should just tell her the truth ¨C about everything. Surely, she¡¯d find it interesting to know he was actually eighteen inside, that he wasn¡¯t really a six-year-old, that he had lived an entirely different life before this one. Maybe she¡¯d even look at him differently if he did¡­ But in the end, this thought was the exact one to push the idea away and flush it in the toilet. What if she does look at him differently but not in the way he wants? Maybe she¡¯d think he¡¯s crazy ¨C a complete coocoo ¨C for even suggesting this as a possibility. But even if she did believe him, wouldn¡¯t it just make him seem weird? Some grown man pretending to be a child in a farmers'' village for six years? ¡®Yeah, no thanks.¡¯ Luckily, Azmira switched back to her teacher mode. ¡°We¡¯ll start practicing your Emotion Thread. It should be the easiest for you since you understand it better than anything else.¡± Kal straightened, ready. ¡°But before we begin, you need to understand something.¡± She pointed at him. ¡°Even though you have four Threads in Emotion ¨C which is insanely incredible for any mage, not just a six-year-old ¨C that doesn¡¯t mean you can just jump to the fourth level of Emotion Magic. You need to build your skill from the bottom up. Think of it as playing your lyroca ¨C you don¡¯t just go pick it up for the first time and start composing symphonies. You first begin with the basics, right?¡± Kal nodded, enjoying her approach to it. He didn¡¯t know if it was because he had a crush on her, but so far, she seemed like a much better teacher than all his previous ones. ¡°Do you have an Emotion Thread?¡± He asked her out of curiosity. Azmira snorted at his question. ¡°Nope. Why would you think that?¡± ¡°Really?¡± Kal frowned. ¡°You just sound like you know so much about it¡­¡± She gave him a pointed look. ¡°Because I studied, obviously. Just because someone doesn¡¯t have a certain Thread doesn¡¯t mean they don¡¯t understand how it works. As the great Eludranth said himself, ¡®Knowledge is not the same as understanding, but having knowledge is better than staying ignorant¡¯.¡± She folded her arms. ¡°Which brings me to something important ¨C you shouldn¡¯t go around asking mages what Threads they have. It¡¯s considered rude.¡± Kal immediately felt uncomfortable. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because it¡¯s personal.¡± She explained. ¡°Threads represent the mage¡¯s inner world ¨C their strengths, their weaknesses, who they are. Asking someone what Threads they have is like prying into their mind ¨C it¡¯s not your business unless they choose to tell you. Or unless you¡¯re a Thread Reaver, which you¡¯re luckily not and won¡¯t ever be.¡± A chill ran down Kal¡¯s spine at the term. ¡°A Thread Reaver?¡± Azmira shook her head. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. Sorry I brought it up. Let¡¯s focus back on you.¡± She pointed at him. ¡°So, for the first level of Emotion magic, you need to focus on a specific feeling you want the other person to experience, but you also need your words to align with the emotion you¡¯re trying to create. For example, if you want to make someone feel sad, you need to say something sad, something that resonates with them.¡± Kal narrowed his eyes. ¡°But how is that different from¡­normal talking? I don¡¯t get where the magic ¨C ¡° Azmira suddenly laughed and Kal couldn¡¯t stop staring at her beautiful smile, forgetting the rest of what he was about to say. ¡°In all types of magic, the first levels will be simple enhancers of what already exists.¡± She began explaining once she calmed down. ¡°It¡¯s similar to how in Water Magic¡¯s first level, I couldn¡¯t create water from nothing. I had to use existing water sources and manipulate them. Emotion is the same. First level will enhance the effect of your speech, body language, and all other human communication methods.¡± Kal nodded slowly. It made sense to him. ¡°At higher levels, though, that restriction would disappear for you.¡± She added. ¡°You would be able to say something completely different, like¡­¡¯Turnip Stew¡¯, and still make someone ¨C not just me ¨C feel despair.¡± Kal blinked. ¡°Turnip Stew?¡± Azmira shook her head. ¡°Long story¡­¡± He narrowed his eyes again, growing curious. ¡°But let¡¯s start small.¡± She smirked and pointed at him again. ¡°Try making me feel sad.¡± Kal tensed. ¡°Sad?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± He hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. ¡°I¡­don¡¯t want to do that.¡± Azmira raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why not? It¡¯s just practice.¡± Kal frowned. ¡°Because sadness is something that clings to people. Sometimes, even when they forget, it never really leaves.¡± He looked away. ¡°I don¡¯t want to make you feel like that just for the sake of training. I don¡¯t want you to remember me as someone who had made you sad.¡± Azmira stared at him, her cheeks blushing weakly. ¡°What?¡± He asked after she remained silent for too long. She cleared her throat, turning her head slightly. ¡°Nothing. You just¡­sound way too mature for your age. Or maybe it¡¯s me who is too childish for mine¡­¡± Kal felt heat creep up his neck. ¡°Anyway!¡± Azmira clapped her hands suddenly. ¡°Sadness is out the window. What do you want to try instead?¡± Kal brightened. ¡°Joy?¡± She rolled her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m already joyful ninety-five percent of the day. We wouldn¡¯t notice the difference!¡± ¡°And the other five?¡± ¡°Sulking. Mostly.¡± Kal¡¯s eyes brightened with an idea. ¡°Then how about excitement?¡± She made a thoughtful expression and then nodded. ¡°Alright. Go for it.¡± Kal took a deep breath and focused. ¡®Excitement. I need to make her excited.¡¯ He grinned, focusing on the feeling he wanted to make her feel and channelling it. ¡°Imagine you just got¡­an epiphany! Suddenly, you had achieved your fifth Thread in Water Magic!¡± Azmira raised an eyebrow, but remained unimpressed. ¡°I mean, that¡¯d be nice, I guess.¡± Kal narrowed his eyes on her. ¡®No way she wasn¡¯t excited by that.¡¯ He tried again, shifting strategies. ¡°Then what if¡­what if the most powerful mage in the world personally picked you as their apprentice?¡± She smirked. ¡°She¡¯d be honored, obviously.¡± Kal groaned, trying a few other approaches, but nothing worked. ¡°Is this even working? Am I even doing anything to you?¡± Azmira chuckled. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s working, kiddo. You just suck it.¡± ¡®Ow, ¡®kiddo¡¯¡­my heart¡­my soul¡­¡¯ He scowled. ¡°That was not very teachery of you.¡± ¡°I know. But it is fun.¡± She beamed. ¡°You know what, let¡¯s make it interesting. I¡¯ll give you a wager. If you manage to make me truly excited ¨C so much I¡¯d want to dance, I¡¯ll give you a trinket ¨C something to remember me by after I leave.¡± Kal eyes widened. ¡®A keepsake from Azmira?!¡¯ His heart skipped a beat. ¡®No way I¡¯m losing this!¡¯ Then, an idea struck him. If words weren¡¯t enough¡­he¡¯d use his music. He darted off and grabbed his lyroca. ¡°You cheater.¡± She called after him, but he ignored her. Sitting on his bed he strummed the notes of a bright and quick melody. A song Reinar played for him on the voutar many times, and he had learned on the lyroca. The song was meant to uplift spirits. ¡®Surely, this will make you dance!¡¯ As he enhanced the music with his magic, he felt a change in Azmira¡¯s reactions. A grin spread across her face as she started bopping her head to the melody. But then ¨C she stopped. She folded her arms and sat completely still. Kal, confused, continued playing, focusing even harder on making her feel excitement, but nothing changed. She remained motionless for the rest of the song. ¡°I win.¡± Azmira declared, her grin widening even further. ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­¡± He muttered. ¡°One moment, I saw your head moving, and then¡­Did you just tease me on purpose?! You never tease a musician!¡± ¡°Oh, no.¡± She crossed her arms behind her head, looking smug. ¡°I was actually really close to losing, but if there¡¯s one thing I hate more than being called short, a kid, and four other degrading nicknames I won¡¯t mention here, it¡¯s losing.¡± She tapped her chest, pulling out a small medallion that had been tucked beneath her tunic. Kal squinted at it. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± ¡°This,¡± she said, her expression turning serious, ¡°is taelium.¡± She let him take a closer look at the dull, silvery metal. ¡°I know I only used it to beat your ass, but let¡¯s turn this into a lesson.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the lesson?¡± Kal asked, still staring at the medallion. There was nothing special about it ¨C just a clear piece of metal with the size and shape of a coin. Azmira smirked. ¡°Taelium is a rare metal. Depending on how well it¡¯s refined, it can block different levels of magic.¡± Kal analyzed the new information, surprised by the revelation. Before, he assumed mages ruled the world. That magic was the ultimate advantage. But seeing this small piece of metal, he wasn¡¯t so sure anymore. If something like this could nullify magic, then anyone ¨C mage or not ¨C could level the playing field. 20. Tristan: First Job (III) 20. Tristan: First Job (III) ¡°You tired, Little Devil?¡± Rosalina¡¯s voice pulled Tristan out of his thoughts. He was tired, but more than that, he was disturbed. Shaken. Not by what had happened ¨C but by himself. By the fact he had almost given the order to kill the Holts without hesitation. Back there, he had been ready to call the shot. The only reason he stopped was because of their daughter. He knew what being an orphan was like. He didn¡¯t wish that fate to anyone. He lifted his head toward Rosalina and shook it, answering her question, pushing past his exhaustion, though the weight in his chest wouldn¡¯t leave. ¡°Good.¡± Rosalina replied calmly. ¡°We still have around ten more minutes until we reach the White Gull.¡± Tristan sighed, not really listening. He recalled how back on Earth, he had done messed-up things, but never to the completely innocent. The people he beat down were junkies and lowlifes who couldn¡¯t repay loans to their loan sharks, or straight up criminals who would¡¯ve done the same or worse to him and his brother if the roles were reversed. He never felt guilt for bloodying his knuckles on scum. But this? Brayden Holt wasn¡¯t a criminal. He was a desperate man in a dead-end life, and his only sin was wanting to survive and provide for his family. How was he different from Earth Tristan? And his wife? What had she done to deserve death? Married the wrong man? And yet, he had been willing to kill them. If their daughter hadn¡¯t appeared, if her scared image hadn¡¯t screamed at him to stop ¨C he would¡¯ve let Rosalina cut them down, all to protect himself. The realization made him feel sick. But then, just as quickly, he forced himself to recover. ¡®How is this different from Earth?¡¯ Back there, everything he did ¨C every fight, every crime ¨C was for his brother¡¯s sake. To keep his hands clean, to keep his smile intact as much as possible. But here? Here, he only had himself. ¡®Why shouldn¡¯t I care for myself for a change?¡¯ He wondered. ¡®Surely, no one else would.¡¯ He knew he needed to make the switch in his mind soon. To leave Tristan Clark behind and embrace what Tristan Vortalis should stand for. To take away everything he could. It would take some time, but he was ready for that sacrifice. *** They continued through the empty streets in silence. It was well past midnight, and Dalina¡¯s harbor district was even more silent now than before. From a distance, the White Gull came to view, its sign hanging crookedly from one single chain while the other was broken, creaking softly in the faint ocean breeze. Several of the abandoned tavern¡¯s windows were broken, with only several pieces still clinging to the frames. Inside, darkness ruled. Tristan narrowed his eyes looking around them. Something felt¡­off. He had visited enough slums in his time on Earth to know that those always had people in them in the dead of night. There were sounds ¨C homeless people shifting in their makeshift beds, junkies getting alerted from the sounds of their imagination, the occasional outburst of a drunk. But that wasn¡¯t the case here. It was too silent. His gaze flicked to Rosalina. ¡°It¡¯s too quiet.¡± He murmured. ¡°Feels like an ambush waiting to happen.¡± Rosalina nodded in approval almost immediately. ¡°Good instincts. You¡¯re a natural, Little Devil.¡± Then, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small device, fitting exactly into her palm. It was a metallic circle, smooth and silvery, with a green, shimmering glass embedded in the center ¨C like a magnifying glass, but eerie in the way it didn¡¯t reflect light properly. She held it up in her hand. ¡°This little thing is a Thermolis ¨C one of the great innovations my people had brought into this world.¡± Her voice dripped with sarcasm. ¡°It lets you see heat through walls, no matter how thick they are, no matter what they¡¯re made of. Useful for finding people who think they¡¯re good at hiding.¡± Tristan¡¯s brow lifted at the description. ¡®So, basically a thermal imaging camera on steroids. Got it.¡¯ You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°Take it and check around us.¡± Rosalina said, handing him the device. ¡°Careful, though. It¡¯s heavier than it looks.¡± The moment he took it, her arms nearly dropped. The thing was as heavy as a hammer. He adjusted his grip quickly, refusing to let Rosalina see him struggle. Raising the device to his eye, he scanned the White Gull first. A faint orange glow appeared inside the tavern, distinct against the blues of the empty structure. It was the only heat signature inside ¨C one person, unmoving, simply sitting there. Then, he turned his attention to the surrounding streets and alleyways, sweeping the area for any other signatures. Nothing. Tristan frowned. It still didn¡¯t make sense to him. ¡®Not even a single bum?!¡¯ ¡°Rosie, how accurate is this thing?¡± He asked, still scanning. ¡°A hundred percent.¡± She replied. ¡°It picks up heat from anything that exudes heat. The only way it won¡¯t detect something ¨C or someone ¨C is if they are out of the device¡¯s reach, and if they¡¯re that far, they¡¯re not a threat to us.¡± She then coughed silently. ¡°Also, stop calling me Rosie, punk.¡± Tristan accepted the explanation but couldn¡¯t shake the unease. The silence still felt unnatural. Too orchestrated. ¡°There¡¯s only one person inside.¡± He told her, keeping his voice low. ¡°Sitting still. Barely moving.¡± Rosalina nodded. ¡°So, no ambush, and they left a guard.¡± Then, she turned to Tristan. ¡°Well, Little Devil?¡± She gestured toward the tavern. ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± Tristan blinked. ¡®You¡¯re asking me? A six-year-old?¡¯ But it quickly clicked in his mind. She¡¯d been doing this all night. Letting him take the lead, pushing him to make decisions. It wasn¡¯t just about solving a theft. She was slowly pushing him into his future role as a Vortalis. He exhaled slowly and straightened his back. ¡®If that¡¯s what you want, Ifrit, then sure.¡¯ He turned to Rosalina. ¡°Is there a way to detect possible traps?¡± Rosalina smiled approvingly once more. ¡°There is.¡± She reached for the inner pocket of her cropped leather jacket, pulling out another peculiar device. ¡°This,¡± she said, holding it between her fingers, ¡°is a Detrap Orb.¡± Tristan examined the contraption. It was shaped like a metallic orb with a smooth, shiny surface. At its center was a tiny glass lens, reflecting the moonlight. ¡°It scans for hidden mechanisms ¨C tripwires, pressure plates, mana-infused objects ¨C things that could trigger a nasty surprise.¡± Rosalina explained, rolling it between her fingers. ¡°If the trap is of the magical nature, it will detect shifts in the environment¡¯s natural mana flow. If it¡¯s a trap someone set manually, then it will catch the slight disruptions their setup causes in the air, ground, or walls.¡± Tristan narrowed his eyes. ¡°And if it finds one?¡± Rosalina grinned. ¡°If it¡¯s a mana-based trap, it¡¯ll absorb a portion of it and disrupt the trap, making it harmless ¨C assuming it¡¯s not too complex. If it¡¯s a physical trap, it¡¯ll just flash for us and mark the location so we could handle the rest manually.¡± Tristan was impressed. He had learned about some of Terra¡¯s inventions, but he never expected them to be so advanced. ¡°Is it an Ostian invention too?¡± He asked. Rosalina chuckled. ¡°Nope. Unfortunately, this one belongs to the ¡®great minds¡¯ of my people¡¯s greatest enemies ¨C the Kingdom of Kareth.¡± Before Tristan could ask more about it, she had quickly moved on. ¡°Keep an eye on our target with the Thermolis while I use this.¡± Without waiting for a response, she rolled the Detrap Orb forward toward the White Gull. At first, it followed the straight trajectory of her throw, but then, midway, it suddenly shifted course, as if the metallic orb had a mind of its own. It still rolled toward the tavern but now weaved from side to side as well. Once it reached the door, it stopped abruptly and flashed a bright light back toward them. Meanwhile, Tristan, using the Thermolis, had watched the person still seated inside. They remained motionless, seemingly unaware of their presence outside. ¡°It¡¯s a physical trap. Meaning there¡¯s likely a tripwire or a hidden latch mechanism on that door.¡± Rosalina muttered. Then, she turned toward Tristan, her face growing serious. ¡°Okay, Little Devil, we¡¯ve gathered all the intel we need. Give me the order, and I¡¯ll apprehend our target.¡± ¡°What if the person inside is a mage?¡± Tristan asked, growing worried. ¡°Could you even stop them?¡± Rosalina snorted. ¡°Easily. I might be magicless, but I¡¯m not useless.¡± Tristan narrowed his eyes but nodded. He was still uncomfortable with commanding her outright, but he was slowly getting used to it. If he was going to be a Vortalis, he needed to act like one. ¡°Rosie,¡± he said, ignoring her glare at the nickname, ¡°I want you to catch the person inside alive. We still need to find out who he and his partner are, where our Defeorica is, and which group they belong to.¡± She nodded, still sulky about the nickname, and signaled toward a stack of old wooden crates beside them, motioning for him to hide. Before stepping away, she tossed him a small fabric bag, the weight inside shifting with a soft clatter. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Tristan asked, turning it over in his hands. It felt like there were marbles inside. ¡°If things go south and I can¡¯t reach you for some reason, throw the marbles on the floor and run.¡± She explained, lowering her voice. ¡°They¡¯ll burst into a cloud of dust ¨C enough to blind anyone chasing you for a few seconds. I¡¯ll handle the rest.¡± ¡°If things go south, I can just use ¨C ¡° ¡°No.¡± Rosalina cut him off sharply. ¡°I don¡¯t want you using the Reaver Worms for this. A shipment of Defeorica is not worth it.¡± Tristan studied her face in silence, trying to figure out why she was saying this. ¡°You know Ifrit would disagree.¡± She sighed, running a hand through her hair. ¡°For me, Little Devil? Can you do it for me? Just¡­don¡¯t use the Reaver Worms unless there¡¯s absolutely no other way.¡± She hesitated, then added a quiet. ¡°Please.¡± Tristan nodded ¨C not because she asked him to, but because he had already made the decision himself. Until he figured out a way to counter the side effects, using the worms was too dangerous. With everything settled, Tristan ducked behind the stack of crates, gripping the pouch of marbles tightly as Rosalina made her way toward the White Gull. Tristan lifted the Thermolis to his eye, and his pulse quickened as he saw the figure inside suddenly sprinting toward the door. He barely had time to process what was happening before he shouted. ¡°Rosalina!¡± The moment the words left his mouth, the tavern door exploded outward, tearing off its hinges with a loud crack. It hurled toward Rosalina with incredible force. In an instant, she flipped into the air. As she soared over the flying door, she detached the great sword from its magnetic holder on her back in a single, fluid motion. Then, with a sharp slam, she drove it into the ground as she landed. Tristan barely had time to process her incredible agility before the attacker emerged. A man stepped through the ruined doorway. His face was entirely concealed behind a wooden red mask, the fabric attached to it extending over his head like a hood. He held a short sword in each of his hands, their edges flickering under the moonlight. He twirled the blades with practiced ease before bringing them together, the steel ringing softly as they touched. Then, the air crackled, and immediately a surge of lightning shot from the swords¡¯ edges, straight toward Rosalina. The speed was unbelievable, and Tristan¡¯s breath caught as he saw Rosalina unmoving. ¡®Move, damn it!¡¯ His mind screamed. But Rosalina remained in place. The bolts of lightning struck her head-on, the bright arcs crackling across her body. Tristan¡¯s eyes widened in horror, believing she was going to die. But then, the lightning dissipated, and she grinned. Tristan stared, completely at a loss. Rosalina stared at the red-masked attacker who took a single step backward under her gaze. ¡°Pathetic.¡± She said mockingly. 21. Tristan: First Job (IV) 21. Tristan: First Job (IV) The attacker was wearing a mask, but Tristan could swear he looked terrified. Rosalina had taken the full force of his lightning but somehow remained completely unscathed. And then ¨C she moved. With a flick of her wrist, she spun the handle of her great sword, the massive weapon still embedded in the ground. Then, in one seamless motion, she pulled. Suddenly, a thinner blade, which reminded Tristan of a Japanese katana, slid free from within the core of the great sword. The larger outer blade of the great sword remained buried in the stone, almost as if it had been nothing more than a sheath all along. Tristan eyes widened. ¡®Her sword¡­was two swords?¡¯ Rosalina twirled the katana-like blade once, then propelled herself forward toward the masked attacker. ¡°Let¡¯s see if you can handle those swords without using magic.¡± She called out as she swung at him. The masked figure barely reacted in time, hastily bringing both swords up to block Rosalina¡¯s strike. The instant their blades met, Rosalina thrust her leg forward, landing a sharp kick into his stomach. The masked attacker gasped, stumbling backward as Rosalina immediately pressed on. She swung again. The masked figure desperately tried to defend himself, but each of Rosalina¡¯s movements seemed calculated several steps ahead. It was like watching a master swordswoman fighting her young, clueless disciple. He countered weakly, aiming for her side, but Rosalina easily blocked the strike, knocking one of his swords out of his hands. She followed up by pivoting aggressively, her sword slicing upward and forcing the attacker to stumble. Then, her foot struck again, this time sweeping his legs out from beneath him. As he fell, he desperately tried to roll away and get back to his feet. ¡°So, the swords were just for show, I guess¡­¡± Rosalina remarked mockingly, following the scrambling attacker as he finally stood up. But she didn¡¯t give him the chance to regain his footing. In one smooth motion, she closed the distance between them, her sword clashing hard against his remaining sword and knocking it aside. Then, expertly, she slammed the flat side of her blade into his chest, sending him staggering backward again. Rosalina finished the exchange decisively, pivoting on one foot to deliver a powerful kick straight into the attacker¡¯s chest. The masked figure flew backward, crashing against the tavern¡¯s wall and hitting the back of his head at it. He fell forward, unconscious. ¡°You can come out now, Little Devil.¡± Rosalina said, grinning triumphantly. *** ¡°How the hell did you do that?¡± Tristan asked Rosalina as she tied the unconscious attacker¡¯s hands and feet with some glowing yellow rope. ¡°Were you secretly a mage all this time?¡± Rosalina chuckled at the suggestion. ¡°Hell no. Don¡¯t even joke about that with me.¡± ¡°Then how?¡± She finished tying the rope and raised her hand toward Tristan, pointing at the ring on her ring finger. It was a simple silvery metallic ring. Nothing special. In fact, it was far too ugly to even be considered an accessory. ¡°That¡¯s the most disgusting ring I¡¯ve ever seen.¡± Tristan said without thinking. ¡°How does it work?¡± Rosalina laughed harder. ¡°Well, it¡¯s certainly not meant for looks, but it does the job. It¡¯s made from a metal called taelium. This one is triple-refined, meaning it can and will nullify any magic cast on me by someone level three or lower. They¡¯re rare ¨C maybe one in ten thousand people have something like mine, and the higher you climb the refinement ladder, the rarer they become.¡± ¡®So, things like this exist in this world, huh?¡¯ Tristan thought, but a different thing bothered him. ¡°But how did you know this guy didn¡¯t have four or five Cognition Threads in Lightning Magic?¡± Rosalina shrugged. ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes widened in shock. ¡°So, you¡¯re saying you just gambled? With your life on the line?¡± She scoffed dismissively. ¡°Be reasonable, Little Devil. People with four of five Threads in any type of magic ¨C people like your father ¨C are already ruling the world or at least on their way there. They¡¯re not nobodies left behind to guard a stolen shipment of Defeorica.¡± Tristan sighed. Her logic was sound, but it still felt like an unnecessary risk to take. ¡°Let¡¯s see who¡¯s behind the mask.¡± Rosalina suggested, reaching for the figure¡¯s face. She removed the red mask and its attached hood, revealing a young man whose hair was cropped short, matching the length of his spiky beard ¡°I know this person.¡± Rosalina suddenly said, eyes widening in surprise. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t make sense¡­¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Who is he?¡± Tristan asked. Rosalina shook her head. ¡°A nobody really. Just a kid thief I saved once ¨C during the time before I lost my eye.¡± ¡°And why wouldn¡¯t it make sense for a known thief to steal from us?¡± Tristan already assumed the answer to that question but wanted to hear Rosalina¡¯s explanation. He felt like she might be holding something back from him. ¡°Because he¡¯s Dalinian, born and raised. There¡¯s no way he¡¯d willingly steal from Ifrit, even if he was funded by someone from Kuisar. He¡¯s not that stupid.¡± ¡°Then maybe he¡¯s not one of the two men Holt spoke about.¡± Tristan suggested. Rosalina nodded. ¡°Probably not.¡± ¡°We should check the tavern for clues and our Defeorica before waking him up.¡± Tristan ordered. *** Tristan and Rosalina found the stolen crate of Defeorica in a storage room at the back of the abandoned White Gull tavern. But other than that? Nothing. It seemed that the thieves had been smart enough not to leave any clues behind. Now, their only lead was to interrogate the attacker. Rosalina pulled out a small vial filled with ammonia salts and brought it close to the unconscious man¡¯s nose. It did the trick immediately. His tied body shifted uncomfortably, and moments later, his eyes shot wide open. ¡°Do you remember me, kid?¡± Rosalina asked, holding her katana in a way that clearly conveyed immediate danger. The young man turned away, but his gaze soon fell on Tristan, causing his eyes to widen. ¡°Another kid you saved?¡± ¡°No.¡± Rosalina replied. ¡°This is ¨C ¡° ¡°I¡¯m Tristan Vortalis.¡± Tristan interrupted her, taking the initiative. ¡°Vortalis¡­?¡± The young man narrowed his eyes, glancing at Rosalina for confirmation. She simple nodded. He quickly turned back to Tristan. ¡°Forgive me. I didn¡¯t mean any offence.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve offended me the moment you stole from my family. Do you have anything to say in your defense?¡± Tristan pressed. The young man appeared startled by Tristan¡¯s authoritative tone ¨C he clearly hadn¡¯t expected a child to speak with such gravity. ¡°Answer the Young Master.¡± Rosalina commanded coldly. The young man swallowed hard. ¡°I wasn¡¯t stealing. And seeing Ifrit¡¯s son here makes it obvious to me now ¨C I was fooled.¡± ¡°Fooled?¡± Tristan echoed. ¡°Yes.¡± The man nodded. ¡°They told me they were trying to catch a traitor. Said I needed to steal a crate marked with invisible ink to draw them out.¡± ¡°Who told you that?¡± Tristan and Rosalina asked almost simultaneously The young man shook his head in disbelief. ¡°Those two damn Partans!¡± *** Carrying Tristan with one arm, Rosalina rushed back to the warehouse. ¡°I don¡¯t get it.¡± Tristan called out. ¡°Weren¡¯t they there all day? Why not just steal whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted? They clearly had access. Why pull off this elaborate scheme to clean the entire warehouse?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that simple.¡± Rosalina explained between breaths as she ran. ¡°Even if David and Fenek decided to defect and betray Ifrit, it doesn¡¯t mean the rest of the Partans would too. So, no. They couldn¡¯t just steal things openly without being stopped.¡± She sharply cut around a corner without slowing down. ¡°Once the robbery was announced, those two were assigned guard duty ¨C probably even volunteered for it ¨C while the rest of the Partans from the warehouse got reassigned elsewhere. After all, a warehouse that had just been robbed would naturally be investigated by the Peacekeepers, and no one would expect another theft to happen so soon after they interfere. So, there was no need for more than two Partans.¡± Tristan nodded slowly, piecing things together. ¡°So, this Fenek guy ¨C I assume he was there all along, hiding in the warehouse and not at the Peacekeepers¡¯ station?¡± ¡°Very likely.¡± Rosalina replied, cutting another corner. ¡°They waited for the Peacekeepers to finish their investigation and leave, then planned to use their freedom to steal whatever they wanted afterward. But we came along and interrupted their plans. I don¡¯t think they knew it would be us to investigate this, but that¡¯s what the elaborate plan was for ¨C to draw whoever came to investigate as far away from the warehouse as possible.¡± The realization suddenly hit Tristan even harder. ¡°I bet those other crates weren¡¯t opened by the Peacekeepers like David claimed. They were opening them themselves before we arrived.¡± ¡°David clearly lost it.¡± Rosalina muttered bitterly. ¡°He was always¡­weird. But I guess he¡¯s finally gone completely insane.¡± She shook her head, clearly frustrated. ¡°You were right, Little Devil. It really was an inside job. I can¡¯t believe I missed it.¡± Tristan rolled his eyes internally. ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll trust me more next time.¡± He said, going for the smug approach. ¡°If there even is a next time.¡± Rosalina replied, grimacing. ¡°Your father might actually kill me for this failure.¡± Before Tristan could retort, they reached the warehouse, but David the Partan was nowhere to be seen. Tristan quickly grabbed the Thermolis and scanned the warehouse for heat signatures, but nothing appeared. ¡°They¡¯re not there.¡± He told Rosalina. ¡°Shit.¡± Rosalina gritted her teeth. ¡°Figures. We¡¯ve been gone for hours.¡± They hurried inside the warehouse, only to find even more crates missing. ¡°Shit.¡± Rosalina repeated angrily, growing nervous. ¡°Think quickly.¡± Tristan pressed her. ¡°Where could they have gone? With this many crates missing, they couldn¡¯t have gotten far on foot.¡± Rosalina rubbed the back of her head, deep in thought. Suddenly, Tristan¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°We¡¯re at the docks! They could¡¯ve taken a boat!¡± Rosalina shook her head doubtfully. ¡°No, that¡¯s impossible. The harbor gets locked down at night for security reasons. Boats aren¡¯t allowed to enter or leave until sunrise.¡± ¡°Then maybe they¡¯ve loaded a boat and are waiting onboard until sunrise!¡± Tristan exclaimed, growing more confident in his hunch. He turned to Rosalina, in disbelief she couldn¡¯t see it. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s your story with David is, but you need to focus.¡± Rosalina¡¯s eyes widened at his words, but after a moment, she nodded slowly. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± She said eventually. ¡°I will trust your instincts from now on, Little Devil.¡± Together, they rushed toward the docks, searching for the boat where David and Fenek might have been hiding. Using the Thermolis they noticed that some of the boats were clearly empty, their owners likely residents of Dalina who spent nights comfortably ashore. Other empty ones probably had their crews passed out in nearby inns or drinking in taverns until dawn. But several boats had visible heat signatures. ¡°They could be on any of these boats.¡± Tristan said, exasperated. ¡°It¡¯s entirely possible that they had bribed their way aboard one, securing passage in exchange for some of the stolen goods. God, it¡¯ll take forever to check all of them.¡± Rosalina shook her head sharply. ¡°Not if I have anything to say about it.¡± Tristan raised an eyebrow curiously. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Give me your pouch ¨C the one with the Reaver Worms.¡± Rosalina said suddenly, extending a hand. Tristan instinctively clutched the pouch tighter, frowning. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°One of the worms carries Perception Magic.¡± Rosalina explained. ¡°If I use it, my sense of smell will become strong enough to pick out the scent of the stolen crates. It¡¯ll narrow our search significantly.¡± Tristan hesitated. Dante had warned him about the dangers of using Reaver Worms. He wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to see Rosalina go through them. Yet, at the same time, curiosity gnawed at him. The path of stolen magic was going to be his path ¨C he was sure of it. He was sure his magic wasn¡¯t going to return to him. And so, he wanted to see exactly how the worms worked ¨C but certainly not on himself. Rosalina was offering him a perfect opportunity. ¡°Fine.¡± He said eventually, handing her the small pouch of vials. Rosalina nodded, carefully selecting the vial containing the correct worm for the task. When she used the Reaver Worm, Tristan witnessed firsthand the excruciating pain a tiny worm like this could inflict ¨C even upon someone as strong and resilient as Rosalina.