Ikurus pushed open the lounge doors and immediately regretted having functional hearing.
Rokash's laughter crashed into him like a physical force.
"Here he is, Banks!" Rokash boomed, leaning back in his chair with entirely too much excitement for someone who absolutely should know better. "Just wait until you taste it. I guarantee you'll be impressed!"
Ikurus stepped inside, closing the door behind him as his eyes moved toward Rokash's guest.
Across from the old panther sat a woman who looked entirely out of place and completely at home at the same time.
Sharp.
Observant.
The kind of gaze that measured people the way warriors measured battlefields.
She smiled slightly, amused before a word had even been spoken.
"So," she said, voice smooth and low, "this is the child you've been bragging about nonstop."
Ikurus stopped a few steps into the room, already feeling like he'd walked into an evaluation he hadn't agreed to.
Rokash slapped the table proudly. "Grandson! Prodigy! Occasional troublemaker!"
Ikurus sighed internally.
"…You oversell me every time."
The woman chuckled softly, resting her chin against her knuckles as she studied him.
"No," she said. "If anything, he undersold you."
Her gaze flicked briefly to the faint scorch marks still barely visible along his arms, then to the subtle pressure in the air around him, the telltale sign of newly awakened power struggling to settle.
Recognition flashed in her eyes.
"First mana core," she murmured. "Recently awakened too. Messy stabilization… but impressive control for someone your age."
Ikurus blinked.
"…You can tell all that just by looking?"
She raised a brow.
"Child, I've been alive longer than most kingdoms."
Rokash barked another laugh. "Banks here used to smack me around when we were young. Don't let the calm face fool you."
She rolled her eyes. "You deserved every single one of those beatings."
Ikurus stepped forward and placed the small bottle of King's Nectar onto the table.
Short red hair framed her face, loose and restless, black roots bleeding into sharp white streaks that caught the dim light. Nothing about her was soft. Broad shoulders, steady posture, a body built through years of work that left no room for hesitation.
Then came the sound.
Low. Heavy. A growl that pressed into the bones more than the ears.
From the shadows behind her, four shapes shifted. Massive. Still. Watching. Eyes burned through the dark, patient and waiting.
Hellhounds.
No chains. No commands.
They stayed because she allowed it.
That alone was enough.
Those who knew more kept their distance for another reason.
She had stood beside the Veythros clan longer than most of its members had been alive. Not sworn to them. Not beneath them. But present in every era that mattered, as constant as the bloodline itself. When the clan rose, she was there. When it bled, she didn't leave.
No one remembered when that began.
No one had been foolish enough to ask why it never ended.
Across worlds, in places where liquor flowed thicker than trust and deals ended worse than they began, people spoke of her carefully. Not loudly. Not twice.
They called her the Mistress of the Burning Grail.
The one who poured what others couldn't hold.
The one who served the kind of drink that left nothing behind.
And the woman sitting at the center of it all…
…was Kayella Sailsman.
"I heard you wanted to try this."
Banks' expression shifted instantly, curiosity sharpening. She picked up the bottle, turning it slowly as the liquid inside caught the light, glowing faintly gold with streaks of crimson drifting through it like living flame.
Her brows lifted.
"…You made this?"
"Yes."
She uncorked it carefully and took a small sip.
The room went quiet.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then her eyes widened just slightly, mana rippling outward in a brief uncontrolled pulse before she reined it back in.
A slow grin spread across her face.
"Well," she said, setting the bottle down with deliberate care, "either you're a genius… or the world has decided to become significantly more interesting."
Rokash slammed the table triumphantly. "TOLD YOU!"
Banks leaned back, studying Ikurus again, this time with unmistakable interest.
"I think," she said thoughtfully, "you and I are going to have a very long conversation."
Back To Lith's study:
Lith sat alone in his study, the door shut just enough to keep the world out but not enough to feel isolated. Papers were stacked in precise towers across his desk, each one demanding attention he currently refused to give. The small glass bottle of King's Nectar rested between his claws, the rich liquid catching the morning light like trapped starlight.
He took a slow sip.
Warmth spread through his chest. Not the burning rush of alcohol, but something older. Familiar.
Memory.
His ears flicked once, his tail curling behind his chair as the present quietly loosened its grip on him.
Abella's laughter came first.
Not the composed duchess everyone knew now, but the younger woman who used to drag him into trouble with a grin that promised consequences neither of them cared about. He remembered her standing beneath lantern light, hair wild from training, telling him he worried too much.
Then came separation, then the summons, his mind struggling to process his grief and anger while being sent off to war.
War didn't arrive with drama. No thunder, no heroic music. Just a letter stamped with authority and the understanding that childhood had officially ended.
He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded.
The study faded.
Smoke filled the sky.
The battlefield stretched endlessly, churned earth soaked dark beneath thousands of marching feet. Steel clashed against steel, magic tearing through the air in violent streaks of color. The enemy line stood like a living wall, shields locked, mages chanting behind them.
And then it broke.
Four figures burst through the chaos like predators unleashed.
Young. Reckless. Terrifying.
Lith led the charge, cloak torn and stained, claws glowing with compressed mana as he tore through the first shield line. Every movement was precise instinct, faster than thought. A soldier lunged. Lith sidestepped, elbow-shattering armor, and swept legs from beneath another before he even looked at them.
To his right, Falco roared with laughter, his massive frame crashing through enemies like a falling fortress. Each swing of his weapon sent shockwaves through the ground, scattering soldiers who had seconds earlier believed their formation unbreakable.
Jacob moved opposite them, silent and lethal. Where the others created chaos, he created absence. Enemies simply fell to their knees in a sea of fire, throats cut before their minds understood danger had arrived.
And behind them, Kara.
Magic ignited around her like a second sun. Spears of light rained forward, carving a path through enemy mages attempting to regroup. Her voice cut through the battlefield, sharp and commanding despite her age.
"Don't stop moving!" Yelled Syrax.
They didn't.
The five of them punched straight through the enemy line, leaving a wake of shattered armor and broken morale. Soldiers turned to run, whispers spreading faster than orders.
Monsters.
That was the word the enemy used.
Lith remembered the moment clearly. Standing amid the wreckage, chest heaving, he realized something inside him had changed. The hesitation he once carried was gone, burned away by survival and responsibility.
War didn't make heroes.
It made survivors willing to do whatever came next.
An explosion rocked the field as enemy reinforcements arrived, dark banners rising beyond the smoke. Lith glanced back at the others, all of them bruised, exhausted, and grinning anyway.
Young enough to think they were unstoppable.
Old enough to already know better.
The memory snapped away.
Lith blinked, back in his study, the glass still in his hand. The nectar had barely moved, yet hours of emotion sat heavy behind his eyes.
He exhaled through his nose, tail flicking once.
"Idiots," he muttered softly, though the faint smile betrayed him.
Another sip.
Outside, the estate carried on peacefully. Inside, a war still echoed quietly in the mind of a man who had survived it long enough to become someone's father.
Next Chapter: Time to revisit an ass-whooping disguised as character development. Humans call it "lore." Warriors call it "that week nobody slept."