Back with Sebas, the journey had taken a turn for the exotic.
He sat comfortably in the back of an open-air wooden carriage, humming a gentle, aimless tune as the wind played with his beard. Beside him, the six bound smugglers sat in sullen silence, watched over by the sharp-eyed Elf Knights.
But it was not horses that pulled this transport.
Striding ahead with powerful, silent paws were magnificent beasts—Tiger Lilies.
They were vibrant, sunset-orange felines, significantly larger than any draft horse Sebas had ever seen in this world. But their nature was a blend of fauna and flora. Around their necks grew a lush, natural collar of massive, spotted orange petals. Their whiskers were not hair, but long, swaying pistils that released a faint, sweet pollen into the air. Their stripes were not fur, but dark, verdant leaves that grew flush against their skin, and their tails ended in a blooming, trumpet-shaped flower.
"Never seen those in Evercrest, old man?" the Elf Commander asked, riding alongside the carriage on a particularly large, muscular mount.
"Hoo, no," Sebas replied, his eyes twinkling with genuine curiosity as he watched the pistil-whiskers twitch. "In the city, it is mostly small birds like the Snowcrest Sparrow. Though, I do see the occasional Feline Fowl perching on a rooftop, hunting for mice."
The Elf Commander scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course you won't. Those runes... that 'technology' you people love so much... it ruins the ecosystem. It disrupts the natural mana flow that these animals need to thrive. Nature will always take back its bounty to punish your own hubris."
"Hoho," Sebas chuckled, stroking his beard. "I guess this old man's decision to go out on a journey was the right one. There is much to learn. Nice to meet you, Commander. I am Iroh."
"I'm Gervaisot Thibodeau," the elf replied, his posture relaxing slightly. "Just call me Gerva."
Sebas watched the lead Tiger Lily yawn, exposing massive fangs, yet its eyes remained half-lidded and calm. "So, these Tiger Lilies... they are docile?"
"Yes," Gerva nodded, reaching down to pat the leafy flank of his mount. "Unlike the usual tigers, this breed is much more docile. The main reason is those pistil whiskers. They constantly release a pheromone scent that suppresses their aggressive nature. Though, because of that biological trade-off, they evolved to be much smaller than the ordinary wild tiger."
"Much smaller, huh?" Sebas repeated.
In his mind, he calculated the mass. 'It is already bigger than a horse. If this is 'small'...'
"In the wilderness," Gerva continued, "tigers can grow five to seven meters long. Be careful on your journey, old man. The difference between an ordinary forest and the Wilderness is the consequence of stepping foot in it."
"Hoho," Sebas smiled, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you for your wise words. I think I want to enjoy my time in the Talbott Territory for a while. It seems safer here."
"Retirement, huh?" Gerva smiled, his pride in his homeland evident. "I wish you a good time in our Duchy."
Sebas chuckled as the carriage crested a hill. Below them, the forest opened up into a sprawling, lush valley.
The first town of the Talbott region lay before them.
As they drew closer, Sebas observed the landscape with the keen eye of a strategist masked as a tourist. As far as he could see, there were farms—endless, verdant fields. But unlike the outskirts of Evercrest, there were no rune-tech, no magical things humming with mana and rune flowing over them.
Here, the people were one with nature.
Huge, bovine creatures with moss growing on their backs pulled plows. Flocks of birds seemed to be coordinated by the farmers to pick insects off the crops. A massive, bear-like creature was helping a man lift heavy logs for a new barn. There was no "tech" here. It was a civilization built on biology, sympathy, and a deep, ancient bond with the beasts of the land.
"Fascinating," Sebas murmured. "A completely different set of rules."
…
Back in Evercrest, the sun was high over the Riverguard district of Hudson Reach. The streets were bustling with the midday rush—dockworkers hauling crates, fishmongers shouting prices, and citizens hurrying about their lives.
Through this chaotic sea of humanity walked two figures: Gellert Grindelwald in his sharp suit, and Bryn Garner in his scholarly robes.
Bryn was looking around, his eyes wide with professional fascination. He watched as a burly porter, carrying a heavy crate of iced fish, walked straight toward them. Just as a collision seemed inevitable, the porter's eyes glazed over slightly. He abruptly stopped, pivoted on his heel as if remembering a forgotten task, and walked briskly in the opposite direction. A group of children playing tag ran full tilt at them, only to veer sharply to the left at the last second, their laughter uninterrupted, as if the space Gellert and Bryn occupied simply didn't exist in their minds.
"Incredible," Bryn muttered. "It's not invisibility. It's not a simple confusion hex or a sensory blind. This spell... it affects the surrounding cognition in a way that rewrites their logic."
Gellert walked with his hands clasped behind his back, looking like a man taking a stroll in a private garden. "Still fascinated by these small spells?"
"As an Abjuration Mage," Bryn said, his mind racing, "this has effects of the same kind I study, but the application is fundamentally different."
"Oh?" Gellert glanced at him. "Do tell."
"It acts like a barrier," Bryn explained, gesturing at a woman who had just walked into a wall rather than step into their path. "But a standard barrier is static; it needs a center point and anchor. It cannot be moved while active without destabilizing the weave. This spell... it is essentially a moving logic-changing barrier. It travels with you, constantly updating the parameters of reality for everyone who enters its radius to force them to avoid the source. The computational mana cost should be astronomical."
"Impressive," Gellert noted, a genuine tone of approval in his voice. "You can deduce that much from observation alone?"
Bryn straightened his robes, a touch of pride returning. "Any Abjuration Mage worth their brain would do the same."
"Well," Gellert chuckled softly, "I wouldn't know about that. All my life, I've never met another Mage."
Bryn stopped. He wanted to ask more—where he learned, who his master was—but the man's aura was a fortress. It invited no intrusion. Instead, Bryn asked the question that had been gnawing at him.
"Did you really... are you the one who killed the White Dragon?"
Gellert stopped walking. The crowd flowed around them like a river around a stone. He looked at Bryn, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "I just did what had to be done," he said simply. "Any Mage worth their existence would have done the same."
He smiled.
Bryn felt the sting of the words immediately. It was a sharp, sarcastic poke at his own inaction that night. He couldn't even get angry, because it was the truth. He hadn't been there. He had hesitated.
He sighed, the fight leaving him. "I am hoping my inaction is not seen as a generalization of all Mages in your eyes."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a heavy, rectangular object. It was a silver plaque, intricately engraved with runic script and the name Bryn Garner. He offered it to Gellert.
Gellert took it, feeling the hum of mana within the metal.
"There are greater Mages than I in The Spire of Providence," Bryn said solemnly. "If you decide you wish to meet more of your kind in the Land of Mana, you can come to the Spire. Present that plaque. In my name and by the Heart of Mana, you will be welcomed as a guest, not an intruder."
"The Spire of Providence," Gellert repeated, pocketing the silver token. "I shall keep that in mind. Now, if you please."
Gellert raised his hand. He snapped his fingers.
"Finite Incantatem."
The air rippled. In that second, the Repello Muggletum charm shattered. The sounds of the street—the shouting, the footsteps, the clatter—rushed back in at full volume. A passerby bumped into Bryn's shoulder, grunting a rude apology as he kept walking. They were part of the world again.
"If Fate has it," Gellert said, stepping back, "we will cross paths again."
He turned on his heel.
CRACK.
With a sound like a whip-crack, Gellert vanished. He twisted into nothingness, leaving only a swirl of displaced air.
Bryn stood frozen in the middle of the street, staring at the empty space.
"Teleportation…" he whispered, the shock rattling him to his core. "Teleportation magic without a circle? Without a chant?"
In the hierarchy of the Towers, teleportation was not path-exclusive, but it was incredibly difficult. Only the highest-ranking Archmages could perform it solo, and even then, it usually required preparation. To do it so casually, so instantly…
"That man," Bryn muttered, clutching his staff, "is a higher rank than me. Much higher."
…
The waiting room of the Vanguard's Reach infirmary was utilitarian and smelled faintly of antiseptic herbs. Legolas sat on a wooden bench, watching the dust motes dance in the light.
"So, Legolas," Ysolt said, leaning toward him, her intensity undimmed by the sterile surroundings. "How about it? My offer."
Legolas let out an awkward, polite smile. "Being your muse? What does that entail, exactly?"
"Well," Ysolt said, gesturing expansively with her charcoal stick. "You'll wear my designs. You'll attend galas. And generally, you will just... stand around and be yourself. Your very existence gives me inspiration. The way you hold your things, the way you walk—it's all data for the collection."
Legolas shifted slightly. "Well, that might be kind of hard to do when I have to design on my own."
Ysolt perked up, her long ears twitching. "You're a designer, too?"
"I'm trying to be," Legolas admitted. He reached into his bag and pulled out his leather-bound sketchbook. "Want to see my drafts? I would actually love to hear your thoughts."
Ysolt's eyes lit up with a mix of curiosity and competitive spirit. "You too," she said, handing over her own sketchbook. "I want to hear my muse's thoughts."
"Please," Legolas said, taking the book. "Just call me Legolas, Miss."
"Then you call me Ysolt, too," she countered.
"Alright then, Ysolt. Here."
They swapped books. The air in the waiting room seemed to shift as the pages turned.
Ysolt opened Legolas's book. She expected amateur sketches—maybe some nice cloaks or simple tunics. What she saw made her breath hitch in her throat.
Legolas, possessing the memories of Kaelan Wynn from Earth, combined with the innate craftsmanship of the Gojo Wakana card, had filled the pages with a history that didn't exist in this world.
She saw the Renaissance: Heavy velvets, structured bodices, and slashing sleeves that spoke of power and romance, but constructed with a geometry she had never considered.
She turned the page. The Roaring 20s: Drop-waist dresses, loose silhouettes, intricate beading, and fringe that promised movement without restriction—a stark rebellion against the rigid, corseted "80s power-suit" aesthetic currently dominating the Averidane nobility.
She turned again. Modern Streetwear: Oversized hoodies, tactical straps, cargo pants with complex pocket structures, and sneakers that looked like alien artifacts. It was chaos, yet it was functional.
"This silhouette..." Ysolt whispered, tracing the line of a sleek, backless evening gown cut on the bias—a 1930s Hollywood style completely alien to this world. "It ignores the bustle entirely. It relies on the drape of the fabric against the skin... it's scandalous. It's... it's revolutionary."
She looked at the Modern sketches. "And this? The utility... exposed zippers as decoration? Asymmetry?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide and slightly manic. "My muse... you are more talented than I thought. These aren't just designs. These are eras waiting to be lived."
Legolas, meanwhile, was admiring Ysolt's work. It was technically flawless, grand, and imposing—but he could see the "slump" she spoke of. It felt repetitive. Stagnant.
Their artistic exchange was halted by the sound of shuffling footsteps. Perrin hobbled back toward them, leaning on a cane the doctor had provided.
"How is it?" Legolas asked, standing up to help him.
"It's alright," Perrin grunted, easing himself onto the bench. "Slight bruising and a dislocation. The doctor popped it back in. It will be good in two to three days with rest."
Ysolt snapped her book shut, her business mind taking over instantly. She looked at Legolas with a new, sharp respect.
"You want to become a designer, right, Legolas?" she asked.
"Yes," Legolas replied.
"Perrin," Ysolt said without looking away from the elf. "We have Studio 2 that is unused, right? The one on the Sapphire Row?"
Perrin blinked, surprised. "Yes. It's been empty for a year."
"I'll give you that studio," Ysolt said to Legolas. "It's located in the heart of the Capital. Fully equipped. It will save you months of setup time."
Perrin shocked. "WHAT!!"
Legolas narrowed his eyes. "What do you want in exchange?"
"40% of your fashion brand," Ysolt said, her voice hard as diamond.
"10%," Legolas countered instantly.
Ysolt smiled, and for the first time, she didn't look like a frantic artist. She looked like the head of a fashion empire. Her eyes turned sharp. "30%."
"15%," Legolas said, crossing his arms. "Max. And I retain full creative control."
Ysolt stared at him for a long, tense moment. Then, she extended her hand. "15%. Deal between Elves."
Legolas shook her hand. "Deal."
As he felt the firm grip of one of the most powerful designers in the Kingdom, Legolas couldn't help but smile. In his past life as Kaelan, he had worked double shifts just to afford rent, always one step behind, always unlucky.
But now? He was a clone, a manufactured being, yet somehow... he had gotten really lucky. It seemed his life was starting to turn around, more and more.
"Let's go to the Capital!" Ysolt declared, marching toward the door.
…
Time passed, and night draped its heavy cloak over Evercrest.
Back at Café LeBlanc, the last dish had been washed and the lights dimmed. Zero sat on the floor of the loft, finishing his daily Abyssal Weave practice. As the last blue thread dissolved into the air, a wave of exhaustion hit him like a physical blow.
It was unusual. His demon body was resilient; usually, he had energy to spare even after a double shift.
"Weird," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Did the morning rush and lunch take more out of me than I thought?"
He yawned, a jaw-cracking sound, and didn't even bother changing. He simply tipped over, dropping himself onto the bed. He was asleep before his head fully settled on the pillow.
Zero opened his eyes.
He wasn't in the loft. The smell of coffee and old wood was gone, replaced by the scent of sterile nothingness. He was standing in an endless, blinding white void—the same void where his new life had begun.
"What the..." Zero looked around, panic rising. "DID I DIE AGAIN!?"
"Hey, hey, wait! Shhhh!"
A figure materialized in front of him. The body was enormous, humanoid in its general form, yet it radiated with brilliant, shifting outlines that resembled constellations. Clutching a clipboard on one hand.
"Cecil?" Zero asked, shocked.
"Sorry," Cecil whispered, glancing around the empty white space. "This is the only way I can reach you. Dream. You're in a dream."
Zero let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Oh. So I'm not dead again. Good."
Cecil shook his head vigorously. "No, no. You'll wake up after we're done. I promise."
Zero sat down on the invisible floor, crossing his legs comfortably. "So, why the sudden summons? Divine intervention?"
"First of all," Cecil said, adjusting his glasses nervously. "I must tell you something about your power. After all... you are my Champion."
Zero raised an eyebrow. "Whoa, whoa. Wait a dang minute. What do you mean, 'Champion'? I thought I was just a lucky soul you plucked from the line."
"Technically," Cecil explained, tapping his clipboard with a pen, "you were reincarnated with a fragment of my Divine Will. Every bit of progress you make, every level you gain, every impact you have on that world... it strengthens my Will back here. You're basically farming XP for me."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "And I... I wanted to apologize. Because of my low rank here in Domain 6-A, your Gacha packs haven't been as bountiful as they could be. My lack of authority limits the probability matrix. I can't generate more than one or two Character Cards in a single pack. Even two is pushing my budget to the limit... for now."
Zero blinked, processing this. "So, if I get stronger..."
"Exactly," Cecil nodded. "There is a chance I get promoted, you'll get better rates. But for now, that point is far away."
He looked at Zero, a small, genuine smile breaking through his anxious demeanor. "Anyway, I just wanted to check in with you. honestly... my time doing paperwork has been a lot easier while watching your life. It makes my job... enjoyable. For the first time in eons."
Zero smiled wide, a warm, brotherly expression. "Glad to be of help, Cecil. Even if my life is your soap opera."
"Tho," Cecil said, his eyes narrowing playfully, "your prayers have become more and more brazen lately. You even cursed me to have more paperwork if I didn't get you a good card last time. That was low, Zero."
Zero laughed, an easy, carefree sound. "Hehe. I'll change my prayer, oh Divine Cecil. Consider it a word of your Champion, humbly said."
He paused, looking at Cecil's face. The god was trying to hold back a laugh, his cheeks puffing out.
"You're teasing me!!" Zero shouted, pointing a finger.
Cecil's expression suddenly shifted. He looked back over his shoulder at the empty void, his eyes widening in alarm. "Anyway! Bye for now! I'll invite you back once I'm done with my shift! Keep living your way, Zero Ashworth!"
Zero didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. The white void shattered like glass.
Cecil jolted in his chair. He was sitting at a desk piled high with infinite scrolls.
"Cecil?" a deep, booming voice echoed from behind him.
Cecil froze. He slowly turned around to see a Supervisor Deity, a being of pure light and judgment, looming over his cubicle wall.
"Who were you talking to just now?" the Supervisor asked.
"What? No! No one!" Cecil stammered, grabbing a quill and pretending to write furiously. "I just... I read these papers out loud sporadically! It helps my efficiency a lot! Processing the auditory data, you know?"
The Supervisor paused, staring at the nervous intern.
"Tone it down a bit," the Supervisor finally rumbled. "You're disturbing the ambient."
"Yes, sir!" Cecil chirped.
As the Supervisor floated away, Cecil slumped over his desk, letting out a long, shaky sigh. He glanced down at the small, small glowing screen on his desk that showed a sleeping demon in a loft.
"Close one," he whispered.
*A/N*
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*A/N*