The training field of the Moonveil Guild was a masterpiece of magical architecture.
The grass was a vibrant, unnatural emerald, kept at a precise height by low-level earth charms, and the air hummed with the residual energy of centuries of spellcasting.
It was here, under the watchful eyes of stone gargoyles perched on the surrounding spires, that the elite of the guild honed their crafts.
Captain Gildas Sunwalker stood at the edge of the field, his posture as straight and unyielding as a mountain cedar.
He was an elf of ancient lineage, his face possessing that unnerving, ageless perfection that only five hundred years of life could provide.
Beside him stood Sylvara, her amber eyes tracking a group of initiates practicing basic mana-channeling.
"He is an anomaly, Gildas," Sylvara said, her voice low. "A Silverbrook with the mana capacity of a flickering candle. It defies every genealogical record we possess."
Gildas didn't turn his head.
His eyes, silver-grey and deep as a winter fog, remained fixed on the horizon.
"Nature has a way of balancing the scales, Sylvara. Perhaps the world does not need a god-king. Perhaps it needs a seed that must be tended."
"Or perhaps he is a fraud," a sharp, condescending voice interrupted.
Both elves turned as Finnegan Dewlight approached.
He was a 4th Circle mage, younger than Sylvara by a century, with hair the color of spun gold and an expression of permanent, sharpened arrogance.
He moved with a feline grace that bordered on a strut, his green-and-silver robes fluttering behind him.
"Finnegan," Sylvara said, her tone cooling instantly. "I don't recall asking for your input."
"The guild is whispering, Vice Captain," Finnegan sneered, leaning against a weapon rack. "They say we've taken in a 'Savior.' I've seen him. He looks like a porcelain doll and carries himself like a frightened rabbit. A Silverbrook? I've seen more magical potential in a bowl of porridge."
"He has the hair, Finnegan. The eyes," Sylvara countered.
"Hair can be dyed. Eyes can be masked with illusion," Finnegan snapped, his eyes flashing with a sudden, violent light.
"I have half a mind to find him and peel the skin from his bones myself. Let's see if his blood runs silver or if he bleeds common red like the rest of the trash you pull out of the Low Ring."
Sylvara's hand moved toward the hilt of her dagger, her eyes narrowing. "You will do no such thing. There is no reason for such hostility."
Finnegan let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "No reason? You've gotten soft, Sylvara. You're so enamored by a pretty face and a lost legend that you've forgotten the basic laws of our order. Weakness is a contagion. If he is a fake, he is a parasite. And if he is real... then he is a disgrace to his ancestors."
He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling. "Enjoy your pet, Vice Captain. But don't be surprised when the world realizes he's nothing but glass."
-
While the elven elite debated his existence, Tristan was currently experiencing a different kind of existential crisis.
He was standing on a cobblestone street in the Red Light District, his back pressed against a brick wall as he stared at the entrance of "The Gilded Rose"—the most prominent brothel in the capital.
The scent of heavy perfume, expensive wine, and something more primal hung in the air like a fog.
"Why are we here, Garrick?" Tristan hissed, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I thought we were going to see a scholar. Why are we standing outside a... a house of ill repute?"
Garrick Ironhart leaned against a streetlamp, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood.
He looked at Tristan with an amused, lopsided grin.
"You're a weird one, kid. You've got the body of a champion and the nerves of a virgin nun. We're here because Alaric Vane spends more time in there than he does in the library. If you want the smartest man in Valdoria, you've got to follow the scent of cheap lace and expensive whiskey."
Tristan shifted uncomfortably.
His IQ was 15 now, but his social anxiety was still a legacy system that refused to shut down.
The thought of being this close to a place where actual sexual encounters were happening—encounters he desperately needed for his stats—made him feel like his skin was vibrating.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the brothel swung open.
A man stepped out into the afternoon sun.
He was in his sixties, his hair a distinguished iron-grey, wearing a rumpled but high-quality frock coat.
He looked like a grandfatherly professor who had just finished a particularly grueling lecture.
Clinging to his arm was a young woman in a corset so tight it pushed her breasts up into a gravity-defying shelf of cleavage.
She leaned in, kissing the older man's cheek with a wet, smacking sound.
"You're so good to me, Alaric," she cooed, her voice loud enough for the whole street to hear. "I'd love another time again. Soon?"
Alaric Vane chuckled, patting her hand with a gentle, paternal affection. "Next Tuesday, my dear. Keep the vintage chilled."
He watched her disappear back inside before turning toward the street.
His eyes—sharp, intelligent, and twinkling with a rogue's mischief—landed on Garrick and Tristan. He didn't look embarrassed.
In fact, he looked invigorated.
Tristan's brain struggled to process the contrast.
This man was sixty years old.
He was a renowned scholar.
And he had just stepped out of a brothel looking like he'd just won the lottery.
To the 28-year-old Masaru, who had spent a decade convinced that "real" women were a terrifying, unattainable species, seeing this old man dominate the social landscape was like watching someone play a game on "Easy" mode while he was stuck on "Ultra-Hardcore."
Alaric approached them, a wide smile spreading across his weathered face.
"Garrick, you old dog. And this... this must be the Silverbrook."
He stepped up to Tristan, peering at him through a pair of spectacles he pulled from his pocket.
"Remarkable. The sheen of the hair is perfect. The bone structure... yes, the Silverbrook chin. Welcome to Valdoria, young man. I apologize for the venue, but a man of my age needs his... inspirations."
"Alaric Vane," Garrick introduced.
"The only human in this city who can read Ancient Valdorian and name every whore in the district in the same breath."
"A balanced life is a long life," Alaric quipped, gesturing for them to follow.
"Come. My house is just a few blocks away. My wife has probably put the tea on."
Tristan stumbled. "Wife? You have a... and you were just..."
Alaric laughed, a hearty, warm sound.
"She knows where I am, boy. At sixty, she's quite happy to let the professionals handle the heavy lifting. Now, move those young legs of yours. We have much to discuss."
-
Alaric's home was a stark contrast to the guild.
It was warm, cluttered with towers of books and strange, brass navigational instruments.
The walls were lined with maps, and the air smelled of beeswax and cinnamon.
A woman in her late fifties, with a kind face and hair pulled back in a practical bun, appeared from the kitchen.
She poured three cups of tea with a steady hand, nodding to Tristan as if he were just another student coming for a lesson.
"Don't mind Alaric," she said to Tristan.
"He's been a scoundrel since the day I met him. Drink your tea."
Tristan sat on a velvet sofa, feeling utterly out of place.
He watched the woman—Alaric's wife—move with a quiet, domestic grace.
His NEET brain was short-circuiting.
He has a wife.
He goes to brothels.
He's a scholar.
How does he do it?
Is this what 'Social Standing' actually looks like?
Alaric sat in a high-backed leather chair, his expression turning serious.
"As a human with a short lifespan, Tristan, I am incredibly lucky to see a Silverbrook with my own eyes. I've studied your family for forty years. They are the anchors of our history."
He leaned forward, his spectacles glinting.
"Garrick says you remember nothing. No past. No origins. Just a name and a void."
"It's the truth," Tristan lied, his voice practiced. "I woke up in an alley. I don't know who I was before. I don't know why I'm here."
Alaric hummed, a low sound in his throat.
"Unheard of. The Silverbrook bloodline is tied to the mana of the land itself. For one to appear without memory and without a Circle... it suggests a profound rupture. A reset, perhaps."
He turned his head toward the hallway. "Elara! Bring the Liber Argentum. Our guest needs to see the lineage he's inherited."
"Coming, Father!" a voice called back.
Tristan took a sip of tea, trying to calm his nerves.
He expected a bookish, quiet girl. Perhaps another junior mage like Selene.
Then, she entered the room.
Elara Vane was in her early twenties, and she was, quite simply, an assault on Tristan's senses.
She wore a deep emerald dress with a low-cut square neckline that was common for the era's fashion, but her physique made the garment look like it was fighting a losing battle.
She had long, raven-black hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, framing a face of startling, porcelain-doll beauty.
But Tristan's eyes—or more specifically, the primal, pornography-saturated brain of Masaru—snagged and stalled on her chest.
She was possessed of a physical reality that Tristan's brain could only categorize as "G-cup."
In his previous life, he had seen thousands of AI-generated images of women with impossible proportions—perfectly spherical breasts that seemed to defy gravity and skin that looked like airbrushed plastic.
He had gooned to them until his eyes blurred, convinced that such things only existed in the digital ether.
But Elara was standing five feet away.
He could see the subtle weight of her breasts as she walked, the way they moved naturally with her stride.
He could see the pale, fine skin where they met the edge of her bodice, the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
This wasn't a prompt-engineered fantasy.
This was heavy. This was real.
This was a physical presence that radiated a warmth and a scent—a mix of jasmine and old paper—that hit him like a physical blow.
Elara noticed his stare. She didn't look offended; rather, she seemed used to the effect she had on men, though there was a flicker of curiosity when she saw his silver hair.
She walked over, the heavy, silver-bound book held against her side, which only served to emphasize her curves.
"The book you asked for, Father," she said, her voice like velvet.
She leaned over the table to set the book down, and for a terrifying, glorious second, Tristan was given a direct view into the depths of her cleavage.
The sheer physical scale of her was overwhelming. His IQ might have been 15, but his "Neet-reflexes" were screaming.
This is a G-cup. A real G-cup. AI can't do the physics of this. The weight... the way the fabric is straining...
His face turned a shade of red that shouldn't have been biologically possible.
He felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He wanted to look away, to be a "gentleman," to be the Silverbrook he was supposed to be.
But Masaru—the man who had lived for a decade through a monitor—was currently staring at the eighth wonder of the world, and he couldn't find the "Close Window" button.
Alaric cleared his throat, a knowing, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. "Tristan? The book?"
Tristan snapped his head up, nearly spilling his tea. "Yes! The... the book. Right. Lineage. Very important."
Elara looked at him, a small, amused smile playing on her lips.
She didn't pull away; she stayed standing right there, her presence filling his peripheral vision with an impossible, breathtaking reality.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Silverbrook," she said, her amber eyes locking onto his silver ones. "I've heard so many stories. I didn't think any of them would be... quite so vivid."
Tristan couldn't speak.
He could only nod like a broken toy, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
The System was silent, but his inner voice was a chaotic roar.
I need points, his brain whispered, a dark, desperate thought.
If she's worth points... I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die.