Lucien woke with Elara's weight warm against his ribs, her hair stuck to his neck from the night sweat, the bond between them pulsing steady like a low-grade fever he didn't mind carrying.
She'd fallen asleep half-draped over him again, one arm slung loose across his chest like she'd claimed the spot and dared the world to argue.
Nyx curled tight on the other side, tail looped possessive over his thigh, ears flicking every few breaths like even in sleep she was keeping score.
The straw mattress smelled of old hay and the faint sweet-smoke that followed Nyx everywhere, mixed now with Elara's leftover lavender soap.
He lay there a second longer than he needed to, feeling the three of them fit together in the cramped shack like it was normal, like the truck in São Paulo had never happened.
He slid out careful, boots finding the dirt floor without a sound.
The bond tugged once, warm reminder, but he left them sleeping.
Outside the square sat empty under the gray pre-dawn, air cold enough to bite the back of his throat.
The mana seed under the dried fountain pulsed faint, a low thrum he felt through the soles of his boots, the ground giving back more than it used to.
He stood there hands in pockets, purple-pink hair catching the first weak light at the tips, golden scar itching like it always did when the day was about to get loud.
Hooves cut the quiet first.
The cultivator rode in alone, black cloak simple but cut clean, horse breathing steam in the chill.
Guy looked mid-twenties, face sharp with that level-twelve confidence that screamed I've read the manual and you haven't.
He reined up in the middle of the square, boots hitting dirt when he dismounted, eyes locking straight on Lucien like he'd already decided how this ended.
"Heard an orphan's been playing lord around here," the man said, voice carrying that practiced drawl cultivators used when they wanted you to feel small.
Lucien stayed put, hands still in his pockets, wind tugging his hair again.
The scar burned hotter now.
"Playing? I just stopped asking permission."
The cultivator's mouth twitched once, not quite a smile, more like a muscle remembering it used to sneer better.
He raised one hand, lazy, and flicked a weak wind technique—nothing fancy, just enough gust to kick dust and show off.
Lucien felt the Devourer's Gaze click on automatic, peeling the move apart: angle, flow, the little twist at the wrist that wasted half the power.
He stepped sideways, boots scraping, the wind whistling past his ear close enough to ruffle his tunic but not touch skin.
Then he gave it back.
Greed Bloodline took the copy, multiplied it clean, and sent the gust straight into the guy's chest.
Not hard enough to kill. Just enough to lift him off his feet and plant his ass in the dirt with a dull thud that echoed off the huts.
The cultivator coughed once, cloak flapping around him like cheap laundry, face going from shocked to pissed in the space of one breath.
Villagers started poking heads out of doors.
Old Tomás leaned on his stick, the blacksmith wiped his hands slow on the same rag he always carried, a couple kids peeked from behind their mothers.
No one screamed. No one ran.
Just quiet applause, hands clapping soft like they were testing if it was safe yet.
The fear that used to sit thick in the air had thinned overnight, replaced by something closer to tired satisfaction.
Nyx appeared on Lucien's shoulder in fox form, invisible to everyone else, tail brushing his neck.
"Steal all his pride," she whispered, voice sweet with that edge she saved for moments like this.
Lucien walked over, crouched beside the guy still sitting in the dust.
The cultivator's breathing came ragged, eyes wide but not broken.
Lucien reached down, unhooked the small pouch from the man's belt—coins clinking soft inside—and slipped it into the Infinite Chaos Treasury without a word.
The weight vanished clean.
"Education tax," Lucien said, voice low, almost friendly.
"Go back to the merchants. Tell them Eldoria's got a new owner."
The cultivator pushed himself up, brushing dirt off his cloak with jerky movements, jaw tight like he was chewing on the words he wanted to spit but knew better.
He mounted without looking back, horse wheeling sharp, hooves kicking up more dust than necessary.
Lucien watched him ride out, the square slowly filling with more villagers, murmurs drifting like smoke from breakfast fires.
Later, in the pocket universe, the silver grass stretched forever under that flat even light.
Three weeks inside felt like minutes outside; Lucien had stopped counting the exact math because it always worked in his favor anyway.
Elara swung the short sword in wide arcs, Nyx darting around her in fox form, nipping at ankles and creating little illusion shadows that made Elara laugh when she missed.
The sound carried clear across the empty plain—bright, surprised, the kind of laugh that still caught Lucien off guard every time.
He sat on a low rise of grass, back against nothing, watching them.
Power crept up slow in his veins, level ticking from where it had been to eighty-nine without fanfare.
Muscles felt tighter, the bond with Elara humming steady across the distance, Nyx's presence a warm thread in the background.
The Greed Bloodline purred content, multiplying the mana crystals scattered around him without him even asking.
Elara wiped sweat from her forehead, sword tip dipping, cheeks flushed.
"You gonna join or just sit there looking smug?"
Lucien smirked, the crooked one that never quite left his face.
"Watching you two is more entertaining than training. Besides, somebody's gotta keep score."
Nyx shifted human mid-leap, landing beside Elara with her tail curling around the other girl's leg.
"He's getting fat on our effort. Typical."
They laughed again, the three of them tangled in the easy rhythm the pocket space always gave them.
Lucien felt the power settle deeper, level eighty-nine locking in smooth, the universe of his own making humming around them like it approved the whole setup.
When they stepped back through the portal the shack smelled the same, but the square outside didn't.
The whole village had gathered, tables dragged out, pots of stew and fresh bread piled high like someone had decided fear was off the menu for the night.
No one said it was for him.
They just made space, faces turning when he walked up with Elara on one side and Nyx pressed close on the other.
The old blacksmith stood at the center table, cup raised, hand steady until it wasn't.
"To Lord Voss," he called, voice rough but carrying.
The cup trembled once in his grip.
Everyone followed his gaze.
A crow perched on the tavern roof, black feathers glossy under lantern light, a thin silver ring glinting on its beak like it had stolen something it wasn't supposed to keep.
The bird didn't caw. It just watched, head tilted, eyes too sharp for any normal bird.
Lucien's scar itched sharp.