Lucien read the note twice, the paper already going soft under his fingers from how tight he was holding it.
Three days. The count was coming in three days with whatever backup a guy like that could scrape together when his pride got stepped on.
He didn't feel the usual rush of panic that should've hit an office worker who used to stress over Excel sheets.
Instead his chest just got that familiar warm tug, like the Greed Bloodline had already started calculating interest rates on the incoming mess.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it toward the corner without looking.
It bounced off the wall and rolled under the flipped mattress.
"Pocket universe. Now."
Nyx didn't argue. She just grabbed Elara's wrist, tail already swishing with that excited little twitch she got when things got interesting.
Elara's hand found Lucien's without needing to be told, fingers cool from the night air but steady.
The three of them stepped through the shimmer together, the damp rot of the shack vanishing behind them like someone had slammed a cheap motel door.
The silver grass welcomed them the way an old couch welcomes your ass after a long shift—familiar, a little too soft, and ready to let you sink in for however long you needed.
That flat even light overhead never changed, no sunrise, no sunset, just endless mana that tasted clean on the back of your tongue like the first gulp of water after eating instant noodles that had sat too long.
"Three days outside," Lucien said, rolling his shoulders until something popped satisfyingly in his back.
"That's almost three months in here if we push it. Village can keep breathing without us babysitting every seed. Let's see how much we can squeeze out of the time before the count shows up with his little parade."
Elara exhaled through her nose, already pulling her short sword from the loop at her belt.
The blade caught the weird light and threw it back dull, nothing fancy but it had weight in her grip now after all the hours they'd spent in this place.
"You make it sound like we're just going to the gym for a quick pump."
"Pretty much is," Lucien answered, mouth curving that crooked half-smile that still felt borrowed from his old face even if the body was brand new.
"Except the gym pays dividends and the equipment tries to kill you if you get sloppy."
Nyx laughed under her breath and dropped into fox form for a second, circling their legs once before shifting back, silver-pink hair messy like she'd just rolled out of someone's bed.
"I like when you talk dirty about time. Makes the centuries feel shorter."
They fell into it without needing a schedule.
Lucien watched Elara first, the way she moved through basic sword forms they'd stolen from some half-remembered manual the Domain Awakening had dumped in his head weeks back.
Her stance had improved—shoulders looser, feet planting cleaner on the silver grass.
He copied the motion without thinking, Greed Bloodline kicking in like muscle memory on cheat mode.
The sword in his hand wasn't even real, just mana shaped into weight and edge, but it felt solid enough when he swung it.
Each repetition sharpened something behind his ribs.
Not dramatic sparks or glowing veins. Just the slow burn of muscle adapting, the kind that made his palms sweat and his breath come steadier.
Nyx wove illusions around them while they worked, thin veils of shadow and light that forced Elara to adjust mid-swing.
One time Elara overcorrected and sent a burst of fire mana wild—tiny flaming butterflies flapping around like confused fireworks before they fizzled out in the grass.
Nyx doubled over laughing, tail thumping the ground.
"Look at that. Your panic made art. Keep doing it wrong, princess. I want more sparkly bugs."
"Shut up," Elara muttered, cheeks flushed but the corner of her mouth fighting a grin.
She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, the bond between the three of them humming warmer from the shared effort.
Lucien felt it like static under his skin—her focus feeding into him, Nyx's playfulness loosening the edges of his own greed so it didn't chew too hard on itself.
Hours blurred.
They took breaks when their legs started complaining, sitting in the grass while Nyx pulled random snacks from the treasury—hard cheese that tasted sharper than it had any right to, strips of dried meat they'd multiplied until the flavor got weird but still hit the spot.
Lucien's thoughts drifted sometimes to stupid shit, like how back in São Paulo he'd pay half his salary for air this clean instead of breathing bus exhaust and office coffee breath.
Then the Greed would tug him back, reminding him there was more to steal than just oxygen.
Night inside the pocket space was artificial—Lucien dimmed the light with a lazy push of Authority over Laws until it felt like campfire glow.
They sat in a loose circle, flames dancing low and throwing weird shadows across their faces.
Elara poked at the fire with a stick, sparks jumping up like they had opinions.
"My father used to say the count never forgets a slight," she said after a while, voice quieter than usual.
"Even when I was little he'd come for dinner and stare at the silverware like he was counting how much it was worth compared to what my family owed. Made the whole house feel smaller."
Nyx stretched out on her side, head propped on one hand, tail curled around her own waist.
"Primordial foxes used to sleep inside stolen dreams. Not the nice ones. The messy kind people tried to hide from themselves. We'd curl up in the corners where the fear got thick and wait for the host to wake up screaming. Felt warm. Safe, in a twisted way."
Lucien listened without interrupting much.
The Greed sat heavy in his chest but mixed with something else tonight—warmer, almost uncomfortable, like the way your stomach feels after too much cheap beer and realizing the people around the table actually matter.
He poked the fire too, watching embers float up.
"Count wants to play landlord," he said finally, voice low.
"We'll give him a tour. Just not the one he expects."
The conversation drifted after that—random stuff about how the mana seeds were probably making the village wheat taste better than it had any right to, Nyx complaining that Elara's butterflies earlier had smelled like burnt sugar, Lucien admitting he still sometimes woke up expecting his old alarm clock instead of silver grass.
Nothing deep. Just the kind of talk that fills space when you're waiting for time to do its job.
Days piled up inside.
Lucien lost exact count after the second week but felt the changes in his body anyway.
Muscles tighter under the skin, reactions quicker, the golden scar over his eyebrow itching less like an itch and more like a reminder that the Bloodline was busy stacking multipliers in the background.
One afternoon while Nyx was teaching Elara how to layer illusions thin enough to hide active mana flow, Lucien felt the quiet click of progression hit.
Level 112. No fanfare, no blue box screaming in his face.
Just a warm settling in his core like his bones had decided they were done being polite about power.
The Eternal Seed back in the real world would be pulsing stronger now, feeding off the accelerated time leaking through the portal.
He could almost feel it from here—like a second heartbeat under the village dirt, turning bad soil into something that made people stand straighter without knowing why.
When the three months inside finally ticked down to match the three days outside, they stepped back through the shimmer feeling loose in the shoulders and heavy in the good kind of way.
The shack looked untouched since they left, the dagger hole still fresh in the table where the note had been pinned.
Outside the square smelled of ripe wheat and woodsmoke, villagers moving with a rhythm that hadn't been there before—shoulders less slumped, kids laughing louder near the fountain where the mana seeds kept working their quiet magic.
Old Tomás waved from his doorway when they passed, cap twisted in his hands but his grip steadier than last time.
The blacksmith was hammering something that rang cleaner than usual, sweat on his brow but no curse words slipping out every other swing.
Even the air felt thicker with possibility, like the whole village had been breathing better while they were gone.
Lucien rolled his neck once, purple-pink hair catching the morning light at the tips.
Elara stayed close on his left, Nyx on his right in human form with her tail hidden under a loose cloak they'd thrown together.
The bond between them felt solid now, stretched by the long grind but not frayed.
Then the sound of hooves rolled in from the main road—too many, too organized.
Twenty riders at least, banners flapping lazy in the breeze with the count's crest sharp against gray cloth.
The baron rode near the front, face pale but back straight, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but had picked his side anyway.
The count himself dismounted first, tall guy with a jaw that looked like it had never lost an argument until recently.
His armor caught the light clean, boots hitting the dirt with that practiced weight of someone used to people stepping aside.
He didn't draw a weapon. Just stood there, eyes locking on Lucien like he was sizing up a new tax bracket.
"Heard you turned into something of a local legend around here," the count said, voice carrying across the square without shouting.
Cold smile, the kind that didn't reach the eyes but still showed teeth.
"Wanted to see if the legend holds up to a proper conversation. Or if we need to renegotiate how things work in my territory."
Lucien felt the Greed stir, not loud, just curious.
The village had gone quiet behind him—people watching from doorways, kids peeking but not running.
Elara's hand brushed his wrist. Nyx's tail flicked once under the cloak.
He took one step forward, that sarcastic half-smile pulling at his mouth anyway.
"Conversation sounds cheap," Lucien answered, voice low but carrying.
"Especially when you brought twenty friends to make sure I listen."
The count's smile didn't waver, but one of the riders behind him shifted in the saddle, leather creaking like it had something to say about the tension.
The baron kept his eyes on the ground, fingers tight on the reins.
Three days had passed outside. Three months inside.
Lucien felt every hour of it sitting warm in his bones while the morning sun hit the purple tips of his hair and made them glow faint pink.
He waited to see what the man would offer first.
Or what he'd try to take.