Lucien woke up slow, the kind of slow that happens when your body finally decides it's done pretending to be normal.
Elara's weight pressed warm against his chest, her hair tickling his collarbone with every breath she took, still smelling faintly of root soup and that stubborn sweat from yesterday's run.
Nyx had wrapped herself around his leg like a possessive cat that paid rent in attitude, tail curled tight enough to cut circulation if she got any ideas.
The straw mattress creaked under all three of them, that familiar damp rot mixing with the sweet-ozone leftover from Nyx's fur.
In the corner, Mira slept curled tight under the stolen blanket, knees pulled up, one hand still halfway clutching the broken bow like it might grow teeth overnight.
The Primordial Conquest Bond itched faint in Lucien's ribs—not full hook yet, just this low buzz of curiosity that carried the faint metallic tang of opportunity.
She hadn't chosen anything big. Not yet. But the way she'd crashed into him on the road yesterday left a mark anyway.
He didn't move right away. Just lay there staring at the sagging wooden ceiling, purple-pink tips of his hair glowing soft in the thin morning light leaking through the cracks.
Back in São Paulo he used to wake up to alarm clocks and existential dread over spreadsheets. Here the dread came with free mana and girls who smelled like they belonged in his pocket universe. Tsc. What a steal.
Mira stirred first, eyes cracking open, brown hair messy and sticking to her forehead.
She sat up quick, blanket slipping off one shoulder, and caught him watching. Her cheeks went a little pink but she didn't look away. "You always stare at people like you're pricing them?"
Lucien's mouth pulled into that crooked half-smile, the one that never quite left even after the truck flattened his old life. "Only when they crash into my chest carrying broken sticks and merchant problems."
Nyx made a small sound, half yawn half growl, and shifted human without warning, silver-pink hair spilling across his thigh as she stretched.
Elara mumbled something sleepy against his ribs but didn't move, her hand resting loose on his stomach like she'd claimed the spot months ago instead of weeks.
Morning hit the village lazy.
They stepped out together, boots kicking up the same packed dirt that felt warmer lately thanks to the Eternal Seed doing its quiet work underground.
Villagers were already moving between huts, baskets heavier than usual with roots and wheat that shouldn't have grown this fat.
Old Tomás waved from his doorway, broom paused mid-sweep, cap pushed back like he'd decided respect was cheaper than fear these days.
A woman near the fountain handed Mira a chunk of fresh bread without asking, crust still warm, nodding at Lucien like he was part of the furniture now.
Mira walked close on his left, voice dropping low enough that only he caught it over the cluck of chickens and distant hammering.
"The merchants have someone inside the count's garrison. Not a soldier. The accountant. He cooks the books, skims ten percent before the official tax even leaves the strongroom. Been doing it for two seasons. Thinks nobody notices because the numbers look clean on paper."
Lucien felt the Greed Bloodline perk up behind his ribs, warm and interested, like it just smelled free lunch.
Ten percent skimmed off the count's cut? That was the kind of quiet theft that multiplied nice if you knew where to poke.
He didn't laugh out loud. Just let the corner of his mouth twitch while the morning sun hit the neon tips of his hair and made them glow faint pink for half a second.
"Accountant, huh," he muttered, voice carrying that dry São Paulo edge even here. "Guy probably wears glasses and counts coins in his sleep. Easy target if you know which pockets are already loose."
Mira glanced sideways, short brown hair catching the light, patched tunic still road-dirty at the elbows. She smelled of the blanket and faint pine from whatever tree she'd slept under before showing up.
"He's careful. But he likes young scribes. Pretty ones. Sends them out with messages when he wants something off the books."
Elara caught up on his other side, sword at her hip, green eyes sharp but mouth soft from the night's sleep.
She didn't say anything about the conversation, just fell in step like she'd already decided the whole group moved together now.
Nyx trailed a step behind in human form, tail hidden under a loose cloak, golden eyes flicking between Mira and the villagers with that playful jealousy she never bothered hiding.
They slipped into the Pocket Primordial Universe after breakfast, the portal opening clean like cheap origami in the air behind the shack.
Silver grass stretched forever under the flat even glow, mana so pure it coated the back of your throat like cold water after too many energy drinks. Time theft at its finest—one afternoon outside could stretch into weeks if they pushed it.
Lucien spent the first chunk copying Mira's bow work.
She showed him how she used to shoot on the caravan runs, stance low, fingers callused in all the right places.
He watched once, twice, then the Devourer's Gaze peeled it apart and the Greed Bloodline twisted it cleaner, multiplied the precision until the arrows he shaped from pure mana flew straighter than anything she'd ever managed.
He handed the new bow back to her—light, balanced, glowing faint blue at the edges.
Mira tested the string, eyes narrowing. "You don't give stuff like this for free. What's the catch?"
Elara laughed from across the grass where she was drilling sword forms, sweat already sticking her tunic to her back.
She swung wide on purpose and clipped Nyx's illusion tail, making the fox girl yelp and tackle her in retaliation. "He's teaching you to steal space in his collection, that's what."
Mira's cheeks went pink again but she didn't drop the bow. She nocked a mana arrow and let it fly, the shot clean enough to make Nyx whistle low. "Harem? Still feels like a preview. He collects anything that shines, doesn't he?"
Nyx bit the air near Mira's ear, fangs flashing playful. "Preview's right. He hasn't even started filling the good seats yet."
Lucien watched them from the low rise, purple and pink eyes half-lidded, the golden scar itching faint over his eyebrow.
Random thought hit him sideways—back home he'd waste nights arguing with comment sections about power scaling in webnovels. Now he had three girls turning his cheat room into some weird mix of training montage and group therapy.
The Greed hummed approval anyway.
Later, under the artificial night he dialed down with a lazy push of law authority, Lucien crouched in the silver grass planting more multiplied seeds.
The soil here accepted them easy, pulsing faint blue before settling quiet.
Mira sat nearby, knees drawn up, watching with that narrow-eyed stare she got when she was weighing risks.
"You don't hand out power like this without a price tag," she said finally, voice quiet but carrying that road-hard edge. "Why let me see all of it? The pocket, the seeds, the way you swallow shadows like cheap beer."
Lucien wiped dirt off his hands on his tunic, the fabric already carrying that clean mana smell that never quite washed out.
He looked at her straight, that sarcastic half-smile pulling at his mouth. "Because I already know the price you're gonna pay. Just haven't decided if it's gonna be loyalty or secrets yet. Maybe both. Maybe more."
She didn't flinch. Just held his gaze, the faint bond itch in his chest buzzing a little louder. "And if I decide the price is too high?"
"Then you walk with whatever you carried in. Broken bow included." He shrugged one shoulder, muscles still loose from the long grind. "But we both know you're not walking."
Nyx and Elara had gone quiet across the grass, pretending to spar but clearly listening.
Nyx's tail flicked once, possessive. Elara just smiled small, like she remembered her own version of this conversation not that long ago.
They stepped back out when the internal clock said enough time had passed—two weeks inside, barely a full day outside.
The shack smelled the same, damp straw and leftover soup, but the village felt different when they walked the square again.
Wheat stood taller. Kids laughed louder near the fountain. Even the air carried less of that sour defeat that used to hang over everything.
An old villager—skin wrinkled deep, hands knobby from years of bad harvests—pulled Lucien aside near the edge of the square.
His voice came out trembly, eyes darting like he expected guards to pop out of the bushes. "Lord Voss… the count's accountant arrived last night. Staying at the tavern. Brought two scribes with him. They keep staring at the fields like they're trying to figure out how the dirt learned to cheat."
Lucien felt the Greed stir warmer, the bond with Mira pulsing faint but steady now.
He glanced back at the three girls waiting a few steps away—Elara with her hand loose on her sword, Nyx's ears twitching under the cloak, Mira still carrying that new bow like it might disappear if she let go.
The old man kept talking, words spilling faster. "They're asking questions. Quiet ones. About seeds. About the orphan who woke up different. About the girl who ran from the baron's deal."
Lucien's mouth curved again, that same crooked smile that started in traffic jams back home and never learned better.
He clapped the old man on the shoulder once, light, feeling the thin bones under the worn tunic.
"Tell them the fields are just happy. And the orphan? He's still collecting rent."
The old man nodded quick and shuffled off, leaving the square feeling a little heavier, a little more alive.
Lucien rolled his neck, purple-pink hair catching the afternoon light, the golden scar itching sharper now.
Mira stepped closer, voice low. "That's the guy. The accountant. Ten percent man."
Lucien didn't answer right away. Just tasted the new complication on the back of his tongue—books that lied, scribes who stared too long, and a village that was starting to smell like his whether the count liked it or not.
Nyx's tail brushed his calf under the cloak. Elara's shoulder touched his. Mira's fingers tightened on the new bow.
The tavern sat quiet at the far end of the square, lantern already lit even though the sun hadn't dropped yet. Two figures moved behind the window, shadows long and careful.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, the Greed purring low and patient.
"Looks like dinner's about to get interesting."
He started walking that way, the three of them falling in without being asked, boots kicking up the same dirt that felt more like home every day.
The accountant probably thought he was hunting numbers. Lucien was already pricing the whole ledger.