Lucien held the letter under the weak lantern light, the flame flickering like it was embarrassed to be part of this scene.
Nyx leaned over his left shoulder, silver-pink hair brushing his cheek, her breath warm against his ear.
Elara pressed in from the right, shoulder tight against his, green eyes scanning the paper like it might bite her if she looked away.
The wax seal had already cracked, leaving little crumbs on the table that stuck to his fingers when he shifted the page.
The words were short, neat handwriting that tried too hard to sound official.
But the signature at the bottom hit like a cheap punch: the baron. Elara's father. Witnessed and approved.
The count wanted a meeting, wanted the "purple-haired anomaly" delivered or contained, and dear old dad had put his name down like it was just another debt to settle.
"He sold his own daughter again," Elara muttered, voice cracking just enough at the edge to show the bruise underneath.
She didn't cry. Didn't even blink hard. Just stared at that signature like she could burn it off with her eyes alone.
Her hand rested on Lucien's arm, fingers digging in a little too tight, the kind of grip that said she was holding herself together more than holding him.
Nyx didn't offer soft words or hugs.
She just reached over, licked a smudge of ink off her finger with a quick flick of her tongue, and grinned, tiny fangs catching the light. "Fathers are just another kind of treasure that expires fast. Want me to burn his signature? Make it pretty while it curls?"
Lucien shook his head slow, the golden scar over his eyebrow itching sharp like the Greed Bloodline was already tasting the next move.
"No. I want him to feel what it's like getting robbed by the thing he tried to sell."
The words came out flat, but the sarcasm sat right behind them, heavy and familiar.
Back in São Paulo he'd watched people sell out coworkers for a better parking spot. This felt almost nostalgic, except now he was the one holding the receipt.
The shack smelled of damp straw and the faint sweet-ozone Nyx always left behind, mixed with the metallic tang of old ink from the letter.
Mira sat quiet in the corner, sharpening an arrowhead with slow scrapes that filled the silence whenever nobody spoke.
She kept glancing at Elara, then at the paper, like she was trying to decide if family blood tasted the same when it turned sour.
Lucien folded the letter once, the paper thick under his fingers, then tossed it onto the table.
It landed crooked, one corner dipping into a small puddle of spilled soup from earlier. Nobody moved to fix it.
Nyx's tail curled around his calf under the table, warm fur brushing skin through the thin fabric. "He signed it like it was nothing. Like she was just another field he could mortgage."
Elara exhaled through her nose, sharp. "He always did. Debts first, daughter second. I ran once. Thought that was enough."
The lantern flame dipped low for a second, throwing long shadows across the sagging roof.
Lucien felt the Conquest Bond with Elara pulse warmer, not angry exactly, just this steady burn that said she was choosing him over the old blood again.
Mira stayed quiet, but her sharpening stone scraped a little harder, like the sound could drown out whatever she was thinking.
They slipped into the Pocket Primordial Universe after the lantern burned lower, the portal opening clean behind the shack.
Silver grass stretched forever under the flat even glow, mana so pure it coated the tongue like cold water after too many cheap energy drinks.
Time theft felt routine now—one month inside barely touched a full day outside.
Lucien spent the first stretch training with Mira, showing her how to layer basic illusion from Nyx's tricks to hide footprints in the grass.
She picked it up fast, fingers steady on the new bow, stance low like the road had taught her never to stand tall when trouble might be watching.
He copied her movements once, twice, then the Greed Bloodline twisted them cleaner, multiplied the precision until her shots left almost no trace.
Elara and Nyx sparred light on the side, sword and primordial fire clashing with soft pops and laughs when one clipped the other on purpose.
Elara swung wide, sweat sticking her tunic to her back, and Nyx dodged with a playful growl, tail whipping. "You're getting meaner, princess. I like it."
Mira lowered her bow after a clean shot, eyes narrowing at Lucien in that way that wasn't pure caution anymore.
"You don't pretend to be the good guy. No speeches about saving the village or protecting the weak. That's… refreshing. Most people in my line of work lie about why they take."
Lucien wiped sweat from his neck, purple-pink hair damp at the roots. "Lying wastes energy. I just take what I want and let the math sort itself out."
He shrugged one shoulder, muscles still buzzing from the long grind.
Random thought hit him sideways—back home he'd scroll comments calling MCs edgy for less. Here the edge felt earned, especially when the girls watched him like they were deciding if they wanted in on the ride.
Later, under the artificial night he dimmed with a lazy push of law authority, Lucien sat in the silver grass multiplying the letter.
Ten copies now, each one sharper than the last, the baron's signature glowing with extra details the Greed Bloodline had dug up—dates, amounts, little side notes about selling Elara's hand again for a better cut.
The papers smelled faintly of ink and old betrayal, the kind that stuck to your fingers no matter how many times you wiped them.
"I'm sending these back to the baron," he said, stacking the copies neat. "With interest. Let him taste what it feels like when someone else holds the ledger."
Nyx flopped down beside him, head on his thigh, tail curling lazy. "Make sure he chokes on it."
Elara stayed quiet longer than usual, staring at the multiplied papers like they might rewrite her past if she stared hard enough.
Mira watched the whole thing, arrow forgotten in her lap, the new respect in her eyes mixing with something sharper—curiosity, maybe, or the first threads of that bond starting to itch.
They stepped back out when the internal clock said enough, bodies loose from the long grind, power settled warm under the skin.
The village square felt tense when they returned, too quiet for midday. People moved careful, eyes flicking toward the center like they expected thunder.
The baron stood there alone near the dried-up fountain, cloak still torn at the hem, eyes sunken deeper than last time.
No horse. No guards. Just him, boots scuffed, hands open at his sides like he'd practiced the pose in a mirror.
He smelled of road dust and fresh fear-sweat, the kind that collects when you know you're walking into the wrong room.
"I came to ask for real forgiveness this time," he said, voice rough but trying for steady.
His eyes found Elara first, then dropped to the dirt when she didn't soften. "Not for the debt. For… everything."
Lucien felt the Conquest Bond twitch, detecting the fresh lie like spoiled milk left too long in the sun.
The baron's shoulders stayed stiff, fingers twitching once at his sides, that nervous tic he couldn't quite kill.
He wasn't here for forgiveness. He was here because the count had squeezed him harder, or because the multiplied letter had already reached him and panic tasted better than waiting.
Elara crossed her arms, chin up, but her voice came out quieter than she probably wanted. "You signed it. Again. My name like it was just ink."
The baron swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought it would protect you. The count promised—"
"Promised what?" Lucien cut in, voice low, that São Paulo drawl still clinging to the edges. "Another wedding bed? Another debt paid with your daughter's back?"
Old Tomás watched from his doorway, broom paused.
A couple women near the fountain stopped mid-conversation, baskets forgotten. The square held its breath, the Eternal Seed pulsing faint under the dirt like it was listening too.
Nyx stayed half-hidden behind Lucien, tail flicking once under her cloak.
Mira stood a step back, new bow slung over her shoulder, fingers loose but ready.
The baron's eyes flicked to the papers Lucien pulled from the Infinite Chaos Treasury—ten copies, baron's signature clear as day on every one.
He paled further, the color draining like someone had opened a tap.
Lucien didn't shove them in his face. Just held the stack loose, letting the wind catch the edges. "You wanted to sell her again. I'm returning the receipt. With extra zeros."
The baron's hands shook when he reached for them, not taking, just hovering. "Please. She's my blood."
Elara's laugh came short and bitter. "Blood didn't stop you before."
Lucien felt the Greed stir warmer, not loud, just calculating how much this broken man was still worth in points or leverage.
The village watched, loyalty growing roots in the quiet spaces between words. It tasted better than fear ever did.
The baron stayed standing there, cloak hanging crooked, eyes sunken, the lie still fresh on his breath even if he couldn't say it out loud anymore.
Lucien rolled his shoulders once, purple-pink hair catching the afternoon light at the tips.
The golden scar itched sharper now, like the Bloodline was already bored and looking for the next bite.
He didn't send the man away yet. Just let the square sit in the heavy silence, the multiplied letters fluttering faint in his hand, the girls close at his sides, and the village breathing a little steadier because the dirt under their feet had started choosing sides.
The baron's mouth opened, closed, then opened again, words failing before they even left.
Lucien waited, the Greed purring low, the letter still warm from the pocket universe.
Some betrayals didn't need burning. They needed to be handed back, creased and multiplied, until the taste stayed in the throat long after the ink dried.