The grand table was now fully occupied by the eighteen family heads. The chairs—tall with high backs and gracefully curved armrests—were solid oak, their weight and craftsmanship designed to convey the gravitas of those seated.
Anna's father sat at the far right, directly opposite Takashiro's father. A visceral tension simmered between them, an ancient enmity waiting to break its fragile restraint.
Anna's father wore attire that echoed French nobility: a grand coat with gold embroidery tracing intricate patterns along the sides and collar. Beneath, a vest with leather straps forming sharp zigzag patterns encased his torso, a high bow circling his neck. His coat sleeves, extending precisely to the wrists, were meticulously embroidered, each thread a testament to craftsmanship. He sat rigid, determination etched into every line of his posture, his gaze locked on his rival.
Takashiro's father, in stark defiance of convention, attended the formal meeting armored—a choice that immediately drew murmurs of criticism from the other heads. His armor was a pragmatic masterpiece: robust, battle-worn, yet engineered for fluid movement. Articulated plates allowed complete mobility while protecting vital regions. The chest piece bore the Takashiro family crest, a stark symbol of their martial heritage, while reinforced gauntlets promised lethal precision in close combat.
"Why wear armor?" Anna's father inquired, a mocking edge threading through his words as his hand absently stroked his unshaven beard.
"It is the Takashiro way," came the curt reply, hostility simmering just beneath the surface. The room grew still, anticipation coiling like a serpent.
The remaining sixteen heads wore garments reflecting diverse origins—each outfit a nuanced dialogue between ancestral traditions and modern sensibilities. They were survivors, descendants of families who had once warred on distant grounds, now gathered in this tower constructed by an enigmatic sage.
A figure in silver-gleaming knightly armor stepped forward, his presence commanding immediate attention. Every plate had been meticulously molded, interlocking with surgical precision. Intricate designs adorned his pauldrons, while his breastplate bore an order's sigil symbolizing unwavering purity and strength. Though his helm rested on the table, his stern visage spoke volumes.
"You all know of the quest," he announced, his voice resonant with authority.
Most listened with thinly veiled irritation, save one—a man with flowing dark hair and piercing red eyes, wearing an enormous fur-lined chaperon and a velvet-red cape. Despite a voice suggesting decades of experience, he appeared remarkably youthful. His gold-embroidered sleeves contrasted with hands marked by hard labor—veined, rough, telling silent stories of relentless effort.
"Don't you think we know already?" he taunted, a sardonic smile playing across his lips.
The tension was palpable, a brewing storm waiting to break. Each family head subtly positioned themselves, hands drifting near concealed weapons—a dance of potential violence choreographed with generational precision.
The quest before them was no ordinary challenge. Issued by Sage Rolhim, creator of [the Stem], it demanded exploration of eighteen realm wonders—each potentially harboring entities more dangerous than mythical beasts. The ultimatum was clear: provide substantial proof of heir exploration or face permanent exile from the tower.
As the Sage's disembodied voice echoed through the chamber, promising the imminent arrival of heirs and their chosen guides, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. Planets seemed to compress the very air, testing the resolve of those assembled.
Leonardo could feel this weight—a pressure that would soon test the mettle of every heir present.