Elias awoke with a sharp jolt, a searing pain radiating from his broken arm. His body shot upright as if pulled from a nightmare, his breath ragged and uneven.
Victor, seated at the worn wooden table, turned his gaze toward him, a mixture of concern and curiosity in his eyes. Lily, who had been quietly tending to her chores, froze in shock at her brother's sudden movement, her hands trembling slightly as she watched him.
"What happened?" Victor asked, his voice calm but edged with worry as he stood and moved closer, crouching beside Elias to assess his condition.
Lily quickly stepped away to fetch a glass of water, her actions brisk and purposeful as she glanced back at her brother.
Elias sat there, catching his breath, his mind clouded with fragments of the scene that had played out in his thoughts. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his hand trailing down to his chin, the motion accentuating the weariness etched into his features.
Victor broke the tense silence, his tone light but tinged with exasperation. "You really took your time resting. It's already three in the afternoon." He paused, letting out a weary sigh. "I went to the factory earlier... bad news. Inspectors are crawling all over the town, especially around the factory.
They're cracking down hard—kicking workers into line, not even letting them rest. Worse, they're forcing people to wear those cursed binding crystals, as they call them," he added, his voice heavy with disdain.
Elias, still catching his breath, listened intently to Victor's words, quickly piecing together the implications. His suspicions naturally turned toward the nobility.
First, they reduce the workers, and now they're forcing those who remain to endure even harsher conditions, he mused, pondering what their next move might be.
Breaking his train of thought, Elias asked Victor for more details. Victor, leaning closer, began recounting his observations.
"I stayed at a safe distance, avoiding Pendleton Street altogether. Too many inspectors were swarming the area, and I didn't want to risk getting caught," Victor began. "But I managed to catch snippets of their conversation. They were talking about an artifact—something called the Celestial Orrery. It's a sphere, about the size of a large book, and apparently, it can measure a person's aptitude for aether magic. It sounded... fascinating."
Victor's voice began to trail off, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Elias, regaining composure after the water Lily had given him, interrupted, "Wait—this was all happening near Pendleton Street? By the factory?"
Victor nodded, his expression grave. "Yes. I don't think we should risk going there today. Let's hold off until tomorrow and hope those inspectors have moved on."
But I need to find a new job! I can't afford to slack off when our money's nearly gone—it's barely enough to feed my sister and me for the day.
Victor's concern deepened as he observed Elias' dehydrated and pale face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hollow cheeks betraying his hunger. Moments later, a low growl came from Elias' stomach, and his expression twisted in discomfort, a clear sign of his physical struggle.
"Hey," Victor said softly, leaning closer, "I made some potato chowder while you were asleep. How about eating first? You need to regain some strength before thinking about anything else." His tone carried both worry and gentle insistence as he tried to reassure his struggling friend.
Lily carefully brought the bowl of potato chowder to her brother, her delicate hands steady as she scooped a spoonful. Holding her other hand beneath the spoon, she leaned closer, silently insisting on feeding Elias herself.
The tender sight of the siblings stirred a pang of jealousy in Victor. Watching them reminded him of the void in his life—no family of his own except for the orphanage children who filled his days with fleeting companionship.
Time passed, and Elias finished the food under Lily's care. Victor moved closer, crouching beside the worn stack of mattresses. "Get some rest," he said with his usual energetic tone. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, and we'll head back to work together."
Victor stood and turned toward the door, ready to leave, but paused when Elias suddenly struggled to his feet, calling after him.
"Today..." Elias murmured, his voice faint. "I need to find a new job today." His weak body betrayed him, but he took slow steps toward Victor, his determination outweighing his exhaustion.
Victor frowned, unable to grasp why his friend pushed himself so hard. He just ate... Why does he still look like that? Is it not enough?
His thoughts raced until one unsettling realization dawned upon him. He turned back to Elias, studying his pale, trembling form. "You're sick," he said firmly, his concern deepening as he looked into his friend's hollow eyes.
The pitiable sight of Elias, struggling with each step, only deepened Victor's concern. Watching his determined friend inch closer, he realized that there was no stopping him now—Elias had made up his mind. Resigned, Victor decided to assist in the only way he could.
He removed the vest he was wearing, which originally belonged to Elias, and gently guided him toward the door where the small table stood. Easing Elias into a nearby chair, Victor then stepped outside to retrieve the vest Elias had intended to collect earlier. Moments later, he returned, holding the garment.
"Alright," Victor began, his tone heavy with reluctance. "If you're that persistent, I'll go with you." He paused briefly before adding, "We can also stop by and collect your winnings fro—" He abruptly cut himself off, his eyes darting toward Lily, who was seated quietly on the opposite side of the table, observing them both.
Victor winced internally, realizing he had almost revealed something Elias had kept secret. He quickly amended his statement. "We can collect your salary from Dan." He sighed, relieved by his quick thinking. That was close! Though Lily struggled to speak, Victor couldn't dismiss the possibility that she understood more than she let on. Smugly, he closed his eyes and shook his head, satisfied with his clever save.
Elias, still visibly weak but resolute, nodded. "The paper is under the mattresses. Let's stop there first before searching for another job," he said with quiet determination.
***
Beneath the observation room where Quentin sat, a massive tree-like monster held a man in its grasp. The spectacle unfolded before an audience of noble youths, all seated in the line of finely crafted chairs.
Quentin, his demeanor cold and detached, rose from his seat, intending to leave. The match between Elias and Percival had failed to meet his expectations. However, his exit was interrupted by a sharp voice from across the room. A woman with a high ponytail, her presence commanding and composed, addressed him without turning her gaze. Behind her stood Sebastian, the fifth-grade body enhancer and her loyal guard.
"Leaving already?" she asked, her tone faintly mocking. Without waiting for his response, she summoned Sebastian, instructing him to inform Percival to conclude the lackluster duel.
Quentin offered her a cold glance, a natural fit for his perpetually disinterested expression and sharp, frigid eyes. His long black hair gleamed faintly under the refracted light filtering through the underground establishment's glass, emphasizing his refined appearance. His hand rested on the scabbard at his right hip, while a finely crafted aether-powered gun hung from his left. His attire, far more opulent than that of the other nobles, proclaimed his superior rank among them.
Just as he prepared to respond, the room erupted with cheers for the combatants below. The woman's voice rose in excitement, drawing his reluctant gaze back to the arena. Unmoved by the sudden enthusiasm, Quentin turned and left, indifferent to the spectacle.
The dimly lit hallway was quiet as he walked, his measured steps echoing faintly. His progress was halted by the hurried approach of a guard carrying the unconscious body of Elias. The guard slowed, bowing respectfully before continuing towards one of the arena's exits.
Quentin's sharp eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of Elias's unconscious form before turning his attention to the wall. There, his fingers brushed a particular brick, activating a hidden mechanism. A secret passage revealed itself—a discreet path reserved exclusively for young nobles to access the underground arena, sparing them the indignity of entering with the common crowd. Without hesitation, Quentin stepped into the shadows of the hidden passage.
He strode into the shadows, emerging beneath a bridge near a serene lake where an opulent carriage awaited him. The two majestic horses, adorned with what appeared to be enchanted harnesses, stood ready.
The carriage itself was no ordinary vehicle; it was powered by an artifact known as the Aetherbound Carriage Core, embedded discreetly at its base. This ingenious mechanism ensured a smoother and more efficient journey, a luxury reserved for the elite.
The carriage was drawn by a pair of majestic horses, each adorned with an exquisite harness crafted from deep ebony leather, intricately interwoven with silver threads that shimmer under both sunlight and moonlight. The harness is further embellished with runes etched in gold and blue, which emit a faint, ethereal glow when activated. At its heart lies a prominent gem embedded at the chest, serving as a central reservoir for storing and channeling magical energy.
This remarkable artifact, known as the Enchanted Harness of Equinox, is a masterpiece of arcane craftsmanship, meticulously designed to enhance and transform the capabilities of carriage horses. By amplifying their strength, endurance, and speed, the harness ensures swifter and more seamless travel, enabling the horses to navigate even the most rugged terrains with ease. Constructed from aether-threaded leather and adorned with luminous sigils, the harness establishes an unbroken bond between the carriage, the horses, and the driver, harmonizing their movements and imbuing the journey with an air of effortless elegance.
Standing beside the carriage was a young man—likely of an age with Elias and Quentin. With a respectful bow, he addressed Quentin.
"Milord, is tonight's gathering not to your satisfaction?" he inquired politely.
Quentin continued his measured stride without offering an immediate reply. Casting the man a brief glance, he placed a firm yet fleeting hand on his shoulder and simply said, "Let's go, Fred," before stepping into the carriage.
As they departed, the rhythmic clatter of the horses' hooves reverberated through the hushed streets of Luneford. Inside, Quentin sat in silence, his composed demeanor reflected faintly in the carriage window as he remained lost in deep thought.
As the carriage came to a halt before a grand mansion, it became clear that this was none other than Beaumont Manor, the estate of the enigmatic Duke. Unlike typical Victorian residences, Beaumont Manor stands as a distinctive fusion of noble refinement and martial vigor.
The Duke, an ardent collector and practitioner of swordsmanship, had intentionally designed the manor to reflect his unwavering passion for the art of blades rather than adhering to the conventional elegance expected of his rank. This deliberate choice imbues the estate with a strikingly unconventional character, setting it apart from its more traditional Victorian counterparts.
As they entered the estate, they were greeted by an expansive and imposing garden. The carriage made its way along a wide cobblestone path flanked on either side fighting platforms with sand-covered ground and fencing dummies, each serving as a practice arena for the Duke's guards and private army. The scene exuded an air of disciplined readiness, blending functionality with grandeur.
The vast front lawn, in stark contrast to typical noble estates, was devoid of ornate flower beds or decorative fountains. Instead, it featured a private sparring arena, it was enchanted by both physical and magical nullification that can withstand eight-grader specialist. Beyond the manor, a modest grove of trees served as a secluded space for archery and swordsmanship practice, further underscoring the Duke's martial inclinations.
A handful of guards patrolled the estate's perimeter, their presence silent and vigilant, a stark contrast to the usual lively and hospitable atmosphere. The absence of a warm welcome was unsurprising, for it was the dead of night.
After several minutes, the carriage came to a halt before the mansion's imposing front entrance. The door, massive in scale and intricately designed, exuded an air of authority, its purpose as much to intimidate as to convey the stature of the one who resided within.
Carved into the wood was a grand depiction of a dragon, a symbol of power and exclusivity. It was widely known that this door could only be opened by those personally invited by the Duke himself. Any uninvited individual attempting to enter through the front door would face severe repercussions, as it was strictly forbidden.
Traditionally, those seeking an audience with the Duke would approach from the rear of the mansion. While the rear entrance was no less grand than the front in overall design, the door itself was markedly simpler—a large, unembellished wooden panel that lacked the grandeur and symbolism of its counterpart.
Quentin entered the mansion with his customary cold expression and a detached, nonchalant aura.
He was immediately greeted by an impressive display of weaponry—swords of every kind mounted on the walls, ranging from elegant ceremonial rapiers to formidable, towering claymores. Each blade was meticulously labeled with its origin, material, and historical significance. At the far end of the room, a gleaming suit of armor stood in silent vigil, its hands firmly gripping a halberd, which symbolized the family's long-standing tradition of guardianship.
On either side of a grand platform, resembling a balcony, stood a staircase leading to the upper levels.
Before the stairs, the long hallway stretched ahead, but instead of the usual chandeliers and paintings, it was adorned with racks of weapons and various training equipment. Long wooden tables were set beneath banners, each emblazoned with a sigil of crossed swords. This hall served as a space for sparring matches and demonstrations of swordsmanship, a testament to the Duke's martial heritage.
Numerous rooms lay within the mansion, designed specifically for the Duke's children.
At the far end of the hallway, where the tension in the atmosphere became almost palpable, stood a room exuding an overwhelming presence. The Duke's domain.
Upon entering the room, Quentin was immediately met by a powerful, cold aura emanating from the figure standing by the window, positioned behind a large desk. The Duke, clad in a finely tailored military-style coat—reminiscent of a Victorian officer's uniform—gaszed out at the moonlight that bathed the night sky in a soft, ethereal glow.
Without uttering a word, the Duke turned to face Quentin. Meanwhile, Quentin remained completely still, standing firmly in the doorway without so much as a movement.
The Duke casually approached the table, his hand reaching for a glass. As he did, the faint glint of a scabbard on his right hip and the unmistakable outline of an Aether-powered firearm holstered on his left became visible, suggesting both his status and readiness for action.
As the shadow of the room receded, the Duke's features became clearer, revealing a youthful appearance that contrasted sharply with the typically aged image of a Duke. His face and physique suggested a man in his forties, far younger than most of his peers in noble circles.
Pouring himself a glass of wine, the Duke took a swift sip before speaking.
"Where were you at this late hour?" His tone was measured and calm, and without pausing, he drained the glass in one smooth motion.
"I was—" Quentin began to respond, but before he could finish, the Duke unexpectedly hurled the empty glass at him. With his enhanced reflexes as a second tier body enhancer, Quentin barely shifted his head, narrowly avoiding the projectile.
"You dare to act without my command!" The Duke's tone shifted abruptly, his calm demeanor vanishing as a wave of fury overtook him. "Ungrateful—rebel child!" he shouted, his voice sharp with wrath, revealing a side of him that was far removed from the composed figure Quentin had initially encountered.