Location : Raphael's private study
Raphael stepped out of the shared domain into his private study, a chamber cloaked in shadows and illuminated only by the flickering light of mana-fueled lamps. Rows of ancient tomes lined the walls, their spines worn from centuries of use, while a heavy mahogany desk stood in the center, covered in scattered parchments and half-finished reports. The silence here was stark, broken only by the faint crackle of mana lamps.
Dion stood waiting near the window, his sharp golden eyes reflecting the light like molten metal. His mismatched heritage was impossible to miss—his slightly pointed ears marked him as quarter beastman, while the faint red sheen that flickered across his black horns whenever light hit them betrayed his devilish lineage. He bowed deeply, his robes rustling softly.
"Your Majesty," Dion said, his tone formal but edged with curiosity. "I was summoned?"
Raphael moved toward his desk and sank heavily into the chair, the weight of the shared domain still pressing against his shoulders. For a long moment, he said nothing, his crimson gaze fixed on the papers in front of him, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.
"Magda," he said finally, his voice low but measured, "has regressed."
Dion's sharp features furrowed in confusion. "Regressed, Your Majesty?"
Raphael glanced up, pinning Dion with his gaze. "Her soul. It has reverted to when she was four years old."
Dion blinked, his analytical mind already racing. His sharp claws tapped thoughtfully against the edge of his leather-bound notebook, an old habit when processing information.
"Four years old…" he echoed softly. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but… how did this happen?"
"A phenomenon I have never seen before," Raphael replied, his tone clipped. He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "She expended too much mana. It drained her—and now she is a child again."
Dion fell silent, his golden eyes widening slightly as the pieces began to fall into place. Slowly, he shook his head, the corner of his lips twitching downward in thought.
"Extraordinary," Dion murmured, half to himself. "She's strong… much stronger than I believed."
Raphael arched a brow, his patience thinning. "Explain."
"It is only conjecture, Your Majesty, but allow me to provide context." Dion straightened, his voice taking on a tone of careful authority. "Mana deficiency occurs when a mage depletes their mana beyond what their body can replenish. This is common when mages push themselves while trying new spells—they must stop, recuperate, and gradually strengthen their capacity over time."
Raphael remained silent, listening intently as Dion continued.
"However," Dion emphasized, his gaze sharp and piercing, "Princess Magda likely never experienced mana deficiency before. Her reserves were so vast that she may have believed herself immune to its limitations. Yet, if she continued to spend mana—forcing herself past the natural boundary of her body—it would explain her regression."
"Regression?" Raphael repeated, his tone cold as ice.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Dion paused briefly, his claws tapping rhythmically against his notebook once more. "A rare phenomenon sometimes observed during severe mana deficiency is the regression of the soul's age to align with the mage's current mana levels. The Princess now possesses the reserves of a child who first manifested her powers at four years old. But what is astonishing, Your Majesty, is the sheer size of her reserves. For her mana to align to such a young age suggests an extraordinary—no, an unprecedented—amount of power. The fact that she did not suffer mana instability is, quite frankly, a miracle."
Raphael leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. His face remained stoic, but the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed his inner turmoil. Dion's words echoed in his mind: mana deficiency, regression, miracle.
A memory stirred—tthe day Magda had been revealed to him, not by his own search but through a routine assessment at the Imperial Academy for Special talents. The examiner had recognized her unique bloodline and informed the headmaster, who, clever as he was, presented Magda to the Emperor as a mage prodigy rather than outright naming her as his daughter. But Raphael had known—the moment his eyes met hers, crimson mirrors of his own—he had known she was his daughter. He had not looked for her. Not because he could not… but because he feared the answers he might find. What if he had failed her more than he knew? What if she had suffered, as she had now, all this time?
Raphael exhaled slowly, the sound like a whisper of wind through dry leaves.
"It is providence that she survived without instability," Dion continued carefully, as though sensing the Emperor's thoughts. "But Your Majesty, the regression is reversible. If her soul is nurtured and stabilized through proper care, she will recover fully. It will require time… and patience."
Raphael's crimson eyes flickered, his expression hardening once more into resolve.
"I will do it myself," he said softly but firmly. "Within the shared domain, I will accelerate time. She will know nothing of harm. I will raise her as I should have done from the start."
Dion studied the Emperor for a long moment, his golden eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. Finally, he bowed deeply, his horns catching the glow of the mana lamps.
"As you command, Your Majesty. The Empire will endure, but the Princess… she must come first."
Raphael inclined his head faintly, though his focus had already shifted elsewhere. Rising from his chair, he moved to the window, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling city below. The faint light of dawn had begun to touch the pale blue sky, yet it offered him no peace.
"Magda," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible. "I will give you what was stolen… and I will ensure no harm ever touches you again."
Behind him, Dion quietly took his leave, the study falling silent once more.
Raphael turned back toward the desk, where papers lay scattered, forgotten. For a long moment, he stood alone, his crimson eyes lost in thought. Then, with a wave of his hand, the golden shimmer of the shared domain returned—and he stepped back into the place where his daughter now slept.
Location: Shelb Camp – Training Grounds
The Shelb Camp was a place known for discipline, order, and military rigor. Or at least, it had been until Adrian von Shelb took over "morale management." Now, brightly colored banners hung between tents, fluttering with questionable slogans like "Smiles Build Swords" and "A Happy Soldier is a Sharp Soldier!"
The clang of swords sparring was now accompanied by uproarious laughter. Soldiers dashed across the muddy training grounds carrying sacks of potatoes on their backs while their comrades cheered them on. Others engaged in an overly enthusiastic tug-of-war that left several men facedown in the dirt, still grinning like fools.
Ethan von Shelb had just returned from nearly a week of overseeing the Red-Sky and Red-Fog aftermath, his face lined with exhaustion. He stopped dead at the edge of the camp, eyes twitching as he took in the scene before him.
A soldier sprinted past him with a painted stick in hand, shouting, "Sir! Permission to secure the flag in 'Capture the Cloth'?"
Ethan blinked. "The what?"
Before the soldier could answer, another voice piped up from behind.
"I'm telling you, Sir Ethan, the tug-of-war builds real strength!" a grizzled recruit declared earnestly, mud smeared across his face as he hefted a fraying rope over one shoulder.
Ethan's gaze sharpened, his voice a deadpan growl. "This is a military camp, not a summer retreat."
Near the center of the chaos, Adrian von Shelb stood proudly with his hands on his hips, a banner of "Teamwork Makes the Dream Work" flapping behind him like a personal crest. A nearby suggestion box overflowed with parchment slips, spilling onto the ground as a young aide frantically tried to gather them up.
Ethan stormed toward his brother with the energy of a man whose patience had officially run out.
"Adrian!" Ethan's voice carried across the grounds, slicing through the laughter like a whip.
Adrian turned, a wide grin splitting his face as if Ethan's impending fury was a welcome surprise. "Ethan! You're back!" He gestured broadly to the camp with a flourish. "What do you think? Morale has never been higher."
"What I think," Ethan began slowly, his voice dangerously calm, "is that soldiers don't need pie contests or potato-sack races—they need discipline."
"Discipline!" Adrian repeated with mock horror, pressing a hand to his chest. "Dear brother, you wound me. Discipline alone doesn't win wars—morale does! You can't have swords without smiles."
Ethan stared blankly at him. "That's not a saying."
"It should be."
A soldier jogged up to Adrian, his helmet askew and his cheeks flushed with excitement. "My Lord Adrian! Permission to start the pie-eating contest? Baker Gyles says the cherry pies are ready!"
"Permission granted!" Adrian declared with a dramatic wave. "And tell Gyles the winners get an extra day of light-duty patrol."
The soldier saluted with unnecessary vigor and sprinted off, leaving Ethan to glare daggers at his younger brother.
"Pie-eating contests? Really?" Ethan muttered, rubbing his temples. "If you'd been born first, Shelb wouldn't have an army—it'd be a traveling circus troupe."
Adrian's grin faltered for the briefest of moments, replaced by a glint of bitterness. "Oh, but you did appreciate my leadership when you left me here to deal with all this, didn't you? Off to Armond's camp while I was stuck taking tea lessons with Mother."
Ethan paused mid-grumble, caught off guard. "That's not—"
"Oh, don't deny it!" Adrian said, raising an accusatory finger. "You ran off and left me to endure tea etiquette! Do you know what it's like being corrected on the angle of your pinky for two straight hours?" His voice rose with theatrical despair. "Two hours, Ethan! I nearly lost my will to live!"
Ethan's lips twitched, though he fought to keep his expression stern. "You're exaggerating."
"I am not! Mother wouldn't even let me drink the tea until I got it perfect. I would've preferred actual combat to that!" Adrian huffed, folding his arms as if still wounded by the memory. "So forgive me for embracing leadership in my own creative way."
Ethan sighed, his irritation ebbing just slightly. "Adrian—"
"And don't forget," Adrian cut him off triumphantly, "you left here with no complaints about my leadership skills when you went marching off to play hero. Soldiers were in excellent hands." He gestured to the chaos around him with an air of mock grandeur. "Clearly, I haven't let you down."
Ethan's gaze flicked over the soldiers—mud-covered, laughing, and working together like a mismatched but functional family. As much as he hated to admit it, Adrian had a point.
One soldier pulled another out of the mud, both of them cackling as they stumbled toward the mess tent. Nearby, two recruits—who Ethan distinctly remembered constantly brawling—shook hands over a victorious round of potato-carry relays.
Ethan groaned, defeated. "It's like you've weaponized chaos."
Adrian clapped him on the back cheerfully. "Exactly! I call it 'creative leadership.' You wouldn't understand—it's an art form."
"Leadership?" Ethan grumbled as he brushed Adrian's hand off his shoulder. "If this is leadership, then I'm a fishmonger."
"Don't sell yourself short. You'd make an excellent fishmonger," Adrian quipped, grinning ear to ear.
Before Ethan could respond, a loud thud drew their attention. A group of soldiers had collapsed into a pile after an overly ambitious group hug post-tug-of-war victory.
Ethan stared for a long moment before sighing deeply, hands on his hips. "You're going to clean all of this up, Adrian. Every last banner and potato."
Adrian, completely unfazed, simply beamed at the chaos he had created. "Of course, dear brother. Right after tomorrow's three-legged race."
Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about "lunatics running the estate." But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of a soldier tying one of Adrian's absurd banners to a training dummy—grinning ear to ear as he did it.
Even Ethan couldn't deny it. Somehow, Adrian's antics were working.
"Fine," Ethan said at last, grudgingly. "But if I see a single juggling act, I'm burning this camp to the ground."
Adrian laughed, completely unbothered. "Noted. No juggling."
As Ethan stalked off toward the command tent, Adrian turned back to the soldiers with a theatrical clap of his hands.
"All right, team! Who's ready for the next event—shield bowling?"
A cheer erupted from the troops, and Adrian grinned triumphantly, his banners fluttering in the wind like the proud flags of a very unconventional victory.
Location: Armond Camp
The campfires burned low as the evening settled over the Armond camp, the orange glow casting long, flickering shadows across rows of neatly pitched tents. The air carried the faint scent of smoke and iron, mingling with the lingering acrid burn of the recent red-sky and red-fog attack. The camp bore its scars—patched tents, hastily repaired barricades, and soldiers moving slower, wearier than before. Yet, a rare quiet had fallen over the grounds, as if the camp itself was catching its breath. Count Drifter Armond stood at the edge of it all, arms crossed, his broad figure silhouetted against the dusky sky, watching his men rebuild in the aftermath of the chaos.
Drifter's sharp gray eyes scanned the horizon, but his mind lingered elsewhere—on the grief-stricken young Shelb boy whose loss had opened wounds he himself had long ignored. What if that had been Reuben? The thought clawed at him like a beast.
Taking a deep breath, he turned toward one of the command tents. Inside sat his son, Reuben Armond, hunched over reports with his brow furrowed in quiet focus. Reuben shared his father's sharp features and strong build, but where Drifter was a warrior forged in iron and battle, Reuben had inherited his mother's magic. The faint hum of residual mana clung to the air around him, a quiet testament to his power. Drifter had once mistaken his son's calm frustration for defiance, not understanding that Reuben's strength lay in a different kind of fight.
The tent flap rustled as Drifter stepped inside. Reuben looked up, startled.
"Father?" he asked, his voice hesitant.
Drifter cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically out of place in the presence of his own son. As he stood there, he realized how easily he had seen the cracks between Louis and Micheal, yet had been so blind to the same fracture between himself and Reuben. "Reuben. I…" The words seemed to weigh more than his sword. Damn it, Drifter. Speak.
Reuben frowned, setting down the quill he'd been holding. "What's wrong? Is it the reports? I already reviewed the casualty logs—"
"No, it's not the reports." Drifter cut him off, his tone gruff but softer than usual. He shifted awkwardly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "It's… us."
Reuben blinked, taken aback. "Us?"
"Aye." Drifter exhaled sharply, like a man facing down an enemy far greater than any beast. "I've been pushing you too hard, boy. I thought I was shaping you into someone stronger, someone better than me. But I…" He faltered, the words sticking. "I forgot you're not me. You're you. And you're already strong. Stronger than I give you credit for."
Reuben stared at him, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched long enough for Drifter to shift uncomfortably again.
"I'm not good at this," Drifter admitted gruffly, his voice dropping. "Apologies aren't my strong suit. But I'm trying. You deserve that much."
Reuben blinked again, then, to Drifter's surprise, let out a faint chuckle. "Did… Did something happen? Did someone knock you over the head?"
Drifter scowled, though there was no real heat in it. "Don't push your luck, boy."
Reuben shook his head, a slow smile breaking across his face. "No. I'm just… surprised. It's not like you to talk like this."
"I know," Drifter muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But someone reminded me today what loss looks like. I don't want that between us. Not anymore."
Reuben looked down at the reports on his desk, his smile softening. "I guess… I don't want that either."
The tent fell quiet again, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. Drifter nodded once, a small but genuine gesture.
"Good." He turned to leave, but paused halfway through the tent flap. "You've done well, Reuben. I don't say it enough, but I'm proud of you."
Reuben's head shot up, stunned. "Thank you, Father."
Outside, Maggie Armond leaned casually against one of the tent poles, arms crossed and a knowing smile playing on her lips. She'd heard everything.
Drifter paused as he saw her, one brow arching. "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough," Maggie replied, her tone teasing but fond. "You're lucky Reuben didn't pass out from shock."
Drifter grunted. "I suppose you're going to take credit for this?"
"Of course I am." Maggie stepped forward, resting a hand lightly on his arm. "It took someone else's loss for you to see what really matters. Be grateful for it."
Drifter's scowl softened, though he didn't respond. Instead, he turned his gaze back toward the camp, where the fires burned a little brighter now, or perhaps it only seemed that way.
The next morning, Drifter sat at the central command table reviewing a report handed to him by one of his aides.
"Count Drifter," the aide began, a tinge of excitement in his voice. "Initial feedback on Micheal von Shelb's… uh… innovations is in. The armor reinforcement—"
"The man-bra," another soldier muttered under his breath, earning himself a glare.
Drifter grumbled. "That name is a crime. What do they say?"
"They say it works, sir," the aide replied with a smile. "Casualties were far lower than expected during the beast tide. The reinforcements—fitted chest armor and additional elbow, shoulder, and knee protections—absorbed aura strain far better than standard leather. Soldiers are calling it a complete breakthrough."
Drifter frowned thoughtfully, setting the report down. "Hmph. Credit where it's due. The Shelb boy's inventions saved lives." He drummed his fingers on the table. "The name stays, however, only if it's fixed."
Arthur Gray, standing awkwardly at the corner of the tent, seized his chance. "Ah, Count Drifter! Permission to rename it to 'Micheal's Aura Fixers'? Micheal's leather prototypes were always called Micheal's Fixes. Since these help aura users…"
Drifter raised a brow, then gave a curt nod. "Aura Fixers. Better."
Arthur looked visibly relieved. "Thank you, sir."
Drifter watched as Arthur scurried off, likely to relay the decision to Micheal. He leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh.
"The Shelb boy…" Drifter muttered to himself, his voice low. "Perhaps we owe him more than we know."
Maggie, passing behind him with a tray of coffee, patted his shoulder gently. "Told you so."
Drifter groaned but didn't argue. Somehow, his camp felt lighter—better—than it had in years.