The chamber was dark. Cold. Silent.

  Kaelan lay sprawled on the stone floor until, with a sudden jolt, his eyes snapped open. He sucked in a ragged breath and pushed himself upright, leaning against the wall.

  A figure stood across from him — tall, imposing, arms folded. His entire head was encased in a sleek green helmet that concealed his face, leaving only the faint gleam of his eyes behind the visor.

  “Finally awake, huh,” the man said, his voice deep and resonant.

  Kaelan blinked, disoriented. His hands moved across his chest, his ribs, his face. No wounds. No pain. Not even a scar.

  “I used my potions on you,” the man continued. “They weren’t cheap. And I had my healers mend your bones. You’ve been out for days.”

  Kaelan’s gaze sharpened. The man towered above him, easily thirteen feet tall.

  “You…” Kaelan’s throat was dry. “…Who are you?”

  The man stepped forward, crouching down until his helmeted face was level with Kaelan’s eyes. His presence pressed like a mountain.

  “I heard Sotiphar bore a Rare-breed this century,” he said evenly. “It’s you, isn’t it? What is your name?”

  Kaelan’s lips parted, hesitant. “…Why should I—”

  Before the words could finish, the man’s hand shot out, clamping around Kaelan’s throat. The iron grip squeezed, forcing Kaelan’s breath into shallow gasps.

  “Listen here,” the man growled. “I saved your life. I am being nice. So when I ask you a question… I expect an answer. Am I clear?”

  Kaelan’s eyes widened. He nodded quickly.

  The man released him, his voice turning calm again. “Good. Let’s start over.”

  Kaelan rubbed his throat, coughing. “…My name is Kaelan. Kaelan Tragulger.”

  The man inclined his head slightly. “Mr. Tragulger. Tell me… why didn’t you learn Bravo?”

  Kaelan’s fists clenched. “…It’s a long story. Wait—where is she?”

  “The Valphraxsis woman? She’s fine.” The man’s tone was dismissive. “I watched your battle. And I must say… it was... pathetic. Truly. I almost died of embarrassment.”

  Kaelan’s eyes flared. “Where is Elsa?”

  “So that’s her name.” The man’s voice curved into a smirk. “I have her. For a demi-beast, she’s quite pretty. But you, Mr. Tragulger…” His head tilted. “…You’re the weakest Rare-breed I’ve ever seen. Must be because you never learned Bravo.”

  Kaelan’s jaw tightened, shame mixing with anger.

  “Well, whatever happened to you, you can tell me later,” the man continued. “For now… I have a proposal.”

  From his coat, he drew a small vial filled with shimmering blue liquid. The glow cast sharp lines across his helmet.

  “After all the stories you must have heard about Rare-breeds as a child, it must be humiliating to call yourself one. But the power you lack… you can have it. With this.”

  Kaelan’s eyes narrowed. “…What is it?”

  “This,” the man said, holding the vial aloft, “is V2. It’s a shame you already refined your Vitalis into mana. But still — with this, you can gain the strength you’re missing.”

  Kaelan’s breath slowed. “…How do I know it isn’t poison?”

  The man chuckled darkly. “Poison is the weapon of the weak. If I wanted you dead, Kaelan… trust me. I wouldn’t need this.”

  Kaelan stared at the vial, his voice rough. “…That thing can really make me stronger?”

  “Yes.”

  “…What’s the catch?”

  The man leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s simple. Join me.”

  Kaelan’s eyes narrowed. “…I don’t even know who you are.”

  The man stood tall, his shadow engulfing the chamber.

  “I… am a Kottor.”

  Kaelan’s blood ran cold. His voice cracked. “What? You’re one of them? You want me to join you? That’s… that’s basically becoming a criminal. The Binding Hand will hunt me until the end of my days!”

  The man’s laughter was low, confident. “Don’t worry about them. By my side, no one will touch you. And if you’re thinking of turning me down…”

  He reached behind him and produced a small box — deep blue, shaped like a jeweler’s ring case. Slowly, he opened it before Kaelan’s eyes.

  The inside glowed, washing Kaelan’s face in radiant azure light.

  Elsewhere

  Strata stood before a figure reclined in shadow. The chamber was dim, its corners swallowed in silence. Only the faint rhythm of fingertips tapping against wood broke the stillness.

  A voice, smooth and detached, drifted from the figure.

  “So. Unexpected things happened, hm? Oh well. At least you tried.”

  Strata inclined his head. “I saw Elvheins there. Rare-breeds. But not the ones we know. They were very young. Three of them. One wielded Bravo… the other two used mana.”

  The voice sharpened. “…Since when do rare-breeds use mana?”

  “I was just as surprised,” Strata admitted. “And… each of them had only one heart.”

  There was a pause. Then a low, almost curious murmur:

  “Hmm. Apart from the humans and Pungence, no one else has a single heart. What are the odds… rare-breeds being born at all?”

  “Usually one in a hundred… maybe two hundred years,” Strata answered.

  A faint chuckle drifted from the shadows — hollow, humorless.

  “And there were three of them. What are the odds indeed.” The voice lingered, carrying both mockery and intrigue. “It’s truly a shame you couldn’t get the armor.”

  ---

  A Room of Screens

  Elsewhere, in a chamber glowing with blue light, walls lined with floating Seer-screens, the Cameraman stood tall — nine feet of shadowy menace, though short by Yilheim standards his helmet hiding all trace of his face. A single glowing C gleamed across its surface.

  Balling, flamboyant as ever, draped an arm across the Cameraman’s shoulder. “Ehh, you know, I really thought that island was going to go boom-boom! Wiped clean off the map like a plate after dinner. But nooo! Somebody stopped it. Ooooh, I wonder who…”

  The Cameraman said nothing, his silence as heavy as his presence.

  Balling tilted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. “Sooo… where to, my short, helmeted friend?”

  The Cameraman lowered himself into a wide chair surrounded by glowing controls. His voice rolled out like thunder under steel.

  “…We go to Yardrad. Not for the sights. Not for the people. But for the stories—hidden in the cracks, waiting to be exposed.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the glowing controls casting his helmet in pale light.

  “…And for the nobles who think themselves untouchable.” A pause. His tone turned sharp, almost amused.

  “…Lives like theirs are made to be ruined.”

  Balling’s girlfriend, Ovia, smirked at the words. “Oh, that does sound fun.”

  The Cameraman rose, his presence filling the room. “Take your seats.”

  Their Waver roared to life. Unlike the usual ships, this one had wings — sleek, avian, feathered with steel. Shaped like a colossal bird, it cut through the clouds at sonic speed, its shadow streaking across the sky.

  They approached a floating island of marble towers and gilded spires — a sanctuary for nobles. The Waver descended into the forest, wings folding, hull camouflaging into green shadow.

  The trio stepped out. Ovia adjusted her cloak, side-eyeing the helmet.

  “So… aren’t you going to draw attention with that thing on your head?”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The Cameraman turned his faceless helm toward her. The C glowed cold blue.

  “The helmet doesn’t make me stand out. It erases me. They won’t remember the man — only the mask. To them, I am no man at all. Only a shadow… recording their sins.”

  Ovia blinked, then glanced at Balling. “…Does he always sound this dramatic?”

  Balling clapped his hands gleefully. “Ohohoho yesss, darling! That’s his whole thing! It’s like theater, but with murder! I love it.”

  Ovia sighed. “So what do we have to do?”

  Balling spread his arms grandly, strutting ahead like a king on parade. “Nothing, my dear! Nothing! He will do everything. And the best part—” he twirled on his heel, pointing at the Cameraman like he was announcing a show, “—is watching him in action!”

  The Cameraman pulled a folded sheet from his cloak and handed it to Ovia. On it was the painted face of a noble man: Arestin Del Armon.

  “He’s the target,” the Cameraman said. His voice was steel. “He extorts his people. He traffics elves.”

  Balling shook his head with mock tragedy. “No wonder the elves hate Aurellian. These nobles just can’t keep their greedy hands to themselves.”

  The Cameraman turned toward the distant city, the C glowing like a curse. “…This is an easy job. Let’s go.”

  ---

  Days Later — Heful, at the Beach

  The sun blazed above, waves crashing gently against golden sand. The beach was alive with laughter. Sierra and Victoria swam in the shallows, their voices ringing over the water. The Bold One — Alvin — splashed beside them, trying to impress.

  Ziraiah emerged from the waves in a sleek bikini. Her wet hair shimmered in the sun, cascading down her back. Heads turned. Whispers followed. Eyes lingered.

  She shook her head, droplets scattering, her braid swinging as the sea breeze caught it.

  From his beach chair, Eryndor’s emerald eyes narrowed. He watched the stares, his face tightening. Alvin’s jaw dropped openly.

  Catching Eryndor’s glare, Alvin raised both hands in surrender. “Oh—sorry, man. Not my fault your sister’s gorgeous.”

  Eryndor’s gaze returned to his paper. Caution. Restraint. Self-command, he reminded himself. His composure remained. He wore only simple blue shorts, his regal posture making even leisure look ceremonial.

  Alvin leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You know, I’m surprised you let her and that guy get together. What’s his name again? Deeno?”

  Eryndor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…It was beyond my jurisdiction. She was most insistent.”

  In the surf, Ziraiah laughed as Deeno splashed water at her. She retaliated, playful and radiant. Eryndor’s eyes flicked once toward them before returning to the print in his hands.

  “You’re at a beach, man!” Alvin groaned. “Would it kill you to, I dunno, have fun?”

  Eryndor did not look up. “I assure you, I am deriving ample amusement… through reading.”

  On the front page was the face of Arestin Del Armon.

  The headline screamed: “Arestin Del Armon Captured and Charged with Elf Trafficking, Illegal Experimentation.”

  At the top corner of the paper… a single, bold, glowing blue C.

  Close by, Sultan — “Mr. Baby” — was surrounded by a flock of girls.

  “Aww, he’s so cute!” one cooed, pressing him tight against her chest. His head smothered between soft curves, Sultan wore a grin far too mischievous for a supposed infant.

  Across the sand, Eryndor lowered his newspaper just enough to catch the scene. Sultan locked eyes with him and flashed that wicked little smile.

  Eryndor exhaled through his nose, smirking, before shaking his head.

  Alvin leaned over, gaping. “Uh… where’d you guys get that baby?”

  Eryndor folded the paper with deliberate precision, his voice perfectly even. “Oh, believe me… that is assuredly no infant.”

  Alvin blinked. “...Huh?”

  A short distance away, Juvian dashed after Isabela with a water gun, streams of mana-infused water glittering under the sun.

  “You’ll never get me with that!” she laughed, sprinting across the sand as Juvian fired in relentless pursuit.

  Meanwhile, under a cluster of parasols, Andrea, Pungence, Zeliona, Juval, and Ria reclined on padded beach beds. The sea breeze was warm, the sky cloudless.

  The peace shattered when a shadow loomed. An 11’5 middle-aged man with brown hair stood over Pungence, blocking his sun.

  Pungence groaned without looking up. “What are you doing here, Blake? Go away. I’m off duty.”

  Blake’s tone was clipped. “Didn’t I tell you Dreados and Omfry escaped?”

  “Yes,” Pungence said, still lounging. “And that’s not my problem. I’m off duty. Get a Warbringer. Or a High General.”

  Andrea pushed her sunglasses down her nose, glaring. “What are you doing here, Blake?”

  He softened. “Hello, Andrea. I’m here to inform Pungence of—”

  She cut him off, sitting up. “Pungence spends months with you people. You can’t give him four weeks to spend with his family? Don’t you have other dogs to deal with your problems?”

  Blake flinched. “Come on, Andrea. You can’t call us that.”

  “Why not?” she shot back.

  “Well… it’s rude.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes and dropped back into her chair.

  Beside her, Zeliona cradled her blond two-year-old son, Zelion their third child, the youngest prince of Zitry. The boy slept soundly against her chest.

  “Pungence is a busy man, Andrea,” Zeliona said gently.

  Andrea scoffed. “You only say that because your husband is always home.”

  Zeliona smiled faintly. “You know, Andrea… I do have someone you could spend time with. If you’re interested.”

  Andrea shot her a flat look. “I’ll pass.”

  Suddenly—BOOOOM!

  A sonic clap thundered across the beach. The wind surged, sending parasols toppling and sand spraying.

  Valerius stood before Eryndor, green eyes blazing. “You asshole! You left me there breaking glasses while you were here—having fun? Not cool, man!”

  Alvin’s jaw dropped. “What the—he just appeared out of nowhere!”

  Eryndor calmly folded his newspaper, his tone as composed as ever. “Did Pungence not expressly instruct you to remain until you could properly wield a glass? Furthermore, abstain from propelling yourself at Mach velocities within the city?”

  From under the parasol, Pungence rumbled, “Did you succeed?”

  Valerius hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Uuuh… uhm…”

  “Then,” Pungence said firmly, “you’d better go back.”

  But Valerius’s eyes caught on someone further down the beach. He froze.

  “Wait… hey. Is that the Bold One?”

  Eryndor glanced over. “Yes.”

  Valerius’s gaze shifted to the water — and stopped dead. Ziraiah, in the surf, laughing as she splashed playfully with another young man.

  His jaw dropped. His face twisted in disbelief.

  “…Who the hell is that?”

  Eryndor sighed, folding his newspaper again. “No one of consequence.”

  Valerius growled. “What do you mean no one of consequence?”

  He started forward, fists clenched — but suddenly, his legs locked. His body refused to move.

  Eryndor’s voice was calm, but iron. “Do not create a spectacle here, Valerius.”

  ---

  To Be Continued...