A few days later, golden morning light sliced through the cracked wooden shutters of Jay’s house like a holy smite. The first rays of Solariis painted the pale clouds cotton-candy pink, while weird birds that laughed like drunk uncles cackled from the bushes around Edsoria.

  Jay stood by the tiny wooden table in the middle of his one-room disaster zone, still trying to process how his quiet bachelor pad had turned into a circus of limbs, voices, and random crap everywhere.

  The place was small. Criminally small. Sixty square meters of pure chaos. One double bed shoved in the corner, a “privacy screen” made from old war banners, shelves overflowing with potion bottles, half-read tomes, and random armor pieces… and right in the center, a threadbare rug that Su Mei was currently using as her personal yoga studio—with flexibility that should be registered as a war crime.

  “Hhhhhhaaaaa~!” the eastern fox exhaled, upside-down, legs folded behind her head like a pretzel designed by a sadist. “This house smells like single guy who never learned how to fold a towel.”

  “Says the girl who turned my living room into a dojo that reeks of incense and bad decisions.”

  Layla, propped up on a mountain of pillows on the bed—still wrapped head-to-toe in bandages—watched the whole thing with one eyebrow permanently arched and an apple slice hanging from her mouth. Her wild curls (brown, gold, and fire-red streaks) were tied in a messy bun that screamed “I woke up like this and I will fight you about it.”

  “Jay,” she said flatly, chewing slowly, “didn’t you want a low-profile party, meow?”

  Jay didn’t answer. He was busy wrestling a drawer that somehow contained a greave, a spoon, and a lock of his own hair.

  Layla kept going.

  “She’s the opposite of low-profile. She’s basically a walking neon sign screaming ‘COME ROB US.’ Though…” She glanced down at her own sleepwear—a light camisole with the Emerald Fever guild crest barely covering the important bits. “A bikini amazon and a half-elf loli probably aren’t winning stealth awards either, meow…”

  “Hey!” Nessa squeaked from behind the banner-screen, where she was apparently trying to brew tea in a pot that was never meant for fire. “I’m discreet! I have manners! I—AAHH, WHY IS THE KETTLE ON FIRE AGAIN?!”

  WHOOSH! A blast of holy water put out the flames. Nessa emerged coughing, hair dripping, face covered in soot like a sad raccoon.

  “…Screw it. Iced tea it is.”

  Meanwhile, Su Mei was now in an inverted plank, balancing on two fingers like gravity owed her money. Her “training outfit” was basically a silk ribbon doing its best.

  “Laylita~,” she sing-songed without looking, “you heal fast, hmm? This one is pleased. The world would be boring without your cute little fangs.”

  Layla narrowed her eyes. Slowly.

  “Meow… I don’t actually remember when you showed up. Was I still unconscious?”

  “Probably. But we can get to know each other now~” Wink.

  Jay sighed so hard his ancestors felt it. He opened his mouth to beg them—please—not to murder each other before lunch, when a familiar voice detonated inside his skull like a divine nuke:

  “Jay. Tower. NOW. Leave the girls. Bring your brain—if you can find it. URGENT.” —Amy

  He flinched so hard he almost yeeted the cookie jar.

  “Gotta go.”

  “What? Now?” Nessa asked, wringing out her hair with one of Jay’s lavender-scented towels.

  “Amy mind-yelled. Capital-U urgent.”

  Layla groaned.

  “Already, meow?”

  Su Mei flipped forward, landed cross-legged with a soft bwoing~, and grinned like a kid who just found the matches—or a kitsune who found your wallet and your dignity. For a split second, the silk ribbons on her chest bounced in open rebellion against gravity, as if they too wanted in on the joke.

  “Don’t worry, Jay. This one will take care of the house~”

  “That’s exactly what I’m—”

  Argh. He grabbed his cloak, clipped his holy tome to his belt, and stumbled out the door, mentally cursing life, women, the gods, and the absolutely criminal waist-to-hip ratio on that damn fox.

  The door slammed.

  Su Mei turned to Layla with the sweetest smile known to mankind.

  “So, Laylita… bikini or armor first?”

  Layla answered with a stare that, for once, looked more curious than murderous.

  …

  Up on Amy’s tower, the morning wind was gentle and warm. Golden light spilled over the highest leaves of the forest, and the enchanted stone floor radiated cozy heat under Jay’s boots. The air smelled like chamomile, jasmine, and whatever glowing green herb Amy was sipping from her steaming mug.

  Jay stood with arms crossed, jaw tight. He wasn’t a fan of heights, floating towers, or anything this… girly-magical. But Amy? He respected the hell out of her. Maybe too much.

  The crimson-eyed mage took a slow breath, staring past the clouds like she could see tomorrow.

  “You know I’m a prodigy,” she said, calm but sharp as a freshly honed blade. “By mage standards, I’m basically a toddler, yet I know more spells than most geezers with beards down to their knees. Still… compared to actual elven archmages? I’m a candle next to a bonfire.”

  She turned, red hair dancing in the breeze.

  “If I keep studying that cursed sword at my current pace, I’ll finish the research at age one hundred… with a slipped disc and a permanent hunch. So I did the smart thing: I looked for people who can actually help you. Found three names. Tracking elven archmages in this day and age is like trying to catch a fart in a hurricane, but here we are.”

  Jay frowned.

  “Elves?”

  Amy nodded, sipping her tea. Steam fogged her big round glasses for a second.

  “First: Krafner Firandr, the Primordial Pyromancer. Older than the concept of setting things on fire for fun. Knowledge so vast it hurts to think about. Tracking him is like trying to sniff out lightning.

  Second: Lady Aelinor Valyra. Much more reachable. She was my teacher back when I was an apprentice. Sweet woman… who’d make you cast spells in your sleep and then write a thirty-page essay about it. I can probably get a recommendation letter—if your party promises not to trample her flowerbeds.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Third…”

  Amy sighed.

  “Ghilgallian Amestr. Master of General Jeannie.”

  Jay froze. Amy noticed. Didn’t comment. Just raised her mug in a silent toast to the awkwardness.

  “No idea where you stand with Jeannie these days, but Ghilgallian’s a genius. And insufferable. They’re basically the same person with different hair length.”

  She turned back to the horizon.

  “Of the three, Valyra’s the only one I have a lead on—she answered a summons from Friedhor. The other two could be napping in the astral plane for all I know.”

  Jay rubbed his chin.

  “Friedhor’s a diplomatic dumpster fire right now… Heading north might be smarter.”

  Amy set her mug down on a stone pedestal. The breeze turned colder. Or maybe it was just her voice.

  “Jay. I need you to leave the city.”

  He blinked.

  “That direct, huh?”

  “That sword your companion carries isn’t just unstable—it’s loud. Magnet for Vortex beasts, relic hunters, crazy scholars, and worst of all: opportunistic adventurers.”

  She crossed her arms, eyes dead serious.

  “I haven’t been the kingdom’s court mage in years. But my apprentice, Esplendor, is. And I care about her.”

  Jay knew Esplendor—perfect posture, gentle face, talent that made Amy look humble.

  “She’s brilliant,” Amy continued. “Has everything I never bothered with: diplomacy, noble manners, infinite patience for paperwork… If something happens to her because of you lot, Jay… I’ll never forgive myself. Or you.”

  He nodded, expression softening.

  “That’s why I want you gone. Fast. Head north. I’ll keep looking for the other two elves. When you’re close enough to a real lead, I’ll come to you.”

  Jay opened his mouth—probably to suggest teleportation.

  Amy raised a hand.

  “No teleports. No flight. No fancy magic travel.”

  “…Why?”

  “Preliminary readings on the sword say prolonged exposure to high-grade magical signatures makes it… twitchy. Could explode. Could tear a hole in reality. Could dump you all naked in the feywild with flower crowns and zero dignity.”

  Jay went pale.

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’d love to test it, but I prefer you breathing. So take the road. Travel like normal people. And be out of Edsoria by tomorrow sunset.”

  She picked up her empty mug, sighed contentedly.

  “Hm… three girls traveling with you now, and I’m the pervert?” she muttered into the steam, sweet as poisoned honey.

  Jay had no comeback. The facts were too damning.

  …

  The journey was gonna be long. Real long.

  The day after Amy’s “get the hell out” speech, Jay and the girls threw themselves into prep mode. Edsoria’s markets were a madhouse—spices that sneezed glitter, dusty magic tapestries, weapon shops that smelled like oil, leather, and poor life choices.

  Su Mei was in her element. Scratch that—she was the element. She flitted from stall to stall like a fox let loose in a henhouse, trying on everything, flirting with anything that had a pulse and a smile. Half-lidded eyes, lazy smirk—she looked like a bored noble slumming it for attention. Layla, predictably, lost her mind in under two hours. Every double entendre from Su Mei earned a growl and, at one point, a smoked fish waved like a war club.

  Nessa did her cleric thing: stuffed protective scrolls into hidden pockets, redrew warding sigils on everyone’s boot soles, and tried to make Jay take a ritual herb bath. He politely declined and kept smelling like road dust and regret.

  Jay spent most of the day at the guild offloading junk. Made decent coin—except for one helmet he swore “turned battle cries into muffled meows.” Got laughs, got extra gold, didn’t declare it. Classic paladin move. By sunset he had a fat stack of Auras—Dalmástia’s shiny currency—enough for the road plus whatever chaos these three would inevitably drag him into.

  A few hours before dusk, the party stood in front of Jay’s house. Aethon—silver-maned warhorse and the only sane member of the group—was saddled and packed. Everyone had their “essentials”:

  Su Mei, for instance, had decided “essentials” meant two skimpy outfits, a tiny vial of perfume that could probably seduce a golem, and a raven-feather fan she twirled like she was born on a throne. Layla? Three battleaxes. Just three. For a one-meter-twenty kiteni barbarian, that was basically downsizing. Nessa brought half a portable library and enough holy water to baptize a demon lord… twice.

  Aethon flicked his silver tail, already judging everyone’s life choices. Jay just sighed and tightened the last strap.

  Plan: ride hard, crash at Belrad village by nightfall. Simple.

  The plan lasted exactly one hour.

  First, Layla nearly fell off Aethon because a tree looked like a boar and obviously needed investigating. Then Nessa spotted glowing Petalus Lunaris and declared them “essential for a very specific exorcism.” Finally, Su Mei announced—in that tone that brooks no argument—that she required a bath. In the creek. Naked.

  Jay, outwardly a pillar of patience, inwardly screaming, rubbed his face so hard he nearly exfoliated. When Su Mei strolled back wearing nothing but dripping hair and those damn silk ribbons, casually wringing water from her bangs and asking “Miss me?”, Jay just stared at the sky begging the stars for strength. The stars flipped him off.

  “We could just camp here,” Nessa sighed, already drawing a warding circle in the dirt.

  “Again?!” Layla groaned. “We’ve walked, what, two hundred yards since Edsoria, meow? I could measure it with dental floss!”

  “Aw, Laylita’s just jealous my bath was more productive than her little hunt~” Su Mei teased, drying her legs with a mirror-bright leaf.

  “Call me Laylita one more time and I’ll use you as an orc shield, MEOW!”

  Real tension… dissolved into laughter five seconds later. Nessa shook her head in disbelief at the circus she’d sworn sacred vows to. Still, while crushing Petalus leaves, a tiny smile tugged at her lips. For all the clownery, something honest lived here—something that made every stumble feel lighter.

  When the campfire crackled to life, night draped over the clearing like a warm blanket. Layla sharpened her massive axe with murderous focus. Su Mei hummed an old eastern drinking song, combing damp hair. Nessa whispered evening prayers to the star-drunk sky. Jay sat on a fallen log and just… breathed.

  It was only day one. And somehow, home already felt galaxies away.

  …

  Dawn’s first spear of light pierced the mist, gilding dew-kissed leaves and Aethon’s gleaming coat. A soft breeze carried wet earth, wildflowers, and the glorious sizzle of bacon fat.

  Camp was humble but cozy—two heavy canvas tents, a crackling fire ringed by log benches. Jay, as always, had been up before the sun—paladin discipline and all. He’d already refreshed Nessa’s wards, gathered firewood, and was now cooking breakfast in a faded apron like a broke alchemist who lost a bet.

  Bacon popped. Triple-crested cockatrice eggs (deep red yolk) scrambled with paper-thin crimson peppers, smoked Kar-Maraad cheese, and yellow slime butter—yeah, it sounds gross, tastes like heaven. The star of the show: black coffee filtered through wild mulberry leaves, thick, frothy, strong enough to wake the dead and make them salute.

  Layla crawled out first, hair exploding in seventeen directions, yawning like a baby wyvern, pillow creases on her cheeks. Leather top askew, still half-asleep.

  “Meow… if that’s real coffee and not some cruel illusion, Jay, I’m marrying you on the spot.”

  Su Mei emerged next, stretching like the world owed her a red carpet. Wearing only her silk wraps and a way-too-short tunic. Pure feline grace, sleepy smirk.

  “Hmmm… smells like sin before noon. Did this one die and wake up in paradise?”

  “You’re in camp and heading straight to hell if you keep stealing my blanket as a dress,” Layla grumbled, fixing her top.

  Nessa was last, hair already brushed with neat side braids, priestess robes pristine. She accepted a steaming mug with a grateful nod and inhaled.

  “This coffee… Jay, it literally saves souls.”

  “Hidden talent,” he shrugged, grinning. For one perfect moment, the chaos felt… harmonic.

  After breakfast, Su Mei vanished for another creek bath. Jay sighed, turned his back, and started counting to a hundred in ancient tongues. Layla cackled and elbowed Nessa.

  “Bet he’s counting her footsteps like they’re prayer beads.”

  “I’m trying to focus on morning blessings, Layla.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying to stay conscious, so we’re even, meow.”

  …

  They hit the road again—Aethon leading, banter flying, sunlight dappling the trail. Then the clearing opened.

  Five figures blocked the path.

  Front and center: a dark-skinned trenti warrior, curved horns, massive axe, eyes like burning coal. Next to him, a sleek licanen archer perched on a rock, twin curved bows, lips curled in disdain.

  Behind: a scrawny human warlock, glowing amber eyes, floating grimoire. Beside him, a white-furred makari chewing some root like he was bored of existence.

  Last, a wild-looking shaman woman covered in bone tattoos, drumming a low chant on her own ribs.

  Jay stepped forward.

  “If it’s food or coin you want, we can talk. No need for blood.”

  The trenti laughed, deep and ugly.

  “Food? Coin? Small change. We want the girl. And what she’s carrying.”

  The warlock raised a hand.

  “Artifact signature confirmed. And you’re too weak to guard it.”

  Tension thick as storm fog.

  “I have the skill Libra,” the warlock sneered. “I read power levels like bedtime stories. The monk—walking bomb. The cleric—sharp but brittle. The kiteni’s still limping from her little owie, isn’t she? And you, paladin… barely above acolyte. You’d make a decent battery for my summons, though.”

  Layla bared fangs.

  “If I’m injured, you’ll be dead when I’m done with you, meow!”

  Su Mei cracked her knuckles, glancing at Jay.

  “Can we start the dance now, or is there still etiquette, Mr. Manners?”

  Jay clenched his fist, voice calm as steel.

  “Last chance to walk away in one piece. There won’t be another.”

  The archer nocked an arrow. The shaman finished her chant. The makari spat out his root.

  Showtime.

  ...