Corvis Eralith
Last week has been rather productive.
The scars on my forearm had finally knitted together, pale ridges against my skin, a constant reminder of the results of my first desperate creation.
Against the Tragedy. The name felt heavy, melodramatic even in my own thoughts, but fitting. Holding Sylvia's impossibly dense mana core, cold and humming with infinite potential, had been a profound temptation.
To channel even a sliver of that Asuran might into a new tattoo… the potential sang to me. A deeper, more resonant frequency than anything I had touched before.
But the pragmatist, the survivor buried deep beneath this princely skin, had won out. An Asuran core was a singularity of power. To fracture it, dilute it into mere ink for a new iteration of the tattoo felt… wasteful.
Sacrilegious, almost.
A resource like that demanded a purpose grander than bolstering my personal shield, a purpose I couldn't yet fathom but knew would reveal itself when the time was truly desperate. So, I had tucked the dragon core away.
The beast cores Sylvie provided, however, were a different kind of gift, one laced with equal parts awe and lingering anxiety. The memory of those two days Grey had paced like a caged storm, his mental calls to Sylvie bouncing off the terrifying silence of her bond, still sent a chill down my spine.
The relief when she had reappeared, nonchalantly dropping a sack from her mouth clinking with B-class and even a couple of A-class cores to my feet, had been immense.
The sheer audacity of a juvenile dragon venturing into the Beast Glades… it spoke volumes of her burgeoning power and her terrifyingly casual disregard for Grey's frayed nerves—all for my project.
Gratitude warred with a profound sense of responsibility; I couldn't squander her reckless generosity.
The dust from those higher-tier cores was different. Finer, holding a sharper, more complex resonance with mana. Mixed with the viscous, chlorophyll-scented oil and guided by the hard-won experience of my first catastrophic success, the ink became something… more. Without causing an explosion this time.
Alanis, her touch gentle but her eyes sharp with focused concern, had been indispensable. The scar tissue on my forearm was tougher, less pliant.
Mapping the intricate, interlocking pathways of the Ineptrune design onto that roughened canvas my skin was required meticulous precision. Her steady hand guided the stylus, her concentration a counterpoint to the thrum of potent mana flowing into the fresh lines.
Against the Tragedy 2.0. The name was embarrassingly uncreative, whispered more as a private joke to myself than a declaration.
But the result? The results were incredible. The flow of mana beneath my skin, but just slightly above my flesh, was deeper, steadier, the mana it could syphon felt denser, more resilient.
Crucially, the ink remained erasable—a safety net woven into the design itself, born from the visceral fear of my arm simply failing under the strain of another forced expulsion.
This was a stepping stone, powerful but temporary just like the previous one, a placeholder until I could secure the truly exotic materials whispering to me from the edges of my Meta-awareness.
Which brought me, inevitably, to the gnawing problem: resources. Sylvie's foraging was a one-time boon, a stroke of luck I couldn't replicate and I didn't want to cause Grey more worry—he has chastised both me and Sylvie when the latter returned with the beast cores.
My projects—the next generation Ineptrune, the nascent Beast Corps concept swirling in my mind like a complex equation demanding solution for weeks now, even the practicalities of refining the mines—all demanded a reliable influx. Raw beast cores, specific minerals humming with unique frequencies, the preserved organs or even live specimens of certain mana beasts for study… these weren't trinkets found in a market stall.
I needed a pipeline. I needed Vincent Helstea once more.
Standing before the grey door of the Helstea Manor, the weight of my princely title felt particularly hard to carry. The manor itself, grand yet welcoming, seemed to echo the paradox of my existence here. The elderly woman who answered after I knocked on the door, Maria, regarded me with polite, unrecognition.
"Good afternoon, young man. Do you require help?" Her voice was kind, a softness that momentarily eased the tension coiling in my shoulders.
"Maria, who's at the door?" Tabitha Helstea's voice preceded her arrival. Her eyes widened fractionally as she took me in. "Your Highness! T-to what do we owe the pleasure?"
"I would like to speak with Mr. Helstea, if possible," I managed, inclining my head in a short bow that felt stiff, unnatural for royalty. The rituals of royalty were a language I was still clumsily translating.
"Vincent is in his study. Please, follow me, Your Highness." Tabitha led the way, her posture perfectly correct, yet I sensed the curiosity beneath the courtesy. The familiar halls I grew fond of while reading the novel felt different under the weight of the title.
Vincent looked up from his cluttered desk, his initial expression of mild business irritation melting into genuine surprise that made him fumble the papers he was holding.
"Prince Corvis! What a surprise to see you again!" His smile was warm, though touched with the same respectful wariness as his wife's.
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Helstea," I replied, the formality grating. "May we talk, or should I come another time?" The words left my mouth before I could filter them.
Idiot. To royalty, that phrasing was less a question and more a polite command wrapped in velvet. Refusal would be an insult. A flash of my unknown past life—perhaps someone unused to deference—flickered uselessly. Who had I been? Another question lost in the void I probably would never get an answer to.
"Absolutely! Please, have a seat. Can I offer you something, Your Hig—" he began, already half-rising.
"I am always in a hurry, but thank you," I cut in, perhaps too quickly, gesturing him back down. Time felt like sand slipping through my fingers. Tabitha withdrew, leaving an expectant silence.
Settling into the offered chair, the scent of aged leather and parchment filling the air, I cut to the chase.
"I am in need of supplies and materials for my projects, Mr. Helstea. Seeing as you are one of the most resourceful merchants in all of Dicathen, and given our prior acquaintance, I believed you might be the ideal partner."
I kept my tone level, business-like, yet the underlying desperation was a current beneath the surface. Trust was the unspoken element. I knew Vincent's core—a good man, driven by family and enterprise.
His canon collaboration with Alacrya had been born of terror for his loved ones, swiftly replaced by fierce resistance. He wouldn't betray secrets lightly, especially not those tied to Elenoir's heir.
"Specifically: beast cores, body parts of mana beasts, potentially live specimens if feasible, and specific minerals." The list sounded stark, demanding, in the quiet study.
Vincent leaned back, steepling his fingers, his merchant's mind visibly whirring. "That's... an unconventional list, Your Highness. Most seek finished artifacts, mana crystals, enchanted armor... not the raw building blocks, I am not a carpenter furnisher after all." He said joking while tapping a finger thoughtfully.
"Live specimens... that's tricky, logistically and economically. Securing them reliably would be challenging. But the rest?" He nodded slowly, decisively. "That falls well within my capabilities. Beast cores, parts, minerals—consider it possible."
Relief, sharp and sweet, washed over me. "Perfect." The word carried genuine weight. A lifeline thrown. "As for your payment, I have al—"
"You've already paid me more than handsomely for the first materials the first time we met," Vincent interjected smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "And frankly, establishing a trade relationship with the heir of Elenoir opens significant avenues for my business within the Elven Dominion. That is valuable currency in itself."
I shook my head firmly. I demanded tangible compensation for Vincent. "I insist, Mr. Helstea." I met his gaze directly, letting the princely mask soften just enough to reveal earnest intent. "When I met your daughter, Lilia..." I saw his posture subtly shift, paternal instinct instantly alert. "...I observed her attempting to absorb mana from a crystal. She is near my age, meaning for a human, the window for core development is still open, though narrowing."
I paused, letting the implication hang. Vincent's eyes widened slightly, confusion warring with a dawning, impossible hope. He leaned forward unconsciously, the merchant momentarily eclipsed by the father.
"I possess knowledge," I continued, choosing my words carefully, avoiding specifics of the tattoo's potential role, focusing on the outcome, "knowledge and a method that may allow me to... facilitate the awakening of her mana core."
The silence that followed was profound, thick with the sudden shift in the room's energy. The ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece sounded unnaturally loud.
"That," I stated quietly, the offer hanging like a tangible thing between us, "is my proposed payment. I can make your daughter the first mage of the Helstea family."
Vincent Helstea didn't move. His breath seemed to catch mid-inhale. All color drained from his face, leaving him pale beneath his usual healthy flush. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, soundlessly, like a landed fish gasping for air. The carefully constructed mask of the shrewd merchant, the confident patriarch, utterly shattered.
"Uh?" The syllable escaped him, a strangled sound of pure, uncomprehending shock. His eyes, fixed on mine, held a universe of stunned disbelief, fragile hope, and the terrifying vulnerability of a father suddenly confronted with a dream he had likely buried for his child.
"I am serious Mr. Helstea." I said holding his gaze.
"O-of course Your Highness, I will gladly accept your generous offer." Vincent said even though I noted an hint of disbelief in his eyes.
Understandable reaction, there weren't known methods to make someone awaken artificially and while I would explain Lilia the same breathing technique Arthur taught her in the novel I would add my touch with Against the Tragedy 2.0
Lilia Helstea
What is Prince Corvis doing here at home?! The silent scream echoed in my skull, frantic and bewildered. The answer surfaced instantly, trying to quell the sudden storm: he was doing business with Dad, of course. But it felt inadequate, trivial.
Why here? Why now? Why did his presence make the familiar hallway feel charged, the air suddenly thinner?
A gentle chuckle, warm and knowing, sliced through my spiraling thoughts. "What is that look on your face, Lilia?" Maria stood nearby, polishing a silver candlestick with a soft cloth, her wise old eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.
"N-Nothing," I stammered, heat flooding my cheeks as I tore my gaze away, focusing intently on a perfectly ordinary patch of wallpaper.
Maria just chuckled again, the sound like dry leaves rustling, and returned to her polishing, radiating quiet understanding that only deepened my embarrassment.
As soon as she turned, I couldn't resist. I pressed myself back into the corner of the hallway, peering with one eye towards the entrance hall. But Mom and the elven prince were already gone, vanished deeper into the house.
A pang of disappointment, sharp and irrational, pricked me. I needed to know what he'd come to say to Dad.
It made no sense. He was royalty—elven royalty—worlds away from the daughter of an auction house owner. But he wasn't even a mage from what he told me. And yet… that felt like a point of kinship, however small.
I wasn't a mage either, though the desperate hope still flickered stubbornly inside me. Wasn't I more likely than him, somehow? Even if my parents were ordinary, even if I showed no signs? The logic was flimsy, but the feeling persisted.
Driven by that inexplicable pull, I started towards Dad's study, my slippered feet silent on the plush runner. Halfway there, I saw Mom, a gentle but immovable barrier.
"Lilia," she said softly, her hand landing on my shoulder with familiar warmth, subtly steering me away. "Your father is in an important meeting."
"I know," I mumbled, unable to meet her perceptive gaze. "What is Prince Corvis doing here?" The question tumbled out, raw and revealing.
"Didn't I teach you not to stick your nose in others' businesses?" Her tone was light, teasing, but the underlying message was clear. This wasn't for me.
"Yes, but..." I trailed off, the protest withering. "I was curious." The admission sounded feeble, childish.
"Sure, dear," Mom began, her hand gently urging me down the hall. "Let's get—"
The sharp, sudden crack of Dad's study door slamming open against the wall made us both jump. Dad stood framed in the doorway, his face pale, eyes wide, scanning the hallway with an intensity I'd never seen before.
He looked… electrified.
Nervous, yes, but beneath it, a frantic, almost manic energy pulsed. It was too strange, too unlike his usual confident bustle. My stomach did a nervous flip.
His gaze locked onto me like a lodestone. "Lilia!" His voice boomed, unnaturally loud, a wide, slightly tremulous smile spreading across his face. "I was just looking for you!"
"F-for what?" I stammered, my confusion deepening into genuine alarm. My eyes darted past him. Prince Corvis stood just inside the study, his expression unreadable, watching the scene unfold with calm focus.
"His Highness here and I," Dad announced, gesturing grandly towards the prince, "we've made a fantastic deal! I am sure you will like it." His eyes shone with an almost feverish excitement.
My throat tightened. "I... you... but..." Meaningless syllables tumbled from my lips, a chaotic jumble of protest and utter bewilderment. I was adrift, unmoored by Dad's bizarre enthusiasm and the Prince's stillness.
"Lilia?" Prince Corvis's voice cut through my stammering. Cool, measured, utterly calm. It pulled me back, but only slightly.
"Prince Corvis told he might be able to help with your mana core development." Father said shocking both me and my mother.
"That can't be possible," I breathed, the words barely audible.
My gaze flew between Mom and Dad, seeking confirmation of this madness. Mom looked stunned, her brow furrowed with confusion, mirroring my own. But Dad… Dad just beamed, radiating absolute, terrifying certainty.
"It's no harm to try," Dad insisted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carried clearly in the tense hallway.
I caught it then—the faintest, quickest roll of Prince Corvis's eyes. A tiny crack in his impassivity, a flicker of exasperation or perhaps shared disbelief at Dad's fervor.
"We need a larger space," the Prince stated, turning smoothly and striding purposefully down the hall towards the Manor's grand entrance hall.
He moved with unnerving familiarity, as if he had walked these corridors a hundred times. "The hall at the entrance—I saw it when Miss Helstea was accompanying me. It would be perfect."
"Your Highness, the hall is—right that way!" Dad confirmed, practically bouncing on his heels. He shot me a look over his shoulder—a look that wasn't a request, but a command wrapped in paternal hope.
Comply.
My legs felt like lead as I trailed after them, Mom's worried presence a comforting pressure at my back. Even if it didn't work… even if it ended as a humiliating joke… Dad was right about one thing. There was no harm in trying.
But the fragile, treacherous spark of hope that ignited deep, deep in my chest felt dangerous. It whispered: what if…? And that what if was terrifying in its impossible possibility.
———
The cool marble of the entrance hall floor seeped through my dress, a grounding contrast to the frantic heat in my cheeks.
"Take a long breath in," Prince Corvis instructed, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight, "until you can't take air anymore. Then open your mouth and inhale once more. Then, exhale in steady bursts."
I tried, truly I did, filling my lungs until they ached, gasping that extra sip, then pushing the air out in shaky little puffs.
But the light, steady pressure of his right hand resting between my shoulder blades felt like a brand. My parents' gazes, radiating hopeful intensity from the sofa nearby, were weighing on myself.
"I-I can't do it..." The admission choked out, thick with shame. I felt small, inadequate, disappointing everyone in the room before anything had even begun.
"It's okay. Take your time." His patience was unnerving, a deep well I couldn't fathom. It didn't feel like mere politeness, but a genuine acceptance and understanding of my struggle.
It made the shame burn hotter.
"Your Highness," Mom ventured, her voice laced with gentle skepticism, "I am not doubting your skills, but what does this... breathing technique serve for?"
"It is the best way to channel mana through meditation," he explained simply. His certainty, devoid of arrogance, made me try again.
I dragged air deep, held it until spots danced behind my closed lids, gulped that extra breath, and forced the exhale into longer, slower streams.
"Good. Like this." The quiet praise, unexpected and specific, landed like a balm. "Now repeat it with your eyes closed."
Darkness. Just the sound of my own breath, rasping at first, then smoothing. The lingering warmth of his hand.
"You should see some white sparks," his voice floated in the black.
I strained trying to will them into existence. Nothing. Just endless, empty dark. Defeat washed over me, cold and heavy.
"I am not seeing them..." My voice was a whisper, thick with the familiar sting of failure. Of course not. Why did I hope?
"Don't worry," his voice was steady, factual, not dismissive. "It's because both your parents aren't mages."
The simple statement wasn't blame, just explanation. A reason, not a condemnation. "Now, your body might start to feel a little hot. Continue."
And then… warmth. Not unpleasant, like sinking into a sunbeam. It started in my chest and spread outwards.
And then… there! A flicker. Then another. Tiny, brilliant pinpricks of purest white light, dancing in the darkness of my sight like distant, shining stars.
My breath hitched. Mana? Is this… magic? Wonder, pure and dizzying, flooded my consciousness.
"I—I see them!" The words burst out, uncontrolled, shattering the quiet. I heard the sharp intake of breath from my parents, the scrape of a chair.
"Try to draw them together with your mind." His instruction cut through my exhilaration, anchoring me. Draw them together.
I focused, not with force, but with a gentle, insistent pull. Like gathering scattered pearls of glass who fell on the floor. Slowly, hesitantly, the sparks began to drift towards each other, coalescing near my stomach.
The heat intensified, not burning, but potent, concentrated. It felt… alive. Power humming just beneath my skin, gathering. Sweat beaded on my forehead, tracing cool paths down my temples. Behind my closed eyes, the coalescing sparks began to glow with a soft, steady light.
A gasp escaped me. Is that… my core?
"T-that's! That's an awakening!" Dad's voice, choked with disbelief and joy, shattered my concentration.
My eyes flew open. The light vanished. The warmth receded like a tide pulling back. The sparks winked out.
No! Despair, sharp and sudden, clawed at my throat. Why did I look? Why couldn't you stay quiet, Lilia? You ruined it! I wanted to curl into a ball, to disappear.
My parents stared, hope warring with confusion on their faces. I braced for the prince's disappointment, ready to stammer an apology.
"Done." Prince Corvis stood, his voice utterly calm.
"Done?" Mom echoed, bewildered.
"Was that a good sign, Your Highness?" Dad pressed, leaning forward, his eyes desperate. "I am pretty sure I felt something even if I didn't see it..."
"I... I stopped..." I whispered, my voice trembling, lost under their anxious questions. I broke it.
He didn't look at me with reproach. His gaze was steady, assessing. "With constant training," he stated, matter-of-factly, "she will develop a core... two, three months? Maybe half a year at maximum."
Tears sprang instantly to my parents' eyes—tears of profound relief, overwhelming joy, and fierce pride. Dad looked like he might vibrate apart, clasping his hands tightly as if to hold in the emotion threatening to breach royal etiquette meant for the Prince.
"Thank you, Your Highness," he managed, his voice thick.
Months, maybe half a year. Not never. I can do this. The despair evaporated, replaced by a fragile, soaring hope.
It wasn't a maybe anymore; it was a when. Before my twelfth birthday, perhaps.
My cheeks flushed again, but this time with a different heat—shyness, overwhelming gratitude, the dawning realization of a door of possibilities for my future slamming open.
I met Prince Corvis's calm eyes. "T-thanks." The word felt inadequate for the gift he had just handed me.