The throne hall of Ironvale Palace was silent, not out of respect, but because even the walls seemed to fear the man who sat atop its black-marble dais.
Duke Vale.
The Patriarch of House Vale.
He sat reclined on his throne of black ironwood, one leg crossed over the other. His golden cloak pooled around him like molten sunlight, but there was no warmth in it. The sword resting across his lap was unsheathed—not as a threat, but as a symbol. Power in plain sight. Never hidden.
Before him, the knight knelt. Hubert—the Duke's retainer and former general of the Vale border campaign. He was sweating, and not from the journey.
"…So," Duke said at last, his voice smooth as polished steel. "The Fourth Defeated the twins."
Hubert nodded stiffly. "Yes, my lord."
He looked up for just a second—and immediately regretted it.
Duke's eyes were the same Blond as his hair. But colder and Sharper. As if each word you spoke was being measured against your worth in iron.
Hubert flinched. "Sir Kaelith said… he sensed something unusual from the Fourth Young Lord. In his Report, he noted that—besides awakening Aura—he believes the young lord may have some other power."
He hesitated, voice dropping lower.
"Sir Kaelith suspects… it might have been magic."
A pause followed. It was Heavy and Suffocating.
The room held its breath.
Duke didn't blink.
Hubert flinched. "Sir Kaelith said—he said he felt something strange, from the 4th young lord. In the Report, he says that he is suspicious that the 4th young lord may have used magic.
A pause. The room held its breath.
"…Magic, you say?" Cael asked, his tone unreadable—neither alarmed nor amused, just neutral.
Hubert gave a firm nod. "That was Sir Kaelith's suspicion, my lord. The Fourth Young Master may have awakened it… alongside his Aura."
Cael didn't speak. Didn't blink. For several long seconds, he was utterly still.
Then—slowly—he rose.
The throne gave a low groan beneath him, like the rumble of some ancient beast stirred from slumber. His cloak unfurled behind him, spilling down the steps of the dais like the mane of a lion rising to its full height.
"I see…" Duke murmured, fingers brushing the hilt at his waist. "Aura and Mana, a ten-year-old is using it."
Hubert stayed kneeling, heart hammering. He waited for the storm. The shout. The blade.
But nothing came.
Instead, Cael chuckled.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't cruel.
It was something far more unsettling.
Curious.
"As expected of her son," he said, not looking at Hubert. "But even so… to go that far against the twins? And without the formal training?"
He walked forward slowly, each step echoing like thunder down the stone hall.
"I wonder…" he said softly. "How much has he changed after a year in Mist Palace?"
Then Duke turned, sharp and sudden. "Hubert."
"My lord."
"Make preparations, we will depart for Azma immediately."
Hubert's jaw dropped. "Y-Your Grace?"
"I haven't seen the Fourth in years. I believe it's time."
"But the High Council—"
"That can wait," the Duke interrupted, his voice firm but calm.
"Besides…" He turned slightly, gaze distant. "Shouldn't a father visit his son from time to time?"
And if what Kaelith felt is true… I want to see it with my own eyes."
The old knight swallowed. "As you command, my lord."
Duke stopped for a moment at the edge of the dais. His hand hovered over his sword, not drawing it—merely touching it like one would feel a memory.
He turned, his golden hair catching the light like fire.
"… Let's see how much you have grown ."
Eris lay on his bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the wooden ceiling as if it held the answers to questions he hadn't yet asked.
His freshly washed hair clung damply to his forehead. The bath had scrubbed the blood from his skin, the dirt from his knuckles, but not the weight from his chest. That remained.
The room was silent, save for the gentle creak of the wooden beams settling and the occasional chirp of crickets outside the high windows.
A knock.
Soft. Familiar.
"Enter," Eris said, not moving.
Maria stepped in, her posture prim and practiced as always. Her auburn hair was tied back, and she carried a silver tray with a cup of hot herbal tea. Her eyes flicked to Eris, lying diagonally across the bed like a cat that owned the castle.
She placed the tray on the side table without a word.
Then, after a pause, "The Young master Kaelen and Laelyn are in the medical hall."
Eris blinked slowly. "Hmm."
"They're still unconscious," she added, overseeing him. "The healers say Kaelen may have two fractured ribs. Laelyn's leg was shattered, and Multiple fingers were dislocated."
Still, Eris didn't respond.
He continued to stare at the ceiling, unmoving, as if the universe would crack open and reveal its blueprints.
Maria tilted her head slightly. "That's all?"
"He nearly beat his sibling to death… and now he lies there like nothing happened," she thought, her gaze narrowing.
"There's no guilt or remorse in his eyes ."
"Maria's gaze lingered on him, searching for something—anything—that resembled regret.
"It's as if he already knew how the spar would end..."
Her thoughts tightened like a knot in her chest.
Her fingers tightened around the tray she held.
"I need to watch him a little longer… understand what he is."
"Just what kind of person are you, Eris Vale…?"
Her eyes narrowed, a quiet intensity rising in her chest.
"I'm… curious to find out."
With that final thought, she turned on her heel and quietly left the room
"…I won," Eris finally said, voice low and flat.
A simple truth.
He raised one hand and looked at it, fingers outstretched against the dim amber light of the lantern. His knuckles were still red, despite the hot water. Slight swelling along his middle finger. A faint throb where his fist had cracked into Kaelen's ribs.
This body is so fragile, he thought.
His fingers curled into a loose fist.
"This world is behind," he murmured.
Grades exist here too, just like in Arkenterra —the Strength of an individual is measured in the form of Grades from Grade 1 to Grade 10, just like in Arkenterra.
But that's where the similarities ended.
"In Arkenterra," Eris murmured, eyes half-lidded, "The bare minimum and the standard for an Average player was Grade 5 . . Even a complete beginner with no background could reach it in a year… if they were even mildly active."
He smiled faintly at the absurdity of it all.
His gaze drifted to the ceiling.
"In this world," he continued, voice softer now, almost detached, "even the heirs of noble houses—trained from childhood, surrounded by resources like my Twins siblings—barely reach Grade 2 after two years. Two whole years."
Well… I am not looking down on this world," Eris muttered
"There may be many Grade 10s here—but that just makes it worse."
His eyes narrowed slightly, voice laced with quiet disdain.
"So many who've reached the peak… and yet the path to get there is so painfully slow."
"Even I hit Grade 7 in just two months after I started playing."
Eris leaned back slightly, his voice calm, matter-of-fact, even.
Then, with a faint, unapologetic smirk curling at the edge of his lips, he added—
"Of course… that just goes to show how talented I am."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if remembering those chaotic early days—grinding through dungeons, dueling other players, rising through the ranks with almost ridiculous ease.
He then looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers as if trying to recall the feeling of a different life.
"Maybe it's because this is reality," he murmured, "and growth here is slower. Maybe it's because a human body… has its limits compared to a virtual Avatar."
He paused, brows lowering.
"Or maybe…"
Eris hesitated. His voice was quieter this time.
"…Maybe I've been relying too much on the past. On comparisons. On who I was."
A silence followed—long, but not cold.
Maria didn't speak. She watched him.
Then, Eris exhaled and sat up, propping himself on one elbow.
"Either way," he muttered, "my goal doesn't change."
He let his head fall back against the pillow, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling.
According to the Continental Calendar, this Year is 1437.
He did the math in silence.
"The original Eris was exiled in Year 1442," he whispered, almost to himself. "Five years from now."
His jaw tightened, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"After that… he wandered and worked as a mercenary and lived like a ghost. No family, no power, no place in the world. And he wasn't able to awaken his Aura…"
But he kept going, lost in memory.
"At twenty, he met her. Aliya Ainster. She saw something in him—potential. Where others saw nothing, she gave him a chance."
"She taught him magic. Helped him awaken Mana when no one else could."
His eyes closed slowly, lashes casting shadows across his cheek.
"She saved him.".
The silence that stretched between them was thick, neither hostile nor awkward.
Just… heavy. Shared. Quiet.
Eris opened his eyes again, distant.
"I wonder if I'll meet her in this life…"
A knock cut through the silence like a sword unsheathed.
Eris, still sitting on the edge of his bed, blinked and turned toward the door.
"Enter," he said warily.
Maria stepped in, her formal uniform pristine, her expression unreadable—but there was a flicker of tension in her usually calm amber eyes.
"Young Master," she said, her voice tight, "the Grand Duke is visiting Mist Palace."
Eris's breath caught.
"…What?"
"…My father?" Eris whispered, rising to his feet like a man waking from a dream. "He's coming here?"
A second passed
He asked when they would be arriving
She hesitated. "Grand Duke's is on his way. In fact… they'll arrive in under a minute."
Then a sound hit them.
Trumpets.
Long, proud, echoing through the stone halls of the estate.
Then—the deep roll of heavy wheels grinding against gravel.
Eris moved to the window, fingers tightening against the sill as he looked out.
A fleet of carriages swept into the Mist Palace courtyard. Each was carved from obsidian-black wood, trimmed in gold, bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Vale—a golden lion standing over a broken sword.
Servants had already lined up in stiff rows, trembling as they bowed in perfect unison.
The air thickened with expectation.
Maria and Eris moved to the Main Gate. Maria stood beside him, her voice low. "Young Master. You must greet the Patriarch properly."
Eris hesitated.
Then nodded.
He stepped into his shoes, smoothed down his robe, and walked toward the front of the estate like a man headed to judgment day.
The Mist Palace gates stood tall and proud, flanked by armored guards who now stood like statues, eyes forward.
Eris walked through them slowly, Maria one step behind.
He took his place in front of the servant line, gaze steady, chest rising with a slow breath.
The trumpets sounded again as the largest carriage—the centerpiece of the convoy—rolled to a stop.
Its door opened.
And out stepped he.
Grand Duke of the Vale clan.
His golden hair glinted beneath the sun like a lion's mane set ablaze. His cloak billowed behind him as he stepped down, each movement controlled, each glance deliberate. His gaze swept across the courtyard and then landed on Eris.
Their eyes met.
For the first time in years.
And the world held its breath.
Behind the Grand Duke, others descended—noble figures clad in polished uniforms and military cloaks. Eris recognized them instantly: his older siblings. The First Son. The Second Daughter and his other Siblings
They didn't speak. But their eyes said enough—some curious, some wary,
A silence stretched.
Then, at last, the Duke stepped forward.
And with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder—smooth, commanding, unnervingly calm—he said:
"… It's been a while."
He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"I hope you've been doing well…"
A faint smile pulled at the edge of his mouth.
"—My son."
End of the Chapter...