The evening at Greenwood City was bustling, too bustling. Magical orbs bobbed overhead, casting wavering shadows that danced like ghosts in Luc's tired eyes. Perfumed trails curled around him, but they only reminded him of blood and ash. Luc's fingers brushed the hilt at his hip, an unconscious readiness seeping into his stance.
Rorik's broad bulk moved beside him, the dwarf's gruff silhouette cutting through the lantern glow. He glanced at Luc with a sideways smirk. "Darn lad, ye went through a lot, didn't ye?" Rorik rumbled, voice low and amused. "Hardly blinked once out there—no goblin bite, no broken bone. Ye've got nerves of steel, boy."
Luc gave a tired smile, but the weight behind it pulled his gaze to the ground. "I survived. Yet… Miss Viola is merely the receptionist—hardly someone to command respect. Why did the guards stiffen at her name?"
Rorik's lips curled, but not with amusement. "Merely? Her "mere" whispers bend steel and silence knights. Cross her, and you'll be lucky if there's enough of you left for a burial. Now off to bed. Guild at dawn."
Luc followed Rorik into the crowded thoroughfare, but the noise pressed on him like claws. Every merchant's cry echoed like goblin snarls; each peal of laughter snapped him back to that forest hush. Memory pressed in every shadow.
Luc paused beneath a tattered banner fluttering overhead. "Why's the town so…" He swallowed. "...noisy? A local festival?"
Rorik snorted, spitting onto the cobblestones. "Festival? No—That Steelhart Archduchess, Luminara, rode in yesterday morning, canvassing every inn for her prodigal son. Found no trace and was off for Celestalon by dusk—just hours before ya staggered through the gates. Left half the nobles and taverns muttering."
At the word "Steelhart," Luc's chest tightened. He felt the lantern-glow blur, the perfumed air curdle into something acrid.
Mother… she was here?" Luc whispered, scarcely louder than the breeze. His knees weakened, as though that single name had pulled the very ground from under him.
"Lad, why ya crying for some noble ass whor—" Rorik began.
Luc's breath hitched, his chest tightening with a pain he didn't understand—then his gaze snapped back, eyes blazing. His hand rose, voice low but steel‑edged. "Enough. Speak of her with respect—she is my mother."
A sudden hush, lantern‑tenders froze, a cart creaked to stillness.
Rorik's jaw slackened. "Good. There he is."
Luc blinked, confused. "What?"
Rorik growled, louder now, eyes narrowing. "That whor—that lady... came huntin' her prodigal son."
He squinted hard. "By the forge, that noble tone—manaless, cursed, exiled… how did I not see it? You're that Lucius Steelhart she's lookin' for, the one who spurned the Awakening Talent, the Mana Exile," Rorik spat.
Luc's vision swam, heat boiling behind his eyes. "Don't act like you didn't know!"
Rorik shook his head, the lines on his face deepening with both disdain and reluctant awe. "I really didn't… Lad, listen, guessed ye were some exile—noble blood, cursed by mana that won't let a circle form. Heard Viola mutterin' about your skill and keepin' clear of the Order priests. Figured ye were just one of us. Truth's worse."
Luc's jaw clenched. "You taught me a technique that could kill me. Then dumped me in a forest like some cursed experiment. I trusted you!"
Rorik's grin vanished, regret shadowing his eyes. "Truth is, Viola said you channel raw mana like water, no agony for you. I took a chance—figured if it went south, I'd be there to pull you out."
"Be there?" Luc barked, his voice rising. "You sent me alone! Into that gods-damned forest…" He clenched his fists. His voice cracked in anger. "W–hat if you were wrong? I could've died."
Rorik's shoulders stiffened. He glared back. "Yer still standing, ain't ya? That's what counts. Now shut it and go get some sleep, or I'll bash yer head to do it for ye."
Luc flinched, the heat in his chest replaced by something colder. Without another word, he turned and stalked toward the Heartfire Inn. The laughter and lanterns blurred as his boots echoed against the stone. After a few strides, he stopped. The warmth of the city didn't reach him—not truly. The night felt hollow.
He drew a deep breath and spun back to Rorik.
"Wait," Luc said, voice low. "What mastery tier is your Dragon Body?"
Rorik exhaled slowly, folding his arms. "Me? Tier six."
Luc blinked. "What… You said even tier one hurts a lot."
Rorik's gaze sharpened. He stepped closer. "My bloodline goes back to the ones who first began refining the Technique within the Chasm—dwarves of old, channeling raw mana through bone and muscle, pioneering a new path with gruesome pain. Yes, tier one burns the marrow like a forge's flame; most collapse in agony after two heartbeats. However, I've spent a hundred years clawing toward tier six, it was truly gruesome, yet it doesn't even come close to what those before me had to endure. Now my skin shrugs off seventh‑circle blasts, and my strength rivals those sixth-circle magicians."
Rorik's eyes gaze upon Luc with a hint of jealousy and hope, "You, though… you handled tier 1 like breathing. That's why I chose to teach ya. No ordinary brat survives what ya did. Talent like that… it ain't normal."
Luc closed his eyes, jaw set. "Then I'll master it. Fully. Even if it kills me."
Rorik snorted. "Dream on, lad. But if anyone could… maybe it's you. Now get to the Heartfire Inn and rest, before I bash your head for real."
He turned away, but added in a grumble, almost too quiet for Luc to hear, "Didn't mean nothin' by it… just needed ya angry. You mourn like a noble. You fight like one of mine."
Luc stood still a moment, the words sinking deep. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from everything that hadn't yet settled.
He turned away and walked alone into the fire-lit dark.