The doors groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stone bones of the castle like the roar of a dying beast. Massive iron hinges, oiled yet ancient, screeched against the masonry as the oak panels parted. A draft of cold air flowed into the hall from the corridor, sucking inward as if the room itself were inhaling the visitors.

  Footsteps—three sets—crossed the threshold. Thud. Thud. Thud. Boots sank into the deep, crimson carpet that ran down the center of the floor. It was thick, plush, and the color of arterial blood. It swallowed the sound of their approach, making their walk feel solemn, almost funereal.

  This was not the lord’s private manor. This was not a place for casual conversation or adventurer reports. This was the Audience Chamber of Avras Castle. It was the heart of the region's power. The place is reserved for state-level declarations, diplomatic treaties, and sentences of death. A hall built for one singular purpose to crush the ego of anyone who entered and display the absolute authority of the ruler.

  The arched ceiling rose high overhead, disappearing into shadows where elaborate metalwork glinted faintly in the torchlight—gargoyles, crests, and the spears looking down on the insignificant mortals below. Tapestries depicting ancient wars lined the stone walls. Faded threads told stories of conquest, of burning cities, of enemies kneeling before the ancestors of Avras.

  And a long path, bordered by cold, white marble, cut through the chamber like a scar. At its far end—sat the Lord of Avras. He was framed by a lavish chair carved from obsidian and gold, a throne that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight rather than reflect it.

  He did not speak at first. He didn't need to. His presence alone pressed over the chamber with suffocating weight. It was a physical force, heavier than gravity, denser than water. He sat straight-backed, his posture flawless, a statue of regal indifference. His eyes were sharp, calculating, dissecting the three adventurers as they approached. They were the eyes of a hawk watching mice scurry in the grass. He was a ruler who combined cold intellect with absolute command. A predator at the top of the food chain.

  The three members of team Jask—Naz, Roa, Hanara—stopped several paces short of the throne. The distance was deliberate, a measure of respect and caution. Silence stretched taut, like a bowstring ready to snap. The air was stagnant, smelling of old wax and cold stone. No one breathed. To breathe was to admit nervousness.

  “I have a proposal.” Then, the Lord finally opened his mouth.

  “It is a state secret of the highest order, not public knowledge…but our nation has completed a certain degree of research into teleportation magic.” His voice carried clearly. It was smooth, baritone, and possessed a resonant quality that filled the vast chamber without effort. It wasn't a shout; it was a decree woven into the air.

  Naz raised a brow, the movement exaggerated in the stillness. Without Rize present to act as a buffer or a moral compass, the giant swordsman crossed his arms boldly over his chest. He refused to shrink. He stood like in a river, breaking the flow of the Lord's pressure.

  Roa and Hanara held their breath. Their eyes were fixed on the Lord, reading every micro-expression, every twitch of a finger. They knew the danger.

  “If you agree that nothing you see here shall be spoken of elsewhere—that this conversation never happened—” The Lord leaned forward slightly. “I can return you to your original location. Instantly.” The gold embroidery on his collar caught the light, flashing like a blade.

  Silence flooded the chamber like ice water rising to their necks. A teleportation offer. In a world where travel took few weeks, it was a gift. But coming from a ruler, it was also a trap.

  “That’s awfully …generous of you.” Naz was the first to break the silence. His tone was dry, laced with skepticism. It scratched against the polished atmosphere of the court.

  The Lord’s lips curled—not warmly, but with the subtle, terrifying confidence of a man who never gives without calculation.

  “There are few on this continent capable of placing team Jask in their debt. To have [One of the hexagon of the Eastern Continent] owe me a favor… that is a currency more valuable than gold coins.” His voice echoed lightly across the floor, yet carried a chill sharper than frost.

  This was no kindness. It was a transaction. A ruler’s chain—testing, assessing, weighing their value against his ambition.

  Roa’s eyes narrowed slightly behind her bangs, her mind racing through the implications. Hanara’s posture straightened, tension crackling along her spine like static electricity. She shifted her weight, ready for a trap. Naz lifted his chin, meeting the Lord’s stare head-on.

  They had stepped onto a battlefield of politics—invisible blades, poisoned words, and leverage—and they knew it. After a long moment, Naz asked the only question that mattered.

  “…What’s the price?” He said, the question that defined the difference between a gift and a bribe.

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  ?

  The Lord’s gaze sharpened.

  “Well then. First—who is that boy?” The playful veneer vanished, replaced by the piercing look of an interrogator. The question dropped into the room like a heavy stone into a still pond. Ripples of tension expanded outward. The chamber seemed to tighten around them. The shadows in the corners grew longer.

  Hanara stepped forward. Her movements were fluid, precise, betraying no fear.

  “A perfectly ordinary young man. A civilian we happened to protect.” Her voice was calm, but sharp as a razor, designed to cut off further inquiry.

  The Lord tapped the armrest of his obsidian throne with one manicured finger. Tap. The sound echoed in the silence.

  “Interesting.” The Lord snorted softly. Tap. “A boy capable of vanishing from a sealed prison cell—bypassing anti-magic wards and stone walls without a trace—is hardly ‘ordinary.’ Even my best mages are baffled.” All three tensed. The air grew thin. He knew. Of course he knew.

  “You did not panic when he was taken. You did not riot. You did not plead for his life beyond the initial outburst. Because you knew he could do it. You knew he could escape.” The Lord continued, his eyes locked onto them like a hawk tracking prey in the grass. He smiled, a cold, appreciative expression that didn't reach his eyes. “Your acting was admirable, truly. But not enough to deceive me.”

  Naz clicked his tongue, scratching the back of his neck loud enough to be heard.

  “…He’s from another world. You already figured that out, didn’t you? That’s why you locked him up. To test him.” Nas said, the charade was over.

  “Descendant of… those beloved by mana, I presume? The lineage of the Returnees? The blood of the Ancients?” The Lord slowly asked.

  “He inherited technique, not blood. He is unconnected to the ancient lines. He is a legacy, not a mutation.” Roa shook her head immediately, her voice firm and uncompromising.

  “…Fascinating.” The Lord’s eyebrow twitched.

  “If I may be bold, my lord—why take such interest in the boy’s origins? He is gone. He is no threat to Avras. He is merely a ghost passing through.” Hanara did not break eye contact. Her gaze was a challenge, a wall of ice against the Lord's fire.

  “A visitor from another realm… One who carries the shadow of a legendary man.” The Lord leaned back into his throne, the leather creaking softly. His gaze drifted upward, to the battle tapestries hanging overhead—images of kings and conquerors, of history written by the victors. “Such a being could shape the future of this nation. A bridge between worlds. A weapon. A key. My curiosity is more than justified. It is a necessity of state.” His voice dropped an octave, resonating with naked ambition.

  Weight settled over them like stone. The political gravity of the situation was immense. This wasn't just curiosity; it was a declaration of intent. He wanted Yu.

  “That legendary guy showed up during the fight in that sphere, you know. The original.” Naz let out a low laugh, breaking the spell. He folded his arms again, grinning with a wolfish confidence.

  “He shielded us. Saved our lives. The boy is his legacy, yes. But he is protected by ghosts you cannot fight.” Roa nodded quietly, supporting the statement.

  The Lord fell silent.

  “…I see.” He rested his hand at his chin, fingers drumming a rhythm against his jaw. He was calculating. Assessing the threat. Measuring the value of a ghost against the value of a nation. The tension was thick enough to choke on. The fate of nations seemed to hang in the balance of this conversation. One wrong word, and they would never leave this castle.

  Then, Hanara broke it. She tilted her head, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes.

  “Lord of Avras. You’re awfully fixated on him, aren’t you? For a busy ruler of a great region.” She saw something the others didn't.

  The Lord blinked.

  “Well of course.” The mask slipped, he smiled. It wasn't the cold, calculated smile of a politician. It wasn't the cruel sneer of a tyrant. It was a sudden, mischievous, almost boyish grin that completely transformed his face.

  “He’s my Claval’s boyfriend, isn’t he? The one she chose?” He spread his hands, as if stating the most obvious fact in the universe.

  A beat of silence. Absolute, stunned, vacuum-like silence. The grandiosity of the room, the threat of the dungeon, the weight of the state secrets—it all hung suspended in the air.

  “““She’s NOT yours!””” Their voices harmonized perfectly. Naz, Roa, and Hanara shouted in unison, their denial echoing absurdly in the grand hall, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.

  The solemnity of the Audience Chamber shattered instantly. The attendants lining the walls—guards who had stood like statues, holding their breath in terror—exchanged tired sighs. Shoulders shook. A cough disguised a giggle. The tension evaporated, replaced by the sheer absurdity of the moment.

  “Hah! You serious? That’s your angle? You’re just a fan?” Naz shook with amusement, slapping his thigh. The sound rang out like a gunshot.

  “Unbelievable… All this posturing for that?” Roa exhaled deeply, rubbing her temples as if fighting a sudden migraine.

  “Of all the reasons… I suppose simple jealousy is the most human.” Hanara looked away with a pained half-smile.

  The Lord himself chuckled softly, the sound genuine this time.

  “To think the very words I once told the king would be thrown back at me… ‘She’s not yours.’ Karma, I suppose.” He looked less like a ruler and more like a man who had just lost a bet.

  The hall quieted again. But it no longer felt suffocating. The oppressive weight of authority had lifted, replaced by a strange, bewildered camaraderie. Laughter and tension interwove, leaving behind a complex, but not unpleasant aftertaste.

  Still As the laughter faded, the Lord’s eyes did not lose their glint. The fire remained deep within his pupils. The boy from another world. Claval. The connection between them. They were potential threats—and potential catalysts—for a nation’s fate. And for his own personal interest. The seeds had been planted in this chamber.

  And the Lord of Avras, despite his joke, had no intention of letting them slip from his grasp. He would watch. He would wait. And when the time was right, he would move to claim what he believed was his.