The Emperor wasted no time. That very night, he and Zephyra, said their goodbyes. Zephyra seemed reluctant to leave, a quiet sadness in her eyes, but they had the weight of the Empire pressing against their backs. His parting words lingered like a quiet storm in the air: "I must plant as many potatoes as I can…for the future of Stella." With the recipe in hand, he set out for the capital.
Later that evening, beneath the moonlight that spilled silver across the courtyard, I wheeled my mother through the courtyard. The garden stretched out before us, a sea of red roses standing stubborn against the night's cold breath, like tiny flames refusing to die.
She was silent for a long time. Her frail fingers brushed the petals of a rose, trembling softly as if recalling something distant, something painful. Then, with a gentleness I hadn't seen in years, she plucked a rose and brought it close, inhaling its fragile perfume.
A small smile crept onto her lips. A single tear followed, sliding down her cheek, shimmering like liquid pearl.
"Thank you…for this," she whispered, her voice as delicate as the petals in her hand. "For the chair. For remembering that I still love flowers."
I said nothing.
Some things don't need words.
The petals glowed like embers beneath the moon. The scent of roses and redemption mingled with the cool air. And for the first time in a long time, the iron weight on my chest…loosened.
"You surprised me today," she said softly. "Arthur…you've grown."
I smiled.
Before the silence could settle, the Patriarch's figure emerged from the shadows of the garden. His presence carried the weight of a thousand histories.
"Well done today, Arthur," he said, his voice deep, solemn. "You've made House Wolfhard proud." His gaze turned to my mother, softer now. "Could you give us a moment? And, Arthur…tell Reginald to take you to the family treasury. Choose anything your heart desires as a reward."
I nodded, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks. "Goodnight, Mom."
She smiled gently. "Sweet dreams, Arthur. And you too, Raina."
Raina bowed before following me, her silent steps matching mine.
We arrived at the Patriarch's office, where Reginald was buried in a sea of parchment. The moment he saw us, he stood, bowing low.
"I greet the fifth young master of House Wolfhard."
"No need for formalities, Reginald," I waved off. "Father said to come to you…about a reward in the Wolfhard treasury."
Reginald bowed once more. "Please follow me, young master."
He turned to leave. I played innocent. "Aren't we going behind the bookcase? I thought that's where the treasury was?"
He said nothing, simply walked ahead, his silence stretching longer than the halls themselves. Step after step, each one heavier than the last, until we reached the underground, a labyrinth beneath the palace, where barrels of the rarest wines lined the walls like sleeping giants.
The air was cooler here, heavier. We stood before the wine cellar, where bottles worth kingdoms rested in perfect silence.
"May I have your finger, young master?" Reginald asked.
I hesitated, offering my hand.
From his pocket, he produced a slender needle, gleaming cold in the lamplight.
"Ouch!" I hissed as he pricked me, the sting sharper than I'd expected, like a memory resurfacing too soon.
"My apologies, young master."
He pressed my bleeding finger to one of the wine bottles, each identical, indistinguishable from the next. Yet as soon as the blood touched glass, the room shifted.
Without Wolfhard's blood, no one could enter.
A deep rumble. Then, the cellars parted, as if the earth itself bowed open, like twin stone giants heaving open a secret passage. Beyond them…two identical towering banners, embroidered with the ancient Wolfhard insignia: a dragon coiled around a sword, its tail curling the blade's edge, claws gripping the guard, wings spread wide as if ready to ascend.
Then came the mirrors. Hundreds. Thousands. Reflections upon reflections upon reflections, each one staring back with infinite gazes. Staring too long felt like gazing into infinity, enough to unravel a mind.
Reginald spoke a single word:
"φανερώνω."
And like dust on a breeze, the mirrors dissolved.
In their place: treasure, beyond imagination: mountains of gold, that shimmered like captured suns, grimoires bound in beasthide, thick as ancient armor, belonging to creatures so fearsome that no men would dare to hunt, swords whose blades hummed with old magic. Relics pulsing with dormant divinity. A hoard of myth and history sprawled before me, stretching beyond sight.
"Choose one," Reginald said.
I waded through the sea of relics, my heart beating wild in my chest. I knew what I wanted. But could I find it in this chaos?
Minutes stretched into hours. Dust clung to my hands. Until—there it was.
The Finger of a Constellation.
A ring—no, a fragment of armor, sculpted like a knight's gauntlet finger, its nail elongated into a talon, a cross engraved upon its back. The surface gleamed with a metal so rare, even dragons dared not challenge it.
Netherite? No. Stronger. A material untouched by time, immune to gods.
Long ago, in the myths I penned, I wrote of the twelve constellations who once walked the earth. Among them, one was different, she bore an exoskeleton, harder than diamond, stronger than the proudest steel, she was a living armor forged by the very cosmos, defying the hands of gods and men alike. It was said that from her unbreakable shell, the very idea of armor was born, that knights, kings, and warlords pored over the old legends and wept, for no forge could ever replicate the perfection she wore by birthright.
And when the Constellation fell, the stars screamed, the world held its breath, and the goddess wept tears of blood. From her sorrow, from the mourning of a cherished companion, she tore a single finger from the fallen Constellation, a token of remembrance for the friend she had lost.
As the ages turned and legend faded into myth, with trembling hands she placed the fragment into the palms of Arthur Romaeus van Wolfhard I, her voice a whisper against the silence:
"May this shield you, even when the world itself turns its blades against you."
And so it was. The finger, clad in cosmic bone, he wore it as a ring, a gauntlet forged from the heavens themselves, seamlessly bound to his armor. It encased his right hand like a silent sentinel, watching over the arm that bore his blade. When he raised his sword, the armor of the constellations blazed to life; lightning coiled along his silhouette, and thunder knelt beneath his roar. Across the battlefield, courage withered in the hearts of his enemies. They knew, they all knew, to strike him was to strike the will of the cosmos itself, to challenge the decree of the stars.
In the webnovel, no one ever found it. Not even the Wolfhards. They dismissed it as myth, a tale spun for their founder, like songs woven from legend. They didn't know.
It was here. Hidden beneath their very feet, all along.
Had any of the Wolfhards, even the Patriarch himself, discovered it…surely, they would have claimed it, and never let it go.
Reginald eyed the relic in my hand.
"Is…is that your choice, young master?"
I smiled. "Yes."
"You sure?" he asked. "You could take a grimoire. Or mystic ores, enough to forge a blade that could split mountains."
I clutched the finger tighter, like a child terrified someone might snatch away it away. "No thanks. This is the one."
He cleared his throat, caught somewhere between ridicule and respect. "As you wish. Shall we return?"
I nodded.
And as we walked back, I felt it, a grin stretching across my face, wild and irrepressible. For the first time, I felt like the six-year-old this body truly was.
Because what I held wasn't a weapon or spellbook or treasure any kingdom could claim. No empire, not even those mighty enough to rival Stella, possessed this.
I held the Finger of a Constellation.
No. From now on, I'd call it something better.
Plot armor.
It looked like nothing more than a gauntlet finger or a full finger ring. But when mana surged through it, the finger would awaken, unfurling, stretching and weaving itself into living armor that wrapped the body, leaving only the face bare, a relic fit for gods.
A shield…that even fate itself could not pierce.
There was only one problem. Without a mana core, it wouldn't activate. And me?
I didn't have a single drop of mana.