Three months had passed since the demon attack.
And yet, the world seemed… normal.
Birdsong danced through the trees as sunlight filtered through the elegant villa nestled in the heart of the noble district. Inside, on a plush cloud-shaped crib, a tiny silver-haired boy kicked his legs in glee.
"Woooohooooo!" Belial cheered, flailing his arms. "I'm nobility now! Not even in my wildest imagination!"
His tiny voice, unheard by the adults, rang like a war cry in his head.
With a determined grunt, he rolled over and crawled—quite expertly—to the large circular window beside his crib. Pressing his tiny hands on the glass, he peeked out to the garden below.
There, his father—Azrael—stood shirtless under the morning sun, blade in hand. His form was sharp, movements clean, as he sliced through the air with masterful control.
"Divine Rajah!" Azrael shouted, unleashing a burst of gleaming mana that arced like a comet through the garden.
BOOOOM!
The blast exploded against a mana-resistant tree trunk, but not before knocking three flowerbeds into oblivion.
"Are you STUPID, Az?!" came a furious voice from the veranda. "Do you WANT to destroy my garden!?"
Out stormed Elvira, hair braided, wearing a long morning robe and an expression of someone ready to commit murder without magic.
Belial's eyes sparkled with glee.
"Ohhh… father. You made her mad again," he whispered to himself with a grin.
Azrael, seemingly fearless in the face of demons, paled instantly.
"Darling, I was merely—uh—testing the wind resistance of my swing—"
"What did I tell you," Elvira said, grabbing his ear mid-sentence, "about practicing swordsmanship in my garden, not the training field?"
"To not do it…"
"And what did you just do?"
"...do it."
Belial giggled and rolled onto his back in the crib, arms out like wings.
"This… this warms my heart," he thought with a grin. "My overpowered parents are basically a romcom waiting to happen."
Far to the east, nestled in a sea of golden trees and arcane blossoms, the Elven Kingdom of Valelume shimmered under an eternal spring.
From the misty forest trail, a cloaked figure approached the gleaming city gates, flanked by two women clad in ornate maid armor—elegant, deadly, and clearly not just for show.
"Halt!" barked a guard in green and silver armor, stepping forward. "State your business in Valelume!"
Before the cloaked man could speak, both maids leapt forward in perfect synchronicity.
"Speak to our master like that again," Kaelis growled, "and I'll polish your teeth with my knee."
"And I'll write a love letter on your armor," Liora added sweetly, "in your blood."
The guards hesitated.
Then the cloaked man slowly removed his hood, revealing fire-colored eyes and a gaze that carried more weight than a war council.
"My business is with the king," Veyron the Silent Flame said, holding out a royal crest—platinum and black, pulsing softly with enchantment.
One guard stiffened.
"R-Royal Crest… open the gates!"
As they walked, Veyron glanced at his maids with a raised brow.
"You know," he said, "I could've just shown them the crest first."
"But where's the drama in that?" Kaelis said, flipping her hair.
"And we were bored," Liora added. "You never let us be scary."
Meanwhile, in the Royal Library, a young elf in regal robes reclined on a cushion, flipping lazily through a rather suspicious book titled:
"100 Ways to Look Wise Without Actually Reading"
Thalanor's son—the new king—held the book upside down, wearing golden spectacles that clearly had no lenses.
"Hmm…" he muttered, stroking his chin. "Nodding every ten seconds makes people think you're absorbing information. Interesting."
A knock sounded.
"My lord," a servant called from outside. "You have a guest. A rather flaming one."
"Flaming? What does that even—"
The door opened to reveal Veyron standing imposingly, arms crossed, fire practically flickering in his eyes.
The young king dropped the book immediately, flipping it to a more intelligent-sounding title behind his back.
"Ah! Veyron! My old friend! Mentor of mystery! Scorcher of socks!"
"You're still using that book, aren't you?" Veyron said flatly.
"...No?"
"It's upside down."
"It's reversible wisdom, Veyron. You wouldn't understand."
"Where is your father?" Veyron asked, his tone unusually sharp as he looked around the royal hall. "I have urgent news for him."
Thalanor's son blinked, caught off guard. He adjusted his decorative crown—which sat crookedly on his head like a sleep-deprived rooster.
"Uh… he's… outside."
Veyron arched a brow. "Doing what?"
"Watering tomatoes," the young king replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Veyron stared. "...Tomatoes?"
"He says 'nurturing the fruit of the earth is like nurturing the soul.' Personally, I think he just likes playing with dirt."
With a quiet sigh and a half-smile, Veyron followed him through the palace corridors, stepping into the sunlight-drenched garden beyond.
There, kneeling among roses, carrots, and a suspiciously enchanted gourd, was Thalanor, the retired king—wearing a wide straw hat, an apron that read "Plant First, Rule Later", and humming an old battle hymn as he sprinkled water from a glowing jug.
"Father," Thalanor's son called, "you have a guest."
Thalanor looked up—and paused mid-watering.
His aged eyes lit up. "...Veyron?"
"You're still talking to your plants?" Veyron said with a smirk.
Thalanor stood up slowly, dusting off his apron.
"You taught me magic and still don't understand living mana? This basil has more intelligence than half my old war council!"
"That explains your cabinet decisions during the Orc Treaty."
Thalanor laughed, walking over to clasp Veyron's arm in a firm grip.
"You old flame. Last time I saw you, you accidentally scorched my beard while teaching me combustion runes."
"It grew back stronger," Veyron said.
"And whiter. I looked like an elven Gandalf for a year."
They both chuckled. The humor softened the moment, but there was weight behind Veyron's visit.
"It's good to see the kingdom in safe hands," Veyron added, glancing toward Thalanor's son, who was now poking a tomato with his scepter like it might explode.
"Mostly safe," Thalanor muttered.
Veyron's smile faded slightly.
"But I didn't come here just to talk gardening," he said. "There's something you need to hear. Something… terrifying."
Thalanor straightened.
"Then let's not waste time. Come—into the war room. Bring the maids, too. If this is about the demonic surge three months ago… I've had nightmares about that mana pressure."
As they walked inside, the wind shifted slightly over the enchanted gourd patch.
And deep in the earth below, something ancient stirred.
Deep within the elven palace of Valelume, behind runed stone and golden doors carved with the history of elven victories, sat the War Room—a chamber rarely used since the end of the Great War. A wide circular table of whitewood stood at its center, surrounded by twelve chairs—each meant for a ruler, general, or high councilor.
The ceiling was high, arched with crystal-veined roots that glowed softly with mana. Floating orbs of light hovered above them, shifting hue with the mood of the room. Maps, relics, and a towering arcane crystal stood at the edge, flickering with whispers of magical echoes.
Gathered were:
Veyron the Silent Flame, stoic and cloaked, eyes sharp as steel
Thalanor, the former king of the elves, old but with a menacing aura.
King Aradel, the new king of elves.
Kaelis and Liora, Veyron's vigilant maid-knights
Several magical tacticians, scribes, and battle mages
As they sat, a heavy silence blanketed the room. Each of them had been summoned with urgency—none knew exactly why.
Veyron broke the silence, voice low but steady:
"I know all of you have heard… about the demon incursion at Malas Magic Academy."
Murmurs stirred.
King Aradel frowned.
"They slipped past our scouts. Past the Veil. Past our wards. How?"
Thalanor tapped a ringed finger on the table.
"Even our windseers didn't catch their trail."
Veyron nodded grimly.
"They were after something. Something we've kept hidden."
He let the words hang in the air like smoke before continuing:
"They were after the Relic."
More murmurs. Kaelis narrowed her eyes.
"You mean the artifact sealed under Malas? The one none can touch?"
But Thalanor raised a hand.
"I heard they didn't take it. In fact, I was told they didn't find it."
Veyron leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"That's because they don't know what it is."
Everyone turned to him ''What do you mean?'' Thalanor murmured.
He laced his fingers and said:
"The Relic… is not a thing. It is a person. A child. A descendant of merlin the great."
Gasps. The air grew still.
Liora blinked, stunned.
"Merlin like the greatest mage. that merlin?''kaelis for moment she like a statue caught mid-gasp.
"Merlin had a wife," Veyron said quietly, his gaze distant.
"A woman he kept hidden from the world during the Great War, shielded even from the eyes of gods and kings."
"She bore his child in secret... the last spark of his bloodline."
Aradel looked stunned.
"That would make the child…?"
"A living heir," Veyron confirmed. "A child of prophecy. A vessel of ancient mana. And that… is what the demons want."
He paused, his voice hardening.
"Only they don't know the 'Relic' is a person. Yet."
Thalanor stood up slowly, brows furrowed.
"You're telling me the entire demon strike was a misled treasure hunt… for a child?"
"No," Veyron said. "It was a precursor. A test. A scouting mission masked as an invasion."
Aradel, now gravely serious, asked:
"Do you have proof of the child's existence?"
Veyron shook his head.
"Not yet. But two months ago… while meditating in the Flamefall Peaks—I felt something."
He clenched his fists on the table.
"A mana pressure so vast… it could split the sky. Old. Raw. Royal. It lasted only moments. Then it vanished. As if swallowed by the world itself."
Thalanor spoke slowly, remembering.
"That day… yes. I recall it. The High Spire's wards flared blue. We thought it was an anomaly. But…"
Veyron nodded.
"I dispatched my best seekers. They found nothing. No trail. No signature. It's like the world itself is hiding the source."
A hush fell once again.
Kaelis leaned in, voice careful.
"If the demons do learn the truth…?"
"Then they will return," Veyron said, tone dark, "not in shadows—but in legions."
Aradel exhaled, tension showing on his weathered face.
"And we'll be dragged into another war. Just like before."
Veyron spoke with calm intensity.
"You remember the Great War. A hundred years ago. Forty years of bloodshed… all races united under one banner against the Demon King."
"You remember Merlin the Grandmage, he sealed the Veil with the sacrifice of three nations."
They nodded. Grim memories.
"That seal is weakening. And this child… may be the key to either salvation—or ruin."
Thalanor looked around the room.
"Then we must find them. Quietly. Before the demons do."
Liora stepped forward.
"Where do we begin?"
Veyron looked toward the center of the table where the arcane crystal stood.
"We begin by following the mana. And trusting that fate… has not yet turned her back on us."
The crystal pulsed—once—then dimmed.
A new war had already begun.