"A sword hidden too long gathers not dust, but danger—
for when it is drawn, it does not cut alone... it carves through history."
— Old Elynthian Proverb by a former Pillar of Flame, banned from district schools
-The Rosmoss-
The room breathed silence.
A long, curved table stretched beneath a cathedral dome veiled in shadow. High above, no windows. No doors were visible either—only the presence of the Council known as...
The Rosmoss: the heart of political maneuvering within the Elynthian Monarchy.
Four cloaked figures seated around the obsidian table shifted subtly—robes rustling, rings glinting, masks cold. Each figure represented a Great House—united not by loyalty, but by old bloodlines and competing interests. The four individuals sat beneath the flicker of a pale, hovering flame suspended midair. The flame shone white, but pulsed scarlet twice before returning to white—a code only the Council understood.
A signal. A warning. A Scarlet Case.
One of them, House Meijer's representative in red silk, scoffed quietly.
"Tch. A Scarlet Case? How quaint. The last one was decades ago."
"Lovely," said another, the rotund man from House Yuneseppe with fingers soaked in gold rings, smirked, fingers clasped like a priest.
"Is the Temple of Stayne involved again? I swear, it would be quite humiliating to have the Staynic priests cleaning up our mess again—those sanctified pests—"
A third voice—smooth and bored, from a figure in green representing House Alistorious—spoke lazily, eyes glinting behind their mask.
"We ought to be more careful~ The Temple and the IHMA wrote the laws we so enjoy bending. Mocking the law while hiding behind it—my, how very... Elynthian."
Their laughter was dry. Disdainful.
But it stopped when the fourth member finally moved, the head of the council, the representative from House Elynth.
Also known as the Head of the Rosmoss.
He sat at the head of the table, still as a statue, face veiled beneath shadow. Unlike the others, he spoke not a single word. And yet...
A silence fell—not heavy, but exact. One of the four—the one at the head of the table—had raised a single gloved hand.
His lips moved.
No sound came out.
And yet, the other three heard it clearly—in their minds. Whatever was said, it forced all posturing to cease.
Stillness gripped the room.
When he finally spoke aloud, his real voice, cold and aged, low and coarse, but composed.
"Since it's a Scarlet Case… they may attempt to invoke judgment rights. The flame flickers red for one reason only. A return."
"Theseus Alistor. The Fifth Scarlet."
The name hit like iron dropped on glass.
The Representative from House Yuneseppe narrowed his eyes.
"...Impossible. Theseus Alistor is dead. Disappeared. Erased from all known records eight decades ago. A ghost of the Flame Pillar. He was excommunicated by the Guild and the Throne."
"No," the Representative of House Meijer countered.
"He wasn't excommunicated. He vanished. Which is far more dangerous."
"He was the 5th Scarlet Case," the Representative of House Alistorious added.
"And if this flame confirms his return..."
A breath caught somewhere in the room.
"...That's impossible," one whispered. "He would be... what, a hundred and—?"
"One hundred and two," the Head confirmed. "Still alive. Still fighting. And—by recent report—still far too powerful."
The Alistorious Representative narrowed her gaze, skeptical. "And what report, exactly?"
The Head tapped the parchment again.
"An account, sent by a Tropico Guild Adventuring Party. Five mid-level adventurers and two porters—stationed near Dungeon 47F: Nexus Ryze in the Apusa Region."
He let the names sink in of all the people who encountered Theseus at first hand:
"Harlen Sprieggen"
"Camylle Aurburst"
"Trevus Regulus"
"Lotha Mireyer"
"Nira Hollows"
"Ashe Vaxille"
"Mina"
"They described a seemingly old man. Masked. Tall. Wielding a long spear. White hair. No visible mana signature, and yet capable of wiping out a Dungeon Master-class entity in a single strike."
"But the report spoke of one detail that confirms it."
"The insignia of the Tropico Guild. He recognized it. Called it… nostalgic."
A beat.
Then, another voice: "...That is him."
The Head continued.
"This report was passed up the Tropico chain. From Captain Ferris Orlean, to the current Pillar of Flame, then to the High Curator, and finally to—us."
"An inefficient ladder," muttered one.
"A careful one," corrected the Head. "Too careful, perhaps. But now the question is not how he lived. The question is—"
He folded his hands beneath the table.
"Why has he returned?"
No one answered.
Not at first.
They all knew the man. Or the legend of him. "Theseus Alistor" One of the first Nulls to ever be accepted into high position. The former Pillar of Flame. The only Null to ever hold such strange power within a system built against him. Not only that but a former member of the House of Alistorious.
And the most dangerous defector the Elynthian Monarchy had ever produced.
"He's not the type to act out of pride," murmured the Alistorious Representative. "If he's showing himself to strangers especially to Tropico Guild affiliates… then he's planning something."
"Or he's… weakening," another said. "Maybe he's close to death. Preparing a successor?"
"A will," the Head said quietly. "A dangerous will."
The table darkened.
The white flame above them crackled.
The Head gave a single nod.
"And that… is the true danger."
"One not of fire or steel… but of ideology."
The Head leaned forward now, his voice sharpened.
"A truth so potent that, once revealed, it could turn the people against the Monarchy. Break the trust. Collapse the illusion. And light the world ablaze in revolution."
"An idea forged from the flaws of the Elynthian Monarchy—its hidden systems, the illusion of meritocracy, the control of magic, bloodlines, rank, and manipulation."
"If Theseus passes on his knowledge… it could break the very veil we've spent generations constructing."
His fingers tapped the table.
"Revolution is not born from blades. It is born from clarity."
Another silence.
Then, the Meijer Representative whispered,
"He wants to finish what he started… all those years ago."
The woman clenched her jaw. "If the public learns what he knows—"
"—Then it's already over." the Head finished.
"That is why the flame flickered scarlet. This isn't about power. This is about belief. And Theseus Alistor may very well be the one man who can shatter it."
Then one voice dared speak.
"...We should kill him."
"No," said the Head immediately. "It is perhaps too late. If he's exposed himself, he's already chosen his successor. Or at least, he's begun to look for one."
The woman in red's gaze sharpened.
"You think this… 'Null girl' the report mentioned—what was her name?"
"Mina," replied the Head.
"You think she is his candidate?"
A pause.
Then a smile, cold and unreadable, crept behind the Head's gloved fingers.
"Perhaps."
"Or perhaps she is the spark."
The flame flickered red once more.
The Head stood slowly. His figure was thin but tall, almost skeletal beneath his high-collared coat—his face hidden beneath layers of velvet shadow and candlelight.
His voice returned—no longer silent, but heavy.
"I will issue out two commands."
His gloved finger extended.
"First… track down Theseus Alistor. Every report, rumor, magical anomaly, Null movement—trace it. Quietly. If word gets out that he still lives, the still surviving loyalists will stir."
Another pause.
"Second… observe the Null girl."
A flick of the flame above sent a ripple across the sigil.
"The one known as only as Mina. Her file is incomplete. She has no official arcane registry, no guild standing, no noble sponsor. Yet she survived a n A-tier dungeon and was seen in the company of him."
He turned toward the three nobles seated.
"If Theseus and this girl meet again… something will shift. I don't know what. But I feel it. In the ether. In the quiet."
He leaned over the table, and the firelight glinted briefly across his black irises.
"If they meet again… we may be dealing not with a Scarlet Case—"
"—but the First Ember of Revolution."
Another silence.
A long one.
"We are the architects of the Monarchy's illusion. Do not forget that," the Head whispered.
"And Theseus Alistor is the hand reaching to tear back the veil."
Then, just as the flame above began to flicker again, the chamber dimmed into nothingness.
Then the scene faded.
-Tropico Outpost Western III-
The white sun of the late morning slanted over the stony walls of Tropico Outpost: Western III, its banners still rippling gently from the ocean winds that came from beyond the southern ridge. The familiar sound of wooden carts and shouting merchants filled the background—but the returning party walked in silence.
Their boots scuffed. Their armor cracked. Their spirits shaken.
And their numbers, somehow, intact.
The seven survivors passed under the high outpost gates, weathered and worn. The guards saluted quietly, unsure whether to cheer or worry. It was rare for a party to return from a cleared Dungeon 47F floor. Even rarer still to walk away from a Dungeon Master alive.
Especially one like that.
They were taken immediately to the main hall of the Outpost—a cold, echoing atrium under polished marble banners and Tropico sigils. The green tree, emblazoned with the mango seal, gleamed under the sunlight like an emblem of survival.
Now they were home.
But the weight they carried was heavier than when they had left.
Inside the Outpost Hall in Ferris' office, Captain Ferris Orlean sat behind his desk—his graying hair swept back, arms crossed, a hardened glare set on the five adventurers before him.
—The Report—
Trevus stepped forward. Bruised. Exhausted. But upright and resolute.
"Dungeon 47F has been cleared. The Armored Flesh… was destroyed. Our mission is complete."
He turned toward his fellow guildmates—his voice lowering.
"But... there's more. A breach of conduct occurred. One that could have cost lives."
Ferris's brows narrowed. His eyes snapped toward Harlen.
Trevus didn't flinch.
"Midway through the operation, Harlen and Camylle attempted to sabotage our porter team—Mina and Ashe Vaxille—by throwing them into the Dungeon Master's chamber. With explosives. Purposefully. Me, including Lotha & Nira had nothing to do with it."
The room stilled.
Harlen didn't deny it. He took a breath, then stepped forward beside Camylle. His voice was hoarse, but firm.
"I did it. I resented the Captain's connection to them. I acted out. I let anger blind me. Camylle followed me because… Camylle followed me because I asked her to. She shouldn't have to face this, but I know she will."
Camylle interrupted. She didn't look ashamed. But she also didn't look proud.
"I own that decision. No excuses. We both do."
Captain Ferris's gloved hand curled into a white-knuckled fist. His jaw clenched visibly as he stood up from his seat took one step forward, the tile below almost shattering from the amount of mana Ferris has imbued into this end's.
"I ought to break you, Harlen."
Ferris's hand twitched—fury rising behind his calm posture.
The tension was suffocating his eyes locked on Harlen. But before he could speak—
"Captain, wait!" Mina stepped forward, placing herself between Ferris and the pair.
"I'm not excusing what they did—but they've paid. We all nearly died. We had to survive together. They helped. Camylle saved Lotha from a fatal strike. Harlen stood between me and death. In the end… th-they chose right!"
Ashe nodded weakly from beside her.
"They could've run. Left us. But they didn't."
There was silence. For a few moments Ferris's face didn't soften, but he didn't strike. He closed his eyes... then turned his back.
"Trevus. Step forward."
The knight did so.
"They're your team. What do you recommend?"
Trevus hesitated—but only briefly.
"Punishment is necessary. But not exile."
Ferris nodded slowly.
Ferris stared them down—his lips thin, his gaze like stone.
Then…
"Harlen. Camylle."
They stood at attention.
—The Sentence—
"Effective immediately," Ferris declared, turning toward Harlen and Camylle once more, "your Adventurer Licenses are to be revoked."
"You both are reassigned to Supply & Logistics Division.. You will serve as laborers—loading, lifting, cleaning. No fieldwork. No weapons."
"Five months probation. You are barred from re-taking the Licensing Exams during that time and I'll make it sure."
He paused—then added with cold finality:
"You are stripped of your titles... but not your chance at redemption."
Harlen let out a slow breath. "U-Understood..."
Camylle simply nodded.
As they turned to leave the hall, Ferris added one last remark.
"Harlen."
The ex-knight paused.
"They could've left you to die," Ferris had growled at Harlen. "But they didn't. I won't either. So you'll suffer properly."
"Try that again—and next time, I won't stop with your license."
Later in the evening, the outpost was quiet under the glow of lanternlight.
Harlen sat by the warehouse wall, unarmored, his knuckles scabbed, holding a dented canteen. He had never felt so small in his life. Not even in the guild wars. Not even when Ferris once outdueled him in front of fifty soldiers.
He heard soft steps—then Camylle sat down beside him. She tossed him a tightly wrapped bundle. Inside, a protein ration, steamed with soft herbs and bits of dried fruit.
"Lotha gave it to me. Said you needed it more than she did."
Harlen grinned weakly. "Lotha must really hate me."
"She does," Camylle replied. "But she hates you alive."
They sat in silence for a while.
Then Harlen spoke, his voice barely a whisper.
"I ruined everything, didn't I?"
Camylle shrugged. "Maybe. But we're still breathing."
"I dragged you into this."
"And I'd jump in again. We'll fall together, Harlen."
Harlen smiled faintly.
"Yeah."
Within the infirmary in the Western Sector of the Outpost. Lotha gently stroked Nira's hair, brushing back the dried blood and matted strands. Nira, her body covered in bandages, slowly blinked awake.
"Back... already?"
"You've been asleep almost a day."
"That's all? I thought I almost died there."
Nira smirked.
Lotha held her hand tight.
"We made it, Nira. All of us."
"Even Harlen?"
Lotha hesitated.
"Yes."
Nira sighed.
"Still can't forgive him, though."
Lotha smiled. "No one's asking you to."
"Ugh, feels like I got hit by a mountain."
"You did," Lotha smiled softly. "It was called an Explosion~"
They both laughed—weak, but real.
The infirmary lamps glowed dimly, casting long amber shadows across the wooden floorboards of the outpost's recovery wing.
Mina sat silently at Ashe's bedside, her fingers gently intertwined with his. The blankets rose and fell with his shallow breath, and though his face was pale, a little color had returned to his lips.
Mina sat beside him, not in her own room, not by her own bed, but here, because he needed someone.
His hand gripped hers gently, and though his fingers trembled slightly, his hold was warm. Familiar. Trusting.
"You're alright," Mina whispered under her breath. "Just breathe."
Ashe's eyes fluttered open for a second. He wasn't fully asleep, but not fully awake either—drifting on the painful edge of fatigue. He didn't speak. He just blinked once... then twice… then shut his eyes again, still holding on. His mind has been swimming in the aftermath of something he had never experienced before.
Mana-burnout.
Ashe had only read about it before in the guild archives.
A condition rare—painful—and for many, once-in-a-lifetime.
It was more than just exhaustion.
It was the sensation of being emptied out from the inside
It happens when one's mana-heart ran completely dry, drained past the safety line. But the body didn't stop casting. The mana-pathways, trained to respond to intent and command, continued to request mana from a source that no longer had any.
So instead, the body began to absorb mana from the outside world—impure, foreign, mismatched to the caster's own signature.
Hence with no mana left within him at that time, Ashe's casting had reflexively begun to pull in ambient mana from the environment—a desperate act of survival.
But ambient mana wasn't clean. It wasn't tailored to his mana-signature.
It was like drinking polluted water.
It worked. But at a cost.
His body poisoned itself to keep fighting.
And now, lying still, holding her hand—his systems were quietly beginning the slow, instinctive process of filtering the foreign energy as his Mana-Heart replenishes its reserves. It would take time. Sleep. Presence.
She looked at him, resting in the dull orange glow of the lantern, his breath slightly uneven, chest rising and falling as if weighed by more than exhaustion.
"Just rest, idiot," she whispered softly, brushing a strand of silvered hair from his forehead as he shifted positions once more.
Mina stayed with him.
She didn't speak.
Her hand remained still in his.
And yet, her mind was anything but still.
Her eyes drifted toward the bedside lamp. The glass housing had cracked earlier, and its flickering flame threw shards of shadow against the walls—shadows that reminded her of that dungeon.
Of the blast.
Of the moment when all hope had fled.
Of the man who walked out of the smoke like a myth dragged out of the ashes of war.
Theseus.
The spear. The speed. The iron mask.
He's a Null... just like me.
But that wasn't what haunted her.
What haunted her was the power. The precision. The authority in his voice.He had no mana—not a trace—and yet he had felled a Dungeon Master in one motion.
Is that what I'm supposed to be? Is that what I could be?
She glanced down at Ashe.
His fingers twitched faintly, and his grip on her hand tightened.
Ashe casts illusions that shift the mind. Lotha heals wounds with a word. Trevus can dance with sabers like water itself. And I... I can barely throw a punch.
She swallowed.
So what am I, really? What am I meant for, if not magic?
The silence between her and Ashe stretched—comforting, not cold.
Even in this stillness, she could feel a presence moving inside her. Something awakening. Or maybe... something remembering.
I want to find Theseus again.
The thought rose before she even realized she believed it.
I have to.
She didn't know what answers he held.
But she knew one thing:
Nulls weren't supposed to be strong.
And yet he was.
Which meant maybe—just maybe—she didn't know the full story of what he was yet.
Ashe shifted again, and she leaned forward instinctively, brushing aside a loose strand of hair from his face.
He whispered, barely audible:
"...still here?"
Mina smiled faintly.
"Yeah. Still here."
Ashe nodded, relaxing again, drifting back toward sleep. His hand didn't let go.
"It's so hard to fall asleep..."
"Oh, I bet~"
Cute & Comforting, and as Mina looked back toward the dark window, beyond the stars and into the world beyond, a quiet fire began to burn within her—
Not of mana.
But of something else.
a Will.
And a question that needed answering.
Who am I really... and why am I still being watched?