Flauros still stood there, his long black cloak reaching to the ground, blending in with the ruins and ashes of the battle. His gaze never left the young Leif, who was leisurely walking across the bloody battlefield, both like a god and a joker with fate.
He didn't say anything. Didn't call out. Just lifted his hand slightly, snapped his fingers.
Crack!
That small sound was like the end of a long game of chess. From afar, the protective layer around the civilians that had been erected before the battle, using extremely sophisticated magic, suddenly cracked.
Each layer of the barrier shattered like a broken bubble, dissolving into the air and turning into scattered pieces of ash.
The wind blew by, carrying those pieces of ash away like a whisper, like a sigh that no one could hear clearly.
A few days after the war, the Ozone Empire — which seemed to have completely collapsed — gradually recovered.
Each ruined wall was rebuilt with spell-engraved stone, and the transmission magic of mechanical scholars connected each road.
Alchemists from the central academy were also dispatched, coordinating with the army to rebuild the magic cores for the affected lands.
Everything was restored surprisingly quickly. Too quickly. As if it had been prepared in advance.
And then, while the people were still amazed at the speed of the reconstruction, shocking news was announced: the current emperor had officially abdicated.
Not because of illness. Not because of old age. Not because of rebellion.
But a "legitimate" decision, as the court said.
The new emperor was crowned in a private ceremony, attended by all the academy heads and Marshal Velynrather Kaelthas.
According to rumors from the military class, this person was the commander-in-chief of the recent frontline campaign, the one who issued the lightning counterattack command chain, helping to turn the situation around on the southern edge.
The name of the new emperor has not been officially announced.
Only that he is not a noble.
No one knows where he came from, only that when he appeared, both the army and the scholars immediately knelt.
The old emperor calmly passed the throne, personally raised the crown to that person's head, and said only three words:
"Heaven's will."
The new emperor had not been in power for long. Still, he immediately showed his sharpness in tactics, not only in his military talent but also in his cruelty when necessary.
The order was clear: any noble, general, or soldier who had sworn allegiance to Ozone but had deserted, deserted, or betrayed during the crisis would be erased from the family register and would no longer be considered an imperial citizen.
These people, whether alive or dead, had all their assets confiscated before they could be transferred. The wealth left behind, from real estate, warehouses, to paintings, antiques, personal libraries... was all confiscated into the national treasury, most of which was used to rebuild the war-torn areas, and a portion was redistributed to the poor and the remaining loyal soldiers.
Some were delighted and called it a "high-handed purge", while others were sweating with fear because they understood that the one sitting on the throne this time was not a puppet of the scholar council or the army, but a visionary and cold-blooded person.
The people called him the new iron king, who ruled with both his head and his heart but would not hesitate to crush any traitor with his iron-soled boots.
Only Flauros was not surprised. He sat on the old stone pedestal in the central square that had once been a bloody battlefield, watching the bustling people pass by with a lazy gaze, his fingers twirling a small crystal as if he did not care much.
Because the one sitting on the throne, the new all-powerful emperor, was none other than Leif.
That madman, the one who once stood in the ashes and laughed, the one who knew no fear and did not know where to stop.
He not only bet on the right side of the winning game, but also acted at the right time, coldly like a chess player sitting in the last position, only needing to push his pawn across the river to checkmate.
Now, he held an entire empire in his hands, a gift, not only for himself, but also for the Black Crow.
Ozone was the spoils of war.
And Flauros? Well… he thought he would be hanged or at least wanted for daring to use forbidden magic in the heart of the capital, an act that would have been punishable by death anywhere on the continent.
But he wasn't.
Instead, the people called him God.
Children would play games to mimic the scenes of that day with lines like:
"I am the Forbidden Magician! Don't stop me from saving the empire!"
"You are a loser! Bone Dragon!"
His paintings appeared in shops, and there were even crude clay statues for sale in the night market. People called him the Flame of Rebirth, the Magic Arm of the Black Crow, or even… "The Strange Saint."
Flauros sneered.
"God damn you guys…"
But well, being sanctified is better than being hanged by the spine.
There was nothing left to linger in this place. Flauros was certain: that person was not a transmigrator. No matter how powerful the forbidden magic was, it could not threaten an omniscient being like him.
Before leaving Ozone, Flauros stopped by a familiar blacksmith shop – the one he had visited to upgrade his storage ring. That crippled ring was already enough to make him feel annoyed.
Surprisingly, the blacksmith shop was still intact. There was still the black stone wall scorched with ash, the chimney that breathed like an old mechanical beast, and the twisted wooden signboard that was swaying in the wind.
Surprised?
Not to Flauros. He did not even raise an eyebrow.
Because he had left a layer of hidden magical protection around this area.
It wasn't that he loved this place, he just hated having to find a proper blacksmith shop in this half-baked world.
A place where he could give the required stats like a system board and not have the blacksmith look at him like a madman.
After all, he had given everything to him in advance, it would be a shame to lose it.
And the old blacksmith was still alive. Still strong, still tattooed, and with the same frown on his face as the first time they met.
It was funny to think about. Even the disastrous battle that had just swept through the city hadn't made him lose an eyebrow.
Flauros curled his lips. He gently pushed the door open and entered.
The sound of the hammer hitting the anvil steadily, mixed with the roar of the fire in the furnace, was like an old tune that Flauros knew by heart.
The old blacksmith was still there, his broad shoulders bent under the weight of metal and years. Sweat painted dark streaks on his shirt, but his movements were as steady as ever.
It was still him, the one who knew no fear of war, nor did he know fatigue, when the whole country was entering a period of reconstruction.
When the heavy wooden door opened with a familiar creak, he raised his head. Blinked. A moment of astonishment flashed across his gaze for a very short time, then was suppressed like a furnace being covered.
He put down his tools, quickly wiped his hands on his worn leather apron. His eyes, still sparkling with the ashes of war, now looked at Flauros as if he had never left.
"You came to get the ring?" he asked, his voice hoarse but firm. No greeting. No beating around the bush.
Not a single "are you still alive" like people usually do.
Flauros just nodded, a simple gesture like always. No excess of emotion, no pretense of politeness.
He watched as the man went inside, rummaged through a dusty drawer, and came back with a brand new ring in a frosted velvet box.
The ring had been upgraded. Its patterns were no longer crude engravings, but swirling streaks of fire, black as burning ink.
They wrapped around a crimson gem in the center that glowed warmly without the need for sunlight, still emitting beats, beats like the heart of a living creature.
Flauros took it without the old man having to offer it. His fingers ran over the surface of the ring once, checking the structure, the magic core, and the mana resonance. All the parameters were exactly as in the original design.
He did not say thank you. The processing fee had been paid in advance, and this transaction, like everything Flauros did, was a straight deal. No favors, no debts.
But before the black cloak disappeared into the morning mist outside, the blacksmith spoke.
"...Thank you."
Just two words. Not flowery, not heavy with emotion. But in a world devastated by betrayal and fire, that thank you was like a small piece of cloth among the ashes, not much, but still enough to make Flauros's steps falter slightly.
He did not turn his head, did not reply. His shoulders stiffened a little as if he was hesitating about something, but in the end, he continued walking as if he had not heard anything, or as if stopping would make him unnecessarily weak.
The blacksmith did not say anything more. He just looked after him for a moment, let out a long breath as if blowing away the dust of time stuck in his chest, then bowed his head and returned to the forge. The hammer fell again, hitting the red iron.
Deep down, he understood clearly: amid that war, while the entire town was wiped out, he was still alive because of someone who had erected a barrier around this old blacksmith shop. Not the Temple, not the royal family, and certainly not the militia.
Just a lone man, covered in blood and forbidden magic, silently drew a protective circle and walked away as if it were just a small note among thousands of great schemes.
He knew that amid a war with magic to protect him, other than Flauros, there was no one else who needed him alive to do this.
He didn't even know that person's name. And today's "Thank you" was the only thing he could reply.
Flauros walked leisurely on each tile that still smelled of fresh lime, the soft clacking sound of his shoes echoing in the middle of the once-smoke-filled neighborhood.
Now, each row of houses was being renovated, new tiled roofs pressed against old wooden frames as if trying to soothe the wounds of the past with paint and mortar.
He didn't care much how the hell Leif had come to control this empire. He didn't care how he wore a purple cloak or sat on the throne. Flauros only knew that to rebuild this place that had been burned by holy fire, he needed guts, strength, and brains.
And if he could do it, the benefits would be enormous. As long as he restored it in the right place, at the right time, with the right goal... this world would owe him a portion of new blood to continue spinning.
Flauros looked over the unfinished buildings, the construction workers laughing in the sun, and a few children running around drawing chalk on the walls. The air was so lively that his heart, accustomed to being numb, felt a little uncomfortable.
He muttered softly, as if talking to himself:
"Your life is a gamble."
Flauros did not linger long. Even the mottled warmth of a city coming back to life was not enough to hold him back. He left. Without notice, without a message.
The southern gate opened, and the creaking sound of hinges echoed like the groans of a place that had been torn apart by war. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the gaps in the clouds, sweeping a thin layer of light like a knife across Flauros's gray-black cloak.
There were fewer than three doses of the suppressant potion in the storage ring. The faint red trace, like a dark pattern, still occasionally appeared on his wrist, the pulse throbbing like a warning: The price to pay was approaching.
He put the potion away, not showing a trace of worry on his face.
The wind at the border blew, carrying with it the dust and the smell of dried blood from the old war. Flauros's black cloak fluttered slightly. He frowned, his sharp eyes swept over the person blocking his way, a person whose face was covered by a long, dark blue cloak with gold trim.
He didn't need to look closely to know who it was. The familiar scent of peppermint oil wafted past, the lazy way of standing as if he were in the middle of a palace and not on the edge of a wild forest.
Flauros tilted his head, his voice neither cold nor hot, only carrying a hint of mockery hidden behind his tiredness:
"Is our new emperor free? Free enough to come out here to play?"
The other person laughed. A low, indecent laugh, as if he had been waiting for that question all morning.
The hood was thrown back.
Leif — his light gray hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, the royal robe inside still unchangeable, but the hem was already covered in dust. He leaned his shoulder against the door of the small guardhouse, looking lazy and not at all like an emperor who had been on the throne for less than half a month.
"I heard someone was planning to leave the city without saying goodbye."
Leif said, then threw something towards Flauros.
He reached out to catch it, instinctively so fast that it was almost unconscious.
It was a rare material storage ring, a bright orange-yellow color, shining like the sunset. The dragon motif wrapped around the ring, each line so meticulous that it couldn't have been a street product.
There was a raised sealing matrix engraved inside, not a common item.
"A farewell gift,"
Leif added, his eyes still fixed on Flauros without blinking.
"Don't call me stingy, that ring holds enough suppressants for three months. There are also some new magical components. And… a few things I think you might need."
"Information."
Leif smiled slyly as he looked at the person in front of him, a man with a particularly striking appearance even under the faded red cloak.
Flauros turned the ring in his palm, not putting it on, nor returning it. He just looked at him for a long moment, enough for the wind to blow the messy hair on his forehead, then said softly:
"Do you think I'll be moved?"
Leif shrugged:
"No. But at least, I still want to send the person I like off properly."
Flauros was silent. Didn't answer. Didn't nod, didn't shake. He turned away, continuing to walk south. But before leaving, he still said goodbye.
"Okay, goodbye."
Leif smiled and looked after him for a while before leaving.