The front door creaked open.
"I'm back," Lucien called, kicking off his boots by the door.
"Boy! Where the hell've you been?" Master Gareth's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Get over here, meat's going cold!"
Lucien jogged across the worn floorboards of the ground level, the familiar scent of coal and oil fading into something… richer. The aroma of roasted meat drifted from the kitchen—a rare luxury in this household.
Just as he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with Elara.
Brown hair still damp from a recent bath, golden eyes flicking up in surprise—Elara was, objectively, beautiful. The kind of girl you'd expect to see atop a floating academy spire, not under the soot-stained ceiling of a working-class home.
Lucien blinked. "Sorry—uh, here." He thrust the sweetbox into her hands. "Congrats… on the academy thing."
Elara looked down at the box, then at him—clearly confused. "Thanks…?"
She waited, expecting him to let go.
He didn't.
"…You're giving it to me, right?"
Lucien blinked. "Right. Yes. Of course." And then, awkwardly, he pulled it back. "Just, uh… after dinner."
"You bastard," she muttered, half-laughing, half-annoyed as she made her way to the table and flopped into her seat.
Lucien smirked and followed her into the kitchen. Master Gareth stood over the stove, spoon in hand, brow slick with sweat.
"Grab those bowls, boy," Gareth barked without turning.
Together, they set the table. Soon, all three were seated around a steaming pot of meat stew with rice and broth—simple, but the smell alone rivaled royal feasts.
Lucien took his first bite and paused. "Old man… this is incredible."
Gareth grunted, slurping noisily. "Hah! Must've fed you garbage this morning."
"You gave me dry bread."
"Well, that was breakfast."
"No, I mean it. You could open a tavern. This is better than half the food stalls in Brass Street."
Gareth chuckled deep in his chest. "If you think this is good, you should've tasted my wife's cooking. She used to make sea crab curry from her homeland—spicy enough to burn your eyebrows off. Me? I just follow recipes from her old journals."
Lucien glanced at the worn hands holding the spoon. "Still, you've got talent. Shame it's wasted on hammering metal."
Gareth only laughed. "Hammers don't talk back, boy. And I'm too old to be chasing dreams now."
Lucien didn't argue, but a flicker of something passed behind his eyes.
He's wrong.
Dreams didn't expire with age—only with fear.
The irony wasn't lost on him. In truth, he was the oldest one at the table by far—three hundred years if he counted all his lifetimes, even if most of them had passed absorbing abyssal energy or wandering the endless seas.
Returning to mortal life still felt surreal.
He glanced at Elara, who was eating quietly, lost in thought.
They'd grown up together—or rather, Kael had. Elara never treated him like a burden, even after his parents died and Gareth took him in. While others saw a charity case, she saw… a friend. Maybe that's why Lucien hesitated, just a little, before asking:
"So. What's life like at the Academy? More exciting than hammering steel all day?"
Gareth snorted. "Bah. Useless theory and too many snobs, I bet."
But Elara's eyes lit up. "Honestly? It's incredible. There are minds from all over the continent—mechanists from Vern, sea-data analysts from the Azure Labs. I've been working on submersible mana circuits and even got assigned to a team analyzing abyssal leyline decay. It's… overwhelming, in a good way."
Lucien's gaze sharpened. So she's not just gifted. She's among elites.
"Sounds intense," he said softly. "You're not… getting bullied, are you?"
Gareth nearly dropped his spoon. "By the Forge, I didn't even think of that! My daughter—bullied?! Gods, your mother—"
"Relax, both of you," Elara said, giggling. "No one's stupid enough to mess with me. Besides…" She glanced at Kael. "I don't think you would be much help in a fight anyway."
Lucien's smile wilted. "Wow. Love the support."
Gareth chuckled. "She's not wrong."
Not a drop of respect in this damn house!
Elara was near the peak of Mortal rank now. If Lucien wasn't mistaken, she'd break through to Initiate within weeks. More dangerous than her rank, though, was the small, velvet-lined case she kept locked in her room.
The revolver.
Lucien's thoughts drifted toward his upcoming mission. If he could get that weapon…
"Ah, Elara," Gareth said between mouthfuls, "I gave you the item list earlier. Tomorrow, you'll head to the market with Kael. Pick everything up—don't forget a single damn thing."
Lucien froze. Wait, what?
But Elara frowned. "I… I was going to visit Arla tomorrow. We've got a joint project to plan. Can I go the day after?"
"It's a priority order. If I go, I can't man the forge," Gareth said firmly, his brow creasing. "It has to be tomorrow."
Elara opened her mouth to protest, but Lucien saw the opening—and struck.
"Don't worry," he cut in smoothly. "I'll go. That way, Elara can focus on her project, and you don't have to leave the smithy."
Both of them stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
Lucien pressed on. "I mean, if safety's a concern, I can take the revolver too."
That part, of course, was a lie. The real plan was to borrow the weapon for tomorrow's errand—one that required firepower.
Gareth nearly choked on his soup. "The hell are you saying?! You've lost your mind. Civilian possession of revolvers is illegal. That's a hard no."
Lucien turned to Elara, giving her his best pleading look.
She sighed, then said, "Father… plenty of people carry revolvers for safety, even if it's technically illegal. If Kael were attacked by bandits, he wouldn't be prosecuted for defending himself."
Then she looked at Lucien with a raised brow. "But you've never even held a revolver. How do you expect to use it?"
She wasn't wrong. Technically, Darius had explained that revolvers were strictly regulated—but getting one through the black market was both risky and expensive. Acquiring one through official means, like joining the police or a Church, would be smarter—and far safer.
"I'll manage," Lucien said lightly. "I've got good aim. Just show me the basics."
They exchanged uncertain glances.
Gareth finally sighed. "Fine. Just scare them off if it comes to that. Bandits won't test someone who looks confident. You'll be fine."
They chuckled.
After dinner, Elara returned with the revolver—an elegant, blacksteel sidearm that looked like something from a forgotten age. She placed it on the table, then began walking him through its mechanics.
"This is a Mark-19 modified revolver. Holds six abyssal rounds. Load like this—see the chamber here? And don't drop the bullets, they're expensive."
Lucien took one of the rounds carefully. It pulsed with dense, fading abyssal energy.
"This energy… it's leaking," he said, frowning.
Elara nodded. "Good eye. Abyssal rounds degrade over time. Best used within twenty days of production. After that, they're unreliable."
Lucien nodded slowly.
The revolver felt heavy in his hand—power, compressed and contained. He couldn't help but grin.
Tomorrow's mission just got a whole lot more interesting.
Without another word, he turned and climbed the stairs to his room.