The East Wing manor was quiet in the late dusk. Golden light slanted across the courtyard, the final sigh of a sun too tired to question anything anymore. Wind rustled the training banners—soft and unthreatening. It whispered of routine drills, mundane swordwork.
Then thunder arrived on two legs.
By the time Charles reached the Ziglar estate, he looked less like a noble heir and more like a battered corpse seeking revenge. His hair stood in jagged peaks from residual lightning, his cloak torn and crusted with ash, his body bruised and bloodied. His eyes—haunted and hollow—looked as if they'd seen a dragon's funeral and brought the ashes home.
A guard dropped his spear.
Borris, the grizzled former assassin-turned-blacksmith, looked up from inspecting a weapon crate outside the training yard and froze mid-polish.
"Lord Charlemagne…" Borris squinted. "You look like the gods took turns kicking you."
From the corner, Wendy blinked. "Should we… be alarmed?"
Then she saw the streaks of blood on his boots.
Yes. Probably.
But instead of collapsing, Charles gave a crooked, lopsided grin and waved with casual confidence—like being half-dead was simply a noble inconvenience.
"Well, that was a refreshing walk."
Wendy's eyes widened. "You call this walking?"
"Technically," Charles replied, "I limped the last hour. But that's between me and my bruised spleen."
Borris raised a brow, glancing between them. "You two haven't met?"
"Not yet," Charles said, leaning on the nearest pillar like it owed him money. "Wendy, this is Borris. Instructor. Blacksmith. Nightmare for lazy soldiers. Borris, this is Wendy. My apprentice. Wind affinity. Promising dagger work. She might gut you in your sleep one day."
Wendy gave an awkward bow. "Hello, sir."
Borris grunted. "She's small. That's good. Easier to hide the blades."
"Also, less surface area to hit," Charles added. "Advantage in duels."
They shared a short chuckle—more breath than sound—but the mood shifted the moment they stepped into the East Wing manor.
Anya and Maddie rushed toward him the moment they caught sight of his torn robes and ash-dusted hair. Anya's face drained of color.
Anya gasped. "Lord Charlemagne! You look like you crawled out of a battlefield!"
"I did," he said cheerfully. "Technically, I made the battlefield. And then walked away from it."
Maddie looked horrified. "We were worried sick—"
"I just went hunting," Charles interrupted, waving them toward the back courtyard. "Come. I brought souvenirs."
They followed him with confused glances.
What awaited them behind the manor silenced every gasp, every breath, every skeptical thought.
With a flick of his wrist, Charles reached into his spatial inventory. A heavy thud landed as the first beast corpse struck the flagstones, followed by another, each thrown out deliberately. He continued summoning, body tensing with each movement, until a mountain of carnage began to take shape in the courtyard.
Dozens of beast corpses tumbled across the courtyard—Direclaw Bears, Abyssal Flamehounds, Thunderfang Panthers. Mid to high-tier magical beasts sprawled like offerings to a forgotten god. Blood steamed, claws glinted, cores gleamed.
On one side: neatly arranged crystal cores—over a hundred from copper to rare silver and gold tiers.
Another pile: harvested beast organs and enchanted flesh, gleaming with alchemical promise.
Nearby: rare herbs in silver-leaf bundles—Thunderleaf, Stormroot, Voltspike Blossoms.
In a smaller mound, sealed and warded: Sovereign-level Vytharion materials—Skycoil Crown fragments, Skycoil Blood Essence, thunder-forged bones.
Then came the real thunder.
A monstrous serpent—thirty meters, split and charred, sapphire scales glittering—hit the ground. Its horns sparkled; its throat smoked.
Vytharion the Skycoil.
Silence fell. Even the wind forgot how to breathe.
"My gods…" someone whispered. "He hunted a Sovereign."
Next, Charles summoned loot. Organized clusters of claws, venom sacs, hides, horns, and elemental blood appeared. Rare herbs and spirit fragments joined thunder pearls.
Some of the cores pulsed faintly. They hinted at semi-sentience, raw power.
A few soldiers fell to one knee. Others stared like cultists before a prophet's miracle.
Charles turned slowly to face them all—bruised, half-burnt, bloodstained. But upright. And smiling.
"This," he said, voice quiet but thunder-laced, "is what one week of determination buys."
He gestured to the mountain of corpses.
"This is what cultivation looks like when you stop making excuses and start bleeding for progress."
He stepped forward across the courtyard, ignoring the throbbing pain that surged with each movement in his side.
You want to rise? Train harder. Cultivate deeper. Hunt smarter. You want to be worthy of House Ziglar's crest? Earn it. Every bruise on my body is proof. Pain can be turned into gold, glory, or power—if you have the will.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Consider this your challenge," Charles continued. "I'm raising the standard. If I return from a solo hunt with half the forest's worth of monsters, you better not bring me squirrels."
A few younger guards chuckled nervously.
Borris grunted. "Well said."
Charles nodded. "Now, to business. Borris, you get first pick of the crafting materials—especially those serpent scales. I want armor sets made for elite operatives. Wendy, you're assisting. You'll learn how to work storm-forged materials from someone who's made corpses with hammer strikes."
Wendy saluted stiffly.
Charles turned to Anya next. "You get the rare herbs. Sort and distill what we can use for elixirs. Label what needs to go to trusted alchemists. I'll review them before our departure."
Anya, still wide-eyed, answered, "Yes, my lord."
He pointed next to Maddie and Elmer in the back. "The rest of you—coordinate the sorting of beast cores, venom sacs, and pelt processing. I want this courtyard cleared and documented before sundown."
Then he turned back to Borris.
"Also," Charles added, voice dropping in tone, "you and Wendy—pack for departure. Tomorrow morning, we head to Duranth. From there, we travel to Velmora."
Borris blinked. "You sure you're ready for travel?"
Charles smirked. "I'm not. But my enemies don't care. And I have a list to shorten."
Borris grunted. "Fair enough."
Charles rolled his shoulders, pain crackling through him like rusted hinges as he moved. With the confidence of a man who had just soloed a dungeon meant for five, he walked away. His cloak dragged blood, ash, and sparks in a visible trail behind him.
Borris whispered as he watched Charles leave.
"…Is he always like this?"
Wendy crossed her arms. "You think that's wild? Wait until he starts planning."
The Feast Before the Tempest
The dinner table looked more like an altar than a meal. Rich mahogany shimmered under silver and obsidian plates, nearly hidden by a feast fit for a starving cultivator.
Each dish was a masterpiece. Forged in fire, magic, and desperate necessity. It wasn't just dinner. It was a restoration. Resurrection. Reward. Charles sat at the head like a conqueror disguised in bruises and bandages. He carved into it all, trying to forget how close he'd come to death.
He grabbed a rib of Flameback Boar, glazed with Cinderfruit Honey. The first bite burned sweet and smoky; healing heat flushed through him, mending wounds.
Opposite that, a thick cut of Silverhorn Antelope shimmered faintly with qi as he slid his knife through it. The meat fractured like tempered glass—perfectly brittle, as expected—and melted against his tongue in cooling waves of bone-deep restoration. Already, he could feel the tension in his ribs releasing, the bruises lifting beneath his skin.
The Ashscale Serpent Broth, pale-gold with mana threads, tingled down his spine, gently kickstarting his qi.
A chilled cup of Moonspore Sprigs, pale and bitter, cleared his mind instantly, banishing fatigue with one sip.
He exhaled, slow and steady. His fork clinked against the plate, his shoulders easing. He hadn't even realized how tightly he'd been holding tension in his body.
Across the table, Anya stepped forward, graceful and silent, as always. She held a polished silver tray as if it carried the moon.
Anya bowed slightly, voice soft but firm. "Lord Charlemagne, everything's prepared."
Charles drained the last of his Verdantblood Wine, its ruby hue shimmering. The aftertaste tingled like a love letter from a stormy vineyard.
"More alchemy tonight?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.
She nodded once, expression calm. "To... stabilize the surge."
He sighed dramatically, dragging the sound out as if it would somehow drain the responsibility with it. "Sometimes," he muttered, "I miss just punching rocks. It was simpler back then."
"Punching rocks didn't almost kill you by lightning serpent," she countered with the smallest twitch of a smirk.
"Touche."
He stood. His bones cracked like distant thunder as he stretched, the remnants of his battle with Vytharion still echoing in his frame.
Anya watched him, careful but respectful. She'd seen him crawl into the manor hours ago, looking like a man thrown into a forge and spit back out by the flames. And yet here he stood again, half-devoured by fate and somehow smiling like he was still negotiating a corporate merger.
"Tonight," she said, her voice returning to ritual calm, "is for rebirth."
Charles nodded slowly. "Then I'll take a bath."
He exited the dining hall with all the grace of a man pretending not to limp.
Behind him, the servants bowed low and cleared away what remained of the legendary meal. Only the faint, silvery laughter of his aides lingered in the hall.
A quiet storm brewed in the private quarters. The next hour would not be easy. He would not go gently into recovery.
But he would rise stronger.
And woe to anyone who mistook his fatigue for weakness.
Rebirth in the Iron-Jade Bath
The private bath chamber beneath the East Wing manor exhaled warmth and mysticism. Sigils etched along obsidian-tiled walls pulsed in gold, flickering faintly as if whispering forgotten prayers to ancient storms. The air shimmered with elemental tension—heat and light braided together, conjuring the smell of ozone, steel, and healing roots.
The centerpiece of the room was a marble tub, impossibly smooth and veined with natural lightning quartz. It hummed faintly with residual energy, as if recalling the battles of those who had soaked into it. Anya stood barefoot beside it, her usually stern features softened by steam. In her gloved hands, she cradled five components of alchemical rebirth like offerings to an unseen god.
She worked quickly but reverently.
The first to go in were three Iron Vein Bath Spheres. Each dropped with a clink and dissolved in molten streams, weaving metallic veins across the bath's surface. Liquid iron slithered like silver serpents, sinking into the water until it rippled like molten steel.
Next, Verdant Jade Dew—five drops only. They hissed upon contact, releasing curling green wisps that spread warmth through the air like a forest exhaling after a storm.
Then came the Azurecloud Silkroot, powdered and light as a whisper. She stirred it gently, the misty flakes spiraling down and vanishing into the swirling depths like wind-blown wishes.
A pinch of Drakebone Ash Salts was sprinkled last, igniting like comet sparks the moment it touched the mixture. A faint crackle. A pop. The scent of scorched bone and medicine filled the air.
Finally, Stardrop Essence—three drops—hovered above the bath, defying gravity for an instant before sinking into the surface and forming three concentric halos that shimmered like the memory of stars.
Anya bowed her head slightly. "It's ready."