The sea beneath the diplomatic vessel lay smooth as pale parchment, while light from the low-hanging sun struck the waves like sharpened blades. Ryuto stood at the bow with his arms crossed, his coat hem fluttering in the wind as he watched the distant shoreline of Ironwood. Around him, the envoys spoke in hushed tones—maps unfolded and refolded, men and women clad in foreign silks compared notes—but Ryuto's thoughts kept returning to Aethelred.
He had examined the past the man tried to conceal, and there he found no monster—only a leader carved by necessity. Not a friend. Perhaps not yet. But neither was he the calamity painted by rumor.
A sailor called out and carefully slid a small chest onto the deck with both hands. Aethelred's administrator had insisted the gifts be sent along—tokens of gratitude, and perhaps of intent as well. The captain passed the chest forward; Ryuto opened the latch.
Inside lay an assortment of seemingly harmless items: a length of rare blue-dyed silk bearing a symbol unfamiliar to Ryuto, a carved wooden figurine of a winged stag, a packet of black horned seeds from the southern marshlands, and a folded leather document sealed with multiple stamps. The envoys leaned closer, curiosity sharpened by experience.
"Refined, as always, Aethelred," murmured Envoy Jorin with a wry smile. "Spices, textiles, and… is that a military map?"
Ryuto unfolded the leather sheet. It was not a chart of the seas they had crossed, but a map of the eastern territories of Aethelred's Federation—marked with troop movements, supply routes, and a small handwritten note beside a fortified city, penned in Aethelred's own hand.
There was no hidden threat here, Ryuto thought. The map read like an offer—shared knowledge, shared defense.
"Is this because we traveled through allied lands?" Envoy Lysa asked, her voice tinged with relief. "He wants to solidify the alliance."
Ryuto gently folded the map and returned it to the chest. The sunlight on the water had become a molten seam. No one on deck could yet guess what names and leather could truly accomplish—how much trust could be purchased with the right ink.
By the time the Ironwood fleet came into view, word had already crossed sea and mountain paths. Queen Bellatrix of Silverwood, who had consulted closely since negotiations began, read Aethelred's summarized treaty with an expression bordering on satisfaction. She had been waiting for an opening; an alliance between Ironwood and the Federation promised to shift the balance.
She summoned her commanders and issued orders for diplomatic preparations.
"Prepare envoys immediately," she said in a voice sharp as ice. "Not court ornaments—people who can read treaties and recognize Aethelred's hand. And keep two divisions ready to march if the situation deteriorates. I want to see the Federation's reach with my own eyes."
Her commander bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty—"
Bellatrix paused. A strange softness flickered in her eyes, as though she were considering something beyond parchment and banners.
"Send Blue-Seal Alina," she added. "She understands nuance. And—" She hesitated. "I think I should go as well."
---
Crossing waves and mountains, Ryuto and his envoys delivered their formal report in Ironwood's grand hall before King Arvedis and Princess Alisa. The chamber smelled of pine and smoke; thick tapestries depicting hunts watched from the walls. King Arvedis received them with measured caution, his hands wrapped in simple leather gloves—a ruler who required no gilded ceremony. Princess Alisa sat quietly at his side, her gaze sharp and restless.
"We've returned with our findings," Ryuto said evenly. "Aethelred is not the threat the rumors claim. His Federation is cautious—built to withstand the Great Demon Empire of the south. He seeks alliance, or at least understanding."
Arvedis steepled his fingers. "And you're certain this is not colonial ambition in disguise?"
"He's pragmatic," Envoy Lysa replied. "Yes, he fortifies his borders—but against demons, to protect his people. The maps he shared show no encroachment into our lands. His gifts are open, not concealed."
The king was not easily persuaded. He watched Ryuto as though weighing a coin. "Trust is a difficult burden, Ryuto. Aethelred's promises may yet be a snare."
Ryuto's jaw tightened. "Then judge him by actions, not rumors, Your Majesty. When the time comes to face the Great Demon Empire, his deeds will speak louder than any parchment."
Princess Alisa gently interjected, her fingers folded before her lips. "Father, I wish to see the Federation with my own eyes. If their defenses truly stand against demons, we should send an envoy—no, I will go myself."
There was a clarity in her voice that made King Arvedis pause, hand to his mouth.
"I will consider it," he said at last.
---
Mistwood's harbor was a throat of fog that swallowed sound. As Blade drove his brown horse-drawn carriage through the gate, the city appeared and vanished like a half-remembered dream. The date was April 9th, Year 217 of the Union of Velgrith. The evening air was thin, carrying sea salt and a trace of coal smoke.
For the first time since shedding another identity, Blade felt his old manner return—the warm familiarity in faces when people spoke his name like a promise. He was still Shujin, he reminded himself—a shadow of calculation and silence. And yet here, among Mistwood's scarred planks and lamplit alleys, watching a boy chase a hoop along the roadside, the original Blade smiled.
Mistwood was poorer than Silverwood or Ironwood. Houses leaned against one another for warmth; market stalls sold more dried fish and hand-worked leather than foreign goods. Yet there was a quiet contentment here absent from larger cities—a steady rhythm born of knowing one's walls were held by strong hands. Mistwood's army was large, its fortresses carved into forested hills. Its people slept behind locked doors and walked its streets openly by day.
"Halt, carriage!" barked a guard with a trimmed beard and the rough authority of command. The gate was tight tonight. Two sentries stepped forward, lanterns raised, inspecting the carriage. They knew Rank-A adventurers the way one knew ancient gods—reverently, cautiously.
They saw Blade's crest, his credentials, the posture earned through action. Still, they checked both chest and harness, expecting deceit. Procedure. Blade watched with the ease of one long accustomed to equal measures of respect and distrust.
"Any issue?" asked the gatekeeper, a woman with tightly braided hair.
"Routine inspection," the guard replied quietly. "Rank-A, but weapons stored in the carriage. We must check."
Blade dismounted and offered his hands, the relaxed posture of a man with nothing to hide. They found only a cloak, a bundle of leather travel journals, and a small iron sword weathered by many winters. Satisfied, they waved him through.
Inside, Blade's eyes drank in the lantern-lit harbor streets veiled in mist. Guards patrolled with spears and torches; the air smelled of creosote and rope. He felt the difference between Mistwood and Silverwood—here, wealth was measured not in silks or coins, but in muscle and loyalty. Poverty was held at bay by iron discipline. Where Silverwood gleamed, Mistwood endured.
He walked to his favored inn—The Anchor's Rest, a low wooden building. Men and women laughed at communal tables; a child poked at a beetle with a stick. Blade let an old friendliness rise to his face and nodded to Marta, the broad-shouldered innkeeper who had once been a mercenary and now kept ledgers instead of blades.
"Rank-A adventurer Blade-kun, isn't it?" she asked, wiping a mug.
"Just passing through," Blade said. "A warm bed and whatever soup you have."
"For someone as famous as Blade-kun, only the best," Marta grinned. "And you'll tell stories later. Sleep first—stories after."
That night, with sea fog pressed against the windows like a blanket, Blade slept. For those few hours, sleep allowed him to be simply human.
---
In the Great Demon Empire, in a fortress lit by coals and bone, the Council of Demon Lords convened. The warped shadows of three thrones cut through the darkness—the Western Demon Lord near Mistwood; the Southern Demon Lord ruling Flarewood; and the Great Demon Lord, whispering like distant thunder.
They traded words like blades.
"The adventurer called Blade grows bold," rasped the Western Demon Lord, his voice like dead leaves. His form resembled a man bound in bark, eyes glowing like embers. "He integrates with humans in ways our scouts did not anticipate. If we act now, we can remove him."
The Southern Demon Lord laughed, hot and grinding. "He's Rank-A. A single human. We have armies. Beasts of Flarewood. Spears of the eastern marshes. He's a thorn."
The Great Demon Lord remained a distant silhouette, but frost edged his voice. "Do not mistake a thorn, Southerner. Aethelred's Federation grows in knowledge. If human nations unite under leaders who understand us, we will be cornered. Blade is insignificant—but the Federation is not."
"Then strike Aethelred," snapped the Southern Lord. "Shatter the Federation before it unites."
"No," said the Western Lord, leaning forward. "Open attacks grant legitimacy. When rulers unite, we lose advantage."
Silence followed, heavy as stone. Whispers of ancient victories and broken pacts crawled along the walls. The Great Demon Lord spoke softly.
"We will test them. Push them to excess, learn their limits. Blade will be erased—when we choose. We will let him feel our shadow, then destroy him where it hurts most—where he loves. The Federation is a threat, yes, but haste has always undone us. Patience will sharpen our strike."
"We'll teach him a lesson," said the Western Lord.
"He'll be bait," the Southern Lord agreed.
They laughed—a sound that should never touch the earth. Yet beneath their arrogance, if the Great Demon Lord had eyes, they would have burned with immortal concern. The Federation's maps had become lines they could no longer ignore.
---
That night, as fog embraced Mistwood and the sea whispered to the harbor, the threads of diplomacy and danger tightened. King Arvedis weighed trust against his people's fate. Princess Alisa gazed eastward with hunger to learn. Queen Bellatrix gathered her envoys. And in the shadows, demons plotted with patience and deceit.
Blade slept, allowing himself a few hours of ancestral warmth. Ryuto's ship cut lines across the sea. And somewhere beyond them both, a map rolled beneath an unseen hand, as the world tilted another step toward war.
__ __ __
✦ To be continued…