When the caravan finally crossed the walls, Lusian stood still for a moment… as if he had entered another city entirely.
The whole duchy was wrapped in green.
Not decorative green.Not ornamental green.
It was the green of survival.
Across rooftops, balconies, archways, and walkways grew the long, flexible stems of Nutrian Vines—a plant no botanist in this world had seen before the Mana Storm. To the people, they were a strange new blessing; to Lusian, they were a critical resource he knew all too well from the game.
Small, oval fruits hung in clustered bunches, always ripe, always ready. Their taste was simple—nothing remarkable—but enough to keep an entire city alive without relying on open fields.
Exactly like the human cities that had survived in the game.
And now, that secret knowledge of Lusian's was flourishing here, in his real world.
"We're elves now…" he murmured to himself, watching a fruit-laden vine curl around a stone chimney.
The joke carried weight.
In the game, it was the elves who had taught humans to eat these plants and cultivate them across urban structures to survive isolation.
For the citizens, it was innovative and practical.
For Lusian… it was indispensable.
Beyond the vegetation, what truly stood out were the new houses: entire blocks raised in mere weeks, with reinforced roofs built to support the Nutrian Vines, and shared courtyards converted into improvised urban greenhouses.
Thousands of refugees walked the streets, mingling with the original inhabitants. Tired eyes. Busy hands.
Alive.
Alive thanks to the duchy's efforts.
And to information only Lusian possessed.
At the foot of the castle staircase, his mother was waiting.
Sofía ran to him the moment she saw him, embracing him so tightly he nearly lost his breath.
"You're safe…" she whispered against his shoulder, as if she had been holding that breath for an entire month.
Lusian held her in return. He didn't need to explain that he was unharmed, that the journey had been secure.
Though a few steps behind, Albert silently carried a black metallic box: the emergency spatial artifact. A legendary item, one half of a matched pair. One was here, with Albert. The other… in the castle's arcane tower.
A single use.Five people.Worth enough to purchase a small territory.
Only Sofía and Albert knew it existed.
And even so, Sofía had feared every day that her son might not return.
"I'm here, Mother," Lusian replied softly.
She pulled back slightly, cupped his face, and studied him with damp eyes, as if confirming he wasn't an illusion.
"Your ascension will be in one week," she said at last, gathering her composure. "The nobles have already arrived for the oath. They were only waiting… for you."
A chill ran down Lusian's spine.
The duke's oath was not symbolic.
It was a contract of life… and death.
He would swear to protect the duchy and the realm.
And the duchy's nobles would swear to serve him with loyalty until their last breath.
The weight felt almost physical on his shoulders.
When he entered his chambers, he found Isabella waiting.
She stood beside the bed, wrapped in a nearly transparent robe that concealed nothing. Her warm, confident gaze contrasted sharply with the awkwardness he still felt in matters of intimacy.
Isabella smiled faintly.
"Welcome home, my lord."
Lusian swallowed.
The distance between them disappeared.
He was not made of stone.
Never had been.
And after weeks of facing death, tension, and responsibility… human warmth was impossible to ignore.
They greeted one another—
—and intimacy became inevitable. Natural. Mutual.
The door remained slightly ajar by accident.
Adela was climbing the stairs with a small smile. As on every night during the journey, she intended to sleep near Lusian, holding his hand, listening to his breathing to feel safe.
It had become something close to a ritual for her.
But what she saw froze her in place.
Isabella and Lusian were close.
Too close.
Their bodies entwined.
Soft moans.
Isabella's hands gripping Lusian's back.Legs tangled.Skin against skin.
A rhythmic motion she did not understand.
Adela's eyes widened, her face turning red as a freshly picked apple.
To her—who understood companionship, battle, and bonds—that scene was foreign… confusing.
"What… are they…?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
Her cheeks burned.
She didn't understand what she was seeing… but she knew it was not something to interrupt.
She stepped back immediately, closing the door without a sound.
She was not angry.
Only… embarrassed.
And bewildered.
With trembling fingers, she touched her lips, trying to comprehend the strange closeness she had just witnessed.
She had no name for it.
She only knew she did not want to disturb them.
And so she walked away down the corridor in silence.
For the first time since meeting Lusian…
she did not know what she was supposed to do.
The central plaza of House Douglas was unrecognizable.
Thousands—refugees, craftsmen, soldiers, nobles, and peasants—filled every corner. Deep green banners bearing the wolf emblem of House Douglas waved from balconies. The inner walls were draped in living leaves; the plants Lusian had introduced lent the capital an ancient, almost sacred air.
At the center, atop the ceremonial platform, rested an armor set blackened by blood and time.
The armor of Duke Lawrence Douglas.
It was a tradition older than the kingdom itself:
Before a new duke could be named, the entire nobility had to pay homage to the fallen one.
No one remembered the last time a Douglas duke had died of old age.
That was not their lineage's fate.
They always died earlier.
Always with a sword in hand.
Albert stepped forward first. He knelt before the armor and placed the helm upon its chest in silence.
One by one, the nobles followed.
No words.
Only respect.
Only history.
When the last noble rose, silence ruled the plaza. Even children did not dare breathe too loudly.
A herald proclaimed:
"Lusian Douglas, heir to the duchy, approaches!"
Lusian walked to the center of the platform. His deep green cloak brushed the stone. He felt the gaze of thirty thousand people upon him.
The weight crushed him.
Not the cloak.
The name.
The duty.
When he stood before his father's armor, his chest tightened. He had not truly known the man, yet the echo of his legacy pierced through him.
A military priest stepped forward.
"Lusian Douglas, son of Duke Lawrence. Before your people, before the land you tread, before the walls that protect these lives… do you swear to grant your life, your sword, and your soul to this duchy, asking nothing in return?"
Lusian exhaled.
"I swear.For my people.For those who have fallen.For those who still live.And for those yet to be born."
A murmur swept through the plaza.
Like wind.
Like a collective breath.
Then the unthinkable happened.
Sofía Douglas—the Duchess, the woman who had refused to bow before kings, princes, generals, or temples—stepped forward.
She stood before her son.
And knelt.
The murmur became a stunned roar. It was unprecedented.
Her voice trembled—but not from fear.
"My duke," she said, head bowed. "Here I swear to serve you with all that I am, with my life and my honor, as the most loyal of your vassals."
Lusian's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He felt cold.
Confused.
Terrified.
Not of power—
—but of the responsibility embodied in that gesture.
One by one, the nobles repeated the act.
Then the knights.
Then the soldiers.
Then the entire populace.
Tens of thousands kneeling as a single creature, a single breath reaching toward the sky.
A roar rose from every throat:
"Long live Duke Douglas!""Long live the protector of the duchy!""Long live Lusian!"
The cry was so powerful it seemed to shake the mountains.
Lusian… did not know what to feel.
Pride.Fear.Hope.Doubt.
All of it churned together, tightening around his heart.
Will I be worthy of this?
The question lingered in his mind as the people celebrated.
The duchy continued to breathe beneath a green sky.
It was not only the vegetation climbing the houses—
It was mana itself, alive, altering the rhythm of the world.
Lusian walked through the castle corridors with Adela following like his shadow, while the priest of Sagmus—a man dry as an old twig—prepared the next oath ceremony.
Weeks had passed since the ascension, but the work never ended.
The duchy's nobles came in groups, day after day, to swear their blood oaths.
It was tradition.
It was law.
It was the foundation of Douglas power.
And Lusian… was only beginning to understand its weight.
The priest traced the circle in golden powder.
A minor noble—Baron Kellir—knelt.
"I swear by Sagmus, god of truth," the baron declared, his voice trembling, "that I will serve Duke Lusian Douglas with absolute loyalty."
The priest cut his palm, let two drops fall into a bowl, and whispered an ancient chant.
A mark of light ignited along the noble's forearm, like a luminous cord knotting beneath the skin.
Contract sealed.
A unilateral bond.
Only he was bound.
The duke was not.
Such was the tradition of House Douglas.
Lusian drew a slow breath.
It weighed on him.
But he maintained his composure.
His mother had told him countless times:
"Do not worry, my son. You do not have to carry everything yet. I am still here."
And it was true. Sofía continued to rule in practice—holding audiences, resolving disputes, managing resources, reorganizing devastated territories.
Lusian… trained, studied, and observed.
Albert subjected him to brutal sessions of combat and battlefield medicine.
Adela followed him everywhere in silence, clinging close as if afraid he might disappear.