Ayumu turned to face the group, her voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.
"Since there are six orbs and Lord Kaiser is incapable at the moment, each of us should use our energy to transport the gold. Then, once we recover, we can make the journey back ourselves."
Drobar scratched his chin. "Why can't we transport ourselves together with the gold?"
"Magic is complex," Ayumu explained. "If we transport large objects and a living being together, the person transported together might end up with a few limbs or organs replaced with gold objects instead."
Drobar shuddered—a visible ripple through his broad shoulders. The image was too vivid, too horrifying. "Okay… I understand that." He swallowed. "So how do we do this?"
Ayumu gestured toward Rhea, who was still seated on her pile of gold, crown glinting. "Maybe Rhea can demonstrate first. From her, we can gauge the size or amount transported."
Rhea agreed immediately. She rose to her feet and took one of the light-blue orbs from Ayumu's outstretched hand. Then she walked to a nearby pile of gold, not the largest, but respectable enough.
"Picture in your mind the amount of gold you want," Rhea instructed, holding the orb up for everyone to see, "and picture the palace where we want to send it. Now watch closely."
She closed her eyes. The chamber fell silent.
Then it began.
White, cotton-like strands of air seeped out of Rhea's body—from her chest, her shoulders, her fingertips, the crown of her head. They swirled gently and traveled down her arm toward the orb in her palm. The light-blue orb darkened. It turned grey.
Rhea's knees buckled slightly. Her breathing quickened. But she held firm.
When the orb had turned completely black, she threw it at the pile of gold.
The orb shattered.
A small portal tore open in the air—spinning, shimmering, its edges crackling with raw magic. And the gold mountain began to move. Coins lifted first, then goblets, then jeweled necklaces—all sucked into the portal as if pulled by an invisible tide. The gold flowed—a river of treasure pouring into a hole in reality.
After a long while, the portal sealed itself shut with a soft pop.
Rhea wobbled as her legs gave way.
Ayumu was there in an instant to catch Rhea, and then lowering her gently to the ground, supporting her back against a mound of smaller gold piles.
Rhea's face was pale, her breathing shallow, but she managed a weak smile.
"It worked right? How much was I able to transport?" she whispered.
Ayumu looked at the empty stone floor now bare, not a single coin left behind. She assessed the space to measure.
"I think it's about two thousand square metres worth," she said quietly. Then she turned to Rhea, her expression softening into concern. "That's a lot, Rhea. You must have used all of your energy."
Rhea, still seated and pale, waved a weak hand. "It's nothing… I'm tired, but we will all rest after this. Then we'll start our journey back. This is nothing."
Ayumu smiled gently.
But then—the ground shifted.
Just slightly. A shudder beneath their feet, subtle as a held breath. Gold coins rattled against each other. Somewhere deep in the stone, something groaned.
Ayumu's smile faded.
She turned her gaze to the floor, to the walls, to the ceiling high above. Her white hair swayed gently with the tremor. The others barely noticed as they are caught up in their excitement and their greed.
-------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, back in Epso's capital, Rodh. The emperor sat alone in his office.
Well—not alone. There were attendants, guards, the usual flutter of servants moving silently along the walls. But Visil felt alone. The weight of the crown pressed heavier than usual on his brow, and the mountain of parchment before him seemed to grow with every passing hour.
He was frustrated.
No—frustration was too mild a word. He was exhausted. Every document he signed seemed to birth three more. Every problem he solved cracked open two new ones. And on top of all of that, his trusted White Magis advisor—the one person who could untangle these political knots—had disappeared.
For more than two weeks.
No letter. No message. No sign of whether she was alive or dead.
Visil pressed a hand to his stomach. The familiar ache was there, dull and throbbing. The kind of ache that came from too much stress and too little sleep.
She had caused this. Ayumu. His advisor who is also his adopted sister, with her cryptic smiles and her sudden disappearances and her complete disregard for the anxiety of her brother, the Emperor.
He signed a few more documents—his quill scratching across the parchment with increasing irritation—until finally, he snapped.
With a sharp motion, he threw the quill pen across the room. It bounced off a tapestry and landed on the marble floor with a soft clatter.
One of his attendants, a young man named Roma, flinched. He had served Visil long enough to recognize the signs.
The tight jaw. The dark circles under the eyes. The way the emperor's fingers drummed against the armrest like he was counting down to an explosion.
The emperor was in a foul mood.
And who could blame him? The empire was so short on money that even basic administration was becoming a struggle. The previous wars had bled the treasury dry. Now, problems piled up like autumn leaves: restraints on trade, disputes between merchant guilds, protests in the outer provinces.
All of it—all of it—was supposed to be handled by Ayumu. As Royal Advisor, she was the glue holding the empire's brittle bones together. Without her, everything was falling apart. The merchants were growing loud. The nobles were growing restless.
And Visil's head was throbbing.
Roma approached carefully, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Your Majesty… perhaps you ought to take a break."
Visil's head snapped toward him. His eyes were wild.
"How can I?!" he shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. The papers scattered. "With Ayumu gone and all of these—these problems—" He couldn't even finish the sentence. He just gestured wildly at the chaos around him.
"I can't even focus. Being an emperor… a penniless one at that."
Roma did not flinch. Instead, he spoke gently.
"Your Majesty, you must have faith in the expedition group members. They are searching for treasures that will ease the financial burden of the empire."
Visil scoffed—a sharp, dismissive sound.
"Roma, you have too much faith." He turned to the window, staring out at the city below. The rooftops glittered in the afternoon light, but his eyes saw only debts. "We don't even know if the gold is real. It's a myth. So what if Ayumu found a few pieces? That doesn't mean the gold would still be there."
"Your Majesty—"
"Look, Roma." Visil turned back, his expression hard. "We need to sell a few of the jewels we have. Auction them. So we can pay off the debts that we owe so that trade to start running again."
Roma's eyes widened. "But—but Your Majesty. Those are the precious royal jewels."
"We don't have a choice, Roma." Visil's teeth ground together. His voice was low, fierce. "We need the money. It's for the people."
He turned back to the window, staring at the sky.
Then he scoffed again—a bitter, weary sound.
"It's not like money can fall from the sky or something."
The emperor spoke too soon.
Behind him, the air ripped open.
A portal—spinning, shimmering, crackling with raw magic—tore through the center of his office. Wind erupted from it like a living thing, howling through the room, scattering papers, toppling inkwells, sending tapestries flapping against the walls.
Roma rushed forward, grabbing Visil's arm. "Your Majesty—!"
Guards burst from the corners, forming a protective circle around the emperor, guiding him toward the entrance door. They pushed through the chaos—papers flying, curtains tearing, the chandelier swaying dangerously above.
They almost made it to the door.
Then the gold came pouring in.
It poured from the portal like a waterfall. Coins, jewels, goblets, crowns, necklaces — a torrent of treasure flooding the emperor's office. It crashed onto the floor, piled against the walls, rose up around their knees, their waists, their chests.
"What the—?!" Visil shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of falling gold.
The treasure continued to pour in until the entire room was engulfed. Visil felt the weight pressing against him, suffocating, drowning in wealth.
Outside the office, soldiers heard the commotion. They shoved against the door—but it wouldn't budge. Gold had piled against it from the inside.
"Break it down!" someone shouted.
They rammed the door. Once. Twice. On the third try, it burst open—and gold exploded into the hallway, washing over the soldiers like a glittering wave. The people in the corridor gasped, stumbled, fell.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence.
Then the soldiers began digging through the gold to look for their Emperor. One soldier's hand closed around something solid. He pulled.
Visil's hand emerged from the pile. Then his arm. Then his head.
The soldiers grabbed him and yanked—dragging their emperor out of the golden avalanche. Visil collapsed onto the cold stone floor of the hallway, gasping and coughing.
He lay there for a long moment, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling.
Soldiers rushed to aid the attendant Roma, who was half-buried. Others pulled servants from the pile. The hallway was chaos.
And then—Visil's face twisted.
His hands curled into fists.
He inhaled—deep, ragged, furious—and roared:
"AYUUUMUUUUUUU!"
His voice echoed through the palace halls, bouncing off marble columns and stained glass windows.
He knew that this was all Ayumu's doing.