The iron gates were close enough to touch, but the air around them felt like another wall.
Not stone—something heavier.
Two guards had already stepped into my path. Their armor was spotless, polished to a dull shine that didn't reflect the world so much as deny it. The way they stood told me everything: they weren't here to fight.
They were here to decide.
One of them looked me up and down slowly, openly. A kid in plain clothes. No crest. No carriage. No entourage.
A mistake walking on noble ground.
"Halt," he said, voice calm in a way that didn't invite argument. "Name."
"Trey," I answered.
His gaze didn't soften. "What's the purpose of your visit?"
I kept my hands open at my sides. Kept my voice plain.
"Young Master Lyan requested my presence for the welcoming gathering."
The guard's eyes narrowed by a fraction. "Guild affiliation?"
"Adventurer's Guild," I said, and I could hear how strange it sounded here. Like bringing a muddy boot into a white room.
The second guard shifted slightly, not threatening—just repositioning to cut off angles. A reminder that this place didn't need raised voices to control people.
"Badge," the first guard said, holding out his hand.
My pulse jumped once, sharp. But I didn't hesitate. Hesitation was guilt in places like this.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my adventurer's badge.
The guard took it with two fingers, like it might stain him, then turned and nodded toward a small pedestal near the gate. A box sat on top of it—white metal with thin gold lines etched along the edges, and a narrow slit across the front.
It looked too clean to belong outdoors.
Too deliberate.
The box reminded me of the telenvelope booths in the guild, the way you fed paper into something that felt more like a mouth than a machine.
The guard slid my badge inside.
A faint chime sounded—soft, almost polite. A thin line of light ran along the box's surface, tracing symbols I didn't recognize. For a breath, nothing else happened.
Then the light pulsed once.
The guard's expression changed.
Not to friendly.
To formal.
He removed the badge with sudden care, as if it had transformed into something fragile.
His posture straightened. His voice lowered half a tone.
"…Understood."
The other guard turned his head slightly, and for the first time, his eyes actually focused on my face instead of my clothes.
The first guard extended the badge back to me with both hands.
"My apologies," he said. "We failed to recognize you. You are pre-registered as a guest under Young Master Lyan's authorization."
My fingers closed around the badge, and cold slid down my spine.
Pre-registered.
Not invited.
Scheduled.
Like a piece moved onto a board before it even knew the game existed.
The guard stepped aside as if the gate itself had learned my rank.
"Please wait," he added, already turning his head. "A butler will escort you."
A moment later, the gate opened with a smoothness that didn't creak or complain. It moved like it had been oiled every day and never allowed to age.
I stepped through.
The courtyard beyond was too clean. Stone laid so evenly it looked poured rather than built. A fountain sat in the center, water falling in soft, controlled arcs that made no mess.
Everything here behaved.
A man approached from deeper within the estate, walking with the kind of quiet confidence that didn't need speed. He wore black and white formal attire, immaculate, with gloves that had never seen dirt. His hair was neatly combed back, and his face held a neutral expression so practiced it felt carved.
"Master Trey," he said, not asking. Confirming. "This way, if you please."
He didn't bow. He didn't smile.
But he was polite enough to make refusal look childish.
I followed.
As we moved, the estate unfolded in pieces—wide paths bordered by hedges trimmed into perfect lines, statues placed exactly where they would be noticed, trees planted symmetrically as if nature had signed a contract.
Servants moved through it all like ghosts. Quiet steps. Eyes lowered. Hands full of silver trays and folded linens.
No one looked at me directly.
But I felt watched anyway.
The butler spoke again without turning his head. "Before you are presented to the gathering, proper preparation is required."
My throat tightened. "Preparation?"
"It would be inappropriate for a guest under the Vonel name to appear improperly dressed." His tone didn't change. "Please allow us to correct it."
Correct it.
Like I was a mistake they intended to fix.
He guided me into one of the estate buildings. The air inside smelled faintly of polished wood and something floral so subtle it felt more expensive than perfume. The corridors were wide and quiet, footsteps swallowed by carpets too thick to belong in the real world.
We entered a dressing room.
It was larger than the room I shared with Myrina.
A full-length mirror stood against the far wall. Clothing racks lined the sides—formal coats, vests, tailored shirts in pale colors. Everything looked soft, and everything looked like it cost more than my entire life.
Two attendants appeared without being called, hands already moving. My plain shirt was removed carefully, like they were handling an old rag they didn't want to touch too long. They didn't ask permission. They didn't need it.
They dressed me quickly. Layers that fit too perfectly. A vest snug enough to straighten my posture. A coat with subtle stitching that caught the light just enough to hint at wealth without shouting it. They combed my hair. Wiped invisible dust from my shoulders. Adjusted cuffs until they sat exactly.
I watched in the mirror.
And I didn't like what I saw.
A boy stared back who looked like he belonged here—clean, proper, almost noble. But his eyes didn't match. The fear sat behind them like a bruise.
For a moment, I didn't recognize myself.
I thought about Myrina's hands—small, usually cold, clinging to my sleeve when she didn't want to be alone.
I couldn't imagine her in a place like this.
The butler stepped into view behind me, checking the final result like a craftsman inspecting work.
"Acceptable," he said.
Then he turned smoothly. "This way."
We exited back into the open, and the estate expanded.
The gardens were worse up close.
Not because they were ugly—because they were perfect.
Manicured hedges. Quiet stone paths that curved gently as if the ground itself was being polite. Gazebos scattered like white ornaments, too clean to have ever hosted real laughter. A pond sat to one side, clear enough to see exotic fish gliding beneath the surface, their colors like jewels.
And people.
So many people.
Nobles in fine coats and gowns. Merchants with heavy rings and careful smiles. Knights standing in groups, posture immaculate even while pretending to relax. Politicians I didn't recognize, but whose conversations made others lean in.
Power wearing perfume.
They gathered in the serene outdoor garden as if they owned the sky. Tables along the edges held food and drinks—tiny sweets arranged like art, glasses filled with pale liquid that sparkled, trays of meats cut into neat slices.
Servants flowed between them, silent and efficient, offering, refilling, vanishing.
I didn't recognize anyone.
To me, they were all the same.
Rich.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
As I walked, conversations dipped for half a breath. A ripple of eyes. Not overt. Not hostile.
Just assessment.
A servant approached—another one, expression calm.
"Please follow," he said, and led me past the gathering, deeper into the estate. Past a corridor where portraits hung in perfect spacing—faces with sharp eyes and composed smiles. Past a pair of tall doors carved with patterns that looked more like seals than decoration.
I caught myself staring at one portrait a little too long.
A stern man in old armor, painted with a backdrop of dark stone and something that could only be the Abyss—blackness that swallowed light.
The Vonel crest was painted beside him.
My mind returned to Ruru's rumor like a hook digging deeper.
Their first ancestor died in the Abyss.
The question formed without permission.
What did the first ancestor die for?
The servant stopped at a waiting area—a small room with a window that looked out onto the gardens but felt removed from them, like an aquarium for guests that didn't belong in the main tank.
"Please wait here," he said with a smile that stayed at the surface. "Young Master Lyan will arrive shortly."
"Can I—"
"No," his smile said before his mouth did.
He didn't answer my question. He just stepped aside, and I realized two other servants stood outside, positioned casually in the corridor.
Not guards.
But close enough.
The door behind me closed softly.
A cage that didn't clang.
I stood where they placed me. Hands open. Breathing steady.
Then the air shifted.
The servants straightened subtly, like a wind had passed through them.
Lyan entered.
He was dressed like someone who expected to be admired.
Fine clothes tailored to his frame, pale colors that made his posture look sharper. A small crest pinned near his chest. Hair neat. Not a single wrinkle.
He walked like the estate belonged to him, and maybe it did.
His eyes found me immediately, and his mouth curled.
When we were alone, his voice dropped, casual and cruel.
"Worm."
The word didn't surprise me.
What surprised me was how easily he said it, like it was a nickname he enjoyed.
Then footsteps sounded outside the waiting room.
Lyan's expression changed instantly—smooth as silk. He stepped closer and clapped a hand on my shoulder like we were old friends. His voice rose to a friendly volume.
"There you are," he said warmly. "I was wondering if you'd get lost."
My jaw tightened. I didn't move.
Lyan's hand squeezed my shoulder once, light pressure that felt like a message.
When the footsteps passed, his warmth vanished again.
"Did you come alone?" he asked.
It wasn't a question.
It was a confirmation disguised as one.
I nodded.
Lyan smiled as if pleased. "Good."
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "Don't lie to me, Worm. If you told anyone, I'd already know."
A chill crawled along my back.
He stepped away, examining me like a toy freshly polished.
"They dressed a Worm," he said. "At least you won't embarrass me with your poverty stench."
I swallowed the anger before it could rise.
Lyan's eyes gleamed. "Now listen. This isn't like your little guild sparring."
He lifted a finger, counting rules like he was explaining a game to a child.
"You stand where they tell you. You bow when you're told. You don't speak unless addressed. You don't say anything stupid about injuries." His smile widened. "And whatever happens, you don't mention Myrina."
My breath caught.
Lyan's eyes narrowed with satisfaction at my reaction.
"Yes," he murmured. "Good. You understand."
I kept my mouth shut. Kept my hands open.
The pressure cooker tightened.
Then the estate's atmosphere shifted again—bigger this time.
A sound rose from beyond the gardens. Crowds murmuring. Excitement.
And then—
Carriages.
Not one.
Many.
The rumble was distant at first, then growing, wheels rolling in a line like approaching thunder. Outside the waiting area window, I saw heads turning in unison. Guests drifted toward the main entrance, drawn like iron to a magnet.
Lyan's gaze snapped toward the entrance, and his expression became respectful in a way I hadn't seen from him yet.
"Ah," he said softly. "They've arrived."
We moved back outside.
The garden party had transformed. Conversations cut short. People stood straighter. Groups arranged themselves instinctively into positions—like everyone already knew where they belonged.
The entrance gates were visible from here, and through them I saw the convoy.
A line of carriages stretching farther than it should have fit on the road. The frontmost carriage was luxurious, white with gold accents that didn't look painted.
Real gold, catching daylight like it wanted to be worshiped.
When it stopped, silence fell in waves.
The carriage door opened.
A tall man stepped out.
He had a neat beard across his chin and sharp eyes that didn't wander—they measured. His gestures were elegant, practiced, and somehow cold. The way he stood made the air around him feel heavier, like gravity paid attention.
Lyan leaned close to my ear, voice reverent.
"My father," he whispered. "Alcatraz du Vonel."
The name landed like stone.
Behind Alcatraz, another figure appeared—a younger man, equally refined, with long hair tied back in a ponytail that looked deliberate and severe. He moved with quiet confidence, like he didn't need to prove anything because the world already knew.
Lyan's eyes flicked to him.
"My fifth older brother," he said. "Fennec du Vonel."
I stared at them both.
This was what noble power looked like when it didn't bother pretending.
Alcatraz didn't smile. He didn't wave. He simply looked across the gathered guests, and the crowd reacted like they'd been blessed with attention. Bows rippled through the garden, the way grass bends under wind.
I bowed too, slower than the others, because I didn't know what else to do.
Alcatraz's gaze passed over the garden and, for a fraction of a moment, I thought it paused on me.
Maybe it didn't.
Maybe I only felt it.
Either way, my skin prickled.
Lyan straightened, then turned sharply.
"Come," he said, no warmth now. "The arena's ready."
He waved at the butler who had dressed me earlier. "Take him."
Then he walked off toward the convoy with the confident stride of someone returning to his stage.
The butler's neutral face didn't change.
"This way, Master Trey."
I followed.
We moved through corridors that grew quieter the farther we went. The estate felt endless, each building connected by clean passages and archways that framed gardens like paintings.
On the way, I saw it.
An arena.
A building taller than any other in the estate—so tall I had to tilt my head back to follow its lines. White stone, grand windows, columns that made it look like it belonged in a legend instead of a city.
Its shape was oval, its white walls gleaming, its seats arranged in tiers that made status visible without anyone having to speak.
Around it, lush trees were planted symmetrically, their leaves trimmed and cared for, like even nature had to obey.
I couldn't help the feeling that rose in my chest.
Small.
Not just physically.
Like I'd stepped into a world where people like me were decorations at best, stains at worst.
At the highest section, a VIP viewing room jutted out like a judge's throne.
This wasn't a training space.
It was a theater.
The butler led me through a side entrance into a preparation room. Inside, racks of training gear lined the walls—leather outfits with protective plating in the right places. Light enough to move in, sturdy enough to look impressive. Expensive enough that even touching it felt wrong.
"Change," the butler said, already reaching for the gear.
Again, no request.
In moments, my "noble" clothes were removed and replaced with practice leather armor. It fit perfectly. It was surprisingly light. Designed so the wearer could move comfortably—and look good doing it.
A display of wooden weapons stood nearby.
Not the rough, splintered practice swords from the guild training room.
These were smooth, balanced, diverse. Practice swords, spears, clubs, even blades shaped like exotic weapons. Well-crafted enough to bruise bone properly without cutting skin.
"Select your equipment," the butler said.
I picked a wooden sword and a shield.
Familiar shapes. Things I could hold without thinking too much. Without letting fear shake my grip.
The butler nodded once. "Wait until the crowd is prepared."
He stepped toward the door.
"Wait," I said before I could stop myself.
He paused, turning just enough to acknowledge me.
I wanted to ask questions.
But I already knew the answer to the only one that mattered.
Still, the words slipped out, quiet.
"This is… really just a spar?"
The butler's expression didn't change.
But his silence did.
It wasn't the silence of uncertainty.
It was the silence of someone watching a child ask whether the sky was blue.
After a beat, he said, "You will perform as instructed."
Then he left.
The door closed softly.
I stood alone in the preparation room with a sword and shield in my hands.
I listened.
Beyond the walls, I could hear it—crowds gathering, voices rising, the murmur of anticipation thickening like smoke.
I exhaled slowly.
Performance.
Ruru's bright voice echoed in my head for a second.
Have fun!
I almost laughed again.
Almost.
Footsteps returned. The door opened, and the butler appeared.
"It is time."
My feet moved before my mind could argue.
We walked through a corridor that opened directly into the arena.
The sound hit me first.
A buzzing crowd filling the seats, layered with laughter and chatter and the sharp edge of excitement. They weren't here to watch skill.
They were here to watch a story.
The butler stopped at the threshold.
"Wait," he said.
I nodded.
Then, without thinking—without realizing—I stepped forward.
My boot touched the sand of the arena floor.
A hush rippled outward.
Not complete silence.
More like the sudden awareness of a mistake.
Then the boos started.
It wasn't loud at first, just scattered, offended sounds—like I'd spilled wine on someone's carpet. It grew quickly, building as people joined in, enjoying the easy target.
"Look at him," someone sneered.
"Does he even know where he is?"
I froze, heat crawling up my neck.
The butler's hand lifted slightly, stopping me from moving further. His voice was polite, but it carried an edge I hadn't heard before.
"Do not step onto the sand until you are acknowledged."
I swallowed hard and stepped back, heart hammering.
The crowd kept booing as if my existence offended their sense of order.
Then the butler gave a small signal.
I was allowed.
I walked out into the center with my sword and shield, feeling every eye like a needle. The crowd's attention wasn't curious.
It was hungry.
High above, in the VIP viewing room, a figure sat with effortless stillness.
Alcatraz du Vonel.
Even from this distance, his presence weighed on the arena.
He looked comfortable, like the world had built itself into a seat for him.
Beside him, other nobles sat in arranged ranks, their entertainment prepared like the sweets on their tables.
The crowd's noise shifted.
Cheering rose from one side.
Lyan stepped onto the sand.
He held a practice katana—wooden, but shaped with the elegance of a real blade. He wore his training outfit like it was ceremonial. His smile was smug, certain, already tasting victory.
He glanced at me, then at the crowd, and spread his arms slightly like a performer greeting an audience.
They cheered louder.
I bowed, because etiquette demanded it.
But my bow was clumsy, my timing off, my foot placement wrong—the kind of mistake that only people raised outside this world would make.
The crowd responded immediately.
More boos.
Lyan laughed, bright and cruel, loud enough to feed them.
I straightened, forcing my shoulders to settle.
My grip tightened.
Then loosened.
Open hands. Controlled.
My breath came shallow, and I corrected it the way Ash drilled into me.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out slow.
Again.
Ash's voice wasn't gentle in my memory. It was firm, relentless.
Steady breathing. Feet grounded. Don't let emotion steer movement.
The boos faded into background noise. Not gone—just pushed aside.
I lifted my shield.
Adjusted my stance.
Committed to the ground under me.
And for a blink—
I saw Myrina's face.
Pale. Tired. Eyes looking up at me like I was the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her.
The memory hit sharp enough to hurt.
Then it hardened into something else.
For Myrina, I won't fold.
Above, in the VIP room, Alcatraz du Vonel leaned forward slightly, as if bored of waiting.
His voice carried cleanly across the arena, simple and absolute.
"Begin."