On the other side, inside the very same house…
Warming dinner. Yeah, right.
Piers's eyes stayed glued on Styx across the table, her cheeks puffed out, tearing into the food like a raccoon in a trash bin.
He'd seen it thousands of times. Still kind of grossed him out…
At the far end of the table, his parents sat unusually close — whispering again.
Great. Another secret. What now? It was always something with them.
Always that invisible wall — all the stuff they don't say.
But tonight... a small spark ignited behind Piers's eyes.
Maybe… just maybe…
His Appraisal skill — the one thing he'd never dared to use on them. Not until now. Now he needed answers.
He knew their faces, their voices, the exact way they smiled or flinched or lied. But not their truth.
His stomach fluttered.
Nervous. Excited. Scared.
Alright. Time to peek behind the curtain.
He focused.
Deep breath. Eyes narrowed on his mother. Xylia Argos.
Show me what's hidden.
The world around her shimmered for a moment, then words and images flooded Piers' mind.
Appraisal:
Xylia Argos Neokleous
Race: Demon — Daughter of the Witch Monarch
Age: ???
Title: Multimaul
Innate Talent: Dark Mana Manipulation, Inherited Physical Strength
Mass - Early Shra
Current Status: Worried
Detailed Appraisal:
A woman of hidden depths and stern grace. Beneath her composed exterior lies a strategist's mind — constantly calculating, constantly planning.
Haunted by Past Shadows: A past tragedy fuels her ambition. She carries the burden of loss — a driving force pushing her to protect her family at any cost.
Harbors a Secret: She is planning a political marriage for Piers, but fears his reaction.
Silence.
Blank space.
As if the universe itself paused to let him absorb the damage.
...
…
D-demon?
Daughter of the WHA—
THE WITCH MONARCH?!?
The words slapped his consciousness like a divine frying pan.
His vision wobbled.
His tiny toddler brain — already overloaded with mana, memories, and mild philosophical trauma — flatlined.
His pupils dilated. His breath hitched. His eyes rolled slightly, like they were trying to eject themselves from the conversation.
"What—what the actual—my mom?!
A demon?
Spiky horns, glowing eyes, claws — demon?!"
Why's her age listed as "???"?!
IS SHE UNAGING?!
My head—
The room was spinning.
This… this can't be real.
My own mother?
The elegant, soft-spoken woman who just moments ago gently wiped porridge off his cheek now stood in his mind like some mythical war crime in high heels.
His fingers twitched.
His shoulders locked.
His baby body — all soft bones and milk breath — was not equipped for this level of existential collapse.
A choked wheeze escaped his lips.
Not quite a gasp. Not quite a hiccup. More like the sound a duck makes when it sees a car crash.
He looked around.
Silence.
Dead, oblivious silence.
Styx was still chewing meatballs with the intensity of a berserker in a food fight.
"Dad: humming a stupid tune and pouring tea like this wasn't the end of the toddler's reality."
But in Piers's world?
Everything tilted.
Everything I thought I knew… a lie? My family? My existence?
And mom she's planning a political marriage —
For ME? TO WHO? FOR WHAT?!
She's worried about my "reaction"?
COME ON!! Lady, I barely made it out of diapers — and you're already planning my marriage?!
What am I — a velvet briefcase full of national debt?!
He tried to look away from her.
He couldn't.
She was smiling now — soft, radiant, the perfect image of maternal grace.
The kind of smile that said "finish your milk, sweetie" while she casually rearranged empires behind your back.
His hands curled into trembling little fists under the table.
Mom's a demon.
Probably Unwrinkled forever!!
Dad might be worse.
I'm apparently some cursed royal trade deal.
And now—now I might be married off like a shiny Pokémon card if I don't play this right.
A drop of sweat traced down his cheek.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Slow. Mechanical.
Like rebooting a cursed baby operating system.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
I'm a baby.
I am going to throw up.
.
.
.
It took a conscious effort, a mental wrestling match,
Piers clenched his thoughts together, forced the spiral to slow.
Okay. Deep breath. No more freaking out. Just scan. Appraise. Don't react. Don't make a sound.
Don't let them see.
He took a shaky mental breath and shifted his focus, dragging his attention toward the man on the other end of the table.
Alright, Dad… what are you hiding behind all that smiling and soup ladling?
Appraisal:
Rigas argos
Race: Half-Human, Ex-Hero
Age: Unknown
Title: Frost King
Innate Talent: Divine Strength
Mass - Myot
Current Status: Guarded.
Detailed Appraisal:
A Quiet Colossus: Possesses Strength that transcends mortal limits, a power he keeps carefully restrained. His every movement speaks of controlled might, a force held in check by an iron will.
Survivor of a Forgotten War: Bears the scars, both visible and invisible, of battles fought in a realm far removed from this one. He carries the weight of those experiences, a past that shaped him into the man he is today.
Harbors a Secret: He is aware of the true extent of Piers's power. Rigas knows that Piers was the one who inadvertently melted his powerful barrier and is simply… waiting for Piers to fully realize his own abilities.
Again...
Silence.
A heavy, terrible silence.
The appraisal hit differently this time.
Not like the gut-punch of learning his mother was heir to a demonic monarchy — no, this was colder.
Deeper.
Like falling into a frozen lake and realizing how far the dark goes.
Half-human.
Frost King.
Ex-Hero.
And he knew about barrier,
Piers blinked.
His face went blank.
His mind?
Screaming.
"…Eh…?"
That was all he managed.
His pupils stared into the void.
His mouth hung open just slightly.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't even blink again.
He sat there, fully powered on… but completely offline.
Xylia, ever perceptive, caught the shift instantly.
Her brow furrowed, expression tightening. A flicker of alarm crossed her face — quick, sharp.
Whatever she'd been murmuring to Rigas — forgotten.
Her entire demeanor changed.
With a smooth, regal motion, she rose from her chair — all grace wrapped in sudden urgency — and moved toward Piers. Not rushed. Not panicking. But with the deliberate energy of a mother who knows something is wrong.
"Piers, sweetie, are you alright?"
Her voice was soft — but edged with tension. Real concern, bordering on anxiousness.
She crouched beside him, one hand hovering near his face — not quite touching. Testing. Calming. Ready to act.
The air shifted.
Her aura — usually refined and distant — cracked, just slightly.
Enough to reveal something vast beneath it.
Power. Instinct. The quiet terror of a mother who might lose something irreplaceable.
Piers flinched slightly.
The sudden proximity, her searching gaze — it pierced too deep. His heart still pounded. His mind still echoed with Frost King… demon… marriage…
He forced a smile.
Crooked. Weak. A survival reflex.
"I—I'm fine, Mama," he lied, voice wobbling.
Then, scrambling for anything — anything — to deflect her focus, he blurted out the dumbest thing his scrambled brain could offer.
"Actually… I was just thinking... I'm kinda getting tired of, y'know… just milk all the time."
He coughed. Shrugged.
"Maybe I could try some actual food? For once?"
The words dangled in the air — a toddler's half-baked rebellion wrapped in existential panic.
For a beat, no one moved.
Then—
Styx snorted mid-chew, a meatball chunk launching from her mouth and bouncing off the table like a rejected cannonball.
Rigas let out a low, barely audible chuckle. His face barely changed, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him — just slightly.
Xylia blinked. Her tense expression cracked. She looked at Piers, then at Styx's meatball missile…
And laughed.
Not a regal laugh. Not polite.
A real one — light, surprised, and full of relief.
Piers, still reeling from a brain-melting info dump, blinked… then laughed too.
More from exhaustion than amusement — but real all the same.
The tension melted into the sound of clinking utensils and mismatched giggles.
They were more than their secrets.
They were his family.
And he loved them — no matter what.
.
.
.
.
Mysterious Voice,
In the cold, ethereal breeze that snaked through the familiar cave depths, something shifted.
A whisper.
Soft. Feminine.
Almost too quiet to hear.
"I found you..."
The words echoed — not loud, but sharp. Like they'd been waiting.
Somewhere far off, the cave exhaled frost.
Piers, weary from battle and still reeling from the truth about his parents, didn't notice.
Not yet.
Unseen, a faint luminescent mist coalesced in the shadows… then vanished.
The mysterious voice lingered in the air like a forgotten breath — unheard by the exhausted boy.
.
.
.
.
In the Shield Kingdom of Aegis, within the grand halls of the royal palace, one of King Oberon's most trusted subordinates knelt before the throne.
"Your Majesty," the subordinate reported, voice respectful and measured. "The Oracle of the Four Grand Hierophants has arrived, along with their delegation."
King Oberon — wise and benevolent in the eyes of his people — sat upon his ornate throne, the image of serene authority. But behind those kind eyes burned a colder truth: calculated ambition.
Beside him stood an aged knight, armor polished from countless battles. His most striking feature wasn't the armor — it was the gaze. Sharp. Unwavering. A stare that peeled back lies like old paint.
A subtle smirk brushed Oberon's lips.
"Very well." Oberon's fingers tapped once, deliberate and sharp. "Prepare the grand audience hall. We shall receive them… at once."
He exchanged a quiet glance with his senior advisors. No words. Just understanding.
This meeting was far more than a ceremony. The arrival of the Oracle was a keystone in Oberon's veiled designs. It was the next move in a hidden game.
The hall shimmered with gold and marble, banners fluttering faintly in the chamber's high silence.
King Oberon sat tall, regal and attentive. Beside him, the aged knight stood like a silent mountain.
Across from the throne, seated upon their own ceremonial chair of polished obsidian, sat the Oracle of the Four Grand Hierophants — cloaked in ceremonial finery, their presence steeped in old power.
The knight remained at Oberon's side, gaze fixed and observant.
Oberon spoke first, smooth and precise.
"Venerable Oracle," his measured tone laced with feigned concern. "Given the… irregular presence detected within the Forbidden Forest— and in light of your… insightful guidance — we concur that a discreet intervention is the most prudent course of action."
He paused, the air thick with subtext.
"Our elite hero party will be dispatched. Their task: to locate this individual, and ensure their removal from the equation… discreetly. We trust this aligns with the interests as we've previously discussed."
The lead Oracle inclined their head. "Indeed, King Oberon. "The Holy Kingdom of Hagnos finds your… decisiveness most agreeable. Such unpredictable potential must be… accounted for."
Another Oracle stepped forward, voice low and tinged with anticipation. "The Forbidden Forest does not yield its secrets lightly. Let us hope your heroes prove… worthy."
The knight's expression remained unchanged, though his eyes sharpened. Watching. Measuring.
Oberon folded his hands. His voice sharpened, ever so slightly.
"Rest assured — the Shield Kingdom possesses resources… beyond appearance. The matter will be handled swiftly."
The Oracle nodded, tone dark and measured.
"Then we are aligned. May our efforts yield the… desired results."
A beat passed. Then, the Oracle's gaze shifted.
"As a gesture of goodwill — and to ensure success — the Holy Kingdom will contribute directly. We are dispatching one of our most discreet agents. A specialist in infiltration and… extraction."
From behind the Oracle's shadow stepped a figure, silent and fluid as fog. Dressed in concealing garb, their faces lost beneath a deep hood, they radiated precision and danger.
"This is Kael," the lead Oracle stated. "His expertise will… balance the scales. Ensure your heroes cooperate. His success is paramount."
The other two Hierophants remained seated, unmoving — one with their hands folded in prayer-like stillness, the other watching Kael with an unreadable expression.
Oberon's eyes narrowed slightly. This wasn't expected. But a weapon in hand, even a borrowed one, was still a weapon. "Very well," a tight, polished smile. "Our heroes will be briefed to follow his lead."
Beside him, the knight shifted, posture tense. His gaze pinned Kael like a blade, a silent warning passed between men who lived by instinct.
The Oracle nodded. "Then let us see what fruit this alliance bears."
* * *