The world returned to Elian not as light, but as a dull, rhythmic thumping.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was the sound of wooden wheels rolling over cobblestones. The smell of ozone and burnt flesh that had haunted his nose since the fight with Malphas was gone, replaced by the scent of damp pine needles and cheap tobacco.
Elian opened his eyes. He was lying in the back of a covered wagon, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of dried lavender. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was made of wet sand. The Ring of Weight—now fully integrated into his marrow—was quiet, humming with a low frequency that synced with his slow heartbeat.
"You slept for three days," Lunaria's voice came from the driver's bench. She didn't look back. She wore a simple traveler's cloak, her elven ears hidden beneath a hood. "We've crossed the border. This is the Neutral Zone."
Elian pushed himself up, his joints popping. He looked at his left hand. The black veins—the Abyss Markings—had settled into a permanent, intricate tattoo that spiraled from his fingertips to his neck. They looked like the cracks in a broken vase filled with black ink.
"Did we kill him?" Elian asked, his voice raspy.
"No," Lunaria replied, steering the horses around a muddy pothole. "Tier 5 entities don't die easily. Malphas retreated. But you hurt his pride, which is a wound that festers longer than flesh. He will be hunting you, Elian. Not as a priest, but as a predator."
Elian looked out the back of the wagon. The landscape had changed. Gone were the harsh white peaks of the border or the dark, purple forests of Noctis. Here, everything was grey. Grey mist, grey trees, grey mud.
"Good," Elian whispered, touching the rusted hilt of his sword. "Let him hunt. It gives me a target."
By noon, the wagon rolled into the outskirts of Oakhaven.
Despite the peaceful name, Oakhaven was a scar on the face of the continent. It was a city built on the truce line between the Empire and the Kingdom. It was a place where spies drank tea with assassins, and where information was the only currency that didn't fluctuate.
The architecture was a chaotic mix of Celestia's white stone and Noctis's black basalt, creating a jarring, patchwork aesthetic.
"Listen to me closely," Lunaria said as they passed the city gates. The guards here didn't check papers; they checked bribe money. Lunaria tossed a pouch of gold without slowing down. "From this point on, Elian Vane is dead. The Church believes you fell into the Abyss. If they find out you survived, they won't send one Inquisitor. They will send a Crusade."
"I know," Elian said, pulling his hood tight. "I need a new face."
"We are going to see The Weaver," Lunaria said, turning the wagon down a narrow, trash-filled alley. "He is a biological alchemist who was exiled from the Empire for experimenting on live subjects. He owes me a favor."
The wagon stopped in front of a butcher shop that smelled of old blood—a scent Elian found oddly comforting now.
They entered through the back. The room was dark, illuminated only by bioluminescent fungi growing in jars. In the center of the room stood a table covered in surgical tools that looked more like torture devices.
A man with four arms—two human, two grafted from insects—turned around. He wore a leather apron stained with fluids of various colors.
"The Moon Queen returns," The Weaver hissed, his voice sounding like dry leaves rubbing together. "And she brings... a broken doll."
He scuttled over to Elian, his insect eyes twitching. "Interesting. No Core. But the bone density of a dragon. And traces of... Void? My, my. What are you?"
"I am a customer," Elian said, brushing the man's claw away. "I need to disappear."
"Disappear?" The Weaver cackled. "Masks are cheap. Illusions fade. True disguise requires... restructuring."
"Do it," Elian said.
Lunaria stepped forward. "Elian, this isn't magic. He's going to reshape your cartilage and facial muscles physically. It will be excruciating."
"Pain is just information," Elian repeated his mantra, stepping toward the surgical table. "I need to look common. Dull. Forgettable. The Vane beauty is a curse."
The Weaver grinned, picking up a syringe filled with a bubbling green liquid. "I can suppress the melanin in your hair to hide the Abyss grey. I can broaden your jaw, thicken your nose. You will look like a miner's son. But the bone-shaping... that will feel like I'm grinding your skull to dust."
Elian lay down on the table. He didn't ask for a strap to bite on.
"Start," Elian commanded.
The next six hours were a blur of agony that rivaled the Neural Burnout.
Elian felt his face being deconstructed. The Weaver worked with terrifying speed, injecting enzymes that softened bone, molding the clay of Elian's face, and then injecting a hardener that set it in place.
Elian didn't scream. He focused on the Ring of Weight. He focused on the heavy, grounding sensation of gravity. He anchored his mind to the earth so his soul wouldn't drift away from the pain.
When it was over, Elian sat up. He felt swollen, raw.
The Weaver held up a mirror.
The boy in the reflection was a stranger. His sharp, aristocratic chin was now square and rugged. His nose was slightly crooked, as if broken in a fistfight. His eyes, though still black, were set deeper in his skull, shadowed by a heavier brow. He looked tough, common, and utterly unremarkable.
"The hair dye will need to be reapplied every month," The Weaver said, wiping slime off his hands. "But the face... that is yours now. Until you decide to break it again."
Elian touched his new jaw. It felt stiff.
"It will do," Elian said. He tossed a bag of gold coins onto the table—money he had looted from the mercenaries in the mountains.
They left the shop at dusk. The fog in Oakhaven had turned a deep charcoal color.
Lunaria stopped at the edge of the district that led to the central transport hub. This was the end of the line.
"I cannot go with you to the Academy," Lunaria said softly. "A Moon Elf accompanying a commoner would draw too much attention. And I have work to do in Noctis. I need to gather allies for the war that is coming."
Elian nodded. He adjusted the strap of his pack. He was wearing common leather armor now, the rusted blade wrapped in cloth on his back.
"Three years," Elian said. "The Academy course is three years."
"In three years, the World Council will convene," Lunaria said. "By then, you must be strong enough to stand in that hall not as a student, but as a power."
She reached out and touched his new, rugged cheek. "Don't die, my little ghost. The world is boring without you."
"I won't die," Elian replied, his voice devoid of sentimentality. "I have too many debts to collect."
Lunaria turned and vanished into the shadows, moving with the silent grace of her kind.
Elian stood alone in the bustling street. He was surrounded by drunk mercenaries, corrupt merchants, and desperate refugees. No one looked at him twice. No one saw the "Beautiful Monster" or the "Black Rose Heir." They just saw another grim-faced boy looking for a fight or a meal.
He looked toward the north, where the massive floating islands of Sky Haven Academy were visible even from this distance, tethered to the ground by massive chains of mana.
It was the most prestigious school on the continent. A place of heroes, royalty, and legends.
Elian adjusted the weight of his body, making himself heavy enough to crush a cobblestone, then light enough to walk without sound.
"School is in session," Elian whispered.
He merged into the crowd, a wolf in sheep's clothing, walking toward the place where he would learn how to bring the sky crashing down.