The wind brushed against Markil's cloak as he walked through the crowded streets of the Kingdom of Zephyros.
It was a small kingdom, but lively. Most of the people around him were humans—roughly eighty percent of the population—while sturdy dwarves made up nearly the rest. Elves were rare here. Too rare.
Markil adjusted the strange mask covering his face, the same one he had bought days ago.
Six days…
His steps slowed.
It's been six days since I left Elrond's party.
His chest tightened.
"I don't even know where I'm going," he muttered under his breath. "No money. No plan. No portal opening…"
His eyes drifted to the sky, as if expecting a rift in reality to tear open.
Six days… and still nothing.
The streets suddenly grew louder. Laughter, music, drunken voices. Markil stopped in front of a brightly lit building glowing with colorful runes and floating lanterns.
He blinked.
"…A strip club?"
His lips twitched, then stretched into a crooked, creepy laugh.
"What in this world… oh god."
He glanced right.
Then left.
No one seemed to care.
With a quiet sigh, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Warm air, perfume, music, and laughter flooded his senses.
Women in fantasy outfits danced and leaned against pillars. Some laughed, some whispered, some stared at him with curious eyes.
One of them noticed him instantly.
"Hey, boy~ come here," she purred, stepping forward and grabbing his hand.
Markil flinched slightly but smiled politely. "Oh, sorry… but no."
She pouted and lightly shoved his chest. "You're quite handsome, you know that?"
The moment her hand touched him—
Markil's body jolted.
His eyes widened.
A strange sensation crawled over his skin.
He stumbled back. "W-What…?"
"Hey, boy, are you okay?" the woman asked, tilting her head.
Markil touched his temple.
This aura…?
His eyes sharpened.
Mana.
He could see it.
Thin streams of mana flowed through her body, faint and scattered. But it wasn't her mana that disturbed him.
Something else was calling him.
"Sorry," Markil whispered, suddenly turning around.
He started running through the club.
"H-Hey!" the woman shouted behind him. "What's wrong with you?!"
Markil ignored the voices and music. His eyes scanned every room, every shadow, every curtain.
It's here… I can feel it…
He reached the deepest room and pushed aside a heavy curtain.
His breath caught.
Inside stood a tall, gray-haired man—around 190 cm, the same height as Markil. He was wearing a sleek black outfit that hugged his athletic build. His face was handsome, sharp, and dangerously charming. He looked no older than twenty-two.
Girls surrounded him, clinging to his arms.
"Please come with me," one pleaded.
"No, he's mine! Don't touch him!" another snapped.
The man laughed lightly. "Hey, hey, don't fight. I'm all yours."
Markil stared, his face twisting into a dumbfounded expression.
"…This idiot," he muttered.
So that's where the aura is coming from.
The man suddenly noticed Markil.
"Ladies, wait here. I'll be right back."
"Aww, say my name before you go!" one girl begged.
"Yeah, mine first!"
He blinked, flustered. "O-Okay, okay… tell me your names first—"
"NO, MINE FIRST!"
The crowd erupted again, giving Markil the chance to lock eyes with him.
For a brief second, the air between them felt heavy.
The gray-haired man stepped out of the group with difficulty, brushing past the girls.
"…You look lost," he said casually, eyes studying Markil behind the mask. "You here for fun?"
Markil didn't answer immediately.
This aura… it's not normal. It feels… dangerous.
Elsewhere – Elven Kingdom
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains as Elrond slowly opened his eyes.
For a moment, he forgot where he was.
Then—
Markil's face appeared in his mind.
His chest tightened.
"…Markil."
He remembered the day they returned to the Elven Kingdom without him.
The king's furious voice echoed in his memory.
"What have you done?! You returned without him?!"
Elrond had bowed his head deeply.
"He chose to leave, Your Majesty. We tried to stop him… but he had already decided."
The king's anger faded into a heavy sigh.
"…After all, he will be on our side in the end."
From afar, Melian had listened.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She turned away and ran down the corridor.
"Melian!" Alith called, rushing after her. "Wait!"
"I-I'm fine," she lied, wiping her eyes. "Just… leave me alone."
She wasn't fine.
Not even close.
Elrond sat up in bed and slowly stood.
He stretched his arms, feeling the stiffness in his muscles. He dressed himself carefully, combed his hair neatly, and walked into the armory.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
The memory of his fight with Markil flashed before his eyes.
That overwhelming power.
That lonely gaze.
"…Where are you now?" Elrond whispered.
He left his room and walked silently through the long corridors of his home. The servants bowed, but he barely noticed.
Outside, a horse waited.
Kalman was already there.
"Sir, are you alright?" Kalman asked gently. "You look tired."
Elrond mounted his horse slowly.
His eyes looked empty. Dead.
"It's nothing," he said quietly.
"Let's go, Kalman."
The horses began to move.
And far away, in the shadows of Zephyros, Markil was about to meet someone who might change everything.
(Chapter 39 Finished)