Louis stepped into the room that had been assigned to him and paused just inside the doorway. The maid who had escorted him there stopped at the threshold, hands folded neatly in front of her.
"You may leave," he said calmly.
She bowed and stepped away. Once her footsteps faded, Louis turned back toward the door and reached for the handle, intending to lock it out of habit more than anything else.
His hand stopped.
He frowned.
There was no lock on the inside.
For a few seconds, he simply stood there, staring at the smooth metal plate where a bolt should have been. His mind didn't jump immediately to paranoia—just mild annoyance at first—but that feeling didn't last long.
Slowly, an image surfaced in his thoughts.
Marcus Halvane.
Not old, not frail—but wearing that familiar, calculating grin. The kind that never reached his eyes. The kind that suggested three plans were already in motion while you were still considering your first move.
"…thought as much," Louis muttered under his breath.
With a quiet sigh, he turned away from the door and walked deeper into the room. The furnishings were tasteful, bordering on luxurious, but none of it caught his attention. He reached the bed and dropped onto it, lying flat on his back, one arm resting across his chest as he stared at the ceiling.
His thoughts drifted.
He was daydreaming.
Not aimlessly—but vividly.
He imagined his body changing, reshaping itself under his will. Muscles thickening. Bones bending without pain. Skin giving way to fur. A wolf's form—lean, fast, powerful. Then something heavier. Broader. A bear, grounded and overwhelming.
Strength that wasn't borrowed.
Strength that was natural.
He let the images linger, letting his mind wander freely for once—
And then his thoughts slid backward.
The waiting room.
The tension there had been suffocating in a different way.
Kirian Hale had stepped forward and asked everyone to gather. Most of them had complied, some reluctantly, others simply because they didn't know what else to do.
The female doctor hadn't bothered. She had taken a seat a short distance away, arms crossed, clearly uninterested in group discussions or forced optimism.
Nearby stood the 23-year-old young man who had already given his age earlier. His posture had been straight, movements restrained and precise. His body bore signs of wear that weren't accidental—calloused hands, faint scars, a stillness that spoke of discipline.
A military cadet, Louis had concluded.
Without meaning to, Louis had compared himself.
Six foot two. Ordinary frame. Not frail, not imposing. No visible muscle worth mentioning. Nothing that stood out at a glance.
Average.
Kirian's voice had cut through the room, calm but strained. He'd tried to reassure them—telling them they had no choice, that even if the Empire clearly prioritized its own interests, they were still being given favorable conditions.
"For now," Kirian had said, "we should go along with it. Observe. Learn."
Hina had agreed almost immediately, nodding in support.
One by one, the others had followed.
Louis blinked, the memory fading as his awareness returned to the present.
He exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright.
"Alright," he murmured. "Enough putting it off."
He focused inward and finally opened his status screen properly—no skimming, no distractions, no half-read explanations like before.
The translucent panel appeared before him.
---
Name: Louis Oberon
Age: 19
Class: Druid
Level: 1
He let his eyes move downward, deliberately.
---
Stats
Strength: 6
Agility: 7
Endurance: 7
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 10
Mana: 10
He studied the numbers for a while. Nothing extreme. Nothing embarrassing. Solid, balanced—almost boringly so.
Which, strangely enough, reassured him.
---
Unique Skill: Resilience
He tapped the description.
A unique skill that represents the ability to endure, resist, and recover quickly from various adverse effects, be they physical, mental, or environmental.
Louis stared at it.
"…That's it?"
He leaned back slightly, lips twitching.
Vague, he thought.
And the vaguer the description, the more hidden potential it usually meant.
Or traps.
Probably both.
He continued.
Passive Skills
Natural Affinity: Increased efficiency when using nature-aligned abilities
Mana Recovery (Slow): Gradual regeneration while in contact with natural elements
Elemental Sensitivity: Enhanced perception of natural and magical flows
He nodded slowly.
Nothing flashy. Nothing overwhelming.
But it fit.
This wasn't a warrior's status. Or a mage's.
He opened the next tab.
Active Skills
Verdant Mend: A basic druid healing spell that restores vitality over time
Binding Growth (Uncommon – Natural Control): Causes vegetation to restrain the target while dealing continuous nature-based damage
Thunderbolt: A focused strike of lightning drawn from ambient mana
No damage values. No percentages.
Just intent and function.
Louis appreciated that more than he expected.
Then came the final panel.
Druid Path
At first, the screen was almost empty—save for a single seed resting at the center.
He touched it.
Lines spread outward, faint and dim, forming the outline of a massive tree. Five branches extended from the trunk, each pulsing softly.
Beast Path
Plant Path
Moon Path
Storm Path
Spirit Path
Louis stared at it for a long moment.
A slow smile formed on his face.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "This really is it."
A knock interrupted him.
He sighed internally.
Of course.
His daydreams—of fur and claws and transformation—shattered as he stood and opened the door.
The maid stepped inside, greeting him politely before moving past him. She went straight to the wardrobe, setting down the folded linen she carried and arranging it with practiced efficiency.
Louis returned to the bed and sat there, watching her quietly.
When she finished, she turned to face him.
She spoke of missing him.
Louis told her she was free to leave—that there was nothing more for her to do.
She hesitated.
Then she explained, carefully, that the palace had requested comfort for the heroes.
His gaze sharpened.
"And whose idea was that?"
"The counselor's," she admitted.
In his mind, Marcus Halvane appeared again—grinning.
"Tch," Louis muttered. "That old geezer."
He looked back at her, expression steady.
"…Is this about bearing a child?"
The question clearly startled her. She hadn't expected him to be so direct.
But after a moment, she nodded.
"Yes."
He asked another question—whether someone else would be sent if he refused.
She answered honestly. Yes.
For a brief moment, Louis considered alternatives. Letting her stay without crossing lines. Sleeping arrangements that avoided complications.
He dismissed them just as quickly.
That would be letting a fox into the chicken coop.
Instead, he gestured to his lap
She hesitated, slightly surprised by the sudden change, then sat.
The weight of her on his lap was very real.
Not imagined. Not distant.
Louis's thoughts didn't drift backward or spiral into reflection. There was no need for that. He was nineteen, sitting in a quiet room, with a woman close enough to feel her breath. Desire didn't need explaining—it simply was.
His hand lifted.
Not hesitantly.
He rested it on her ample chest, fingers tightening just enough to make his intent unmistakable. Her breath hitched, her body stiffening for a split second eliciting a needy and sultry moan before she relaxed again, turning her face toward him—eyes searching, expectant.
Waiting.
For more.
Louis watched that look carefully.
Then he stopped.
His hand withdrew.
"Stand," he said.
The word was firm, leaving no space for misunderstanding.
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. "But—"
"Leave," he added, sharper now.
The change in his tone erased whatever she'd been about to say. She stood at once, lowering her gaze.
She rose, apologized quietly, and exited the room.
With a heavy sigh, Louis lay back on the bed, staring straight up at the unfamiliar ceiling.
The thought came before he realized it, followed by a flicker of regret—for not going all the way. He exhaled slowly, willing his pulse to settle.
That was careless.
His mind shifted, as it often did, toward memories of stories he'd once read.
There was a novel—an old one—about curse users. The truly dangerous kind. Those who didn't need proximity, chants, or even line of sight. Just a single strand of hair. A drop of blood. Something personal. From miles away, they could twist fate, rot luck, or worse.
The thought crept deeper.
What if…
What if she had taken something without him noticing? What if he had been careless enough to leave behind something that could anchor a spell?
A chill ran down his spine.
Louis frowned, lifting an arm to cover his eyes. He wasn't afraid—he knew that much. He'd never been one to freeze in the face of danger that wasn't immediate. But he was prone to overthinking, especially when too many unknowns stacked on top of each other.
And this world was full of unknowns.
Slowly, his breathing evened out.
Better cautious than dead, he thought.
The bed creaked softly beneath him as he shifted, already resolving to be more careful from here on out.