The mansion received them without ceremony. It was a place that waited for them. It waas the inevitable end to their adventures and misadventures both.
No flare of magic.There was no resistance. Just a soft, familiar settling of space, as if the structure itself had exhaled once they crossed the threshold.
Warm light filled the entrance hall, lamps glowing with a steady amber hue that didn't flicker or hum. The air smelled faintly of old wood and clean linen. Somewhere deeper inside, something ticked. Not a clock. Just a sound that suggested continuity.
Tolstoy was the first to relax.
He rolled his shoulders, joints popping softly, and let out a long breath through his nose. "Ah" he said. "That's better."
Grey followed, sheathing his sword before he fully realized he was doing it. His posture loosened by degrees, tension draining from muscles that had been locked tight since Julia.
Faker stepped in last. He closed the door behind them and removed his coat. Placed it neatly on the coat holder. That was his ritual.
Only after that did he take a breath and relaxed himself. For a few seconds, none of them spoke.
It was silence in the honour of Julia. Well it was the same even after they saved a world.
After an hour of two, grey got up from the couch in the living room and decided to go to his room to document the events at the end of the world known as Julia.
His room was on the second floor, towards the left edge of the mansion. His room was a;way's the same. It was sparse, clean and functional, a minimalists dream.
A narrow bed pressed against the wall, a desk beneath the window, and a single chair pulled back at a precise angle. There were no decorations. No mirrors to look at the reflection of the elf in morning. There were other important reasons, but this was one of them.
Grey preferred it that way. He closed the door behind him gently he never let it latch too loudly. He crossed over to the desk. A thin notebook lay exactly where he'd left it before the Julia contract. The cover was worn, the pages inside dense with cramped handwriting.
He sat in the wooden chair. For a moment, he didn't open it.
I wasn't easy recording dead worlds, it always hit too close to home for him. The tale of Utopia. It was tale similar to Julia, but vastly different. But he was not one to reminisce, at least not today.
Grey exhaled slowly and opened the notebook. He wrote the facts first. He always did.
Coordinates : World designation: Julia.Threat classification: Demon Lord (false).Outcome: Contract failed.Status: World hollowed.
His pen paused. Grey stared at the last line longer than necessary.
He rubbed his temple and leaned back in the chair.
The first time they had arrived here, years ago, he'd thought it was a miracle. It was the firs world they had been thrown into. It was faker and him at that point. They had fell into a world which ended the same way Julia did. Grey was sure he was dead, but to his surprise, he had the opportunity to open his eyes once more.
He opened his eyes to find Faker resting on the couch, while he lay at the doorstep. The Mansion... was acquired then. Grey's sword was also found in the Mansion itself by Faker.
It was a place untouched by the rot they'd seen elsewhere. It was there refuge. This was the place they came to, when the contracts were finished.
Of course he had to make sure if the mansion was safe. He had tested it a little.
Grey's jaw tightened at the memory.
He had tried to open his sight that first night though only for a moment, just enough to make sure nothing followed them home. The future had gone dark instantly. He was unable to use his future sight.
It was as if he had no magic here. He was just a normal creature in the mansion. But that was not the scary part. The scary part came the next morning.
The next morning, the corner of the room where his chair had been was simply… gone. There was no damage to the wall. It was just missing a portion of itself.
Grey hadn't tried again since. He closed the notebook and stood.
The rules of the mansion were simple.
You didn't push.You didn't test.You didn't demand.
And above all, The mansion wasn't a permanent place stay. It was connected to faker's magicule reserves. Once he was exhausted, the mansion would start disappearing.
Grey stood there for a while longer, notebook closed in his hand.
He did not put it away immediately.
The mansion creaked softly. Grey had learned long ago that the house reacted more to restraint than action.
He slid the notebook into the drawer and pushed it shut with care.
Then he left the room.
...
Downstairs, Tolstoy had claimed the couch completely.
He lay stretched across it on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, boots still on the floor where he had kicked them off. The wolf was gone now, fully and completely, leaving behind a man built for violence who was momentarily content with stillness.
he listened, but not for danger. Just for comfort, so that he knew there was something else in the mansion.
That faint ticking it was never a clock but came from somewhere in the walls. Tolstoy liked that sound. It meant the place was holding.
"This place" he muttered, half to himself, "doesn't ask questions. And neither wants to answer them."
That was why he trusted it.
When he'd first arrived, he'd tried transforming here. Not deliberately. Just instinct. Moonlight through the window, muscles tightening automatically.
The change had stopped halfway. Like a hand on his shoulder saying no.
Tolstoy had laughed then, embarrassed, and never tried again.
Rules were rules. You didn't need to understand them to respect them. Especially when you are the house guests.
As he was lost in his thoughts, The smell of food reached him.
Tolstoy sat up, sniffed once, then smiled.
"Ha. Knew it" he said.
The dining room was already set.
Three plates rested on the table, steam curling lazily upward from meals that looked warm and familiar in a way that tugged at memory more than appetite. The table itself was long, polished, with more chairs than people. As it always had been.
There were a total of 10 chairs. Eight around the table and two at the heads. One of the chairs at head of the table was used by Faker. The two to his left and right were used by Grey and Tolstoy respectively.
Grey entered quietly and took his usual seat. Tolstoy was already seated in his seat. Faker followed last.
He had retrieved his coat and now moved with deliberate calm, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease. He sat, straightened his place setting once, and waited.
They started eating. Quietly. No one talked at the dinner table. Cutlery clinked softly. Steam faded. The ticking continued.
For a little while, this place was their home, they could rest and forget what they had dealt with.
But that little while does not last very long. Faker noticed it first.
The lights in the mansion were forming shadows just a fraction too late when grey shifted in his chair.
Barely perceptible, but still very much there.
Grey noticed Faker noticing. Tolstoy of course noticed nothing and continued eating his food.
Grey set his fork down. "You feel it again."
Faker nodded. "We're below margin."
Tolstoy frowned. "Below what margin?"
"The one that matters" Grey said gently.
Tolstoy leaned back, eyes moving between them. "We just got back!!"
Faker folded his hands on the table. His movements were slower than usual, they were now measured.
"The mansion might hold" he said. "Just not if I continue to stay."
Tolstoy's jaw tightened. "So we leave."
"Yes."
"When?" Grey asked.
Faker reached for his coat. "Preferably Now."
The Mansion wooden door opened. The house knew it was time for the residents to go. But there was still one more thing to do.
"Grey, use the sword, see if there are any contracts out there in universes." Faker said as he clenched his fists.
Grey nodded once and stood.
The dining room felt larger once they left it, as if the mansion itself stretched slightly when movement resumed. He crossed into the common room, footsteps muted by the carpet that never seemed to wear thin.
At the centre of the room, mounted horizontally on a low stone stand, lay the Silver Sword of Saint Seraphine.
It did not glow.
It never had.
The blade was simple it was too simple for something that had survived the fall of a world. there were no inscriptions. No runes. Just clean silver metal, dulled slightly near the hilt where hands had gripped it too often.
Grey approached it with the same care he always did.
This sword was not a weapon in the usual sense. It did not cut flesh better than steel. It did not amplify magic.
It listened.
Grey placed his hand on the pommel and closed his eyes.
The mansion quieted further.
Not silence there was never silence, but a narrowing of attention, as if the space itself leaned inward.
"Scanning" Grey said softly.
The blade responded with a faint vibration, not sound but pressure. Information did not arrive as words or images, but as weight they were points of strain across reality, places where space stretched too far in one direction.
Grey's brow furrowed.
"There are… three" he said slowly. "Active contracts."