"There are three worlds searching for heroes." Grey said as he concentrated more.
Tolstoy leaned against the couch. "That many?"
Grey nodded, "Each world has danger level less then that of Utopia."
"And?" Faker asked.
"All are unstable. All late stage" Grey answered.
Grey adjusted his grip, breathing shallowly. "One is burning out fast. Magicule density collapsing unevenly. That one won't last a week."
Tolstoy grimaced. "Too far gone."
"The second" Grey continued, "is… strange. Circulation exists, but it's broken. Like the world is dying but in parts."
Faker's eyes sharpened. "A slow death."
"Yes."
Grey swallowed. "The third is… loud. Not with magic. But with resistance. Something is actively trying to stop the collapse."
Tolstoy straightened. "Someone?"
"Something" Grey corrected. "I can't tell."
Faker exhaled slowly. Now was the time to choose. The moral dilemma of whom to save. They all knew the arithmetic.
"The first one is a lost cause" Tolstoy said quietly. "The second is dangerous. The third is already protected."
"It seems simple enough to me." Grey said.
"We take the second" Faker said. "The slow one."
Grey hesitated. "That world isn't ready to be judged."
"No" Faker agreed. "That's why we're going. I would like to see a half dead world, maybe give it a fighting chance against it's disease."
The sword's vibration eased, settling into a steady hum as the decision locked in.
Coordinates began to form in Grey's mind.
Tolstoy sighed. "Guess that's rest, then." As he stood upright, and ready to leave. A werewolf didn't require much.
Faker put on his red coat, and brand new hat appeared on the living room table. "We can rest there." as he donned the hat.
Grey let go of the sword. He took his own sword still lying on the floor. He sheathed it. An elf was always presentable, so no change of clothes for him.
The mansion did not protest.
But as they moved toward the exit, one of the lamps in the hallway dimmed though just slightly, but long enough to be noticed.
Faker put up his hand and channelled hi last magicules into opening the main door of the mansion. And as it opened there on the other side laid open green fields and a walled town with a magnificent castle sitting as the crown. the white of town and the green of the grass fields made it look like a picture drawn on the canvas of a artist.
They moved to the other side as the mansion groaned.
Behind them, the Silver Sword of Saint Seraphine remained where it was quiet, patient, bearing witness as it always had.
The door closed and the mansion was again alone, waiting again for it's residents.
As the party of three stepped into the world, Faker spread his arms wide and drew in a deep breath. The air was fresh...alive in a way Julia's had not been. He could feel it immediately. Warmth returned to his veins. Colour slowly crept back into his pale skin, as if the world itself were insisting he stay.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Tolstoy rolled his shoulders, muscles tightening beneath his skin. He didn't transform but the change was unmistakable. Strength settled into him like a remembered shape. The beast stirred, alert but patient, watching from somewhere deep in his core.
"Ah" Tolstoy exclaimed "That's so much better."
Grey remained still.
He let his senses stretch, not forward, not into the future, but outward. The ambient magicules here were rich, well-circulated. They flowed cleanly, slipping back into him with ease. Relief followed, quiet and professional.
Elves were efficient that way.
He appreciated the scenery as well, there were rolling green fields broken by low stone walls, the distant outline of a town rising gently toward a castle that caught the sunlight like a crown. Life moved in the distance people, animals, smoke from chimneys. The world was alive and bustling.
Grey exhaled.
"This place is alive" he said.
"Yes" Faker instinctively replied. "I would rather like that it stays that way."
They stood there a moment longer, letting the world take them in just as much as they took it in. The grass shifted beneath their boots. The wind carried unfamiliar scents, new scents of a new world.
"What kind of magic system does this world have?" Faker asked grey.
"Let's go and ask the priestess that put out the summon spell. She should be at the temple in the town." Grey said as he took the lead.
Tolstoy cracked his neck, grinning faintly. "Half-dead world. This might be new."
They started forward, boots pressing into living soil. They followed the dirt road as it curved gently through the fields, the town growing clearer with every step.
The city was situated on a hill, surrounded by farmlands. It felt as if they had finally found a place close to heaven.the only thing that jolted them back to reality was that the beauty was uneven.
Up close, the place felt… uneven.
The outer farmlands were healthy, too healthy if something like that was possible. Crops stood tall, leaves rich with colour, soil dark and damp beneath careful irrigation. Livestock grazed lazily behind low fences. Life here was loud in its persistence.
But once in a while there will be a gust of wind. The gust that did not fell part of the plains. Dry air, carrying the scent of death with it.
Faker slowed. "You feel that?" he asked.
Tolstoy snorted. "Feels fine to me."
Grey didn't answer immediately. His eyes were on the town walls now it's white stone rising cleanly from the earth, banners fluttering in the breeze. It was too clean. Too well-maintained for a world supposedly nearing collapse.
"Magic here isn't centralised" Grey said at last. "It's… distributed."
"As in?" Tolstoy asked scratching his head.
Grey gestured vaguely ahead. "No dominant flow lines. No singular anchors like moons-as-engines or world cores. Power flows through institutions instead."
Tolstoy frowned. "Institutions?"
"Faith" Faker clarified. "Could be ritual. Could also be social structure. The kind of magic that depends on people believing that it works."
Faker's expression darkened slightly. "The kind that fails quietly."
"Yes" Grey agreed. "And unevenly."
They reached the gates without challenge. Guards stood watch, armour polished, expressions calm but tired.
Inside, the streets were busy. Merchants called out prices. Children ran past laughing. Bells chimed somewhere deeper in the city, marking an hour that still mattered to people here.
"Let's go to the temple. I would rather not be seen out during the night. Who knows how Werewolves are treated here." Tolstoy said, "They have no problems with elves, as seen by the reaction of the girls."
The girls in the market place were fawning over the sharp features of the elf.
"Jealous??" Grey said as he poked him.
"He is right though, let's hurry up." Faker interjected before Tolstoy could say something.
They passed through the market without drawing much attention.
People noticed them, of course. Travellers always stood out, but there was no fear in the glances they received. Only curiosity. There were a few smiles. A few whispered comments that died quickly once their owners realised they'd been overheard.
Life here was confident.
The climb toward the temple was gradual, the stone road broad and well maintained. Small shrines lined the way there were simple things, really. Offerings of grain, flowers, bits of cloth tied to carved symbols. Faith practised quietly, without spectacle.
Grey studied them as they walked.
"Active participation assurance" he said softly. "This kind of system only works if people believe they're part of it."
Tolstoy snorted. "So if they stop believing?"
"It stops working" Grey replied. "Immediately."
Faker was quiet the whole way upto the temple.
The structure itself was immaculate. White marble polished smooth by generations of hands, gold filigree catching the sunlight without excess. It wasn't defensive. It didn't need to be.
This was a place built on certainty.
At the top of the steps, two acolytes stood watch. They wore simple robes and carried no weapons. It wasn't bravado, it was confidence. The sort that came from believing nothing bad could happen here.
One of them inclined her head politely. "Welcome to the Temple."
Grey returned the gesture. "We're here to see the priestess."
"She's expecting you" the acolyte said without hesitation, and stepped aside.
Tolstoy raised an eyebrow as they passed. "Well. That was easy."
"She didn't summon blindly" Faker replied. "She knew who would answer."
Inside, the temple was calm.
Candles lined the walls in careful symmetry, flames steady and undisturbed. Sunlight filtered through stained glass high above, painting the floor in soft colour. The air smelled faintly of incense and clean stone.
At the far end of the hall stood the priestess. She was composed, robed in white and gold, hands folded neatly before her.
Her eyes found Faker immediately. "You came" she said.
Grey inclined his head. "You summoned."
"Yes" she replied simply. "Because this world is in need of help."