[Location: The Southern Trade Route – Border of the Dwarven Kingdom]
The scene goes back to the surface, and even without Damiens intervention, the wheels of fate had begun to turn,
Saying their last farewells, Alaric and the others were currently on their way to get the sword of heroes to deal with the upcoming danger
The wheels of the rchant wagon squeaked with a rhythmic, grating sound that seed to echo too loudly in the quiet valley.
It was a nondescript vehicle, a canvas-covered transport pulled by two sturdy, brown dust-horses.
It looked like thousands of other wagons traveling the trade routes: worn, dusty, and utterly forgettable.
There were no royal crests. No magical suspensions. No Fenrir engine roaring in the distance.
Inside the wagon, huddled under the canvas shade, Elena pulled her coarse woolen hood lower. She scratched at the side of her head.
"I hate this," she whispered, adjusting the thick headscarf she wore beneath the hood.
"It itches."
"Keep it on," Alaric said from the driver’s bench. His voice was low, his eyes scanning the horizon.
"A High Elf in the borderlands is no different from asking to be attacked. Unless you want slave traders asking questions, you have to keep those ears hidden."
Lukas sat in the back, leaning against a crate of dried apples. He didn’t speak. He just stared at his hands.
Or rather, what used to be his hands.
From the elbows down, his arms were replaced by intricate, bulky chanical gauntlets made of dark Dwarven steel and brass.
They humd faintly, the mana circuits glowing a soft blue as they drew power directly from his core.
He flexed his fingers. The tal digits moved instantly, responding to his nerves with perfect precision.
But when he touched the wooden crate, he felt... pressure. Not texture. Not warmth. Just data.
Although he was now stronger with these new hands, however at tis like this, he missed his old arms.
"Hephaestus is indeed a genius," Lukas muttered, clenching his fist. The tal creaked.
"But they’re cold, I wish they could be a bit more human."
Staring into the distance, his eyes wondered for a bit
"Lukas," Alaric called back. "Check in."
Lukas nodded. He tapped the small, blue Contact Gem embedded in the wrist of his left gauntlet.
BZZZT.
A holographic projection flickered into existence above his lap. It was small and grainy, but the image of Alfred was unmistakable.
The Butler stood straight, adjusting his glasses, looking as impeccable as ever despite being projected from miles away.
"Young Masters," Alfred’s voice was tinny but calm. "I trust the disguise is holding?"
"We look like potato farrs," Elena grumbled. "It’s indeed holding."
"Excellent," Alfred nodded. "I have an update on the situation."
The trio leaned in.
"The Dwarven Kingdom has officially closed its borders," Alfred reported.
"King Durin has declared martial law to repair the capital. Unfortunately, The Iron-Blood clan’s influence is being purged outside the dwarf borders."
"And Lyra?" Alaric asked.
"Miss Lyra has departed for heer own mission" Alfred said.
"She is tracking the remnants of the Flesh-Crafters. She sends her... regards. And a threat that if you dare die, as being her student for a while, she will resurrect you just to kill you herself."
Lukas cracked a small smile. "Classic teacher."
Alfred’s expression grew serious. He held up a piece of parchnt to the projection.
"However, the Human Empire has reacted... poorly."
On the parchnt was a sketch. It wasn’t a good one, but it showed three familiar figures:
[WANTED: Accomplices to the Terrorist ZERO.]
[Status: Dead or Alive.]
[Reward: 1,000,000,000 Gold coins.]
"You are officially designated as Class-S criminals," Alfred stated.
"The Empire claims you assisted Zero in the destruction of the Capital and all the other atrocities he has done."
Elena paled. "so much gold? For us?"
"To the world, Alaric, Elena, and Lukas are dead," Alfred said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Or they are missing. You must not use your real nas in any official capacity. You have to more or less be ghosts now."
Alfred paused, his eyes softening behind the glasses.
"Stay in the shadows. Trust no one but each other. I will contact you when the Young Master... stabilizes the situation in the Abyss."
The projection flickered.
"Survive. That is your only mission."
CLICK.
The hologram vanished.
The silence in the wagon was heavier than before.
Lukas leaned his head back against the canvas. The wooden ribs of the wagon rattled as they hit a pothole.
" ghosts," Lukas whispered. "We went from the worst students of the Academy to ghosts in a potato wagon."
He looked at his tal hands again.
"Sigh... however this much I can handle its just...."
He closed his eyes.
"I miss the feeling of a real fire. I miss the feeling of... just being normal."
Elena reached out. She hesitated, then placed her hand on his cold, tal forearm.
"Our definition of normal died the day the sky cracked, Lukas," she said softly. "We aren’t students anymore."
Alaric pulled on the reins, guiding the horses around a fallen log.
He reached behind him and patted the large object wrapped in heavy oilcloth next to him.
The Anvil.
The massive slab of iron, his weapon was cold to the touch.
"Lukas is right," Alaric said, his voice gruff but steady.
"We are ghosts. We are criminals. And the whole world wants to sell us for a bag of gold."
He looked back at them, his eyes hard.
"But we are also the only ones left."
Alaric turned back to the road, his knuckles white as he gripped the leather reins.
"The Professor started sothing. He broke the world to save it. Now, it’s our job to make sure it doesn’t fall apart completely."
He snapped the reins.
"Hyah!"
The horses picked up the pace. The wagon creaked and groaned, rolling south, away from safety, and toward the heart of the Kingdom of Light. Toward the legend of the Sword of Heroes.
"Get so sleep," Alaric ordered. "We reach River-Cross by sundown. And I have a feeling the neutral zone isn’t as neutral as the maps say."
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