The scent of steaming buns and fried dough filled the dining hall. Li Mei leaned over the counter, flashing a grin.
"Breakfast for all of us, please—and extra portions."
Soon, the warriors dug into unfamiliar yet satisfying food. Between bites, Old Liu's wary glances kept drifting toward them. Suddenly, one warrior jolted up, a triumphant grin on his face, chopsticks held aloft like a weapon.
"Finally!" he shouted in his foreign tongue, startling nearby diners. "I have mastered it!" He twirled the chopsticks like a spear, his excitement plain.
Old Liu muttered under his breath while collecting plates, eyeing the motion with a shake of his head.
"Eating… or hunting boar?" he sighed to himself, walking away.
Later, Li Mei sat comfortably across from Alaric, an easy smile playing at her lips.
"Alright, Your Highness, here's the plan," she began. "First, we head to the tailor. I'll get measurements for your people—though I doubt we can take everyone. I brought my friend's car, and it fits four people, max."
Alaric nodded, polite and composed. "Then… we must trouble you, Lady Li Mei."
Li Mei waved a hand dismissively. "No trouble. After that, we visit Wulingyuan town. I know a guy who can… fix you up with some IDs." She leaned in slightly. "We'll have a little chat—mostly with papers. Just enough to get you moving through places without raising questions."
Alaric's expression tightened, understanding the weight behind her words. "Forged documents," he mused quietly. Still, it was necessary.
Turning to his men, Alaric spoke clearly, explaining the plan. His pale gaze swept over his men before settling on Selene and Tharrok.
"You two will accompany me," he said firmly. "The rest will continue their duties and remain on standby. Maintain discipline."
"Don't get too comfortable," added Tharrok with a sharp look. "Just because you're not marching doesn't mean your senses are dull."
The warriors saluted as Li Mei stood, keys jingling in her hand.
"Then let's get you fitted for some modern robes, Prince," she said with a wink.
Alaric smiled and spoke.
"Lead the way, Lady Li Mei."
Walking outside, the fresh morning air tugged at their borrowed clothes—simple jackets and shirts in place of flowing robes and heavy armor. Before them waited a metallic beast, sleek and polished, its curved surface gleaming beneath the rising sun, an unfamiliar emblem winking at them like a silent dare.
Tharrok came to a dead stop, squinting.
"By the heavens… what strange iron creature stands before us?" he muttered, arms crossing warily.
Alaric stood calmly at his side, studying the vehicle with a quiet, thoughtful gaze. Memories flickered—dwarven engines clanking through mountain roads—but this was smoother, less noisy, more refined… yet no less curious.
"Not unlike the dwarves' crafts," he said mildly, "only… quieter… and hopefully less likely to explode."
Behind them, Selené was already deep in observation, Silver Reed Pen gliding across her notebook, sketching every angle. Her lips moved soundlessly.
Li Mei leaned lazily against the door, arms folded, grinning widely.
"Well? Not bad, huh?" she said, keys spinning around her finger. "Behold… my steed. She doesn't bite, but she does purr."
Tharrok frowned. "So… you have tamed a beast of metal to carry you." He gave a grudging nod. "Respectable."
Alaric allowed himself a small, approving smile. "It matches your spirit, Lady Li Mei. Swift, sharp… and full of surprises."
Her grin widened. "Flatter me more, Highness, and I might even turn on the AC."
With a cheerful clap of her hands, she pointed to the doors. "Come on, gentlemen. Tailor first."
They climbed in, adjusting awkwardly to modern seats, boots tapping uncertainly on floor mats instead of stone floors. Tharrok eyed the door handle like it might attack. Selené was already testing the window button, and Alaric settled in with the quiet dignity of a ruler trying to understand why the chair was hugging him.
Li Mei turned the key, the engine purred to life, and with a smirk, she drove off—her car bouncing slightly under the unfamiliar weight of three displaced nobles.
And so, without crown or blade, the heir of empire stepped beyond the veil—into a realm where steel slumbered, magic slept, and the stars told no tales. Yet the winds carried whispers, and the earth remembered old promises.
For though no seer had spoken of these roads, and no scroll had charted these lands, destiny stirred in silence… and the world itself watched, waiting for the prince who walked unknown paths.
As the young prince departed with his petite escort, the remaining soldiers stood in formation, their eyes following the strange metallic beast as it rumbled away, still in awe of the world they had landed in.
Standing tall, Garrik, Captain of the Spear Legion, crossed his arms, his piercing gaze sweeping over the ranks. His voice cracked through the morning air like a thunderclap:
"Had enough gawking?" he barked, tone sharp and commanding. "We have work to do! I will not have you standing here like lost sheep, embarrassing our Lord. Any man who forgets his tasks today will earn double hours on the training fields!"
He paused, a wicked grin curling on his lips, his stance shifting just enough to promise pain.
"And I will make it personally memorable."
The warriors snapped back to attention, the weight of Garrik Draemir, the Hell-Reaver, pressing down on them. Tales of his savagery traveled faster than arrows—stories of battlefields where Garrik, drenched in demon blood, returned with the heads of demon princes, using them as makeshift weapons to crush enemy lines beneath his fury.
He stood like a living fortress, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his arms scarred from countless campaigns, each mark a reminder of victories earned by steel and fury. His square jaw was stubbled and rough, his cheekbones sharp, and his mouth forever set in a grim line, as if carved from stone. His silver hair was cut short in the old warrior tradition, practical, always battle-ready, and his eyes burned like cold steel, grey and merciless, reflecting only two things: war and duty.
He had inherited his father's brutality, they said—the raw strength of bloodline sharpened by battlefields—his thirst for combat matched only by his hunger for wine. No soldier in the Spear Legion dared test his patience… not if they valued their bones intact.
As their prince departed, the Hundred of Selvaris reassembled into flawless ranks—noble blood running through every vein. They were not mere foot soldiers but scions of the Grand Clans of the Selvaris Empire, each name carved into the annals of history.
Among them stood heirs of famed blacksmith dynasties, whose ancestors forged blades that slew demon lords; descendants of master tailors and artisans, creators of the ceremonial garbs worn by emperors and high priests. Others bore the legacy of heroic bloodlines, warriors whose deeds were sung in ballads, champions who stood at the forefront of the empire's most significant conquests.
Bound by silver insignias, the mark of the Selvaris Empire, these men were not scattered clans members but the elite—united beneath one banner, forged for one singular purpose: to fight for the moonlight and protect all who walked beneath its glow.
Only those who bore the ancient blood of Selvaris escaped that night. As the demon lords tightened their grip, they did not merely assault walls or break them —they sealed the skies themselves. Foul magic twisted the air, poisoned the earth, and locked the very threads of space. Teleportation runes cracked, arcane gates shattered, and all known pathways of escape collapsed into silence.
Yet one gate remained untouched by their corruption—hidden deep within the foundations of the imperial citadel:
The Starborn Gate.
Older than emperors, older than the empire itself, the Starborn Gate was no common portal. It was a relic carved by forgotten hands, forged in the age of the first moonrise. Its threshold recognized only one law—blood. Only those descended from the Selvaris bloodline, marked by ancient lineage and lunar right, could command its passage. None other could cross. To any outsider, it remained a silent monument of polished stone, forever dormant.
As the city's final hour fell, those of Selvaris' blood passed through its radiant veil—not to known lands, not to safe harbors, but to uncharted realms, where no empire stood and no map dared claim.
Behind them, their kin and allies stood proud upon the battlements, choosing death over surrender, sacrifice over slavery. Ahead of them lay the unknown… and the burden of legacy—to one day return, to reclaim their homeland beneath the moonlight, and to avenge the fallen.
The Selvaris are not merely a race—they are a legacy, born from the ancient union of mortals and the immortal Silver moon Dragon, whose wings once cloaked the heavens in shimmering starlight. They rise tall and resplendent, their forms sculpted by the trials of war and the quiet strength of old magic. Silken hair, pale as moonlight, flows from their crowns, and within their silver-bright eyes glows the enduring flame of their draconic heritage.
Wielders of both blade and magic, the Selvaris command the primordial forces of the world, their words shaping winds, their hands guiding lightning, their hearts beating with the rhythm of ancient power. Yet it is not might alone that defines them—it is purpose.
From their celestial forebears, they inherited an eternal oath: to be the light against the encroaching dark, the shield of the weak, and the scourge of evil. In every age of chaos, they rise, not for conquest, but for balance, to preserve life, to mend the broken, and to extinguish the shadows that dare to swallow the world.