The East Wing manor was quiet in the late dusk. Golden light slanted across the courtyard, the final sigh of a sun too tired to question anything anymore. Wind rustled the training banners—soft, unthreatening. It whispered of routine drills. Mundane swordwork.
Then thunder arrived on two legs.
By the time Charles reached the Ziglar estate, he looked less like a noble heir and more like a battered corpse seeking revenge. His hair stood in jagged peaks from residual lightning. His cloak was torn and crusted with ash. His body was bruised and bloodied. His eyes—haunted and hollow—looked as if they'd seen a dragon's funeral and brought the ashes home.
A guard dropped his spear.
Borris, the grizzled former assassin-turned-blacksmith, looked up from a weapon crate and froze mid-polish.
"Lord Charlemagne…" Borris squinted. "You look like the gods took turns kicking you."
From the corner, Wendy blinked. "Should we… be alarmed?"
Then she saw the streaks of blood on his boots.
Yes. Probably.
But instead of collapsing, Charles gave a crooked, lopsided grin and waved with casual confidence—like being half-dead was simply a noble inconvenience.
"Well, that was a refreshing walk."
Wendy's eyes widened. "You call this walking?"
"Technically," Charles replied, "I limped the last hour. But that's between me and my bruised spleen."
Borris raised a brow, glancing between them. "You two haven't met?"
"Not yet," Charles said, leaning on the nearest pillar like it owed him money. "Wendy, this is Borris. Instructor. Blacksmith. Nightmare for lazy soldiers. Borris, this is Wendy. My apprentice. Wind affinity. Promising dagger work. She might gut you in your sleep one day."
Wendy gave an awkward bow. "Hello, sir."
Borris grunted. "She's small. That's good. Easier to hide the blades."
"Also, less surface area to hit," Charles added. "Advantage in duels."
They shared a short chuckle—more breath than sound—but the mood shifted the moment they stepped into the East Wing manor.
Anya and Maddie rushed toward him the moment they caught sight of his torn robes and ash-dusted hair. Anya's face drained of color. She looked afraid.
Anya gasped. "Lord Charlemagne!" You look like you just came out of a battle!
"I did," he said, smiling. "In a way, I made the battlefield." Then they left it at that.
Maddie looked like she was going to throw up. "We were so worried—"
"I just went hunting," Charles said, waving them to the back courtyard. "Come. I brought gifts.
They looked at him, confused.
What awaited them behind the manor silenced every gasp, every breath, every skeptical thought.
Charles reached into his spatial inventory. Each beast corpse thudded onto the flagstones, one after another. He kept summoning, his body tensing each time, until a mountain of carnage rose up.
Dozens of beast corpses tumbled across the courtyard—Direclaw Bears, Abyssal Flamehounds, Thunderfang Panthers. Mid to high-tier magical beasts sprawled like offerings to a forgotten god. Blood steamed, claws glinted, cores gleamed.
On one side: neatly arranged crystal cores—over a hundred from copper to rare silver and gold tiers.
Another pile: harvested beast organs and enchanted flesh, gleaming with alchemical promise.
Nearby: rare herbs in silver-leaf bundles—Thunderleaf, Stormroot, Voltspike Blossoms.
In a smaller mound, sealed and warded: Sovereign-level Vytharion materials—Skycoil Crown fragments, Skycoil Blood Essence, thunder-forged bones.
Then came the real thunder.
A monstrous serpent—thirty meters, split and charred, sapphire scales glittering—hit the ground. Its horns sparkled; its throat smoked.
Vytharion the Skycoil.
Silence fell. Even the wind forgot how to breathe.
"My gods…" someone whispered. "He hunted a Sovereign."
Next, Charles summoned loot. Organized clusters of claws, venom sacs, hides, horns, and elemental blood appeared. Rare herbs and spirit fragments joined thunder pearls.
Some of the cores pulsed faintly. They hinted at semi-sentience, raw power.
A few soldiers fell to one knee. Others stared like cultists before a prophet's miracle.
Charles turned slowly to face them all—bruised, half-burnt, bloodstained. But upright. And smiling.
"This," he said, voice quiet but thunder-laced, "is what one week of determination buys."
He gestured to the mountain of corpses.
"This is what cultivation looks like when you stop making excuses and start bleeding for progress."
He stepped forward across the courtyard, ignoring the throbbing pain that surged with each movement in his side.
You want to rise? Train harder. Cultivate deeper. Hunt smarter. Prove yourself worthy of House Ziglar. Every bruise on my body is proof: pain transforms into gold, glory, or power if you have the will.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
This is your challenge. From now on, mediocrity is over. If I can come back alone with half a forest of monsters, I expect you to aim higher than easy prey.
A few younger guards chuckled nervously.
Borris grunted. "Well said."
Charles nodded. "Now, to business. Borris, you get first pick of the crafting materials—especially those serpent scales. I want armor sets made for elite operatives. Wendy, you're assisting. You'll learn how to work storm-forged materials from someone who's made corpses with hammer strikes."
Wendy saluted stiffly.
Charles turned to Anya next. "You get the rare herbs. Sort and distill what we can use for elixirs. Label what needs to go to trusted alchemists. I'll review them before our departure."
Anya, still wide-eyed, answered, "Yes, my lord."
He pointed next to Maddie and Elmer in the back. "The rest of you—coordinate the sorting of beast cores, venom sacs, and pelt processing. I want this courtyard cleared and documented before sundown."
Then he turned back to Borris.
Charles said, "Also, you and Wendy should pack your bags and get ready to leave." We leave for Duranth in the morning. Then we go to Velmora.
Borris blinked. "Are you sure you're ready to go?"
Charles smiled. "I'm not. But my enemies don't care. And I need to make my list shorter."
Borris made a noise. "That sounds fair."
As Charles moved, pain crackled through him like old hinges. He walked away like a man who had just finished a dungeon for five people. His cloak left a trail. Blood, ash, and sparks could be seen.
As Charles left, Borris whispered.
"Is he always like this?"
Wendy put her arms across her chest. "You think that's crazy? Wait until he starts to make plans."
The Feast Before the Tempest
The dinner table looked more like an altar than a meal. Rich mahogany shimmered under silver and obsidian plates, nearly hidden by a feast fit for a starving cultivator.
Each dish was a masterpiece—forged in fire, magic, and desperate necessity. It wasn't just dinner. It was a restoration. Resurrection. Reward. Charles sat at the head like a conqueror disguised in bruises and bandages. He carved into it all, trying to forget how close he'd come to death.
He grabbed a rib of Flameback Boar, glazed with Cinderfruit Honey. The first bite burned sweet and smoky; healing heat flushed through him, mending wounds.
Opposite that, a thick cut of Silverhorn Antelope shimmered faintly with qi as he slid his knife through it. The meat fractured like tempered glass—perfectly brittle, as expected—and melted against his tongue in cooling waves of bone-deep restoration. Already, he could feel the tension in his ribs releasing, the bruises lifting beneath his skin.
The Ashscale Serpent Broth, pale gold and threaded with mana, tingled down his spine and set his qi flowing.
A cold cup of Moonspore Sprigs, pale and bitter, cleared his mind right away. It relieved his tiredness with just one sip.
He let out a slow, steady breath. His fork hit the plate. His shoulders relaxed. He didn't even know how tense his body had been.
Anya stepped forward across the table, as graceful and quiet as always. She held a shiny silver tray as if it were the moon.
Anya bowed a little and spoke softly but firmly. "Lord Charlemagne, everything is ready."
Charles drank the last of his Verdantblood Wine, a deep red. The aftertaste felt like a love letter from a vineyard in the middle of a storm.
"More alchemy tonight?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
She nodded once, expression calm. "To... stabilize the surge."
He sighed dramatically, dragging the sound out as if it would somehow drain the responsibility with it. "Sometimes," he muttered, "I miss just punching rocks. It was simpler back then."
"Punching rocks didn't almost kill you by lightning serpent," she countered with the smallest twitch of a smirk.
"Touche."
He stood. His bones cracked like distant thunder as he stretched, the remnants of his battle with Vytharion still echoing in his frame.
Anya watched him closely, but with respect. She had seen him crawl into the manor hours ago. He looked like a man thrown into a forge and spat back out by the flames. Yet he stood there, half-eaten by fate, still smiling like he was working out a deal for a business merger.
"Tonight," she said, her voice returning to its calm, ritual tone, "is for rebirth."
Charles nodded slowly. "I'll take a bath then."
He left the dining hall like a man who was trying not to limp.
Behind him, the servants bowed low and cleared away what remained of the legendary meal. Only the faint, silvery laughter of his aides lingered in the hall.
A quiet storm brewed in the private quarters. The next hour would not be easy. He would not go gently into recovery.
But he would rise stronger.
And woe to anyone who mistook his fatigue for weakness.
Rebirth in the Iron-Jade Bath
The private bath chamber under the East Wing manor smelled warm and mysterious. Sigils carved into the obsidian-tiled walls pulsed in gold, flickering like they were whispering old prayers to storms from long ago.
The air was full of elemental tension, with heat and light twisting together to make the smell of ozone, steel, and healing roots.
The room's main feature was a marble tub so smooth it looked like it had been carved from lightning quartz. It hummed softly with leftover energy, as if it were remembering the battles of the people who had soaked into it.
Anya stood next to it barefoot, and the steam made her normally stern face look softer. She held five pieces of alchemical rebirth in her gloved hands like gifts to a god she couldn't see.
She worked quickly but reverently.
The first to go in were three Iron Vein Bath Spheres. Each dropped with a clink and dissolved in molten streams, weaving metallic veins across the bath's surface. Liquid iron slithered like silver serpents, sinking into the water until it rippled like molten steel.
Next, Verdant Jade Dew—five drops only. They hissed upon contact, releasing curling green wisps that spread warmth through the air like a forest exhaling after a storm.
Then came the Azurecloud Silkroot, powdered and light as a whisper. She stirred it gently, the misty flakes spiraling down and vanishing into the swirling depths like wind-blown wishes.
A pinch of Drakebone Ash Salts was sprinkled last, igniting like comet sparks the moment it touched the mixture. A faint crackle. A pop. The scent of scorched bone and medicine filled the air.
Finally, Stardrop Essence—three drops—hovered above the bath, defying gravity for an instant before sinking into the surface and forming three concentric halos that shimmered like the memory of stars.
Anya bowed her head slightly. "It's ready."