"Wake up, boy."
The words cut through his dreamless sleep like a blade across glass.
Zero's eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw was an elven man towering over him with sharp features and sharper contempt. The elf's voice dripped with disdain as he spoke again. "Wake up, Taintedkind. You've reached your stop."
The compartment swayed around him—wood-paneled walls, brass rails, the rhythmic clunk of steel wheels rolling along tracks. It was a train. An old locomotive, reeking faintly of smoke and oil. And every set of eyes in the car was on him.
Humans. Elves. Dwarves. Their expressions ranged from irritated to outright disgusted. Several looked at him as though he were some rancid odor trapped in cloth.
A dwarf near the back scowled and spat on the floor. "Why's a bloody demon even sitting here anyway?"
Another human snorted. "Disgusting. Filthy kind shouldn't be permitted to board alongside us."
"I don't even know what the king's thinking," someone muttered. "Allowing their kind into public transit…"
Zero slowly sat upright, brushing back strands of long black hair that fell across his eyes. His fingers brushed something… unfamiliar. He reached up. Two small, dark horns curled subtly from his forehead—elegant but unmistakably demonic. He exhaled slowly, silently. So that's how it was.
The elf from before curled his lip. "Still sitting there like a stunned ox. Get out already." He shoved a worn leather bag into Zero's chest hard enough to make him stumble. "Off. Now." Zero took the bag without a word. He stepped off the train.
The station platform buzzed with motion. Announcements were called through brass-horn megaphones. Golemic porters carried crates of luggage. Docks of steam-powered carriages hissed as runes cooled beneath them.
And beyond it all—The city.
It sprawled upward and outward in a magnificent blend of stone towers, glimmering spires, and old-world rooftops. Magical streetlamps glowed with floating orbs of soft blue light. Rail tracks crisscrossed over bridges that arced above bustling markets. People of all races moved with purpose, voices overlapping like music over cobblestones.
Aetherion. Just like Cecil had promised. It looked like something out of an old novel from his past life—a 19th-century metropolis with none of the smog. Magic lit the signs and powered the rails. Towering constructs of glass and enchanted brass shimmered under a clear sky.
Zero stood still for a moment. He wasn't Kaelan Wynn anymore. He was Zero—a stranger in a beautiful world that already hated him.
He adjusted the bag over his shoulder and took a breath. The fabric of his long coat moved as he did—a finely tailored suit, dark, clean, with a sharp silhouette. He looked elegant. Civilized. Completely at odds with how people saw him.
His fingers found a folded parchment tucked in the breast pocket. He opened it.
===
Hey Zero,
I decided your last name would be "Bitches." So your full name would be Zero Bitches. Ehehe.
Just kidding.
It's Zero Ashworth. I thought it sounded classy.
Good luck on your new life. Below's the address to your café. Try not to burn it down on your first day. Or do. It's your story now.
—Cecil
===
Below the scrawled message was an address written in ornate script. Zero flipped the parchment around and saw a map. He stared at it. Then blinked. It was unmistakable. It was a map of America.
Same continent shape. Same east coast curve. But names were different—sections divided by crests and royal borders. The address was stamped in bold across a labeled region. Evercrest Territory.
Zero stared at it for a moment, expression blank. "So… America's a coalition of nobility in this world," he muttered. "I guess this is fantasy-colonial Manhattan." He looked back up at the city. "Alright, Cecil," he said quietly. "Let's see this café."
Zero walked. At first, it was cautious. Every step measured, every glance sideways. The insults still rang in his ears—Taintedkind, Filthblood, demon—but they dulled now, like background static. His eyes scanned the street, half-expecting the world to trip him, slap him, curse him.
It didn't. In fact—A man walking across the street stepped in a steaming pile of horse dung and slipped sideways into a parked fruit cart, sending apples tumbling across the stone. Someone else knocked over a lamppost while turning too sharply with a rune-cart. A flying messenger bird slammed face-first into a window.
Zero blinked. "Oh my god," he whispered. "...It's not me." He let out a cautious laugh. A real laugh. "For once... it's not me."
The city unfolded around him like a book he'd never read but had always wanted to. Old brownstone buildings towered on either side, trimmed in black iron and vine-covered gutters. Hanging lanterns flickered with soft runelight. Shop signs swung gently over cobbled walkways: The Alchemic Attic, Grimwald's Tonics, Friedrich's Ether-Coils & Curios.
It was magic. Not just because of the enchantments, but because of how real it felt. The aesthetic was clear—Victorian structure with steampunk flourishes—but it lived, not staged like a film set.
People still sneered at him. Elves turned their heads away dramatically. A young human couple whispered behind their gloves. "Taintedkind," someone muttered as he passed.
Zero smiled at them. "Good morning."
Their expressions twisted in confusion and irritation. Further along the avenue, he passed a butcher with two demon assistants chopping meat. One of them glanced up and gave him a subtle nod.
Zero returned it. "Hey." The other demon smiled slightly. It was the first real smile he saw on the street. That was enough. He kept going, weaving through the marketplace, up narrow steps, through the back alleys of a block that felt... familiar.
Even though he had never been here. Even though this wasn't Earth. He tilted his head up, eyes tracking the skyline. "Thanks, Cecil," he murmured. "You gave me the memories of a city I've never been to."
The air was crisp here—free of smog, tinged with roasted chestnuts and chimney ash. Somewhere, a street violinist played in an upper window. Zero rounded one last corner—And stopped. There it was.
Tucked into a slightly crooked building between an old locksmith and a closed bookshop, a sign hung quietly over a dark wooden door. The lettering was clean, hand-painted in gold serif.
Café LeBlanc
He stepped forward, heart thudding. The front window was fogged slightly, and beyond the glass, he saw warm amber light. The doorknob was old brass. Familiar. He reached into his coat pocket—and yes. The key. It slid in perfectly. The lock clicked. Zero opened the door. A tiny chime rang as he entered.
The air inside was warm, laced with the scent of dark roast coffee and aged wood. The walls were painted in rich earth tones—mahogany and burgundy, with shelves of mismatched books and neatly arranged cups lining the back.
There was a narrow staircase on the side, leading upward to what must've been a loft apartment.
Behind the counter, the polished wood gleamed. Copper piping wrapped along the base of the espresso machine, and a kettle rested on a hotplate. Tiny potted plants sat on windowsills, soaking in the filtered sunlight.
But what caught his eye was the painting by the door. Framed in gold, hung just above eye level—a woman in a red dress, poised beneath a canopy of blossoms. Her gaze was downcast, gentle. The paint shimmered slightly, like she was guarding the threshold.
Sayuri. Zero stepped closer and whispered, "What a beautiful painting."
His footsteps brought him behind the counter, where a folded note rested beneath a brass spoon. He opened it.
===
BTW… every material in this café?
Unlimited.
Coffee, food, raw ingredients, cutlery, glassware, all of it regenerates automatically. You'll never run out of stock.
So don't worry about business. Just make it yours.
Have fun. :)
—Cecil
===
Zero exhaled slowly. He let the silence stretch for a moment. Then looked up at the old wooden ceiling, cracked a grin, and said, "...Alright, LeBlanc. Let's make some memories."
…
The sun poured in through the towering stained-glass windows of Brenford Manor, casting colored light across polished marble and velvet drapes. In the heart of the estate's grand chamber, a room fit for coronations, the cries of a newborn pierced the silence.
"Congratulations, Your Grace," said a cheerful voice, light with reverence. "The child is healthy. A true gift. May he be the sun that lights the blessings upon this kingdom."
Duke Alastair Brenford nodded once, expression calm yet proud. He stood tall—broad-shouldered, adorned in a military-style overcoat, the house crest stitched across his collar in silver thread. "Thank you," he said, voice even. "You may all witness this moment. My heir's first day among us."
Servants and attendants lined the edges of the luxurious chamber, heads bowed, hands folded. The room itself was opulent—high arched ceilings with gold-leaf trim, oil paintings of ancestral warriors, and a chandelier made of enchanted glass that shimmered like stardust.
In the center of the room, lying beneath soft white sheets on a velvet-lined bed, was the Duchess—Lady Isolde Brenford—smiling weakly, sweat on her brow but joy in her gaze. The baby continued crying, arms flailing, a patch of golden fuzz barely crowning his round head.
Until—Alastair stepped forward, gently taking the child in his gloved hands. He cradled the boy carefully, then leaned down to place him in Isolde's arms. As the baby met his mother's eyes, his cries subsided.
Silence fell. Not just silence—focus. The child's eyes, blue as glacier-stone, shimmered with an odd clarity. His gaze darted between faces not with babyish aimlessness, but purpose. Calm. Still. Isolde brushed his cheek, whispering, "There's something… behind those eyes."
Duke Brenford turned to the gathered attendants, voice rising with crisp authority. "You will all bear witness to this declaration," he said. "By the name of Brenford, first sword of the Eastern Coalition, I name my son Alec Brenford." He raised the child slightly, presenting him. "May he guide this kingdom with strength, wisdom, and the fire of our bloodline. May he shine as the sun of this era."
A ripple of cheers and polite applause filled the air. The staff bowed. The banners of House Brenford swayed from the ceiling beams. But beneath the warmth of the moment, behind the infant's unblinking eyes—Something mature stirred.
**A/N**
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**A/N**