The next morning, Lencar didn't reach for the poppy pollen. He didn't need to drug his own consciousness to escape the memories of the forest. The conversation with Rebecca nights ago had cauterized that wound, and the successful "audit" of the mercenaries had given him a sense of control that quieted the chaos in his mind.
He woke up naturally, his internal clock chiming at 06:00 sharp. The sunlight hit his face with a gentle warmth, filtering through the thin curtains of his room in the Scarlet household.
He stretched, arching his back until he felt the satisfying pop of his vertebrae. His body felt rested, light. The mana in his core was humming at a steady, powerful rhythm—his newly solidified Stage 3 Mana Control keeping the massive Stage 4 capacity tightly regulated, like a nuclear reactor running at a perfect, stable idle.
He lay there for a moment, listening to the house wake up. He heard the creak of floorboards overhead—Luca getting up. He heard the soft cooing of Noah in the nursery. It was a symphony of the mundane, and for a man who had spent the previous night in a magicallyinduced hurricane dissecting cursed artifacts, it was the sweetest sound in the world.
He dressed quickly, opting for his comfortable work tunic rather than anything tactical. He stepped out into the kitchen.
"Morning!" he chirped, his voice clear and bright.
Rebecca turned from the stove, a wooden ladle in her hand. She was wearing her usual apron, her red hair tied back in a messy bun that was already starting to unravel. She blinked, surprised by the energy radiating off him. Just two days ago, he had been a ghost haunting this kitchen—pale, shaking, and hollow. Today, he looked like he had just won the lottery.
"Morning," she smiled, her shoulders visibly relaxing. "You look... better. Much better."
"I feel better," Lencar said, walking over to the fruit bowl and grabbing a red apple. He took a loud, crisp crunch. "The sleep helped. And the... perspective."
"I'm glad," she said softly. "I was worried you were going to burn out."
"Takes more than a few onions to burn me out, Rebecca," Lencar winked. "Need help with the porridge? Or are we going for the 'lumpy surprise' texture today?"
"Hey!" She swatted at him with a towel, laughing. "My porridge is smooth as silk, thank you very much. But you can slice the bread."
The domestic rhythm was effortless. They moved around each other in the small kitchen with a practiced ease, passing knives and plates without needing to ask. It was efficient, yes, but it was also warm.
Twenty minutes later, the trio—Lencar, Rebecca, and Marco—were walking down the cobblestone streets toward "The Rusty Spoon." Luca stayed behind to watch the little ones. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of baking dough and the earthy smell of the river.
Lencar breathed it in deeply. This was Nairn. It wasn't the Capital. It wasn't a dungeon. It was just a town trying to wake up and get to work.
When they entered the restaurant, Gorn looked up from the register with the expression of a man bracing for bad news. When he saw Lencar's face—bright, alert, and smiling—the burly owner let out a sigh that rattled his mustache.
"You are here Lencar! Rebecca!" Gorn shouted, rushing around the counter to slap Lencar on the back. "You look even better than Yesterday. I thought you were acting yesterday but it seems you are indeed better."
"I'm fine, boss," Lencar laughed, tying on his apron with a quick, deft knot. "Just needed a reset. I'm ready to work. Put me on the line."
"Good! Because the lunch rush is going to be murder."
The shift began.
Lencar was a whirlwind. He didn't just work; he performed. He moved through the kitchen like a dancer, dodging waiters, flipping pans, and plating dishes with a speed that bordered on magical—though he was careful not to use any actual mana.
He joked with the customers, charmed the elderly ladies who came for tea, and even managed to upsell the merchant caravan on three bottles of Gorn's "special" (and overpriced) wine.
But as the hours wore on and the adrenaline of the rush faded into the steady rhythm of prep work, Lencar's mind began to wander. Not to dark places, but to logical ones.
He stood at the sink, scrubbing a stubborn stain off a copper pot. The water was greasy and lukewarm. His hands were wet.
Inefficiency, the voice of Kenji Tanaka whispered in his ear.
He looked at his hands. These hands could crush boulders. These hands commanded a network of smugglers. These hands held enough gold in the Void Vault—loot from the Kiten Dungeon expedition and Garrick's chest—to buy this entire restaurant three times over. He could buy the building next door. He could buy the whole street.
Why am I here? Lencar thought, the sponge circling the pot. I have the capital to be independent. I could go back to Hage right now and rebuild the church into a palace. I could travel to the Heart Kingdom immediately to learn Mana Method. Every hour I spend scrubbing this pot is an hour I'm not training. It is a waste of resources.
It was the cold, analytical voice of optimization. It was the voice that had won the tournament. It was the voice that had broken the bandits.
But then, he looked up.
Through the pass-through window, he saw Rebecca. She was at a table, kneeling down to talk to a crying child who had dropped his toy. She picked it up, wiped it off, and said something that made the boy giggle through his tears. The sunlight caught her hair, turning it into a halo of fire.
Lencar felt a warmth in his chest that defied his logic. It was a soft, expanding feeling that silenced the analyst in his brain.
It is inefficient, he admitted to himself, watching her smile. But it is necessary. This is the anchor. If I leave this—if I just become the another Mage obsessed with power— I lose the ability to care about the crying children or maybe later even lose my own bottom line. I will become Patry (Patolli) or I will become Langris. I become a monster who thinks people are just numbers.
He needed the greasy water. He needed the potatoes. He needed the mundane to remind him why he was gathering power in the first place.
"Lencar? You okay?" Gorn asked, passing by with a crate of ale. "You're staring at the wall again."
Lencar blinked, snapping back to reality. "Just thinking about the menu, boss. We need more garlic in the stew."
"Don't tell me how to cook, dish-boy," Gorn grunted, but he was smiling.
The shift ended as the sun began to paint the sky in strokes of bruised purple and orange. Lencar and Rebecca said their goodbyes, collected their tips, and walked home.
The evening routine at the Scarlet household was sacred. It was chaos, but it was organized chaos.
Dinner was a loud affair. Pem climbed on Lencar's back like a monkey, refusing to let go, while Marco attacked him with a pillow, claiming to be the Wizard King slaying a dragon. Lencar played along, roaring and stumbling around the living room, making the kids shriek with laughter.
He laughed with them. It was a genuine, loud sound that chased away the lingering silence of the Grand Magic Zone.
Finally, the energy wore off. The sugar crash hit. Lencar told them a story—a sanitized version of a dungeon crawl—and watched their eyelids grow heavy.
"Alright, heroes," Lencar whispered. "Time to recharge."
Rebecca helped tuck them in. The house grew quiet, settling into the creaks and groans of an old building resting for the night.
Lencar stood at the sink, washing the dinner dishes. Rebecca stood beside him, drying. It was a comfortable silence, the kind shared by people who knew each other's rhythms perfectly.
"You were really good with them tonight," Rebecca said softly, polishing a plate until it gleamed. "Marco adores you. He thinks you're actually a Magic Knight in disguise. He told me you possess 'secret dragon strength'."
Lencar chuckled, scrubbing a pot. "Don't blow my cover. I'm a super-secret agent of the Potato Peeling Squad. The dragon strength only comes out when I have to open a jar of pickles."
Rebecca laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to brighten the dim kitchen. She looked at him, her expression turning thoughtful.
"You know..." she started, hesitating slightly. "You could be. A Knight, I mean. You have magic. I've seen you use it for chores when you think I'm not looking. You're strong, Lencar. I think you are stronger than anyone I know in this town at least."
Lencar paused. He rinsed the pot, watching the water swirl down the drain. "I'm happy where I am," he said. It was a lie, but it was also the truth. "I like this life. I like... being here."