The morning light in Nairn was soft, filtering through the windows of the Scarlet household with a deceptive laziness. Lencar Abarame lay in bed for exactly three minutes after waking up. It was a rare indulgence. Usually, he was up the second his internal clock chimed, moving with the precision of a soldier.
But today, his body felt heavy—not with exhaustion, but with the comfortable, grounding weight of the life he was building. He listened to the house. Noah was gurgling in the next room. Rebecca was humming something off-key in the kitchen.
"Right," Lencar whispered to the ceiling. "Work to do."
He got up, dressed, and walked into the kitchen. The smell of oatmeal and cinnamon greeted him. Rebecca turned, her smile bright and easy, devoid of the shadows that sometimes haunted her when the bills were due.
"You're up early," she said, handing him a bowl. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a log," Lencar lied effortlessly. In truth, his mind had been racing with artifact schematics half the night, but he kept that to himself. "Ready to feed the masses?"
"Born ready."
The walk to "The Rusty Spoon" was pleasant. The town was waking up, merchants rolling up their awnings, the smell of the river mixing with the scent of roasted coffee.
But as they entered the restaurant and tied on their aprons, Lencar's mind shifted gears. He wasn't just chopping vegetables today; he was scouting.
If I'm going to build her a restaurant, Lencar thought, slicing a cucumber with machine-gun speed, I need a location. Real estate is the first variable.
He looked around "The Rusty Spoon." It was a good spot—corner lot, high foot traffic, near the market district. Gorn had done well for himself.
Too well, Lencar realized.
He looked through the pass-through window. The lunch rush was beginning. Gorn was at the counter, laughing with a regular customer, a blacksmith named Tross. Gorn was a big man with a bigger heart. He had taken Rebecca in when she had nothing. He had given Lencar a job without asking questions about his past. He let them take leftover bread home to the kids every night.
Lencar paused, the knife hovering over a tomato.
If he built "The Scarlet Kitchen" here in Nairn... if he used his gold to build a better, newer, flashier restaurant... he would kill Gorn's business. Rebecca was the face of this place. The customers loved her. If she left and opened a shop down the street, half of Gorn's clientele would follow her.
I would be destroying the livelihood of the man who took care of Rebecca for years and also me for a short time, Lencar thought. That is... unacceptable.
It was efficient business, maybe. Kenji Tanaka might have done it without blinking. But Lencar Abarame? The boy who sat on the rug and told stories to orphans? He couldn't do it.
"Hey, Lencar!" Gorn shouted from the front, breaking his reverie. "We need more stew on Table 4! And stop staring at the tomatoes, they aren't going to chop themselves!"
"On it, boss!" Lencar shouted back.
He watched Gorn wipe sweat from his brow, looking tired but happy.
No, Lencar decided firmly. Nairn is off limits. I can't build it here. It has to be somewhere else.
But where? The Capital? Too expensive, and the nobles would sneer at a commoner establishment. Hage? Too poor; nobody could afford to eat out.
He frowned, tossing the chopped tomatoes into the pot.
The timeline, he reminded himself. The Dungeon Arc is coming. I'm going to fight Mars. The Eye of the Midnight Sun will reveal themselves soon. The kingdom is about to become a war zone.
He realized he couldn't pick a location yet. The map was about to change. Chaos was a ladder, as the saying went, and he needed to see where the rungs broke before he started climbing.
After the Dungeon, Lencar resolved. I'll secure the capital, deal with the invasion, and see where the dust settles. For now, we save money. We plan.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of steam and orders. Lencar worked harder than usual, driven by a strange sense of guilt for even considering competing with Gorn. He scrubbed the floors until they shone. He organized the pantry. He repaired a wobbly table leg with a subtle application of [Earth Magic] while no one was looking.
"You're trying to make me look bad, aren't you?" Rebecca teased him as they walked home that evening, the sun setting in a blaze of orange.
"Just earning my keep," Lencar smiled, bumping his shoulder against hers. "Besides, if I work hard, maybe the boss will give me a raise. I have a dream to fund, remember?"
Rebecca blushed, looking down at her shoes. "You haven't forgotten."
"I never forget a promise, Rebecca."
They arrived home to the usual chaos. Luca was trying to stop Pem from drawing on the wall with a piece of charcoal. Noah was crying. Mia was asleep in a basket of laundry.
Lencar didn't retreat. He stepped into the fray.
"Alright, monsters!" Lencar announced, dropping his bag. "Who wants to play 'The Floor Is Lava'?"
"ME!" Marco screamed, abandoning his charcoal art.
For the next hour, Lencar wasn't a mage or a schemer. He was a jungle gymnastic. He let the kids climb on him. He jumped from the sofa to the chair, holding Pem like a football, making whoosh noises. He laughed when Marco tackled him. He felt the small, sticky hands gripping his tunic, trusting him completely.
This was the battery recharge. This was the reminder of what he was fighting for.
Dinner was a loud, messy affair of stew and bread. Lencar ate heartily, refueling his body for what was coming later.
After dinner, the story time ritual began.
"Tell us about the Knight of the Iron Mountain!" Marco demanded.
Lencar sat on the rug, the firelight casting shadows on his face. He spun a tale of a knight who didn't have a sword, but had skin made of steel. A knight who protected his friends by becoming a wall that no monster could break.
Rebecca sat in the armchair, mending a shirt, listening with a soft smile. She watched Lencar's face, the way his eyes lit up when he did the voices. She didn't see the killer. She saw the protector.
Eventually, the adrenaline faded. The kids yawned, their eyes drooping.
"Bedtime," Lencar whispered.
They went without a fight, exhausted by the play.
Lencar helped Rebecca clean up. They moved in silence, the comfortable silence of shared purpose.
"You're good with them," Rebecca said, drying her hands. "Better than I was at your age."
"They're good kids," Lencar shrugged. "They make it easy."
"Go to sleep, Lencar," she said gently. "You've been working hard. Don't stay up reading."
"I won't," Lencar promised. "Goodnight, Rebecca."
"Goodnight."
She went to her room. Lencar went to his.
He waited. He listened to the house settle. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.
When the breathing from the other rooms deepened into the slow rhythm of sleep, Lencar's eyes opened. The warmth of the "Big Brother" vanished. The cold calculation of the "Heretic" returned.
He sat up. He opened the [Void Vault].
He didn't take out the cloak this time. He took out a set of heavy training weights he had commissioned from a blacksmith in the black market—dense iron bands inscribed with weight-increasing runes.
"Playtime is over," Lencar whispered.
He tapped the ring.
[Spatial Magic]: [Long-Range Coordinate Shift].
The warm bedroom vanished. The smell of lavender was replaced by the ozone and sulfur of the storm.
He stood once again on the jagged peaks of the Thunder-Crag Peaks. The Grand Magic Zone roared its welcome. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the desolate landscape.
Lencar took a deep breath of the freezing air. It burned his lungs.
"Four hours," he commanded himself. "Then sword practice. The body must break before it can be forged."
He strapped the weights to his wrists and ankles. He didn't cast a barrier this time. He let the storm hit him.
He began to run.