Chapter 261: Chapter 261 – Exhaustion and Gratification!

“Brother Vincent!”

The name tore from Luca’s lips before he could stop himself — raw, instinctive, echoing through the quiet forest like a crack of thunder.

A heartbeat later, a hand shot out from behind him and clamped tightly over his mouth.

His reflexes flared — mana prickled under his skin — until his eyes met hers.

Sylthara.

Her golden eyes burned with alarm, her silver hair brushing against his cheek as she yanked him back behind a thick, moss-covered root. Her grip on his wrist was firm, commanding, her breath warm against his ear.

“Are you an idiot or what?!” she hissed, glaring at him from barely an inch away. “Do you want to draw attention to yourself?”

Luca blinked, his pulse hammering. Her proximity, her scent — the forest’s silence closing around them — it all hit him at once. Slowly, he lifted a hand and nudged hers off his mouth.

“Relax,” he said under his breath, his tone maddeningly calm. “Nobody can see us here.”

Sylthara stared at him, eyes widening in disbelief. Her brows furrowed, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “What do you mean, no one can—”

But Luca wasn’t listening.

His gaze had drifted past her shoulder, locked on the two figures standing by the tent. His pupils dilated, his breath catching as recognition hit like lightning.

Golden hair.

Golden eyes.

Rolph Dragonair — unchanged, yet his gaze heavier, wearier than the man Luca remembered.

And beside him — silver. Cold. Familiar.

Vincent.

Luca’s stomach twisted. His throat went dry.

No… this can’t be.

The same silver hair, the same composed stance — even the faint tilt of his head carried that familiar, unshakable discipline. But the exhaustion buried behind those silver eyes… it was different. Deeper.

What’s going on here? How can Brother Vincent be here?

His mind raced, snapping through logic, fragments of memory flashing by.

Did he get pulled in by my ability? No… that’s impossible. Her Majesty said only those in direct contact could be dragged back in time. And there is no way he can be here with his physical body intact.

He clenched his fist.

Then why does it feel so real?

Sylthara followed his gaze, her expression tightening. “Hey,” she whispered, “who are they?”

Luca didn’t answer. He crouched lower, moving quietly through the brush, the soft crunch of leaves muted under his boots. Sylthara sighed and reluctantly followed, her posture tense, hand hovering near her dagger out of habit.

Rolph’s deep, steady voice broke the forest’s calm.

“Do you think the elves and the World Tree will agree?”

Vincent’s reply came cool and sharp, like steel drawn across frost. “They have to.”

His tone carried no hesitation — only a quiet conviction that seemed to weigh on the air itself.

A faint glint flashed in his eyes — cold determination… or quiet despair.

Sylthara leaned close, whispering urgently, “Hey! Who are they? And what are they talking about?”

Luca scowled faintly and raised a finger to his lips, signaling her to stay quiet. He strained his ears, focusing on the voices ahead.

Rolph chuckled softly, the sound oddly familiar, almost nostalgic. “Calm down. They’re our allies too. Gustav and the Saintess will speak to them properly. The elves won’t refuse us.”

Sylthara frowned, confusion flickering across her face. She waited until the voices grew faint before muttering under her breath, “Now can you tell me who they are? And what did they mean by elves and the World Tree?”

Luca exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. “How am I supposed to know?” he muttered. His tone carried that usual edge of controlled frustration. “If you hadn’t dragged me away, maybe I could’ve heard more.”

Her glare sharpened, lips tightened, but said nothing more.

Ahead, the conversation ended. Rolph and Vincent exchanged a final look before turning and slipping back into the tent, the flap closing behind them with a faint whisper of fabric.

Luca’s jaw tightened. He stared at the tent for a long moment, his expression unreadable — part confusion, part ache, part determination.

Then, without another word, he straightened and began walking toward it.

Sylthara blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—are you seriously—”

But Luca didn’t stop. His steps were slow, deliberate, his gaze locked forward as if drawn by some invisible force.

The wind stirred, brushing through his hair as the tent loomed larger before him — silent, still, heavy with a sense of history that didn’t belong to this age.

He drew in a breath, lifted the flap — and stepped inside.

Sylthara hesitated a heartbeat, then followed him in.

The flap of the tent shifted as Luca stepped inside, a faint breeze carrying the scent of earth and steel.

The interior was dimly lit — no lamps, no crystals — only the faint golden light filtering through the canvas. It was sparse, almost spartan.

A single wooden table dominated the center, covered with maps drawn in fading ink — the borders of continents, mountains, and forests marked with symbols of war. Dagger-like pins were stabbed into certain points, their placement too precise to be random. Beside it lay a few scattered parchments, hastily scribbled with names, numbers, and sigils that glowed faintly with mana residue.

Weapons leaned against one wall — a greatsword, a halberd, and a pair of finely crafted short blades that shimmered faintly under the light. Near them sat a small desk with several sealed scrolls stacked neatly, each bearing the mark of a different kingdom.

There was nothing extravagant here — no luxury, no comfort. Just purpose.

Rolph sat slumped at the desk, head bowed slightly as he skimmed over a scroll. Even in his exhaustion, his posture carried command — the kind born not from rank, but from burden. His golden hair was dimmer under the tent’s shade, and when he exhaled, it was the sigh of a man carrying far too much on shoulders that once seemed unbreakable.

Across from him, the man who looked like Vincent rested silently near the table. His silver hair caught faint glimmers of gold from the tent’s light. His eyes were half-closed, arms crossed, but his stillness was not sleep — it was vigilance. Every breath was steady, measured — the calm before something inevitable.

Luca’s gaze lingered on him. His throat tightened.

“I guess I know who you are… probably,” he murmured under his breath, the words escaping before he realized it. A faint sigh followed. “How could I forget?”

Sylthara, standing beside him, caught the whisper but said nothing. Her golden eyes moved between the two men, curiosity and unease flickering beneath her calm exterior. Once or twice, she opened her mouth to ask something — then stopped, glancing at Luca’s expression and deciding against it.

Luca folded his arms, stepping back into the shadows. Let’s see what we have so far, he thought, his mind beginning to piece things together.

First of all… it’s clear this is seven thousand years in the past.

This has to be the Elven Forest — that much matches the terrain.

Rolph mentioned something about the elves and the World Tree agreeing… as well as elves were allies at this time. But then what would make them doubt if the elves will agree or not? What could make them doubt their allies in times like these?

His brow furrowed slightly. And Gustav… who was that? The name sounds human. And… there was a Saintess at this time too?

He sighed again, raking a hand through his hair. “So many questions,” he muttered quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “I guess the best option is to observe for now.”

Sylthara gave him a sideways glance, lips parting as if to respond — but he’d already stepped forward slightly, his focus locked on the two men again.

Hours passed.

The forest’s light shifted from gold to amber, then slowly dimmed to the deep hues of dusk. Shadows danced along the tent walls, swaying like faint ghosts with every passing breeze.

Rolph eventually slumped forward on his chair, fatigue overtaking him. His head rested on his folded arms atop the desk — the exhaustion in his features more visible now than ever. The golden glow of his aura, once radiant and unyielding, flickered faintly like a dying ember.

The silver-haired man — Vincent, or whoever he was — His eyes opened, cold and alert once more as if he knew Rolph was taking rest so he couldn’t.

Luca watched, silent. Even the smallest tilt of that man’s chin mirrored the brother he knew. The resemblance was haunting — too perfect to be coincidence, yet too off to be the same man.

Sylthara fidgeted slightly beside him. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger more than once, but she held her tongue. Her gaze drifted to Luca occasionally, searching his expression for answers she didn’t dare ask aloud.

Then, suddenly —

A sharp shout broke through the calm.

Both men reacted instantly.

Rolph jerked awake, hand already gripping the sword beside him, while the silver-haired man was on his feet in one smooth motion, the faint metallic ring of his blade sliding from its sheath cutting through the silence.

They exchanged a quick look — no words, only understanding — before striding toward the tent’s exit.

Luca’s heart skipped. Without thinking, he followed, motioning Sylthara to stay close.

Outside, the evening air was alive — faint tremors ran through the ground, and the sound of voices echoed through the distance, urgent and sharp. The golden light had faded entirely, replaced by the silver hue of twilight filtering through the trees.

The air was still.

Only the faint hiss of the torches and the soft rustle of the forest leaves broke the silence as the two newcomers came into view.

The man — short, broad-shouldered, his breathing heavy and labored — wiped the sweat from his brow as he slowed to a halt. The woman beside him moved with quiet grace, her golden hair shimmering faintly beneath the dim torchlight, her mere presence exuding a soft, reverent glow that made the air feel lighter — divine.

Luca’s eyes widened slightly. His thoughts stirred.

That aura… that light… there’s no doubt. The Saintess. Then the man beside her—must be Gustav.

From the tent, Rolph stepped forward, his posture straight despite the fatigue evident in his golden eyes. The silver-haired man beside him — Vincent’s lookalike — stood wordlessly, his arms folded, the moonlight catching on the cold sheen of his eyes.

Rolph’s voice broke the silence, calm yet edged with restrained urgency.

“Did they agree?”

The man, Gustav, caught his breath and turned toward the Saintess. For a moment, their eyes met — a silent exchange, a flicker of weary understanding passing between them. Then the Saintess gave a small, tired nod.

“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “Tomorrow, we can discuss specifics.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Luca could almost feel the shift — the tension that had weighed on Rolph’s shoulders seemed to ease, just a little. His eyelids lowered, and he drew in a long, silent breath before exhaling slowly. It wasn’t relief that crossed his face — not joy, not triumph — but something subtler, deeper.

Gratification.

The kind that came not from victory, but from endurance. From holding the line when everything felt like it was falling apart.

The silver-haired man mirrored the sentiment. His jaw tightened slightly, and the faintest glint flickered in his cold eyes — not warmth, but acknowledgement. He didn’t smile. The restrained composure, the quiet exhale through his nose, the faint nod he gave Gustav — it all spoke of a warrior too used to the weight of burdens, too familiar with the taste of exhaustion to celebrate small wins.

There was no joy here — only the quiet satisfaction of having made it one step further in a war that still loomed on the horizon.

Luca watched them in silence, the scene sinking deep into him — the fatigue, the unspoken bond, the way even a simple nod between them carried years of trust and battles fought side by side.

It was, in its own quiet way, beautiful.

And unbearably heavy.

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