Upon entering the heart of the great city, the trio was met with the echoing clash of raised voices. A heated dispute had erupted in the city square between robed clergymen and stern-faced city officials, their voices sharp and venomous, as though their words alone might draw blood. The crowd gathered around them like moths to flame, watching with uneasy fascination.
"How dare you!" bellowed an elder clergyman, his wrinkled hands trembling as he jabbed a finger at the city's magistrate. "For generations, the Tara Garden has stood as sacred ground—a hallowed site of prayer and divine communion. You dare desecrate it in the name of empire? Have you no reverence? No fear of the gods? Our faith predates your empire!"
The magistrate, a tall woman with piercing gray eyes and the posture of authority, didn't flinch. "Your so-called holy garden has become a breeding ground for sickness. Dozens have fallen ill after stepping foot near it. If your 'divine space' endangers the people, it must be reclaimed for the public good."
"Sickness?" the clergyman hissed, his voice rising to a shriek. "Blasphemy! You speak heresy against the sacred soil nurtured by the Saint of Water herself—Arlette! Her touch brought miracles, not plague!"
"Folklore and superstition," the official snapped back. "There is no proof the Saint Arlette ever tended that garden. And even if she did centuries ago, it has long since become something else—something unnatural."
The shouting intensified, echoing through the city streets, drawing more onlookers by the minute. Neither side relented, their fury flaring like wildfire—divine devotion clashing against civic order. It was a scene of old belief battling modern governance, and neither was willing to yield.
"Rona definitely warned us about the radicals here," Leon muttered, eyeing the confrontation warily. "But I didn't expect an all-out war of words in the city center."
"It's none of our concern," Amira said, her eyes still flicking back toward the heated argument echoing through the square. "We have bigger things to worry about."
"Yeah, it's not our business," Asuma agreed, his voice distant as he scanned the bustling square.
"So," Leon chimed in, "where is this mysterious contact of yours?"
"They're supposed to meet us here—in the city center," Asuma replied, still surveying the crowd. His eyes scanned the thick of it—city guards, merchants, passing clergy, even a few hooded figures slipping through alleyways.
Amira narrowed her gaze at him, curiosity piqued. "You've never traveled outside Anor until recently. You barely spoke to anyone at the academy, let alone people from the capital. So how do you even know someone from Talagra?"
Asuma gave a faint smirk. "Curious, aren't you?" he said evasively. "You'll know when they get here."
Before Amira could press further, a small figure suddenly bumped into Asuma—a girl, barely more than a shadow under a long, oversized coat. Her face was hidden beneath the hood, and without a word, she slipped a folded note into his coat pocket, vanishing just as quickly into the crowd now boiling over with the ongoing dispute.
"What was that?" Leon asked, eyes narrowing.
Asuma reached into his pocket, pulling out the slip of paper. A neat, deliberate handwriting filled the page, listing an address tucked within one of the lesser districts of Talagra. At the bottom was a symbol—an initial he recognized immediately. It was from the contact he'd arranged to meet.
But something felt off.
Why the cloak-and-dagger approach? Why not just meet directly in the square like they'd planned?
"Something's changed," Asuma muttered, eyes narrowing.
They followed the address down from the city's towering heights into Talagra's lower tiers—a stark contrast from the marbled halls and fortress-like grandeur of the upper districts. Here, the streets were narrow and crowded, lined with weatherworn homes stacked like puzzle pieces. The air was thick with the scent of coal fires, baked bread, and the tang of rust. Children laughed and played in the dirt roads, flinging pebbles and shouting names, unlike the noble children who learned fencing and etiquette behind closed gates.
The trio wove through the maze of alleyways until they arrived at the address: a forgotten little storefront nestled between two leaning buildings. The wooden sign above the door had nearly faded to nothing, but the barely legible letters still read: Garrow's Timepieces—Established 107 Inside, dust blanketed the windows, and a dozen broken clocks hung motionless behind cracked glass.
"It looks like it's been here since the founding of Talagra," Leon muttered.
"Or since time itself," Amira added.
As they stepped through the old wooden door, the bell above them gave a soft chime—light, almost melodic. But what followed was anything but ordinary.
In a blink, the dim, dusty shop filled with cracked glass and lifeless clocks melted away. The world shifted around them like the turning of a page. One moment they were in the lower tiers of Talagra, the next—they stood in a sprawling, sunlit plain.
Above them, the sky stretched endlessly, painted in hues of gold and soft lavender. A warm breeze brushed through tall grass, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers and dew. At the center of it all stood a colossal tree, its roots sprawling like rivers, its trunk wide enough to house a dozen men. High among the branches, a beautifully crafted wooden treehouse shimmered with arcane runes, looking like something pulled from the pages of a fairy tale.
Leon took a cautious step forward, eyes wide in disbelief. "Where the hell are we?" he asked, his voice laced with awe and wariness. "We were just in the city… how did we get here?"
Asuma turned slowly in place, taking in the serene yet surreal landscape. "This isn't an illusion. It's a constructed realm—some kind of pocket dimension. But the magic that created this… it's beyond anything I've seen before."
Amira reached instinctively for her spear, her posture tense. "Asuma… is this a trap?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so. But whatever magic brought us here isn't normal—it's ancient, and powerful."
Just then, footsteps echoed softly down the staircase that spiraled from the massive treehouse. A woman emerged—elegant, graceful, and radiating a quiet authority. Her silver hair flowed behind her like silk touched by moonlight, and although the lines of age graced her features, her presence was that of someone still in her prime. She wore a long, intricately woven gown that shimmered faintly with natural magic, and leaned gently on a cane carved from living wood.
"Asuma," she said, her voice rich and warm with familiarity.
His eyes widened as recognition dawned. A smile touched his lips. "Fionalla…?"
"It's been a long time, child," she said kindly.
"Wait… Fionalla? As in one of the Four Sages?" Leon blurted out, stunned.
Fionalla chuckled lightly. "It's been quite some time since anyone's called me that. These days, I prefer a quiet life, away from titles and politics."
Leon stared in disbelief. "How the hell do you know a sage, Asuma?"
"She used to visit my grandfather back in Lyon," Asuma replied. "They were old friends."
"Of course," Amira added, connecting the dots. "His grandfather was Guyu… one of the most powerful aura practitioners in Anorak. Naturally, he'd be acquainted with one of the Four Sages."
Fionalla nodded slowly, eyes gleaming with quiet sorrow. "Guyu was a rare soul. When the old world changed, he stood firm. He never bent to power or fear. His loss… ripples deeper than you may realize."
A silence passed between them, heavy with memories.
In the annals of Anorak's history, few names commanded the same reverence as the Four Sages. Masters of their respective domains—Alchemy, Magic, Charms, and Destruction—they were the finest practitioners of their age. Each one had achieved the rare and formidable rank of 7-Star, a threshold of power only legends crossed. They were not only advisors and champions of the Holy Church, but also the first mortals in over a century to voyage to the dreaded demon continent of Noir… and return alive. Their survival alone carved their names into myth.
As they followed Fionalla toward the great treehouse nestled high within the massive trunk, she turned to glance over her shoulder. Her ancient eyes lingered on Leon and Amira with silent curiosity.
"So these are the two you wrote about in your letters," she mused aloud, her voice soft and thoughtful. "Interesting… very interesting."
Her eyes shimmered for a moment, as if peering through the surface of their souls—seeing something neither of them could. Amira felt a subtle unease under that gaze, while Leon tilted his head, curious.
"What is it?" Amira asked, slightly on guard.
Fionalla smiled gently. "You'll see, in time."
She then turned to a spot just beside the treehouse's base, seemingly empty. Her voice became slightly more amused. "Latriys? Why are you hiding? I thought you'd be overjoyed to see Asuma again."
The empty space shimmered.
With a flicker of arcane light, it revealed a pale-skinned girl, her presence blooming into reality like a shadow slipping free from the veil. She was barely taller than Asuma's shoulder, her long black hair streaked with glowing red strands that shimmered like molten veins. Her eyes—wide, unnatural, and glistening like polished obsidian—held a quiet, unreadable intensity. Her aura was something between human and demon, yet distinctly neither. A liminal creature—an enigma.
"It really was you," Asuma said, recognizing her immediately. "I thought your aura felt familiar. I guess I was right."
He reached out, gently resting a hand on her head.
But Latriys scowled and swatted it away with a sharp flick. "I'm not a kid anymore," she huffed, stepping back.
He blinked, a bit surprised—then smiled. You're right, he thought. You've grown. Just like Anami…
Fionalla let out a lilting laugh behind them. "Still so grumpy. You were practically bouncing when you learned Asuma was coming. Now that you're of age, maybe you'll finally get to marry your childhood crush."
Latriys turned crimson. "Stop it!" she snapped, mortified, her fists clenched as she looked anywhere but at Asuma.
Leon leaned in toward Amira, eyes wide. "Did she say… crush?"
Amira folded her arms, a faint smirk forming on her lips. "Interesting," she said, watching Latriys with amused curiosity. "Very interesting."
Asuma chuckled inwardly, watching her fluster. So you still have a crush on me, Latriys. You haven't changed that much after all.
"Now, let's get down to business. Follow me," Fionalla said, her tone shifting from playful to resolute.
She led them through the open-frame doorway into the heart of her treehouse. Inside, it was exactly as one might expect from a sage of old—an architectural marvel reminiscent of the ancient tree-elves, built into the very veins of nature. The walls seemed to breathe with magic, pulsing softly with arcane runes. Glass vials and crystalline flasks lined every shelf, filled with swirling potions and glowing concoctions of every hue. Spellbooks, some older than kingdoms, were stacked high across weathered tables. In the center of the room stood a large round table, carved from the trunk of a sacred tree, its surface etched with glowing magical sigils that shimmered like stars caught in wood.
They sat in the seats she gestured to, their gazes drawn to the glowing symbols beneath their hands.
"You came here seeking knowledge of the Black Guild," Fionalla began, her voice now somber. "Before I say anything further, you need to understand something. If you pursue this path—if you interact with them—your entire view of the world as you know it will be shattered. Life will never look the same again. Are you prepared for that?"
Asuma leaned forward, his eyes serious. "My entire view of life? What does that even mean?"
Fionalla's expression deepened with quiet sorrow. "You must have realized it by now. You are… different. And while I wish I could explain everything, there are things I am forbidden to say. That woman will not allow me."
Asuma's brow furrowed. "The woman inside me? You know she's there?"
Fionalla nodded. "She has always been with you. Longer than you realize."
His voice dropped. "Who is she?"
"I cannot answer that. Even if you think you already know—ask yourself if what you know is truth or illusion. Who she was may not be who she is now. I cannot say more. Not because I choose not to… but because something—someone—forbids it."
A heavy silence settled over the room. The air seemed to hum with suppressed tension.
"I heard what happened to Guyu," she continued softly. "I regret deeply not being there when he fell. He was a stubborn fool, but a good one. Now, knowing you're alive and standing here… the least I can do is protect what he was protecting."
She placed a hand over one of the glowing sigils on the table, as if offering a silent vow.
"But I won't stop anyone from chasing their fate—good or ill. This path you're walking, Asuma, it will not be a simple journey. It will scar you. You will lose many of the people you care about. You will face truths that break you. You will suffer."
Her golden eyes locked onto his.
"Knowing that… are you still willing to traverse this road?"
Asuma looked down at his hands. The words of Camellia, the whispers in the void, the cursed blood that now flowed through him—they all echoed in his mind. But more than all of that, the image of his sister, Anami, her voice, her smile, and the unknown place she was now trapped in—they burned brighter.
Fionalla was cryptic, like the others. It was as if the world itself bent to silence those who tried to explain what was happening to him. But even without clear answers, one thing was certain:
He needed to know. No matter the cost.
"…Yes," Asuma said, voice steady. "I'm ready."