Two months earlier.
The palace of House Horus slept beneath layers of stone and silence.
Deep within its heart, beyond courtyards scorched by heat and halls carved from ancient sandstone, a vast chamber lay bathed in dim, amber light. Tall pillars lined the room, their surfaces etched with symbols worn smooth by time. Braziers burned low along the walls, their flames subdued—as if even fire knew restraint here.
At the far end of the chamber rose a broad esplanade.
And beyond it, behind a thin veil of translucent fabric, stood a throne.
Only a silhouette could be seen.
An elderly figure, seated, unmoving. His posture carried no stiffness, no weakness—only the stillness of someone who had long since learned that motion was unnecessary to command attention.
A man entered the chamber and advanced alone.
Each step echoed softly against the stone floor until he stopped several meters short of the esplanade. He knelt immediately, lowering his head.
"My Lord Horus," he said, voice steady but reverent. "I come bearing a message from Director Helion."
The veil stirred faintly.
A pause followed—long enough for the weight of the room to settle.
"Continue," came the reply.
The voice was aged, yes—but not frail. It carried depth, like stone that had listened to the world for centuries.
The man straightened slightly, careful not to rise.
"The Director wishes to inform you of a young Protector who has recently entered the Horus region. One he deems… noteworthy."
Silence again.
"He is not affiliated with any known House," the man continued. "No noble lineage. No recorded patron. His name is Adlet."
The veil remained still.
"Director Helion believes," the messenger added, "that the boy may warrant observation."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
At last, the silhouette shifted—just enough to be noticed.
"I will consider it," said the Lord of House Horus.
"Dismissed."
The man bowed deeply, relief carefully hidden behind discipline.
"Thank you for your time, my lord."
He rose, backed away several steps, then turned and departed without another word.
The chamber returned to silence.
Behind the veil, the old man remained still.
Present day.
Adlet awoke to the muffled sounds of life beyond the walls of the inn.
Footsteps on wooden stairs. Voices drifting through thin walls. The distant clatter of Savar beginning another day of trade and movement.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
His body ached—but it was a manageable ache. The deep exhaustion from the Sand Graveyard had faded overnight, helped along by the quiet safety of four solid walls and a real bed.
He exhaled slowly.
The image of the Manticore still lingered at the edge of his thoughts.
The weight of it.
The certainty.
The way the desert itself had seemed to recoil around it.
He pushed the memory aside and sat up, rolling his shoulders. A faint current of green Aura lingered beneath his skin—not mending wounds, but easing stiffness, helping his body settle after strain. Not rushed. Not strained.
Controlled.
After a simple meal downstairs, Adlet made his way toward the Protector Guild.
The hall was already alive with motion.
Protectors gathered in loose clusters — some still in armor marked by dust and wear, others dressed lightly for travel, packs at their feet. Guild clerks moved briskly between counters, merchants leaning in close as they negotiated escorts and routes. Voices overlapped, low and urgent, threaded with rivalry and ambition.
Then—
"Are you serious right now?"
The sharp edge of a raised voice cut cleanly through the noise.
Adlet slowed.
Near one of the central pillars, two figures stood facing one another, the space between them taut with barely restrained hostility.
One of them, he recognized instantly.
Linoa Neraid.
Her wavy blonde hair, usually loose, was pulled back more tightly than usual, catching the light from the high windows as she turned. She stood straight, composed as always — yet something in her posture had hardened, her calm edged with irritation. Her blue eyes were sharp now, fixed on the woman standing opposite her.
That woman was impossible to overlook.
She had long, straight chestnut hair falling freely down her back, framing a face set with vivid green eyes that seemed to cut rather than simply observe. Where Linoa held herself still, this girl leaned forward slightly, chin lifted, presence aggressive without being loud. Her stance was deliberate — honed.
Fire facing ice.
Their Auras were restrained, contained beneath the surface — but only just. Anyone paying attention could feel how close the tension was to snapping.
"You always say that," the chestnut-haired girl snapped, her tone precise, biting. "As if effort excuses everything."
Linoa's jaw tightened.
"And you always talk like everything was handed to you," she replied, her voice controlled — though the usual serenity behind it had begun to crack. "As if you were the only one who ever earned anything."
The words landed hard.
A few nearby Protectors pretended not to watch. Others glanced over openly, curiosity sparking. No one stepped in.
This wasn't new.
Adlet could feel it — this wasn't a first clash. It was a familiar collision, sharpened by history.
For a moment longer, neither moved.
Then one of the guild attendants cleared their throat loudly from behind the counter.
The sound broke the tension.
The chestnut-haired girl was the first to look away. Her expression tightened, lips pressed into a thin line. Without another word, she turned and walked off through the crowd, steps sharp, purposeful.
Linoa exhaled sharply.
Only then did she notice Adlet.
Her posture eased just a fraction as she met his gaze — irritation fading, replaced by surprise.
"Adlet," she said, composure returning like a familiar cloak.
He approached with a faint smile. "Good morning."
Linoa adjusted the tie holding her hair, forcing a slow breath as the tension bled out of her shoulders.
"For a moment," she muttered, half to herself, "I forgot where I was."
Adlet offered a faint smile.
"It happens."
She glanced at him, studying his face more closely this time.
"I saw your name," she said. "On the board. I wasn't sure at first… but I had a feeling it was really you. The promotion tournament went well, then."
"Well enough," Adlet replied. "I survived."
That earned him a quiet laugh.
"Surviving counts more than people admit," she said. "Especially out here."
Her gaze lingered on him — not assessing, not competitive. Just… curious.
"And you?" Adlet asked. "You moved up again."
She nodded.
"Slowly. But steadily. I suppose that's how it's meant to be."
A brief silence settled between them — comfortable, familiar.
Then Linoa tilted her head slightly.
"And Polo?" she asked. "He went through the promotion tournament too — did he make it?"
Adlet's expression softened.
"Yeah. He made it too. Master Protector."
A pause — then, with quiet amusement:
"He's probably already back to his favorite activities. Trading, planning, inventing new ways to make everyone else's life more complicated."
Linoa smiled at that — genuinely.
"That sounds like him," she said. "I'm glad. He always felt… grounded. Even among Protectors."
"He is," Adlet agreed. "He reminds you there's more to the world than just fighting."
Her smile faded slightly, thoughtful.
"…Hold on to people like that," she said quietly. "Out here, it's easy to forget why you're moving forward in the first place."
Adlet met her gaze.
"I will."
She straightened then, returning to her usual composed self.
"And you?" she asked. "You're already back after barely resting."
"Rest makes my thoughts louder," Adlet replied honestly. "I'd rather keep moving."
Linoa exhaled through her nose — half amused, half resigned.
"That's very much like you."
She hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the direction the other girl had gone.
"You were probably wondering," she said. "About her."
"I was," Adlet admitted. "You don't usually raise your voice like that."
Her eyes hardened — just a little.
"Nina Dryad," she said at last. "The Lord Dryad's daughter."
Adlet blinked.
"Oh."
"Yes," Linoa said dryly. "That reaction exactly."
She crossed her arms.
"We're the same age. The only daughters of our families. Ever since we were children, people have compared us.
A small, humorless smile.
"They even gave us a title. The two princesses."
"That sounds exhausting," Adlet said.
"It is," she replied simply. "She's sharp. Ambitious. She hates losing — even hypothetically."
"And you?"
Linoa looked at him for a long moment.
"I hate being told what I'm supposed to become."
That, Adlet understood perfectly.
"Well," he said lightly, "I suppose that makes three rivals now."
She laughed — the tension finally breaking.
"Don't get too comfortable," she said. "I don't plan on letting you pass me in the rankings anytime soon."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
They shared a quiet look — mutual respect, unspoken challenge.
"Stay safe out there," Linoa said as she turned to leave.
"You too," Adlet replied. "I'd rather not hear about you through a mission report."
She smirked.
"Same."
Adlet knocked once before entering.
The guild official looked up from his desk, brows lifting slightly.
"You're already back?" he asked. "You had, what — a single day of rest?"
"Enough," Adlet replied. "I don't sit well with idleness."
The man sighed, rubbing his temple.
"Protectors like you are the hardest to keep alive," he muttered. "Sit."
Adlet did.
"I've received several new extermination requests," the official continued. "Various locations. Different priorities."
Adlet waited — attentive.
"But," the man added, eyes narrowing slightly, "there's one in particular I intend to assign to you."
That got Adlet's full attention.
He slid it across the desk.
Adlet took it, unrolling it carefully.
Extermination Request — Rank 4
Target: Omni Cheetah
Last sighting: Southern route, approximately one hundred kilometers from Savar, near the boundary of the world.
Threat Level: Extreme mobility — sustained high-speed pursuit
Status: Unresolved
Adlet's eyes traced the parchment slowly.
"…Fast," he murmured.
"Extremely," the official confirmed without hesitation. "It doesn't just flee. It hunts while moving."
Adlet looked up.
"I'll take it."
The man studied him for a long moment, searching his expression for doubt — or caution.
Finding neither, he nodded.
"Very well," he said. "Prepare carefully. Speed like that leaves no room for error."
Adlet rose.
"I know."
As he turned toward the door, the official spoke again.
"Adlet."
He paused.
"Try to come back quickly," the man said, voice quieter now. "I'd rather not have to erase your name from the board."
Adlet didn't reply.
He stepped back into the hall — resolve steady.