Markus, Liddle, and Alexia stand atop a grassy hill, the wind brushing through bright green blades that stretch for hundreds of yards in every direction. Markus stretches, reaching toward the blue sky before lowering his gaze to the distant horizon. Around the curve of the hill, a thin trail of black smoke twists upward, dark and ominous against the sunlight.

  Alexia leans over his shoulder, her eyes bright with curiosity.

  “Hey, Markus, Liddle—look! There’s a city over there.”

  She points ahead at a sprawling city surrounded by tall stone walls and a massive gate. Roads wind through the fields, leading straight to it.

  “You think we should check it out?” Markus asks, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of the city, its far edges disappearing beyond the horizon.

  Alexia smirks. “No, I think we should just stand here. Better odds that way.”

  “Oh, ha ha.” Markus rolls his eyes, gently tugging Liddle’s hood up to hide her horns. With a sigh, he starts down the hill toward the city. The closer they get, the more the towering walls loom overhead, casting long shadows across the road.

  They pass through the gates and step into a bustling marketplace. Dozens of tents line the streets, vendors shouting over one another to sell fruit, fabric, and glimmering trinkets. The scent of fresh bread mixes with the faint melody of a harp player sitting near the entrance.

  Alexia spins once, grinning. “It’s so lovely!”

  Markus smiles softly. “I’m glad you like it. We can come back once all this is over.”

  Before he can say more, his stomach growls. “Heh… maybe we should grab some bread first.”

  “Hey, you—stop right there!”

  A soldier in polished plate armor approaches, his boots clanking against the cobblestone.

  “Oh—how can I help you?” Markus asks politely, catching the guard off guard with his calm tone.

  “You must be new here,” the man says after a pause. “I’ll let you off with a warning, but when you enter the city you need to go through customs. Don’t worry—it’s just some paperwork.”

  The guard leads them down a narrow stairway into an underground office. The stone walls are damp, lined with flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows across the steps. The air is cool and smells faintly of metal, old ink, and something herbal—like parchment soaked in tea.

  At the bottom, the stairway opens into a cramped chamber filled with filing cabinets and shelves of rolled-up maps. A humming crystal lantern glows on the desk, casting a soft amber light across the room. The guard gestures for them to sit, then pours each of them a dark, steaming drink that resembles black coffee. Markus takes a cautious sip; the taste is bitter, sharp on his tongue, but strangely comforting after so many days of travel.

  “So,” the guard begins, settling into a worn leather chair across from them. “Names?”

  “I’m Markus,” Markus says, trying to keep his voice steady. “This is my wife, Liddle, and our childhood friend, Alexia.”

  The guard jots something down, the quill scratching faintly across parchment. He pauses, squinting at the notes.

  “Those names… they sound unusual. Where are you from?”

  “We’re not from around here,” Markus explains carefully. “We came from another world—on a quest.”

  The guard studies them for a long moment, then reaches forward and gently lowers Liddle’s hood. Her horns glint softly in the lantern light, small but unmistakable.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Liddle blurts, her voice trembling as she pulls her hands into her sleeves. “I’m from Hehl. I was banished, and—”

  “Calm down,” the guard says quickly, raising a hand. “I just need to know what to write in your file.” His tone softens. “Where exactly are you from?”

  “Earth,” Markus says quietly.

  The guard’s eyes widen. “Earth? I’ve heard of that place. You’re the first ones to ever escape the Morgi Dragon.”

  “You know about that? Wow!” Alexia exclaims as she shoots up from her seat, planting both hands on the desk. Her eyes shine with excitement.

  “It’s a big deal,” the guard says with a grin. “Word travels fast between worlds. Wouldn’t surprise me if everyone’s heard of it by now.”

  Markus presses a hand to his forehead, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Liddle reaches over and gently takes his hand in hers, grounding him with a soft squeeze.

  “Well, before you go,” the guard says, sliding a stack of faded paperwork toward them, “may I ask about your quest?”

  “One of our friends isn’t doing well,” Markus explains, his voice trembling slightly. “They said a flower called the Seytan Flower could stop her from dying.”

  He takes a deep breath and wipes away the tear that slips down his cheek.

  The guard lets out a low, thoughtful laugh—not mocking, but weary, like someone who’s heard too many hopeless tales. “Well, quests are never easy. That flower isn’t seen very often anymore.”

  Markus’s heart sinks. “How come?” he asks softly.

  Alexia leans forward, her tone calm but steady. “And where could we find it?”

  “I’m just a guard,” the man replies with a shrug. “But if you really want to know, there’s a horticulturist in town—Professor Otlar. He might be able to set you on the right path… if that’s even possible.”

  “Thank you,” Markus says quietly, lowering his head in gratitude. His voice carries the weight of exhaustion, but also relief—like a burden momentarily lifted.

  “Anytime,” the guard says with a grin as he stands to open the office door for them. “And welcome to Serbest Liman.”

  They climb the narrow stairs back to the surface, the cool underground air giving way to the warmth of daylight. Liddle gives a small, polite bow before following Markus up, while Alexia flashes the guard a cheerful wave over her shoulder.

  The moment they step outside, the noise of the city swells around them. The streets are alive with chatter and clattering hooves, market stalls overflowing with strange fruit, fabrics, and shimmering trinkets. A salty breeze drifts in from the nearby harbor, carrying the scent of seaweed and sizzling food from street vendors.

  “Heya, Markus,” Alexia says, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as she scans the lively crowd. “I get that you’re the leader and all, but traditionally, you’re supposed to ask where to find Professor Otlar.”

  Markus smirks and pulls out his glowing Mahoishi stone. He focuses, and a faint hum stirs within it. As he thinks about the name Professor Otlar, the stone flickers in response.

  “This way,” he says.

  Alexia blinks. “Wait—you can track someone with a Mahoishi? I didn’t know it could do that.”

  They wander deeper into the city of Serbest Liman. Liddle soon realizes her hood is still down, her horns clearly visible in the sunlight—yet no one gives her a second glance. For the first time in a long while, she can walk openly, unafraid.

  Markus takes in the streets around them. The city feels alive—buzzing with voices, footsteps, and laughter—but there’s no sign of electricity. Lanterns hang from ropes stretched between buildings, powered by softly glowing stones instead of wires. Everything here feels handmade, shaped to fit the people rather than the other way around.

  The rich scent of stew drifts through the air, heavy with spice and warmth. Markus’s stomach growls as the aroma washes over him, making his mouth water.

  Liddle wraps her arm around his as they follow the Mahoishi’s faint glow through the winding streets. Eventually, it guides them to a small ivy-covered house at the end of a quiet lane. A wooden sign sways above the door, etched with the words:

  Professor Otlar — Horticulturist

  Alexia steps forward and knocks enthusiastically. “Hello! It’s nice to meet a flower man such as yourself!”

  Markus sighs softly but smiles. “Don’t mind her,” he says as the door creaks open. “I’m Markus. I had some questions about the Seytan Flower. I was told you might be the person to ask.”

  An elderly man peers out, adjusting his round glasses before leaning on a polished cane. His eyes narrow in thought.

  “Markus… where have I heard that name before?” he murmurs. Then he chuckles and waves the thought away. “Ah, well. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but come in. It’s been a long time since the youth took an interest in my work.”

  Markus explains the situation — that they need the Seytan Flower to save Ange’s life before it’s too late.

  Professor Otlar listens quietly, then lets out a long sigh. “Ah… how unfortunate. If you’d come to me years ago, the Seytan Flower would have been easy to find. But…”

  He opens a nearby window, and a thin wisp of dark smoke drifts in from the city outside.

  “They don’t grow anymore.”

  Markus frowns. “What happened to them?”

  “They only bloom in the cleanest air,” the professor explains, watching the smoke curl upward. “But ever since the baby dragon began sleeping and filling the skies with soot, the air has been too tainted. There aren’t many left.”

  He pauses, leaning on his cane. “The only one I know of belongs to the king.”

  Markus glances between his friends and the professor, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Professor Otlar says gently, adjusting his spectacles. “I’m sure you’ll find one. The world still hides wonders for those who look with purpose.”

  Before Markus can reply, a piercing scream cuts through the air from outside.

  “Help!”

  Markus bolts for the door without hesitation, instincts taking over before thought can catch up. The street outside erupts into chaos—a crowd turning to look as an old woman clutches her belt bag while a man yanks it away with desperate force.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Stop!” Markus shouts, drawing his sword in a single smooth motion.

  The Mahoishi embedded in its hilt bursts with brilliant green light, humming as magic surges through him. With a flick of his wrist, the light shoots outward, forming a radiant whip that cracks through the air and coils tightly around the mugger’s arm.

  The man snarls, thrashing wildly as he pulls out a rusted dagger.

  “My daughter’s sick—she needs medicine!”

  His voice breaks as he swings helplessly against the glowing restraint. “I don’t care who you are—I won’t let anyone stop me!”

  He’s desperate… just like so many back home.

  Markus pauses, lowering his sword slightly. The magic hum softens to a faint glow.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve had to do,” he says quietly as he steps forward. “But hurting others won’t heal her.”

  In one swift motion, Markus disarms him. The dagger clatters across the cobblestones. The man freezes as Markus meets his gaze—no anger, only tired compassion.

  “How much do you need?” Markus asks.

  The mugger glares, torn between pride and disbelief. “What’s it to you?”

  “Tell me,” Markus repeats, calm but firm.

  After a long pause, the man mutters, “…Four thousand two hundred lira.”

  Markus nods. He grips his sword, channeling the funds stored in his Mahoishi. The hilt brightens as coins materialize from the light itself. He counts them out and holds them forward.

  “Hand me the bag, and this is yours.”

  The man hesitates, staring at the glowing blade, then slowly releases the stolen bag.

  “Thanks, man…” he murmurs, voice cracking, before turning and sprinting down the street.

  Markus exhales and kneels beside the old woman, returning her belongings. Then, without a word, he slips an extra thousand lira inside the bag.

  “I hope you’re still able to have a good day,” he says softly, offering a small, reassuring smile.

  Back inside, Professor Otlar looks up, eyes wide with quiet respect. Markus simply sheathes his sword.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” he says.

  “Markus… I knew I’d heard that name before,” Professor Otlar breathes. “You’re that Markus—the new wielder of the Life-Giving Blade!”

  Markus nods and offers a handshake. “Thank you. Your information’s been really helpful. But before we head out, can I ask one more thing?”

  “Of course,” the professor replies.

  “If we travel to the other side of the world,” Markus asks, “do you think the smoke could have reached the Seytan Flower?”

  Professor Otlar rubs his chin thoughtfully. “That might work. But I’ve never been that far from Serbest Liman myself.”

  “Thank you,” Markus says, bowing his head politely.

  “If you need anything else, feel free to stop by,” the professor replies with a warm smile.

  Back on the bustling streets, Alexia stretches her arms over her head. “So, all we have to do is travel halfway around the world in three days? Easy.”

  Markus smirks. “Come on, you make that sound like it’s going to be hard.”

  Before Alexia can retort, a pair of guards step into their path. Their polished armor gleams in the sunlight as they tap the ends of their spears against the ground in perfect unison.

  “Come with us,” one of them orders.

  Without a word, the three exchange uneasy glances and follow. The guards lead them through winding hallways lined with marble pillars and golden banners, the atmosphere growing heavier with every step, until they arrive at an enormous throne room.

  A dazzling chandelier hangs above, scattering light across intricate tapestries and portraits of kings past. At the far end of the room sits a man crowned in gold, draped in royal blues and silvers.

  One of the guards bows. “As you requested, Your Majesty — we’ve brought the wielder of the Life-Giving Blade,” he says, his voice low, almost growling the words.

  The king straightens on his throne, a warm smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, come now,” he chuckles. “You’re scaring them.”

  “You may leave them here,” King Kral says, his tone calm but commanding.

  “As you wish, Your Majesty,” the guards reply in unison. They tap the butts of their spears against the marble floor and turn to leave. The heavy doors close behind them with a deep echo, leaving Markus, Liddle, and Alexia alone with the king—

  —and the feast that awaits them.

  King Kral rises from his throne — a broad man with kind eyes, dressed in regal white trimmed with crimson. He steps forward and, to Markus’s surprise, offers a courteous bow.

  Markus quickly waves it off, flustered. “Oh, no need for that! I’m just a citizen.”

  “No need to be so modest,” the king replies with a warm grin. “Stories about you are being told across the universe.”

  “Good stories, I hope,” Markus says, giving a nervous smile.

  “Nope — just the time you asked me to prom,” Alexia says, giggling.

  Markus shoots her a look and nudges her in the side, earning a playful laugh that cuts cleanly through the royal atmosphere. Even the king chuckles, the tension dissolving into easy warmth as the trio stands before the throne.

  “We were just about to have dinner,” King Kral says, gesturing toward the far doors. “Why don’t you join us

  Markus’s shoulders tense as memories flicker in his mind — the last time he accepted food from a stranger didn’t end well.

  “Oh, thank you!” Alexia says brightly, already striding through the open doors without a second thought.

  Liddle touches Markus’s arm, her voice soft and steady. “It’ll be okay, dear.”

  Markus exhales, then leans in and gives her a quick kiss before following her inside.

  The long oak table stretches nearly the length of the hall, polished to a mirror shine and lined with gold-trimmed plates. A mountain of food covers every inch — roasted pheasants glazed in honey, steaming bowls of spiced stew, and baskets overflowing with fresh bread still warm from the oven. Candied fruits gleam like gems beside wheels of cheese and trays of roasted vegetables brushed with butter.

  Silver goblets brim with deep red wine, catching the glow of the chandeliers above. The air is thick with the scent of herbs, smoke, and slow-cooked meat.

  At the head of the table sits King Kral, his crown glinting in the candlelight as he carves into a leg of lamb, smiling warmly at his guests. Markus notices there are only three chairs set at the enormous table.

  His eyes widen as he scans the feast, his stomach growling at the sight of the lavish spread.

  “Come on, this food’s amazing!” Alexia says, already sliding into the chair closest to the king.

  “We’re coming,” Markus answers with a small smile. He pulls out a chair for Liddle, waiting until she sits before gently pushing it in. He takes his own seat beside her.

  “Oh, I see why you two took so long,” Alexia teases, making exaggerated kissing faces.

  Liddle giggles and leans in to kiss Markus on the cheek, making his face turn bright red.

  “Is it wrong to love your wife?” he asks, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  King Kral laughs warmly. “It’s quite alright. I was in love once too. My wife… she was an amazing woman.”

  His voice softens as a flicker of sorrow passes across his expression. “I miss her.”

  “I understand that feeling,” Markus says quietly, his gaze lowering to his plate. “My parents died about a year and a half ago. There was a hurricane — a group of children were trapped inside a building.”

  He pauses, his voice slowing, gaining weight.

  “They got the kids out… but my parents didn’t make it.”

  The table falls silent. Even Alexia lowers her eyes. Liddle places her hand gently over Markus’s, squeezing in quiet support.

  “So fighting to help others runs in the family, then?” King Kral asks softly, a faint smile easing the sorrow in his features.

  “I learned a lot from them,” Markus replies. “They always told me to fight for what’s right. I was a troubled kid — always standing up whenever I saw injustice.”

  He lets out a breathy, self-conscious chuckle.

  “Losing them made me realize I don’t want anyone else to feel what I did. But when the Dragon came…”

  His voice cracks.

  “I failed. And over a billion people are gone.”

  Alexia slams her hands on the table, eyes blazing.

  “Don’t say that! We still have a planet because of you!”

  King Kral nods slowly, his tone turning gentle.

  “I understand that feeling. It’s hard to live with what we couldn’t change. But remember this, Markus — no one can save everyone. What matters are the lives you did save… and the ones you keep fighting for.”

  Markus looks down, taking a bite of meat that tastes oddly like turkey from Earth.

  “Still,” he murmurs, voice low, “I sometimes wonder… if I’d been the one six feet under, and my parents had lived instead — maybe they could’ve saved everyone.”

  He reaches for the metal bracelet on his wrist, brushing his thumb across it. The memorial band has never left him since the hurricane.

  Liddle’s voice is soft but firm. “You’ve already proven yourself worthy of the Life-Giving Blade,” she says. “Trust it… and trust yourself.”

  King Kral leans forward, folding his hands. His tone deepens, slow and deliberate.

  “When you falter, remember this: no one — no matter how powerful — is immune to the whispers of doubt and despair.”

  He pauses, letting the words settle.

  “Don’t give in to them… but don’t deny them either.”

  The room grows quiet. Only the flicker of candlelight fills the space as he continues.

  “Your road is a long one, my friend, stretching into places beyond imagining. With every step, these grand adventures will one day grow distant and faint, until the faces of those you met begin to blur with time.”

  He lifts a hand and points gently to Markus’s chest.

  “When that day comes, remember this—

  You stand where you are because of the road you walked to get here.

  You have the strength to forge your own path.

  You’ve already made countless lives better than you found them.

  And those you’ve touched…

  will never forget your kindness.”

  The king’s gaze softens, his final words lingering in the air.

  “And in trying times, when you question your worth, they will raise their voices to remind you of the difference you’ve made… affirming your path.”

  Dinner continues, filling the hall with laughter and gentle conversation. Alexia and Liddle chat with the king about old legends and strange foods, their voices bright and curious. But Markus grows quiet, lost in thought. The king’s words echo through his mind:

  No one can save everyone… but you can still fight for those who remain.

  When the plates are finally cleared, Markus sets down his cup and looks up.

  “Thank you,” he says quietly. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  King Kral smiles warmly. “I’m glad I could be of some use.”

  Markus hesitates before speaking again. “I’m sorry we didn’t get around to it earlier, but… what was it you really wanted to ask us?”

  The king blinks, taken aback. “How did you know?”

  Markus offers a faint smirk. “You had the highest level of security I’ve ever seen. No other guests, no servants near the table—it was clear this dinner was meant for us. You made sure we’d come here for a reason.”

  King Kral chuckles softly. “You’re a sharp one. Alright then—let’s take a walk.”

  He leads them outside. The evening air is cool and heavy with the smell of the sea. From the balcony, he points toward the horizon, where a pillar of dark smoke rises into the sky.

  “That smoke,” the king says, his tone turning grave, “comes from a baby dragon.”

  “Dragon?” Markus’s voice tightens, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword.

  “It’s been asleep beneath the mountains,” Kral explains. “But even in slumber, it breathes out smoke—and in twenty years, that smoke will spread far enough to kill all life on this planet. Since you’re here, I was hoping you might help us… take care of it.”

  Alexia folds her arms. “Markus, we’re on a time limit. Remember the flower?”

  Markus nods slowly. “I know. But we can’t ignore this.”

  He turns to the king.

  “And besides… I think you might have something we need. The Seytan Flower.”

  Markus meets the king’s eyes with newfound confidence.

  “We came here searching for it. The Seytan Flower is the only thing that can save our friend.”

  The king sighs, his gaze drifting somewhere far away.

  “That flower… it’s the last thing I have to remember my wife by.”

  His voice thickens with emotion.

  “But if you slay the dragon and save this world, I’ll give it to you. It’s what she would’ve wanted.”

  Markus lowers his head, his voice quiet but resolute.

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  The two men bow to each other—warrior and king, bound by honor.

  Their journey toward the dragon—

  and the Seytan Flower—

  now begins.

  Moments later, a guard approaches and hands Markus a travel bag filled with supplies. When the trio steps out through the city gates, the streets are already lined with people. Cheers erupt as King Kral’s voice echoes over the crowd.

  “This young man will slay the dragon! Our world will be safe once more!”

  When they’re gone, a soldier steps closer to the throne.

  “So… what was the wielder like, Your Majesty?”

  King Kral watches the horizon where Markus disappeared, a faint smile touching his face.

  “He’s just a kid,” he says softly, “trying to do his best.”