The pocket dimension shatters around them like thin glass. The gloomy, primeval forest vanishes, replaced instantly by bright, warm sunlight and the fresh, crisp scent of high-altitude mountain air.
Aldo and Lourdes find themselves standing on a wide, beautifully woven wooden rope bridge suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, stretching between the colossal trunks of ancient, thousand-year-old redwood trees. All around them, built directly into the hollows and massive branches of the living trees, are elegant timber houses with sweeping, curved roofs.
Elanariel steps onto the bridge, her posture tall and proud as she looks back at them. Her voice turns stern and echoing.
"Do you two carry prejudice toward my people?" Elanariel asks, her emerald eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous intensity. "Do not lie to me. My people are not the savage, bloodthirsty monsters the current royal court of Heilop claims us to be."
Lourdes nods her head rapidly, her face blank and completely lost as she looks at the soaring treetop city. "Of course not... we don't even know who you are."
Aldo steps forward, his sharp dark eyes inspecting the smooth, hairless skin of Elanariel's face, her long pointed ears, and her slender frame.
"What ethnic group do your people belong to?" Aldo asks, his tone purely analytical. "Are your people one of the regional minority ethnics of the Federation?"
Elanariel flinches violently, her long ears pinning back against her light-green hair in complete, utter disbelief. She stares at Aldo as if he had just spoken in complete gibberish.
"Do you... do you truly not know what race I am?" Elanariel asks, her voice breathless.
Aldo tilts his head, inspecting her long ears again. "You look like White People with a genetic mutation on the ears."
Beside her mother, Amariel stomps her foot violently onto the wooden planks of the bridge, her face turning bright red as she points an angry, trembling finger straight at Aldo's nose.
"How dare you!" Amariel shrieks.
Elanariel raises her hand to quiet her daughter, taking a deep, steadying breath as she looks at Aldo with deep, genuine pity.
"I am an Elf," Elanariel clarifies slowly.
Aldo blinks once. "What is an Elf?"
Lourdes turns her head sharply, staring at Aldo with her mouth hanging open in complete, stunned shock. Even she, an escaped mine worker, knows basic world folklore.
Elanariel lets out a long, quiet sigh, her long ears drooping slightly.
"Elves are spirit-beings," Elanariel explains softly, gesturing to the massive living redwoods around them. "We are bound directly to the nature of the world. We live for millennia. And when our physical bodies finally pass, a new tree sapling grows directly from our resting place."
She pauses, drawing herself up proudly. "And I am a High Elf, though my tribe currently lives among the woods like Wood Elves."
Aldo gives a single, methodical nod of his head. "I did not know that."
Lourdes mutters under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief. "I didn't know you were this ignorant about basic things..."
Elanariel stops walking mid-bridge. She closes her eyes, tilts her head toward the sky, and lets out a low, melodious hum that resonates through the high branches. For a long, motionless moment, the sound hums through the leaves.
Aldo tilts his head. "What did you just do?"
Elanariel opens her eyes, smiling softly. "I have sent a telepathic signal through the forest canopy. My hunters have ceased all ambushes against your three hundred soldiers on the highway below."
Lourdes immediately steps forward, bowing her head deeply. "I am so sorry for his annoying behavior, Chief Elanariel. He doesn't know any better."
Elanariel smiles warmly, shaking her head. "It is quite alright. A child is always curious... much like my Amariel."
Aldo pays no attention to their conversation. His dark eyes are wide, filled with pure, unadulterated curiosity as he looks around the treetop village.
He observes the villagers walking along the high rope bridges—all of them wearing light, beautifully woven reed clothes, possessing slender bodies, long pointed ears, and youthful, ageless faces. He watches young men and women picking glowing, blue fruits from the high canopy leaves and gathering sweet wild berries from neatly cultivated bushes growing directly out of the hollow bark.
Aldo rapidly pulls a small leather notebook and a charcoal pencil from his vest, aggressively writing down detailed notes, drawing anatomical sketches of the pointed ears, and mapping out the structural layout of the tree bridges with lightning-fast hand movements.
Elanariel looks over his shoulder, watching his pencil fly across the paper with a soft chuckle.
"I will allow you to keep your notes," Elanariel says gently, "on one condition: if you write down any information that leaks the secret geographic location of the Piwanen tribe, I will confiscate that notebook permanently."
Aldo nods gently, his pencil never stopping.
Elanariel reaches out, resting her long, warm palm on top of his dark hair, giving his head a gentle, affectionate pat as if he were a young child.
"Come," she says softly. "I will lead you to a room where you can rest."
She leads them off the main bridge into a spacious, cozy chamber carved directly into the heart of a massive redwood tree. The air inside smells rich, sweet, and warm, lit by soft glowing moss growing along the wooden ceiling.
Near the entrance, a series of deep alcoves are dug directly into the living trunk, forming natural wooden shelves.
"You may place your heavy gear and weapons on these shelves," Elanariel instructs, gesturing to the alcoves.
Aldo steps forward and begins unbuckling his gear.
Amariel walks over, leaning against the wooden frame with her arms folded, watching him with sharp, curious eyes. Her jaw slowly drops as she watches the sheer volume of equipment Aldo pulls from his vest and pack.
First comes his flintlock pistol, followed by three leather pouches of black powder and lead lead balls. Then comes a stack of seven magic scrolls, four glowing red health potions, two blue antitoxin vials, three smoke bombs, a pair of throwing knives, a short sword, a compass, three maps, a brass spyglass, and a heavy bag of silver coins. The wooden shelf is completely filled from end to end.
Amariel steps closer, her emerald eyes wide as she points a slender finger at the glowing glass vials and the intricate runes on the scrolls.
"What is this potion?" Amariel asks, her previous anger vanishing into intense curiosity. "What does this scroll do? How does this iron weapon throw metal without a bowstring?!"
Aldo doesn't hesitate. He sits down on the smooth wooden floor, grabbing the flintlock, and begins overexplaining every single detail—demonstrating the flint mechanism, explaining the chemical composition of black powder, detailing the magic circuit scribed into the scrolls, and listing the precise medicinal herbs used in the health potions.
Amariel sits down directly across from him, her chin resting in her hands, completely spellbound as she listens to his long, methodical explanations.
standing near the arched doorway, Elanariel chuckles softly under her breath, her heart warmed by how amazed her daughter is by the strange boy's explanations.
However, as her sharp emerald eyes drift over the unique design of Aldo's lamellar armor vest, his steel-crowned rattan helmet, and the unique craftsmanship of his flintlock pistol, her smile slowly fades.
She walks over gracefully, stopping beside Aldo, her shadow falling over his notes.
"Who are you truly, boy?" Elanariel asks softly, her voice filled with deep, gentle intrigue. "You bear the features of an Easterner from the distant continent of Wanghai, yet your speech and armor are unlike anything I have seen in seven centuries."
Aldo stops his overexplanation, looking up from his notes.
"I am from Vietnam," Aldo answers flatly. "From a world called Earth."
Elanariel's long ears twitch upward in sudden surprise. "Earth...? Then how did you come to this Terre?"
Aldo looks down at his gloved hands, his tone flat and emotionless.
"One day I was at my school," Aldo says, "and then the next moment I was summoned to this world. I was captured and enslaved by the authorities of this Mikhland Federation, forced to become a slave soldier in their army. Even Lourdes, that girl over there, was an escaped slave miner from their deep iron pits."
Elanariel stands frozen in the warm light of the chamber. Her breath catches in her throat, her emerald eyes widening in utter, horrifying shock as she looks between Aldo's calm, impassive face and Lourdes's scarred hands.
"How... how could the current rulers of Heilop do such terrible, monstrous things?!" Elanariel whispers, her voice trembling with deep, painful sorrow. "In my son's time... such horrors would never have been permitted. Never."
Aldo tilts his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with sudden, keen interest.
"Your son?" Aldo asks smoothly. "Please, tell me the true chronicle of the Palantine of Heilop."
Elanariel walks over to the arched window, looking out over the vast, misty expanse of the pine forest stretching toward the northern horizon. Her long ears droop slightly as memories centuries old rush back to her mind. When she speaks, her voice drops into a soft, poetic cadence, filled with the heavy weight of centuries of lived history.
"Its namesake, Heilop, was a celebrated resistance leader from southwestern Mediplana during the final decades of the Great War," Elanariel begins softly, her eyes staring into the distant past. "Six hundred and fifty years ago, at the age of only thirty-five, he sacrificed his life defending the last strongholds of the southwestern resistance. His eighteen-year-old son, Infento, inherited both his father's noble cause and his grand reputation, adopting Heilop as the family's hereditary surname."
She turns slightly, the golden moss light catching the soft tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
"Infento Heilop would eclipse even his father's grand legend. After decades of bloody warfare, he became the Second Hero among the Twelve Heroes, leading the grand campaign that finally defeated the Demon Lord six hundred years ago, ending centuries of devastation and restoring peace to all of Terre. That very same year, his grandson, Albert Heilop, founded the Palantine of Heilop, establishing a hereditary realm ruled proudly by the House of Heilop."
Elanariel lets out a quiet, painful breath.
"Albert's reign proved brief. He succumbed to a terrible plague only twelve years later, leaving the throne to his only son, Magnar I... remembered by history as Magnar the Kind."
She pauses, her lips curving into a painful, heartbreakingly beautiful smile.
"Magnar was my son," she whispers softly, her voice trembling with maternal pride and deep, eternal sorrow. "Born to Albert and myself—an elven mistress. Magnar was of mixed human and elven ancestry. His reign, lasting from five hundred and eighty-eight to two hundred and seventy-two years ago, is widely regarded as Heilop's Golden Age."
She turns back to face them, her posture tall and proud despite the pain in her voice.
"Magnar transformed Heilop into one of Valoria's greatest breadbaskets through advanced irrigation, improved cultivation, and the adaptation of our ancient elven farming techniques. Wheat production expanded dramatically across the central plains, famine became virtually unknown, and surplus grain supplied much of central Mediplana. He promoted a model of governance that balanced the influence of men and women according to traditional elven customs—a system contemporaries regarded as unusually equitable. Under his administration, plague and major warfare completely disappeared from the realm, trade flourished, and our Elven language became widely spoken among the human population."
She smiles faintly, her hand reaching out to touch the wooden wall of the tree.
"Despite his reputation as a great statesman, Magnar never abandoned the life of a true hero. A legendary archer, he personally hunted the scattered remnants of the demonic armies across the wild frontiers with his famed Silver Bow, protecting vulnerable peasant villages long after the Great War had ended."
Her smile slowly vanishes, replaced by a dark, heavy shadow that settles over her face.
"His greatest strength—his absolute belief in merit above blood—ultimately became the tragic cause of his downfall."
She looks down at her trembling hands.
"By Magnar's later reign, Heilop had become a constituent kingdom of the rapidly expanding Mikhland Empire. Emperor Mikhail I Firethorn, determined to forge a distinctly human imperial identity, reportedly viewed Magnar's growing prestige and elven heritage with deep suspicion and envy. Imperial intrigue allegedly encouraged a bitter rivalry between Magnar's two sons: Kealan, the elder heir of predominantly elven descent and his father's favored successor, and Brian, a fully human prince whose wild ambitions found strong support among human nobles."
A tear slips down Elanariel's fair cheek, sparkling in the warm light.
"The resulting Heilopian Civil War, fought two hundred and seventy-eight years ago, ended in utter tragedy and Brian's victory. My beloved son Magnar and my grandson Kealan were captured and executed..."
She chokes back a sob, her hands clenching into tight fists.
"Much of Heilop's elven aristocracy fled into these southern pine forests to survive. The legal protections enjoyed by our people were completely abolished, fundamentally altering the kingdom's social character forever."
She takes a slow, shuddering breath, forcing her voice to stabilize.
"Brian ascended the throne two hundred and seventy-five years ago, but his bloody reign lasted scarcely a year before he was assassinated by his cousin, Aleixei Heilop, beginning centuries of relentless dynastic instability."
She turns back to the window, staring at the distant northern horizon with a look of pure, cold disgust.
"Since then, Heilop has remained politically stagnant. Its continued prosperity has relied less upon reform than upon its naturally fertile plains and the magnificent agricultural systems established during my son Magnar's reign. While its wheat remains among the finest in the entire Federation, deep corruption, extravagant royal courts, and inefficient administration have steadily rotted the state from within."
Her voice drops into a hushed, horrified whisper.
"The current ruler, Palanton Sevan I Heilop, has reigned for a century and is reputed to be over one hundred and twenty years old. Rumors persist that his unnatural longevity is sustained through forbidden blood rituals and dark magic, though no evidence has ever been publicly produced. His prolonged, tyrannical rule has left the kingdom completely resistant to reform, while political patronage, bribery, and lavish gifts have become the only essential tools of governance."
She turns back to face Aldo, her sharp emerald eyes burning with intense sorrow.
"Facing mounting imperial debt, Sevan established the Professional Central Army four years ago. Rather than maintaining the force solely for domestic defense, he dispatched both free soldiers and summoned slave-soldiers like you to undertake brutal military contracts throughout the Federation, claiming the vast majority of your hard-earned pay to service the royal treasury's bottomless debts."
Silence settles heavily over the warm wooden chamber.
Lourdes sits motionless on the floor, her dark eyes wide and filled with deep, profound sympathy. She looks at Elanariel's tear-stained, ageless face, her chest aching with profound sorrow for the unimaginable loss the elven mother has carried for centuries.
Beside her, Aldo is completely immersed in the history. His charcoal pencil flies across his leather notebook, recording every date, name, lineage, and political structure with relentless, aggressive precision.
Yet, as he writes down the final sentence regarding the Professional Central Army, his pencil stops.
A heavy, unnatural stillness settles over his young frame. For a rare, unprecedented moment since he was summoned to this alien world, a deep, profound sadness ripples through his chest—a quiet grief for the loss Elanariel has borne, mixed with the cold, bitter reality of his own forced enslavement.
He is only fourteen years old. He does not yet possess the emotional capacity to fully comprehend the vast, crushing weight of centuries of tragic history that Elanariel carries in her heart. He cannot fathom the depth of a mother watching her son's golden age crumble into blood and execution.
But as he looks down at his own calloused, gloved hands—hands forced to wield flintlocks and blades for a rotten, debt-ridden kingdom—something shifts deep within his young soul.
The quiet, passive survival instinct that has guided him through the slave camps hardens into something sharp, cold, and absolute.
Aldo slowly closes his leather notebook with a sharp snap. He slips the charcoal pencil back into his vest pouch and stands up. His posture, usually relaxed and unassuming, pulls taut with a sudden, electrifying intensity that draws the gaze of everyone in the room.
Lourdes looks up at him in surprise. Elanariel stops wiping her tears, her sharp emerald eyes fixing on the fourteen-year-old Earthling boy.
Aldo draws himself up to his full height. He steps into the center of the wooden chamber, the afternoon sun streaming through the arched window and casting his shadow long and dark across the floor. He looks Elanariel straight in the eye, his dark, youthful eyes burning with a fierce, absolute resolve that belies his age.
He prepares to speak—his voice rising not as a helpless slave, but as a formal, unyielding declaration to the world.