Al drained his last cup and wiped his mouth with satisfaction. He placed the cup in a corner and slipped away.
Freeloading... well, he wasn't that wicked; he'd have an officer come by later to pay.
Al continued his aimless wandering. He passed a mobile drink stall selling a purple-red liquid with small seeds, like dragon fruit juice.
It was light and refreshing, always attracting customers.
Al walked straight over and, while the vendor was talking to a customer, snatched a prepared cup and sat on a small stool nearby to gulp it down.
The entire process drew zero attention. Even the vendor just assumed the missing cup had been sold earlier.
As long as Al didn't slap someone or forcibly take or damage something they couldn't ignore—like money, jewelry, or a baby—this invisibility spell made him a ghost.
People would move aside for him, but once he passed, they'd forget if the person was tall, short, fat, or thin.
He could initiate conversation and get a response—like with a tavern waiter—but the waiter would likely turn around and forget Al's order or wonder who had ordered the wine on his tray.
This experience of being detached from the world yet part of the bustling crowd was something Al had tried many times. It always gave him great pleasure.
It was a joy completely different from carnal ecstasy.
It gave Al a sense of returning to the mundane—a grounded, fulfilling feeling.
Slacking off could last so long it became boring, yet when it was interrupted, Al immediately felt such carefree enjoyment was too brief.
Guards carrying the Eight-Pointed Hexagram banners ran through the streets.
Al was currently leaning on the railing of a tavern's second floor, holding a plate of unknown snacks—dried nuts similar to sunflower seeds or peanuts.
He looked down at the street, observing the passersby.
Wherever the banner-bearers went, people moved aside, bowing slightly toward the flag from the roadsides.
Devout believers would even offer a quick prayer.
Even though Al lived in the same city and wasn't entirely detached from the people, the chance for a commoner to actually see the Everchosen was rare.
To the faithful, Al was a symbol of the gods—the Shared Chosen of the Four, the Son of God, a pillar of their faith.
A living, breathing miracle walking the earth.
Even just seeing his banner was a solemn event, like a Sigmarite encounter a regional bishop's sermon.
Most didn't know, nor had the chance to know, why these majestic Khorngors—serving in the glorious role of Al's personal guard—were running around with banners.
But since it had happened many times before, people were used to it. Perhaps it was some ritual?
But Al knew exactly what it meant.
His two adoptive mothers were using this method to politely, rather than urgently, remind him:
"It's time to come home."
The centaur girl shared the deepest bond with him. If they wanted to link minds, she only had to send a message.
But sometimes Al, in his playful mood, was reluctant.
Yet he found it hard to refuse her requests and didn't want to stall, so he'd usually head back to the palace like a child who hadn't played enough.
In the end, it was the Goat Mom's suggestion—Al guessed, as Alina wouldn't think of such things—to adopt a middle-ground approach.
Since Al liked to hide his tracks when out and lately didn't even like bringing guards, the bodyguards had a hard time finding him.
And since only Al could summon the Griffon Empress from the sky, they used the banners.
The boy would only be wandering within the tribe anyway; he wouldn't go far.
It was a subtle reminder.
As long as he saw the banners, Al knew they were waiting for him.
But he still had some time to wrap up his secret visit so it wouldn't feel rushed or annoying.
He grabbed a handful of snacks, put the plate back, and strolled downstairs, planning for one last loop.
He happened to run into a group of lean, imposing men dressed as mercenaries coming up the stairs.
Al didn't want to push through, so he leaned against the side to let them pass first.
Suddenly, he felt something was wrong.
The man in the lead, who had already stepped onto the second floor, stopped.
He turned his head, his gaze landing exactly where Al stood, his brow furrowed.
"!?!"
Shit.
Did he see me?
Al was shocked. This was the first mortal—aside from Alina and Misha coming for him—who could see through his concealment and sense his presence.
A man.
Ugly scars crossed his face, one cutting right under his eye, making him look like he was blind in his left eye.
He looked ferocious, yet his aura was incredibly steady, giving off a sense of reliability.
"A rare powerhouse," Al noted in his heart, his pace not slowing as he accelerated his escape.
Gotta go!
Even though he was no longer the cub he used to be—if ten rabbit-girls like the one who tried to assassinate him came at once, they'd all end up pinned to the ground and fucked by him—he still had his limits.
His direct combat record between his two lives was basically 1-0, and that was just bullying a Greenskin who had already been trampled by his own side while Alina stood right next to him.
It was a padded stat with zero substance.
Even if this was his home base and his people might not be super-devout to the Four Mothers, a single shout for help would bring a crowd to "Save the King!"
They'd be delighted to perform in front of the Everchosen.
And since this stranger was within the tribe, he was likely from the Mortal Auxilia, the Vanguard, or the small reinforcements from the Northern Council.
Even the most unstable of the three, once they realized who he was, wouldn't dare cause trouble in the tribe.
But Al chose to be cautious and bolt first.
Seeing their leader stop, Stephanie frowned and asked: "Rodrian? What's wrong?"