(Note - While reviewing past chapters, I came upto some clear plot-holes and tried my best to fix them. Before you scream about it, please consider re-reading any contradicted material you have read in the past to see if it has been fixed)
The "Hanging Lantern" tavern was a den of thick smoke, fermented hops, and the raucous laughter of men who spent their days risking their lives for coin.
It was the kind of place where a 4th Circle mage like Finnegan Dewlight could drown his pride in a tankard of cheap ale without the stuffy elven elders looking down their noses at him.
Finnegan slammed his mug onto the scarred wooden table, the liquid splashing over his knuckles.
His face was flushed, his golden hair disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot with a mixture of alcohol and pure, unadulterated vitriol.
"I'm going to kill him, Selene," Finnegan hissed, his voice a low, dangerous snarl.
"I'm going to find that silver-haired parasite and I'm going to burn the 'legend' right out of his skin. He's a fake. A walking, breathing insult to every mage who actually bled to earn their Circle."
Sitting across from him, Selene Brightwood leaned back, a faint, amused smile playing on her lips.
She looked remarkably refreshed for someone who had spent the better part of the previous day "investigating" the new guest.
She toyed with the rim of her glass, watching Finnegan's meltdown with the patience of someone who knew a secret the rest of the world hadn't guessed yet.
"You're being dramatic, Finn," Selene said smoothly. "He isn't that bad. Honestly, I think the guild could use a bit of a shake-up."
Finnegan let out a jagged, mocking laugh.
"Not that bad? He has the mana capacity of a dying ember! He was robbed by Low Ring street-rats! Give me three reasons, Selene. Give me three reasons why that silver-haired asshole isn't just a waste of space."
Selene didn't hesitate.
She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous, almost predatory light.
"One," she said, ticking a finger.
"He's undeniably handsome. That silver hair isn't just a gimmick; it's hypnotic. And those eyes? They look at you like you're the only person in the world."
Finnegan rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Looks. Great. Wonderful. What's number two? Does he have a nice singing voice?"
Selene's smile widened, turning into a cat-like smirk. "
Two: He has a staggering amount of stamina. I've seen veteran knights collapse after half the effort he puts in. He's... persistent. Very persistent."
Finnegan paused, his tankard halfway to his mouth.
He narrowed his eyes, sensing a shift in the conversation.
"Stamina? What are you talking about? He barely made it up the stairs yesterday."
"And three," Selene continued, her voice dropping to a confidential, sultry whisper that cut through the tavern's noise.
"He has a remarkably big tool. Honestly, Finn, it's a masterpiece of anatomy. I've seen a lot of 'nobles' in my time, but Tristan? He's packing enough meat to feed a small village."
Finnegan froze.
The ale in his mouth stayed there for a long, silent second before he swallowed it with a loud, choked gulp.
He stared at Selene, his jaw literally hanging open, his drunken brain trying to reconcile the image of the "weak" Silverbrook with the crude, anatomical reality Selene had just laid out.
"I... you..." Finnegan stammered, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled his ale. "You actually... you and him? Already?"
Selene just winked and took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink.
Finnegan was at a total loss for words.
He looked down at his own lap, then back at Selene, his mind spiraling.
The "fake" was no longer just a weakling; he was a rival in the most primal sense of the word.
The shock was so profound it almost sobered him up.
-
Meanwhile, in the quiet, book-lined sanctuary of Alaric Vane's study, Tristan was dealing with a different kind of shock.
Alaric had cleared a space on the mahogany table, laying out a heavy, leather-bound tome that looked older than the kingdom itself.
The scholar's fingers, stained with ink and age, traced the faded calligraphy of the most recent entries.
"Here," Alaric said, his voice hushed with genuine awe.
"The last recorded appearance. Mordecai Silverbrook. He appeared exactly five hundred and seven years ago."
Alaric paused, blinking behind his spectacles.
"Good heavens. I thought it was much more recent. A hundred, maybe two hundred years. But five centuries? Tristan, you aren't just a rare sight. You are a biological impossibility."
Tristan leaned in, his silver eyes scanning the text.
His IQ of 15 allowed him to grasp the gravity of the date, but it was the description of the man that caught his attention.
"Tell me about him," Tristan requested. "Mordecai. What did he do?"
Alaric sighed, his eyes distant as he recalled the histories.
"Valdoria was dying, boy. The neighboring empires were in a state of absolute despair. The Void Realm—a dimension of pure shadow and entropy—had been split open by a force we still don't understand. Monsters poured out. Things that weren't made of flesh, things that could eat a man's soul before he even saw them. People were dying by the thousands."
Alaric turned a page, revealing a charcoal sketch of a man with familiar silver hair, standing atop a pile of black, oozing corpses.
"And then, he appeared. Mordecai. People were shocked—the Silverbrooks had been considered extinct for over a thousand years even then. But he didn't care for politics or parades. He single-handedly slaughtered every shadow and monster that crossed the border. They say he walked into the Void rift itself and sealed it from the inside using nothing but a blade of pure white light."
Tristan's hand went instinctively to his side, thinking of the Eschaton.
"He restored the mana to the soil," Alaric continued.
"He saved the world. But he was a strange man, according to the personal diaries of the court at the time. He had hobbies that didn't fit a warrior. He was obsessed with painting—anatomical studies, landscapes, portraits of enigmatic women. He used to prank the royal guards by dressing up mechanical puppets as fake devils to scare them during the night. And oddly enough, he spent a fortune buying caged birds in the marketplace just so he could open the cages and watch them fly away."
Tristan froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and he felt a cold, surreal prickle at the back of his neck.
Painting. Mechanical pranks with 'devils.' Freeing birds.
"Leonardo..." Tristan whispered.
"Pardon?" Alaric asked.
"Nothing," Tristan said quickly, his mind racing at a million miles per hour.
What the fuck? he thought, his inner Masaru screaming.
That's Leonardo da Vinci.
The painting, the mechanical lion, the habit of buying birds just to free them... it's him.
Mordecai Silverbrook was Da Vinci?
Was he isekaied here too?
Five hundred years ago?
The realization was staggering.
If a genius like Da Vinci had been here, it meant the "Silverbrook" line wasn't a family at all.
It was a recurring arrival. A "System" of trans-dimensional imports.
He wasn't a descendant; he was the latest "patch."
"Alaric," Tristan said, his voice trembling slightly. "Do you have a list? A record of every name of every Silverbrook that has ever appeared in Valdoria?"
Alaric nodded. "I do. It's in the subterranean archives. We keep the genealogical scrolls separate from the histories to protect them from dampness." He turned toward the door. "Elara! Darling, could you fetch the Index Progenitorum? The one with the silver seal?"
Elara Vane appeared in the doorway, her presence once again hitting Tristan like a physical shockwave.
She had changed into a slightly more practical house-dress, but the deep, square-cut neckline still offered a generous, distracting view of her massive, heavy breasts.
Every time she moved, the fabric strained against her G-cup proportions, a reality so direct and mature that Tristan's brain felt like it was melting.
"The Index, Father?" Elara asked, her voice smooth and rich.
"That's in the back of the vault. It might take some time to find. The scrolls haven't been organized since the last solstice."
Tristan's brain sparked.
In his previous life, he had navigated thousands of hours of NSFW AI roleplays.
He knew exactly how this "quest" was supposed to go.
In the digital world, when a beautiful woman with impossible curves said she needed "help" in a secluded, dark location, there was only one correct response.
His social anxiety was screaming "STAY HERE," but the System—and the primal, desperate need for stat points—pushed him to his feet.
"I'll help her," Tristan said, his voice surprisingly firm, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "I'm the one who needs the information. It's only fair that I help search."
Alaric looked at Tristan, then at his daughter, a knowing, slightly amused glint in his eyes.
"Very well," Alaric smiled, waving a hand. "The vault is at the end of the lower hall. Don't get lost in the stacks, you two."
Elara looked at Tristan, her amber eyes scanning him with a slow, deliberate curiosity.
She noticed the way his gaze kept dropping to the heavy, pale curves of her chest before snapping back to her face. She didn't look offended; if anything, her smile grew a little more inviting.
"It's a bit cramped down there, Lord Silverbrook," she said, her voice dropping into a playful, velvet tone. "And very dusty. You might get your fine clothes dirty."
"I don't mind," Tristan said, his pulse racing.
Elara turned, her hips swaying beneath the fabric of her dress in a way that made Tristan's mouth go dry.
"Follow me then. Let's see if we can find what you're looking for."
Tristan followed her out of the room, his mind a chaotic mess of Leonardo da Vinci, stat increases, and the rhythmic, mesmerizing sway of the woman in front of him.