"So explain it to me," she demanded, breaking the silence. "Why did you take the boy?"
He didn't jump. He didn't even react. He just grabbed a beat-up metal tin sitting next to him. He pulled the top off. It smelled like cheap, dry tea leaves.
"Long story, Trice. And messy." He pulled a pinch of leaves. "Don't even understand half of it myself. Just flashes. Surface-level stuff. Keeping the details to myself for now."
Trice squinted at him. Her hands squeezed so tight her nails were leaving deep half-moons in her skin.
"Stop trying to hold up the entire world," she told him. She wasn't acting tough anymore. She just sounded stressed out. "You did your part. You bled for Albion. You gave up your actual name. You spent a decade in this basement keeping us hidden. Take a break. Let the System forget you exist."
"I'm way past the age for babysitters," Art said. He dumped a pinch of leaves into a cup.
"Drop the humble routine. We don't have the energy for this garbage. Fought, bled, and hid for what? To raise a 'trash' kid in a basement while the world outside falls apart?"
Art finally looked straight at her. A tired but entirely real smile hit his clouded eyes. "Don't worry, Trice. I'm not looking for revenge against the high lords. And I'm definitely not playing savior again. We're way too old for such nonsense."
"Are you calling me old?" she asked, lifting her chin. But she couldn't hold the pose. She let out a heavy breath and gave a weak smile. "Alright. You're right. We're dinosaurs. Just waiting to get swept away."
She moved a step closer. She stared at the dark spots on the floor around his boots.
"The kid isn't a dinosaur, though," she pressed. "He's a 'Level 1 Supreme'. A paradox the System conveniently labeled as trash. If he's why you aren't resting, he's a burden. One that's going to snap your fragile ribs when the truth finally comes out."
"He isn't a burden," Art whispered. Quiet, but steady as forged iron. "He's a choice. Made it with my eyes wide open. I'd make the same call tomorrow, even with a knife to my neck. He's the only thing left in this mess of a city that makes any sense to me."
Trice watched him for a long, heavy minute. Searched his weathered face for the old toxic pride. Found absolutely none. Just quiet, terrifyingly stubborn devotion.
"Then get him ready," she said, her professional edge snapping back into place like a cold front hitting a valley. "Because the world outside those walls won't wait for him to find his feet. It will eat him alive."
He stood up. His knees made a loud cracking noise. It sounded like someone stepping on dead branches. He moved slowly past her, heading for the heavy, rune-inscribed iron safe built deep into the stone wall.
Click. Clack. Tumblers tumbled. The thick door swung open.
No money inside. No magical weapons. He just grabbed a small box made of wood. It had this old leather wrapped around it that was cold to the touch.
"Come here, Leo," Art called out. Not a shout, just loud enough to carry into the shadowy hallway.
Leo walked in.
His face was a practiced mask—neutral, still, completely devoid of panic. But his gray eyes immediately locked onto the leather-bound box. He didn't look like a legendary heir. He looked like a street stray. Too much baking in the sun, not enough proper dinners. Skinny, almost scrawny, but his posture was wired tight. Like a coiled spring waiting to snap.
"Trice has been busy," Art said, nodding respectfully at her. "She doesn't believe in sending people into the woods with just good intentions and a silent prayer. She thinks hope is a tool for people who actively want to die."
Trice took the box. She unlatched it. Inside, resting on frayed dark silk, was the dagger. The Sting.
Dull grey. Non-reflective. No shine to it at all. Looked like a piece of industrial scrap, but the way it actively drank the ambient light was completely wrong. It felt like a localized void.
"It's a Beginner Earth Tier," Trice explained. Cold, clinical tone. "Lowest rank of true artifacts. For a Level 1 like you, it's a guaranteed death sentence if you're careless. It doesn't use your internal mana to strike. It uses its own microscopic edge to sever the mana of whatever it cuts. It doesn't care how thick a beast's hide is. It cuts the energy, not the meat."
Leo reached out and picked it up.
The weight was surprisingly perfect. Balanced heavily toward the hilt. Feeling substantial and real in his sweaty palm.
"Why give me this now?" he asked, his voice steady.
"Because the Elinor Woods aren't a supervised training ground anymore, Leo," Art said, stepping up beside him. "The 'Fringe' is bleeding over. The perimeter is crawling with things that forgot their place in the natural order. You need a tool that can actually bite back when the dark gets hungry."
Leo ran his thumb carefully over the flat side of the blade. No miraculous surge of heroic power coursing through his veins. No destiny nonsense. Just cold, sharp reality pressing against his skin.
"I'm not just going out to look around the edges, am I?" Leo asked. He stared right at Arthur.
Art looked at Trice for a split second, then back at his grandson. "I'm sending you out there to survive. You bring back a corrupted beast soul? Fine. Bonus. But the primary goal is to come back with all your limbs attached. Don't be a hero, Leo. Heroes die fast, and they die very loud."
"I'll come back," Leonardo said.
His tone was far too firm, too heavy for a kid his age. He pushed the blade into his belt sheath. He snapped the leather strap shut. It was a loud noise in the quiet room.
"Good," Trice nodded, folding her arms. "Because if you mess up, I have to go out into the dirt and drag you back. And I despise ruining my footwear."
He walked out. No point in saying goodbye.