[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom Outskirts]
[Virelheim Mountain Village]
Before them stood a massive wooden gate, set into a tall perimeter wall of uneven stone and reinforced timber. Iron bolts sat across the support beams. Its sheer size seemed almost imposing.
The village, obscured beyond, was nestled directly into the mountain's body—buildings stacked along tiers. Some structures were hewn directly into the rock, while others had been fastened with wooden supports, ladders, and steep stairways that zigzagged upwards in precarious paths. Ropes and pulley baskets moved slowly overhead, ferrying supplies between platforms.
Above the gate on a small lookout balcony, a guard in a fur-lined coat leaned forward, bow already nocked in hand. His eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his helmet. Not at Gretel. But at the figure beside her.
At Mikoto.
"Hold," the man called sharply, voice loud but cautious. "Who's the stranger?"
His grip on the bow didn't falter.
Gretel stepped forward without hesitation. "He's with me," she said clearly, voice carrying up to the balcony.
"That armor..." The guard didn't lower the bow. "No, there's no crest but still. This girl doesn't look local."
Mikoto's red eyes locked on the archer above.
"I said he's with me," Gretel repeated, firmer now. "And I vouch for him."
A moment passed. The archer frowned.
Then a sharp whistle rang out, and a clunk echoed through the gate as mechanisms behind it unlocked with a low groan. Wood scraped wood. The gate began to part inward, its hinges releasing settled dust as the massive doors opened, just enough to allow them passage.
Gretel turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at Mikoto. "Let's go."
He followed her in and just like that, the air changed.
Inside, the world expanded.
The village opened up—wide paths branching in multiple directions, ascending and descending across multiple tiers. Orange lanterns hung from ropes overhead, swaying gently in the wind. Timber buildings with steep, slanted rooftops leaned into one another, some reinforced with stone, others suspended by beams jutting from the cliffside.
Ropes, ladders, and staircases wove between dwellings in a web. Children chased each other across narrow walkways. Older folk carried baskets filled with herbs or roots. Blacksmiths hammered in side alleys. Lantern light flickered across faces and windows.
Mikoto's gaze wandered, taking in every detail—eyes flicking from the metal hooks embedded into the cliff to the fine carvings on a nearby archway. The village wasn't grand in the conventional sense—but it was built with care.
And as they walked deeper into the heart of it, heads began to turn.
People paused. Conversations trailed off.
The moment Mikoto entered, all eyes went to him.
A few whispered quietly, glancing between his face and his armor. Some looked away quickly. Others watched with open suspicion. Others seemed appalled by his beauty, though those looks annoyed him much more, blushing faces and all.
"Try not to mind them," Gretel murmured beside him as they passed a group of children who had stopped playing to gawk at him from behind a cart of preserved meats. "You're not exactly inconspicuous."
Mikoto didn't reply, but he gave a quiet scoff.
"…Do they always react this way to strangers?" he asked finally.
"Not usually," she admitted. "But most strangers don't walk in looking like… well—"
"Don't say it."
"—a porcelain doll." She grinned sidelong.
He shot her a flat look. "I'll take that as a slur."
"It's accurate."
They passed under a wooden overhang where merchants were preparing goods for storage. One of them, a gray-haired man with a scarred brow, looked up and made a warding gesture with his fingers. Mikoto caught it in the corner of his eye, but didn't react.
"These people live on edge," he muttered.
"They have to." Gretel's voice was softer now. "This high up, they rely on every person pulling their weight. Outsiders are a risk. Especially ones who look like they've walked straight out of a fairytale."
Mikoto didn't say anything.
A long silence followed as they continued up a set of stairs leading to the second tier of the village, where the buildings became more sparse but larger—built into the rock with long glassless windows and narrow terraces.
Eventually, he spoke again.
"I don't know why you bother. You didn't have to vouch for me."
"I know," she said.
Another pause. He stared at the steps ahead.
"Why did you?"
Gretel exhaled slowly, folding her hands behind her back as they walked. "Because I trust my instincts," she said. "And something tells me you didn't ask to be where you are."
He didn't respond.
At the top of the final staircase, the path opened into a wide platform overlooking the lower village. A long wooden hall stood there—sturdy, dark-rooted, its banners fluttering with a local crest: a stag leaping through a circle.
"This is where I report in," Gretel said. "After that, I'll show you where you can rest. You've had a long day."
Mikoto nodded once.
Gretel gave a firm nod back before quietly stepping through the tall wooden doors of a longhouse. The wood creaked softly beneath her boots, and the door closed behind her. Mikoto remained outside.
Alone now, he approached the edge of the high platform. The wind was thinner here, higher up. The railing that lined the platform was simple—pine logs fastened with black iron—but it served its purpose. Mikoto leaned against it, slender arms crossing gently as he rested his weight.
He peered downward.
The lower portion of the village unfurled beneath him in a mess of stacked terraces, makeshift bridges, and sloped rooftops. Paths wound across the mountain face, interconnecting homes, small shrines, forges, drying racks, and communal spaces. A child darted between crates with a burst of laughter. An old man sat carving wood beneath a tattered awning. A woman stirred a steaming pot outside her narrow home. None of them noticed him.
They looked normal.
Unassuming.
("No presence... almost none at all,") he mused inwardly, his red eyes narrowing. ("Barely any mana in their bodies. So minuscule it might as well not exist. Honestly, if I weren't looking closely, I'd mistake them for those filthy animals.")
There was no contempt in the thought, not really. Still, that realization made what lay before him more bizarre.
This entire village existed without the lifeblood of mana. No enchantments carved into walls, no magic lanterns, no floating constructs or protective wards, not even the subtle ambient sense of magic in the air. And yet it stood and thrived.
("They did all this by hand. No shortcuts. Just blood, sweat, and who knows how long of slow, backbreaking work.") His gaze wandered over the supports bolted into sheer cliff, the rope bridges that trembled in the wind, the stone foundations carved straight into the mountain.
("Years—no, maybe generations of effort. Just to survive up here. And for what? Look at it.") He tilted his head slightly, expression twisting with mild disdain. ("Crude, dirty and worn. Looks like a shithole.")
But then he looked again.
The villagers weren't laughing, not really. Not joyous. But there was a ease in their movements. The kind that came from routine. Stability. A dull kind of peace—not the result of triumph, but of endurance.
And somehow, that made it worse.
("How can they be content with this...?") he thought, almost disgusted. ("They don't even have mana to fight for themselves. No power. And yet they breathe easier than most I've seen. How stupid...")
He shook his head slowly, snow-white strands brushing his pale cheek. His expression didn't change much, but his brows twitched ever so faintly in agitation.
("Tch. What the hell am I even thinking about? Why am I even looking at them? What do I care about any of this?")
He sighed. A breathy exhale from lips too soft and pink for someone so jaded. His gaze lifted to the overcast sky, a dull ceiling of gray that fell heavily over the cliffs.
"...Might as well kill some time," he murmured under his breath. "No one's watching."
With that, Mikoto extended his right hand—fingers lightly tensed—and whispered:
"Familial Arts: Harbinger of Fate."
Instantly, pale white light surged from his palm, expanding outward. A blade began to form—first as an outline, then solidifying in pieces, unfolding. A greatsword. Broad and elegant. Seemingly not made of metal but of something more refined.
Its form completed with a pulse.
The hilt was smooth and luminous, the flat side of the blade etched with runes in a language few could ever read—patterns that shifted subtly the longer one looked. Its blade, pristine and snow-white.
Mikoto stared at it, unfazed. His eyes narrowed.
"...Changed shape again?" he muttered to it, a brow quirking. "Still can't make up your mind?"
The sword pulsed in his hand—once.
He tilted his head, deadpan. "Oh, you're being cute now? What, embarrassed?"
Another pulse. Stronger this time.
Mikoto exhaled through his nose in something like amusement. Then he glanced aside, red eyes distant.
"...Why haven't I been using you lately?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question. "You know why."
Another soft pulse answered.
"Yeah. Because you drain too much. Just summoning you drops me to seventy percent," he muttered.
The sword pulsed again—defensive, almost reproachful.
He frowned. "Don't tell me to 'just increase my reserves.' I already have more capacity than everyone. You're just overdesigned. Fat and greedy."
The blade dimmed slightly, as if pouting.
"But fine. Let's try something else." His expression turned more serious. "Reveal to me a truth. Where am I, exactly? Is this another world or an entirely different universe?"
Harbinger pulsed once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
"...Another universe?" Mikoto's face twisted in the bitter confirmation of a fear. His lips parted, a soft scoff escaping before he clicked his tongue. "Great. Fucking fantastic."
He squeezed the hilt, fingers tightening just enough to feel it resist.
"...Can you get me back?" he asked.
Harbinger pulsed once.
Then twice.
Then a long, final third pulse.
"...You can't," Mikoto repeated quietly, his voice nearly flat. "Why?"
The blade glowed. A pulse. Then another. The mana within it swirled erratically, forming brief flashes of a strange word—
Arbor Astrigaudium.
Mikoto blinked once, deadpan. "...What the hell is that? What are you even saying?"
Harbinger pulsed again, and the word repeated.
He stared, expression souring. "...What do you mean 'God is restricting access to a tree?' What tree?! What God?! Speak sense for once!"
The blade continued to pulse softly—glowing with its unknowable logic, refusing to offer clarity. Mikoto stared at it for a long moment, jaw tense.
Eventually, he sighed.
"...Fine. Then do what you can. Alter fate... just a little. Enough to make sure I eventually find my way back."
There was no reply—only a final pulse of acceptance. Then the blade shattered into drifting shards of white light, fading into the air.
Mikoto lowered his arm slowly, exhaling through his nose. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between numbness and disdain.
("So that's the limit. Even Harbinger can't break the rules tied to higher existence. It can nudge fate. Tilt the scales. But it can't bend the law.") His fingers flexed. ("I overestimated it. It's not omnipotent. Not even close. Just another tool. It obeys limits. And now I'm sitting at ten percent mana.")
He leaned on the railing again, the wood creaking beneath his armored form.
("What a pain…")