Akira was trying.

  Trying very hard.

  Trying not to be the spiritual reincarnation of that one old white man at every bus terminal who whistles at underage girls and loudly brags about grabbing women by the poothang like it's a heroic wartime achievement. Simply put—they were trying not to be a creep.

  They were failing.

  Just a little.

  Salhou walked ahead of them—no, not walked. She gaited. She glid. She moved like the world owed her a catwalk and it was currently being paid off in slow, hypnotic installments. Her digitigrade legs clicked and shifted with every step, heels lifted, calves flexing in alien rhythm. There was a sway to her hips that defied Euclidean geometry. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left again. Right. What the fuck?

  Akira narrowed their eyes.

  That wasn't just walking. That was choreography.

  Their brain stuttered like an old Windows desktop watching her stride. Was she doing this on purpose? Were elves naturally this fluid? Was this a magical trait? A passive ability? "Grace of the Grayborn: +10 to Swagger, +50% chance to ignite sexual confusion within a 10-meter radius"? Because if so—they were firmly in the blast zone.

  They didn't know if Salhou was flirting (unlikely), doing an amateur Vogue routine (possible), or simply walking like she owned every piece of dirt her toes brushed. Either way, something about that digitigrade flow, that rhythm of her movement, had Akira's head buzzing like a cartoon character hit with a frying pan.

  It was hard to tell if it was attraction, admiration, awe, or some divine combination of the three. But one thing was certain.

  Newton was right.

  Akira's eyes went slightly unfocused as they tried to pull their thoughts back into their skull. The greater the mass, the greater the force of attraction. The old bastard didn't mean it like this, but damn if it didn't apply in spirit. Those hips were orbitally relevant.

  Then it happened.

  Salhou turned her head—just slightly. Just enough. Just in time to catch Akira's lingering gaze like a parent catching a toddler near a stove.

  She scrunched her nose.

  Not in disgust. Not in malice.

  In adorable, weaponized mischief. Her face twisted in that slightly puckered, nose-wrinkling way that looked like she had just sniffed cinnamon toast and sunlight. A micro-expression, fleeting and pure, that slammed into Akira's emotional center like a nostalgia nuke.

  It hit the same pleasure center as petting a baby goat in a sweater. The primal brain yelled protect it, the hormonal brain yelled kiss it, and the frontal cortex yelled stop it stop it STOP IT.

  Akira turned their eyes away so fast they almost sprained a neuron. They rubbed the back of their neck with too much energy, trying to scrub the warmth off their skin like it was dirt and not rising elven-induced flusteration.

  They muttered under their breath, "Okay. Okay. It's fine. I am a composed person. I am a modern individual with boundaries. I am not going to be seduced by an anime forest goat girl with swaying hips and an accidental baby-face."

  And yet, the image of her nose scrunch lingered in their mind like a bookmark placed firmly between the pages of sanity and thirst.

  They looked up at the canopy. Five suns gleamed back like they were judging.

  Akira whispered to them.

  "Don't look at me like that. You saw those hips too."

  "Ahh, I forgot to ask your names," Salhou said as she turned her head over her shoulder, her voice feather-soft and melodic in that naturally flirty-but-probably-not-intentionally way. Her gray-silver skin caught the shimmer of the canopy light as her white hair floated slightly with the wind, the horns at her crown framed by spiraling branches that arched overhead like nature's gothic cathedral. She tilted her head gently to the side, ears twitching just a bit. "Would you be so kind as to tell me?"

  Akira blinked, briefly short-circuiting, then nodded with mechanical over-eagerness.

  "Yes! I mean—yeah. Sure. Right." They rubbed the back of their neck, trying to mentally scrub the unwholesome brain fog from their inner hard drive. They waved off the lingering pervy thoughts like smoke in a kitchen, as if that would help. Their inner monologue hissed: Keep it together. Don't be a Reddit comment section. Don't simp. You are above this. You are… sort of above this.

  They cleared their throat.

  "I'm Akira Owlman," they said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "And this is—" they gestured dramatically to their friend like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a particularly aggressive hat.

  They waited.

  Atan didn't respond.

  He didn't even slow his steps. He just glanced sideways at Akira's hand like it had personally offended him, then looked away and kept walking, utterly unbothered, a man whose entire emotional range was apparently muted by default.

  Akira stared at him for a second, deadpan, before turning back to Salhou with the world's driest smile.

  "This is Dickhead," they said sweetly. "Otherwise known as Atan."

  They made the gesture again, this time with exaggerated flair, like they were revealing a rare Pokémon and not a human wall of meat and poor communication skills. "He's got the personality of a loaf of unsalted bread and the emotional depth of a pothole, but he's great in a fight and probably has your back if you don't ask too many questions."

  Salhou giggled. Actually giggled. It was a light, melodic sound, like a wind chime being tickled by a breeze that just realized it was in love. "It's fine," she said, clearly amused. "He seems like the strong silent type." Her voice held that teasing edge that didn't bite, but absolutely poked you in the ribs with a smile.

  Akira arched a brow. "Strong, yes. Silent? Unfortunately, yes. Intelligent? Dubious."

  Salhou continued, her pace never breaking. The jungle curved around them now, guiding them through a path that wound like a gentle river. "We have kids in our village like that," she said with a soft fondness, "quiet boys who skulk around rooftops at night, peeking around corners, claiming to be justice incarnate. Watching for 'threats' to the village."

  Sasuga Wayne-sama, they thought bitterly. You have preteens glazing you in a world where you don't even exist.

  She gave a breathy laugh. "It's very dramatic. They call themselves the Moon Sentinels. They made little capes."

  Akira's face nearly split in half from the grin that bloomed. They leaned forward, walking sideways now just to match Salhou's pace and angle of conversation.

  "Oh my god. Preteen vigilantes. That's amazing. I love that. I bet they have secret passwords and underground meetings under the village bathhouse."

  "They do," Salhou confirmed, trying not to smile too smugly.

  Akira let out a wheezing laugh and looked over their shoulder at Atan.

  "Congratulations, Atan. You're now spiritually aligned with a bunch of twelve-year-olds in cloaks who think they're the shadows that stalk the night."

  Atan remained blessedly silent.

  They turned back to Salhou, arms folding behind their head as they walked. The scent of the jungle shifted here—more flowered, less humid. The air felt warmer but oddly light, like something in it had thinned. The vines that had once threatened to strangle the life out of them now hung with soft, almost decorative droop, cradling blossoms that pulsed faintly with ambient Mikor.

  "This whole world is weird," Akira muttered, half to themself.

  Weird in a way that was beautiful. Colorful. Too vibrant. Too alive. The kind of place where mushrooms had texture and personality, and the trees bent for the wind as if bowing. Occasionally, something between a bird and a kite would drift overhead. And far above, framed through cracks in the canopy, those five ever-present suns kept their vigil—silent, varied, unmoving.

  Akira's thoughts drifted. They thought of home. Of ramen. Of late-night anime. Of sitting beside Atan on the couch watching dubbed shonen trash while throwing popcorn at each other.

  Now they were here.

  In a world made of fantasy tropes and divine bullshit.

  Walking behind a girl with crop-top abs, goat legs, and the most dangerously weaponized nose scrunch they'd ever seen.

  And they were the savior of the world. Probably at least. They really didn't want to box with another benny the fuckign worm.

  "I'm curious," Salhou said as she hopped over a twisted, moss-wrapped root that jutted from the earth like a gnarled finger, her tail of white hair catching light from the fifth sun in a soft shimmer. "What are humans doing this far from Manav? Not only that—your friend seems... quite leveled." She gestured subtly at Atan, who was ahead of them by a few paces, casually shoving aside a branch that looked like it wanted to eat him. "Is he past the first threshold already? After all, Hive beings tend to be stronger per level, but he handled that creature without a weapon."

  Akira blinked, eyebrows flicking up slightly, pulse skipping a beat. There was a moment—a very small, very silent moment—where everything slowed just enough for dread to stretch its legs in their chest. Because, of course, of course someone would eventually ask. Ask real questions. Not vague ones about magic systems or power tiers or how many worms you've punched in the face. No, she had to come at them with the lore.

  Akira's face remained mostly neutral, but their brain?

  Absolute chaos.

  Shit shit shit shit shit.

  They didn't know a damn thing about this world. Was Manav a city? A kingdom? A floating sky-fortress powered by nuclear-grade Mikor and stocked with artillery that exploded in sacred geometry patterns? Maybe a roaming colony on a behemoth's back? The name sounded like a civilization at least, but whether it was a nation or continent or even some fancy mobile war cathedral, they had no clue.

  But the important bit? Salhou thought they were from there.

  That meant it was probably human territory. Probably the main human territory. Which meant if Akira didn't want to out themself as a total alien—or worse, an isekai protagonist—they needed to get creative.

  No. Worse than creative. They needed to lie.

  And lie well.

  Because if this elf girl—or her village, or her elders, or her wildly fashionable uncle with an eyebrow piercing and a talent for truth detection—started asking real questions? Like actual follow-ups? Akira was done for. Absolutely, unequivocally boned. And not in the good way.

  They exhaled through their nose, letting the wind catch their hair a bit. The jungle smelled sweeter here—ferns with citrus tones, the odd snap of spice on the breeze, like cinnamon had had a wild night with peppercorns. In the underbrush, a deer-like creature with crystalline horns was currently violating a dog-like beast in ways that made Akira spiritually nauseous. Atan didn't even blink at the act of zoological heresy.

  Akira licked their lips, eyes half-lidded, and crafted their lie with the practiced grace of a college student who had once bullshitted an entire 2,000-word essay on the sociopolitical ramifications of One Piece using only quotes from Reddit and caffeine.

  "We're not from Manav," they said smoothly, giving the sentence just enough tired weight to feel real. "Our village was small. Remote. You've probably never heard the name—it was out past the borderlands. Real backwater, mostly trade and farming. Simple life." They glanced down, injecting just the right amount of melancholic nostalgia. "We left after a tragic incident... involving the Hive. We figured it was better to travel. See the wider world. Hunt them. Try to understand them. Maybe make a difference."

  There.

  Woven like silk from spider-butt glands.

  Salhou gasped softly. A little too earnestly, which made Akira suspicious, but also mildly charmed.

  "Oh no!" she said, stepping closer. Her robe fluttered behind her like a breeze-kissed banner, and Akira was suddenly very aware of the proximity. Her four-fingered hand extended—pale and warm—and gently rested on their shoulder. Her body leaned down slightly, just enough to bring her face level with theirs, gray eyes gleaming with empathy and something unreadable.

  Akira's brain stuttered.

  System error. Rebooting internal functions.

  She smelled like forest wind and spiced mint and something vaguely lavender-adjacent. The skin of her fingers was smooth, unnaturally so, like callouses weren't even a genetic concept to her species. Her horns caught a flicker of multicolored sunlight filtering through the canopy above, giving them a faint inner glow.

  Akira tried very hard not to become a puddle of bi-coded goo on the forest floor.

  Let it be known, for the record—possibly carved into the annals of some cosmic book kept by bored gods with nothing better to do—that Akira Owlman was not short.

  In fact, they were actually tall by most standards. A clean six-foot-one, thank you very much. Taller than many cis guys, even. A proud tower of mild anxiety and sarcastic commentary. But somehow, next to the brute stomping ahead of them like a war elephant wearing clearance joggers—aka Atan—they felt short. And that sense of tininess had quietly infected their self-perception like an aesthetic parasite. The kind that whispers, "Yeah, maybe you are the small one, actually," every time your buddy blocks the sun with his biceps.

  They had a slender build—yes—but not waifish. Their shoulders were naturally broader than most women's, giving them a vaguely athletic silhouette when dressed right. They didn't look weak. Just... under-muscled. Decoratively strong, like a dancer or a fencer or someone who could carry all the groceries in one trip but might weep afterward. That kind of strength.

  And that blend of build, face, and vibe? It meant despite having boobas—moderate ones—they passed quite easily as a pretty boy when the situation called for it. And honestly? They didn't mind. It made life easier. The only real downside was reduced cleavage-based social power, but the tradeoff was an unbothered spine and zero lower back issues. Sex appeal was nice, but posture was a lifestyle.

  "Luck stat of two my ass," Akira muttered under their breath as they walked, brushing an iridescent vine off their shoulder. "I got good shoulders, a non-cursed lumbar system, and cheekbones sharp enough to start class wars. That's not unlucky."

  But Salhou—of course—just had to be taller.

  Three inches taller, actually.

  Akira had noticed it immediately. The kind of height that doesn't dominate, but but makes it's place known. And it wasn't just the height—it was the presence. The digitigrade legs gave her a natural stride that looked like gliding through butter with the arrogance of a puffed-up peacock and the elegance of a moonlit prayer.

  But no. Akira had standards.

  And dignity.

  And two clashing hormonal systems trying to beat each other to the punch like dueling narrators during a coming-of-age montage.

  So even when she leaned down, putting her pretty little elf face next to their own, they tried to keep it together.

  Atan glanced over his shoulder just in time to watch Akira's soul momentarily detach like a corrupted download.

  Salhou tilted her head with that same adorable wrinkle of the nose that should've been illegal. "What was your village name?" she asked softly. "Maybe we can help. My people know the outer regions well. If there are survivors or records—anything—we'll find them."

  Behind them, Atan had stopped walking. He turned slightly, staring at the two of them with all the curiosity of a man watching someone trip over a rake he knew was there the whole time. His face was unreadable.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Akira looked away from him and forced a tight smile while staring into Salhou's too-sincere eyes.

  Their mind raced for a name.

  Any name.

  Something rural. Something vague. Something tragic.

  Something that didn't sound like a Pokémon gym or a Final Fantasy summon.

  Come on, brain. Work your magic.

  Lie like the little bitch you are.

  "Uhhhm... I—" Akira stammered, scrambling. Their inner monologue was screaming in seven languages. "I–I forgot to mention that! Right! Uh… we're from..."

  And then, like a divine gift from a very tired RPG developer, their mind latched onto the first fantasy-sounding village name it could conjure. It was plagiarized, though.

  "Hage Village!" they declared, with a bit too much enthusiasm. "Yes. That's the name. Hage. Village."

  They coughed. Recalibrated their tone. More solemn. Less deranged.

  "They're fine now," Akira added quickly, waving their hands in the universal language of please don't ask follow-up questions. "No help needed. Haha."

  "Haha." It was the worst possible laugh. That laugh carried trauma. That laugh wore a band-aid over a bullet wound.

  Salhou blinked, visibly concerned.

  Akira powered on.

  "We... just happened to run into a traveling pack of Hive. Real bastards. They were trying to set up a burrow nearby—probably to expand their node coverage or... whatever Hive logistics look like. Big, uh... worm zoning operation, you know?" They chuckled weakly. "Anyway, we managed to off them all before they could settle, but it led to some casualties."

  They tried to end it there. Nice and tidy. A believable sob story with a soft fade-out. A tragic but contained village tale with no need for cross-referencing, documentation, or further exploration.

  Salhou, to her credit, didn't look skeptical. But she did furrow her brows, pale lips parting slightly in thought as her gaze dropped, gears visibly turning. For one painful heartbeat, Akira thought she might actually recognize the name.

  Then, mercifully, she nodded.

  "Oh. I've heard whispers of burrow scouts pushing past the Outer Ridge. I thought it was just panic talk... I'm sorry to hear about your people. Truly." Her voice softened, becoming something like silk on water. "That's so brave of you both—to still travel. To fight. You honor your village."

  She bowed her head slightly—just a nod. Just long enough to make Akira feel like a garbage raccoon in a goddamn tuxedo.

  Akira nodded stiffly. "Yeah... honor," they echoed, managing not to curl into a ball of guilt and sexual confusion. They were a pretty good liar.

  And yet... Salhou was a better guilt trip.

  Akira mentally punched a pillow. Fuck, she's too nice.

  But it was fine.

  Totally fine.

  As long as she didn't ask where Hage was, or like... request coordinates, or draw a fucking map—they'd be fine.

  They pressed onward, the jungle parting before them in waves of glowing color, vines curling like curious fingers around mossy stone and luminous flowers swaying in rhythm with the suns. The dirt underfoot was springy and warm, rich with unseen life. Insects clicked and chirped in multitone cadences overhead. Somewhere to the east, a beast screamed in delight or death—hard to tell with these fantasy creatures. It could've been mid-mating ritual or existential despair. But then Salhou moved in closer.

  Akira hadn't expected hand-holding this early in the campaign. One minute they were spouting worldbuilding lies like a professional D&D bard, and the next—bam—dainty but firm gray elf fingers laced into theirs. Salhou's touch was confident, practiced even, like this wasn't the first time she'd done this. Her palm was warm, textured slightly from calluses—she wasn't lying about her ability to fight—but her skin still retained an uncanny softness. As if Mikor itself moisturized her nightly out of respect.

  "You must have had some exceptional warriors," Salhou had said, her voice light as air, yet edged with a note of honest curiosity. "But your hands are soft," she added, her fingers brushing delicately over Akira's knuckles. "You don't seem to be a warrior. Are you a mage or something?"

  She leaned in closer. Like, dangerously closer.

  Like,I-have-no-personal-boundaries-and-you-love-it closer. Her luminous gray eyes scanned their face with interest, and that charisma stat—Akira's beautiful, traitorous 25 in CHA—was doing its best to summon fanfiction-level scenarios in real time.

  But before Akira could squeak out a single syllable or craft some wittily evasive flirtation, a strong hand yanked them backwards with all the subtlety of a retractable leash on a misbehaving Pomeranian.

  Their head thudded softly into something solid and warm—Atan's chest, of course. The scent of blood, moss, and scorched bark lingered faintly on him, as if he'd been forged in a forge made of forests. Akira blinked up at him. His jawline looked like it could cut cinder blocks. His eyes weren't even on them—he was staring directly at Salhou, his hand still wrapped firmly around Akira's wrist like they were the last ration pack in a nuclear bunker.

  Akira blinked upward. His eyes, however, were locked on Salhou. Focused. Sharp. Unsmiling.

  Salhou's expression didn't falter. She looked at Atan with the curiosity but her gaze flickered for just a second. A gleam of something passed behind those otherworldly eyes. Not fear. Not anger.

  Something a bit unreadable actually.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her tone playful and airy, yet tinged with mischief and something else. "Was I touching him without your permission?"

  Akira made a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. "Don't worry about him," they muttered, disentangling from Atan's grasp with mild irritation. "He's just being a weirdo."

  They shoved their friend lightly in the side and then pressed a hand against Salhou's back to nudge her forward. "Let's go, o graceful worm-slayer. Show us the land of your people, please."

  Before this man becomes the regional boss of Cockblock Canyon damn.

  Atan said nothing. Just exhaled.

  The jungle thinned slightly, and the three of them continued onward. Salhou took the lead once more, carving through the path with the kind of unbothered grace that screamed: I could kill you, but I don't want to wrinkle my shirt. A massive stick insect emerged from a copse of tangled roots ahead—its long limbs clicking against the trees like skeletal fingers. It reared up, fangs twitching, wings flaring.

  Salhou didn't hesitate.

  In a single breath, her khopesh sang through the air. One moment it wasn't there. The next, it was an arc of silver dancing through the glade. Her movements were fluid, almost hypnotic—she spun once, skirt flaring, legs kicking off the trunk of a nearby tree, and then snap—the stick bug fell into three neat segments. The blade vanished into her cloak just as easily as it had appeared, and she landed with the poise of a dancer stepping onto a stage.

  Akira blinked. "Okay, so she's hot and cool. That's unfair."

  Even Atan gave a low grunt. Approval, maybe. Or confusion. It was hard to tell with him.

  Finally, after a sharp bend in the path and a small climb up a mossy ridge, the forest opened into a wide clearing—and they saw it.

  The village.

  Gray wood stretched in a massive, circular wall—thick, ancient timber that pulsed with a strange vitality. The bark wasn't bark anymore; it had been etched, inscribed, almost grown into the shape of defense with the strange shapes on it. No nails. No cuts. Just natural, deliberate growth shaped by will and some sort of voodoo Lorax magic. The trees that formed the wall spiraled upward into tall, fused towers, their tops webbed with faintly glowing fungus and thorned vine lanterns that pulsed like beating hearts.

  The gate was even more striking.

  Above it loomed a skull—massive, horned, bleached pale gray like stone dipped in moonlight. It wasn't carved. It was real. And ancient. Its empty sockets seemed to look through them, watching their approach with the patience of something that had seen civilizations rise and fall like campfires in the wind. Its horns were wrapped in silver bands, each inscribed with flowing symbols that changed when you looked at them too long. The gate beneath it was closed, but guards were already watching from small outposts built into the upper walls—slender gray elves with longbows and curved glaives, all of whom from a distance looked similar to Salhou. Though that might just be racial profiling.

  Salhou turned and smiled, waving to one of the watchers.

  Looking at the massive gray skull looming over the gate like some gothic lawn ornament designed by a serial killer with a flair for drama, Akira paused for a half-second and had a completely derailing thought.

  What if some muscular blonde man in tights burst out of the village right now, striking a pose and screaming about becoming a master of the universe? All muscles, zero shame. Just a golden-haired demigod shouting dramatic one-liners while engaging in a never-ending feud with a skeleton named after the most obvious fucking part of his anatomy.

  "'By the power of greyskull,'" Akira whispered to themself, lips twitching.

  Salhou turned to them and folded her hands together with a polite little bow. "I need to say a code to open the gates. Sorry—would you mind covering your ears?"

  Akira tilted their head. "What is it? 'I am the power?'"

  "What?"

  "Nevermind," they said quickly, grabbing Atan's arm like a sleep-deprived parent yanking their toddler out of traffic. "C'mon, we're being respectful now."

  They dragged their friend a few paces back and theatrically slapped both palms over their ears, peeking through their fingers like a kid pretending to obey. Atan, to his credit, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but humored them, crossing his arms and standing still like a disgruntled scarecrow.

  Salhou turned to the skull, her expression shifting from casual to ritualistic. She whispered something—low, melodic, in a language that felt like it came from the roots of trees and the breath of mist. Her voice didn't echo, but it resonated, like the woods were listening.

  The runes carved into the giant skull's eye sockets flared with light—silver and blue intertwining in lazy spirals—and a soft groan issued from the gate like ancient wood reluctantly waking from a nap. It opened with a hiss of air and shifting bark.

  Then came the tap on Akira's shoulder.

  "All done," Salhou said, smiling.

  "Great," Akira said, releasing Atan's arm and stepping forward like a guest of honor who had no idea what the occasion was. "If that gate had said 'open sesame,' I was gonna cry."

  As they passed beneath the archway, the shadows of the skull's horns curled over their heads like the fingers of some dead god, and Akira half expected the bones to whisper secrets.

  What lay beyond wasn't just a village.

  It was a vibe.

  Gray elves moved through the open streets with a fluidity that bordered on choreography—every step balanced, every gesture graceful, as if the entire population had spent their youth training in interpretive dance and runway etiquette. They were tall, elegant, and devastatingly attractive—pointed ears, chiseled features, and skin in varying shades of moonlight.

  And yet, despite all that aesthetic glory, Salhou still stood out.

  Akira realized it almost instantly.

  These elves were hot. Sure. But Salhou? Salhou had hips that could redirect tectonic plates. Hips that could cause diplomatic incidents. Akira hadn't seen a single female elf whose curves even came close—and they were damn sure looking.

  And then they saw her.

  An elf—taller than Salhou, clad in what could barely be called leather armor—whipping a smaller, shirtless male elf with a vine-flail while he knelt, wearing a choker with glowing runes etched across the front. Another female elf sat beside her, casually sipping from a flask while leaning affectionately against her thigh like this was just another Tuesday.

  No one was shocked.

  No one screamed, "Think of the children!"

  It was, apparently, normal.

  Akira blinked rapidly. "The fuck kind of shit are they into?"

  Atan just exhaled through his nose like he'd seen worse. He probably had honestly. They had never seen him fight before today aside from pushing kids when they were children. And now, apparently, he was a martial artist.

  As they kept walking, more details unraveled.

  The male elves—while attractive in their own right—were noticeably shorter than the women. Not by a lot, but enough to be culturally significant. They were stockier too—more compact muscle, broader frames. It wasn't like a gender-swapped fantasy cliché. It was more like nature itself had gotten bored and decided to flip the biological script for fun.

  And people didn't walk in pairs.

  They walked in quads.

  Groups of four. Sometimes two men and two women. Sometimes three women and one guy. Sometimes just four women, all of whom looked like they could suplex a warhorse and then go have tea afterward. There was no shame. No pretense. Just community clusters moving like one fluid organism through the town.

  Market stalls lined the main roads—structures woven from graywood and draped in spider-silk fabrics that shimmered under the ambient glow of bioluminescent moss. They sold fruits that looked like metallic pinecones, glistening meats on skewers, incense in clay jars, and bundles of twigs that vibrated faintly with magic.

  Elves bartered using etched coins, polished stones, and in some cases—oddly enough—spools of braided hair.

  To the left, there was a cleared plaza where children dashed between glowing totems, laughing and hurling small glowing discs at one another in a game that looked like dodgeball had mated with a spell duel. Their teachers watched from a stone bench, sipping tea and judging with eyebrow raises that could cut glass.

  To the right stood what Akira assumed was a courthouse—angular and minimalist, made of stone slabs covered in mossy etchings. Nearby was a military barracks, complete with a training field where a small squad of female elves sparred, bare-chested and moving like knife storms.

  In the distance, terraced gardens stepped up the side of a nearby hill, where silvery plants grew in perfect geometric harmony.

  There were farms, there were open homes, there were temples carved into tree trunks the size of office buildings.

  It was a village, yes.

  But also a civilization with its own rhythm.

  Its own sensual, dangerous, deeply alluring rhythm.

  And as they passed, as outsiders, they were seen.

  Eyes trailed them. Some curious. Some appreciative. Some assessing. One male elf with golden eyes gave Akira a slow once-over, nodding once before being tugged away by his partner—a tall woman with obsidian braids and a dagger at her hip.

  Akira swallowed and kept walking, spine straight, mouth pressed into a tight smile.

  "Okay," they whispered, nudging Atan in the side. "So, uh. If I disappear, I've either been recruited into a polycule or sacrificed to the forest god of dominance kinks. There is no in-between."

  He shrugged and they kept moving.

  And the elves kept watching.

  "This is Neternia," Salhou said casually, gesturing with one elegant hand as the village expanded around them like a painting unfolding in real time.

  Akira blinked.

  Seriously?

  Neternia? The name sounded like someone had ripped it from a vintage cartoon franchise, and they just decided to roll with it. Well, to keep rolling with it. Akira half expected a glowing green tiger mount to come thundering down the hill with a beefcake in barbarian chic bondage armor screaming about justice and friendship. But no, all they got was more painfully attractive elves walking in polyamorous packs. Heh alliteration.

  Salhou continued without missing a beat. "Our gray elf village. You guys can stay at my place. I need to go talk to my mother about your entrance."

  Ah, of course. Not a chief. Not a mayor. A mother. Because why not add a dash of matriarchal spice to this forest-fantasy fever dream? And of course Salhou was a princess.

  They walked together through the winding paths of graywood and humming stone, passing more oddities and daily scenes that made Akira's brain alternate between arousal, awe, and existential confusion. Then, they came upon a stand—one that looked like an apothecary merged with a bone jewelry kiosk at a goth farmer's market.

  Behind it lounged a male gray elf with sleepy half-lidded eyes and a bone spike piercing straight through the bottom of his lip, like a rebellious snack decided to live there permanently. His silver-gray hair was tied up in a messy bun, and his sleeveless tunic showed off lean muscle that suggested more yoga than war.

  When he spotted Salhou, his brows wiggled with the unbothered cockiness of a man who probably tried and failed to flirt with every woman in the village. "Finally want to accept my offer and be part of my—"

  Salhou didn't even let him finish.

  She stepped forward, grabbed his face with one hand, and gave him a flat, unamused look that could sand the ego off a god.

  "Just get me some bandages, Trayin, before I shove my sword up your ass," she sighed, releasing him with the kind of dramatic shove that said I could end you but I'm too tired today. She glanced back toward Atan with concern etched faintly in her brow, eyes flicking to the wound still slowly bleeding through makeshift wrappings.

  Akira blinked again.

  Damn. Was this a true blue matriarchy?

  Trayin stumbled back, but he grinned as if she'd just invited him to second base. "Joke's on you—I'm into that shit," he said proudly, rubbing one cheek like it had been blessed.

  Without skipping a beat, he turned and ducked into the back of his stand, rummaging through a cabinet made from twisted bonewood and moss-leather pouches. Glass clinked, and the faint scent of crushed mint and iron filled the air.

  He came back moments later with a bundle of salves and fresh white bandages that shimmered faintly with what was probably some sort of healing magic.

  "You good though, Salhou?" Trayin asked, more seriously now. "I know you and the other women protect the village, so us guys... we're here to put your minds at ease. If you're always out there chasing nodes, trying to track Hive mutations, you're gonna burn out. Let yourself relax once in a while. Let us... hold space for you."

  There was an earnestness to his words—soft-spoken but sincere, like he genuinely gave a shit. And somehow, he managed to say it without sounding like he was mansplaining self-care. Which was impressive.

  Salhou accepted the items with a grateful nod and a faint smile. "Thanks, Trayin."

  Then his eyes trailed past her—to Akira.

  "Oh?" Trayin said with a slow grin, eyes twinkling. "What's that cute thing you dragged in?"

  Akira preened internally.

  Oh, finally. Validation from the ethereal sex elves. Perhaps Prema wasn't just for show. They weren't delusional. They were cute, damn it. One of the hottest people in the weirdest world ever created. Vindication achieved. And maybe a bit of pride honestly.

  But Trayin wasn't done.

  His eyes flicked again, this time to the looming shadow behind them.

  And that was when his expression changed entirely.

  "AND GREAT SOLOMON IS THAT A TITAN?!" Trayin practically screeched, jumping back with a sound like a peacock being emotionally compromised. He pointed at Atan with both hands like he'd just seen a cryptid and wasn't sure whether to cry or run away.

  Akira cackled internally. That's right, they thought smugly. Now you see the eldritch daddy long-legs in all his seven-foot-three glory. That's my emotionally stunted, muscle-bound anomaly.

  Salhou rolled her eyes with the practiced ease of someone used to this exact routine.

  "Titans are like a thousand times his size, don't be dumb," she said, brushing past the outburst like she hadn't just threatened to sword someone's butthole two minutes ago. She turned her head over her shoulder as she walked. "And they're mine. You'll meet them properly when we have the banquet."

  Akira froze.

  Wait. They're yours?

  Excuse the entire fuck out of them.

  That wasn't a throwaway line. That was a verbal collar. A declaration. A staking of claim that sent every neuron in Akira's brain into minor spiraling confusion.

  "Are you finally making one?" Trayin asked with a hesitant tone, his brows lifted just enough to betray curiosity beneath his usual playboy smirk.

  Salhou didn't answer him with words.

  She just waved him off with the same dismissive grace one might use on a barking dog or an overly persistent door-to-door prophet. It wasn't even rude. It was casual, elegant, effortless—like swatting away a gnat with divine intent. Her smile returned the moment her hand lowered, soft and disarming again like a switch had been flipped. Whatever "one" she was or wasn't making, she clearly wasn't sharing that information out in the open.

  They kept walking.

  The dirt road stretched ahead, winding gently between rows of vendors and quaint graywood homes that blended into the soft curve of the forest wall. The air was thick with the smells of cooked roots, drying herbs, and a faint floral spice that Akira couldn't quite place but made them think of a hookah lounge wrapped in fantasy and unearned confidence. The people moved in clusters—fours, sometimes rarely and honestly insanely in sixes—laughing, bartering, or lounging in the half-shade under tree-stitched awnings.

  They passed one stand in particular that made Akira slow their steps.

  An old gray elf woman—wrinkled and wiry, with teeth like pebbles and eyes like glinting coals—held up a mushroom in each hand. The mushrooms were... suggestive. Veiny. Curved. One had an unfortunate resemblance to a third leg mid-stride. She waved them at passersby with enthusiasm and shouted, "LASTS EIGHT TIMES LONGER! MAKES YOU SCREAM IN LANGUAGES YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW!"

  Akira, against their better judgment and entire remaining dignity, stepped closer.

  "Fascinating," they muttered, squinting. "Is that an actual cap, or... is it—oh my lamb, it's throbbing."

  Before they could ask for a sample or a price, a hand clamped firmly around their upper arm and yanked them backward like a misbehaving toddler. Atan, with the deadpan efficiency of someone used to this kind of behavior, didn't even look down as he dragged them away.

  "No fun," Akira mumbled as they stumbled behind him, shooting the mushroom stand one last longing glance like a cursed child separated from a forbidden toy aisle.

  They finally arrived at Salhou's home, which—surprise, surprise—was also gray.

  Not just gray. Elegantly gray. The kind of tasteful grayscale architecture that made you think, "Wow, this person probably knows where the good tea is hidden." It had a base constructed from interlocking black and white stones, geometric and strangely luminous in the shadows. The stonework shimmered faintly under the filtered light of the forest canopy, almost as if it was absorbing and reflecting energy in equal measure. Smooth, polished, and coldly beautiful, the foundation alone looked expensive enough to fund a mid-tier fantasy rebellion.

  The structure rose two full stories, sleek and well-maintained. The roof was wood, made from overlapping tiles of some obsidian-like bark. Sharp but smooth, almost ceremonial. Windows were inlaid with glass so clear they nearly vanished from view, etched with faint vine-like runes that curled around the edges like ivy written in a language of light. Yeah, she was indeed the daughter of the chieftain. This bitch was rich.

  Salhou walked up to the heavy graywood door and pressed her hand flat against it.

  There was a pulse of energy—subtle, like a heartbeat—and glowing lines danced from her fingertips outward in delicate, spiraling patterns. Runes shimmered to life, lighting up in sequence like old circuitry or divine veins. The door sighed open, slow and smooth, like the house itself was recognizing her touch and politely parting.

  She turned back to them.

  "Can you two stay here for a bit while I go talk to the chieftain?" she asked, inclining her head with that signature, polite confidence. Not quite a bow. More of a gesture that said I trust you not to touch my weird fantasy furniture, but I will absolutely know if you do.

  Akira nodded, still blinking at the glowing runes. "Yeah, sure. We'll just... hang out in the grayscale cottage of elven prestige while you go confer with your local milfarchy."

  Salhou blinked. "What?"

  "Nothing. Go. Be responsible," Akira waved her off with dramatic flourish.

  We'll just sit here and admire your people's clearly superior ass-to-waist ratios and unexplained architectural superiority. Akira thought internally.

  Atan just grunted and stepped past the threshold.

  Akira followed, pausing only once to glance back at the old mushroom lady—who was now waving a slightly larger mushroom at a group of teenagers while cackling like a horny witch.

  This place was wild.

  And they hadn't even had lunch yet.

  Salhou passed the bundle of ointment and bandages to Akira with a faint smile—polite, elegant, the kind of smile that might accompany a glass of wine and a threat to burn down your entire bloodline if you touched her silverware wrong. Then, without another word, she turned and slipped through the doorway like a breeze that knew it was hot shit, leaving it cracked just enough to make a point.

  She trusted them.

  Or, at the very least, she wasn't worried about what they could do. Same difference, really.

  Akira stood there for a beat, just holding the bandages, blinking after her like someone trying to understand if they'd just been flirted with, propositioned, or drafted into a multiversal arranged marriage. The soft light filtering in from the outside caught the trailing edges of the glowing runes, making the open doorway look vaguely sacred.

  Or like the entrance to a bougie elven IKEA.

  Finally, they turned to their oversized cryptid of a friend.

  Atan stood dead center in the room, broad shoulders slightly hunched as he looked around like a cat in a new apartment. His gaze traveled across the interior in slow, silent arcs—taking in the low-sitting circular furniture, the vine lanterns affixed to the walls like jellyfish frozen in time, and the strange burning stones that that lit the fireplace, softly pulsing with Mikor. The whole place had a muted, calming vibe, like a meditation retreat designed by a coven of stylish witches.

  Akira tilted their head.

  "So," they asked, voice casual but eyes sharp, "what do you think?"

  Atan looked at them. Blank-faced. Mildly judgmental.

  "And why," Akira added, eyebrows arching, "were you being so weird?"

  Atan's brow twitched.

  "What do you mean what did I think?" he asked flatly. "I didn't understand shit. You just started speaking gibberish with the elf like you were trying to seduce Siri. Then you got redder than Mr. Krabs on tax day, and ass-watched like you were auditioning for Sir Mix-a-Lot's Elven Remix."

  Akira's jaw dropped open.

  Their whole face morphed into the universal expression of how dare you call me out accurately in 4K HDR. The betrayal. The audacity. The sheer accuracy.

  "I did not—!"

  "Bro," Atan said. Just that. No inflection. A full mic drop.

  Akira opened their mouth again. Closed it. Mulled.

  And then it hit them like a misfired fireball to the pride.

  Oh. Right.

  The system.

  The translator skill.

  It had unlocked for them—not Atan. That universal comprehension they'd taken for granted during the conversation with Salhou? That wasn't baseline reality. That was a god-tier accessibility feature granted by their magical pop-up menu. Atan didn't get the update. Which meant—

  "Oh gods," Akira muttered, looking down at the ointment in their hands like it had betrayed them too. "This might be a problem."