Chapter 252: EX 252. Lancelot
Back in the manor, Leon stepped into the kitchen. The place was quiet, too quiet but the table betrayed evidence of someone’s effort. A full meal waited for him, the aroma rising like a siren’s call.
It was simple at first glance: rice, a rich sauce, and neatly arranged vegetables. But the scent told a different story. The elves, bound to a restrained diet, had mastered the art of drawing flavor from the smallest, rarest greens, and this meal was proof. Even as a void spawn, who needed no food at all, Leon found himself compelled.
He reached out casually, plucking up what looked like a golden potato wedge, dipping it into the side sauce, and biting in.
At that exact moment, footsteps sounded. Racheal entered, her emerald eyes expectant, only for them to widen in alarm when she saw him mid-bite.
"Wait—" she started, too late.
Leon turned toward her, chewing slowly. "What?"
Her face faltered, as though she’d been caught committing some crime. Leon didn’t miss it. His eyes narrowed slightly. "What’s wrong?"
Racheal hesitated, then looked away, fumbling with her hands.
Leon set the potato back on the plate with deliberate care. His voice was calm, almost flat, but edged with something sharper beneath. "What was in the food?"
She exhaled heavily, as if bracing for impact, before finally meeting his gaze. "...There was aphrodisiac in it."
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. Leon’s eyes widened, the violet void behind them breaking free in a sharp flicker before he forced it back down. He stood there, silent, more stunned than angry.
Inside, he was reeling. ’Aphrodisiac? Really?’
He blinked once, almost blankly, before a thought slipped in like a bitter laugh.
’And here I thought I knew how to have a good time.’
****
Racheal’s mind was a storm.
’He ate it. He actually ate it.’
Her emerald eyes locked on Leon, who chewed as if nothing were wrong, and panic clawed at her chest. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet. She had calculated that he’d spend hours in the forest, but she hadn’t accounted for tier IV force, inexhaustible stamina, or the fact that nightfall favored void spawns.
’How do I handle this now?’
There was a reason she’d laced the meal with aphrodisiac, and it wasn’t malice. It was desperation.
Elves, by nature, were creatures of restraint. Their births tied to the great tree had left them with a natural flaw or gift, depending on how one looked at it. Low libido. With no desire pressing them, abstinence was second nature, nearly law. For most, the urge simply didn’t exist.
But in every herd of white lambs, there was a black sheep. Racheal’s parents had been two of those, elves cursed, or perhaps blessed, with an overwhelming, unnatural drive. Their union had birthed her, a bloodborn.
And yet, cruelly, she had not inherited that fire. No. Despite being their daughter, she was as stagnant as any other elf, cursed with the same lack.
So she sought to fix it. Every meal she prepared for herself, she laced with aphrodisiac, subtle at first, then stronger with time. She waited for something to stir, for the coldness in her body to awaken. But nothing happened. Just a faint warmth and a fleeting tingle in her stomach, and no more.
But tonight she had gone further. Tonight, the dosage was enough to send an ordinary person into heaven and back. Enough to break the chains of her stagnant body and to force a change hopefully.
And Leon had eaten it.
Her blood froze.
’What if... he turns on me?’
She wasn’t naïve. Leon was stronger, infinitely so. If he wanted something, she couldn’t resist. And if the aphrodisiac twisted his control,
Her thoughts broke as her gaze fell on him again. He was reaching, calmly, almost casually, for another bite.
Her jaw dropped. Her breath caught. Disbelief tore through her panic, replaced by a single horrified thought.
He’s eating it like it’s normal.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Racheal’s voice cracked as it tore from her throat, loud, sharp, and desperate.
****
Back in the crumbling hall where James and his squad were kept, silence fell heavy, until Lancelot’s voice cut through it.
"What are you doing here?"
The question wasn’t shouted or snarled. It was spoken with calm precision, like a man asking about the weather. But for James, it was more suffocating than a blade pressed to his throat.
So he answered.
And he didn’t hold back.
He spoke of Shantel, of how its people had suffered beneath the iron paw of the bear tyrant for three generations of city lords. He explained how theirs wasn’t the only city cursed; other towns hidden within the Tyrant’s Forest had endured the same oppression. He painted a picture of endless struggle, of men and women forced to claw at survival while the outside world remained blind to their existence.
He told of how they’d built, harvested, and trained themselves to be self-sufficient, but no matter how hard they worked, they knew it was only delaying the inevitable. One day, the weight would crush them.
And as he spoke, James chose his words carefully.
"We, the loyal people of the great Arman Empire..."
Again and again, he repeated that line, slipping it into the rhythm of his tale. He never once accused, never said outright that they’d been abandoned, but the undertone was there, biting and undeniable. He wanted Lancelot to hear it. He wanted him to know.
If anyone else had been sitting across from him, that would’ve been a dangerous gamble. But Lancelot was not like others.
He wasn’t angered by the bitterness. He wasn’t moved by the struggle. He didn’t care for the plight of Shantel or any of the forest’s cities. He only killed for blasphemy against the Emperor. Everything else, every complaint, every veiled insult, was beneath him.
And James hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet.
Still, Lancelot raised a gloved hand, halting the flood of words. "So. What brought you here?"
James froze. He knew he was rambling, and the man before him wasn’t the type to entertain it for long. If he kept talking, he might recite his whole family history, and that wouldn’t save him.
"We..." James swallowed, straightening his back. "We were ordered to come here. To search for survivors, and... bring them back."
Lancelot’s gaze sharpened. "Ordered? By who?"
There was no dodging that. Not with those piercing blue eyes on him, cold and unyielding.
James hesitated, then forced the words out. "...By our new City Lord."
The moment the title left his lips, something shifted in Lancelot’s expression.
’New city lord?’ The thought cracked like thunder in his mind. His gaze narrowed, curiosity flaring like a spark. ’Could it be? Could this "new lord" be the anomaly’
Lancelot leaned forward slightly, blue eyes gleaming with dangerous interest.
"Tell me," he said slowly, each syllable heavy with intent. "About this new City Lord."
****
A/N: James is such a yapper jeez ರ_ರ.... Anyway thanks for reading.