Days passed as the ship continued its steady flight. Trafalgar remained on the deck, watching the horizon as the land slowly shifted beneath layers of drifting clouds. By the time the neutral city came into view, the signs of tension were already apparent.

Carac appeared from afar as a massive silhouette pressed against the edge of the conflict zone.

It was large—far larger than most cities he had seen outside Velkaris. Tall buildings clustered together in dense formations, towers rising above them like watchful sentinels. Even from this distance, movement was visible. Countless figures filled the streets and platforms, their sizes and shapes varied enough to make one thing immediately clear: Carac was home to many races.

Neutral cities were built on a simple but fragile principle.

No great family held authority within their walls. Power belonged solely to the city's own government, with oversight from the Council of Sages of Velkaris, the body that governed justice across the world. In theory, neutrality guaranteed safety. In practice, it only meant that violence had rules.

The reason they had arrived this way—under Alfred's escort, after days of careful travel—was clear. Carac stood dangerously close to the ongoing conflict, and neither side in the war was trusted to respect the city's accords.

As a preventive measure, the city had temporarily sealed its Gates—the massive teleportation portals that connected Carac to distant regions of the world. With the portals inactive, instant travel was impossible. Anyone entering or leaving the city now had to do so the long way.

By air. By road. Or not at all.

Carac could afford such a decision. The city was vast, nearly self-sufficient. If Trafalgar had to estimate, it was perhaps half the size of Velkaris. And Velkaris itself was monstrous in scale—a city comparable to the largest population centers of his former world. Tens of millions lived there, spread across districts he had barely begun to explore beyond those relevant to him.

Carac was smaller.

But it was still enormous.

And unlike Velkaris, it stood right at the edge of war.

The wind flowed steadily around the ship as it advanced through the sky, carrying with it the faint scent of mana currents drifting at high altitude. Trafalgar sat cross-legged near the edge of the deck, his posture relaxed, his breathing slow and controlled.

He wasn't wearing a shirt.

Bare skin made the process easier. Mana responded better when there were fewer barriers between it and the body, clinging more naturally to flesh than to fabric. It wasn't about comfort—it was efficiency.

His focus turned inward.

The Core answered, steady but stubborn.

There was progress. He could feel it. But it was slow—far slower than what he had grown used to. Nearly a full month had passed, and yet the advancement was barely noticeable. Not stagnant, just… resistant.

'Figures.'

Climbing higher meant paying a heavier price.

The lower ranks had come quickly. Too quickly, some would argue. But now he was firmly anchored in the Fourth Rank, and the difference was unmistakable. Each fragment of growth demanded more mana, more refinement, more time. Prime Rank was no longer something that could be reached through momentum alone.

Still, he knew how fortunate he was.

A SSS-ranked talent was an absurd advantage. If someone with a C- or D-ranked talent wanted to reach this level, they would need decades—endless repetition, endless failure, and a patience few possessed. Many would never make it.

An unfair world.

For the weak, it was cruelty.

For the strong, it was considered a flaw that needed correcting.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly, letting the mana disperse before drawing it back in once more. He had no illusions about where he stood. Luck had carried him far—but luck alone wouldn't carry him any further.

Footsteps echoed softly behind him.

He didn't open his eyes.

Those steps were familiar. Silent, measured, precise. He had watched them countless times in combat, etched into his memory through Sword Insight until he could recognize them without looking.

Caelum.

They had already sparred earlier that day. As usual, the result had been decided before it began.

Caelum had won.

Trafalgar didn't mind. Winning had never been the objective. Copying was.

Every exchange, every shift of weight, every micro-adjustment of stance—he absorbed them all, forcing Sword Insight to burn them into his mind. The price was sharp, invasive pain, memories overwritten and rearranged against his will.

But power always demanded a cost.

And he was willing to pay it.

Trafalgar opened his eyes at last, the faint glow of mana around him fading as he released his focus. He didn't turn immediately.

"I think we already did today's sparring, Caelum," he said calmly. "So—what is it?"

Caelum paused for half a second.

That alone was enough to confirm it wasn't something trivial.

"I have news, Young Master," Caelum replied. "Important news. It concerns the war."

Trafalgar straightened slightly, finally turning to face him. His expression remained composed, but his attention sharpened.

'The war… that means it's recent.'

"Go on," he said.

Caelum inclined his head. "The engagement has a name now. The Battle of Ritefield. It was the first major clash between the two sides."

Trafalgar's gaze narrowed just a fraction. "Already?"

"Yes. It ended only a few hours ago," Caelum continued. "There were losses on both sides, but one force was affected far more than the other."

"I see…" Trafalgar said. "And how much of that is confirmed? We're still in the air. How did you obtain this information?"

"As you are aware, Young Master," Caelum replied evenly, "I have eyes in many places. Much like your Shadowlink Echo, I rely on more than one method."

Trafalgar let out a short breath. "If you already have people gathering information… why does my father still send me here?"

Caelum met his gaze without hesitation.

"This is your first mission," he said. "You are being evaluated. And the information I provide you is accurate. I would never lie to you, Young Master. I swore my loyalty."

Trafalgar waved a hand lightly. "I know. I know."

A brief pause followed.

"Alright," he said. "What happened at Ritefield?"

Caelum drew a slow breath before answering.

"The Sylvanel forces were the ones forced to withdraw," he said. "Along with their allied houses—Rosenthal among them."

For the first time, Trafalgar's expression shifted.

"Rosenthal…" he repeated quietly.

That name carried weight. Not politically—personally.

Aubrelle.

He hadn't seen her in a long time. Long enough that it was easy to forget where she stood in all of this. War didn't ask whether a person fit the image of a soldier. It only asked whether they belonged to a side.

"And how did it unfold?" Trafalgar asked.

"The Rosenthal forces initiated a surprise assault," Caelum continued. "It was effective. Casualties were minimized at the start, and they managed to break through the first defensive line."

"So they were prepared," Trafalgar said.

"Yes," Caelum agreed. "But not for what followed. House Thal'Zar had anticipated the maneuver. A counter-ambush was already in place. Once it was triggered, the battlefield shifted entirely."

Trafalgar listened in silence.

"The engagement escalated quickly," Caelum went on. "Losses mounted on both sides, but the Sylvanel coalition was hit harder. In the end, they had no choice but to retreat."

"And Thal'Zar claimed victory," Trafalgar concluded.

"They did."

There was a brief pause before Caelum added, his tone unchanged but deliberate, "Your friend, Aubrelle au Rosenthal, played a key role."

Trafalgar's gaze sharpened. "How so?"

"She held the line during the counter-ambush," Caelum said. "Bought time. Redirected units that would have otherwise been overrun. By all reports, she saved a significant number of lives on her side."

Trafalgar exhaled slowly.

"So the battle's over," he said at last. "But Carac won't be calm."

"No," Caelum replied. "The battlefield was less than two hours from the city. Security will be tightened. Surveillance increased. Tensions will be high."

Trafalgar nodded once.

"I expected as much." He paused, then added, "I won't do anything reckless. I'll stick to the mission. Gather information. Nothing more."

"I will be watching," Caelum said simply.

"I know," Trafalgar replied.

A moment later, Alfred's voice echoed across the deck.

"Landing in fifteen minutes!"

The city of Carac loomed closer now, its lights cutting through the darkness as its aerial harbor came fully into view.

Only then did Trafalgar truly notice the port.

Platforms of reinforced stone and metal floated at different heights, arranged in wide circular patterns to manage the constant flow of traffic. Dozens of flying vessels hovered or descended in disciplined lines—sleek merchant ships, armored transports, and courier crafts darting between them with practiced precision.

Most of them were small.

Compact. Functional. Designed for efficiency rather than presence.

Calling them similar to Alfred's ship would have been an insult—one Alfred would probably take personally. His vessel dwarfed the majority of them, broader, heavier, and unmistakably built for endurance rather than convenience. Where the smaller ships relied on mana thrusters and light frames, Alfred's ship carried itself like a moving fortress.

That said… there were exceptions.

Two vessels stood apart from the rest.

Massive even by Carac's standards, their hulls were reinforced with layered plating and engraved runes, their silhouettes unmistakably noble in design. They weren't just transports—they were statements. Ships meant to be seen, meant to announce who had arrived long before a single foot touched the ground.

Caelum's gaze shifted toward them immediately.

"Dvergar and Nocthar, Young Master," he said. "Two of the great families. It seems they reached the same conclusion as your father."

Trafalgar let out a quiet breath. "You read my mind."

Inside, his thoughts moved quickly.

'Dvergar… I know Borin. Hopefully they sent him.''Nocthar… that meeting is going to be awkward.''Zafira's family should arrive too. And possibly others.'

Alfred's ship began its descent toward one of the available platforms, its shadow sweeping over the harbor below.

A moment later, it touched down.

Trafalgar stepped forward.

He had arrived in Carac.

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