Throughout history, dynasties inevitably rise and fall.

Both natural disasters and human follies shake kingdoms to their core.

Always, someone overthrows the corrupt old ruler, claims the throne, then slowly rots into the very tyrant they replaced—only to be toppled in turn...

Yet for the millennia-old Buchert Kingdom, this cycle held no sway.

Every king lived well past a hundred, passing peacefully in their sleep. Each ruled as wisely as the last: shunning women, rejecting wealth, never clinging to power.

With the Moonlight Family’s aid, Buchert grew from a speck of land into a continental powerhouse, standing toe-to-toe with every non-human nation.

Even after the Moonlight Family’s decline, noble allies kept the kingdom’s ascent steady.

Mobius Buchert, the twenty-fourth king, remained sharp-minded at over 110 years. But lately, his body weakened. Though his throne presence still radiated authority, he knew—it was time to pass the crown to his son.

Strangely, every Buchert king fathered heirs in old age. The current prince was born when His Majesty turned ninety.

For ordinary folk, fathering children at ninety seemed impossible. But for Professionals? Perfectly normal.

Though Professionals gained no extra years, their bodies stayed peak-fit until death’s doorstep.

At 110, Mobius far outlived Buchert’s average fifty-year lifespan. His people whispered it was divine favor—reward for his wisdom, mercy, and love for them.

*The Divine protects the king.*

*The Divine protects Buchert.*

Hearing this, Mobius would stroke his beard and chuckle, "Perhaps so."

The truth was far darker.

Longevity held no mystery for some.

Midnight. The weary king rose from bed, dressed silently, and turned a painting beside his bed.

A stone door slid open from the floor, revealing stairs descending into blackness.

Aged yet swift, Mobius navigated the dark passage until he reached a sealed cell. Only a pitch-black iron door marked its entrance, guarded by two Gold Rank warriors.

A wave of his hand sent them bowing away.

Keys scraped in the lock. The door shut with a heavy *thud*.

In the cell’s center, an Elf hung bound to a cross. Wild hair veiled her face. Naked. Her skin was one tapestry of scars.

Mobius snatched a barbed whip from a rack.

*WHOOSH—CRACK!*

The lash tore across her chest.

"AHHH!" Crimson welts bloomed on tender flesh.

Her head snapped up with a scream. Wrinkled pleasure flushed the king’s withered face as he struck harder.

*CRACK!*

"You tyrant!" she spat.

Mobius cackled, whipping her most sensitive spots. "Thirty years, and you still only bark the same curses. Can’t you learn new insults, you wretched creature?"

Fire seared her chest, intensifying with every blow. She bit her lip, turning her head—refusing him the joy of her cries.

His laughter turned giddy. "Yes! Fight it! Don’t break like your predecessor did after twelve years. Give me more!"

He dipped the whip in chili water. "Grown in your homeland. An Elven specialty." Leaning close, he hissed, "You ate plenty as a child. Does this taste like home? Do you miss it?"

Silence.

*CRACK!* The whip lashed her swollen peak.

"AAAAAGH!" Tears burst free. She howled, threatened, begged—broken.

"*Sob... sob...*"

"Tears for home, little Elf?" Mobius grinned, vile and gleeful. "Let me send you back!"

With a sickening *THWACK*, the whip struck her other peak.

"AAAAAH—!" Her eyes rolled white. Drool trailed from her lips as she whimpered, "*No... please... no...*"

Her utter collapse thrilled him. He stripped, lowered the cross, and mounted her—ignoring her sobs, thrusting wildly. Teeth sank into her flesh. Blood filled his throat. Ecstasy flooded his veins.

This was the "King’s Elixir." The fate of Elves with Noble Bloodline.

Such Elves possessed finer features, prouder forms—and heightened pain. Captured, they became both medicine and playthings for the king’s twisted desires.

When a man lives too long... does his mind stay sane?

A question left hanging.

.............

A freckled youth with straw-colored hair fed his grandfather’s belongings to the fire. One by one, they vanished into flames.

"Disgusting old man. Calling me 'little Jack'."

"*Big Jack* is the name!"

Jack scowled at letters between Alisha and the old man. "So many pages... this old hag must’ve been his mistress."

*His granddaughter... golden hair, green eyes... quite the looker, according to these letters...*

His eyes widened.

"Wait..."

"*Golden hair. Green eyes. Elf?*"

"HAHAHAHA! That bounty from the Slave Catcher Squad? Big Jack’s claiming it!"