This day was much like any other.
The City of Glory had entered the first chill of autumn.
Shel’s studies at the Divine Academy had concluded for the day.
After practicing the sword techniques taught by Lord Monroe with a few classmates, organizing his notes and textbooks, he bid them farewell.
Hilna had also finished her private tutoring session with the Reverend Mother. Dressed in an exquisitely tailored, wide-sleeved, high-collared robe made just for her, her long, smooth blue hair swayed gently behind her with each step. Her youthful figure was accentuated beneath the elegant, form-fitting garment. Humming a hymn, she stepped out of the classroom, ignoring the complex gazes of other students, and skipped over to Shel’s side.
Once Shel took her textbooks, they left campus together. They boarded the carriage Monroe had lent them, instructing the driver to take them to their comfortable, spacious residence—not the cramped dormitories of the Divine Academy.
Inside the carriage, Hilna excitedly demonstrated her newest mastery of Netherrealm magic. As she chanted an incantation, a bizarre creature from the Netherrealm materialized in her palm—a tiny, cat-headed humanoid with bat-like wings. The little being hopped about on the girl’s hand, chattering away at Shel. Hilna explained excitedly that this clever little messenger came from the Netherrealm. The HolySee used such creatures to deliver urgent letters.
This thrilled Shel: "So, we won’t need to pay the Church anymore to send letters to your parents—or to Lofna?"
At this, Hilna just smiled without answering.
Back at their residence, a servant had already set up outdoor seating in the courtyard, serving a dinner made with seafood caught near the Port of Saints. It was currently a fasting period; no alcohol or land meats were permitted. The meal featured two pan-seared sea fish seasoned with aromatic spices, a rich shrimp bisque, a plate of vegetable risotto, assorted dairy products, and sweet non-alcoholic drinks. A lavish feast, perfectly compliant with fasting rules, now graced the table.
Shel’s physical training had intensified lately, and his appetite had grown with it. He barely felt full after eating several extra slices of bread. Hilna, however, sampled each delicacy sparingly. She watched Shel devour his meal with a gentle smile until he was satisfied, only then rising from her seat.
In the evening, Hilna reviewed the advanced spells she’d learned that day, often studying deep into the night. The mechanics and mysteries of these magics had already surpassed Shel’s own arcane knowledge—he could no longer guide her.
Feeling the cool evening breeze in the courtyard, Shel realized he hadn’t written to Lofna in a week. He needed to think carefully about recent events worth sharing—things that might bring a smile to that distant girl’s face. Moreover, after consideration, he felt he must keep his promise as her teacher. He still needed to visit Ipoli within two years. Perhaps he could even leverage Lord Monroe’s influence to secure a year-long leave of absence. He could bring Lofna back, rent a house for her near the Port of Saints west of the City of Glory, and give her a chance to see the world.
With this thought, he fetched sketch cards and colored pencils. On his drawing board, he created four or five simply colored sketches: one of the Divine Academy’s chapel, another of robed students practicing swordplay in an open field, and one of the towering armored Sword Saint—Monroe. Beside each drawing, he jotted brief notes: *"This is the ‘sacred chapel’ the Saints speak of—actually quite small and narrow." "These swordsmen are my classmates. Kind souls, but they live under heavy burdens." "This towering warrior in full armor is the Sword Saint himself. His swordsmanship is peerless—I still can’t fully grasp his strikes..."*
But while drawing the final sketch of the Sword Saint, Shel remained dissatisfied. Though it was a simple sketch, he felt he couldn’t capture the man’s imposing aura with a blade. He kept picking up his eraser, repeatedly wiping away lines on the card. He revised it again and again, hoping to achieve the expressiveness he envisioned, yet grew only more frustrated with each change.
"I think it’s quite good. No need to keep revising," a deep, resonant voice said behind him.
Shel jerked his head up and turned around.
It was Aether Monroe.
The Sword Saint, clad in heavy armor studded with chains and rivets, had approached silently—so silently Shel hadn’t sensed him at all. Had Monroe intended to ambush him, snapping his neck would have been effortless. In his hand, he carried a small, bulging sack that looked like books.
"I knocked," Monroe explained, noticing Shel’s shock. "The maid told me you were drawing, so I didn’t disturb you. Your sketches are excellent—especially mine. I think it’s very lifelike. But you kept erasing and redrawing. Are you unhappy with it?"
Collecting himself, Shel paused briefly before answering slowly, "...Yes. These are for my student back in Ipoli. I wanted them to be accurate. But I can’t seem to capture the aura of your swordsmanship."
"I see..." Monroe stroked his chin. "I don’t know much about art, but I can demonstrate my sword techniques again. To help you refine the drawing."
"That... would be deeply appreciated."
"No trouble at all."
Monroe drew a ceremonial practice sword from his waist. Standing in the courtyard, he assumed a stance and executed a few simple strikes. To him, they were mere swings—but to an ordinary observer, they moved with thunderous speed. Shel watched intently several times before finally grasping the nuances of his explosive movements. Inspiration struck. He immediately added a few blurred strokes to the sketch, conveying the Sword Saint’s motion and presence.
"Excellent work," Monroe remarked after seeing the finished piece. "You truly are a gifted artist. And this style—it’s unusual. Minimal lines, clean composition, yet remarkably clear. Where did you learn this?"
Shel couldn’t very well admit this was a manga style he’d self-taught from online tutorials in his past life. He deflected: "...Just idle doodling when bored. I picked up a few tricks. It’s nothing compared to the techniques of court painters."
"I think it’s superb," Monroe said earnestly.
An awkward silence settled between them.
"My lord," Shel finally asked, "did you come tonight for a reason?"
"Indeed I did." Monroe shifted uncomfortably, glancing around before pointing at the sketches. "Actually... it has to do with these drawings of yours."
"My drawings?"
"Yes. About a year ago, illustrated children’s storybooks began circulating in the City of Glory from other regions. They first appeared among art collectors, then imitations multiplied. Their clean, bright style and simple, charming stories captivated many children. I collected some myself."
As he spoke, the Sword Saint opened the sack beside him. Inside lay unmistakably crude imitations of the fairy-tale storybooks Shel had once created for Hilna and Lofna. Some lacked the pop-up effects due to poor craftsmanship; others were mere traced copies of his illustrations, even uncolored. Yet every single one bore the label: *"Illustrated by Master Shel of Ipoli."*
That name had become a household name.
Shel froze.
He remembered now. Years ago, after gifting those old storybooks to the elderly Mage, the old man had proudly declared: *"I made many pop-up replicas and shared them with my old friends. They all adore your work! You’re a recognized genius, Master Shel!"*
Shel hadn’t taken it seriously then.
He never imagined these trinkets would spread so far—so widely that even this pillar of the HolySee now held imitations in his hands.
"When Perry relayed news of Hilna and you to the HolySee," Monroe continued, "he included your personal details. I suspected then that the widely circulated storybooks were yours. After all, in a remote little nation like Ipoli, how many literate men named Shel could there be—let alone ones skilled in both painting and composition?"
"Your work is exceptional. I’ve read several. Full of childlike wonder. Perfect for children."
Monroe hesitated, then seemed to steel himself. "I have a... ‘child’... who adores your stories. She wishes—hopes—you might visit her. To tell her tales."
