Lyselle’s eyes widened unconsciously as she listened.

*Brother,* she thought, *this-this-this can’t be right.*

Though she’d suspected it before, hearing it straight from Mula felt utterly different from mere speculation.

The Nursery Chamber. Roles tailored to each individual. A single will governing society.

Any one element alone might mean little. But combined…

Lyselle suddenly lifted her head, gazing toward the direction Mula had stared into the thick fog.

She knew what stood there.

A tree—the colossal Lundeheim.

When she first arrived in this city-state, she’d mistaken it for the legendary Mother Tree of Elves. Now she understood: this giant *was* Lundeheim as the outside world knew it.

The Matriarch had nurtured both it and the Elves. The Elves obeyed her commands, building their city atop its branches.

Mythical, wasn’t it?

But if one examined the hidden details beneath this legend… the conclusion might shatter the surface entirely.

Beneath this breathtaking, ancient Elven city… lurked something startlingly advanced. An AI?

Lyselle found it absurd.

And this theory couldn’t explain all of Lundeheim’s anomalies.

The Matriarch’s madness might stem from a malfunctioning AI. But the fog—the fog swallowing the entire city? Governor Fawena called it the "Matriarch’s Dream." Yet…

Could an AI truly dream?

Or would a cybernetic Matriarch dream of fantasy Elves?

Lyselle let out a small sigh.

The idea was shocking, yet not impossible. She simply lacked proof. For now, she’d keep investigating. What if the Elves’ Matriarch wasn’t an AI at all, but a godlike being?

After all, across the Pan Continent, no one had truly seen a god—but legends of them were everywhere.

Still…

Lyselle turned to Mula, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"But no matter what—she’s still the mother who raised you for over three thousand years, right? Even if she’s malfunctioning, even if you resent her arrangements… how could you plot to kill your own mother?"

Mula’s expression froze.

He snapped his head up, frowning. Confusion and disbelief burned in his emerald eyes.

"What did you say? We’re… plotting to kill our mother?"

Lyselle realized instantly.

"You didn’t know?"

The captain of Lundeheim’s guard didn’t know Fawena had tasked her and Shall with killing the Matriarch?

*Why?*

A dozen possibilities flashed through the Sorceress’s mind.

Before she could spiral into wild conspiracy theories, Mula murmured to himself:

"So the Governor brought you here… to kill Mother? But why…? Could it be true, like those others claimed—that the city’s anomalies truly stem from her?"

His expression shifted rapidly. His thoughts churned violently.

After a long internal struggle, he regained his composure. His voice dropped low.

"I knew nothing of this. The Governor only said this fog might be linked to Mother. But even so… things haven’t grown so dire we must… raise arms against her. There must be another reason. No—*there is* another reason. I must speak with the Governor!"

His words tumbled out faster and faster.

Beneath his calm surface, turmoil raged.

Lyselle didn’t care.

In fact, she relished the chaos.

Mula confronting Fawena was perfect. The fiercer their clash, the more secrets might spill. Lyselle doubted Fawena—she who’d hired them to kill the Matriarch—was as clueless as Mula. She suspected Fawena was the true mastermind.

That’s why she’d deliberately revealed the truth.

If Mula already knew, fine. If not… things were about to get interesting.

Just as she’d predicted, Mula now burned to confront Fawena.

*Soon, the riddler will be sweating bullets,* Lyselle thought gleefully, though she kept her face perfectly innocent.

"Mr. Mula," she asked casually, "you mentioned ‘those others’? Who are they? What did they say?"

Mula, already turning to lead the way, fell silent for a moment. Then he spoke softly.

"Sorceress, you must understand—not everyone desires a life of unchanging peace. Even among us Elves… some grow weary of such relentless monotony."

"‘Those others’… are those people."

"At first, they worked like everyone else, in roles the Matriarch assigned. But even we Elves—who live for centuries, millennia—grow tired of endless sameness."

He paused, shaking his head.

"Perhaps our very longevity is the cause. I, for instance, have been Captain of Lundeheim’s Guard for three hundred years. And barring accidents, I’ll hold this post until I can no longer rise from bed to patrol and protect our city."

"Only then will the Matriarch choose… or *grow*… a replacement to take my place."

"I am not alone. Every Elf in Lundeheim is like this. We are cogs in a great machine, spinning ceaselessly in our stations to keep it running. Until we wear down… or break."

"Or… find release."

The Elf slowly lowered his head. From his pocket, he drew the pocket watch Lyselle and Shall had seen before.

He wound the chain around his fingers, clutched the watch, and opened its lid. His gaze fixed on the slowly turning hands. His voice softened.

"I told you once, Sorceress—my dream was to be a watchmaker. Others… other Elves harbor dreams just as distant from their duties. But we all know… we’ll likely never fulfill them. Even though…"

"Even though they seem so simple to achieve."

He gently closed the lid, tucked the watch away with care, and lifted his head.

The confusion had vanished from his face. He was resolute again—the dependable Captain they’d first met.

Lyselle understood: Mula wasn’t one of "those others."

Then what about Fawena?

The Governor who’d hired them to kill the Elves’ Matriarch—where did *she* stand?

Lyselle scratched her head suddenly.

It itched like it was sprouting new brain cells.

Detective games were fun. But Elven internal politics? Instantly boring.

She had zero interest in their messy drama. She just wanted to snatch the Elves’ mother, finish the Governor’s job, and make that damned riddler cough up a mountain of gold coins.

As for Elven factional strife? Not her problem.

*Let Shall deal with it,* she thought wickedly, hiding behind the man and tugging his sleeve.

But Shall seemed to sense her thoughts. He spoke abruptly:

"One more thing, Mr. Mula. After getting lost, my… master and I checked nearby cabins. Every Elf had vanished. Do you know why?"

Mula stopped dead. He whirled around.

"*What?*" His voice rose involuntarily. "You mean… the Elves in the nearby cabins—all gone?"

Shall nodded.

"Yes. Their homes still held traces of recent life… but no residents."

He raised the Bronze Lantern, its light spilling over the nearest cabin beside the path.

"If I’m not mistaken," the Champion said gravely, "this cabin’s owner is also missing."

Mula’s face darkened. He strode to the cabin door, did something unseen, and pushed it open.

He stepped inside.

Shrouded in fog, the doorway yawned like a dark maw waiting to devour. Silent. Unnerving.

Lyselle and Shall waited beside that maw. Moments later, it spat Mula back out.

His face was grim.

"No one’s inside," he said lowly, drawing his sword. "Yet the Governor’s order was clear: *Do not leave your homes unless absolutely necessary.*"

The Elf gripped his sword hilt, scanning the fog like a soldier facing an unseen enemy.

Silence pressed in. Only their own breathing broke the stillness.

But Mula sensed something.

His gaze locked onto a point in the mist. Before Lyselle could follow his line of sight, he roared:

"Who’s there?!"

Like a gale, he lunged forward—and vanished into the fog.

Lyselle and Shall gave chase.

They found only traces of his passage.

Like the Elves who’d disappeared from their homes, Mula had been swallowed by the mist.

Left behind were only his cherished pocket watch… and the still-lit Bronze Lantern, swaying gently in the gloom.

[To Be Continued]