While Dante pondered over the mysterious alloy known as Kalikrithar, a rare metal gifted to him by an unknown figure bearing the initials D.R., a different storm brewed at the Ruthwilfer estate.
The morning sun bathed the wide marble courtyard of the estate in a gentle golden hue, casting long shadows over the moss-covered statues that stood like silent sentinels. Hooves thundered on the ground as a returning contingent of soldiers approached, their armor stained by countless battles, their eyes hollow from war's toll. At the head of this weary procession rode a woman unlike any other.
She dismounted with the grace of a lioness, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders like a waterfall of onyx, eyes black as the abyss, her body honed and muscular from years of brutal conflict. The very air around her seemed to stiffen at her presence. The soldiers stood in respectful silence, eyes lowered—not in shame, but in fear.
Avabel Ruthwilfer had returned.
The estate whispered her titles like prayers—or warnings.
The Apex Predator. The Titania. The Universal Soldier.
She was the living embodiment of wrath and discipline. She had every right to claim the Ruthwilfer patriarch seat by might alone. But to her, it was a throne soaked in delusion—power-hungry, self-consuming. She lived for battle. She craved the clang of steel and the rush of death. The seat was for politicians. She was born for war.
Boots echoing through the marble halls, Avabel pushed open the grand doors of the estate's inner sanctum. There, in the richly decorated dining chamber, sat her brother.
"Will," she said with cold precision, voice lined in steel.
Will Ruthwilfer, older, wearier, met her eyes with guarded calm. "Avabel. Four years... and not a single letter."
"Didn't see the point," she muttered, shrugging off her armored cloak. "I bring bad news, brother. Our dead father's delusional dream—to unite the southeastern clans—has failed. Completely."
She pulled out a chair and sat across from Will, her armor clinking softly.
Will exhaled, as if he'd expected this. "I told you from the beginning. It was pointless."
He sipped red wine from his goblet, voice thoughtful but tinged with bitterness. "The southeastern clans have always been loyal to the Aldermans—by name and by oath. They still believe the Alderman Clan lives. That bloodline saved their lands during the Demon Clan's rise in the First Pre-War. They owe them everything."
He took a bite of seared steak, chewing slowly. "They made blood oaths. Oaths that if the Aldermans ever returned, they would answer their call—without hesitation."
Avabel snorted, folding her arms against her chest plate. "Pathetic sheep. Living in the past."
Her eyes narrowed. "By the way… I've heard rumors. That the Demon Clan has resurfaced after being sealed away for centuries. Is it true?"
Will gave her a pointed look.
"And I heard…" She tilted her head mockingly. "That some filthy mistake actually took down one of the culprits. Am I hearing that right?"
She referred to Dante.
"Yes." Will wiped his mouth with a napkin, composed. "It was Dante. He planned the strategy."
Avabel's face twisted in disgust. "You're going soft. That was your fault th—!"
The doors creaked open.
Diana stepped in, regal as ever. Her silver-gray hair tied into a tight bun, her gown modest yet commanding.
Avabel's voice trailed. Her expression shifted, just slightly.
"Second Aunt," Avabel greeted flatly.
"Avabel," Diana replied in kind.
A beat passed between them. Years of unspoken rivalry, disdain, and contempt all wrapped up in a single glance.
"I see you still look rather... ravishing, despite being forty-five," Avabel said with a crooked smile.
Diana smirked back. "Can't say the same. Still no suitors?"
"Enough!" Will stood abruptly, the chair scraping back. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I took the patriarch seat because I had to. I didn't understand its weight. I was young. Foolish. I've sinned. And those sins… will follow me to the grave."
He slammed his palm on the table. "Avabel, you will not interfere with Dante. If you do, I will strip the family name from you. Not as your brother—but as your Patriarch. Are we clear?"
His voice thundered through the room.
"YOU FOOL!" Avabel roared, eyes ablaze.
"THAT PEASANT IS NO RUTHWILFER! HE'S A MISTAKE—AND YOU KNOW IT!"
"LIKE IT OR NOT, I'LL MAKE SURE HE LIVES!" Will yelled back. "End of discussion!"
He stormed out, the doors slamming behind him.
---
The next morning, in the forge classroom, Dante sat in the last row, fiddling with a sketch of Kalikrithar's molecular structure.
An old man entered, white-haired and wide-eyed with experience. His voice rasped with age but commanded attention.
"Alright, class. Can someone tell me what happens when carbon is mixed with iron?"
"Nickel?" a student guessed.
The old man shook his head. "No."
He scanned the room, then locked eyes with Dante.
"You there. Are you Dante Ruthwilfer?"
Dante blinked. "Yes."
"So you are him... Rowan told me about you. The item you forged with him—interesting work."
"Rowan?" Dante muttered. "You mean the 'old man'?"
"Yes, that old man. His name's Rowan."
"Ah… So that was his name," Dante chuckled softly, scratching his head.
"Well then, care to answer my question, young man?"
Dante leaned forward. "Steel or cast iron."
"Correct." The teacher nodded approvingly. "Add 0.1% to 2% carbon to iron—you get steel. Strong, ductile, malleable. Perfect for tools, weapons, structures. Add more—around 2% to 4%—you get cast iron. It's hard. Brittle. Used in cookware, pipes, engine blocks... or dwarven cannons."
The students chuckled lightly. The lesson continued.
Dante absorbed every word, every nuance.
---
Recess.
Students formed lines for their meals. Dante sat with his tray, quietly eating—until he heard the shouting.
A girl with long silver hair, pointed elven ears, and eyes as blue as crashing waterfalls was surrounded. Taka and his lackeys were jeering at her.
"Look at those ears!" Taka laughed, mockingly.
"Let's cut them off!" one of the bullies sneered, raising a pair of scissors.
"No! Leave me alone!" she cried out.
No one moved. Not a single teacher. Not a single student.
Taka was a Ruthwilfer. Untouchable.
Dante sighed, looking up. "Not my problem," he muttered. "Survival of the fittest…"
Snip.
His eyes narrowed. "Wait—no way."
He turned—just as Taka raised the scissors.
Before anyone could react, a loud thud echoed through the canteen. Taka was on the ground, winded.
Dante stood over him, holding the elven girl in his arms.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
"Y-Yeah…" she whispered, cheeks flushed.
"Dante!" Taka shouted. "You dare help an elf?!"
"So?" Dante replied coolly. "The elven clans stood with us during the First War. And this is how you repay them?!"
"That was then! You're just a mistake!"
"Right. A mistake who stopped you from touching Princess Zhurong's horns last year."
Silence.
A dragon boy from the second year rose, eyes wide. "WHAT?!"
"Yes. He tried. Then he grabbed her wrist."
"You wretched—!" The dragon boy growled. Several dragon girls stood, their eyes glowing faintly.
"So he's the pervert who tried to touch our princess?" one of them spat.
"I say we cut his hands off," a dragon male hissed.
Dante raised a hand. "Wait. What's with the horns? Are they that sacred?"
"They are," the dragon boy answered solemnly. "A dragon's horns choose their future mate. Touching them without permission is a grave insult."
Dante froze. "...Ha…ha…ha. So that's why she put my hand on her horns last year… ." Dante muttered under his breath.
Chaos erupted.
Taka and the bullies were beaten and bruised up and took the chance to escape in disgrace. The dragon students offered curt bows to Dante.
"Thank you. We hadn't heard of this." Said the 2nd year male dragon student.
"You did good, for a cutie little boy." Said a 3rd year female dragon in her final year. In a playful and light seductive yone as sge pinched Dante's right cheek lightly.
They returned to their seats, muttering.
Dante turned to the elven girl, placing her tray next to his.
"Eat. I took half of it."
She looked down, touched, and began eating shyly.
"Dante," he said, introducing himself.
"Lythari," she replied. "But call me Thari for short…"
"Why?" Dante tilted his head. "Lythari's beautiful. Especially for someone with eyes like waterfalls."
Lythari blushed furiously from Dante's comments about her eyes.
---
Chapter 12 – End.