The rhythmic hum of the mana-train was a monotonous lullaby against the backdrop of the blurring landscape. Fields of harvested grain gave way to rolling hills dusted with the first hints of autumn gold, then dense forests whose ancient trees seemed to watch the train pass with silent judgment.

It was a stark contrast to the sharp, gleaming modernity of Arcadia City, which now felt like a distant, half-remembered dream, a hyper-realistic simulation I had just logged out of.

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the world slide by. My reflection stared back – same face, same silver hair that seemed almost unnaturally bright in this mundane light, same blue eyes that now held shadows no fifteen-year-old should possess.

The person behind them felt irrevocably altered. Three months. Just three months at Arcade Hunter Academy, yet it felt like a lifetime crammed into a single semester.

I had faced demons literal and metaphorical, clashed swords with heirs of legendary families, navigated the treacherous currents of noble politics, manipulated nascent financial markets through a bewildered proxy, stared death in the eye during the Labyrinth purge, and somehow emerged holding the title of First-Year Monarch.

Returning home… felt strange. Alien, almost. Selorn City.

The name echoed with memories that weren't entirely mine, fragments of the original Michael's life flickering like old film reels – running through cobbled streets sticky with summer heat, the satisfying thud of a wooden practice sword hitting a worn dummy in the guild yard, the warm, comforting smell of his mother's honey-nut bread baking in the early morning.

Nostalgia warred with a profound sense of detachment, the unsettling feeling of wearing someone else's history like ill-fitting clothes.

Was this really my home anymore? Or just another stage, another setting in this unpredictable, sprawling game that had become my reality?

The train slowed, its steady hum deepening into a low groan as it approached the Selorn Central Station.

Unlike Arcadia's grand, rune-etched terminal that screamed of power and prestige, Selorn's station was smaller, more practical, built of sturdy, weathered grey stone darkened by decades of rain and industry. Functional rather than majestic.

The air filtering through the opening doors smelled different too – less charged ozone and refined magic, more damp earth, coal smoke from nearby factories, and the faint, salty tang carried inland on the breeze from the distant coast.

Stepping onto the platform felt like stepping back at least fifty years.

Horse-drawn carts laden with produce shared the cracked asphalt road outside the station with sputtering, older-model mana-cars coughing out faint blue exhaust.

Buildings were mostly brick and timber, rarely exceeding five stories, their facades showing the grime of years.

Merchants called out their wares with a familiar, boisterous energy lacking the polished sheen of Arcadia's vendors, their stalls displaying local crafts, fresh vegetables piled high, baskets of squawking chickens, and trays of low-grade, cloudy mana stones – a far cry from the exotic, high-rank monster cores and gleaming artifacts peddled in Arcadia's magically illuminated markets.

It was… simpler. Slower. Less ambitious. And undeniably, viscerally real in a way the Academy sometimes wasn't.

My suitcase, containing little more than changes of clothes, my Academy uniform, training gear, and the carefully concealed evidence chip, felt heavy in my hand as I navigated the familiar streets.

Faces passed – neighbours whose names flickered at the edge of borrowed memory, offering vague nods of recognition; merchants who smiled politely, likely remembering Michael as the quiet Willson boy; kids chasing stray, mangy dogs down alleys thick with the smell of refuse.

They saw Michael Willson, the unassuming second son of the perpetually struggling Willson Guild, back from his improbable stint at the prestigious Academy.

They didn't see the Rank 1, the Mindbreaker, the wielder of a slumbering Divine Weapon, the shadow investor silently moving billions, the Chief Inspector who held the power to suspend nobles. The disconnect was jarring, isolating. I was a ghost walking through my own past life.

The Willson Guild Hall stood on a corner near the bustling market district, looking even more worn than Michael's memories suggested.

It wasn't imposing – a two-story building of dark timber beams set into rough, grey stone, the guild's faded banner (a stylized grey wolf's head gripping a cracked sword in its jaws) hanging slightly askew above the heavy oak door.

The wood showed signs of rot near the base, the paint on the window frames was peeling in long strips, and several roof tiles looked precariously loose.

Even from the outside, I could sense the strain, the quiet, grinding struggle for survival that permeated its very foundations. It looked less like a proud guild hall and more like a stubborn old warrior refusing to fall, despite countless wounds.

My hand hesitated on the heavy iron knocker, shaped like a snarling wolf's head. The metal felt cold, rough beneath my fingers.

Taking a shallow breath, steeling myself for the inevitable emotional onslaught, I pushed the door open.

Creak—

The familiar, almost comforting scent of the guild hall washed over me – old wood polished smooth by countless hands, stale sweat, the lingering aroma of cheap ale from last night, the sharp tang of weapon oil, and underneath it all, the faint, metallic scent of dried blood.

The main hall was dimly lit by flickering oil lamps and a few weak mana-crystals, sparsely populated in the late afternoon lull.

A handful of guild members – faces I vaguely recognized from Michael's fragmented memories, their armor scuffed, their expressions weary – sat nursing lukewarm drinks at scarred wooden tables, their conversations low and subdued, punctuated by heavy sighs.

The weapon racks lining one wall looked alarmingly thin, holding mostly common-grade swords and dented shields.

The notice board near the entrance, usually a hub of activity, was filled more with faded debt reminders and city tax notices than lucrative monster-slaying contracts.

The very air felt heavy, stagnant with worry.

Then, two figures turned from the back counter, where a ledger lay open under a flickering lamp.

"Michael!"

My mother, Lilly, rushed forward first. Her travel-worn tunic was simple, practical, her brown hair pulled back hastily, strands escaping to frame a face lined with fatigue but instantly illuminated by overwhelming joy.

She pulled me into a tight, fierce hug before I could even react, her warmth immediate and grounding, smelling faintly of campfire smoke and restorative herbs.

"You're back! Oh, look at you! You seem… different. Thinner, maybe? But taller? Are they even feeding you properly at that ridiculously expensive school?"

Her hands fluttered over my shoulders, my face, as if confirming I was real.

Before I could formulate an answer that wasn't a complete lie, my father, Darius, approached, clapping a heavy, calloused hand on my shoulder.

His presence was a solid wall of quiet strength, though the lines around his eyes seemed deeper than I remembered. His usual stern face broke into a rare, wide, proud grin that transformed his rugged features.

"Welcome home, son."

His grip was firm, almost crushing, a silent acknowledgment of the new strength he sensed radiating from me, even if he couldn't comprehend its true source or depth.

"Heard you caused quite a stir up there in the capital. Made the old Willson name echo for a change."

"Just a bit," I managed, feeling an awkward warmth spread through my chest, a confusing mix of borrowed emotion and genuine connection. The unadulterated joy in their eyes, the simple, profound relief of having me home safe – it hit harder than any blow Eric William had landed. It felt… real, in a way the Academy's calculated praises never did.

We spent the next hour catching up, squeezed onto a worn bench near the cold hearth. They bombarded me with questions – about the Academy's towering spires, the difficulty of the classes ("Did you understand all that fancy magic theory?"), the food ("Was it better than your mother's stew? Be honest!"), and especially the tournament. They'd watched the chaotic final rounds on a flickering public broadcast crystal down at the market square, their pride warring visibly with sheer terror every time I faced an opponent.

I answered carefully, sticking to the heavily sanitized official narrative distributed by the Academy, downplaying the near-death experiences, emphasizing the rigorous training, glossing over the political machinations and the true nature of my abilities.

Telling them about Draken, or the Labyrinth purge, or the billions flowing through Aegis Holdings felt utterly impossible, like trying to describe colors to someone born blind.

They, in turn, spoke of the guild, their voices laced with a weary resignation they tried to hide. The difficult C-rank dungeon clear they'd just returned from had yielded barely enough mana stones to cover the expedition costs after the Association's cut.

The number of worthwhile local contracts was dwindling, swallowed up by larger, more efficient guilds from nearby cities or undercut by the increasingly aggressive Iron Vipers. Taxes, equipment maintenance, guild hall upkeep – the costs mounted relentlessly.

As my mother went to fetch some lukewarm tea and slightly stale bread rolls – likely the best the guild could currently afford – my father leaned closer, the jovial mask slipping, revealing the deep-seated stress beneath. His voice dropped to a low, gravelly murmur.

"Things are… tight, Michael. Tighter than they've ever been. That Iron Vipers guild, led by that snake Gregor? They're getting bolder. Undercutting our bids on every decent contract, spreading rumors in the market square about our competence, even trying to poach some of our younger members with promises of better pay."

He rubbed his temples, his brow furrowed.

"Feels like someone's backing them, someone with deeper pockets, deliberately pushing us towards the edge."

Iron Vipers. The name echoed my earlier research and Denzo's intel.

So, the local rivalry was escalating, potentially fueled by external forces – maybe even remnants of the Belnic faction seeking indirect revenge, or Magnus Daven extending his influence.

The Academy's shadows reached far.

"We'll manage," Darius added quickly, straightening up as Lilly returned with the meager refreshments, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Always have. Just… you focus on your rest now. You've earned it after making your old man proud."

Later that evening, settled into my old, cramped room upstairs – a world away from the luxurious suite at the Supreme Hall – I unpacked slowly.

The room was exactly as the original Michael had left it three months ago: worn training manuals filled with basic sword forms stacked unevenly on the single wooden shelf, a dented practice sword with a frayed leather grip leaning in the corner, a faded, hand-drawn map of the local dungeons tacked crookedly to the plaster wall, marked with hopeful annotations in a younger Michael's handwriting.

It felt both intimately familiar and profoundly alien, like looking at a photograph of a stranger who happened to wear my face.

Lying on the narrow, lumpy bed, staring at the water stains blooming across the cracked ceiling plaster, the weight of my secrets pressed down with suffocating force.

The sixteen billion Ren churning silently through the markets under Victor's frantic management, the foundation of my future independence.

The encrypted data chip in my inner jacket pocket, holding the evidence that could shatter careers and disgrace noble houses back in Arcadia.

The awakening power of Draken, the whisper of the Dragon of Doom and Destruction a constant, low thrum beneath my conscious thoughts.

How could I possibly explain any of this to the loving, straightforward, fundamentally ordinary parents just downstairs? How could I inject billions into their struggling guild without revealing the impossible truth of who – and what – I had become? Using Victor as a front was a start, but the questions wouldn't stop there.

The homecoming wasn't just a return; it was a stark, brutal confrontation with the widening, perhaps unbridgeable, chasm between my two lives, my two selves.

As I drifted into an uneasy sleep, the floorboards creaking under the weight of my exhaustion, I overheard hushed, worried voices from the main hall below – Darius arguing quietly with two senior guild members, their words laced with desperation.

"...another contract lost to the Vipers."

"...loan repayment due next week, Darius, we don't have it."

"...maybe we need to sell the spare training grounds?"

"...can't keep the lights on like this..."

The peace of home was proving to be heartbreakingly fragile.

The shadows of conflict weren't just looming in the distant capital.

They were here, pressing in, threatening to extinguish the small, flickering flame of the Willson Guild.

And I, the supposed Monarch of the first years, felt sickeningly powerless to stop it without shattering their world in a different way.

(To be continued in Chapter 154)

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