The next morning, Trafalgar stood in the mansion's garden, fully dressed in a formal dark outfit that contrasted sharply with the soft snowfall around him. The cold bit at his cheeks, but he didn't mind—it kept him awake. Focused.

He adjusted the collar of his coat and exhaled, breath turning white in the air.

'Let's see what the hell he wants.'

His eyes drifted toward the distant mountains where the Morgain Castle loomed somewhere beyond the clouds. Today he would be meeting Valttair face-to-face for the first time in three months.

'I've been way too peaceful lately… which is suspicious in itself.'

He shifted his weight slightly, hands slipping into his coat pockets as he continued thinking.

'Students have been disappearing from classes too… not dying, just leaving. Aubrelle, for example. Senior Aubrelle had to return home. Her family is allied with the Sylvanel, so she's probably involved in the war by now.'

A faint frown touched his lips.

'Aubrelle… she's strong. Stronger than most people at the academy. If her family is involved in the war, she'll definitely be on the front lines.'

He breathed out slowly.

'I don't know much about this world's story or the roles people are meant to play… but someone like her shouldn't fall easily. She's too talented for that. And—well—we got along decently. At least, that's the impression she gave me… especially in cooking class.'

The memory softened his expression for half a second before he pushed it aside.

The garden around him was silent except for the crunch of snow beneath the boots of distant guards. Frost clung to the stone benches, and the barren trees swayed in the gentle breeze. Trafalgar stood still, waiting.

Today, his "taxi" would come to pick him up—a ridiculous way to describe what he knew was coming, but it eased the tension in his chest.

He glanced up at the sky.

Something felt… off. As if mana in the air thickened for a moment.

Then the wind shifted, brushing past his coat like fingers warning him of something massive approaching.

Trafalgar narrowed his eyes.

'…Something big is moving.'

He straightened his posture.

His ride was coming.

A sudden vibration trembled through the air—low at first, then deep enough to rattle the frost clinging to the branches. Several guards in the garden stiffened, hands drifting toward their weapons.

"W–What is that sound…?"

"It's coming from above—look!"

Trafalgar lifted his head.

Between the snow-capped mountains, something enormous sliced through the clouds.

A flying ship.

Long, dark, and predatory in shape—its blacksteel hull shimmered with rune-lit veins pulsing violet mana. Two massive wings unfolded at its center, flanked by smaller stabilizing fins, adjusting with mechanical precision as the vessel descended.

Mana exhaust hissed beneath it, trailing luminous vapor that painted the sky in streaks of pale blue. Arcane engines throbbed like storm-hearts, each beat sending a hum through the ground.

The guards stared in disbelief.

"Is that… is that a warship?!"

Trafalgar just sighed.

'It's early... did they really have to bring the big one?'

The ship slowed as it descended, kicking up spirals of snow. Arcane engines roared like a contained storm before easing into a smooth hover above the courtyard. Finally, the vessel settled, and a ramp crashed down with a metallic thud.

Boots echoed.

An old man stepped down the ramp—moving with sharp, practiced precision.

White hair tied back. Long navy coat fluttering in the wind. Amethyst eyes as sharp as ever. Wrinkles deepened not by age, but by surviving things most people never would. A captain's insignia glinted faintly under frost.

The guards remained frozen in shock.

Trafalgar didn't even blink.

He lifted a hand lazily.

"Morning, you prehistoric relic."

Several guards choked on their own air.

The old man's eyebrow twitched.

"Charming as always, brat. I see spending time in Euclid hasn't cured your disrespect."

Trafalgar shrugged.

"Well, one of us has to stay young. You've already got one foot in the grave and the other slipping."

A few guards looked ready to faint.

The captain—Alfred—exhaled sharply through his nose.

"For someone with such a short lifespan ahead of him, you sure talk a lot."

Trafalgar smirked.

"Please. With your joints? You'd crumble before I do."

"Hmph. Get on the damn ship. Your father's waiting, and unlike you, he has actual responsibilities."

"Yeah, yeah. Move aside before that cane of yours snaps."

"I'll snap you if you keep flapping that mouth."

Their insults—sharp, practiced, almost affectionate—filled the courtyard, leaving the guards utterly speechless.

This was clearly routine for them.

The warship cut through the sky like a blade, leaving trails of shimmering mana in its wake. Inside the vessel, the engine's steady hum vibrated beneath the floor—powerful, constant, almost soothing.

Trafalgar leaned against the railing of one of the side corridors, watching Euclid shrink below until it was nothing but a snow-dusted patch of white among mountains.

Alfred stood beside him with his hands behind his back, posture perfect, expression bored.

Trafalgar glanced at him.

"So… do you know what my father wants this time?"

Alfred didn't even look his way.

"Same as always." He shrugged. "I know absolutely nothing. I just fly people from place to place and pretend the world's problems don't exist."

Trafalgar snorted.

"What a noble career."

"Noble enough not to die early," Alfred shot back.

Trafalgar hummed thoughtfully.

"Well… I sent your regards to my grandfather, by the way."

That got Alfred's attention.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? So you didn't forget?"

Trafalgar shrugged.

"We talked once. Besides that, not much."

Alfred clicked his tongue.

"Hmph. If you care so much about my social life, why don't you go visit him yourself?"

Trafalgar gave him a sideways look.

"Because you're the one who's obsessed with him, not me."

Alfred snorted.

"Tch. Keep talking, brat. At this altitude, throwing you off wouldn't even leave evidence."

Trafalgar smirked, eyes half-lidded.

"You wouldn't even get me over the railing with those fossilized arms."

Alfred's lip twitched.

"One day, I swear—"

The old captain stopped himself, then sighed deeply, shifting into a more casual stance.

"We'll arrive in a few hours. The engines are running at full output."

He glanced at Trafalgar from the corner of his eye.

"So go on, tell me something interesting. How's life treating you, kid?"

Trafalgar let out a quiet breath, watching the icy mountains roll by beneath them. His tone softened just a little—not enough for anyone else to notice, but Alfred would.

"Complicated. Quiet for three months…"

Alfred huffed.

"Isn't that what you teenagers like? Peace? Doing nothing?"

Trafalgar shook his head faintly.

"Not when my father suddenly wants to see me."

Alfred grunted in agreement.

"Fair point. Whenever Valttair calls someone, it's never for tea."

Trafalgar's gaze sharpened ever so slightly.

"You can say that again."

Alfred chuckled under his breath.

"Alright then, boy. Spill it. What kind of trouble have you gotten into lately?"

Trafalgar shrugged.

"Nothing major. Just… odd feelings. Like something big is coming."

Alfred snorted.

"In this family? Something big is always coming."

Trafalgar huffed a laugh, but before he could answer, the ship's mana engines shifted pitch. The hum grew deeper, signaling a descent. Alfred's posture straightened automatically, all humor wiped clean from his face.

"We're approaching the castle," he said. "Try not to embarrass yourself."

Trafalgar rolled his eyes.

"Relax. If anyone embarrasses themselves, it'll be you."

"Keep talking," Alfred muttered, "and I'll drop you off the side before we land."

But the banter faded as the vessel pushed through a thick cloud layer.

The world beyond opened like a kingdom in the sky.

Morgain Castle rose atop a mountain peak swallowed by swirling white mist. Jagged towers pierced through the fog like the ribs of an ancient beast. Snow whipped violently around the battlements. From above, the castle looked less like a structure and more like a fortress carved directly from the mountain's wrath.

Trafalgar leaned slightly forward, watching the scene unfold.

'Just like always. Cold. Merciless. Home.'

The warship descended toward a landing platform carved into the side of the mountain. The moment the engines unleashed a controlled burst of mana, snow spiraled upward in a blinding white wave.

Alfred braced himself.

"Alright, brat. Show some spine when you walk out there."

Trafalgar smirked.

"I always do."

A metallic thud echoed as the landing struts locked into place. The ramp descended with a hiss of steam.

Waiting below were several figures.

At the front stood Lysandra, her platinum hair tied in a combat ponytail, armor lightly stained from fresh monster blood. Her green eyes softened—barely—when she saw him.

"Trafalgar? What are you doing here? Didn't Father order you to stay in the academy?"

Trafalgar stepped off the ramp, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

"Seems he changed his mind. Why? Something going on?"

Lysandra crossed her arms.

"Father will explain. He called all of us here."

Only then did Trafalgar notice who else was present.

Further back stood Lady Ysolde, Valttair's fourth wife—elegant, foreign, golden hair decorated with exotic ornaments. She bowed politely, though her eyes remained distant.

"Trafalgar."

Beside her stood Sylvar, pale and fragile-looking, offering no greeting at all… just staring at him as if studying an insect.

And Nym, quiet as snowfall, barely inclined her head before looking away again.

Trafalgar returned a minimal nod—nothing more.

The air between him and his family was cold. Normal.

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