Luther stared.

Stared didn't quite cover it.

His eyes dragged over the figure in front of him as if his mind refused to accept what it was seeing. Pointed ears. Long blonde hair catching the light like dew on leaves. A lean frame wrapped in torn travel leathers dusted with monster ash.

An elf.

An elf girl.

And she was holding the spot where Eldric had stood only moments ago.

Silence fell, heavy and wrong.

The kind where the forest itself seemed to hold its breath, leaves frozen mid-rustle, dust refusing to settle because even gravity didn't want to get involved.

Luther stared at the elf kneeling before him.

She stayed bowed, fist to her chest, posture flawless—too formal, too reverent, too old.

"My lord Yieli," she repeated, voice steady. "Son of Asmethan."

Something in the air shifted.

Not visibly. Not magically loud. But Luther felt it—like a pressure behind his eyes, like the world had checked a name against a list and thought oh no.

The demonic sword did not speak.

That alone was horrifying.

Luther swallowed.

"…No," Luther said flatly.

The word came out calm, almost bored, but inside his head something snapped like a badly strung bow.

No. Absolutely not.

The elf turned toward him, blinking once in faint surprise, as if she hadn't expected him to speak at all.

"Yieli?" she said uncertainly.

That did it.

Luther's mouth twisted. "That's not my name."

Her brows knit together. "You're… joking?"

"I don't joke about names," Luther shot back. "Especially that one."

He took a breath.

"So I'm going to need you to stand up before my soul leaves my body."

She hesitated—just a fraction of a second—then rose smoothly to her feet. Even standing, she was slightly shorter than him, though the authority rolling off her made that fact irrelevant.

Her eyes searched his face with unsettling focus.

"You don't remember," she said.

Luther blinked. "I don't remember what?"

"…That explains much," she murmured.

"That is the opposite of helpful."

The demonic sword hummed softly at his side, its glow pulsing like it was trying very hard not to laugh. Oh, this is good, it muttered. I knew something was off about the gem-obsessed one, but this? An elf? Delicious.

Luther ignored it—barely.

He dragged a hand down his face and looked at the elf again, slower this time, as if repeating the action might somehow turn her back into the round, greasy-fingered merchant who used to squeal over shiny rocks.

Eldric.

The fat one. The one who tried to haggle with monsters. The one who cried when a gem chipped.

And now—

"No," Luther said again, sharper. "You are not him. And I am definitely not Yieli. And whatever blasted god put that idea in your head—" his jaw clenched "—Asmethan had nothing to do with me. I didn't want him. I didn't ask for any of this."

The elf stiffened.

For a moment, Luther thought she might finally argue.

Instead, she just looked at him. Really looked. Like she was trying to reconcile two images that refused to overlap.

Then she turned away.

Just turned. Like he hadn't spoken at all.

Luther gaped.

"…Did she just ignore me?" he muttered.

The sword snickered. Spectacularly.

The elf walked back toward the shattered remains of the monster, boots crunching softly over scorched earth. She crouched near a tree that shimmered unnaturally—its bark veined with emerald light, branches heavy with crystalline growths.

She reached up, plucked one of the emeralds, and examined it.

Her lips curled.

Then she crushed it.

The gem disintegrated into dust between her fingers.

"Who," she growled, "would be insane enough to forge false emeralds from a living Iuiona tree?"

Luther leaned on one leg, unimpressed. "You know, if you wanted my attention, ignoring me was a weird strategy."

The sword added helpfully, Elves are dramatic like that. Ancient beings, long grudges, selective hearing.

Luther shot it a look. "You don't know anything about elves."

I've stabbed at least six, the sword replied. That counts.

The elf finally turned back.

Slow. Deliberate.

Her gaze settled on Luther, sharper now, more focused.

"My name is Elythra," she said. "Knight of the Iuiona Elf Kingdom."

Luther blinked once.

Twice.

"…Of course you are."

She continued, unfazed. "I was tasked by my queen to protect Lord Yieli."

The sword coughed. "Understatement of the century."

Luther shot it a glare, then looked back at Elythra. "You called me Yieli."

Her expression sharpened.

"A name erased," she said quietly. "Stricken from records. Buried by the gods themselves."

The forest creaked.

Luther's stomach dropped.

"I don't like how dramatic the world gets when you say things like that," he said flatly.

"Because it remembers," she replied.

"That is still not—"

"My duty to protect," Elythra went on, voice steady, "has been passed down through my family for generations."

The words landed heavier than Luther expected.

She stepped closer.

"I traveled the world under the name Eldric," she said calmly. "Searching. Watching. Waiting. And now I have finally found you."

Luther felt a headache forming.

"So let me get this straight," he said. "You disguised yourself as a middle-aged gem goblin, wandered around getting scammed, nearly got eaten three times, and all of that was for me?"

"Yes."

"…You need better planning."

The sword burst into laughter. Oh gods, he's gained another one. Another overly loyal protector. Liliana, Aithur, Alina—and now an elf knight who might be older than your bloodline. You attract anomalies like rot attracts flies.

Luther groaned. "I didn't ask for this."

Elythra tilted her head. "You were never meant to."

That answer didn't help.

He frowned.

"I did not sign up to be worshipped," Luther added sharply.

Elythra stiffened.

"I am not worshipping you," she said. "I am acknowledging you."

"That's worse."

Before Luther could snap back, the air shifted.

A low roar rolled through the forest, deep and violent, shaking leaves from branches.

The ground trembled.

Luther's head snapped up. "You've got to be kidding me."

Wind howled as a black mass tore through the clearing—fast, brutal—its claws ripping into the emerald tree.

With a sickening crack, the tree was ripped from its roots.

Elythra's eyes widened.

"No—!"

She drew her blade in one smooth motion and bolted after it. "Stop!"

Luther swore under his breath and took off after her, the demonic sword laughing wildly as it followed.

Well, it said cheerfully, welcome to the adventure, Yieli.

"I will stab you," Luther hissed as he ran.

"…I really just wanted a normal journey."

The world, as usual, did not care.

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