The great hall of Silverstone Fortress was bathed in morning sunlight streaming through high windows, casting the stone walls in a faint golden hue. Varcas Eldra stood within that light. The knights of the Silverflamme Order surrounding him fixed their gaze upon him. Cold gazes. Without a shred of guilt—pure, evaluative eyes. They looked at him not as an enemy, but merely as a "disposal target." Commander Galberiuth Zeen stood before the throne. Silver-gray hair flowed to his shoulders, and sharp azure eyes pierced through everything they beheld. Age: 38. Youthful for his years, yet the aura he emanated was ice itself. His tall frame was befitting of the silver-gleaming formal armor he wore. "Varcas Eldra." Galberiuth's voice was flat. Emotionless. That was the most terrifying part. "We have reached a final conclusion regarding your ability, 'Replication.'" Varcas said nothing. He knew there was no need to respond. Everything had been decided the moment he arrived here. "Imperfect imitation. You copy the techniques of others, but the precision degrades. Unreliable as a combat asset. That is the official reason." Galberiuth descended the stairs. One step, then another. Only the sound of his footsteps echoed through the great hall. "However, that is merely the surface evaluation." Varcas's heartbeat quickened ever so slightly. "The true nature of your ability remains unclear even to us. Replication is not mere mimicry—it harbors some other possibility. We do not know what that essence is. Therefore, we eliminate you as a risk factor." Galberiuth stood before him now, looking down. "Accept the exile decree." Varcas's eyes fell upon the parchment presented to him. The seal of the Holy Theocracy was engraved upon it. And his name was written there. With this, all activity within the Holy Theocracy would be forbidden. Violation meant imprisonment. Exile was not mere dismissal from the order—it was legal punishment. "Return your sword and shield." Varcas drew the blade at his waist. A tempered silver edge. For three years, he had fought alongside this sword. Would he never feel its weight again? He placed it on the floor. Next, he removed the shield fastened to his left arm. This too, bearing the emblem of the Silverflamme Order. Everything, placed upon the stone. Galberiuth glanced at them once, then gestured with a finger to the attendant knight behind him. The shield was retrieved. "Leave the Holy Theocracy's territory. Never return. Should you come back—" Galberiuth's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "I will kill you." That was all. —————————— The road to Seriant was long. For three days, Varcas walked. He never looked back. There was no point in looking back. That fortress was no longer his place. In his pocket: travel funds provided by the Holy Theocracy. Three Grens. That was everything. He had shed the Silverflamme Order uniform. Now he wore a white long-sleeved shirt, black slacks, and light protective armor. These were civilian clothes. He was no longer a knight. Just an exile. Memories surfaced of training grounds. Practice with comrades. Yet even those memories seemed faded. That had been a life he had been living falsely. "Degraded copy." That's what he'd been called. That's what he'd called himself. His ability merely imperfectly mimicked the techniques of others. So within the Silverflamme Order, he was always treated as second-rate. But that was a lie. Any technique he saw once, Varcas could replicate perfectly. No degradation whatsoever. But this could not be known. He had been taught that since childhood. "If people knew you had such power, they'd fear you. You'd be treated differently. So hide it." His father's words still echoed in his ears. His father was no longer in this world. So only those words remained, dominating Varcas. The Riashen River came into view on the evening of the third day. A massive river. At least fifty meters wide. The sound of water carried from quite a distance. The sunset painted the river's surface red. For a moment, he found that sight beautiful. And beyond it, the visible town. Seriant. Was the reason Galberiuth exiled him connected to this town? Varcas had been thinking that the entire time. The exile decree contained nothing about traveling to Seriant. Perhaps it was an implicit "choice" Galberiuth had presented. A town surrounded by crumbling stone walls. It looked small. But it was a frontier settlement constantly threatened by magical beasts. Here, perhaps even an exile could survive. He gazed at the back of his right hand. An inexplicable pattern, like ancient script, was carved there. Normally invisible. But when he used his ability, it glowed faintly. Galberiuth had called this pattern "ancient forbidden power." Now, that pattern was faintly warm. "Something still remains," Varcas murmured. "I don't even understand the true nature of this power myself." He clenched his fist. The pattern on his right hand glowed faintly. But the light vanished immediately. He would cross the river and head to Seriant. There, he had no choice but to begin a new life. —————————— Varcas arrived at Seriant's west gate as night approached. The crumbling stone walls were older than he'd expected. Cracks ran through them, moss grew upon them. Their function as a defensive barrier had clearly deteriorated significantly. Repairs were being postponed. Was that what a frontier town was like? An elderly gate guard looked at Varcas. His brow furrowed. An unfamiliar traveler. Cautious eyes, but no hostility. "A traveler?" His voice was more exhausted than Varcas had imagined. "Yes." Varcas nodded. "Best to enter before dark. Magical beasts emerge at night. Spending the night outside is suicide." The guard casually opened the gate. There was no need to show the exile decree. It had no authority outside the Holy Theocracy. Varcas stepped inside. Seriant's streets were completely different from Vernica. Vernica was orderly. The city spread in concentric circles from Silverstone Fortress, roads meticulously maintained. It was a symbol of the Holy Theocracy's control. Seriant was chaotic. Wooden buildings stood scattered about. The streets were narrow, densely packed for the population. Market noise still echoed. Signs for night-operating inns and taverns appeared alongside their lights. Rustic. And alive. Varcas confirmed the three Grens in his pocket. He needed to find lodging. For a copper-rank adventurer, the rate should have been around 0.08 Grens per night. Three days' worth. He'd find work in that time. He began walking toward what appeared to be the town's central plaza. The people he passed glanced at him. Not a fortress knight. Old armor. Not quite a vagrant—more like a wanderer from somewhere. No one spoke to him. Strangely, that felt pleasant. —————————— The inn "River Wind's Bed" faced the central plaza. A two-story building with a sign bearing the inn's name in warm lettering. The smell of food wafted from within. It seemed popular. When he opened the door, a woman's voice greeted him. "Welcome!" The innkeeper, probably. Mid-forties. Reddish-brown hair to her shoulders, white apron. Her face was gentle, her smile natural. Perhaps she had once been an adventurer herself. Something about her suggested that. "A night's lodging." Varcas said. "Breakfast included?" "Not necessary." "Got it. That'll be 0.08 Grens then. Cash upfront, please." Varcas withdrew an old silver coin from his pocket. Eight Penils. The innkeeper accepted it and handed over a key with a smile. "Room 402, fourth floor. Take the stairs up. Oh, breakfast is served at five in the morning downstairs, so let me know if you need it." "Understood." Varcas gripped the key. The room was simple but clean. A basic bed, a small table, nothing more. From the window, he could see the town's nightscape. Lit buildings, sparsely trafficked streets. He lay on the bed. Staring at the ceiling, Varcas thought. What would he do tomorrow? Where would he find work? How would he live in this town as an exiled knight? And what was the true reason Galberiuth had exiled him? What lay beneath Seriant? What was this ancient sealed power? The pattern on his right hand began to warm faintly. Varcas clenched his fist. It didn't glow. It wasn't activated. But something was definitely responding. "No answers yet." Varcas murmured. "But maybe I'll find them here." That night, he fell into deep sleep. —————————— Varcas woke the next morning. Pale dawn light filtered through the window. Early morning. He woke at his usual time, as always. The training habits from the order were etched into his body. Rising from the bed, he looked outside. Seriant's morning was quiet. The market hadn't opened yet. Few people walked the streets. Yet the town was definitely breathing. Varcas straightened his jacket. "It starts today. My new life." He opened the door and descended the stairs. In the first-floor hallway, the innkeeper was preparing breakfast. "Good morning. Would you like breakfast?" "No, thank you. But do you know where I can find work in this town?" The innkeeper studied Varcas. Her eyes held understanding. "Ah, so you were a knight." Varcas said nothing. Only met her gaze. "North of the central plaza, there's an adventurer's branch called 'Beacon of the Path.' You can get work there. The branch leader is a woman named Helda—she's a good person." "Thank you." Varcas left the inn. Beacon of the Path—an organization that handled adventurer registration and job mediation on a continental scale. A place where requests for magical beast subjugation and material gathering gathered. Here, even an exiled knight could work as an adventurer. Bathed in morning light, Varcas headed toward the town's center. Seriant's streets had more vitality than he'd imagined. Illuminated by morning light, the town actually felt warm. For the first time, Varcas thought this town might have a place for him. As an exile. He had nothing left to lose. So he could only begin here. When he made that decision, the pattern on his right hand glowed faintly. But only for an instant, then it faded. Varcas pretended not to notice and continued walking. In the morning light of Seriant, a new life was quietly beginning.