The stairwell descended deeper than Kael expected—past worked stone and reinforced brick into older, untouched layers of Emberleaf's foundation. The walls shifted from mortar to carved basalt, the air growing cooler and dry, brittle with age.

It smelled like time. Dry parchment, faded wax, and the faint, bitter trace of burnt charcoal.

Kael's lantern cast a warm glow ahead, illuminating a small arched vault sealed beneath three feet of stone—and, until yesterday, a wall no one had thought to question. Nana had stumbled on the mechanism by accident: a hollow brick, loose mortar, and a faint mana pulse that responded only to Kael's presence.

Now, the vault door hung open behind them.

Inside, the room was small—circular, lined in three tiers of recessed shelving. The air hadn't been disturbed in decades. Scrolls rested in cracked leather tubes, tagged with colorless rune markers and sealed in ancient wax. Some had burst from age. Others remained pristine, their silence oppressive.

Rimuru floated just above Kael's shoulder, her glow muted. "I feel like even breathing wrong in here might erase history."

"Then breathe carefully," Kael murmured.

He stepped forward and ran his fingers across a tube marked only by three vertical slashes—no name, no symbol. The wax crumbled at his touch. With delicate care, he slid the scroll free and unfurled it across the nearest stone table.

Dust trailed from the edges like ash off old embers.

The parchment was faded, the ink cracked into spider-web lines. Yet under Rimuru's soft light, ghostly cartography began to emerge: winding rivers, hand-drawn roads, forgotten terrain.

But it was the towns that drew Kael's breath short.

They weren't marked in color. No borders. No sigils.

Just names burned in black ink.

Tinderbank. Embercroft. Cinder's Reach. Ashroot.

Each one etched beside a tiny, smudged glyph. Each one forgotten.

He leaned closer. Near the bottom, near a jagged corner, one last name rested half-visible, as if scorched out of memory but refusing to disappear entirely.

Ashen Hollow.

Kael whispered it aloud, like speaking a ghost back into existence.

Great Sage: "Ashen Hollow: unverified settlement." "Erased from formal maps post-Collapse Era." "Estimated population prior to removal: 300+." "Chance of remaining civilian presence: 42.6%."

Rimuru hovered low, examining the map from upside down. "These weren't erased. They were buried."

Kael's jaw clenched. He rolled the map carefully and slid it into his satchel.

"We'll find it."

"You think anyone's still alive?" Nana asked from behind, her voice quieter than usual.

Kael didn't answer immediately. He stepped toward the far wall, brushing his hand along the empty sections—places where maps had once rested, now stolen by time or politics.

"They don't need to be alive for us to honor them," he said.

Then, a beat later:

"But I think they are."

He turned to Rimuru.

"Prep the scouts."

"Boom cart or stealthy trip?" she asked.

Kael looked down at the faint ember-streak that ran through the stone tile beneath their feet. A subtle mana vein—old, but still warm.

"Both."

Morning light filtered through the high arched windows of Emberleaf's newly constructed Strategy Hall, casting angled beams across layered tables, topographic boards, and in-progress supply charts. The scent of fire-treated parchment and dried ink filled the air, punctuated by faint whispers from messengers rotating through the lower tiers.

Kael stood at the central table, one hand pressed flat against a wide mana-map of Ira's southern edge. Thin mana threads moved over the terrain like ghostly veins, showing caravan paths, patrol lines, and flickers of scout movement.

One area, however, remained quiet.

No pulses. No threads. Just an old border—the dead zone surrounding what had once been known as Ashen Hollow.

A soft set of footsteps broke his focus. Nana approached, her longcoat dusted with wind and ash, a sealed scroll tucked beneath her arm. She handed it to Kael without a word.

He cracked the seal and read silently.

Scout Report – Flame Unit Theta Location: Southern Ashlands – Unmapped perimeter Observations: – No formal banners, no known defenses. – Scattered structures intact.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. – Locals observed moving between broken wells and hand-pulled water carts. – No hostile magic. Minimal mana use. – Quote from local elder: "We didn't know the war ended."

Kael exhaled sharply through his nose. "They were left behind."

Great Sage: "Estimated infrastructure level: Class F." "No trade routes. No postal linkage." "Self-sufficient for bare survival. Not for growth."

Rimuru popped up from under the table, disguised again in her favorite "field scribe" shape—tiny monocle, coiled slime-hair, and an inky feather sticking out of her head like a quill.

She floated a second scroll toward Kael, trailing soft green sparkles. "There's more. One scout didn't write his report—he drew it."

Kael unrolled the crude, dirt-smeared paper.

The image was simple. Two children standing beneath a broken archway, holding hands. Behind them, buildings stitched from patched cloth and clay. Over the gate was a single symbol—rough and crooked, but unmistakable:

Kael's flame crest.

It was drawn like hope.

Kael stared at it for a long moment.

Then he rolled the drawing carefully and slid it into a sealed compartment on his belt.

"Who did they send to deliver supplies?"

"Gobrinus offered," Nana said. "Rimuru volunteered herself to go with him—mostly to prevent… Gobrinus-style diplomacy."

"Good call," Kael muttered.

Rimuru chirped cheerfully, "I brought snacks and emergency 'don't-eat-their-house' etiquette flashcards!"

Kael gave her a look.

She blinked innocently. "What? That only happened once."

Kael turned back to the table, one finger tracing a line between Emberleaf and the hollow zone. "Send word to Flame Scout Captain Velna. I want a permanent relay set up just outside the settlement perimeter. Minimal presence. Just eyes and kindness."

Then, softly: "And I want to walk there myself. Not today. But soon."

Great Sage: "Mission viability: rising." "Emotional resonance: high." "Potential diplomatic gain: unquantified."

Kael looked toward the open windows.

"The farther we go," he murmured, "the more we find out who was forgotten. And who's still waiting."

The Emberleaf outbound gate buzzed with preparation.

Supply crates were being fastened to a low-mana hover cart, powered by one of Rimuru's modified flame cores (which she'd lovingly labeled "Bouncy Boom Engine v3" in charcoal). Blankets, dried bread, medicinal herbs, water runes, and simple toys filled the storage packs. A small banner—Kael's crest burned into linen—was tied to the rear pole, fluttering gently in the wind.

Gobrinus stood beside the cart in full "heroic envoy" stance: arms folded, cloak slightly too dramatic, a half-grin etched under his crooked nose. Rimuru floated nearby, shaped like a librarian crossed with a slime puff pastry—tiny spectacles and all.

"You're sure you packed the medicine in the top crate?" Rimuru asked, checking her checklist twice.

Gobrinus puffed his chest. "Top crate. Middle left. Between the sleeping wraps and the pickled root. I even triple-tied it!"

"You triple-tied everything," Rimuru muttered. "They'll need scissors just to find their breakfast."

As they prepared to leave, a sharp voice cut across the courtyard.

"Hold."

The crowd parted slightly as a noble courier stepped forward—dressed in Emberhollow red-and-gold, the official seal of House Varn stitched across his sash. His face was narrow, his tone sharper than his shoes.

"By order of regional oversight, this mission is suspended. There is no official directive from the Emberhollow central court recognizing these… 'dead zones' as worthy of extension routes."

Gobrinus squinted. "Did you just call people unworthy of help?"

The courier didn't blink. "No. I called them irrelevant to the allocation of resources."

Rimuru floated forward slowly, her glow dimming to a soft, ominous green. "Ah. You must be new."

She drifted in front of the man's face, slowly orbiting.

"What's your name?"

"Courier Serin of Varn. And you are interfering with classified communication—"

Before he could finish, Rimuru leaned forward and extended a single, glistening pseudopod. She gently touched the wax seal of the scroll tucked under his arm.

Schloop.

The seal disappeared.

Serin blinked. "What—what did you—"

"Mm." Rimuru smacked her lips thoughtfully. "Grape. And self-importance."

Gobrinus burst out laughing.

Rimuru continued in a cheerful tone, "Tell your master that Kael Drayke doesn't answer to scribbles sent on high horses. And maybe, next time, don't get your orders mixed up with a slime snack."

She floated backward and morphed into a perfectly ordinary transport blob. "Bye now!"

The courier sputtered, turned sharply, and stormed away—cloak flapping like an offended goose.

Gobrinus leaned down to Rimuru and whispered, "Wasn't that illegal?"

"Technically," she whispered back. "But also morally delicious."

They turned back toward the cart.

From a nearby watchpoint, Kael stood with arms crossed, watching the entire exchange with quiet satisfaction.

He didn't stop them.

He didn't need to.

The Emberleaf outbound gate buzzed with preparation.

Supply crates were being fastened to a low-mana hover cart, powered by one of Rimuru's modified flame cores (which she'd lovingly labeled "Bouncy Boom Engine v3" in charcoal). Blankets, dried bread, medicinal herbs, water runes, and simple toys filled the storage packs. A small banner—Kael's crest burned into linen—was tied to the rear pole, fluttering gently in the wind.

Gobrinus stood beside the cart in full "heroic envoy" stance: arms folded, cloak slightly too dramatic, a half-grin etched under his crooked nose. Rimuru floated nearby, shaped like a librarian crossed with a slime puff pastry—tiny spectacles and all.

"You're sure you packed the medicine in the top crate?" Rimuru asked, checking her checklist twice.

Gobrinus puffed his chest. "Top crate. Middle left. Between the sleeping wraps and the pickled root. I even triple-tied it!"

"You triple-tied everything," Rimuru muttered. "They'll need scissors just to find their breakfast."

As they prepared to leave, a sharp voice cut across the courtyard.

"Hold."

The crowd parted slightly as a noble courier stepped forward—dressed in Emberhollow red-and-gold, the official seal of House Varn stitched across his sash. His face was narrow, his tone sharper than his shoes.

"By order of regional oversight, this mission is suspended. There is no official directive from the Emberhollow central court recognizing these… 'dead zones' as worthy of extension routes."

Gobrinus squinted. "Did you just call people unworthy of help?"

The courier didn't blink. "No. I called them irrelevant to the allocation of resources."

Rimuru floated forward slowly, her glow dimming to a soft, ominous green. "Ah. You must be new."

She drifted in front of the man's face, slowly orbiting.

"What's your name?"

"Courier Serin of Varn. And you are interfering with classified communication—"

Before he could finish, Rimuru leaned forward and extended a single, glistening pseudopod. She gently touched the wax seal of the scroll tucked under his arm.

Schloop.

The seal disappeared.

Serin blinked. "What—what did you—"

"Mm." Rimuru smacked her lips thoughtfully. "Grape. And self-importance."

Gobrinus burst out laughing.

Rimuru continued in a cheerful tone, "Tell your master that Kael Drayke doesn't answer to scribbles sent on high horses. And maybe, next time, don't get your orders mixed up with a slime snack."

She floated backward and morphed into a perfectly ordinary transport blob. "Bye now!"

The courier sputtered, turned sharply, and stormed away—cloak flapping like an offended goose.

Gobrinus leaned down to Rimuru and whispered, "Wasn't that illegal?"

"Technically," she whispered back. "But also morally delicious."

They turned back toward the cart.

From a nearby watchpoint, Kael stood with arms crossed, watching the entire exchange with quiet satisfaction.

He didn't stop them.

He didn't need to.

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