The air above the capital shimmered faintly with the remnants of Spatial Magic.
Lencar stood on the roof of a half-constructed building, his cloak torn and streaked with dust, the silver symbols of [Spatial Magic] still pulsing faintly across a single new page in his grimoire.
He had done it. He had copied Finral's Spatial Magic—illegally, dangerously, and perfectly.
But that victory meant nothing if he couldn't hide.
His body trembled slightly as the information settled in, his mana circuits readjusting to the unfamiliar geometry of spatial dimensions. For every new grimoire he devoured or copied, his magical presence grew heavier, harder to suppress.
That was becoming a problem.
If even one detection mage from the capital picked up his mana fluctuations, he'd be branded an anomaly—or worse, a thief of grimoires. The punishment for that wasn't exile. It was eradication.
He needed isolation. A quiet place. Somewhere people didn't ask questions.
He closed his grimoire and breathed out, forcing his aura into [Cloak Mode]. His mana signature dropped, vanishing from detection. He opened his eyes to the horizon, scanning the mental map he'd built of the Clover Kingdom's outskirts.
North of the capital, along the forest line, was a small village—one he had passed through briefly during his first week in this world. He remembered the scent of baked bread and smoke, and a small family-run bakery run by a red-haired woman named Rebecca Scarlet.
She had been kind. Not naive—just simple, in a world that had stopped being simple for him long ago.
That would do.
He whispered a short incantation and opened a spatial tear—small, silent, contained to a radius of five meters. Then, with a flicker of mana and a quiet rush of air, he stepped through.
Nairn Village was small enough to sleep at night.
A few dim lanterns burned outside the bakery doors; the sky was clear, the streets empty except for the low murmur of crickets.
Lencar pulled his hood low and walked along the dirt path. He could feel the faint hum of natural mana here—clean, untainted, and gentle. The Heart Kingdom would call this a place rich in "natural flow." The Clover Kingdom just called it farmland.
The smell of warm dough reached him first. Then came the glow of a small shop window—its sign roughly carved: Scarlet's Hearth.
Through the window, he saw her—Rebecca—moving quietly behind the counter, sweeping flour from the stone floor. Her red hair was tied loosely back, and two of her younger siblings sat nearby, dozing on their arms beside a cooling tray of bread.
He stood at the door for a moment, listening to the scrape of her broom and the soft rhythm of her breathing. Then he raised a hand and knocked.
Tok. Tok.
Rebecca froze, startled. Few people knocked this late.
"One moment!" she called, setting down the broom and wiping her hands on her apron before opening the door. "I'm sorry, we're closed—oh."
Her words faltered slightly. The man standing there wasn't a villager. His cloak was worn, his eyes sharp and cold, the kind of gaze that measured things instead of looking at them.
"I don't mean to intrude," he said, voice even and low. "But I'm passing through. I need a place to stay for a few weeks. I can pay. Or work."
Rebecca blinked, instinctively glancing past him down the road. No horses, no cart. Just him.
"You're... not from here, are you?" she asked.
"No," he said simply. "But I can cook. Repair woodwork. Hunt. Whatever earns a roof."
She hesitated. Every instinct told her to say no. Her younger siblings were sleeping behind her. Yet something in his voice stopped her—it wasn't threatening, just tired. Controlled.
"You can sleep in the spare room. You'll help with morning work, and you buy your own food if you want more than what we eat," she said finally. "Fair?"
"Fair," he answered.
She nodded once and stepped aside. "Then come in before I change my mind."
The small bakery was warm. Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly wrapped loaves and half-finished doughs. Lencar could feel faint traces of flame mana in the air—Rebecca's, likely. A low, consistent burn used for baking.
She handed him a spare blanket and pointed toward a door at the back. "That's the room. Don't make noise at night—my siblings are light sleepers."
He nodded and set his bag down quietly. His eyes swept the small home—a table, three chairs, and a handmade shelf stacked with cookbooks and a few trinkets. It was modest but cared for.
As he settled in, Rebecca lingered by the doorway. "You didn't give me your name."
"Lencar," he said, glancing up briefly.
She nodded slowly. "Rebecca. Don't bring trouble here, Lencar."
"I won't," he said.
She left it at that.
Later that night, Lencar sat by the small window in his room. His grimoire floated before him, pages turning silently to the section marked with dull silver runes.
[Spatial Magic: Link] — successful.
[Aura Cloak] — stable.
Replication Core — untested since Finral incident.
He took a slow breath. His Absolute Replication spell was both a gift and a curse. Copying magic was one thing; devouring grimoires to permanently steal magic was another. If he wanted to continue evolving, it would eventually draw attention—magi disappearing, mana signatures vanishing overnight.
That couldn't happen. Not if he wanted to live quietly.
He needed a countermeasure. A way to reverse the process—to return a grimoire's essence after extracting its data. Reverse Replication.
But for now, he'd have to live like any other villager. Help Rebecca, stay quiet, and study without notice.
The next morning began before dawn.
Rebecca woke him with a soft knock. "Hey. If you're staying here, you're helping. Get up."
When Lencar stepped into the kitchen, the smell of fresh dough and warm air greeted him. The younger siblings, Luca and Milly, were yawning at the table.
Rebecca looked him over. "You can carry flour bags, right?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then you're hired for today."
She tried to sound stern, but it was hard to ignore how easily he lifted two heavy sacks of flour, one on each shoulder. For a moment, Rebecca just stared.
"You... do this for a living?"
"No," he said simply. "But I've trained my body."
That didn't explain much, but she didn't press further.
They worked side by side for hours. Rebecca kneaded and shaped dough while Lencar fetched water, stacked trays, and cleaned the shop with quiet precision. He never asked questions, never complained, and never wasted a movement.
When customers came, he stayed in the back room, reading an old cooking manual from her shelf.
By evening, the bakery was spotless, and the younger children were laughing as they ate warm bread.
Rebecca leaned against the counter, wiping sweat from her brow. "You're... not bad at this," she admitted.
He looked up from his seat. "I said I'd earn my stay."
"Most people who say that mean they'll help once and disappear the next day," she said, half-smiling. "You're... different."
He didn't answer. But she noticed, for the first time, how his gaze softened slightly as he watched her siblings playing with flour. There was something distant in his eyes—a quiet sort of sadness she didn't understand.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Rebecca sat by the small fireplace, half-wondering what kind of man she'd just let into her home.
He worked like someone used to danger. Moved like someone who'd fought for survival.
Yet he cooked like someone who wanted peace.
Outside, through the small window, she saw the faint light of his room—runic symbols flickering briefly against the wall. She didn't recognize the language, but it looked nothing like ordinary magic.
She hesitated for a moment, then turned away.
He had secrets, that much was clear.
But for some reason, she didn't feel afraid. Just... curious.
Upstairs, Lencar closed his grimoire, letting the mana runes fade. He could hear her siblings laughing faintly in their sleep, the quiet murmur of normal life. It was foreign and strange, but grounding.
"...For now," he murmured, "this will do."
He leaned back against the wall and watched the stars through the window until sleep finally found him.