This city is not Aslan’s hometown.
It was a fact that didn’t even need to be mentioned. Aslan was neither born nor raised in Geladridion, and if one were to go by the amount of time spent there, Aslan’s hometown would have been the ruins of Beryl instead.
However, the reason for bringing up this unnecessary truth again was due to Aslan’s current situation.
Familiar places, landscapes that weren’t alien. All of it was enough to stir nostalgia from twelve years ago within Aslan.
As Aslan stood lost in reminiscence, a woman appeared before him, her pink eyes directed straight at him.
“Aslan?”
“…Ah.”
Twelve years ago, this city existed only as graphics within a game. The scenery that Aslan had encountered countless times while progressing through cycles remained unchanged, untouched by time—a city of wizards. Aslan felt an indescribable longing as he gazed upon it, standing dazed until the woman called his name and tugged at his sleeve.
“Sorry.”
“What’s there to apologize for? Between you and me, Aslan.”
Neither asked about their relationship. Instead of posing such a foolish question, Aslan gave an ambiguous smile, and the woman looked at him with soft approval, her gaze meeting his pink eyes which now carried a certain warmth.
“Aslan?”
“…Does it suit me?”
The upward tilt of her lips. Her gentle face made her smile exude a comforting warmth. Seeing Aslan’s gaze fixed on her attire, she briefly explained.
It was almost like an excuse.
“The defensive magic of the School of Transformation and restoration magic are embedded in this. The wizards advised me that buying something like this would be better than purchasing new armor, so I went ahead and bought it.”
And it was true. This was a city of wizards, where most of the population consisted of them. In this city, acquiring garments imbued with protection equivalent to armor was easier and more cost-effective than buying actual armor. From this perspective, Ereta’s choice could be considered accurate.
But Aslan didn’t think that was the entire reason.
Under Aslan’s gentle gaze, Ereta stiffened momentarily before forcing a smile.
“Why this dress? Other outfits would’ve suited you just as well.”
It wasn’t said in reproach. Relieved that she wouldn’t be scolded, Ereta relaxed her shoulders and sighed. After letting out a deep breath, she finally answered.
“Well… because this outfit makes me feel comfortable. And… I consider myself a veteran too, don’t I?”
She teased Aslan with a sly glance.
“You know… because I noticed how you looked at me when I wore chainmail under my robes. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Comfortable gaze?”
Aslan recalled the outfit she had worn back then.
Tight-fitting, revealing curves subtly yet provocatively without being vulgar.
Though Aslan didn’t have any particular fetish for such styles, he couldn’t deny her observation.
“I wanted you to look at me with tension, to find yourself at a loss where to look. So, I chose this. Wasn’t it a good choice?”
What exactly was good about it? Aslan shifted uncomfortably between a wry smile and confusion, while Ereta responded with a seductive grin.
“Do you need anything, Aslan?”
“Me? Hmm… I’ve got pretty much everything. I already bought a whetstone…”
“No, I mean something you desire.”
Something desired?
Of course, there were many things. An abundance of them.
A decent wand, a scabbard, a shield or bow, arrows, and perhaps wrist flails would do nicely.
But Aslan knew Ereta wasn’t asking about such practical items. She was inquiring about personal preferences—something Aslan lacked.
“No.”
“In that case… may I make one suggestion, though it might be presumptuous?”
“A suggestion?”
“Yes.”
Drawing out her words, she clasped her hands together and looked up at Aslan.
“Your armor looks great, but the cloak doesn’t quite match the color scheme, does it? How about dyeing it?”
“Hmm, it does clash a bit, but I don’t really care much about…”
Before he finished, Ereta quickly interjected.
“Dyeing it black will help you blend into the shadows more easily, making it more intimidating and useful. It’ll also be harder for projectiles to be dodged in the dark.”
Her argument left no room for refusal.
After all, Aslan was a performance enthusiast. Moreover, as a man, he couldn’t deny the appeal of having his armor and cloak harmoniously dressed in black.
Suppressing a surge of pride, Aslan reluctantly replied.
“That’s a fair point. Thanks for the advice. Let’s head to get the cloak…”
“I figured you’d agree, so I sent it off beforehand.”
Another immediate response.
Aslan’s eyes widened, and Ereta smiled contentedly.
“It’s not just you who knows us well. We’re learning about you, Aslan, too.”
“Of course, I know the most about it.” The veracity of the added statement was uncertain. Even Phey knew Aslan well, and Angie had her own understanding of him through exploration and questioning. Whether Ereta truly knew Aslan better than Angie or Phey or Tiamat was debatable, but the claim served its purpose regardless.
Ultimately, Aslan could only laugh it off. Denying it would be awkward, agreeing embarrassing.
Disappointed by either response, Ereta still didn’t let her affection wane. Instead, she reached out and intertwined her fingers with Aslan’s, the subtle warmth enveloping their entwined digits.
Her gaze, now filled with fervor, met his. Aslan, attempting to divert the conversation, forced a smile.
“Are you hungry? It’s almost mealtime.”
Once known as Lee Hyun-woo, the man who was now Aslan stayed true to his Korean roots by steering the topic toward food. But the woman shook her head dismissively.
“I’d rather stay presentable until we eat. We can always eat later.”
Aslan didn’t lecture about eating on time. Searching for another topic, his eyes wandered away from the pronounced curves of her body. At this moment, Ereta glanced skyward.
Beyond the setting sun, a violet sky emerged, dotted with a few stars twinkling faintly. Through the drifting clouds, hints of movement resembling fins of some creatures were visible—a typical evening in Geladridion.
“Shall we head to the dye shop then?”
“Huh?”
“I believe they said it would be ready around sunset. They’re talking about your cloak, Aslan.”
A bright smile. Before Aslan could respond, the woman grabbed his hand firmly. What started as a light touch of fingers soon turned into a proper grip, and skillfully, their fingers intertwined.
The warmth and faint pulse of their connected hands were palpable to both Ereta and Aslan.
Ereta, feeling Aslan’s steady pulse, made a slightly discontented sound, while Aslan, sensing her rapid heartbeat, wore a troubled expression.
Clearly, Ereta was embarrassed.
Though she had requested not to be rejected, her bold advances naturally came with a sense of shyness.
How could she not be shy?
Ereta, who had spent her life engaging with humans only through slaughter and coercion, lacked extensive experience with tender love.
Thus, amidst her embarrassment, she was also happy. She accepted her bashfulness as natural and unbothered by it, knowing nothing would change unless she took a step forward.
“So, let’s go.”
With a slightly flushed face, Ereta forced a smile and led Aslan along. Despite the traces of shame and hesitation in her steps, her pace remained lively.
The reason was clear, and though Aslan understood it, he didn’t say much. It wasn’t a matter of resolution; it was simply Aslan’s way of ensuring he didn’t crumble.
