NOVEL NEXT 129- 4 Months Later [1]
Volume 04, Chapter 129
4 Months Later [1]
In the shadowy forest, the thick canopy blocks most of the light. Among twisted trees and moss-covered roots, two cloaked figures stand. Their faces are hidden behind golden skull masks that catch faint glimmers in the gloom.
"Remind me again, what's our job today?" the taller of the two mutters, glancing around impatiently.
The other grunts, adjusting his hood. "We're supposed to search for parsleys."
"Parsleys? You've got to be kidding. Can't we just buy those from a market stall?" His voice is edged with annoyance, his breath pluming in the chilly air.
"Not ordinary parsley, you moron. We're after red parsley, a rare herb. The kind that drives people mad, or so they say."
There is a pause. The taller figure scoffs. "Red parsley? Who comes up with this garbage?"
"No clue. But General Luo Minghao issued the order personally. I heard he's an [SS] Rank, and he wants this done by grunts like us? Odd, don't you think?"
"An [SS] Rank… handling errands through nobodies. Maybe he's got better things to do," the first mutters, though his words carry a nervous edge.
They walk in awkward silence, their boots making soft sounds on the leaves. Neither of them notices someone watching from above, nor the faint glow of magic in the air.
Célestin sits on a twisted tree branch, watching them with sharp, careful eyes. He lifts his hand as mana wraps around his fingers.
"Time Bomb," he says quietly.
White, spherical orbs materialize and, with a flick, zip downwards.
The two Umbrascourge members barely register the movement before the bombs detonate with a muffled whump, knocking them off their feet and sending them rolling in the dirt.
One struggles upright, voice trembling. "Who—"
But his words come out in a voice much older than his own. Panic flashes in his eyes.
"Wha—what's happening—?"
A shadow drops from above, landing lightly amidst the smoke. Célestin's gaze is icy, his posture utterly relaxed, a predator who has long lost patience for prey.
"You," Célestin says softly, voice like a blade.
The grunt flinches, staring up in dread. "You're—"
"Where's Luo Minghao?" Célestin demands, cutting off the man's stammering.
"I-I don't know! They just sent us for red parsley, nothing else, I swear!"
Célestin's eyes narrow. In a blink, he kicks the man hard across the face and plants a foot on his chest, pinning him to the mossy ground.
"Then tell me what you do know. Spare me the useless whining."
"T-that's all, I swear! They said find the herb, report back, please, that's all!"
He stares up into Célestin's eyes and sees only winter there.
The other grunt, trembling, gathers mana with shaking hands, pressing his palm to the soil.
"Earth Spikes!"
Deadly stone lances erupt from the ground, arcing toward Célestin's back.
Without so much as turning, Célestin raises his free hand.
"Temporal Shield."
A pale blue barrier shimmers into existence, and the spikes hit it, slowed as if moving through water, then shatter harmlessly.
Both masked figures stare, terror overtaking desperation.
Célestin turns back to his pinned victim. "The other Generals, where are they hiding?"
"I-I don't know!" the man wails. "We're just grunts! The Generals, they never show their faces, they're ghosts!"
Célestin's sigh is as cold as his stare. "Of course you don't. Why do I even bother…"
He steps back, letting the man's chest fall with a soft thud. Without another word, he strides away. Earlier, he had raided an Umbrascourge base in Celestria, one he had destroyed countless times in prior timelines. But for the first time, Luo Minghao hadn't been there.
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Behind him, the two grunts desperately try to gather their mana and point their shaking hands at Célestin as he walks away.
Célestin doesn't pause. "Don't bother," he calls back, not even glancing over his shoulder. "You'll both die of old age before you ever cast another spell."
Both men stagger, clutching at their rapidly wrinkling hands, their strength fading. Panic chokes them as their world darkens.
Célestin's heart remains untouched by guilt. There is no room for mercy, not with Umbrascourge.
He checks his watch, the faint blue light gleaming. 8:30 AM.
"Damn. I'm late for the auction," he mutters, and melts into the trees, leaving nothing behind but silence and the scent of fading life.
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Célestin arrives at the towering iron gates of the Galerie des Trésors, the grand auction house that draws nobles, magicians, and collectors from across the continent. He presents his identification, the silver crest of his family engraved at the top.
One of the guards stiffens upon recognizing the seal and gives a respectful bow before allowing him through without delay.
Inside, the air is hushed and heavy with the faint scent of polished wood and aged parchment. The marble floors gleam beneath the chandeliers, their crystals scattering fragments of light across portraits of long-dead aristocrats. Célestin strides down the quiet hall and slips into the VIP section, claiming a seat near the front. His eyes lock on the stage.
"Hopefully Avaloria will finally be displayed. I've placed bids countless times, but it was never brought out. Perhaps today is the day. If not…" His gaze darkens. "Then I'll simply take it from the storage room myself. I'm tired of waiting."
White smoke drifts over the stage as the first auctioneer, dressed in flowing red and gold robes, appears to polite applause. The crowd falls silent. Spotlights beam down, revealing relics from forgotten dynasties: cursed rings, magi-tech devices that pulse with inner light, paintings that whisper to onlookers, and even a haunted mirror once belonging to the royal family.
Célestin leans forward, his jaw tight. "If Excalibur wasn't hidden within the Temple du Sceptre Lié, then Avaloria has to be here. Who else would want a rusted scabbard unless they knew its true worth?"
Hours pass. Lot after lot is presented, treasures paraded beneath the lights. With each item revealed, anticipation twists into frustration. Avaloria never appears. When the gavel finally strikes for the last time, the room erupts in polite applause. To Célestin, it is hollow. All he carries away is disappointment.
"How could it not be here?" His fingers clench against the armrest. "In every previous timeline, that scabbard gathered dust on the shelf, dismissed as worthless, even when Arthur and I were already in our twenties. Who could have reached it first this time?"
He considers the possibilities: rival guilds who monitor ancient artifacts, black-market dealers with inside knowledge, or even the royal family's archivists who might have caught a glimpse of its true nature. Any of them could have claimed it before him.
Célestin sighs heavily and rises from his seat.
"It seems I have no choice but to infiltrate the storage area," he mutters. "If it's not there, then I'll dig through the records and learn who took it."
Mana flares at his fingertips. "Time Stop."
The world slows. Voices dissolve into silence, applause hangs in the air like frozen echoes, and movement ceases. Célestin moves like a shadow, darting through the corridors until he reaches the storage chamber. Shelves stacked high with artifacts loom before him, but the scabbard is nowhere to be found.
"Where is it?" His voice is sharper now, his eyes colder as he scans the empty racks.
Determined, he presses on to the administrative office. Ransacking the record ledgers, he finally finds what he seeks: an entry listing the transfer of a "rusted scabbard." His heart skips.
Arthur Lyon.
Célestin's eyes widen before he lets out a shaky breath of relief.
"Thank god Arthur has it," he whispers.
But the thought gives him pause. He pictures Arthur's face, the guilt he would feel upon learning the truth—that the scabbard he held was no mere relic, but an artifact capable of miraculous healing, powerful enough to awaken Dominic from his coma. Arthur would blame himself for every wasted moment.
He stands in silence, the dilemma gnawing at him. Then his resolve hardens.
'It doesn't matter how Arthur reacts. All that matters is that Clark wakes up.'
With that, he slips silently from the Galerie des Trésors, leaving empty-handed but with new determination.
"Time Start."
The world lurches back into motion. Applause roars again, footsteps echo, and conversation fills the air, none the wiser to the boy who has just stopped time in pursuit of a forgotten scabbard.
A faint, uneasy chill creeps up Célestin's spine, almost as if some unseen presence lingers just behind him. He shakes it off with a quiet breath and glances at his watch. 11:32 AM.
"Since Arthur has it, I'm happy," he murmurs, stretching his arms above his head. "I should buy some flowers. Clark's still in the hospital, and if nothing else, that much hasn't changed."
Outside the Galerie des Trésors, he hails a taxi and gives the driver directions to the center of the newly rebuilt Eñeforte city.
As the car winds through the streets, Célestin watches the scenery blur past the window. The city has changed so much. Gleaming glass towers reflect the morning light, children chase one another beneath banners celebrating the alliance of Eñeforte, Everheart, and Lyon, and markets bustle with new shops and cafés. The heavy sadness that once clung to these streets seems to have lifted, replaced by a hopeful energy that pulses through the air.
Célestin's lips curve into a small smile. Pride swells in his chest, though nostalgia tugs at the edges of his heart.
The taxi pulls to a stop before a flower shop nestled between two bright cafés. Its display spills color into the street, blossoms arranged like a painter's palette.
Célestin pays the fare, steps out, and enters the shop.
"Bonjour, Monsieur!" the florist greets warmly.
He nods in return and lets his gaze wander. Rows upon rows of flowers surround him, each one carrying a different meaning. The air is fragrant, alive with possibilities.
"I've been bringing him flowers ever since he fell into that coma," Célestin mutters to himself, fingers brushing across petals as he walks. "But I still don't know which ones he would like best. I never got to know the small things… favorite colors, scents, or flowers. All I know is that he came from Earth."
"May I help you, Monsieur?" the woman asks, stepping closer with an inquisitive tilt of her head.
"Yes," Célestin admits softly. "I'm having trouble deciding. These are for a close friend of mine, but I don't know what to choose."
The florist rests a thoughtful hand against her chin, then smiles and points toward a nearby display. "Perhaps these would be perfect."
Célestin follows her gesture. A bouquet of white lilies blooms in a porcelain vase, their trumpet-shaped petals radiant under the morning light. They carry a gentle fragrance, sweet yet dignified, and their pristine color seems to speak of renewal, purity, and the quiet promise of hope.
He stares at them for a moment, something in his chest softening. "…Yes. I'll choose those."
"Excellent choice!" the woman says brightly, carefully wrapping the bouquet in crisp paper tied with a satin ribbon.
After paying, Célestin steps back out into the street, the flowers cradled carefully in his hands. The air is fresh, the sky clear, and the city alive with laughter and voices. He looks around, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
Things have truly improved.
Now, if only Clark would wake up to see it.