The Kingdom of Eldoria thrives as a peaceful realm in the southern heartlands of the continent, surrounded by powerful neighbors, each with their own storied pasts and ambitions.

To the far west lies the Euburian Union, once a mighty empire before the collapse of its royal dynasty. Now a decentralized federation of city-states, the Union remains a formidable force, though its influence has waned since its imperial days. Just beyond its northern borders sprawls the Euburian Forest, a dense and untamed wilderness. Beyond the forest stretches the Badlands, a vast and lawless expanse where only the hardiest survive.

Northeast of the Badlands sits the Slave Kingdom of Olbero, a wealthy and ruthless port city built on the backs of its enslaved population. Olbero thrives as a hub of trade between the western and central continents, its docks always bustling with merchants seeking exotic goods—and human cargo.

At the center of the southern continent lies the Great Lake, an immense body of water so vast it dominates the region’s geography. At its heart rests the Merchant Nation of Amberveil, a neutral territory where all kingdoms—friend or foe—come to trade. Governed by a shrewd mayor, Amberveil enforces an ironclad rule: no violence within its borders. Even warring nations must sheath their blades here, making it the continent’s most vital—and safest—trading hub.

North of the southern lands, just before the frozen wastes begin, stands the Kingdom of Quelthar, a den of corruption and crime. Ruled by a decadent nobility and overrun by mercenaries and thieves, Quelthar is a place where gold buys loyalty, and betrayal lurks in every shadow.

To the east stretches the Kingdom of Nexarion, a realm of vast and mysterious lands. It is home to the Great Sage, a 300-year-old mystic whose wisdom is sought by kings and scholars alike. Legends whisper of a lost kingdom hidden deep within Nexarion’s borders—a forgotten civilization said to possess ancient, advanced technology, now buried beneath ruins or sealed away by time.

The streets of Eldoria buzzed with life as the Red Royal Sabers strode through the city, their presence commanding attention. People paused in their daily routines, turning to admire the trio—three young adventurers whose reputation far outstripped their age.

Isao, draped in a deep red kimono embroidered with delicate white lavender and rose petals, walked with effortless grace. Beside her, Isla cut a striking figure in her pure crimson hanfu, her expression as unreadable as ever, her sharp eyes fixed ahead as if the cheers around her were mere background noise. Sylveria, usually clad in light blue and white, now wore a red-and-white ensemble, her light armor polished to a gleam, blending elegance with readiness.

They moved with the quiet confidence of veterans, their every step radiating an unspoken authority. The crowd’s murmurs followed them—admiring whispers, awed stares, and the occasional delighted gasp from children who dreamed of one day being like them.

When they pushed open the guild hall’s heavy doors, a wave of recognition swept through the room.

"Oh, the Red Royal Sabers are back!" an enthusiastic adventurer called out, his voice ringing above the din. The guild erupted in cheers, seasoned warriors clapping them on the back, younger recruits gazing in awe. Congratulatory shouts and eager questions about their latest exploits filled the air.

Isao and Sylveria smiled warmly, humbled but pleased by the reception. They were used to this hero’s welcome, yet it never failed to kindle a quiet pride in their hearts.

Isla, however, remained unmoved. Her stoic gaze drifted upward, as if the ceiling held more interest than the adoration around her.

"W-we’re just three-star adventurers, though..." Isao chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. "Most of you here are four or five stars, aha... haha..."

The guild members exchanged knowing glances. On paper, the trio’s rank might have been modest, but everyone present understood the truth: if strength alone were measured, they’d easily rank among five or even six black-star adventurers—the realm of legends.

A hushed tension lingered beneath the celebration. Some adventurers grinned, clapping Isao on the shoulder with exaggerated respect. Others watched with quiet wariness, their smiles not quite reaching their eyes.

Then, from the crowd, a voice rose above the murmurs:

"Yeah, those three will be recruited by the Secret Elites soon, I bet. They’re that good."

A ripple of agreement and skepticism followed.

"You sure?" another countered, lowering his voice. "The Secret Elites operate in the shadows. Nobody even knows if they’re real. They say they hunt corruption across kingdoms—no names, no faces."

Nods spread through the gathering, the guild members’ voices dropping into conspiratorial tones. The Order of the Crimson Dragonfly was a myth to some, an open secret to others—a clandestine force whispered to strike down corruption where even kings dared not intervene.

"I’m telling you," The first speaker insisted, eyes fixed on the trio as they mingled with the crowd, "if anyone deserves recruitment, it’s them. Imagine what they could do with the Order’s training."

Murmurs of agreement rose, but so did a note of unease.

"True, but..." A grizzled veteran crossed his arms. "Once you join the Crimson Dragonfly, you don’t come back the same. They say some don’t come back at all."

The room fell into a brief, heavy silence.

Unaware of the whispers swirling around them, the Red Royal Sabers continued their conversation, blissfully ignorant of the legacy that might soon claim them—or the price it would demand.

"Cake. Cake..."

Isla’s voice was flat, her face an impassive mask—yet her feet bounced in barely contained excitement, making the wooden bench creak under her. To any onlooker, she might have seemed bored, but the subtle drumming of her fingers against the table betrayed her childlike anticipation.

Sylveria giggled behind her teacup, the sound like wind chimes. "Three cakes, please," she said, smiling sweetly at Violet, the guild’s long-suffering receptionist.

Violet pinched the bridge of her nose. "I’m not a waitress, you know..."

But the trio had already moved on.

"Strawberry cheesecake for me, please!" Isao chirped, eyes sparkling as she leaned over the counter, completely ignoring Violet’s exasperation.

With a sigh, Violet turned and shouted toward the guild’s kitchen, "Three slices of cake for the little terrors!"

The bar waitress, already used to their antics, laughed as she began plating their desserts.

At their usual table, the trio settled in—Isao eagerly digging into her cheesecake the moment it arrived, Sylveria sipping her tea with practiced grace, and Isla methodically dissecting her slice into perfect, even portions before eating. Around them, seasoned adventurers watched in amusement.

"Hard to believe these are the same kids who took down a Bloodfang Wyvern last month," one muttered, shaking his head.

"Right? Look at them—just a bunch of brats stuffing their faces," another chuckled.

Yet despite their youthful appearances, none dared underestimate them.

Sylveria set her teacup down with a delicate clink, drawing the others’ attention. "What about gathering quests with no time limits?" she suggested. "The ones absurdly difficult—either guarded by powerful beasts or hidden in deadly locations. The rewards are substantial, and best of all…" A sly smile curled her lips. "We could take our time. Relax at the castle, hunt only when we please."

Isao’s eyes lit up. "Oh! So we pick the juiciest quests but don’t have to rush?" She clapped her hands. "I love it! No stress, just adventure when we feel like it!"

Isla, who had been silently chewing, finally spoke. "Efficient." Her tone was as dry as ever, but the slight gleam in her eyes said enough—she approved.

Nearby, a cluster of adventurers—mostly young men—were failing spectacularly at being subtle as they stole glances at Sylveria and Isao. One sighed dreamily; another nearly knocked over his ale in his haste to straighten his posture.

Isla’s gaze flicked toward them, then back to Sylveria. "Fan club’s growing," she remarked, deadpan.

Sylveria blinked, then followed her gaze. "Oh my," she murmured, feigning innocence—though the faintest smirk betrayed her amusement.

Isao snickered. "Better get used to it, Sylv. By the time we've grown, they’ll be writing ballads about our beauty."

"Ugh. Spare me," Sylveria groaned, though her cheeks tinged pink.

Isla took another bite of cake. "Just don’t expect me to rescue you from admirers."

"Noted," Sylveria sighed, lifting her teacup in a mock toast.

And so, between bites of cake and sips of tea, their next adventure was decided—one of luxury, challenge, and, if Sylveria had her way, absolutely no romantic distractions.

Later...

The guild hall buzzed with excitement as word spread—the Red Royal Sabers were signing autographs.

Sylveria, ever the radiant princess, giggled as a line formed before her. She dipped her quill with practiced grace, signing her name with elegant loops and flourishes, each stroke a tiny work of art. "Thank you for your support!" she chimed, her smile warm enough to melt winter frost.

Beside her, Isao handled her own crowd with quiet poise. Though less accustomed to fame in this life, muscle memory from her past as the Flower Maiden guided her hands. Her signatures were neat, deliberate—each one given with a soft smile that made even the burliest adventurers blush.

And then there was Isla.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, she observed the spectacle with detached amusement. 'Some things never change,' she mused. Even in their past lives, Sylveria—the Ice Hero—and Isao the Flower Maiden had been magnets for admiration. Isao’s modeling career had made her a celebrity, while Sylveria’s noble bearing drew eyes like a beacon.

And Isla?

She’d always been the shadow. The blade unseen.

Not that she minded.

A rookie adventurer hesitated nearby, clutching parchment. He opened his mouth—then caught Isla’s impassive stare and thought better of it.

"Wise choice," she muttered, smirking as he scurried away.

The evening air was crisp as the trio stepped out of the guild, the setting sun painting Eldoria’s streets in gold and amber. The chatter of their fans faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic tap of boots on cobblestone.

Then—a presence.

A figure peeled away from the crowd, his movements fluid, deliberate. With a flick of his wrist, he swept aside his cloak, revealing a sharp-faced youth with eyes far older than his sixteen years.

"I am Kylo," he said, voice low but carrying. "Representative of the Crimson Dragonfly."

A beat of silence. Even the breeze stilled.

Sylveria’s smile didn’t waver, but her gaze sharpened—assessing. No malice. No deceit. Just… an offer.

"Your talents are wasted here," Kylo continued. "Our leader wishes to meet you."

Isao tensed, fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger on instinct. Isla didn’t move at all, but her stillness was its own threat.

Sylveria, ever the diplomat, shook her head. "How flattering! But we’re quite happy as we are." Her tone was light, final.

Kylo studied them—the princess’s poise, Isao’s quiet readiness, Isla’s razor-edged indifference. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Curiosity? Frustration?

Then he bowed, just slightly. "A shame. The offer stands, should you reconsider."

As the trio walked away, Isla glanced back once. Kylo hadn’t moved. He watched them go, his silhouette stark against the dying light—a sentinel at the crossroads of choice.

Kylo stepped into the dimly lit chamber of the Crimson Dragonfly’s hidden base, his boots silent against the polished obsidian floor. The air hummed with latent energy—magical wards, enchanted artifacts, and the quiet tension of operatives moving like shadows in the periphery.

At the far end of the hall, seated atop a throne-like chair carved from blackened dragonbone, was Adamante.

The guild’s leader needed no introduction. His presence alone was enough to make the air feel heavier, as if the room itself bent to his will. A 7-BlackStar Adventurer—one of the few in history to ever achieve such a rank—he exuded an aura of controlled power, like a storm contained within flesh and bone.

Kylo stopped before him and bowed. "No luck," he reported, voice clipped. "Like Snatz said… the trio are impossible."

A beat of silence.

Then, Adamante chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that carried neither amusement nor malice. "The Red Royal Sabers," he mused, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Peculiar, aren’t they?"

His piercing blue eyes locked onto Kylo’s, sharp enough to flay a man’s soul bare. "Not just in their abilities. Their refusal to align with any faction… that’s what makes them fascinating."

Kylo remained still, accustomed to the weight of that gaze.

Adamante leaned forward, the dragonbone throne creaking faintly under his shift. "Snatz was right to warn us. They won’t be swayed by promises, prestige, or even threats." A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "But that’s fine. The best pieces on the board are the ones that move on their own."

He exhaled, settling back into his seat. "Continue monitoring them. No further approaches—not yet."

Kylo hesitated. "And if they interfere with our operations?"

Adamante’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "They won’t. Not unless we give them a reason to."

The unspoken threat lingered in the air.

"For now," Adamante continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "let them play heroes. The world is changing, Kylo. And when the time comes…"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.