Earth's Greatest Magus

Chapter 2727: Home Town

New Brittania, Venta City

Earlier that day, Emery had visited his father’s grave to pay his respects. Now, his journey brought him to Venta.

What was once a modest trade outpost on the border had grown into a sprawling metropolis—the fifth largest city in Brittania. The streets bustled with merchants, craftsmen, and travelers, while tall stone walls framed the vibrant markets within. One detail, however, stood out to Emery: there were scarcely any Roman soldiers in sight. Instead, the city’s safety was entrusted to private armies—knights sworn to the Round Table—whose polished armor gleamed as they patrolled the avenues.

Venta had prospered. Yet even as the city thrived, Emery’s heart was unsettled. Only yesterday he had bid farewell to a dear friend. And today, he stumbled upon another sorrow.

At the heart of the square stood a statue, towering five meters high, carved in white marble. The figure was of a woman, her face rendered with grace and familiarity. Emery froze. He knew that face. His gaze dropped to the inscription at the base:

[In memory of Luna Quintin, Mother of Venta]

The words struck him like a blow.

As Emery stood there, one of the city’s bards was recounting her tale to a gathered crowd. Luna Quintin was among the most celebrated women of Brittania—second only to the queen herself. A merchant by trade, her vision and devotion to her people had helped shape Venta’s prosperity.

Emery’s chest tightened. Luna had been only a few years older than he. With the potion he had once given her, she should have lived to see her sixtieth year in good health, among the most vigorous women of her age. But fate had chosen differently. Ten years ago, a storm had torn her ship apart and dragged her beneath the sea.

A heavy sigh escaped him. Such was the nature of mortal life—brilliant, fleeting, fragile. The reminder stung all the more because of the friend who had chosen to embrace mortality. Watching the statue, Emery felt the weight of those choices anew.

Yet as he lingered there, his sorrow gave way to reflection. He looked from the statue to the city thriving around it, the laughter of merchants, the joy of children, the songs of bards. And then, slowly, he smiled.

Luna’s candle may have been extinguished too soon, but in her brief years she had burned brightly. She had lived fully, leaving behind a city transformed and a people inspired. Her legacy was etched not only in marble but in the lives she had touched.

Stepping away from Luna’s statue, Emery wandered through Venta’s streets until he came upon a familiar place: his old mansion. The estate still stood proudly, its gates oiled, gardens trimmed, and windows polished. Clearly, the Quintin family had maintained it with care. Yet Emery only paused at the threshold. He felt no pull to enter, no reason to dwell in halls that belonged more to memory than to him. With a faint shake of his head, he continued on.

The words of his future self still echoed in his mind: Return home at once, or you will regret it. The warning was clear, but its meaning was not. Unlike that future version of himself, Emery had been granted the chance to see Chumo alive and offer a final farewell. That alone was a gift. But deep within, he knew the warning had meant more than this. Something else still lingered, some unseen choice that would decide his path.

Until his offworld allies sent their reply, and until Nephilim’s report reached him, Emery resolved to use this time to revisit the remnants of his past.

His next destination was one of both comfort and mystery: the fey village.

This time, he did not soar through the skies or open a spatial gate. Instead, he sought a simpler path. He found a caravan of merchants bound for the fey lands. Multiple wagons rolled in a line, each guarded by fey warriors with sharp features and eyes like moonlight. Realizing this was part of their routine trade between Venta and the fey village, Emery slipped in quietly and joined the company.

In their travel, Emery listened as merchants and fey alike traded stories—tales of friendship, of how the fey were now embraced by much of Brittania, even as they held fast to their ancient traditions. This caravan, he learned, was among the few granted leave to enter the sacred village itself.

Leaning back on the wooden boards of a wagon, Emery let the breeze wash over him. The cool air carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and the faint perfume of wildflowers. For the first time in days, he allowed himself a small, private smile.

This very forest had once been cloaked in terror. Half a century ago, mortals whispered of it as the Forbidden Forest—a place haunted by beasts and fey spirits, where few dared tread. Now, it was a thriving road of trade and kinship, its myths transformed into stories of wonder rather than fear.

Hours passed. Slowly, the world around them began to shift. The flora grew stranger, more luminous—giant blossoms glowing faintly even under daylight, moss that shimmered like silver dust. Birds of iridescent plumage darted overhead, their wings flashing like gems. And at last, the village itself revealed itself: an enclave of harmony, carved seamlessly into nature.

Homes spiraled up the trunks of living trees. Clear streams wound their way through flowering gardens. Warriors trained in open glades, children ran laughing beneath the watchful gaze of their elders. It was, as Emery remembered, a paradise untouched by time.

He walked among them, cloaking himself so subtly that none took notice. Or almost none.

Two figures broke through the veil and stepped into his path. They were middle-aged women, near identical in form—long grey hair, sharp eyes. Unlike most, they pierced his concealment with ease. Their faces first showed tension, then blossomed into joy.

Emery’s lips curved. “It’s been a while.”

Their voices trembled together, almost as one. “Brother Emery…”

The twin sisters—Lilith and Leilith—stood before him, their bond of blood and fey heritage giving them the ability to sense what even mighty magus could not. Emery’s heart warmed at their sight. Decades had passed, and still they endured, steadfast and strong.

Around them, the stirrings began. Children whispered. Elders paused mid-step. Warriors turned from their training. Emery’s name spread like wildfire, carried in hushed tones and cries of recognition. A legend had stepped into their midst, a figure they had spoken of in stories now walking among them in the flesh.

He lingered with the twins for a while, then he was guided toward the heart of their sanctum: the Fey Shrine.

There, High Priestess Tyra awaited him. Her joy upon seeing him was unrestrained. Then he stepped forward until he stood before the ancient heart of their people—the Gaia Tree.

Its trunk towered skyward like a pillar of the world, its bark glowing faintly as though veins of living light ran beneath the surface. Emery placed his palm against it, and at once, his newly ascended realm stirred the spirit within.

The air grew heavy. Leaves shivered though no wind stirred. A soft hum vibrated through the ground. And then—

A vision opened before him.