ShadowBound: The Need For Power-Chapter 273: Sear, Zone 7

In the quiet of his room, Liam sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless.

'A bottleneck, huh?' he mused, eyes half-lidded. 'I really thought I'd be stuck in low-tier longer. Mystica said my body was still adapting from that forced Ascension. Guess the universe had other plans.'

He leaned back slowly, resting against the sheets, letting his eyes close. 'Could it be because I've been using my dark magic so often lately? Those nights… yeah, maybe that pushed me forward.'

"But that doesn't matter now," he muttered aloud to the ceiling. "What matters is how I break through… if I force it, I'll just slow down the process again. Can't risk that."

A quiet breath escaped him.

"Wonder if I'll be able to speak with Nyxie again… maybe even form a mind link," he said, then scoffed softly. "Doubt it. I'm barely stepping into mid-tier, not breaking the heavens."

He rolled onto his side, fingers brushing against the edge of the mattress.

"Whatever. I'll think about it tomorrow. Right now… I need sleep." A pause, then a whisper: "Midnight's calling."

***

Crescent Kingdom – Zone 7, Sear

Sear, one of the twin cities nestled in Zone 7, stood as a balanced heartbeat between wealth and want. Not rich, not poor—just right in the middle, where life moved at a steady rhythm.

By day, it was humble. But at night? Oh, Sear shimmered. The moonlight kissed its cobbled streets and the stars danced over sloped rooftops. It was a city of warmth and quiet pride, alive with forgemasters pounding away at molten dreams, mid-tier nobles in their modest manors, farmers trading stories and goods, and everyday folks who gave the place its soul.

Tucked deep within this charming city stood a sturdy little home—built from thick stone and timber, with a rugged, medieval charm that made it feel like it had always belonged there. Simple, but beautiful in a way that made you stop and stare for a moment longer than you meant to.

This was the Wellington house.

Dylan's home.

##@

The moon hung like a lazy coin in the sky, and Sear's streets glowed beneath its pale shimmer. Lanterns swayed gently with the breeze, casting golden halos onto the stone road as Dylan, strolled through his city. A wooden bow was slung lazily over one shoulder, and a sack of supplies bounced against his hip. He wore his usual crooked grin—the one that made old folks shake their heads but smile anyway.

"Oi, Dylan!" came a raspy voice from the corner fruit stand. Old Marnel, a grizzled man with hands like tree bark, leaned over his cart of ripe oranges and wilting pears. "Still out flirtin' with trouble, lad?"

Dylan stopped, leaned against the edge of the cart, and flicked an orange into the air with a flourish. "Me? Trouble? I'm a paragon of virtue, Master Marnel. Ask anyone."

"Paragon, my arse." Marnel chuckled, swatting at him with a cloth. "Get home before your mother thinks the demons got you."

"Too late. I am the demon," Dylan said, grinning wide before tossing the orange back into the pile. "But don't worry. I only eat apples."

He waved and continued down the street.

A few turns later, he passed the blacksmith's forge where heat still poured from the belly of the furnace. Mistress Harlane, arms like steel cables and soot smudged across her cheek, looked up from hammering a blade.

"Boy! Tell your father that blade he requested'll be ready by week's end. You got that?"

Dylan saluted playfully. "Yes ma'am. I'll even deliver it with flowers and a serenade."

She raised an eyebrow. "Deliver it with that mouth, and I'll forge you a new jaw."

He laughed, backing away with hands raised. "You wound me, Mistress! But seriously, got the message. Thank you."

"Go on then," she huffed, smirking despite herself.

As he neared the last stretch to his neighborhood, an old woman in a tattered shawl waved him over from her porch.

"Young Dylan… would you help me with this bucket?"

He jogged up without a word, lifting the heavy pail of water with ease. "You really shouldn't be carrying this alone, Miss Elra."

"Ah, but if I waited for my grandson, I'd die of thirst first," she said with a wry smile. "Thank you, child."

"No problem at all." He set the bucket down and gave her a small bow. "Stay safe, alright? Full moon always brings out the weirdos."

"Then why are you out here?"

He gave a dramatic gasp. "That's it. I'm disowning Sear. Betrayed by the elders!"

"Go home, boy," she said, laughing.

As Dylan finally reached the stone-and-wood house tucked between ivy-covered walls and wild rose bushes, the warm flicker of light glowed from the window. The air smelled like stew and safety.

He pushed open the door, calling out, "I'm home!"

Dylan kicked the door shut with the back of his foot, holding up a burlap sack like it was a trophy. "The mighty hunter returns—with tonight's prize!"

He strutted into the house like a knight returning from battle, dramatically placing the game on the wooden table—two rabbits and a plump bird.

In the kitchen, his mother stood over the stove, stirring a pot with grace and rhythm only mothers possess. Her blonde hair was tied loosely behind her head, and when she turned, her green eyes sparkled—exactly like Dylan's, only warmer and wiser.

Dylan snuck up, threw his arms around her from behind, and nuzzled his cheek against hers. "Guess who's been an absolute gem today? Your favorite son. Your only son, technically, but let's not focus on numbers."

She laughed, setting her spoon aside and leaning into the hug. "Did you actually hunt, or did you just charm the game into giving up?"

He pulled back with mock offense. "Mother, please. I worked hard for this. Blood, sweat, and a minor scratch—on my pride."

"Poor pride," she giggled, turning to face him. "You really are something else."

"I get it from you," he said, poking her nose. "And the good looks. Dad gets credit for the hair. The chaotic energy? That's inherited."

Before she could answer, the back door creaked open.

Dylan spun on his heel. "Ah, behold!" he cried. "The elusive father returns from his epic quest—for milk."

His dad, tall and built like a worn-out knight who never quite retired, walked in with a huge grin and a jar of fresh cow's milk. Blonde hair tousled, blue eyes sparkling with mischief—Dylan's future self in every way.

"I got the milk," he said proudly, holding the jar up.

Dylan squinted, then pointed. "Fifteen years later… you finally returned. With milk. Mom, we can finally forgive him!"

His father burst out laughing. "Kid, you keep this up, and I'll use this milk to baptize you into adulthood."

"Oh no," Dylan said, backing away dramatically. "The prophecy! It's true!"

The room filled with laughter as the family finally gathered around the table. Dinner was a lovely chaos of jokes, shared stories, and second servings. Steam rose from the plates, and warmth filled the air—not from the food, but from the three people who truly mattered to each other.

Afterward, as his mom hummed and gathered the dishes, Dylan stood to help.

But before he could reach the sink, his dad clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not so fast, little hero. Come with me. Man time."

Dylan sighed with theatrical pain. "And I was just about to become Dishwashing Champion of the Kingdom…"

His mom rolled her eyes. "Go. Before he starts quoting 'ancient father wisdom.'"

"Too late," his dad said, dragging Dylan outside by the arm.

The cool night air greeted them as they stepped onto the porch. Crickets whispered in the grass, and the stars blinked lazily above.

Dylan leaned against a pillar. "Alright, Old Man. Lay it on me."