CHAPTER 78: A GAZE OF POWER

Theo is staring at road in front of him. He is not mistaken. Someone or something out there is constantly emitting mana. In a world of no magic and extreme lack of mana, that is nothing short of incredible.

It can also mean, there is someone else other than him that can do magic. Theo who still hasn’t fully grasp this world’s mana condition, is immediately vigilant.

Relax, Theo. If someone does know how to use magic, it doesn’t mean they are powerful. Because powerful mages do not constantly emit mana, especially not this far. This is clearly a mage who doesn’t know how to control their mana properly.

Theo relaxes at the thought. That’s right. Mana control. Whoever this is, they lack mana control.

He smiles. I can handle them.

Theo doesn’t realize that currently, he is starting to think like a real member of Montrose family. He’s worried not for himself, but for Leila and her friends.

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The Opaline Terrace slowly comes into view.

Theo is a little surprised by the design of the building. It reminds him of structures in Caelthorn. From afar, it looks almost like a Persian palace, low to the ground, with many rounded shapes.

In fact, there are no visible sharp corners anywhere. Everything is curved. Even the door frames and windows are arched. And what makes it even more striking is that almost every wall is made of transparent glass, each with varying degrees of opacity.

The building’s palette is dark wood and broken white, with gold accents and iridescent glass. When sunlight hits the glass, it sparkles with a soft rainbow shimmer.

It gives the whole place an ethereal, enchanting feeling. People who visit it rarely leave unaffected.

"Oh, wow!" Leila breathes out.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" Miranda smiles. She knows Leila has never been here, so she kept quiet on the way, she wanted to see Leila’s first reaction.

"I’m... speechless. This place looks like it doesn’t belong here. I can’t believe something like this exists in the middle of Arvion. It feels like a different world." Leila doesn’t pull her punches; she’s genuinely amazed.

What’s odd is that Theo, the younger one, is far less awed than Leila, the older one. Their reactions are reversed, Theo is calm, while Leila looks shaken.

"No one else can build something like this. Many have tried. Some even offered to pay the owner just to get the name of the original designer, but no one ever succeeded. Rumor has it that no one actually knows when or how this place was built. One day, it just... appeared," Miranda explains.

Theo frowns. It sounds too much like magic.

He’s not that far off. The original contractor used heartstone to construct the place, one of the first people to successfully utilize heartstones in architecture. But he died before he could teach anyone else his technique, and no one since has come close to replicating what he created.

Their car stops right at the entrance.

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Inside the restaurant, around ten ladies, ranging from their late twenties to late fifties, are watching the entrance through a TV inside a VIP room. They are chatting lightly, but their eyes are glued to the screen.

The black car’s passenger door is opened by an Opaline Terrace staff member.

The chattering stops instantly, and all eyes lock onto the screen like hawks.

A brunette woman in her late thirties steps out of the car. She’s wearing a tailored pastel-green tweed suit: a cropped jacket with neat beige buttons, paired with a straight skirt that falls to the knee. Clean, polished, unmistakably high-society.

Her shoes are beige leather pumps with a neat mid-height heel, elegant without trying too hard.

In her hand, she carries a matching structured beige handbag with a clean, refined silhouette, the kind meant to signal quiet wealth.

Everything about the woman radiates elegance, old-money confidence, yet still feels down-to-earth and approachable.

The ladies murmur in disbelief.

"That’s Leila Monfort? I thought she was in her mid-forties. That woman looks late thirties!"

"She looks so elegant and powerful. How is she ’new to money’?"

"Who gave us the wrong information?"

"How are we supposed to deal with her if our intel is all wrong?"

The Baroness says nothing. She watches the screen silently. Her face reveals nothing. No one knows what she’s thinking.

"Look at her hair! It’s so luscious and healthy! How does she do it?"

"Shh, let’s see the next one. It should be her daughter."

On screen, a young woman steps out.

Gasps burst across the room.

"Oh my god! It’s true! Look at the hair!"

"Pure snow white! How is that possible?!"

"It’s like silk!"

"And her face is like porcelain!"

"She looks like a doll!"

Theo steps out of the car looking effortlessly polished, the kind of quiet elegance that isn’t styled, it just happens.

His hair is the first thing anyone notices: long snow-white strands falling past his shoulders, parted neatly to the side. A simple gold pin clips back one section, keeping it off his face and giving him a soft, composed frame. In the sunlight, the white shines almost silver.

He wears a soft white midi dress with puffed sleeves, the fabric scattered with delicate pale-white floral motifs that shimmer faintly when he moves. The dress cinches gently at his waist before falling in a smooth A-line, giving him the silhouette of a young woman just stepping into adulthood.

On his feet are clean white sneakers, simple, modern, unintentionally charming, balancing the femininity of the dress with a touch of practicality.

In one hand, he carries a structured white leather handbag: minimalist lines, gold hardware, the kind of piece that whispers money instead of screaming it.

The overall look speaks youth and wealth, innocent but not fragile.

But when Theo’s eyes lift toward the nearest camera, the gasps return, louder.

There’s quiet power in them. A depth. A kind of wisdom no sixteen-year-old should have.

The gaze lasts less than two seconds, but everyone feels it, even if they can’t explain why.

The Baroness slowly tightens her grip on the armrest until her knuckles turn white.

Her mind screams:

Danger.

Beware.

Do not provoke.

The Baroness unconsciously swallows.

Who is she? That hair... that power. She radiates power and authority. There is no possible way a sixteen-year-old can emit that kind of aura.

Interesting. Very interesting.

The rest of the ladies are still clamoring in mild panic, whispering over each other after seeing the two Montrose women step out of the car.

The Baroness suddenly stands.

Silence falls instantly.

"Ladies," she says coolly, "our guests are here. We cannot be rude. We will go outside and welcome them to the Opaline Terrace."

She glides toward the door with practiced elegance. Just before stepping out, she pauses, turns her head slightly, and speaks over her shoulder:

"War is not won by outfit or appearance alone. Let us see if their brains match their looks."

Then she continues forward, leaving the room.

The ladies scramble to follow her like obedient, over-decorated ducklings.

At the TV screen behind them, Theo looks straight at the camera.

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Outside, as he steps out of the car, Theo pays extra attention to how he carries himself. He’s painfully aware that, sometimes, he still walks the way he used to, confident, grounded, unmistakably male, which doesn’t match the body he now occupies.

But the moment his feet touch the ground, he feels it: someone is watching.

Not just watching, but studying.

He flicks his gaze to the camera he cannot see... but knows exactly where it is. He locks onto it intentionally, holding the stare for two slow seconds, letting a sliver of his Archmage presence seep through.

A silent message: We are not the prey.

Then he relaxes his face and drops his gaze, almost theatrically gentle, just as Miranda and Claudia start stepping out behind him.

About a minute later, he senses it, a shift in mana. Faint, but distinct. Somewhere inside the restaurant. His head lifts, eyes cutting back toward where the camera should be, as if testing who is watching him.

"Thea?" Leila calls softly.

Theo turns, letting the tension drain from his posture, and sees her offering her hand.

He smiles, takes it, and the two walk toward the Opaline Terrace together, hand-in-hand.

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Inside the Opaline Terrace is everything Leila imagined it to be: bright, elegant, high-end, welcoming, and just a little intimidating.

The outer color palette flows seamlessly inside. The floor is broken-white polished marble threaded with faint iridescent shimmer. The table frames are dark wood; the tops mirror the marble floor but are smoother, richer, edged with thin gold accents.

The chairs have faint beige cushions; their frames match the dark wood and gold detailing.

Uniformed staff move around the space: crisp black and white, precise steps, no clatter, no chaos. Everything is efficient. Quiet. Perfect.

A maître d’ approaches, bowing politely.

"Welcome to the Opaline Terrace. You must be Mrs. Montrose and Ms. Montrose. The ladies are already waiting for you."

He signals a waiter to escort them toward the High Société’s table.

Then he turns and his eyes widen instantly.

"Mrs. Monfort and Ms. Monfort! What a lovely surprise. It has been a while since your last visit. I’m afraid you don’t have a reservation... but fret not. We always have a table for you."

He bows again, and with one graceful sweep of his hand, gestures, "This way, ladies."