—Beloved.

Varie showed nothing to the word from Menglan. She gave a faint “oh,” like a curtain falling, and ended the talk.

The rare harmony between them broke, a wind‑ruffled ripple swallowed by louder splashes of stones skipping the water.

“Holy— I, I actually hit it!”

A dull thump, a startled squeal, then cheers crackled like sparks in dry grass.

The squad hoisted Tela, tossing her skyward, because she’d just shot down a giant‑horn elk hundreds of meters out. Like the Speartip spiders, that species had warped under the Heretic Dragon’s chaotic radiation—muscles swollen, senses stretched past sight to catch every whisper of wind and grass.

To survive in that harsh field, evolutions like that touched almost every creature in the Echoes of the Remnant. That watchfulness had left Adelaide’s crew gnawing dry rations for days.

Their carefree, run‑whenever days ended—no, they weren’t weak; the Type‑14 Night‑Silent long‑range arbalest was too strong! Tela brandished her newly snagged toy, pride bright as flame, and every Nacha teammate clapped along, whether for reclaiming ancestral tech or for not having to choose between Shalagwa and hard bread tonight.

Both, probably, though the second weighed heavier—Adelaide watched their joy and grumbled softly inside.

Even a mage at her level had to admit: ancient Nacha weapons hit like thunder under ice.

Fetching elk meat, they blundered into another swarm of Speartip spiders drawn by blood scent. This time, the Remnant shadowing them didn’t even move. The spiders got shredded by the squad’s rapid‑fire hand crossbows and harpoon guns, never breaching a twenty‑meter ring around them.

Setting aside outliers like Adelaide and a few others, a normal Imperial mage team couldn’t do this. And this was just standard kit hauled from a forward bastion—Nacha tech speaks for itself.

Their combat power surged, and fresh meat landed in the pot. Two good omens, enough to raise spirits higher than any night since entering the domain.

But Kabos had another surprise tucked like moonlight in a sleeve.

“Kabos, if my eyes aren’t lying, is that…?!”

Camp staked and fires breathing, everyone cradled platters of elk like warm shields. Kabos thought a moment, then fished out a thick glass bottle. Ma Gan and a few Nacha froze, eyes widening like lanterns.

“Yeah. Rum, from my hometown—”

“—How’d you not say you had the good stuff!”

Hos bulldozed in and smacked Kabos’s shoulder. Kabos only scratched his head, sheepish.

“Eh, I planned to save it for the victory feast after we brought the holy relic back… then I thought, forget it! Why be so proper? If my brothers and sisters smile, we drink!”

“Good! Good brother!”

Cheers flared again, peaks and echoes; even Varie drifted closer. Adelaide’s brows knit like thin twigs.

Half‑uncorked celebration—fine, I yield. She swallowed the urge to roll her eyes, then leaned to Mira and whispered, “Is one bottle really enough for this many mouths?”

Mira watched the team too, then shook her head lightly, like willow in a breeze.

“More than enough.”

Adelaide didn’t get it at first, not until the muscle‑bound women and men dug from their packs tiny cups comically small against their frames, pinching them between thumb and forefinger to pour.

“Uh… what are we doing?”

“Since the Nacha were blessed by the gods, rumor says their bodies can’t process alcohol.”

As Mira said, the cups didn’t match the crew’s image of gnawing whole elk legs, yet they still got drunk at lightning speed. The sturdier Nacha could take three thimble‑cups—like Hos. The lighter ones spun after half a cup—like Varie.

By the end, this lot that lit up at the scent of booze downed less than half the bottle. Adelaide and Mira didn’t drink, Queen Dreamlan only wet her lips. The rest of the rum slid into Kabos’s belly like dark river water.

After that, the camp rattled louder, like cicadas after sunset.

A pack of drunks crowded the fire, babbling nonsense. Kabos, with half a bottle in him, swayed and hooked an arm over Ma Gan’s shoulder. Ma Gan turned quiet drunk, so Kabos ranted into him like a storm against stone—his bullying big brother, the rotten clan.

He grew more fevered, then hugged Ma Gan tighter and vented, “Screw the Empire, screw my brother, screw the damn family. Just ’cause I’m scared of heights, they all look down on me… I’m pissed! That hellhole can go eat dog crap!”

Emotion surged like floodwater. His grip cinched; his nose sniffled. “It’s better here. Here I’ve got brothers and sisters… Damn! If only you were a woman, Ma Gan, I wouldn’t go back!”

The noisy crew fell into sudden silence. Mouth corners jerked skyward; laughter almost burst. One glance from Ma Gan killed it. Cheeks puffed; bodies twisted strange as they swallowed giggles.

Adelaide felt the wrong note, looked to Mira to check her hunch. Mira shushed softly and shook her head.

One old saying holds: those in the game stay blind, bystanders see clear. Right now only the man himself didn’t know. Another saying holds too: ignorance is bliss. Kabos, unaware of his own words, carried no weight in his chest. He missed his new siblings choking on laughter and hopped topics like a stone across water.

“Speaking of, we’ve got someone else to thank, right?”

He grabbed the bottle, found the last sip, patted his chest, and sighed, “Good, good.”

“How could we forget the big brother Remnant!”

He poured the last into his tiny cup, walked to the Remnant, and, thinking nothing of Nacha etiquette, splashed the liquor at the Remnant’s feet, then took a Nacha bow.

“Thanks, big brother, for the weapons… and for saving my life!”

He shouted as loud as lungs could carry, like volume might cross the border between life and death and land in the Remnant’s ear.

Maybe it was the rum; maybe it was a sliver of hope for a miracle. Every Nacha fell quiet and turned, eyes lantern‑still, waiting for a response.

Of course, no answer came.

The Remnant lifted his head to the sky, to the Broken Moon hanging above. In his eyes, the rift of the void split moonlight in two.

In that moment, everyone saw his lips, seared and terrible, still opening and closing, a tide tugging at a ruined shore.

What did he want to say? It’s a question without an answer. Beyond a faint sense, no sound could cross the gap between the living and the dead.

Varie bit her lower lip and told herself that—then a woman’s voice, mellow as a stream, drifted in.

—Under the moon’s glow, we raised our thatched huts.

—No soft beds, only sulfur‑bitten forges, only ding‑ding clangs of the hammer.

—Here, we built our home.

Varie lifted her head toward Queen Dreamlan, whose song was a silver thread. Her breath stopped, caught like a moth in light.

Sparks from the fire flew before her eyes, as if stirred by song, dancing gentle on their way up.

It was a ballad of homeland and honor, of hardship and rising. It’s etched into every Nacha’s bones, and it matched the tune the Remnant mouthed in silence.

Hos caught on first and hummed along, then Ma Gan, Tela… one by one, more Nacha joined the folk song’s weave. Even Kabos hummed the same line.

Only then did Varie’s crimson lips part, her voice falling into the chorus.

Their voices climbed, sadness shedding like old bark, tones rising bright. Someone stood, then the rest stood. They set hands on each other’s shoulders and circled the fire, singing their song, dancing their dance, like declaring to the world they were on their own land again.

Adelaide watched, words ash on her tongue. In the end, she only took Mira’s hand.

“That’s why I don’t get this lot.”

She said it, but her eyes couldn’t look away.

“Can’t hold their drink, but they still drink hard. Exiled from home, yet their songs carry it every time… What are they chasing?”

Mira watched too, watched the red on their cheeks, that vivid streak that felt neither rum nor fire.

After a while, she said softly.

“It’s what they could still carry when they left home.”

Yes. Even if they can’t break down alcohol anymore, half a beer would reel them. Even if generations have passed without rocking chairs in the capital, without black smoke rising when the Magma Forge ran…

Even so, they drink the strong liquor they can’t stomach, and they sing the glory and old blaze of their home.

“Maybe they refuse to forget where they’re from.”

Mira’s voice trembled a hair. Adelaide understood.

Mira was thinking of her own home.

After that, Mira slipped into silence. Adelaide watched her, fingers tightening, interlacing with hers.

Then, under Mira’s puzzled look, she tugged and stood.

“They’re having so much fun. I want in.” Adelaide spun her playfully, then leaned against her arms. “Well? No hot spring tonight anyway. Wanna dance?”