Before the pain knifed up from deep in her ears—like every bone snapping at once—Varie felt quiet.

Yes, quiet.

It was an autumn-harvest kind of calm, the kind after you drop into the stubbled field.

The straw pokes your back like pebbles, yet you melt into it, stretch, and sigh to the sky.

What should be done… is finally done.

A light, level happiness unfurled in her chest, like mist over a pond at dawn.

It wasn’t fierce, but it made her eyes prickle with tide.

No, don’t cry now—too shameful.

She tried to squint the tears back, but the next heartbeat the adrenaline blew out.

The pain she’d been ignoring smashed out of her ear-depth like a split wave, and she screamed.

“It—hurts—hurts hurts hurts—aaah!”

Thousands of years ago, when the Magma Forge ran clean, every visitor got a guidebook.

The first line, bolded like a red seal, was the safety notice:

All personnel must clear the forging zone before the Forging Hammer cycles.

Wear the dedicated earplugs, or the hammer’s shockwaves will burst your drums.

And that was before the Nacha Tribe was blessed by the gods.

Now their ears are sharper than frost, and Heroes have senses tuned like bowstrings.

So that quiet just now was inevitable—she couldn’t hear a thing.

Honestly, this was ten times worse than having your ears cut clean off.

Varie clutched her twitching round ears and rolled on the ground, dignity shredded like torn cloth.

Her attempt to hold back tears failed.

By some measures she looked more wrecked than when Soul Devourer Sormaidon slapped her flat.

At least then, she hadn’t been reduced to this helpless tumble.

Damn it… if anyone sees me like this, I’ll gouge out their eyes for honor—

Warmth spilled from above, like sunlight through leaves.

Through her hands, it threaded into the ear canals, soothing each tear made by sound.

It moved like a breeze through her veins, carrying clotted ache away.

Slowly, the world’s noise returned.

“Varie, I came back for the ‘Widow’ dagger.”

And at once, the voice she least wanted to hear struck like a bell.

Varie’s eyes opened.

The leftover tears slid along her cheeks like thin rain.

Worst timing, of course—the long-ears she hated most hovered over her, watching her fall-apart and her tears.

Worst of all, she couldn’t do to her what she did to her brothers—she couldn’t scratch those pretty, infuriating eyes blind.

Long-ears don’t regrow flesh like the Nacha Tribe.

Lose a piece, and it takes a century to mend.

Then Varie stalled.

Because Menglan’s hair… was shorter.

Well, “shorter” was soft talk.

Menglan’s hair had reached her ankles, a golden waterfall Varie always wanted to mock—how do you fight with that loose mane?

Now that gold was still bright, but only skimming her shoulders like late wheat.

“You…”

“Ah, this?” Menglan followed Varie’s gaze and twined her fingers around a tip of gold.

She smiled light, like a petal tilt. “It feels strange… but if Varie likes my new style, then it’s fine.”

Varie had no words.

This was the price of burning too much mana.

Worse yet, her pale cheeks glared through the azure weave of conjured cloth.

That weariness made Menglan look soft-beautiful, like moonlight on milk.

It made Varie’s heart clench like a fist, breath snagging on thorns.

She’s like this, and the first thing back is to ask about the ‘Widow’…

Varie looked away.

“…Lost.”

“What…?”

Menglan blinked.

Varie talked on, flat as iron.

“What, you thought I was playing house with that dead lizard?

We fought like a storm—who’d bother with your junky dagger?”

“Hey hey, don’t call it junk.” Menglan’s healing hand shifted, and she gave Varie’s round ear a pinch.

Her tone held a tiny pout. “I like your gift very much.”

“Who cares. It’s flown off who knows where… probably buried in this heap.”

Varie jerked free and pointed at the mountain of gold, gears, and broken devices.

Half were slagged, half shattered, a collapsed city of metal.

If you want to dig, be my guest.

The mess didn’t faze Menglan.

She lifted a hand and traced smooth lines in the air, the gesture of a search array.

Varie grabbed her wrist at once.

“Mm? What is it?”

“Uh…” Varie stumbled. “You… already burned so much mana.

No magic like that now.

I’ll get my brothers to turn the pile.

If we find it, we’ll give it back.”

It felt like a decent excuse.

Yet Menglan listened and her smile curled like a fox’s tail.

“Oh~”

She nodded as if solemn, then teased, “Then I’ll await good news.

I’ll wait for you to tell me… the fate of the ‘Widow.’”

Varie paused.

There was something under the words, but her straight-line brain hadn’t caught it.

Before she could untangle the thread, Menglan ended the topic with a bow of hand.

She rose and offered Varie her hand.

“After all, there’s something more important now~”

Varie blinked, took the hand on reflex, and stood.

Menglan fussed with her, neat as an elder sister—tightened a loosened wrap, set a shoulder scarf straight.

She wiped off ugly blood like rain from glass.

When Varie looked proper again, Menglan nodded, satisfied, and turned her gently.

“Key moments need a little dignity.”

She was right.

For the honor-strict Nacha Tribe, the next moment demanded order, not disarray.

Varie turned, and her view filled with a field of teal, half-transparent figures.

They drifted like river lily pads, and the closed Forging Hammer kept spilling more specters like mist.

They couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, only circled, slow as a tide, around Varie and Menglan.

“Time to say goodbye, Varie.”

Varie stared at the remnants.

At the front, floated the shade she knew best.

His half-melted face, the single eye still bright like a star seen through smoke.

Varie’s gaze held.

After a long breath, she whispered, “Big mouth…”

The complaint trembled and lost its teeth.

She drew in air, set her hand against her chest again.

This time he didn’t throw the old good-luck sign.

His charred face loosened into release.

He mirrored the Lionheart Hero—hand to chest, head bowed a fraction.

Yes. I’ve finally… kept the promise.

Varie blinked again.

Each fall of her lashes sent a wave of teal grains into the air, dissolving like fireflies in the Magma Forge’s heat.

When every freed remnant had gone like smoke, she held the salute still.

Until Menglan stepped to her side and broke the hush.

“Don’t be so sad.

Maybe when we go back, we’ll see some of them, reborn.”

“…If you long-ears stop scheming to whisk away our girls every day, maybe that’s possible.”

Menglan laughed low, like wind under eaves.

“Well, we can’t deny cross-tribe pairing changes the birthrate.

But Nacha girls have the right to chase true love.”

She said it with a sly curl at the corner, then slid to Varie’s front.

She leaned close, chin tipped up, eyes lifting to Varie’s.

“At least that’s what I think.

What do you think, Varie?”

Before, Varie would have started shouting the tribal slur—“hussy!”

This time she hesitated a long beat.

Her hand should push, her mouth should scold.

That flicker was unacceptable.

Heavens, when did you get this soft, Varie?

You’re a Hero, the Nacha Tribe made flesh of honor!

Show a faith steadier than the moon’s silver!

She braced to shove Menglan, voice ready to boom righteous, to call the long-ears shameless.

A shout came first from behind.

“Varie? And Her Majesty the Queen!?”

Hos jumped the stair two steps at a time.

He barreled in and slammed forearms and shoulders with Varie, the ritual like clashing shields.

Then he remembered Queen Dreamlan watching and scratched his head, sheepish.

The other Nacha teammates appeared on the stairs.

One carried Barni, limp but breathing.

Varie’s smile flashed, then faltered—her other childhood friend wasn’t there.

Hos hurried the answer.

“The bookworm’s behind, helping Miss Mira.

And Miss Mira’s just worn out!”

He smacked Varie’s shoulder with joy.

“Those chaos-meat blobs all self-exploded when the hammer fired.

Can you believe it?

We killed that legendary lizard, and not a single—mmph?!”

Varie clapped a hand over his crow-mouth, but too late.

A mechanical voice rolled over them like iron thunder.

[Line fault detected. Attempting facility layout #28. Please stand by—]

The walls of the Magma Forge shivered.

Panels cracked and slid, and hydraulic arms like steel trees repositioned them along new energy routes.

Under the engine roar came a chorus of ugly man-cries, wobbling like off-key flutes.

“B-brother, hold on—uwaaaa!”

Kabos staggered out from a freshly opened corridor, snot and tears stringing like wet rope.

On his back lay Magan, a bundle two sizes bigger, both limping toward the group.

Varie ran, took Magan’s weight off Kabos, and lowered him flat to stone like setting down a wounded stag.

“Big Sis, Big Sis…! Please save him!

For the mission—no, to protect me—!”

Kabos was sobbing to pieces, and Magan’s state matched the storm.

From hips upward, no skin lay whole.

Beyond the first wound at the groin, his chest bloomed with open gashes like broken mouths.

Blood from his lungs foamed his lips, and his armor hung in shards, exposing raw meat and ruin.

The other Nacha men turned their eyes away, heavy and quiet, like shutters drawn at night.

Kabos saw that and thought doom.

He threw himself on his brother, wailing, and Varie grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back like hauling a pup.

“All right, all right.

Magan will be fine.

Calm down.”

“D-don’t comfort me!

Big Sis, he—he protected me so—at least give him a dignified funeral—ow!”

Varie popped him on the head, a quick drum-tap.

He blinked dumb, fell silent.

Queen Dreamlan knelt by Magan, her hand a cool leaf on his.

A wash of green mana drifted over him like river light.

When the glow ebbed, every wound had vanished.

Only pale-new skin remained, whiter than the fresh-peeled moon.

Kabos froze. Seconds passed. Then he yelled “Brother!” and lunged, hugging the half‑naked Beanpole like a drowning man grabbing driftwood.

“Bro, you’re back! You’re back! You came back to life! Aaaaahhh!”

“Uh…” Beanpole had just opened his eyes; confusion fogged his voice. “What… what’s going on?”

“Enough. Step aside—” Varie couldn’t stand it; irritation pricked like thorns. She went to peel Kabos off.

Right then, the late‑arriving Mira showed on the stair, with Tela steadying her—two shadows on a spine of steps.

“Oh, you’re in better shape than you look.” Varie took in the arc‑scored cuts on Mira and tossed a tease. “Come here. Let the long‑ears fix you. No scars.”

Mira glanced at her, didn’t answer. She swept the room; her eyes widened like lanterns snapping open.

And, just as Varie had said, she shook off Tela’s hand, rushed over, and grabbed Varie’s shawl collar like a hawk diving.

“Where’s my sister? Where is she?!”