About an hour after dinner—an hour late—the night was still the same dark sea at nineteen or twenty. Only…

Guys… you’ve gone a bit overboard, yeah? Like carnival floats rolling into a graveyard.

Aer looked back at the oddly dressed crew; her eyelids jittered like a moth trapped against glass.

Alicia held a stone cross, fresh-cut and smelling of dust—she’d carved it on the spot with the Demonblade after hearing vampires fear crosses. A garland of garlic moons hung at her neck, pungent as frost on iron. In an isekai, of course the hero’s least favorite food shows up.

Remi and Flan, two fake vampires, carried what looked like a four-inch Smith & Wesson M28-2, though this world called it the “4444” pistol. Silver bullets nested inside like cold moons, ready for a turncoat’s moment.

Lian wore nothing strange, but the cage in her hand glinted like spider silk in moonlight—was she planning to catch a vampire and keep it? Even if she nabbed one, what would you feed it—little buns?

Aer stepped up and flicked each forehead, knuckle cracking like hail; Lian got two.

Guys, the enemy isn’t scared of this stuff; charms and props are straw shields in a storm.

She stripped the odd gear off one by one and tossed it aside amid reluctant gazes. Lian earned another flick, sharp as a pecking crow.

All right! We’ve wasted too much time—drums up, it’s fight o’clock!

The crew pocketed their playfulness; faces set like winter stone.

A rare frenzy lit Lian’s face; her Yokai blood simmered like a kettle. Her blue eyes kindled red—twin coals under ice.

Tonight, we hunt to our hearts’ fill—wolves under a crescent moon!

With Aer at the front, luck brushed them like a warm tailwind. They ran from the little hill, a sleeping beast, straight to the mark; not a single mob wandered close. The enemy knew not to feed the hero.

They reached a house with years in its bones, timbers whispering like old pines. By Aer’s word, this was DIO’s den.

Guys, my body hasn’t recovered. I’m not fit to fight; I’ll support from the back. Her voice fell cool as rain.

Lian set her palm on the rusted gate, solemn as dusk.

Then—Ikuso! (Let’s go!)

She shoved hard. The gate, brittle as dead bark, couldn’t take it. It toppled with a yawning crash.

The fallen door popped their solemn bubble like a pin to a balloon. They stared, then burst into laughter. Lian flushed, caught like a bull in a china shop; a “player” ripping off the boss-room door—how’s a boss supposed to keep face?

Laughs spent, they stepped inside to cheerful background music, footfalls tapping like drumsticks.

First came a staircase that stretched like a river. Not endless, but close.

Alicia felt her feet would cry if she really climbed it, heels weeping like sore peaches.

Hey, Lian, gimme a flight spel—

Before she finished, Lian cut her off, firm as a drawn blade.

We’re here. We earn his trial, then earn the right to challenge him—stepping stones across the river.

Lian didn’t notice the excitement flooding her eyes, voice quivering like a bowstring. Alicia did, though; surprise fluttered in her chest like a trapped sparrow. She glanced at Aer, whose calm was smooth as still water, as if used to it, and puzzlement tugged Alicia’s brow.

Aer smiled, small as moonlight, and answered. Don’t be shocked. That’s just her. Most days she’s calm; when something hooks her, she goes like this. So don’t slack—climb. Call it training.

Alicia stared at the uncountable steps; her lips twitched like a snagged thread.

Heh… training, huh? Sounds exactly like Mom. Her voice rustled like autumn leaves.

Complaints aside, they had to climb; skip it and Lian-in-serious-mode would zap you. Half willing, half dragged, they began the long ascent, ants up a tree.

Beginnings bite; the ridge after bites harder.

After barely ten minutes, pain bloomed in Alicia’s soles like thorns.

Hey, are we climbing too long?

Lian glanced toward the “top” and frowned, a ripple across still water.

Now that you say it… we haven’t moved much at all, like running on a treadmill in fog.

Could this be some kind of spell? The thought rose like mist over a road.

Before Lian spoke, Flan shouted, voice cracking like fireworks. Impossible! Flan feels no trace of magic! No magic exists that Flan can’t detect! She flared like a hound on a scent.

Lian nodded, confirming it. With Ling’s memories, the truth sat like a coin in her palm.

Flan’s right. This isn’t magic. It’s a Stand ability. The word rang like a bronze bell.

Stand ability? Stand ability? Stand ability?

The term landed heavy, a stone dropped in a pond; at best, a weird “magic” in their minds.

Clap, clap, clap came from afar, crisp as winter air.

A man stepped from shadow, dressed in yellow, hair blazing yellow—his whole aura steeped in gold, like a strolling sunbeam.

He looked at Lian with proud eyes; his lips curled, amusement thin as a knife. His big hands clapped against his chest, thudding like drumheads.

I don’t know how you know it’s a Stand, but I’ll praise you—just a little. His compliment flipped like a tossed coin.

To be continued.