Children who love to dream always cradle luminous dreams, like snow and ink keeping clean edges in a mirror-bright world.

A gallant knight, a beautiful princess, a wicked villain, a dark tower, a generous king, a hidden sage—each plays the part like actors on a moonlit stage.

They clash without blood, like swords ringing on water, and it always ends in sunlight. Justice wins, as sure as dawn.

Light against dark, clean and sharp like blade and scabbard.

Fine. Send them to the Golden Age, the age without tears.

There, there’s only light, no Ocean of Darkness yet.

There, the primal chaos hadn’t earned the right to exist, and only the highest sanctity and the greatest souls had weight.

But this is the Silver Era.

It’s an adult’s duty to let children dream, but not to fund an adult’s dream.

So stop the fairy tales. Read tragedy.

I ran through the trees, heart tight as a drumskin, and heard the sky grumble like a furnace.

Wind element bucked under the wind’s flow, a wild horse rearing, and a giant’s heavy fist came down like a falling boulder.

Still far from the Godspeed Realm.

I drove off my left foot and rolled right like a fired shell, leaves flicking past like green knives.

The Highland Giant’s fist smashed down, and the shockwave thumped my chest like a battering ram.

Blood rose from my lungs, coppery as rust.

It was fine. Stini’s punches hurt more.

Midair, I slashed, cutting the trunk aimed at my waist.

The wood cracked like dry bone.

I stole its force, slowed my fall, hit earth, and leaped back the other way.

At the peak, I raised the greatsword Valor, steel catching dusk like a cold moon.

I fell, and I cut.

Valor bit the giant’s forearm.

Muscle with rock’s hardness and steel’s give flew in shards like shale in a quarry blast.

I felt the core shudder.

The bone inside began to crumble, a mountain splitting in winter.

I jumped free before foul blood could spew and paint me black.

The Highland Giant bellowed, a storm in a canyon.

Stini jammed searing thunder orbs—high-tier Destruction—into its mouth.

Crackling drowned the roar, like hail on iron.

Fifty meters of meat and stone reeled back a step, then dropped to one knee.

Its black pupils rolled gray, a frost creeping over coal.

Petrification beam.

I didn’t need to say a word.

A crimson arrow drilled its eye, a lightning bolt with feathers.

Boom—wet shards fell like a dirty rain, murky blood mixed with milky crystals.

The giant tried to rise, breath a bellows, but power sagged.

Arrows spiked every joint like iron thorns, faint sparks dancing between them.

That was the shackle.

Hands on the ground, the giant panted like a dying bellows.

A swarm of Constructs chewed up from the earth, metal hands clamping down like roots.

Good. The opening.

I jumped again.

Valor punched into its heart, and Shadow Erosion began like ink spreading in water.

Black gloss ran inward from the wound, a night tide filling a cavern.

The giant felt the wrongness and thrashed, chains squealing in its joints.

It tore one hand free and clawed for me like a hawk stooping.

Gloria met the hand.

She tore skin and muscle like paper and went inside the arm, a wolf through a hedge.

She’d be dripping head to toe.

I should keep a healthy distance from Her Highness later.

Rips and snaps rang out—wet silk and breaking branches.

The giant’s arm hung useless, a rag on a pole.

My Shadow Erosion neared its end, an eclipse closing.

The giant fell from blood loss and broken balance, a toppled cliff.

I pulled Valor from its chest.

No blood flowed, shadows drinking it like sand.

At death’s lip, the Highland Giant found a last wind.

Its body swelled a ring like a bellows overfilled, and it roared, thunder in a barrel.

Stini hurled more thunder orbs.

No use.

Heads up. It’s the last counterattack.

The textbook name was Combat Continuation.

Take the magic status class, maybe?

Gloria leaped out of the ruined arm and stood with us, calm as winter stone.

“Blood speed tripled. Heart’s stopped. It’s moving on remnant life force alone.”

“So what is life force, anyway?

Don’t you just die when the blood runs out?

Is life force another element, like blood, that keeps us going?”

“Don’t chatter now. Even an easy foe demands focus.

This body is forged of iron.”

Stini layered buffs on herself, War God Unparalleled, then Iron Fortification.

Holy Sword Yingfeng blazed like a sunrise, carving bone-deep tracks across the giant’s chest.

I laid a quick enchant on my blade, Lingering Gloom.

Then I cast my own path buff, Path of the Trickster.

I slipped through shadow like a fish through reeds, then hacked at the giant’s leverage points.

Highland Giant anatomy’s close to ours.

I cut tendons like bowstrings, and motion died at the root.

Gloria—she’s the limit of the body, a mountain with a pulse.

No magic, only force.

She chose a frontal charge, her gale toppling trees like matchsticks.

She crashed into its chest, ripped out its throat, and pinched shut its last breath like snuffing a candle.

“O Divine Being, grant glory to the triumphant Hero.”

Elina sang high, voice clear as a bell.

Gold light poured from her hands over us, washing away foul blood like rain over slate.

Mind and muscle rose to a peak, a fresh blade out of quench.

I felt I could plunge into another fight and drink it dry.

A handy Divine Art.

No more fuss with dirty clothes.

But it shaved off the full-body sigh after battle’s end, like ending a song before the last note.

Our powerful lady Hero lured this Highland Giant.

She’d found a straggler and, on a whim, poked the bear.

“First monster down! Let’s take a picture!”

“Captain, we should harvest the valuable parts first.

The blood stink might draw others.”

Catherine cut off Stini’s photo magic with one cool line.

“By the way, I’ve been wondering. Why is Stini the captain?”

“Fufu, jealous, Vice-Captain Andor?”

Elina hid a laugh behind her hand.

Her beast ears twitched like leaves in wind.

“Not jealous. Just curious why we decided without a talk.”

We also decided I’m vice-captain without a vote.

“Vice-Captain, you don’t know the Seven Wonders of adventuring?

The first is: any party with a Hero will lose its original captain, and the Hero becomes the new one.

It’s half superstition, but most folks won’t tempt that omen.”

Never heard of it.

But given the Stini family history, it tracks.

Catherine continued, straight-faced, like a teacher by lamplight.

“Don’t press unknown buttons or smash chains.

You’ll unseal an ancient monster, and it’ll eat the party.

If a creature that looks like a rabbit crossed with a cat wants a contract, refuse.

Later, you’ll get decapitated.

If someone shouts, ‘No time, get in!’ don’t.

The magi-car rides straight to no return.”

The Silver Era is great, a mountain with snow and a city with wine.

Greatness and fun don’t clash.

There’s plenty that’s interesting.

But if gods and demons clearly exist, why call any of this superstition?

I asked Catherine, who knew folklore like a gardener knows seasons.

“That’s not superstition.

We just don’t know every root yet.

So we feel doubt and wonder when things unfold.”

She showed a badge, the emblem of the Truth Seekers Assembly.

Not a cult, but a sober group that probes the Sorcerer Emperor’s power from the Golden Age.

They believe every thing has a root that can be found.

That all can be understood, and thus governed.

That all things connect, and deeper truths lie under the uncanny like bedrock under soil.

What can I make of that?

“You two, get to work!”

Stini, all thumbs at tent-pitching, gave up and yelled, wind in her hair like a petulant flag.

“Yes, yes, Miss Raven, where do we put ours?

Don’t hit me, that hurts!”

Raven summoned a pack of Constructs to chase me like tin wolves.

Adventurers usually hunt in the morning and pitch tents before sunset, racing the sky like hares.

It eats time.

We’re strong but unskilled at living, so we lose more.

We started at noon with our willful captain who wanted a nap, like a cat in sun.

After dragging each other down, blaming, yelling, and a friendly duel of egos, we gave up on tents by dusk.

Girls aren’t all handy.

I’m no better, so I shouldn’t talk.

If only Vega were here.

The universal maid would fix it all like a thread through a needle.

I lay alone in a metal tent Raven made with Alchemy Quick-Forging, cold as a tin can under stars.

I rubbed the handprint on my cheek, her shy smack a red leaf.

No one to talk to.

So boring.

Night raid?

Training camps always have something spicy, like a lantern behind paper.

But Gloria, Stini, and Raven share a tent.

Stini wouldn’t mind.

Princess Golia, I can’t read.

Better not.

Forget it.

I’ll handle it myself tonight, like a lone wolf under the moon…

Just as I thought it, my tent flap lifted, soft as a moth’s wing.

“Who?”

“I’ve come to offer favor to the man I like.

What, not welcome?”

Elina, the Divine Being’s proxy, slipped in wearing a thin shift, snow under silk.

The body hidden under the heavy Divine Healer robes now sang in lines.

Caster’s life, no muscle bulk.

Her chest’s curve was clean as a river bend.

A C? No—D, likely.

Not like Gloria and the other warrior types, tragically A or B, horizon-flat.

No curve, barely a line.

Stini had her sternum cracked by Yakfarro.

It’s healed, but that big-loli frame jumped from A+ to A-.

A proper flatland.

“Is it beautiful?

This body granted by the Divine, the beauty of creation made flesh.

Andor, if I give myself to you—how about it?”

A faint tempting blush warmed her cheeks, like wine behind glass.

Pink lips and light makeup dried my throat like salt.

A virgin would lose the reins and leap.

I’d be lying to say I felt nothing.

But wariness weighed more, a stone on a kite-string.

In the last history, they called Andreas a fiend of Slaughter.

No one called him a lecher.

And this smells staged, like incense hiding smoke.

“Not great.

I already like someone.

Please go.”

I told you, don’t binge novels.

Love at first sight happens like snow in summer.

Possible, but rare.

First suspect a scam.

I’ve seen plenty of bodies.

I won’t panic like some hero and cover my eyes with both hands.

“Well, I know we should close the distance slowly, but…”

“Elina, just say why you’re here.”

“…You—you’re not interested in my body?”

She looked shocked, like a cat in rain.

I should be the shocked one.

“Is it erectile dysfunction?

I know your pain.

It’s fine.

I’m the proxy of the wide-reach deity Infinita.

The Great Divine Art, Great Hymn, can heal any ailment.

Don’t worry, there’s hope.

Praise the Divine’s greatness, for the Divine Being never leaves your hope behind.”

“What are you even saying!

Why did you come?”

I’m not a schoolboy.

Don’t use kindergarten concern on me.

“You… truly feel nothing for my body?”

“After that many lines, you still don’t get it?”

“Uh, I really do like you.

I like how you fight, bold and full of a man’s steel…”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed.

You’re reading a script already, stiff as a puppet.”

“…Your dashing blade, your wind-like run, the beauty of motion every moment.

I’ve found myself lost in you…”

“Good, good. Keep going.”

Being praised feels nice, like sun on armor.

Watching a blushing beauty whisper shy words is its own wine.

“…”

“Keep going.

Why’d you stop?”

"You..."

Elina's face flushed blood-red, like a pomegranate ready to burst. Anger flared; I hadn't done a thing.

"Bastard! This isn't what we agreed!" Her voice cracked like a whip in winter air.

"Hey, who sent you? What were you going to do? You didn't even finish!" My words flew like arrows from a restless quiver.

She slapped me. Tears streaked like rain. She bolted into the night, sand scattering like startled birds.

Seeing a cluster of girls hiding outside the tent, Elina hesitated a beat, then ran faster, like a deer fleeing torchlight.

Faced with eyes heavy with pity, scorn, and contempt, I could only shrug, shoulders like tired stones.

"At least this time, my hands are clean." My palms felt cold as snow.

The girls outside hissed in all kinds of uncivil ways, then drifted back to their tents like sparrows to their nests.

So Elina came just to clown around, tossing pebbles into my calm pond?

Besides telling me Head was watching me, what was the point, like frost prickling the back of my neck?

I tugged the blanket tight like a shield, rubbed my not-sore eyes, and let my heart settle like dust before sleep.

I figured no more surprises would drop tonight, like stars dimming behind cloud.

"Master, the King of the Highlands has been cleared..." The report fell like cold rain.

I snapped, heat coiling like steam. "Can't you read the scene? Read a mind? Read a face?" My breath smoked in the chill. "I got slapped twice for nothing—well, one was on me." "You should know I'm already wound tight, like a drawn bow."

"I'm poor at dealing with girls, often choose the wrong approach, called a creep by classmates who deserved two slaps—Master, please calm yourself." Her tone was flat as carved wood.

"Sorry. I'm reflecting on my unwarranted temper." I swallowed the words like bitter tea. "My apologies, Miss Vega; I’m already reflecting, so please let the flame die down."

"If words can't win, the correct move is to slap back, like returning thunder. I chose the wrong master." Her verdict landed like a stone seal.

"Is that so?" The question hung like a lantern in fog.

"No. It's because my troubled master looks easy to deceive, like a fox scenting weakness. That's not the main point, the needle under silk. Master, the King of the Highlands was cleared by me and Berenz." Her certainty gleamed like a blade in moonlight.

"Oh, that. Quick work—like a hawk stooping."

The King of the Highlands is a colossal ridge giant, commander of its kin, a mountain shouldering clouds like armor.

It originally belonged to my sister Anna, holder of the Slaughter domain, the Son of the Demon King, whose shadow tastes of iron.

The lone ridge giant Stini found was the one that slipped away when Vega went to hunt the king, like a wolf peeling off from the pack.

"My master who takes it one step at a time, what's the next task?" Her words paced like footprints in dew.

"I do look far ahead, you know, eyes on the horizon like a whetted blade. Need rest, or let the wind settle? If not, drive like a storm to the lowest level of the Tower of Final Stars, and then—"

Liberate the Sky-Bearer, Beaozliev, and snap his chains like thunderbolts.

Legend says, aside from the Endless Demon King Andreas, he's the only primeval beast that can knock the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom from the heavens, like shattering glass among constellations.

It's also part of my bargain with Head, a silk-soft deal carrying a hidden knife.