I wanted to pick up the pace. The eastern mountains aren’t a vacation lodge; they’re knife-back ridges under a cold moon, and missing the peace conference would be worse than frostbite.

Even the cockiest fighter won’t hunt monsters at midnight; even someone like Augustus, hounding the Demonfolk like a hunting hawk, calls it off once night drops like a well.

Night belongs to darkness. Anything that leans toward Shadow grows meaner after dusk, like wolves slipping the leash and running hot under the stars.

“Fine by me. Lemme see… the map says we go this way.”

Stini pinged down a few lingering goblins with the beginner spell “Light Bow and Arrow,” little suns hissing through leaves, then fished out a map and pointed like a sparrow pecking grain.

Her smile was too sincere, too sun-bright. I sheathed my blade with a sigh, thinking, just trust her once, and walked with her, trading jokes as dusk pooled like ink.

…Conclusion? Stini’s a natural-born airhead. Keen instincts don’t cancel ditz. And you should never trust a sworn promise delivered with that airy breeze of a grin.

She stopped by a tree we’d seen three times already. She turned the map upside down, like a bat clinging to a branch.

“I swear, it’s this way. No mistake.”

“If you can tell me where north is, I’ll pretend to believe you.”

“Uh. Trust me, c’mon. I swear on the Hero’s name.”

“If your ancestors saw you trash the Hero title like this, they’d weep like rain.”

“Uu… I’ll show you my arm. Believe me one more time.”

She unbuckled her vambrace and held it up, eyes shining like glass.

Zero sexy. Zero point.

What’s the meaning here?

Isn’t ‘show your chest when you apologize’ the usual play? What good is an arm?

I took one deep breath, the kind you take before diving into cold water, and got ready to roast her.

Ready. Go.

“So, Stini, where do I even start? Roast you for ‘trust me,’ or roast you for not even flashing some cleavage?”

“Let’s skip the roast. Just trust me.”

She balled her fists under her chest, smile blazing like midsummer noon. Those star-spark eyes were part of her charm pack. I didn’t buy it.

“Trust you, my foot. This is the third time we’ve come to this exact spot. If you can’t read a map, hand it to someone who can. I don’t want to spend all night trading blows.”

“Didn’t someone say nighttime is a man’s real battlefield?”

“That’s a different front—the one with hostesses, gigolos, and big hotel beds. If we keep fighting here, there’s no time for that battlefield.”

“Eh, eh, if you can’t do it, just say so. I’ll take care of you.”

Stini pulled a face like a streetwalker judging a guy with performance issues, eyes cool as rain on slate.

And I swear she was imagining that exact scene while she did it, little theater playing behind her lashes.

So punchable.

“That’s a double entendre. Want to test both fronts? Ah, sorry, I’m not into girls who haven’t finished growing.”

“Nooo—officer, help! Sexual harassment!”

“My fault? If you can’t read a map, give it to the person who can!”

She muttered, “Quest items should be with the captain,” and handed it over like a cat giving up a fishbone.

I yanked the map out of her hands.

“See? Should’ve done this from the—uh…”

My hand froze like ice on steel.

I couldn’t read it.

I couldn’t read the map either.

I can read maps of the Demon Realm fine. Simple mortal maps, sure. But a pro survey map? That’s a forest of lines in a fog.

This gig should go to the team’s most educated cleric. I’m a warrior moonlighting as a Shadow Sorcerer; I don’t do admin.

“Alright. Your Highness, can you read it?”

“So you can’t either? Tch.”

“Can’t? You dare say I can’t? I—can’t, actually. But I confess quickly. That’s called gallantry.”

“A-hahaha, you can’t read it either. Hahahaha.”

Stini doubled over, laughter pounding like a drum.

“Is it that funny? There’s three of us, and two-thirds are lost kids. If Princess Golia can’t read it either, how do we get back? Worry about our situation before you roast me.”

“Hahahahaha, idiot, idiot, idiot—there’s a map-illiterate idiot right here—hahaha!”

I thumped Stini on the crown of her head, a meteor tap to shut up a fool delighted by her own reflection.

Seriously. Even if ‘chaotic gremlin’ is your brand, there’s a limit.

“Your Highness, how about it? Can you read it?”

Princess Golia isn’t a Construct. She can’t fire scan beams from her eyes, can’t query a memory bank, can’t link like a machine. She’s a weapon that puts human first, as warm as breath. If there’s no map program written in…

“Can’t.” She lifted her head and, in the plainest voice, smashed my hope like clay on stone.

“Crap! We can’t get back! The sun’s about to slip behind the ridgeline!”

“Ahaha, you idiot…”

“You’re the idiot. How did you even find those monster clusters earlier?”

“Instinct, duh. You idiot.”

Is ‘idiot’ the only word she knows?

My knuckles itched like ants.

“Stini, you’ve rubbed me wrong for a while. Let’s settle it with our hands.”

“Great, great. We’ll decide who cooks and who holds the money after we marry!”

“I’m not marrying you, dammit!”

“This is what you called… tsundere?”

Hoo—

I rubbed the throbbing cross-vein at my temple, heat rising like steam.

Arguing with an idiot. Arguing with a Divine Being. Arguing with a devil. Three trades that never pay. Why did I forget?

With words useless, force is a decent cure for fools.

I drew the Greatsword Valor to my rear hip, dropped my weight like a stone in a pond, and readied a cleaving strike.

Stini set a sharp stance, her sword coiling like a spring, power gathering like thunder behind cloud.

Right as we were about to go at it, the woods to our flank burst apart like reeds in a flood.

Something like a giant insect, bristling with knife-long spikes—no one’s idea of a peaceful creature—leapt at us in a blur of chitin and dust.

A monster. Spined Rhinobeetle.

It doesn’t cast. It’s all brutal strength and endless stamina, its carapace crammed full of enchanted muscle like a war drum stuffed tight.

These hyper-specialized beasts are nastier than the balanced kind; they’re clean predators. In its territory, nothing else lives, because its hunger is wildfire and its temper is a hammer.

But jumping a Hero Squad already seething? That’s a death wish offered on a platter.

“Stini, we take out this party-crasher first, then we—”

My battle sense snapped like a whip: right, now. I twisted, and the Holy Sword Galewind whispered past my cheek like a razor wind.

“Andor—watch my blade!”

“You warn me before you swing! You warn me! Trying to kill me? We don’t have a priest to rez us right now!”

“I believe you’d dodge. My future husband!”

“Hot-blooded lines won’t save you! A wink won’t, either! I’m not your future husband, and I can’t always dodge, you murderous Hero!”

Her strike forced me toward the monster, but monsters are easier than Heroes.

I used Valor like a shield, angling the beetle’s charge away, steel shrieking with its spines like hail on iron.

Why do I use a greatsword like a shield so often? Note to future self.

Fine, later. From the rasp of spikes over metal, I felt the beast’s centerline veer past me, angling to my back. I flooded Shadow through my feet, gloom curling like ink, and drove a kick into its side.

The twenty-meter body lurched, the way a barge lists in chop—barely, but real. My own flesh isn’t built that high.

Which means high-tier support magic—Iron Fortification and War God Unparalleled—already wrapped me like tempered plates. Stini does know her priorities when it counts.

The monster wheeled and roared at our trio, a furnace blast of stench and noise.

I saw ragged red strings in its maw, meat mashed like berries, and a few human limbs not yet erased by teeth.

Its roar slammed the air. Thin trees snapped at the waist like straws, and a single stomp sent a ripple of earth outwards, a drumbeat hard to stand through.

Challenge rating? At least Hero-tier, maybe higher.

But everyone here is a legend who’s faced the Demon King and walked back through ash.

Princess Golia set her stance, ‘conceptual armor’ settling over her like an invisible tide. I planted beside them with Valor resting like a sleeping storm.

We’re all frontliners here, same as the monster—fists and steel and force against force.

“We’re not backing up. Frankly, thanks for being a tanky type. We’ve got anger to vent.”

Steel hummed. Muscles coiled. Then footsteps came from the side path, light and steady, like rain tapping old stone.

Tap, tap.

Each step rooted itself to the ground, calm as a tree’s shadow at noon.

“Sorry to intrude, but this monster is my prey. Could you return it to me?”

A girl stepped out of the trees and dipped a small bow, voice cool as morning water.

She wore full deep-purple leathers, no weapon on her belt, no jewelry catching moonlight.

Yet the air around her reeked of Slaughter, a winter clarity. Her fists clenched by habit, her body and mind held taut like a drawn bow—this isn’t someone who’s killed just one or two monsters.

“This Spined Rhinobeetle killed several people from my mercenary group. Yes, our relation is mutual Slaughter, so speaking of hatred is a little absurd… but to hand our enemy’s life to someone else—as the captain, that sticks like a bone.”

Unbothered by the tension, she walked between us and the beast, and settled into a fighting posture, bare hands like blades.

“I hope you’ll let me take it.”

“You sure? This isn’t a solo-friendly target.”

“Coming from the Hero Squad, that’s fair. But my resolve’s set. I owe you all a debt for this. I, Nivifar, will remember.”

Her tone was firm, her face neither light nor heavy, like a calm sea before wind. She nodded to us once.

Then, unarmed, she sprinted for the armored Rhinobeetle, smoke-swift, a human arrow loosed at a living tank.