I spring forward, my weight and the Greatsword’s weight two poles of a turning world, and I spin the blade.

Using the surge, I haul the Greatsword forward and to the flank; a diagonal scoop-cut meets the Swiftshadow Wolf’s lunge, biting chest, gut, and throat.

After I feed momentum into the blade, my body slows. I hop back, twist half a turn, and, hefting the Greatsword like a beam, deliver a diagonal cleave.

The first wolf I hit pops skyward on my rising swing; the one sneaking from behind runs headlong into my blade like a moth to a flame.

My diagonal cleave is too shallow, my motion too wide; the wolf slips sideways a few centimeters at the last breath, dodging a skull-shattering doom.

Escape one blade, not the next. As the Greatsword sweeps to my left-rear, I step right-forward and drag it off path, carving a sideways half-moon.

The Greatsword’s fan-sweep blankets every escape corner; it tries to leap, but the blade bites its forepaw, and it crashes into dirt like a felled tree.

That spinning circle cut felt two more impacts beyond the wolf before me; the ring of attackers is mostly cleared. I wheel the Greatsword, and in a pocket of calm, finish the front wolf with broken paws.

Annoyance flickers—the Greatsword isn’t for dueling people. Long wind-up, slow recovery, a path you can read, and quick weapons cut you off first.

For dull-minded beasts, the blade shines. You reuse its carried momentum like a lopsided spinning top and wring out its full power.

Back at the practice ground, trading cuts with Abigail looked flashy; truth is, desperation made me turn the Greatsword into a door-sized shield.

Heat slicks my skin; dust splashed up by the Greatsword clings to sweat like ash, and wolf blood and brain-matter speckle my clothes.

No time to care. I wipe my brow, give the snarling ring a warning empty swing—and they bite that opening and rush me like a gray tide.

The pack thinks I need to bank power to make the Greatsword roar; stillness means weak strikes, a quiet sea before the wind.

It’s a sound bet—most fighters would read me the same. Or maybe Swiftshadow Wolves don’t think at all, and their nerves whisper this window is safe.

Headache—I never took Monster Ecology; chalk dust of a classroom never touched me.

Too bad for them—I’m not a regular fighter. Standard combat math breaks on someone at Hero tier, like waves on rock.

“Don’t assume Greatsword users only hit mid-range, you animals!”

Frustration tightens—my prized strength and speed beat theirs by only a hair; no crushing tide today.

Relief like a cool draft—I still have a trump: the Godspeed Realm.

Feet drive down, intent like cracking the earth’s crust.

Wind compresses my body; thick air squeezes like jelly trying to flatten me.

Something clicks past a threshold. The world spreads into slow motion; I keep the forward line, the Greatsword trailing like a comet tail.

Three steps forward… no, two suffice. I end up beside two wolves’ ribcages, ribs lifting like bellows.

The speed is banked, the flat-swing stance set. I loosen my mind and step out of the Godspeed Realm, like releasing a bowstring.

On the gathered force, I swing the Greatsword, a storm arc across the grass.

The pack’s mass pounce is solid—it denies me coverage of every attack point, a hail from all quarters.

But flip it: when all points cluster, and I seize the first strike, the wolves are in deep trouble, like fish in one net.

Valor, the Greatsword, heaves up black blood and gale like a crashing tide, and scatters the encircling pack like leaves in a squall.

…But they aren’t dead.

“Tch. Thick hides.”

I grimace and click my tongue at wolves that spring back lively with bone-deep gashes and guts torn worse than they look, iron will in their eyes.

Pack-run, strong, fast, thick health, sharp battle sense—their bodies outclass mine without buffing magic. Even for a Hero, Swiftshadow Wolves are a grind.

In the Adventurers’ Guild, Swiftshadow Wolves are top-tier hunts. Don’t know what snapped in Stini, picking a whole pack with just our three-person Hero Squad.

Usually, a pack this size can erase a small city, like a brush fire through straw. The town we’re camped in would pay dearly to drive them off.

For someone itching to tick off the final exam requirements, they’re a terrible target, a nightmare question on the test.

This is work for several big mercenary companies at once. Why didn’t Princess Golia block Stini’s solo decree?

As the team’s resident common sense, the moment I step away, everyone does brainless things. Figures; the wind leaves and the tent sags.

A sigh ruffles inside; I grumble in my heart, a small storm under my ribs.

I brace for another bout, but the remaining wolves growl a few times and start pulling back in dribs and drabs, like shadows receding at dawn.

“Swiftshadow Wolves are clever—so they get we’re strong, know they can’t win, and choose to retreat?”

Stini walks over with the Holy Sword, face bright with natural cheer, as if a high-difficulty job were nothing odd, sunshine on water.

Anger drains until even the urge to scold slips away. Whatever—I’m used to Stini courting death, a moth chasing stars.

I plant a fist on her forehead and push, a tiny punishment. Stini rubs the spot, puzzled, head tilted like a sparrow.

“It’s nothing. Oh—speaking of Monster Ecology, you failed it, and two other classes.” I pat my head, memory knocking like a pebble.

“…Gasp.”

“You don’t have to say the filler out loud. And your face clearly knows how you did. There’s a retake waiting; I’ll help—no, I’ll hound you to study like your life depends on it.”

“Nooo, breaks are for playing,” she whines, voice like a cat in sun.

“Whining won’t help. Save it for after you pass… Also, I don’t think monsters fear death; they’re just yielding to a higher-ranked beast.”

Creatures of the Dark side aren’t bright; they rarely question instinct. So high rank crushes low rank harder than on the Light side, a mountain over grass.

Monsters fight to the death and don’t retreat—if anything, more death excites them. Swiftshadow Wolves have no reason to withdraw mid-fight.

Then one answer remains: a stronger, grander monster, a storm that dwarfs storms.

I point to the far sky, where a vast Shadow blocks the sun and pours down darkness like ink.

“Keep fighting.”

A Drifting Sin-Beast—an umbrella for formless flying monsters. Shapes vary like clouds.

Traits: colossal size measured in kilometers, dull reaction to attacks, and anywhere on its body can bloom devouring mouths ringed with gnashing teeth.

It roams the sky, and when hunger wakes, it descends to gorge on anything—trees and stones are food. Its favorite, like all Dark side spawn: flesh.

Sometimes reports of Sin-Beasts hitting towns surface. Sometimes they’re driven off. Fail to slay one, and a whole city gets eaten to nothing, a map wiped clean.

Wraiths are the Demon Realm’s calamity; Sin-Beasts are humanity’s calamity, thunder for both worlds.

“This… how do we fight it?”

“Academy… professor’s method. Gather mages. Focus fire,” Princess Golia says, words stumbling like pebbles.

Princess Golia’s stammering isn’t great for briefing. Let me handle it; clear lines like a drumbeat.

“In short: rally the town’s arcane cannons and mages, and bombard the Sin-Beast from max range.

“Close-combat units keep order and funnel civilians out, so even if the town gets swallowed, there are no casualties, and folks outside aren’t left to other monsters.”

“But if the Sin-Beast nears the town, count the hunt as failed and retreat. Even if you bring it down, a ten-thousand-ton corpse will crush the town to ruin.”

“So… what do we do?”

Stini pouts and tosses a basic spell—Light Arrow—at the distant Sin-Beast, a spark at a mountain.

It doesn’t flinch. Light Arrow carries the concept of light, so anywhere you can see is in range, but one arrow means nothing to a floating mountain.

“You’re the Hero, Captain. What is justice, and where does it point? That’s your call to make.”

“You’ll actually listen to me?” Stini gawks, eyes wide as moons.

…I don’t act that rogue, do I? I doubt my past antics for a beat, then answer as squarely as an epic sung by bards.

“If we doubt even the Hero’s choice, what’s left to believe?”

“Right. I… trust Stini,” Princess Golia says, words stepping over stones.

“Ha.” Stini laughs behind her hand, happy as spring. “We’ve run too far out. Going back to relay a message is pointless—we can’t outrun the Sin-Beast. Will you face it with me?”

No one asked us. Turning back to warn folks and avoiding a clash with a titan would be a choice the crowd would forgive, a safe harbor.

She goes one way only—brave, or foolish—charging on to shield the many. No overthinking. No thinking at all, just a straight spear.

If we chose to return and report, she’d smile and agree, accept our caution, then challenge the Sin-Beast alone, a single flame under the night.

Heroes aren’t bloodthirsty. They just want to guard more lives, and they’ll trade themselves for that pure wish, like a lamp in the rain.

Fighting for the weak isn’t a slogan. Every frail soul—body or spirit—the Hero will try to protect, hands open against the wind.

Unlike half-baked fakes like me, Stini is the real Hero, steel in a velvet scabbard.

“Of course.”

“We’ll go mad with you. You’re the captain.”

Princess Golia lifts her blade, and I raise a clenched fist, a shared vow under the Shadowed sky.