“Port side’s under attack—take those monsters down! If the arcane reactor goes, we’re forced to crash!”

I never doubt Stini’s the protagonist. That certainty sits in my chest like a lantern, steady against the wind.

But a catastrophe once in a millennium right outside the door, a hermit-master around the next corner, a legacy artifact at the bottom of a cliff—fine, it’s a novel’s weather. Don’t try to wear it like real skin; it won’t fit.

I see Stini as the “world’s protagonist,” the “history’s lead,” the kind who leaves fingerprints on the era’s wet clay.

That kind of lead makes impact deep and long, like roots under a riverbank. It isn’t the cafeteria drama where a random thug is cheating women and children on the spot.

“Andor, what are you doing? Help already!”

“Coming, coming.”

We’re aboard a skyship bound for the Purified Nation Helena, and a swarm of “four-winged bats” is raking our hull. The name buzzes like a nettle.

They’re no different from usual monsters in bloodlust, but they pack swarm tactics, high-speed flight, and brutal wingbeats and bites. Without cover, they’d turn a flat road into a slaughterfield, like hail on soft wheat.

And when a regular monster tide crests, these air-dominant beasts show up paired with building-killer types. That’s a nightmare made of dark rain for garrisons—especially small-town ones. Two months before an expected tide, guilds post bounties and try to thin the clouds.

Note this: loving slaughter isn’t the same as loving destruction. Stini fights like a storm, not like a craftsman. If the route had a rock-throwing rot troll, sure, I’d get it. But four-winged bats, all offense and paper defense, rarely dare strike at a skyship two hundred meters long, skinned in six centimeters of enchanted shell, guarded by a dozen steerable arcane cannons and other Constructs.

—Rare, but real. See: we’re the unwelcome example.

The moment Stini hears “help,” she calls her gunblade from the void and charges in, spirit flaring like sunrise hitting steel.

We’re passengers. We owe nothing. But our dear captain is a Hero—need I paint that creature’s stripes?

An adventurer would first ask if help’s needed. The ship’s captain would gauge if the crew and the smell of burnt grease could handle it, and if not, talk commission, coin like measured rain.

Stini, though—Hero. She’s built for forward, a comet without brakes. Some call it valor; I call it reckless.

She leads the sprint to the port-side Repulsion Component chamber and cuts down every four-winged bat that breached, blade singing like winter air.

Perfect resolution is sweet. But later, at settlement, the ship’s lady-captain clutches her head, unsure how much commission fits the ledger. We sigh too at the handful of silver tossed our way. Fighting eats coin like fire eats dry leaves; Raven didn’t lob alchemic bombs, which only eased the burn a little.

Mana potions, blade oil, armor and weapon wear and repair—consumables have their own shelf, same as in any game’s menu. The list tolls like a bell.

Many crave battle. Few relish the stink after—the splash of sour blood, clinging like swamp mist. If you’re a neat freak, an outfit slicked with innards and filth is an outfit you bury, not wash.

Good thing Elina’s here. Aside from a recent fling with chain-flail output, she’s still that shy-handed Divine Healer.

“O God, grant glory to the victor’s return,” Elina murmurs, voice soft as incense smoke.

A mid-tier Divine Art: “Path of Flowers.” It scrubs grime and bad mood together, a bloom rising through ash.

It’s especially handy for cleaning clothes. A miracle like a fresh river.

“But Constructs are still pricey to maintain. Magitech isn’t you drawing and sheathing a sword or chanting two lines and—boom—it runs…”

Raven, heartsore, pulls out custom arcane-grade steel, works alchemical magic to press it thin, then taps it in place on the cracked Construct with a small hammer. A proper Arcane Engineer would charge several times her cost and time; we eat her kindness like warm bread.

“Even the Holy Sword needs upkeep. Ah—Little Nivifar, lift a bit higher.”

Stini oils the Holy Sword and tosses the ask like a pebble, while Nivifar helps, laughter flickering like candlelight.

“…Wait, why am I helping hold the sword at all?”

Nivifar frowns, finally catching how she got folded into our cozy circle without a memo.

Stini’s skill one, “Affinity of the Chosen,” bumps every standard NPC’s friendliness by two tiers. Stini’s skill two, “You Are My Wings,” raises mutual goodwill between allies by two tiers.

—So says the Demon King, with the casual lie of a cat.

Truth is, her blazing aura often sparks harmony. Born leader—that part rings true. The Hero’s line traces back to the Colonna royal blood, though in Stini, our half-elf wildflower, it’s been watered down to mist.

Everyone rides the mood, basking in this lull after war, like sun after rain. No one ruins it by asking why Nivifar’s here at all.

Abigail and Nivifar aren’t formal members of the Hero Squad. But if trouble knocks, they’re the reliable call. That’s our collective view. When the Heretic Inquisition arrested me, I asked Abigail to guard Stini, and she did, blade steady as night.

In my plan, I only gave Stini six tickets. One for Stini herself. One for Elina the Divine Healer. One for Raven the Arcane Engineer. One for Princess Golia. One for myself, Shadow Artisan Andor. And one for Nivifar, Stini’s blood sister, the one Stini shamelessly visits two days out of three.

No slot reserved for Abigail.

Because by the sea, swimsuits surface. And with swimsuits—why keep any man but me around?

Also, as one of only two princes of the Azure Wind Nation, Abigail’s busy by default. Unless we knock on his door, he rarely overlaps with our Hero Squad. Stini didn’t invite him, naturally as fall leaves fall.

Even Heroes have circles, near and far, like rings in a pond.

Gloria needs no gear prep. She’s like Nivifar in role: her combat is bare-knuckle, carried by inhuman resolve. For a pure brawler, the body’s the first blade and the last shield; minor knocks are a routine sweep with salt and sun.

Princess Golia of Colonna enjoys the luxury suite. First to the hot shower, then to hotpot, steam curling like spring mist—and deftly steals our portions from the dead angle of everyone’s gaze. Ever since I fitted Gloria with a Soul Component, it’s been a while; her “character setting” shifted. Future bards may curse me for wrecking continuity like a crow picking threads from a tapestry.

I share the Shadow’s eyes and catch the princess’s little theft. I don’t call it out. I don’t stop it. I just chat with Raven about magical catalysts, ingredients named like stars and rain.

I’m curious how everyone will react after long toil, finding the captain’s private deluxe dinner vanished like foam on a wave.

—Outcome: the four-winged bats fail to do effective damage to the skyship. The Hero Squad’s dinner-driven infighting shakes the hull half the night. Most passengers fear a crash, then complain to the Skyship Transport Association about our entire troupe.

If not for my all-purpose maid, Miss Vega, who handled apologies and compensation like a broom through leaves, our seven-day trip would’ve ended at the first step.

As for Stini asking why Miss Vega came without a sponsor ticket?

Answer: self-paid. I have money. Look—Berenz and Dulan came too.

“I know you don’t like the strict Vega, but don’t air that on the deck, okay?”

“No—my sweet beach date, my booked cuddle-time with Andor, is now ruled by the terrifying head maid!” Stini hugs her head, shrinks into a corner, and refuses reality, like a rabbit after a thunderclap.

Cuddles will happen. The seaside means one thing—benefits, benefits, and benefits.

Whether “sweet,” though…

“Performers ‘Failed Hero: Night Watcher,’ ‘Failed Hero: Assassin,’ and ‘Failed Hero: Holy Knight’ are en route, ETA two days. Performer ‘Catherine Breeze’ is in position.”

Vega leans on my back and presses her foot into the Shadow, drawing sigils that shine like frost.

I nod.

The stage is ready. Dance, Stini.

Not for my path, not for mortal peace. Only for the future you see when you close your eyes and breathe.

May all be as you wish. May all stretch to your limit. Demon King Andor offers his blessing here.

Or a curse. Either way, it’s the same wind.