Early the next morning, Mylora, Annawiel, and Patti were all ready. Meanwhile, Torina summoned the trio—Ranifi, Lindas, and Lachesis—to discuss equipment suitability.
Beyond the fake fingers, Torina placed a new order.
“I’m designing a new piece of gear. Style-wise… like this.”
Torina slipped off her sneakers and extended her foot clad in black stockings toward them, wiggling her toes slightly.
“Ta-da~”
“…”
Ranifi and Lindas looked uneasy. Only Lachesis stroked her chin, leaning in for a close inspection—studying every stitch of the stocking, each toe, the arch, the heel, the ankle—
*Gulp*
“Eh?? Why’d you bite?!”
“Ah, sorry—I couldn’t resist,” Lachesis chuckled, dabbing her lips with a silk handkerchief. “Thought it was a reward. Thanks for the treat.”
“I swear, your minds… It’s *socks*! Socks! I need you to craft multiple pairs using these materials. All styles: pantyhose, garter stockings, thigh-highs, over-the-knee, knee-highs, crew socks, ankle socks, fishnets, stirrup socks, toe socks—the full set. More is better.”
“Wait—you want socks as *weapons*?”
“Precisely: sock-shaped weapons. High defense, mobility, enchantable, optimal mana conductivity. I’ll supply the materials: heavenly silkworm silk, Jotunheim soft steel, and rune-spun thread I brought from home. You’ll grasp my intent.”
“Leave it to me! I’ll never let the captain down <3,” Lachesis beamed.
————
————
After finalizing arrangements, the four set off in the fastest rented carriage, racing day and night toward Starfall Mountain on the northern edge of the Central Continent.
Starfall Mountain belonged to no nation. Legend said a celestial meteor reshaped the plains and gathered the world’s whispers. Ancient elves once founded a kingdom there, unlocking rune magic through those whispers and communion with the Guardian Beast Odin. Centuries ago, House Dewell’s ancestor cultivated on the mountain, becoming rune magic’s orthodox heir. Serving the Sword Emperor across the Northern Dominion, he rose to noble prominence.
Ever since, Starfall Mountain remained House Dewell’s sacred ground. Its labyrinth—“Niflheim”—was family-managed. Each year, when rune energy swelled, the family opened Niflheim to outsiders. Secure a slot, and you might find destiny within.
En route, Torina sipped tea, mentally cross-referencing novel lore with reality.
Main-branch Dewells entered the labyrinth near age ten under elders’ guidance. By affinity and fortune, they resonated with a rune—earning the right to wield rune magic. Torina mastered “Thunder” and “Water” at ten; later, “Ice.”
Her gaze drifted to Mylora across the carriage, meticulously maintaining her Rune Shortsword.
Per the original plot: after expulsion, the protagonist would train at Sedron Wizard Tower, clear low-key quests, then head to Starfall Mountain. There, he’d charm family members, win the captain’s fiancée, seize the overpowered “Stellar Rune,” and sow seeds for the captain’s future isolation.
Torina shivered.
Thank goodness the protagonist was *hers* now. Disaster averted.
“Attention, team!”
“Meow?” “Hm?” “Huh?”
“Means *listen up*. House Dewell’s celebration opens Niflheim soon. As a direct heir, I hold recommendation slots—naturally, for you three.”
“Wow, we’re *so* lucky,” Annawiel drawled, sarcasm sharp.
“Truly fortunate,” Patti simpered.
“Yay!” Only Mylora’s joy felt genuine.
“Rules first: Niflheim lies at Starfall Mountain’s base—a mist-shrouded, frost-veiled realm sealed from the outside. Elementals, dread fiends, wolf demons lurk everywhere. With sharp senses or luck, you may find a rune of high affinity, resonate, and wield its power. A dream for many.”
Annawiel stayed indifferent—her spear-focused style relied on brute mana projection; runes meant little. Patti showed measured curiosity. Only Mylora’s eyes lit up.
“So… I can use rune magic like you?! Really?!”
“Yes. And… *ahem*—as a Dewell, I know the strongest rune. I’ll give you a clear target. Success? That’s up to fate.”
“YAY!!”
Mylora bounced with delight. Torina’s heart warmed.
*Fate?* She knew the greatest boon belonged to the protagonist. Just get Mylora inside—victory was locked.
No system interference. Protagonist loyal. Teammates stable. Family territory.
What could go wrong?
Joy!
Win!
————
————
Meanwhile, beneath Starfall Mountain—Valhalla City.
House Dewell’s celebration drew crowds: seekers of power, social climbers, bloodthirsty spectators, opportunistic merchants—a chaotic mosaic of ambition.
A carriage procession bearing the Dewell crest rolled through the main gate. Uniform black carriages draped in crimson curtains. Pedestrians hastily stepped aside, heads bowed.
At the central mansion, the door opened. Two elegant maids descended, unrolling a crimson velvet carpet to the entrance.
A slender leg in stiletto heels emerged, stepping gracefully onto the carpet. Then—like a black swan—the woman alighted.
Jet-black hair, crimson eyes. Ageless beauty hinting at thirty yet flawless as twenty. A feather-trimmed black gown, jewels glinting on wrists and ankles. An aura of untouchable nobility.
Her name: Molly Dewell.
Eldest daughter of House Dewell’s main line.
Torina Dewell’s utterly unsympathetic older sister.
