It was a study in contrasts: a middle-aged man in high spirits and a young boy in a foul mood. While the man cut a cheerful figure in his adventurer’s gear, the boy was a picture of melancholy, covered in traces of dust he had tried and failed to brush off. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, and light scratches marked his arms and cheeks. He kept his face turned away, refusing to even glance at the man beside him, muttering lingering regrets like, "If I’d only done that then..." and "I was just one step away..."
About a month had passed since Silvery Grey had left the town. In the small Adventurer's Guild of Luther, the receptionist at her usual spot on the far right beckoned the pair over. The man responded with a casual wave.
"Yo."
"Yes, yes. Good work today."
The boy, however, remained as sullen as ever. The receptionist, entirely accustomed to the sight, chuckled.
"Ahaha, you got the floor wiped with you again, didn't you?"
"I didn't get wiped—" The boy started to argue impulsively, then let out a long, frustrated groan. "...I think! I felt like I was almost able to land a single hit today!"
"Yeah, that wasn't half bad," the man agreed. "It looks like the results of your training are finally starting to show."
"Don't say 'finally'!"
"I see, I see."
The turmoil surrounding the Clear Approval Accident had long since passed, and peaceful days had fully returned to this small guild. For a time, the lobby had been nearly empty, but since the town was close to the dense dungeon area in the west, it was now crowded with folks from outside the town. Adventurers like the man and the boy, who were actually rooted in Luther, were a minority.
Because of that, however, the three of them—receptionist included—were like neighbors who knew each other's business. The boy was covered in dirt because he had been diligently training under the man every morning. Ever since the day he parted with Yulitia, it was a routine he had steadfastly and admirably maintained. Resting her chin on her hand, the receptionist asked gently:
"How is it? Do you think you'll be able to move up to C-rank soon?"
"Well, first off, he's got to land at least one hit on me," the man said.
"Gunu-nu-nu...!"
All of this was likely because the boy had sworn to Yulitia that he would get stronger, and had barked at Wolka that he didn't plan on staying a loser. Since he had acted so cool, he had to back it up with actions, or he wouldn't be much of a man. The veteran and the receptionist watched over him as he pushed toward A-rank with a sense of paternal satisfaction, like elders watching a youth live out his prime.
Then, the boy asked with a pout. "...By the way, have you heard anything from that party lately?"
He was, of course, talking about Silvery Grey. The receptionist nodded.
"Yeah. They’ve started making a new prosthetic leg in cooperation with a workshop in the Holy City. A really high-tech one."
Since Luther had been directly involved in the accident, regular updates—including news about Wolka and his companions—arrived from the Holy City Guild. The sender’s name was always 'Shannon.' She was the girl who had been dispatched from the Holy City immediately after the accident, who had tried so hard to see her precious friends and been rejected, leaving the town in despair. Seeing her send updates in such energetic handwriting made the receptionist feel relieved from the bottom of her heart.
"...I see. So, he hasn't given up after all." The boy's tone was one of private relief, mixed with a renewed sense of tension.
"Yeah, I'm sure of it."
"He's a guy who had such tattered hands," the man added, slapping the boy's shoulder. "There's no way he'd give up. You've gotta work harder too. Beating that bastard won't be a walk in the park."
"I know that...!"
The receptionist watched them with a gentle smile. Surely, the boy would get stronger as he promised. He would leave this town and set out for the Holy City before too long. Such a bright future was both a lonely and moving prospect, and she prayed his journey would be a safe one. This world, crowded with dungeons and monsters, was not easy for humans. Once you stepped outside the town, it was full of absurdities where anything could happen. She hoped that as many children as possible would live to be robust and healthy.
"...Hm?"
The man was the first to notice something was off. He turned and stared at the entrance door.
"What's wrong?"
"It's noisy out there."
The receptionist noticed it a moment later. There was a hubbub of voices outside—not screams, exactly, but the confused murmurs of people bewildered by something sudden.
"I'll go check it out," the man said. The boy tried to follow, but the veteran stopped him. "You stay here and let her heal your scratches with a potion."
Stepping outside, the man saw a town guard rushing past toward the church on the hill. Had there been an accident?
He headed toward the commotion and reached the town gates. A small crowd had gathered around a guard who was holding someone on the ground. "Are you okay! Hang in there!"
"Hey, what happened?"
"Ugh... Oh, it's you," the guard said, looking relieved. "This woman walked here alone from the direction of the forest."
Looking down at the woman, the man grimaced. She was a wretched sight. Her hair was a dirty, drained white, her skin so gaunt that her bones protruded, and her clothes were little more than rags. She looked like something that had crawled out of a grave.
"This person is—"
A victim of monsters or Ruffians? That was the most likely thought. The man sighed. She had visible injuries, and thinking about what she must have endured made him want to vomit. But he needed information. To organize a subjugation team, he needed to know what was out there. He knelt beside her.
"Hey, are you okay? What on earth—"
In the end, it was a matter of a single day. The report that the deported Alphana had gone missing after a Vampire attack had only just reached the Holy City from the neighboring country. If that news had arrived just one day earlier, the man might have suspected the identity of the woman before him. If they had even entertained a doubt, the worst outcome might have been avoided.
But reality did not work that way. It was a meaningless daydream.
"---------Ee-hee."
The woman's smile split open in a black void.
/
A pillar of pitch-black, stagnant magical power erupted. Screams and shatters pulverized the town’s peace in an instant. Watching the destruction from the sky were a pair of fresh crimson eyes.
Oscarrain of the Crimson War and Melfius of the Decaying Severance—the Vampire father and son who had brought this calamity from the far west. They floated in the air as if standing on solid ground.
"Hey, Father, did that work out?"
"No, it is a failure," Oscarrain replied, sounding disappointed. "Her mind broke and she was consumed. She is no kin of ours; she is a mere failed monster."
The thing below was truly grotesque. It was neither Vampire, nor Dragon, nor Spiria. It was a monster. The back of the woman formerly known as Alphana had split open, and a massive creature had crawled out. It was a colossal Lamia with the upper body of a woman and the lower body of a snake—but with six insect-like arms growing from its back.
The townspeople screamed in terror. If she weren't in a human town, she would be classified as a dungeon boss or a Named monster. The creature scattered miasma and fired magic she remembered from her human life, mowing down the residents with a mad laugh.
"But why a Lamia?"
"Well... she is the first of my blood-drinkers to take such a form. Likely a manifestation of some psychological trauma."
"I guess Father's blood is like a deadly poison to humans."
The monster was not alone. At its feet, a magic circle expanded like black muddy water, vomiting forth Goblins, Orcs, Bandits, and Mantises. The horde began to paint the town in blood.
"Oh, is she summoning monsters?"
"To be precise, those are the corpses of monsters. I threw her into a dungeon to feed, but..." Oscarrain smiled thinly. "She slaughtered everything inside, including the master, and brought them under her control. It seems her 'Charm' magic mutated upon her monsterization."
The residents who had been exposed to the miasma began to stand up and join the horde.
"...So she’s controlling the dead now."
"A failure, yes, but her obsession with the Holy City remains. She will be a fine gift for those Saints."
"Are the Saints really worth your concern, Father?"
Oscarrain didn't answer directly. "I have a bit of interest in that city. Apparently, there are mysteries there that humans are not told."
"Mysteries?"
"The Chryscles Holy Church preaches a false history. They say the Holy City was founded by the first Saint on a plain where a messenger of God descended. But the truth is different. The city didn't come before the tower—the tower was there first."
Melfius tilted his head. "So... you're saying the tower existed before humans?"
"Indeed. Built by hands other than human. As for who, and for what purpose... that is the question. Why would the Church lie if there were nothing to hide? I cannot help but feel those Saints are guarding a very interesting truth."
Oscarrain adjusted his silk hat. "I intend to have our kin infiltrate that tower. She will serve as a pawn. Her life will rot soon anyway; she may as well fall in the Holy City."
"Wow, you really are a bystander, Father. You just stir the pot and never get your hands dirty."
"Watching war is my reason for living. Just as it is now."
Below them, half the town was already in ruins. Oscarrain watched the fleeing and the dying with clinical detachment. "Because life shines most aesthetically on the brink of death."
Melfius didn't quite get the aesthetics, but he enjoyed the moment of dealing a finishing blow to the weak. "By the way, where did Big Sister go?"
Oscarrain’s high spirits vanished instantly. "She said she hates meaningless killing and has no interest. I wonder where she is."
"Ahaha, she’s as strange as ever. Is it Uncle Stra's influence?"
"Do not speak that name," Oscarrain snapped, his voice like lightless thunder. "It makes my skin crawl. To be captivated by that weakling king... what a foolish daughter."
Melfius held his breath—he’d stepped on his father's tail. Oscarrain’s anger dissipated as he noticed something below. "Hm? That human is trying to break the wall and escape."
He pointed to a boy trying to clear an escape route for the guild receptionist.
"How troublesome. She still needs much more flesh and blood..."
"Then I'll go!" Melfius volunteered. He flew off as Oscarrain looked back toward the white tower on the horizon.
"Saint—an Incarnation of God, is it?"
Oscarrain had known of the Holy City for a long time. In a world where Vampires and Dragons reigned, humans claiming to be gods was the height of arrogance. He was here now simply because his interest had been piqued. He had a pawn, and he wanted to see the truth of the tower. He smiled.
"Let me see just how much this God of yours is worth."
The sound of a gunshot echoed. Luther was annihilated in mere minutes.
/
The carriage was racing at a terrifying speed. Claesta clung to the frame of the hood, her sense of balance shattered by the violent shaking.
"Can't you go any faster?!" she screamed at the driver.
"It's impossible! The carriage will fall apart!!"
Claesta gnashed her teeth. She knew he was right, but they were in a race against death. Even an artisan like her knew how terrifying a Vampire was—a pillar of the Demon Race that could wipe out nations on a whim. If one had appeared in Luther, the town was likely already gone.
"I hope there are Knights or adventurers at the port who can help!!"
"Knights, maybe! For adventurers, it's down to luck! And who would fight a Vampire for us?!"
The logic was sound, and it was terrifying. If the port were also destroyed, they were dead. Everything had been so peaceful just an hour ago. They were supposed to return to the Holy City, she to her work and Ramsey to his fishing.
"Please, God..." she whispered.
"—Found you."
The world ended in a flash of light and a roar. Claesta felt her body fly through the air, followed by a series of heavy impacts. When her vision cleared, she was lying on the ground, staring at a gray sky.
Her chest convulsed as she coughed, and a dull, agonizing pain flooded her senses. She looked at the wreckage. The horses were dead, their heads missing. The carriage was a pile of splinters. Sebock, the driver, and the others lay motionless.
"Sebock...! Everyone...!"
"Wow... I'm sorry, Big Sister. I didn't think it would get this messy."
The voice was nonchalant. Flapping black wings, the boy landed. Ramsey had stayed behind to stall him, but the boy didn't have a single scratch on him.
"What happened to Mr. Ramsey?!"
"He died," the boy said cheerfully. "He worked hard, but he was just one step short. So, I came to kill you guys too."
"You... bastard..."
Claesta’s throat was parched. The pain was unbearable, but a cold, sharp anger burned through the fog of her mind. "Oh? Can you fight, Big Sister?"
She didn't move because of a plan. She moved because she refused to let this brat trample over their lives so easily. She knelt and began constructing a magic formula. She wasn't a warrior, and her magic was just a basic self-defense trick, but she poured everything she had into it.
"I'll tell you just in case, it's useless," the boy said. "That’s just a spell for throwing stones, right? A child's trick—"
"That isn't for you to decide...!!"
She knew she couldn't win, but she would strike a blow. She would strike one blow into his arrogant brain. Her colleagues at the workshop would finish Wolka's leg, and the Saints and the Sevens would avenge her. She wasn't afraid.
"Humans really love useless resistance," the boy laughed.
"As if someone like you could ever understand."
She stood on trembling legs. The boy aimed a gun at her, its muzzle surging with high-density magical power. He pulled the trigger.
"Well then, goodbye—"
But then, Ramsey appeared from behind, slashing at the boy.
"Whoa!" The boy blocked the horizontal strike with his gun barrel. Ramsey swung through with sheer force, blowing the boy back.
"M-Mr. Ramsey...!!"
"Don't meddle, you pseudo-lady!! Stay back!!"
"Pseudo?!" Claesta fumed.
/
"Still alive, old man?"
"Don't go assuming you killed me," Ramsey spat. In truth, he was the most surprised. He’d been buried under rubble and his bones were a mess, but he’d survived by a miracle and chugged every potion he had.
He was a wreck, and his vision was blurred, but he was back. The carriage was gone, and Claesta was barely standing. There was no escape.
"Ahaha, round two then. You have to work harder to protect her."
"You brat. I'll cut you down."
"Bang!"
Melfius fired. Ramsey slashed the Magic Bullet, wreathed in lightning. It was a feat of high-level elemental enchantment, but the aftermath of the explosion carved new wounds into his body. He didn't care.
"Look, look, here comes more!"
Melfius fired a relentless barrage. Ramsey had to run at his physical limit just to stay ahead of the impacts.
(Damn bastard!!)
Magic users would be pierced before they could cast; swordsmen would be gunned down before they could close the distance. Even when Ramsey miraculously reached him, Melfius parried his sword with his gun barrel.
"Too slow." Melfius kicked him. It felt like being hit by a steel carriage. Ramsey was sent skipping across the ground like a stone on a lake.
"Old man, this is just like round one."
Ramsey coughed up blood. His left arm was numb. The gap in physical ability was just too great. He couldn't see a way to win. A voice in the back of his head told him to give up—that he’d done enough. He’d always thought he didn't care when he died.
"I see, so this is the end," Melfius said, aiming his gun.
"DON'T YOU DARE MESS WITH ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIIIT!!"
Claesta’s scream drowned out the whispers in his head. She was on the ground, bleeding and crying, but her eyes were full of pure, incandescent rage. That rage fell straight into Ramsey's heart.
He negated the next Magic Bullet perfectly.
"—?!"
"Yeah... I feel the same way," Ramsey whispered. He was angry now. Truly angry. He refused to be a plaything for this brat. He would struggle until he died. He thought of Wolka—how he’d fought with one eye and one leg to protect his comrades. This was nothing compared to that.
Something shifted. Ramsey’s mind went clear and cold. He stepped into Melfius's range.
"What—?!" Melfius was caught off guard. He retreated, and for the first time, he was hit. Blood flew from his chest.
"You're not getting away!!"
Ramsey roared, his eyes flickering with a faint purple light. He became a demon of lightning, every step an explosion, every swing a streak of purple electricity. He was in the zone—the same realm Wolka had touched.
Melfius was being pushed back. He was a Vampire, being pressured by a human. He gnashed his teeth. He remembered his sister’s words about humans who exceed their limits to reject death. This man was one of them.
"I'm not looking for a real fight!!" Melfius screamed. For thirteen seconds, they traded blows in a vortex of lightning and magic. The balance broke when a parried shot exploded at their feet.
Melfius stepped back and gripped his gun with both hands. He would use Spirit Magic—something no human could counter.
"Artemis!!"
Clack.
A stone hit the side of his gun barrel. The aim was off. The black aurora missed Ramsey completely.
"You...!"
Claesta stood there, her hand extended, a small magic circle fading. That distraction was all Ramsey needed. The recoil had thrown Melfius off balance.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOHH!!"
Ramsey’s sword took Melfius's head clean off. He followed through with Blixt—a lightning spear that pierced and disintegrated the boy's torso.
Ramsey gasped for air, his body on the verge of collapsing. It was a paper-thin victory, won only because of Claesta. He looked at her, and she tried to smile through her tears.
Then, he was shot.
A hole opened in Ramsey's chest.
"...Not bad, human."
Melfius was regenerating. The head, the torso—everything knitted back together as if it had never been harmed.
"You've gotta be kidding me..." Ramsey whispered.
"I'm not kidding. We Vampires don't die from such things. I won't be careless anymore. I'll obliterate you."
Melfius released a staggering amount of magic. Artemis was coming again, and Ramsey couldn't move. He’d given everything and it hadn't been enough.
He saw Claesta screaming, but he couldn't hear her anymore.
"Die. Human."
Just as the end came, a wave of red-black fire erupted from behind. It swallowed Melfius's attack and forced him to retreat.
A man was holding Ramsey up.
"...I'm sorry. I'm late."
The man was breathing hard, his arm shaking with a cold, intense rage. Ramsey didn't know him, but he recognized the aura. It was just like Wolka’s—the aura of a man who was himself a blade.
"Can I leave it... to you?" Ramsey wheezed.
"Yeah."
"I'm counting on you."
Ramsey closed his eyes, finally at peace. Wolka wasn't here, but there was another man who would draw his sword against the gods.
"Leave it to me. The enemy... I’ll be the one to kill him."
Standing amid the flames of retribution was the original protagonist of this world.