A few days after Yu returned to the real world. Morning in the Adventurers’ Guild always sounded like a living thing. It breathed in overlapping voices and exhaled them into the vaulted stone ceiling. Boots struck flagstones in uneven rhythms, chairs scraped, tankards clinked, and every few seconds the bulletin board rustled as someone tore down a request.

  The air was warm with bodies and thick with the familiar mix of ale, ink, oiled leather, and the faint metallic bite of sharpened steel.

  Rize stood in front of the request board, letting the noise wash around her without letting it in. Paper upon paper layered the wall—some written neatly, some scrawled as if in haste. Her eyes moved across them, steady and hungry, searching not for glory but for something more basic. Something she could measure. Something that would either prove her growth or expose her weakness without mercy.

  Extermination of small-type magical beasts. Low danger. Rize pulled the sheet closer to read the fine print again. Record the number defeated and bring back proof. Simple. Almost insulting on the surface. Yet there was a reason requests like this existed; they stripped away excuses. They didn’t care about dramatic stories or close calls. They asked for one thing: results you could place on a counter.

  Rize’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paper. This time… I will bring back real results. Not survival. Not luck. Not someone else arriving at the last second. Victory. She slid the request free, the tack making a soft tear as it released. The paper warmed in her hand as if it had absorbed the guild’s heat. She turned toward the counter, weaving through the small currents of people, the hilt of her sword brushing her hip with each step.

  The receptionist glanced up, already reaching for her stamp. Behind Rize, a loud laugh broke over the hall like a wave, familiar enough to yank her attention without permission.

  “Yo, morning, Rize! Already decided on a quest?” Naz’s voice carried even in the guild’s din—too casual, too loud, like he owned the space just by refusing to care what anyone thought. She didn’t need to look to know how he was sitting: half-slouched, grin sharp, eyes sharper.

  Team Jask had claimed their usual table near the counter, close enough to watch newcomers and trouble, far enough to avoid the receptionist’s irritation. Naz leaned back, arms thrown over the chair, posture lazy like a cat in sunlight. Hanara sat with her arms crossed, examining her nails as if the world’s urgency didn’t deserve her full attention. Roa sat quiet and still, a thick book on her lap, turning a page with the care of someone handling a blade.

  “Make sure you come back with results,” Naz said, as if he were joking. “I don’t wanna hear excuses.” His grin widened when Rize met his eyes.

  “Don’t drag others down by pushing beyond what you can handle.” Hanara didn’t even look up, she added, voice flat and sharp like a slapped line of rope.

  “Don’t forget what you’re carrying,” Roa said, and somehow that single sentence felt heavier than the rest. She closed the book with a soft, final sound and lifted her gaze.

  Different tones. Same direction. Their words dug into the place in Rize’s chest that still remembered desert wind and fear and the sickening feeling of being too late. She forced her breathing to stay even.

  “I know,” Rize said. Her hand found her sword hilt, not to draw it, but to ground herself in the familiar shape. “I’ll bring something back. If I don’t… none of it matters.”

  The last words came out clearer than she expected, cutting through the morning buzz like a thrown knife. For a second, even Naz’s grin stilled. Then he clicked his tongue, as if approving despite himself, and leaned back again.

  Rize turned away before she could be pulled into whatever comfort their presence offered. Comfort was dangerous. It softened resolve. It made you think you could afford to be slow. At the counter, she set the request down.

  The receptionist stamped it, slid a token toward her, and called out a party assignment without looking at her face. Rize took the token and tucked it away. Proof. Numbers. No excuses. She stepped outside into the brighter air of city’s morning.

  ?

  Several adventurers waited near the guild steps, shifting their weight and checking gear with the restless energy of people who wanted the job finished before midday. A temporary party, assembled not by bonds but by convenience.

  The first to speak was the front-liner: an armored warrior with a broad shield strapped to his back. His helmet was under one arm, his hair damp as if he’d splashed water on his face to wake himself up.

  “Let’s work together,” he said, calm and steady. The kind of tone that made you instinctively trust him with your back. “I’ll take front. We keep it clean, we go home.”

  An axe-user scratched the back of his neck and let out a grunt that could have meant agreement or boredom.

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep it easy,” he muttered, but the way his hands rested on the haft told a different story. Calluses layered over old scars; those hands had held their ground more times than his mouth wanted to admit.

  At the rear stood a red-haired mage with a short staff, the wood darkened where her fingers always wrapped it. She looked Rize up and down with the frank bluntness of someone used to judging strangers fast.

  “Oh?” the mage said. “You’re joining?” Her lips curled. “Try not to slow us down, rookie.” The words prickled under Rize’s skin, but she didn’t flinch.

  “I won’t,” Rize said. “I’ll be useful.” She met the mage’s stare and kept her voice steady. The mage’s brows lifted, almost amused, as if she didn’t expect spine.

  “Good. Then we move. Target is the northern hills. Small-type monsters nested in the damp forest line. Bring back proof and the job’s done.” The warrior nodded once, satisfied enough.

  Rize nodded sharply. Don’t overextend. Protect. Produce results. The three commands stacked in her mind like stones. Not crushing—anchoring.

  ?

  They set off along the northern road under pale sunlight. The city’s stone gave way to dirt, then to patchy grass and broken rock. The air cooled as they climbed, carrying the smell of wet earth. Soon, the hills thickened into forest. Moss coated trunks like velvet, and the canopy knitted overhead, turning the world dimmer and greener. Their footsteps became quieter without them trying. The forest demanded silence the way deep water demanded caution.

  Rize’s senses sharpened. She listened for the wrong sounds: too-quick breathing, a twig snapping where no foot stepped, the faint scrape of claws against bark.

  “…They’re coming,” The warrior slowed, lifting a hand, he said, voice dropping. The axe-user shifted his stance, widening it. The mage’s grip tightened on her staff. Rize gripped the hilt of the sword too.

  Rustle. The bushes ahead shuddered, not from wind but from intent. Then shapes burst out—wolf-variants, small compared to true predators, but still fast, still hungry. Their eyes gleamed red under the canopy, saliva hanging in strings from bared fangs.

  “Front line!” the warrior barked. “Hold them!” He slammed his shield into the ground and braced. The first beast hit with a wet thud of muscle and teeth, claws scraping metal. CLANG. The sound rang through the trees like a bell struck too hard. The axe-user moved in from the side, his weapon coming down with a brutal crunch that made bone and bark sound the same for a heartbeat. CRUNCH. The mage flicked her staff and hissed words Rize didn’t recognize, and blades of wind sliced through the air, clipping a beast’s legs and sending it rolling with a high, angry yelp.

  “Rize!” the warrior snapped. “Right side!”

  Rize turned—And the world narrowed to teeth. A wolf-variant launched at her, close enough that she saw the black slickness of its gums, the flecks of dirt stuck to its muzzle, the thin mist of its hot breath. She inhaled sharply, and the breath felt like it scratched her throat. If I’m not late… I can protect. Her awareness surged.

  Sound stretched. The beast’s snarl became a long, dragging thread. The air itself seemed thick, as if she were moving through water. [Lightning.] Not as a shouted name, but as a decision. The skill she’d named in blood and humiliation, the concept she’d carved into herself with repeated failure. Her mind was fast enough to see the arc of the beast’s leap, fast enough to predict where its teeth would land. Her body was not. Latency. Her shoulder moved a fraction too slow. Pain flared white-hot as claws raked her, sharp and tearing, and warmth spilled down her arm. For a breath she tasted copper and panic together.

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  “Kh—!” But Rize didn’t fall. She pivoted into the pain, dragged her blade up, and cut. Steel flashed. Flesh gave. The beast’s throat opened with a wet sound, and it collapsed at her feet, twitching. Late—but not too late.

  “Good!” the warrior shouted. “Keep pushing!”

  Rize’s shoulder throbbed like a heartbeat of its own. She gritted her teeth, forcing her breathing to steady, forcing her stance to hold.

  Another beast darted in from the flank, low and fast. Faster. The word sparked through her like a whip. Lightning again—awareness sharpening, the world thinning. She saw the beast’s path like a line drawn in air.

  Her feet moved. Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But enough. She slipped aside at the last instant, the beast’s fangs snapping where her ribs had been. Her blade came around in a reflex honed by desperation, and the edge bit deep.

  The beast fell, a choking sound bubbling from its throat. That time—she had been closer. She had felt mind and muscle overlap for a heartbeat. The success trembled through her, warm and electric. Then recoil hit.

  RIze’s knees softened, her breath scattered, nausea rising sharp and fast as if her body rejected the speed her mind demanded. She swallowed it down, tasting bile.

  The last beast charged with a desperate, furious howl. The mage’s eyes widened, then she slammed her staff down and snapped a spell. Frost burst upward like a sudden breath of winter, coating the beast mid-leap. It slowed, trapped in a half-frozen arc.

  “Rize!” the mage yelled. “Finish it!”

  Rize forced her muscles to obey. [Lightning] surged. The world brightened, edges sharpening. Her shoulder screamed. Her lungs burned. But her feet moved forward anyway.

  “Ha—aaah!” Her strike cleaved through fur, through muscle, through ice. The frozen beast split and collapsed, shards scattering across moss like broken glass.

  Silence fell, sudden and heavy. The warrior lowered his shield slowly, scanning the trees.

  “…That’s the lot,” he said.

  The axe-user spat to the side, breathing hard.

  “Tch. Easy, huh,” he muttered, but his voice carried a grudging edge of respect.

  Rize sheathed her blade with hands that shook. Blood slicked her fingers. Her shoulder throbbed. Her legs trembled like they were remembering a different rhythm than the one she’d forced on them.

  But inside her, something steadied. The latency is shrinking. It wasn’t mastery. It wasn’t victory without cost. But it was progress you could feel in bone. If I’m not late, I can protect them. I’ll turn this into real power. Her fist clenched, trembling around a small, stubborn fire.

  They collected proof—black claws, teeth, small lengths of fur—hands moving with practiced efficiency. The forest remained dim and wet around them, as if it had swallowed the violence without comment. Then they started back toward city.

  ?

  By the time the guild came back into view, the sun had begun to sink. The hall inside was a different beast now—less frantic, more steady, the noise lower but constant. Evening brought its own kind of hunger: for food, for drink, for warmth, for stories that made the day feel worth surviving.

  Rize’s shoulder ached with each step, the wound sticking slightly to her sleeve. Her body was tired in a way that sank into joints and made thoughts feel heavier.

  But at her hip hung a pouch filled with proof—black claws that clacked softly when she moved. At the counter, she set the pouch down.

  The clerk took out the contents, counted without ceremony, and nodded.

  “Request complete,” the clerk said, stamping the paper with a dull thunk.

  That sound—small, bureaucratic—hit Rize harder than she expected. Complete. Not almost. Not barely. Not only because someone else saved her. Complete. Her temporary party dispersed, talking about drinks and hot baths. The warrior gave her a brief nod that felt like approval. The mage looked at her a second longer than before, then looked away.

  Rize remained, letting the guild’s warmth press against her skin. Then she walked toward the familiar corner.

  Naz looked up first, grin returning like a habit.

  “Oh? Back already?” he said. “So, how’d it go?”

  Rize stopped in front of them. Her hand tightened into a fist at her side, the movement pulling pain from her shoulder.

  “Extermination successful,” RIze said. Then, because lying would poison her progress, she added, “But… I was still slow.”

  “Bringing back results at all is plenty,” Naz said. “Proof and a heartbeat—that’s more than some manage.” He snorted, leaning back.

  “But if you dragged others down, it means nothing,” Hanara said. “Next time, understand your limits.” Her sharp gaze flicked to Rize’s shoulder. The words stung because they were true. In the fight, the warrior had taken a hit he might not have needed to take—because Rize’s delay had forced him to cover a gap.

  Rize lowered her eyes for a moment, letting the shame sit without fighting it.

  “Do not forget what you protect,” Roa said. “A sword is not only for killing. It’s for cutting down the delay that endangers your allies.” Roa closed the papers in front of her and lifted her gaze, quiet as falling snow.

  “…Thank you,” Rize said. “I’ll make it part of my strength.” Rize’s breath caught. The sentence slid into her chest and lodged there, heavy and clean. She bowed her head.

  None of them replied. But their silence wasn’t dismissal. It felt like recognition—like they had heard her resolve and accepted it without the need for praise.

  Rize turned and stepped back into the cooling night air. Lantern light painted the street in gold. Her shoulder hurt. Her legs trembled. But her heart burned in a way that pain couldn’t drown. [Lightning]… I’ll master it. I will. She looked up at the darkening sky and tightened her fist until her knuckles went pale.

  ?

  A room with closed curtains could turn afternoon into midnight. Yu’s bedroom felt cut off from time—an enclosed pocket of stale air and dim lamplight. The curtain fabric swallowed the outside world, leaving only the low hum of electricity and the occasional creak of the house settling.

  On his desk lay an open notebook filled with uneven handwriting, and beside it a small pile of tissues stained deep red. Some were crumpled as if in panic. Others were folded too neatly, as if neatness could control bleeding.

  Yu sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, staring at his hand. His palm still remembered the sensation that didn’t belong in a human body. Warm, fluid, like touching lukewarm water that moved with intent.

  [Bind]. It clung to him—an inheritance he’d never asked for, a door in his flesh that refused to close completely. Yu flexed his fingers. His joints ached faintly, and the motion pulled a dull pain behind his eyes, the kind that warned of another nosebleed before it arrived.

  Yu swallowed. The dryness in his throat felt permanent now, as if mana had scorched him from the inside and left ash.

  “…Open,” Yu whispered. The word came out thin, almost afraid to exist. He focused on his palm, narrowing the world until there was nothing but intent and skin and the invisible pressure under it. A familiar resistance pushed back—like pressing on glass that wanted to become water. Yu pushed harder. The air shivered.

  For a moment, he thought nothing happened. Then the lamplight bent strangely, as if the bulb’s glow warped around an unseen seam. The shadows on the desk jittered, not like flickering light, but like the world was briefly unsure of its own geometry.

  A pen trembled, rolling a millimeter across paper without being touched. A thin fissure formed in front of his hand—so fine it almost looked like a crack in sight itself. It didn’t glow brightly. It didn’t announce itself. It simply existed. And through it, mana seeped in. Not like wind. Not like heat. Like heavy smoke poured into a sealed room, thickening everything it touched. Yu’s skin prickled. The hair on his arms lifted. The air grew dense, pressing down against his lungs.

  He tasted something metallic and sweet at the back of his tongue. His heart stumbled once, then accelerated.

  “Gh—…!” Pain knifed into Yu’s temples. It wasn’t a headache; it was an electrical spike, bright and sudden, like someone had driven a needle behind his eyes. Sweat broke across his spine. His nose burned, that familiar pressure swelling just behind the bridge.

  A drop of red slid down and fell onto the carpet. Yu didn’t close the fissure. If I hesitate, I lose it. In his mind, the desert flashed: sand whipping in the wind, a pillar of light, Rize’s face streaked with tears. Her voice—soft, breaking, grateful. I protected her then. But the thought didn’t soothe him. It sharpened into fear. Next time… what if I’m late?

  His hand shook, but he kept it extended. Mana crawled up his arm like cold heat, pushing against veins that weren’t made to carry it. The curtain fabric fluttered as if something invisible brushed past it. A page in his notebook lifted, then fell.

  “I… need a stronger connection…!” Yu’s voice cracked.

  Another image rose uninvited—silver hair, an effortless smile that carried something bottomless beneath it. Claval. The way she had looked at him, like he was already hers.

  “Yu,” her voice echoed in memory, sweet and certain. “Choose me.”

  Yu’s chest tightened until he couldn’t tell if it was guilt or rage or longing. He wanted to protect Rize. He wanted to keep his world from collapsing. He wanted everything to stop demanding choices. But the power in his hand didn’t care what he wanted. It responded to desperation. Mana pulsed.

  The lamplight warped again, bending toward the fissure. The air near it rippled, like heat haze—except cold. The desk vibrated faintly. The tissues trembled. A sheet of paper slid toward the seam as if gravity had tilted.

  Yu’s breath came in short bursts. The pain behind his eyes spiked. Blood warmed his upper lip, then ran. Still, he didn’t stop. More. Just a little more. His fingers curled, as if he could grasp the fissure itself. SNAP. The seam shut so suddenly the room seemed to jerk. The pressure vanished in an instant, leaving Yu gasping as if he’d been underwater and pulled out too fast. His knees buckled.

  Yu collapsed forward onto the carpet, one hand catching him too late. Blood dripped onto the floor in dark dots. He lay there, shaking, breath ragged and uneven. And yet, in the dimness, a faint smile touched his lips.

  “…Not enough,” Yu whispered. “I need more…” In his eyes burned a single, fierce emotion—his feeling for Rize, bright enough to hurt.

  But within that glow, Claval’s shadow lingered, patient and inevitable. Love and madness blurred together at the edge of his vision, forming a storm he could no longer outrun.