"Harv, I’m telling you, man, if you ever have a change of heart, you should join us. You’d make a damn fine guardsman," James says, his eyes gleaming with something between admiration and envy.

  "Jimmy's actually right for once," Oldie adds, rubbing his chin. "You were good—too good. No hesitation. Every movement ended in a kill."

  A pause stretches between us as he studies me, his gaze sharp, measuring. I keep my expression blank, waiting for the inevitable.

  "Those weren’t rookie moves. And that defensive spell? No joke either. Someone trained you."

  A dozen responses circle in my mind, but each of them contains information that I'm not willing to share.

  "My dad," I say after a beat, my voice even. "He was an adventurer."

  It’s not a lie. He was one, long before he met my mother. He’s also the one who taught me the unique rhythmless sword style designed against what he mockingly called Meathead Knights. Though I didn’t practice that style a lot, fitting it into my already tight schedule wasn’t easy. Still, I do go over the base forms at least once a week, to not forget the feel of it.

  Oldie studies me for another second but doesn’t push further. The trio continues the discussion while I stay silent.

  Good.

  The Navarus Clan never set any restrictions after my ex-communication. No orders to keep silent about their techniques, no threats if I spoke their name. Not that they needed to. I made that choice myself. Harv Navarus was cast out and ceased to exist.

  It’s been five years, and I haven’t uttered that name since. Not even to my mentor.

  But I suspect he knows.

  The secrecy isn’t just out of pride—it’s survival. The Navarus Clan has enemies. Powerful, ruthless ones. And while they may hesitate to strike a true member of the family, an exiled nobody? They’d do it out of spite alone.

  The second reason is simpler.

  I've promised myself that I will not interact with the clan in any way, shape, or form, evading all mentions of the clan or association with them.

  If they didn’t want me as a Colorless, then they don’t deserve me with a class.

  I never told my parents, but after the fiasco that was my awakening, I braced myself for the worst. I expected to be sidelined, relegated to a glorified errand boy or simple grunt work. But outright excommunication? To be thrown into the military machine like discarded scrap? I hadn’t believed it, not until it happened.

  I can still remember that moment. Me standing shell-shocked, staring petrified with an open mouth as the decision was announced

  That night, I didn’t sleep. My mind twisted in circles, grasping for solutions, for a way to fix it. But deep down, even through the haze of confusion and fear, I knew—I would never tell anyone the truth.

  Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw my uncle’s hollow eye sockets staring back at me.

  James’ voice pulls me from my thoughts. He’s shaking a bag filled with severed goblin ears, discussing commissions, bounties, and the potential payout. His excitement carries the conversation, with occasional input from Oldie.

  Num, on the other hand, sits in silence, staring into the darkened forest.

  I only recently learned his actual name—Numerus. The shortened name is a weird and somewhat cruel moniker. It took me several days to even realize he was mute, because the way he gestures, the intensity of his expressions, makes it almost unnoticeable.

  Oldie, however, is still a mystery. Even James, who never shuts up, doesn’t know the man’s real name. Everyone just calls him Oldie, he had said with a shrug. And it kinda stuck.

  They continue chatting, recounting how well the fight went—how, despite the goblins' numbers, no one was seriously hurt.

  I don’t see it that way.

  Not at all.

  My performance was appalling.

  I failed to notice the goblins in the treetops. I didn’t think ahead, didn’t plan, didn’t anticipate. Worse—I let my emotions take control. A mindless brute, swinging Heavy like a club, smashing oversized green toads without a single thought beyond the next strike.

  And the only reason I wasn’t hurt was sheer, dumb luck.

  What if the shaman had started with a fire spell?

  Why didn’t I consider that they might have magic?

  Why didn’t I think?

  Moron.

  Absolute moron.

  I didn’t keep my distance. I didn’t use strategy. I didn’t even consider magic. No, the meathead smith just had to rely on brute force.

  But...

  Maybe it’s for the best.

  Because if I had used magic—if I had shown even a glimpse of my offensive spells—it would have raised questions. It’s not that magic is rare. Far from it.

  But a Colorless smith? Who wields a sword with precision? Who uses defensive and offensive spells at the same time?

  That would be different.

  Hm... Would it, though? [Force Aegis] and [Echo Pulse] are common among warriors. Maybe it wouldn’t seem too strange that I—

  Argh.

  Stop.

  Enough.

  Focus on the positive part! I didn’t show too much, and let’s leave it at that.

  A small victory.

  "Hooray for being a meathead," I mutter under my breath.

  Hopefully, I won’t stay one.

  ...

  A flash of white explodes across the storm-dark sky, followed by a deep, rolling thunderclap somewhere in the distance. Maybe a dozen kilometers from us, maybe closer—it’s hard to tell over the howling wind.

  Not an hour ago, the skies were clear, the dark clouds a mere smudge on the horizon. Now, rain pours like a thick curtain, and the storm presses down on us with the full force of nature.

  I jinxed it, didn’t I? Me and my big... uh... thought?

  The rain started falling a few minutes ago, but at least we had the sense to stop and make camp before the worst of it hit. The horse is tied securely to a tree, the carts are parked, and we’re all huddled where we can. In theory, a covered cart should provide some shelter. In practice... well, this cart belongs to the army, which means maintenance is more of a suggestion than a reality.

  Water drips from the roof in steady plinks, pooling in a shallow puddle before trickling through a crack in the wood. I shift in my corner, trying to avoid the worst of the leaks. The trio of guards huddles in their own spaces, each making their own futile attempt to stay dry.

  Suffering! Survival! A true romance! What else could a man dream off?

  A huff of disgust escapes me.

  My eyes turn to the side.

  The merchant and his hired adventurer sit in their own cart, utterly silent. Their wagon seems better maintained, but the idea of asking for a spot under their roof doesn’t even cross my mind. Better wet and angry than dry and stuck with a merchant. Not that they’d be eager to share after today.

  During the goblin attack, while we were all locked in combat, the adventurer didn’t move. He stood frozen next to the merchant, his sword as clean as the moment he drew it—if he even did draw it. It’s hard to call him a coward when his job was to protect the merchant, but when we were all under attack? He just stood there.

  The merchant himself? No better. No sword to his name, but he must have had a woodcarving knife at least. Not that he even considered using it. Something tells me he was ready to bolt the second danger came too close. But then again... can I really blame him? A fish doesn’t run on land. A cat doesn’t breathe underwater. And a merchant doesn’t leap into battle against goblins.

  Still, the image of a fat merchant, dagger in hand, roaring like a berserker as he charges into a horde of goblins—now that is an entertaining thought. I almost smile.

  I let out a quiet breath and glance at the adventurer’s cart again. No excuses for him. A D-rank, supposedly. That’s... what, a rank above E? That means he should be stronger than a goblin, right?

  But now that I think about it... how is an adventurer’s rank measured? Physical strength? No, that wouldn’t make sense for archers or mages. Kill count? Hm. One goblin for an E-rank, ten for D, a hundred for C... but if that were the case, would A-ranks have to kill ten thousand goblins? That’s stupid. So what does determine rank?

  ...And I got sidetracked again.

  I shake off the thought and tune back into the trio’s conversation. They’ve moved on from battle talk to what they’ll do when they return to Rockwall City.

  Some of that information may be valuable.

  James is boasting about a small bar he found recently—the best fish soup in the province, apparently—and how he’s already a regular. Num snickers, pats James’ belly, then grins, grabs his crotch and shakes it. Oldie laughs and suggests James would be better off visiting the red-light district, where real pleasure awaits.

  James, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he sighs and explains that such an adventure is off-limits. His girl has eyes and ears everywhere, and if he so much as thought about setting foot there, she’d know before he even got home. Sweetest woman in the world, he says, but could turn into a jealous harpy in an instant.

  Their bickering continues, a mix of teasing, life lessons, and an ongoing argument about which of them knows Rockwall City best.

  I want to ask about adventurer rankings, but there’s never a pause long enough to slip in the question. Eventually, I stopped trying. Darkness has fully fallen outside, and with little else to do, I return to my thoughts.

  Many take up adventuring as a side job, or when they have no other options. For me... it could be useful. My own experience has taught me how fast things can fall apart. A backup plan is never a bad idea. For now, adventuring could be an easy way to earn a few coins hunting monsters and guarding caravans.

  But it’s not a life you can sustain forever. One way or another, everyone has to settle down eventually.

  Settle down for what, though?

  Do I really want to spend my life forging swords? Hunting goblins?

  No. The answer is quick and certain.

  Then what do I want?

  Silence.

  The lack of even an idea of it unsettles me.

  Then—

  A chill races down my spine, setting every nerve on edge.

  My body moves before my mind catches up. In an instant, I’m standing in the cart, Heavy gripped tight in both hands, scanning the dark.

  The trio’s laughter cuts off. Their hands creep toward their weapons, eyes sharp, wary.

  A dozen seconds pass. My eyes move around in search. Mind sifting through every sound, but it's fruitless, the storm rages outside, rain hammering against the cart, the wind howling through the trees. But something feels wrong.

  My instincts rarely lie.

  Not goblins. The feeling is different.

  I abandon caution.

  [Echo Pulse]

  A surge of mana flares from my core, rippling outward in a silent wave.

  And then—

  My pulse detected... a void. A space below us completely devoid of mana. Not an object, not a living thing—just emptiness.

  The ambient mana should be rushing to fill that space. But it’s not.

  "What’s wrong?" Oldie whispers, his voice tense. His grip on his sword tightens.

  I don’t answer. I move. Position myself. Raise Heavy high.

  [Echo Pulse]

  The void remains and it's not moving.

  I exhale slowly. Steady my hands. And then—

  I strike.

  Heavy plunges into the cart’s floor and sinks into something fleshy.

  A high-pitched screech shrieks from below.

  The cart lurches. Heavy jerks violently in my grip. Something massive thrashes beneath us. The floor shudders, throwing the trio off balance.

  I hold on.

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  Mana surges into my arms. I force Heavy down deeper. The writhing intensifies, the cart rocking like a ship in a storm.

  And then—slowly—it weakens.

  The movements slow. Shudder. Then—

  Stillness.

  A heavy silence presses down.

  I let go. Draw my mentor’s gift from its sheath. And leap into the storm.

  Mud squelches beneath my boots. Rain soaks into my clothes. I shove large chunk of mana into a single burst—

  [Lumen]

  Brilliant white explodes across the world, even through my tightly shut eyes.

  The foe should be blinded.

  A second passes. I blink through the afterimage.

  And then I see it.

  A giant snake. Its head—twice the size of mine—twisted grotesquely upon itself. A massive blade, my blade, skewers straight through its skull.

  The trio stumbles out behind me, weapons drawn. The adventurer rushes over, only to freeze when he sees the creature beneath the cart.

  The merchant follows moments later—only to find us all cursing as we struggle to pull the damn thing free. Its massive body is slick with blood and rain, making the process miserable, but eventually, we manage.

  A final burst of [Echo Pulse] confirms it was alone.

  There's nothing else around.

  Finally, I breathe out.

  Relief washes over me. The weight in my chest lifts.

  Oldie claps me on the back, grinning wide.

  "Kid, you chose the wrong fucking profession!"

  ...

  Yesterday, we decided to postpone dealing with the snake’s body. The relentless downpour made any effort difficult, and after the exhausting battle with the goblins, coupled with a long day of travel, none of us had the energy to handle it. So, we left it for tomorrow, each of us retreating to our own cramped corner of the cart, falling asleep on the hard wooden floor.

  Waking up was unpleasant—though, for once, not because an alarm clock in the form of an overzealous domestic critter announces itself right underneath my ear. Instead, the forest itself gradually pulled me into consciousness, its sounds rising in volume until they were impossible to ignore. However, the real culprit was perched just a few meters away: a feathery little menace, screeching at the top of its lungs in what could only be described as an impassioned mating call.

  Of all the thousands of trees in this damned forest, why did it have to pick the one closest to us?

  What sin had I committed against birds in this life—or the last—to deserve this torment?

  A solution to this recurring issue was in order. Hm. A noise-canceling enchantment? No, too dangerous. Losing my sense of hearing, even temporarily, was a surefire way to get myself killed. A structured spell that blocks only bird sounds? Possible, but I’d have to account for every type of bird call, which would inflate the complexity of the spell matrix to a degree where I can't sustain the spell. More trouble than it was worth. A trained creature to silence these noisy soup ingredients before they could wake me? Now, that was interesting. But I had neither the skill to summon such a beast nor the time to tame and train one. Still, something to consider in the future.

  After answering nature’s call behind a nearby tree, I went through my morning stretches. Not the full routine—I didn’t have the luxury of time—but enough to shake off the stiffness. As I straightened, my eyes landed on a specific branch I had marked that morning.

  The bird was gone.

  A string of curses escaped me.

  Lesson learned: never leave things for later that can be done now.

  With a resigned sigh, I turned toward the cart. The merchant and Oldie were already deep in discussion over the snake’s body, their voices tense. Not that it was much of a debate—Oldie was no match for the merchant when it came to negotiation. Sure enough, after a few more words, Oldie sighed, nodded, and accepted the deal. The terms were then reviewed in my presence:

  As the one who landed the killing blow, I got the mana core. The merchant agreed to buy the body for eight gold coins, to be split evenly among the trio and me. Additionally, we had to help with butchering the creature and loading it onto the merchant’s cart. The goblin ears, apparently, had been thrown into the bargain to "sweeten the deal."

  I considered questioning why the trio—who had done nothing during the fight—were getting a share. But ultimately, I bit my tongue. Some battles aren't worth fighting. Silence had a price. I’d count this as a small price for that.

  Mana cores weren’t cheap, and a core from such a rare monster could fetch several gold coins on the open market. I had worked with something similar last year and was surprised at how potent core-infused weapons could be. My mentor had once acquired a lesser Phoenix core and showed us how to imbue its properties into a dagger. The result? A blade that ignited with fire and shone with bright light whenever a small amount of mana was injected into the dagger.

  Mentor had explained that mana cores varied wildly in properties—some well-documented, others completely unpredictable—and that using the wrong one could have disastrous consequences.

  At the time, I hadn’t fully grasped the lesson. Not until he shared real-life examples.

  A Metal Wolf core, instead of reinforcing a crossbow, had made it unbearably heavy. A Slime core, meant to improve a sword’s flexibility, left the blade so soft it was useless. The worst case he had seen personally was a Snow Yeti core fused into a mithril spear—the result was an ice-cold weapon that no one could hold with bare hands. Gloves didn’t help either, since they couldn’t get a proper grip. To top it all off, the spearhead became brittle and shattered during testing.

  "Think ahead and find a balance," Mentor had told me. "That’s the only way to avoid disaster."

  I turned my attention back to the snake carcass—the scaly sock with teeth.

  With no time to waste, we started the grueling task of breaking it down. The first step was skinning and decapitating it. The beast was an impressive fifteen meters long from head to tail, and as we worked, I couldn't shake the realization of how lucky we had been. This was a rare stealth variant—non-venomous, thankfully—but deadly in a different way. I vaguely recalled reading about them somewhere. They were infamous for their bone-crushing bites, capable of killing in a single strike.

  The trio openly lamented the lack of venom, grumbling about how a single gland would have been worth five times what we were getting from the merchant. A solid retirement fund for some. I, on the other hand, was relieved. Venom was notoriously difficult to store and even harder to work with. If not preserved under exact conditions, it degraded quickly or became useless. Back in the clan, "Venom and Poison Essentials" had been a mandatory lesson, and I had learned firsthand how much of a nightmare it was to handle.

  Once the butchering and loading were done, we returned to our own cart, now stained with blood. Cleaning it was a miserable process, especially the wooden slats beneath the floor, which reeked. In hindsight, leaving the corpse so close overnight had been a risk. We had assumed the rain would mask the scent, but it was still a reckless gamble, what if it brought in another monster to our footsteps?

  With the cart finally scrubbed, we set off toward the nearby river to wash ourselves. The ground was still soaked, and each step sank a few centimeters into the damp, brown muck. By the time we reached the water, our boots were caked in filth. The cold river did little to lift my spirits, but at least we were no longer covered in blood.

  It was still early morning, yet I already felt drained. The chill lingered in my bones, and the overcast sky suggested the weather wasn’t going to improve. At least it wasn’t raining. I liked the rain—just not when I was out in it. It was far better appreciated from inside a warm, dry room, preferably with a mug of something hot.

  That fleeting comfort disappeared when the merchant began distributing our shares. I tucked my gold into the hidden pocket of my coat and climbed into the cart with the others.

  As we settled in, Oldie gave me a pointed look. "Don’t mention the goblins or the snake when we reach the city," he warned. "The army will demand proof, and, well... we’ve sold it."

  Fair enough.

  The conversation soon turned lighthearted as everyone discussed what they’d spend their gold on. James eagerly announced his plan to take his girl to some fancy spot in Rockwall City. Num only smirked weirdly, while Oldie, unsurprisingly, started rambling about yet another inn that supposedly served an exceptional soup.

  I leaned back, listening but not truly engaged, my mind elsewhere.

  Hopefully, no one would bring up the [Lumen] spell I had used.

  ...

  Less than an hour into our resumed journey, the oppressive silence in the cart was impossible to ignore. The trio’s usual lighthearted banter had vanished, replaced by an uneasy stillness. After the goblin attack, they'd been cautious—eyes sweeping the treeline, bodies tense—but this time, it was different. There was something heavier in the air, something unspoken.

  James was the first to break.

  "The roads are getting worse," he muttered, eyes fixed ahead.

  Oldie didn’t respond.

  "We’ve never been attacked twice on this stretch before."

  Silence.

  "So the Lieutenant was right."

  This time, Oldie exhaled sharply, the air around him shifting with an almost tangible irritation.

  "I don’t fucking know!" he finally snapped, locking eyes with James.

  James flinched, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Without another word, he shifted to the back of the cart, staring down the road behind us as if expecting something—someone—to emerge from the shadows.

  "Lad." Oldie gestured toward the seat beside him.

  I hesitated before obliging, settling into the seat next to him. For a while, we sat in silence, both of us staring straight ahead, but my eyes, almost instinctively, began scanning the treeline. Searching. Watching. Waiting.

  "You’d hear about this sooner or later," Oldie finally spoke, his voice carrying a tired certainty. "It’s not exactly a secret. There’s been an uptick in monsters in the region. Nothing critical yet, but bad enough that the Lords and our superiors are losing sleep over it."

  I turned to him, my expression hard. "A Red Wave?"

  He shook his head after a pause. "Unlikely. But normally, a wave in these parts lasts a month at most before the numbers settle. We’re in the third month now, and it’s still getting worse."

  Turning back to the road, I contemplate the new piece of information.

  A wave isn’t exactly uncommon. Depending on the region, it can last anywhere from a week to an entire year. Some academics theorize that waves are caused by specific alignments of the moons and stars, while the more religiously inclined claim it all happens by ‘godly design'. Not that they have any better explanation.

  Most people refer to a ‘Wave’ as a period when the ambient mana rises slightly—a shift imperceptible to most—until suddenly, monsters start pouring out of the wilds. For many, it’s a time of opportunity. Skilled adventurers, mercenaries, and opportunists flood monster-infested zones, be it dungeons or the forests surrounding major cities. Fortunes can be made overnight, either through sheer volume of harvested monster cores or in some cases a single extremely rare variant no one had seen before.

  But a Red Wave is different. And I truly hope this isn’t one.

  Back in Tower Village, we had only two waves in the past five years, and neither of them affected daily life. The guards made sure of that. While I had noticed them acting busier in the past few weeks, I wasn’t even aware that a wave was upon us. The slight uptick in ambient mana barely registered—I had dismissed it as a quirk of the weather.

  ‘Monster’ is the term used for any animal that has developed a mana core. As ambient mana accumulates in a creature’s body, it eventually crystallizes, forming a vessel to store mana in its purest form. This transformation grants them greater strength, speed, intelligence—and aggression. Monsters are hunted for their cores, their hides, their meat, and, in some cases, for recognition and fame. However, there have been cases where a full-scale army intervention was required to put down a single monster that grew too strong for anyone else to manage.

  There’s also the matter of the world's mana veins. Where these veins converge, a manawell forms, saturating the area with rich, unique mana. Over time, these sites evolve into what people call dungeons—places where endless hordes of monsters spawn, turning them into both gold mines and death traps. Some cities began as nothing more than dungeon-hunting outposts, only to grow into sprawling trade hubs rivaling even major cities.

  A grimace forms on my face as my thoughts drift to the greatest catastrophe ever recorded—one born from human greed.

  The infamous Sandar Kingdom sought to streamline the core crystallization process, eliminating the need for wild creatures altogether. It’s a long story with many details, but in the end, it all boils down to arrogance.

  Three centuries ago, Sandar’s rulers attempted to bypass nature itself by cultivating mana cores in trees, theorizing they would bear fruit infused with pure mana. Let’s just say they weren’t prepared for the corrupted Treants that emerged instead. But failure didn’t stop them. A bit later, they tried again—except this time, instead of trees, they used human slaves.

  What could possibly have gone wrong?

  The world was unprepared for the scale of the disaster that followed. The birth of the first demon.

  Its strength, according to historical records, was unlike anything humanity had ever witnessed. The chronology of events that followed shortly after doesn't matter anymore—only the outcome. The mana concentration in the city surged uncontrollably, and soon, ordinary citizens began to transform. First, the city fell. Then, the entire Sandar Kingdom. Then, the whole southern continent.

  The kingdoms bordering the Sundar Kingdom observed the situation, believing the catastrophe was not their problem, certain they could seize the spoils when the dust settled. But by the time they grasped the true magnitude of the threat, it was already too late.

  And now, it’s our turn.

  The ocean that once served as a natural Light Border—our buffer against the demon scourge for centuries—is gone. Decades ago, demons began appearing sporadically along our shores. Then, they gained a foothold. Then, the border started shifting inland. Slowly. Relentlessly. More and more land was lost. Never once have we pushed them back.

  A bleak future awaits us all.

  And yet, life simply carries on, with everyone too consumed by their own small troubles to care.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Oldie stealing glances at me—his gaze flicking from my face to my hands, then to the swords on my hip.

  Shit.

  Of course, he couldn’t just let it go.

  I can already tell what he’s thinking about. What he wants to ask. Casting [Lumen] in front of everyone may not have been the smartest decision. Too late to cry over spilled milk.

  I go over the possible questions again, the answers I’ve rehearsed resting on the tip of my tongue. Even so, I re-evaluate them one last time, running mental simulations—each question met with a carefully crafted response, each suspicion methodically crushed. Once I’m satisfied, I exhale and turn to Oldie, bracing for the verbal battle ahead.

  He takes it as an invitation.

  "Jimmy said you’re Colorless."

  So I was right. Here it comes.

  "Yes," I replied.

  Oldie nods, his gaze settling back on the road ahead.

  "A long time ago, I was young like you," he starts. "A promising mage—not a great one, but promising. A small clan even considered taking me in." He says the last part with pride, punctuating it with a tiny [Fireball] at the tip of his index finger, which disappears a moment later.

  Is this bait? A way to make me lower my guard?

  "But life is unfair," he says, his voice tinged with something almost nostalgic. Then he looks at me. "Don’t be ashamed that you’re Colorless. I can see you’ve been trained well—with both the sword and magic. That doesn’t happen without a goal in mind. Your skills prove that much."

  He nods to himself, as if he’s just said something profound.

  Okay... Why is he stalling? Still waiting for me to let my guard down?

  "Everyone has a dream. And there’s no denying it—you could have been a famous Sword-Mage... but the reality is, you won’t." His voice drops to something quieter, almost gentle. "Even if you don’t understand it now, you’re very lucky to be Colorless."

  What?

  What the fuck is he talking about?

  Is he trying to distract me? Why the detour? Why the lecture?

  He must notice my confusion because he elaborates before I can ask.

  "Knights will be knights. Mages will be mages. But us? The Colorless?" He points at himself, then at me. "No one tells us who to be. We decide that for ourselves."

  He presses his thumb to his chest, a note of pride in his voice.

  ...Wait.

  How the hell did this turn into a motivational speech?

  For a few seconds, I replay his words in my head, searching for hidden meaning, a trap, anything. But there’s nothing.

  Fine. Let’s go along with whatever theme he’s trying to push.

  "The Army wouldn’t agree with you," I say, narrowing my eyes.

  Oldie just laughs. "That’s also true," he concedes. "But the Army only holds you for a short time."

  I raise an eyebrow at that.

  He snorts at my expression. "Believe me, years go by in an instant. One day, you wake up and you’re thirty, discharged, with your whole life still ahead of you."

  "‘Whole life ahead’—and yet you are still in the Army?" The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with something close to anger.

  "Because I chose it," he says simply. His gaze stays on the road, his voice softer. "I could’ve picked any profession. Gone anywhere. No one could’ve told me ‘no’. I made my choice."

  His eyes flicker with something unreadable. "Those with Classes don’t get a choice. Think about it and don't be angry about life. Smile more. You're still too young to have a grimace stuck to your face all the time."

  I open my mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. Because... he’s not wrong.

  I don’t respond, and Oldie doesn’t press. He simply turns back to the road.

  The silence stretches between us. He doesn’t resume questioning me, doesn’t circle back to whatever curiosity he had about my abilities and skills. Instead, he just keeps looking ahead, watching the road, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  And unfortunately, my thoughts are a problem.

  Because the longer I sit with them, the more I realize—he has a point.

  I can’t deny it. But at the same time, those with Classes can still forge their own paths. I’m proof of that. The difference is, the cost of such freedom is something most people aren’t willing to pay.

  ...Wait.

  Why is there a cost in the first place?

  Why should someone else decide my fate?

  Why are we forced to pursue our Classes?

  Huh?

  Why the hell haven’t I questioned this before?

  And who gave the Army the right to command us? To make it acceptable?

  Yes, yes. War. Big war. A war of survival with our entire existence at stake. But who decided that what we’re doing now is the best way to fight it? I understand that people are dying on the frontlines. I understand that we need to defend ourselves.

  But that doesn’t mean someone else gets to decide who fights where.

  Hm.

  But then... who would protect the Light Border if everyone just pursued their own dreams?

  I feel the spiral coming—the frustrating, dangerous loop of questioning what’s right and wrong, what’s fair and what isn’t. But I shut it down before it can go too far.

  There’s no point in dwelling on things I have no power over.

  I need to focus on something productive.

  Yes. Productive and immediate.

  The snake core? Infuse into Heavy? Snake cores are known for increasing flexibility and less brittle. That would be a smart choice. But... No. No. Still too early. Not something critical right now.

  What else?

  Something. Anything.

  Oh. Mentor's gift. Pathways. I still need to carve them.

  Yes. Good.

  It’ll keep me occupied. Busy enough not to think.

  I pull out the mithril sword and begin experimenting—channeling my mana into the core, testing angles, searching for a pattern that works against the sheer, accursed sturdiness of the rare metal.

  As I balance the blade in my hand, I marvel again at how light it is. Ridiculously light—especially compared to Heavy.

  A thought strikes me, and I smirk.

  A name. A fitting one.

  Light.

  Both because of its weight and because mithril, with its nearly porcelain-white sheen, reminds me of pure light itself.

  Heavy and Light.

  Perfect.

  I know it sounds dumb.

  Shut up.

  Back to work idiot.

  ...

  Fucking bullshit metal.

  An entire day. A whole fucking day wasted on this bullshit stick.

  Progress? Sure. But not nearly enough.

  The temporary solution I came up with—or rather, the trick—is simple. Too simple. Normally, it’d be the first thing you try when nothing else works. And yet, it’s stupid. It’s wrong.

  Just throwing more mana at the problem isn’t solving it. It’s evading it. It’s accepting my lack of skill.

  And that’s the exact opposite of what Mentor drilled into me.

  Steady mana flow. Absolute control.

  But here I am, wasting ten times the usual amount of mana just to brute-force a tunnel into the weapon with a mana thread. It feels like cheating. Probably is cheating.

  I know this is the wrong path. I know it.

  But wasting more time isn't an option either.

  So maybe—just maybe—a shortcut is fine for now.

  As long as it works, it’s—

  ...Huh?

  Wait.

  Wasn’t this exactly what Tim was trying to do?

  Shit.

  Fucking hypocrite.

  Phony.

  Doing the exact opposite of what you preach.

  Mentor would be proud.