Slumland Street
Will Serfort passed through the ethnoburb on the outskirts of Urbus Regarden.
The slums—run-down shacks, cracked stone roads, low-income stores, taverns, smithies, and more—were all manned, operated, and owned by Dwarves.
This world, the people of Paradise, were no strangers to those who came from another.
The Lyzance had encountered three foreign races throughout their history.
Their greatest enemy, the Celestial Hosts—the Heavenly Invaders—were the first.
Long, long ago, the Lyzance were terrorized by them.
An ancient race of unknown origin, the Celestial Hosts possessed might that shook both heaven and earth.
Their powers and abilities seemed tailor-made to counter magic, rendering it obsolete.
The Lyzance were helpless.
They lived in constant fear, oppressed under the Invaders' rule—little more than slaves and livestock in a world that had once been theirs.
That world had become the Invaders' farm and garden.
But then, five centuries ago—506 years, to be exact—she rose up.
The mage queen Mercedes, with her five disciples, the Magia Vander, made their stand.
They cast a great repulsive barrier and sealed the skies, exiling the Heavenly Invaders and halting further descent.
Yet the Invaders never relented.
Even now, the people of Lyzance still don't understand why their enemies are so fixated on ruling over them—but they are.
So the Invaders wait, just beyond the barrier, patient and watchful, seeking another chance.
In these five centuries, they haven't been idle.
While the barrier held, they turned their sights elsewhere.
They destroyed other realms in the interim.
One of them was the elves' homeland.
A handful of survivors escaped through spatial gates and summoning magic, arriving in Lyzance.
They were warmly welcomed by the people of Paradise.
According to the Lore, one day the Great Barrier will shatter, ushering in the Fated Day.
To stand against their greatest enemy, the people of Lyzance would need every ally they could find.
A magical, long-lived race of prodigies with more magical power than the average Lyzance—and gifted with unique attributes and skills—were a godsend.
But not all displaced races were welcomed so kindly.
The other were the Dwarves—a magicless race.
The very concept of being without magic was unheard of to the Elves and Lyzance—until the Dwarves arrived.
They were seen as lesser, lacking magic and intellect, valued only for their strength and labor.
Just as the Heavenly Invaders had done to them, the Elves and Lyzance imposed their might on the Dwarves, enslaving them to work in mines and perform grimy, thankless chores.
While the Elves were granted land in the north and founded their own country—Alfswood—almost immediately, the Dwarves were not.
Only 150 years ago did the Dwarves rise up.
Ten thousand of them marched against a single Magia Vander.
Their general, Gareth, landed a blow against the Wand of Wind—and earned recognition.
In response, they were awarded independence and the southern country of Garzaronso.
But unlike the Elves, the Dwarves had to pay a price.
While all Elves lived freely in Alfswood and the Tower, the Dwarves of Garzaronso were required to loan out some of their people.
They became laborers in Lyzance and Elven towns, villages, and cities.
No longer slaves—now paid workers—but still treated as less than human.
Slumland Street was proof of that.
Low quality of life and crumbling infrastructure, right in the mage capital of the world.
One could only shudder to imagine how much worse it must be for Dwarves in lesser cities.
But this was the price a few were forced to pay for their people's freedom.
Now, all that being said, it wasn't as if the Dwarves of Urbus Regarden had no benefits.
Mercedes Caulis and the leadership of Garzaronso had to offer something to keep these glorified slaves content—to ensure they played their roles and fulfilled their duties.
One of those concessions was agency.
In some ways, the Dwarves of Urbus Regarden were the freest in the world.
Most mages couldn't stand to be near them, which meant there was little authority presence in Slumland.
Lyzance agents were rare, and Elves almost never showed their faces—not even once in a blue moon.
Discrimination only reared its head when Dwarves were summoned into the inner city for labor.
Even masers and other magical surveillance tools were only deployed during events of the highest importance, like the Terminalia.
Despite their poverty, the Dwarves weren't charged income taxes, tariffs, or duties by either Urbus Regarden or Garzaronso.
Slumland may have been a slum.
But it was their slum.
Their little castle, their kingdom.
And because of that, as long as one behaved and followed the rules, it was an easy place to lie low and avoid any eyes—or ears.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
That was close.
A few drops of sweat trickled down Will's cheeks as he turned a corner into an abandoned alleyway.
Will loved the Dwarves—there was no question about that—but it came back to bite him in one particular way: the Dwarves loved him too.
Almost too much.
Especially after his victory in the Grand Festival.
Passing through Slumland on days he didn't want to be seen had become increasingly difficult, especially with Donnan, Gina, and their friends always keeping an eye out for him.
To invite him for drinks, food, or just to hang out.
It didn't help that Julius and his lackeys now worked in Gina's tavern, thanks to losing the bet.
At first, Will had been surprised—elated, even.
Julius and the others went beyond his expectations, not only apologizing for their behavior but atoning for it with unpaid labor in a place that clearly made their skin crawl.
But times like these, Will almost wished Julius was still the arrogant, shameless aristocrat he'd always imagined—someone who'd just flip Gina and Donnan off and disappear from Slumland for good.
Will could handle being spotted by the Dwarves.
After all, they weren't just his friends—they were Shishō's too.
But getting seen by Julius and his crew? That would likely mean nothing but trouble for Will and his benefactors.
Thank god for Ki.
Will whispered the thought to himself.
It made sneaking around so much easier.
He crouched down, swung his arms back, and leapt—like a frog—scaling the nine-foot wall that marked what was supposed to be a dead end, all in one hop.
Thump.
He landed softly, barely making a sound.
Ahead of him, there were no more shacks or cobblestone.
Only dirt, grass, and leaves leading into a forest.
With one last glance over his shoulder and at the sky, Will dashed into the woods.
He weaved expertly between trees in an irregular path, hopping over stumps, rocks, boulders, ditches, and narrow streams—like he'd memorized every inch of the place.
Will hadn't brought Kiki with him.
A Carbuncle relays imagery through the gem on its forehead—that's how Workner-sensei monitors him whenever he ventures into the dungeon.
Taking Kiki as his familiar had been Workner's one, non-negotiable condition if he was going to approve Will's excursions to the lower floors.
That said, Will wouldn't put it past his mentor to spy on him outside of those times, purely out of concern.
Elfi had always done that kind of thing to him.
And although he had no proof, Will had a strange feeling Rosti did too.
Either way, it didn't creep him out.
If anything, it warmed his heart that people would go that far to keep him safe.
That's why he usually brought Kiki everywhere—not just into the dungeon.
It gave them peace of mind.
But not here.
Not where he was going now.
Because right now, he was heading somewhere safe.
Possibly the safest place for him in the world, outside the orphanage.
His third home.
A home he never wanted to expose to anyone—not after everything they'd done for him.
He wouldn't be surprised if Rosti or Workner had an inkling of where he often disappeared to.
But they never brought it up, never pressed him to confess.
They just told him to be back before curfew.
Will Serfort never tried to probe them about it.
He only thanked them inwardly, from the bottom of his heart, for their patience and understanding.
A few minutes later, he scaled a series of disjointed little hills and cliffs.
At the top, it came into view.
Surrounded by broad, towering trees that never seemed to wilt, no matter the season or weather, was a wooden cabin.
Smoke curled softly from its chimney.
Quaint and cozy, with a humble garden of tomatoes, olives, the driest potatoes Will had ever eaten, and a few other vegetables.
As he stepped onto the familiar stone path, something in his chest stirred.
Melancholy.
Ever since the whole dungeon fiasco with Sion, everything seemed to spiral—his fight with Edward, the bet with Julius at the Grand Festival, and his recent meeting with Lihanna and the others.
Add to that his constant remedial lessons with Workner, dungeon dives to make up for missing credits, and overtime at Gina's to afford tuition.
He hadn't been here in a while.
Thinking about it now… after Praxis, it'll be finals. If I pass, I'll enter the Tower…
I might not come back here for a long time. Maybe ever.
For a moment, Will's heart wavered.
The thought of losing another home clawed at him—just like the orphanage he hadn't seen in six years.
Claire and the other kids, all grown up—and he'd missed it.
I selfishly left Father to look after them alone… even took his money for a wand I couldn't use… and unlike Elfi, I made all his sacrifices meaningless…
For a moment, Will was tempted to backpedal and take his leave.
If he gave up on his dream to become a Magia Vander now, and just studied under Workner-sensei and Rosti, he could still enter the Tower as an artificer or apothecary.
Just like so many had told him over the years.
And unlike a Magia Vander, he'd keep the freedom to come and go as he pleased.
Will clenched his fist.
But then he remembered that reunion with Father three years ago—and his promise to Elfi.
He remembered all the people who had worked so hard for him, sacrificed so much—like Workner-sensei pleading to Headmaster Cauldron to let him stay at a school with magic in its name.
All the near-death experiences with Kiki in the dungeon, just so he could keep chasing this path.
All the time Shishō had given him, asking for nothing in return.
If he backed out now, it would make all of it meaningless.
He wasn't the only one invested in this dream.
He couldn't throw away all their effort over something like fear.
If he failed, then so be it—it would mean he wasn't good enough.
But not because he gave up.
He couldn't give up.
Never.
He had to—
Be resolved to die.
Will suddenly froze.
He clutched his head as an unfamiliar voice rang through his mind.
"Wha—? What is this—?"
Weaklings get everything taken from them! That's just the way it is! Whether it's women, treasure, or dignity—even their own lives! That's how our world works!!
The voice kept coming.
It was starting to feel familiar, but no face came to mind.
If you don't want to lose anything, howl like a beast! Throw away your weakness and claw your way up! Fight with everything you've got, and take back what's yours!!
That's a lie.
Will dropped to one knee, clutching his head in pain.
"W-what's a lie? W-who are you? What do you mean?"
He was clueless—unable to make sense of a one-sided conversation without a speaker.
But the words didn't stop.
They came without context, like memories being forced through a keyhole.
Your resolve to die, it ain't enough.
Those who truly fought to the death aren't here anymore. You know why? —Because they're all dead!!
That's why you need to die once.
Will saw something.
A flash in his mind.
A thunderbolt, blasting a crater into the earth.
Dungeon monsters crawling, spilling out toward the surface.
And then—a scream.
His scream.
Uuuuuuaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!?
The distance between him and the monsters vanished in an instant.
As if he'd been thrown into the pit himself.
And just before the vision ended, he heard one last thing.
Here's a parting gift. Take it.
A sword filled his vision—tossed to him like a lifeline.
A dwarven sword.
One he didn't remember owning.
And then—nothing.
Just a flash of black.
Then his vision returned, right where it had left off: the front yard of his Shishō's cabin.
Gasp.
Will panted, drenched in cold sweat.
What was that?! he asked inwardly.
It felt far too real. Too personal to be a delusion.
Just as he was about to shake it off, he stiffened.
Slowly, he raised his eyes.
And there he was—his Shishō. Standing on the front porch, arms crossed at the doorway, looking down at him with those bright green eyes that always radiated something layered.
This time, they held concern.
And scrutiny.
"Will… you good?" he asked, tentatively.
Gulp.
Will swallowed a dry lump in his throat.
He was not good. Not at all.
But he hadn't come here to unload all his problems on another mentor.
So he kept it to himself.
He rose to his feet and forced out the same practiced smile he always used on Workner-sensei, Rosti, and Colette whenever something was wrong.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
He knew lying was pointless.
Especially to someone with an innate detector for bullshit.
But he also knew the kind of person his Shishō was.
Not nosy.
Not the type to press unless necessary.
And thankfully, this didn't seem to qualify.
He simply ran a hand through his ash-blonde hair and stepped his bulky, muscular frame to the side, nodding toward the doorway.
"Come inside. Have a glass of water. Then we'll talk."
It wasn't a question.
It was an order.
One Will didn't argue.
"Yes, Shishō!"
His Shishō sighed, already exasperated. "I tell you all the time to call me Asta."
"Shishō sounds better!" Will shot back as he stepped inside.
Asta sighed helplessly but didn't push it.
Then his eyes narrowed.
His hand moved in a blur, too fast to follow, as he reached behind Will's head—and plucked something off.
A single strand.
Will turned, blinking in confusion. "Huh? Did something happen?"
Hands tucked behind his back, Asta gave him a casual smile and a shake of the head.
"Nah. Just pulling off some grass. Looked like you decided to lay down in my yard."
Will flushed, looking sheepish. He bowed his head awkwardly before hurrying toward the dining room.
"S-sorry, Shishō!"
Unlike Asta, Will didn't detect any lie.
As he disappeared into the house, Asta slowly brought his hand forward.
He opened his fist.
In his palm was a single strand of hair.
It was white.
Asta's eyes flickered—cold and unreadable.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
As Will stepped through the kitchen toward the dining area, he paused.
There it was—that familiar head of silver hair, tied into an upside-down top knot, wearing an apron.
Chop. Chop.
He spotted the slender woman happily humming to herself, completely off-beat and out of rhythm, while slicing a couple onions at the sink.
Will bowed in greeting.
"Good evening, Mrs. Silva!"
Noelle looked over her shoulder, unsurprised, and offered him a warm smile with those bright pink eyes.
"Hey there, Will. You joining us for dinner?" she asked casually.
If this had been a few years ago, Will would've probably shaken his head, saying he didn't want to impose.
But that would be too polite now.
And you don't act that way around people who treat you like family.
He just shrugged, not giving a definite answer.
"If there's time, definitely."
Rigarden's Domitrus curfew was a hard stop at 10 p.m.
And while Will had evaded it plenty of times thanks to dungeon dives, technically, he'd still been on school grounds those nights.
If he stayed late here, Workner-sensei and Rosti would surely chew him out.
He wasn't in the mood for another scolding.
Noelle didn't seem to mind. She smiled softly and turned back to her chopping.
"All right. I'll still whip you something up to take back."
For a moment, Will felt two different things.
One part of him was mesmerized. Contemplative.
He always got the same ethereal feeling from Noelle that he used to get from Elfi—like he was looking at a princess out of a storybook.
But Elfi… even when she played the saint or acted high and mighty, he knew the mischievous girl behind the act.
Noelle, on the other hand… even when she was soft. Even when she was rarely goofy. She still carried this strange, regal aura that confused him.
Sometimes I think she's a fallen royal, he mused inwardly, though he never said it out loud.
The other thing he was feeling was… discomfort.
In his stomach.
Even though her cooking had vastly improved over the years, Mrs. Silva's food had brought him and Asta to their knees more times than either of them wanted to admit.
Even her borderline gourmet-level dishes couldn't fully erase the trauma of their earlier culinary suffering.
Still, Will didn't let any of that show.
He forced a polite smile.
"Thank you," he said simply, before slipping past the gap and heading toward the dining table.
As he stepped into the room, Will's face instantly lit up. He gave a soft wave and cooed.
"Hello, Nigel. Remember me?"
Seated in a high chair was a round, pudgy infant with a tiny tuft of silver-blond hair that shimmered like his mother's. His eyes, however, were unmistakably his father's.
He was busy doing who-knows-what with his hands, but paused upon hearing Will's voice.
The baby cocked his head, blinking blankly for a moment—then recognition dawned. A wide smile spread across his tiny face, proudly showing off the signs of his first teeth.
"Bah-uun!"
He reached out his pudgy little fingers toward Will.
Will laughed softly.
He always had a soft spot for the baby boy. Not just because he was the child of two of his benefactors, but because that strange little verbal tic reminded him so much of Elfi when they were kids.
Will stepped forward and scooped the six-month-old into his arms, cradling him carefully. Nigel leaned forward and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek—more of a munch, really.
At that moment, Asta walked in behind him, having just stolen a kiss to his wife's neck that left her frozen red. He grinned as he entered the dining room.
"Of course he remembers you. Nigel really missed his big bro Will."
Asta grabbed a pitcher, poured a glass of water, and handed it over.
Will took it with his free hand, carefully balancing Nigel in the other. He gave a sheepish smile.
"S-sorry, Shishō. It's just that life's been really busy lately…"
He trailed off, taking a sip of the water.
As always, it was absurdly refreshing—like it came straight from a pure, untouched reservoir or hidden oasis.
Will had always wondered where the Silvas got their water.
Just another mystery on the long list of them.
After finishing, he handed the glass back and took a seat, Nigel still nestled in his arms. Asta sat down beside them, waving him off.
"Nah, it's fine. This is your big year. You shouldn't be wasting time playing house."
Will straightened up.
"Shishō, I'd never treat my time here as a waste. It's precious to me."
Asta paused. So did Noelle, glancing back from the kitchen.
Their features softened at the same time.
Looking a bit sheepish, Asta chuckled.
"I didn't mean it like that, Will. We're really thankful you feel that way—but your future's riding on this year…"
Before Will could respond, Noelle's voice called out from the kitchen.
"What my utterly foolish husband is trying to say… is that none of us take offense to you making time for yourself and chasing your dreams."
Will's eyes widened slightly as she continued.
"This year is your year. Your last chance to enter that tower. As for us—we'll always be here. Waiting."
"Whether it's a few weeks, a few months, or even a few years—this place will always be your home to return to."
"Don't feel like you need to drop by every now and then just to remind us you exist. We cherish you. We're always thinking about you. You're like a little brother to us."
"You're not going to lose your place in our hearts just because you're absent for a while. Dreams are fleeting. Family is forever."
"Come here on your own time, in your own way—whether it's because you need something, or you just want to relax and hang out. That's how it's always been, and that's how it'll stay."
Will's throat tightened. His vision blurred.
"M-Mrs. Silva…" His voice cracked.
Asta looked over his shoulder with a sigh that was both dramatic and amused.
"Leave it to my utterly perfect wife to make a kid cry."
Noelle turned red again—this time from a different kind of embarrassment.
Twack!
"Ow!" Asta winced, rubbing the top of his head as Noelle raised the towel again.
"Want another?" she asked darkly.
He shook his head furiously.
As for Will—
"Bah-uun!"
"Bah-uun!"
Nigel giggled and reached up with his chubby hands to wipe at Will's forming tears.
Will laughed softly, hugging the little one just a bit tighter.
"Thank you guys… really."
The young couple stopped their bickering immediately and turned their attention back to him.
Noelle blushed again and huffed.
"Hmph. Don't mention it. Just stop acting like an idiot."
She flicked at the air with her wrist, forgetting she hadn't tied her hair into pigtails today. Her neck flushed with renewed embarrassment, and she quickly excused herself back into the kitchen.
Asta watched her go with an affectionate look in his eyes—then turned back to Will with a more businesslike smile.
"So?" Asta raised a hand toward Will.
"Even after all that talk, I doubt you're here just to goof off. Not today."
He leaned forward slightly over the table.
"So what's up? What do you need?"
Will drew a deep breath, his expression sharpening.
"The Dungeon Praxis is coming up. Just ten days away."
Asta blinked, scratching his cheek as he searched his memory.
"That's that big dungeon dive thing to rack up a bunch of credits, right?"
Will's face lit up with pride as he nodded.
"As expected of Shishō! You really do know everything!"
From the kitchen, Noelle nearly snorted.
Your dear Shishō would be exposed as the buffoon he is if not for a certain spy… and a certain ascendant.
Asta rubbed his nose smugly, totally unbothered.
"Well… I get around."
Will didn't sense anything off. Once again, he couldn't detect a single lie in Asta's ki.
He adjusted Nigel in his lap to get a clearer view and continued.
"I got scouted by a party—"
"Oh really?" Asta raised an eyebrow, his expression lighting up with interest and pride.
"'Bout time someone noticed you, kid. Who're you teaming up with?"
Will blinked, slightly unsure.
"Well… I doubt you know them, but they're kind of a big deal in my grade. Lihanna, Wignall—he's an elf—Sion, and Julius—"
"Julius?!" Asta cut him off again, loud enough to make Will jump.
"The same guy whose ass you kicked at the festival?!"
"LANGUAGE!" Noelle hissed from the kitchen.
Asta winced and snapped his attention toward Nigel.
Fortunately, the baby still seemed to be in his own world—right up until his mother's shriek brought him fully back to it.
Asta was just about to sigh in relief when—
Nigel whimpered.
His mouth quivered.
His eyes welled up.
Asta shot to his feet, arms raised in surrender as if trying to negotiate with a ticking bomb.
"Nigel? Buddy, hey, you don't need to cry—"
"WAAAHHHHHH!!"
Waterworks exploded from the infant's face.
Before either Will or Asta could react, a blur zipped between them.
Noelle.
Nigel's mother.
In a blink, her hands moved, and the baby was in her arms, sobbing into her shoulder.
She shot her husband a dark look that left him sweating bullets—then vanished in another blur.
Her ki signature shifted to the bedroom.
Asta stood there, speechless.
The hell?! This was your fault!
He didn't dare voice it.
"Hah… whatever…" he sighed, slumping back into his chair.
Will hesitated before slowly sitting back down as well.
A brief silence passed. Then Will took the initiative.
"You heard about my match?"
Asta snorted. "Heard it? Kid, the dwarves wouldn't shut up about it. They even showed me a recording of you knocking that pretty boy's teeth out."
Will blinked.
How'd they get that?
None of them had been in the crowd. They weren't even welcome there…
Meanwhile, in a rundown shack that passed as Will's dorm—and in a sealed room high atop the tower—One artificer and one Magia Vander sneezed. In perfect unison.
He wasn't given a chance to press the issue.
Asta cocked his head.
"I don't know this Lihanna girl, but from what I've heard, most elves aren't exactly friendly company. Especially with... no-talents like us."
Will winced as he continued.
"Not to mention, if I remember right, you've got beef with that Sion guy. And I doubt this Julius fellow has any love for you, especially after you humiliated him in front of the whole city."
Unless he's some sort of masochist.
Asta wisely kept that part to himself. His wife had the senses of a dragon—no telling if she was still listening in.
Will managed an awkward smile. "Shishō… what exactly are you trying to say?"
Asta gave him a deadpan stare.
"I'm saying your team sounds like a walking disaster. Heading into a dungeon with a dysfunctional squad—half of whom hate your guts—is suicide."
He paused, then narrowed his eyes.
"You suicidal again?"
Will stiffened.
"No! No, not at all!" He shook his head quickly, hands raised in alarm. "My reckless days are behind me!"
Asta didn't look convinced. His frown only deepened.
Will cursed inwardly, then patted his chest with a determined hand.
"Shishō, I swear I'm not trying to get myself killed. I know the difference now—between being brave and being stupid. I-I can't meet Elfi again... I can't keep our promise if I die."
Asta arched a brow. "You sure you don't need another intervention? Or maybe a re-education?"
Will almost bolted from the chair at the memory of their first meeting.
He'd been around eleven at the time.
It hadn't been long since Elfi left for the Tower—after giving him her goggles and a farewell smile—while he stood there promising himself, no more crying.
He swore to Workner-sensei, and to himself, that he would follow the path of the sword. No matter how much pain, misery, humiliation, abuse, or suffering it came with.
So he dove into dungeon after dungeon.
Desperate to make up for his complete lack of spellwork credits with raw Praxis.
He lived each day dancing with death.
This was before he met Rosti.
Before Workner gave him Kiki.
Back when he had no magical items to lean on. No Carbuncle to substitute for his inability to use Search.
Back then, all he had... was himself.
And that only got him so far.
Sure, he got a decent sword from the dwarves. But he didn't know how to swing it. Not really.
Just a few pieces of advice, a couple of crude demonstrations, and a strange instinct deep in his muscles—like his body was meant to wield a blade.
For a time, Will thought maybe the world hadn't given him magic… but it had given him this.
Raw, boundless talent for the sword.
The strength of a dwarf. The speed of a monster.
And arrogance bloomed.
He started diving deeper than he was allowed. Ignored Workner's warnings.
Dropped bounties on the Headmaster's desk like trophies, proud of what he'd survived.
But then it happened.
The dungeon is alive.
It constantly births monsters.
Mages can survive inside it because when they clear a room, they rest.
They absorb the leftover miasma into their wands, slowing the dungeon's regeneration.
Unless they wander into a nest, they get breathing room.
But Will?
Will didn't have a wand.
Every time he killed something, he just released more miasma.
Which meant the dungeon only spawned faster.
It was manageable on Floor 1. Even 2.
But one day, he pushed into Floor 3 without permission.
That was the day a trio of penguin-like monsters from Floor 4 floor-upped.
He barely won—bloodied and gasping.
But he wasn't given a moment of rest.
The miasma they left behind surged unnaturally fast—swallowed by the dungeon.
And then came the stampede.
Jackals. Spider-like monsters.
All rushing at him. Not fighting each other. Not splitting off.
Just racing toward him.
As if they saw something they hated. Something they couldn't let live.
Will had no time to question it.
He turned to run—
But a second stampede came barreling in from behind.
Cutting off his escape.
And in that moment, Will Serfort thought only two things.
One, he was going to die.
Two, he had failed.
Failed Elfi.
Failed Workner-sensei.
Failed the promise he swore never to break.
But then—it happened.
He came.
All Will saw was a blur of black.
When his vision cleared, both stampedes—monsters from every side—were gone.
Torn apart.
Bloodied.
Decapitated.
Littering the dungeon floor in twitching piles of carnage.
And in the center of it all stood a short, muscular man holding a sword.
So short and broad-shouldered that Will almost mistook him for a dwarf.
He had no idea why a dwarf would be in the dungeon…
But something about him felt off.
Wrong, somehow.
Then his instincts screamed—human.
Sword.
He wasn't alone.
Will felt two things at that moment.
First, surprise.
Surprise that someone like him existed. That he wasn't the only Lyzance who walked the path of the sword in this era.
And second—joy.
Joy that he was alive.
That someone came.
That someone saved him when he was ready to die.
He opened his mouth to thank the man.
But then the stranger turned.
For a second—just a second—Will swore he saw vertical red slits where eyes should be.
But then he blinked, and they were just bright green.
Surely… he imagined it.
One moment, the stranger was yards away.
The next—he was right in front of him.
Will didn't even get the chance to yel—
Twack!
A sharp pain bloomed across his cheek.
His head whipped sideways.
He froze—hand flying up to his face.
He'd just been slapped.
Slapped.
Even his bullies hadn't done that. They always use words before wands and fists.
He barely had time to react before—
Twack!
Again.
Twack!
Again.
Twack!
Four slaps.
Four brutal, ringing slaps.
That's all it took.
All it took for Will—someone who could break boulders with his bare hands, someone who had survived being flung and crushed by monsters—to be reduced to the helpless, trembling little boy he used to be.
He collapsed onto the dungeon floor.
Hands clutching his burning cheeks.
Blood in his mouth.
Tears threatening to fall.
Broken.
Shaken.
Silent.
But it wasn't over.
"Ughh—!"
The stranger seized him by the throat and lifted him—effortlessly—into the air.
Will choked, legs kicking uselessly.3
His hands clawed at the iron grip, eyes wide as his vision blurred around the edges.
His lungs screamed. His heart pounded.
For a moment—he thought he was going to die.
And worse... for a moment…
It felt familiar.
That helplessness.
That fading light.
That shame.
But that didn't make sense.
He'd brushed with death more times than he could count—but never like this.
Never at the hands of a human.
…Right?
Just as his arms began to go slack, the stranger released him.
Will dropped with a heavy thud, landing hard on his backside.
He gasped—wheezing, clutching his throat.
His body trembled as air finally clawed its way back into his lungs.
The dungeon floor spun beneath him.
As his vision cleared and the pain ebbed, Will looked up.
Face streaked with dry tears.
Lips split and bloodied.
Fear painted across every inch of him.
"Wh… why…?"
That was all he could manage.
Barely a whisper.
His voice cracked like old parchment.
Why?
He didn't understand.
He was a magicless failure, sure. A no-talent. But did that really mean he deserved this?
From a stranger?
If this man wanted him dead, he could've let the monsters have him.
Let them tear him to pieces.
Let him fade into the dungeon, forgotten.
But instead—he saved him.
Gave him hope.
Offered him mercy.
Only to hurt him in a way no monster ever could.
Will searched his face—looking for something. Anything.
A flicker of kindness.
A trace of regret.
Some reason.
Some explanation.
But the man's eyes were cold.
Emotionless.
Unforgiving.
Will shivered.
There was no compassion there.
Only judgment.
And something far worse.
For the first time, the stranger spoke.
His voice was hoarse. Broken. Cracking under frustration.
"Why? WHY?"
Will flinched.
The man crouched, eye-level now, glaring at him with a deranged, hollow stare.
A gaze warped by something old and festering.
"You spoiled brat," the stranger growled. "Did your parents spare you the belt or something? Coming down here alone—ill-equipped, untrained, without even a scrap of strategy or sense?"
His voice rose with each accusation, until it scraped like rusted iron.
Will swallowed thickly.
And then he felt it.
That same suffocating cruelty.
The kind he'd only ever felt from Edward-sensei.
The kind that screamed: If you won't listen, I'll make you listen.
That everything done to you—even the breaking, the tearing, the humiliation—was for your own good.
So you should thank them.
Cruelty? Maybe.
But colder than that.
It was pragmatism.
Emotionless. Detached. Inevitable.
The stranger jabbed a finger at him.
"I'm doing you a favor," he spat. "If you want to throw your life away, there are faster, cleaner ways than getting mauled by beasts. So pick your poison—should I choke you out again? Blast you apart? Maybe I should just cut off your damn head! Pick!"
Will didn't answer.
Because for the first time, he wasn't afraid of this man.
Not really.
Instead… he saw something else.
Tears.
Just a glimmer at first. But they were there.
And now that Will was really looking, he noticed more:
The man's body was a mess—bruised, bloodied, torn in a dozen places.
And Will wondered if his heart was in any better shape.
If his soul looked the same—shredded and hollow.
Because that expression…It reminded him.
Of himself.
Of Colette.
Eyes like voids.
People who'd lost everything.
Will lowered his head. Voice trembling.
"I-I don't have parents… not really. I grew up in an orphanage. I guess the man who runs the place is kind of like my father..."
The stranger froze.
Will saw it—how his shoulders tensed, how his breath caught.
His pupils dilated.
Tears ran freely down his dirt-caked cheeks.
Will opened his mouth, about to apologize, unsure why.
But the man abruptly stood, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
He turned without a word.
Then, quietly—
"Follow me."
That was all he said.
And Will did.
Without thinking.
Without fear.
He followed him out of the dungeon.
On the 27th of Suzahmoon, Will Serfort met Asta for the first time.
The man who would become his mentor.
The man who would teach him not only how to wield a sword, but how to survive, how to endure, how to live.
At the time, Will had no idea just how similar they were.
But later, he'd realize—Asta might've been the only person alive who truly understood what it meant to be him.
Asta had shown him a new world. A new future.
He'd picked up the broken pieces that were Will Serfort—and helped him put them back together.
And Will liked to believe he'd done something similar in return.
Asta was many things to him.
A mentor, like Workner-sensei.
A big brother.
A friend.
A guardian.
And through Asta—his wife, and the handful of strange, quiet companions around them—Will had found something rare.
Kindness.
They treated him like a person. Like an equal.
Not some broken, defective failure.
That was all he'd ever wanted.
So, when Asta gave him that look, Will shook his head with conviction.
"No, Asta… I don't need a re-education. Really."
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Asta tapped his knuckles on the edge of the table, leaning back in his chair.
"Then mind telling me why you're teaming up with a bunch of problem children?"
Will inhaled deeply.
"Because they aren't bad people."
Asta said nothing.
Will pressed on.
"They've got problems, sure—just like me. But they've also got grit. Talent. Drive. Dreams."
"They want to be someone. Do something. And I need to be around people like that… if I ever want to be someone too."
Asta raised a brow. "That how you feel?"
"It's what I know," Will said firmly.
Then he bowed his head.
"Please. Help me brush up on Ki and swordplay over the next ten days. If I'm going to fight beside them—if I'm going to lead—I need to be perfect."
Silence.
Then Asta stood.
And smiled.
"Sure."
That was it.
No lecture.
No critique.
No challenge or condition.
He didn't need to hear why Will chose that path.
Only that he chose it.
And that he meant it.
Asta would train him—just like always.
And in the meantime, he'd keep watch.
Will shot to his feet. "Great! When do we start?!"
"Now."
Asta led him out of the cabin, down the hill to the clearing below.
Grassy and wide, with the wind gently pushing through the trees.
By the base of one oak, they each grabbed a wooden practice sword—swords that had never once chipped or dulled, despite years of training.
As they faced each other, Asta spoke.
"You'll meet me here every day after school. Weekends too. No excuses."
Will nearly groaned.
Rosti was going to throw a fit.
But he didn't argue.
Asta nodded, raised his sword, and pointed it at him.
"Come at me."
If anyone else said those words, Will would hesitate.
He'd worry about hurting them.
His father had always told him: Your strength exists to protect what's precious. And to defeat enemies.
Asta wasn't an enemy.
But Will charged anyway.
As if he was facing a monster.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Author's Notes:
[1] Suzahmoon is the equivalent of November in this world
[2] Feel free to join the discord: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar