The distant horizon was an endless black void. The sky perpetually hung in murky gray, like the darkest of twilight. This gray hue churned ceaselessly, yet it was impossible to tell whether it was cloud or mist.

Here, there was neither day nor night, no sense of time.

The forest had lost all traces of life eons ago. Towering trees stood as hollow skeletons, their massive trunks and thicker branches all that remained. Strands of web-like filaments hung from the branches, yet they could not be spiderwebs—no spider could survive here.

Mires dotted the ground, gray sludge bubbling occasionally with a lone bubble. Now and then, the skeleton of some unknown creature surfaced before being swallowed again by the muck.

The wind carried a damp chill, its foul stench assailing his nostrils at every turn.

This was The Otherworld—a paradise for the undead and devils.

Breezemoon had lost count of how long it had wandered this forest. It could not recall its origins, only that a being named "Rogue" had given it this name. An instinctive nausea rose within Breezemoon at the very thought of its name, though it could not fathom why. As for nausea itself—it felt strangely familiar, yet the memory of how to vomit eluded it. Of course, what could a skeleton possibly expel?

Dim light filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground and Breezemoon’s form. It simply wished to leave this forest, though it knew not why. It was instinct, perhaps.

Breezemoon often sensed faint threads of energy flowing from Rogue. It knew it could not refuse Rogue’s commands. This world held too many things beyond Breezemoon’s understanding. Yet this energy brought comfort, strength—but it was scarce. Like a desperate traveler in the desert awaiting a single drop of water, Breezemoon thirsted.

Unbearably hungry.

Clutching a rusted longsword—found long ago and whose origin it had forgotten—Breezemoon drifted aimlessly through the forest. Instinct warned it away from certain places, where powerful and sinister presences lurked. Breezemoon was cunning. When confronted by skeletons like itself, it devised clever ways to defeat them, for they carried the energy that stoked its hunger.

On an indeterminate day, Breezemoon gathered several exceptionally sturdy bones. After a swirl of mist, these bones had replaced its missing ribs until all twenty-four were restored—Breezemoon instinctively knew it *should* have twenty-four ribs. The repair exhausted every scrap of energy it had stored. Had Rogue not sent a timely trickle of power, Breezemoon doubted it could have faced the first zombie it encountered.

The battle raged endlessly. The zombie’s strength was unmatched, and after losing three ribs, Breezemoon finally realized the creature could not catch it. So the skeleton began circling its foe relentlessly, slashing with the sword whenever it drew near, peeling away strips of rotten flesh. At last, the zombie collapsed. Breezemoon’s ribs numbered fewer than twenty.

In The Otherworld, other skeletons and zombies seemed indifferent to one another upon meeting. Breezemoon could not comprehend why it felt compelled to attack any lone creature it encountered. "I am hungry," the skeleton pondered.

Time did not exist here. Breezemoon wandered ceaselessly, unaware of how long it had strayed or how much farther it must go.

The forest seemed endless.

After the incident at Little House, Rogue became fascinated by the skeleton that played dead. In the dead of night, the second floor often held a man and a skeleton staring eye-to-eye. After countless failed attempts to communicate through mental force, Rogue finally lost interest.

Rogue never discovered where the skeleton had obtained its blade. After studying it fruitlessly, he abandoned the inquiry.

As days grew hotter, Rogue unknowingly celebrated his twentieth birthday and prepared to leave the magic academy. The exam loomed in a few days. Over the past months, he had devoured most of the thirty-plus volumes of the *Continental Chronicles*, alongside stacks of adventure memoirs, travelogues, and assorted notes.

Ete had passed the academy’s exam three months prior and was now striving to become a magic knight. A mage would be a waste of his formidable physique. Kait, meanwhile, had become a competent fifth-rank knight under his father’s rigorous training—though, by faith, both father and son might be considered dark knights. As for Lance and Fraggio, their idle pursuits had sharpened their swordsmanship. More remarkably, they had channeled most of the funds they’d once lavished on women, art, and fine wines into their gear, accelerating their prowess far beyond their actual ranks.

The group wasn’t naturally ambitious—circumstances had forced them. After Little House, whenever they pursued women or seized maidens by force, adversaries would ambush them. Though small and barely third-rate, the Sword and Blood Rose mercenaries had counted the late mage among their ranks, a man known for his generosity. With Keevey attracting many suitors, some informed mercenaries sought revenge.

As the heat mounted, so did tempers. On exam day, Rogue casually cast two *Finger of Flame* spells and passed, earning his mage’s robe. By afternoon, he had registered at the city’s Wizards’ Guild, officially becoming a junior mage. If he pledged to serve when the Lyon Alliance called, he’d receive a monthly stipend of five gold coins. Yet Rogue, now steeped in history, harbored loftier ambitions.

*Clang!* Several goblets crashed together.

"Brothers, it’s been ages since we’ve gathered properly! Damn assassins everywhere—tonight, we drink until we drop!" Ete, built like a bear and taller even than the pure-blooded knight Kait, raised his cup and drained it in one gulp. Kait’s face, usually noble and upright, was flushed and reeking of liquor. Lance and Fraggio, though handsome by noble standards—where even the ladies were fair—looked equally haggard.

In the past half-year, they had faced death together countless times, forging deep bonds.

"Brothers, tomorrow I take command at Faerburg," Kait said glumly. "Wish I could stay. You’ll have to visit me often—but cover your own travel costs."

Fraggio frowned. "Faerburg? Near the Demon Domain Forest? Bandits are thick there. Rumor says Ronen Duchy’s scouts have been crossing the forest into the area lately. Tread carefully."

Kait downed another sip. "My old man insisted I go earn battlefield merits so he could pull strings. Besides, the captain of Faerburg’s Knight Battalion is an old crony—practically grew up in diapers together. He’ll watch my back. Even gave me the family’s Dark Elf Breastplate. Heh, heh—I hit the jackpot."

"Faerburg’s a goldmine!" Rogue declared, planting a foot on his chair. "Near the Demon Domain Forest, close to the front lines—adventurers flock there! Kait, as Cavalry Captain... wait, Squad Leader? No matter! Since the captain is family, we’ll seize the chance. Think: adventurers, monster hunters, even troops—they all need weapons! If we open a shop, we’ll strike it rich. Others can’t touch this trade—it’s too restricted. But us? No limits! And how do those braving the Demon Domain Forest fund their expeditions? By selling monster cores and pelts. We won’t hunt monsters, but we’ll buy their hauls! Fee’s reclusive workshop turns that into prime materials for magic gear. Sell it back to adventurers? Heh—heh—we’ll sit back while they bleed!"

Lance leaned in. "Faerburg’s got two hundred thousand souls—plenty of beauties! With Kait there, we won’t live like servants in the capital, groveling before every petty official. I’ve got nothing better to do. Rogue, I’m in."

"Your eyes always light up at ‘adventurer,’" Ete chuckled, elbowing Lance. "Still not over that last girl?"

"Damn it! Why’s my luck so rotten? Every kick aims squarely at my groin! Made me swear off women for a month. But she tasted my steel soon enough!" Lance gritted his teeth. "She’s still locked up at my place—fed well. Can’t let her off easy after trying to make me childless! So... brothers, care to join me tonight?" Laughter rippled around the table.

As they drank on, the others—jobless ruffians—eagerly agreed to explore Faerburg together. They’d open a weapon shop and buy adventurers’ loot. Kait would depart first; the rest would pack and follow days later. Fee, already roped in by Rogue, had a lab too cumbersome to move quickly.

When the moon hung high, the ruffians of the capital stumbled from the tavern, robes stained with wine. Turning into a shadowed alley, they were silently surrounded by masked figures dressed as adventurers.

"You depraved wretches deserve death! Today, I avenge Keevey!" The ruffians sighed collectively—this opening line had grown tiresome after eight or nine repetitions.

The masked men drew blades and charged. An outer-circle mage began chanting.

Suddenly, a crossbow bolt pierced the mage’s chest. Rogue, now dubbed "Mage Slayer," spared no hesitation. The others drew weapons from beneath their robes—not a trace of drunkenness remained. Beneath the fabric, they were armed to the teeth. Moving as one, they converged on a nearby assailant. He recoiled in shock, rolled hard, and plunged into a roadside ditch, barely escaping death. The capital’s ruffians broke through the encirclement and vanished into the night. In the chaos, someone scattered a pouch of beans, sending the ambushers sprawling as they cursed helplessly.