The village head finished his business and left the room, shutting the door behind him with a dull thud that echoed faintly through the still air.
"Ahhhhh…" Mr. Belem exhaled deeply and collapsed into his seat, letting the tension drain from his body. The chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "This is going to be uncomfortable after all," he muttered to himself with a grimace, massaging his temples. "But the mountain people will understand."
He reached toward the cluttered desk beside him, where pages covered in scribbled ink were scattered like fallen leaves. He gathered a handful—used sheets filled with travel plans, notes, crossed-out plans—and crumpled them with visible frustration. Without another thought, he tossed them into the trash, the paper making a soft rustling sound as it joined the rest.
Now, let the reader imagine this: a landscape cloaked in a heavy, oppressive fog, thick and unmoving, one that presses against the eyes and chokes the view until even nearby shapes dissolve into a gray blur. The kind of fog that clings to the skin, damp and unsettling. A cold follows—bitter, punishing, and invasive—seeping through layers of clothing, creeping into bones, reaching places the body had forgotten could feel cold.
The snow underfoot is no better: it is deep and dense, almost alive in its resistance, making each step a laborious struggle. Take only a few steps too far in the wrong direction, and one might find themselves swallowed by the white—lost forever beneath an eternal sunset that never quite sets, and a death that comes silently and without warning.
It is a place of despair, a place where even the warmth of memory might be lost. The state is something akin to what only the most tragic of leprosy patients could have known—bodies deteriorating, falling apart, as if the world itself is eroding their very being.
And yet… all of this is only true outside the hut.
Inside, the world changes completely.
------
"Oh," said a young man, his voice filled with enthusiasm, almost in awe. He stood just past the threshold, taking in the space with an amused grin. His skin had a slightly dark . "I see you've built yourself an amazing place in the middle of nowhere."
He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of rugged pants—cut and colored in a way that, in some regions, might be considered military. On his shoulder, the number 42 was stitched boldly, as if to mark him with quiet authority.
His gaze drifted to the belt of the man sitting on the old, worn-out sofa. The furniture looked like it had survived a dozen winters and had the stains to prove it.
"Since when have you been interested in guns?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
The man on the sofa, the owner of the cabin, leaned back slightly before replying. "I discovered something," he said, his tone calm but edged with certainty. "In a world like this—where people chase magic and have all but abandoned science—if you carry a weapon like a gun, something built on the fundamental laws of the world, you'll always have the upper hand."
He reached down and pulled the weapon from his belt. It gleamed faintly in the soft cabin light. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with a craftsman's care.
"The last time I used this," he continued, chuckling, "I managed to wipe out an entire village without anyone even knowing I was there." His laughter turned louder. "No one in that place had the faintest idea where death was coming from."
The tattooed man—clearly a guest, though one familiar with this kind of talk—smirked and drew his own weapons. Two guns, one in each hand, emerged smoothly from the holsters at his sides.
"And here I thought guns were my thing," he said with mock offense.
"You're more of a professional," the cabin owner conceded with a half-smile. "No one on this entire planet has the faintest idea what a gun even is."
The tattooed man narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. "So who paid you to kill that village?" he asked, curious. "I thought you were just here on vacation."
"It was a long time ago," the man replied thoughtfully. "A little over a million years ago, by this planet's calendar. Back then, dragons ruled these lands. I had just arrived. Someone offered me good money to eliminate an entire dragon village. So I did it."
He paused, then added with a bit of dry humor, "Then I joined a group of idiots who hunt dragons."
"You're reminding me of things long buried," the tattooed man said, his voice growing quieter. "You were a dragon hunter once, weren't you? Lee"
Lee sighed, a deep, slow breath full of old memories and worn-out regrets. He looked past his companion, past the walls of the hut, into a place only he could see. "True," he said at last. "But it wasn't very profitable."
He put the gun back in its holster with deliberate care. Then, extending his hand, he conjured clean water into a waiting glass—fresh, clear, untouched.
"By the way," he added as an afterthought, "your brother was here not long ago." He gave the tattooed man a knowing look. "He said you took on a student. There must be a reason."
The tattooed man didn't answer right away. He looked around the room instead—though his glowing, bright eyes made it obvious: he was blind. Still, he turned his head in Lee's direction, as if he could see perfectly well.
"I was given a mission," he said finally. "I was told to find a student. Someone paid the Boss. The lessons had to be related to water magic, and she was the only person who met the criteria."
Lee, now toying idly with a small flame in his hand, raised an eyebrow. "What's the Boss planning now?"
"I don't know," the tattooed man said with a tired sigh. "But he's currently on the planet of the Ancient Guardians. He noticed they're close to stepping into the war."
Lee didn't flinch. He already knew that much. "That's not what I asked."
The tattooed man smiled—calm, quiet, confident. He turned his face again toward Lee. "Someone out there paid the Boss to get the Key," he said. "The Boss doesn't want to destroy the planet, so he's trying to obtain it through natural means."
"What fools," Lee muttered. "That Key doesn't give anyone anything." He looked upward, his expression hardening. "So… I take it she ran away?"
"She did," the tattooed man confirmed. "That caused chaos. People argued, alliances cracked, decisions fell apart. I don't even know whose plan it was, but… it failed."
They sat in silence for a moment after that, surrounded by the comfortable clutter of the single-room cabin. It was a mess, yes—but a familiar, functional one. Every misplaced item seemed to have its place.
Eventually, the tattooed man broke the silence again. "Have there been any unusual events around here recently?" he asked, his tone suddenly more serious.
"Yes," Lee said, a note of regret in his voice. "About six months ago—going by this planet's timeline—the kingdom we're in, the one ruled by those golden-haired nobles, made a decision. They chose two individuals: one to become the Hero, and the other the Saintess."
That made the tattooed man sit up a little straighter. "That's a sign," he said. "That means the people of this planet are preparing for total war."
"I don't know," Lee admitted. "And I don't feel like traveling to the future just to find out. But…" He leaned forward, pressing his palms to the floor, "I can tell you this much—it all depends on the annoying old woman who rules this area."
The tattooed man tilted his head slightly, as if sensing something Lee didn't say. But instead of pressing further, he simply changed the subject.
------
At a significant distance from the mountain—and certainly far removed from the quiet, secluded village—stood the main city of the province. This was not merely any city; it was the heart of the region, a hub of nobility and power, and the place where the Bronze Noble Family held dominion.
In the kingdom, the hierarchy of nobility was vast and clearly defined. At the very top of this structure sat the royal family, the most revered and powerful lineage of them all. They were considered the pinnacle of noble bloodlines, possessing the strongest genes—a fact symbolized by their brilliantly radiant golden hair, unmatched in its brilliance by any other. Just beneath the royal family were the esteemed Golden Noble Families—families that had never mixed their blood with foreigners and whose hair was also golden, though not as luminously bright as that of the royal house. These Golden Families were further categorized into nine distinct ranks, each indicating their level of prestige and influence.
Below them were the White Families. These families traced their lineage back to the brother of the first king, a man who had married a mysterious woman from the frozen, distant, and enigmatic people of Ginden. As a result, the White Families became known for their strength and discipline and were typically placed in powerful military positions. They too were organized into six different ranks, each carrying its own weight and authority.
And finally, at the base of the noble hierarchy, were the Bronze Families. These families were descended from former nobles who had intermarried with commoners. The hair color of the Bronze Families ranged from a deep bronze to a darkened gold, and although they had diluted royal blood, traces of magic still lingered in their lineage. Because of this lingering connection to power, it had been decided that they would be granted land and formal noble ranks—ten in total.
Among these Bronze Families was the house of Nakmarov, a seventh-rank noble family. By traditional standards, they were not considered to be among the elite or especially important, but things had changed over time. As the years passed, the city they governed began to grow—quietly at first, then rapidly. It grew so much, in fact, that it became the second-largest city on the entire continent. Only the bustling port city of Nyantra surpassed it, and some would even argue that this city had grown larger than the capital itself. The reason for this rapid development was simple yet profound: deep in this very province, there was a famous mining village—rich with a magical material of immense value—that refused to let outsiders within its borders. As a result, anyone wishing to trade in this rare material had no choice but to come to the city governed by the Nakmarov family. This included not just local merchants, but the royal family, Golden Families, White Families, and magicians of every school and style.
And because the Kingdom of the Sun had no restrictions on foreign trade, merchants and dignitaries from across the seas—those from distant lands far beyond the continent—came to this city as well. Slowly but surely, the city became one of the most visited, most frequented, and most talked-about places on the entire continent. The city was aptly named Affluentia, a name that mirrored its prosperity and significance.
The city's location only added to its appeal. It was situated in a place where the spring season lasted two full months longer than in most regions. Because of this, many noble families from across the continent would come here during that time of year to rest, relax, and enjoy the mild weather. The air was clean, the surroundings beautiful, and the atmosphere perfect for leisurely noble living. This made the city not only a commercial hub but also a seasonal resort for the elite.
And through this unique combination of trade, politics, and tourism, the name of the Nakmarov family began to rise. The family, once considered secondary and unremarkable, suddenly found themselves in a position of prominence. They had leveraged their situation with skill and foresight and eventually became recognized as the third most important noble family in the entire kingdom—outranked only by the
main families of the Golden and White lineages.
The current head of the family was particularly skilled. His rise had been meteoric. When he was just twenty years old, he had succeeded in opening trade relations with the distant and mysterious Kingdom of the Islands—a feat that had eluded others for generations. This single achievement cemented his reputation. And by the time he reached the age suitable for marriage, his accomplishments had already drawn the attention of the realm's elite. The main Golden Family offered him one of their daughters in marriage, and the union was quickly arranged. Not long after that, the main White Family approached with a similar offer, and he accepted that as well.
From these two noblewomen, he had two daughters—each of whom inherited the hair of her mother's lineage. But he knew that these daughters, born of noble heritage, would one day marry back into the Golden and White Families. And if that happened, there was a risk that his family name—Nakmarov—would fade into obscurity. Determined to preserve his bloodline, he married a third wife, a noblewoman from the Bronze Families, who gave him several sons and daughters. His family grew, and with it, his legacy. His children were deeply loyal to him, and his wives were united in their respect and admiration. Each day, he gave thanks to the Great Goddess for the many blessings that had come into his life.
One warm day, under the pleasant sun, a young woman with golden hair sat in the lush garden of the Nakmarov estate. The garden was large, well-tended, and full of fragrant blooms. She was reading a book for her personal enjoyment, the soft wind playing with the edges of its pages and brushing against her skin gently, making her feel pleasantly drowsy. This woman was Diana Nakmarov, the first wife of the head of the Nakmarov household.
A soft sound from the estate caught her attention. She looked up, squinting into the light, and saw her husband running toward her. She stood quickly, concern already rising in her chest, and walked to meet him.
When they reached each other, she could see how pale and out of breath he was.
"What happened?" she asked, alarmed.
"Ah… ah…" he panted, struggling to find his breath. Seeing this, she gently guided him to a shaded area in the garden, under a small wooden shed draped in flowering vines. She called for one of the maids to bring cold water.
"What happened to you? Why do you look like this?" Her voice was full of worry. She always wanted him to be well, to be happy—after all, she loved him dearly. He was the kindest man she had ever known.
"I'm fine," he managed to say after taking a sip of water. The drink refreshed him, but he still trembled.
"Then why are you shaking so much?" she insisted.
He met her gaze and replied quietly, "I received a message from the royal palace."
Diana's eyes widened. "And what did they want from us?"
He hesitated. Then, after a long pause, he said it:
"The king and queen, along with the princes and princesses, are coming. They'll be here in one week."
"Oh… beautiful…" she murmured. But then the words registered, and she practically screamed,
"Wait a minute—WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?!"
"The king and queen themselves? Are you absolutely sure?" Panic set in, though it still didn't quite match her husband's level of distress. Still, it was shocking—after all, the royal family had not left the royal city for years. Each member of the royal bloodline had a lifespan that could reach into the thousands of years. They aged slowly—so slowly, in fact, that the crown prince had only just reached the physical appearance of an 18-year-old, despite having been born 1,200 years ago. Diana remembered dreaming of him during her youth, as did many girls of her age.
"Why are they coming?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"I don't know for certain," he said, "but the royal secretary hinted it might have something to do with the Saintess and the Hero."
They stared at one another, their thoughts racing.
"How long will they be staying with us?" she asked, finally.
"I'm not sure," he replied, "but the secretary mentioned they're mainly coming because of the mine. He also said they've already spoken to the headman of the village."
Diana, sensing the moment needed a change in tone, shifted the subject.
"I suppose you know that Talia is pregnant," she said, her expression a mix of happiness and quiet sorrow.
"Yes," he answered, pride welling up inside him as he thought of his second wife. "We had a stormy night a month ago."
Diana looked at him with an expression that was both inviting and a little pleading.
"Maybe you'll come to me tonight as well. I want another child, too."
He smiled warmly and wrapped his arms around her.
"I'll do anything you ask."
They laughed together gently, lost in each other's embrace, and began discussing the plans for their evening ahead.