The Glaciator corpse was still steaming like a Texas brisket in January when I turned to the dude who saved my ass.
He just stood there, katana back in its sheath, staring at the frosted grass like it was his personal property.
"Uh…" I started, still trying to process the fact that I had both wet pants and my head still attached. "Thanks for—y'know—cutting the ice murder-lizard in half before it turned me into a human sandwich."
The guy tilted his head slightly. "Yeah, I heard you scream. Got a bit curious and came here to see what was up."
"You heard that?"
He shrugged. "You're pretty loud."
I took a second to adjust. "…So you ran across the tundra just to check?"
"I thought you were getting sexually violated by a group of goblins."
"…say what now?"
Silence. He didn't elaborate.
I rubbed my forehead. "…Okay, cool, whatever. Uh—name's Samuel. People call me…actually no, they just call me Sam. What is your name?"
He slowly scratched the back of his head. "Alzareth."
"Alzareth, huh? Sounds like a death-metal band."
He raised an eyebrow. "…What's 'death metal'? Some kind of weapon?"
I snorted. "No, dude. It's music. Really loud, really aggressive. Screaming, growling, lots of guitars—"
He cut me off, totally serious. "So…like a tavern brawl, but with instruments."
I blinked. "…You know what, that's not even wrong."
He nodded once, no change of expression on his face. "Then yes. That's my name. A tavern brawl with instruments."
"…Not to be rude, but what kind of autistic ass introduction is that?"
He just looked at me, eyes half-open like he was bored already. "The kind that keeps you alive long enough to complain about it."
"…are you seriously saying my near-death is just a side quest to you?"
Alzareth turned, already walking away. "Nah, see. A side quest would at least give me a reward."
I stood there, jaw hanging. "…Jesus Christ. I got saved by a medieval sociopath."
Then I took a closer look at him. Tall, crimson red eyes, black silky hair, but most noticable, clothes way too modern for this world. Black Jersey sweat shirt, baggy linen pants, Black leather strap buckle detail sandals . He looked less like a wandering swordsman and more like someone who got lost walking out of an underground rave party.
And then it hit me.
"…Wait. Bro, are you wearing the clothes I sell?"
He glanced down at himself like he'd never thought about it before. "Maybe."
"Maybe? Lemme see the tag."
He frowned, like this was the weirdest request he'd gotten in his life—which, given that he just bisected a nuclear snow-gator, probably wasn't true. But he pulled his black T-shirt sleeve back, checked inside, then opened a swirling void of black space with one hand like it was nothing.
Dimensional Storage.
A pile of hoodies, jeans, sneakers, even some pajama pants tumbled out like a thrift store clearance bin.
"…Oh, so you got that too, huh?" I muttered, my face twitching. Guess those gods really did give me all the blue-collar shit.
He held up a different T-shirt, looked at the inside tag. "Yep. Same as this one."
I grabbed it, checked, and yep. Clear as day: WAMAZON Basics.
"…yeah, that's the one."
We just stood there for a moment. Him, stoic and chill. Me, internally screaming.
"So let me get this straight," I said, rubbing my temples. "You've been looting my goddamn brand-name clothes off bandits and thieves who try to kill you?"
"Correct."
"Dude, what the hell."
He shrugged again, like that was the most logical thing ever. "Hey man, they're nice clothes and they fit pretty well too."
"…Well, at least somebody is happy I guess."
I shook my head, sighed, then pointed at him. "Alright, listen. I wanna recruit you. As a bodyguard. I'll pay you whatever you want. Just…be the guy with the sword while I keep being the idiot who screams at monsters."
"No."
"Wha—why not!?"
"I Don't like contracts. Or orders. I prefer wandering alone. Sleep. Drink. And sometimes kill things if they bother me."
"…So you're basically just a glorified homeless guy with a sword?"
"Pretty much."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "God, I hate this world."
We stood in awkward silence again. The icy wind blew. The Glaciator's corpse smelled like a freezer burn accident at Red Lobster.
Finally, I exhaled. "Fine. Forget the contract thing. I'm just grateful you saved my ass. That's enough."
"Food," he said suddenly.
"…Huh?"
"You said grateful. Well, I'm hungry. That thing—" he nodded at the bisected gator, "—meat's too cold. Tastes worse than Orcish meat pie."
"Oh my god, are you asking me to DoorDash you right now?"
"I don't know what that is, but yes."
He stared at me, blank.
I groaned, dug into my Dimensional Storage, and pulled out the most sacred object known to mankind. A Twix bar.
I held it up dramatically. "Behold. Chocolate. Caramel. Biscuit. Civilization in foil form."
He took it, studied the wrapper like he was trying to decode a forbidden scroll. Then carefully tore it open, took one bite, and froze.
I swear his eyes widened just a millimeter.
"…This is the best thing I've ever eaten."
He ate the rest in two bites, then stared at me like I'd just handed him enlightenment. "You got more?"
"Yes."
"And…comfortable pajamas?"
"…Yes?"
"And eccentric liquor?"
I smirked. "Dude, I got all the Jack Daniels you need."
He blinked. "…Who the hell is Jack Daniels?"
I grinned. "Oh-ho. Trust me. You're gonna like that guy."
Silence. Then, for the first time, a ghost of a smile flickered on his face.
"…Okay. I'll join you."
"YES!" I pumped my fist. "Sam and Alzareth. Road trip bros. Let's fucking go."
He made a face like he just bit into a sour lemon.
"Don't ever say 'road trip bros' again."
We started walking. I told him we needed to head toward Brislewick for my next big merchant move. I decided to avoid the main road for a bit to avoid anymore potential monster attacks. He nodded and walked beside me in perfect silence while I was telling him about the route ahead.
"According to the map from the merchant guild we should be heading towards Northrift. We should be able to make it there before sunfall and spend the night there. Then tomorrow we can—" thud.
I stopped. He fell face-first in the grass.
"Dude…you good? You doing a bit?"
No response.
"Alright, haha, funny joke. Get up."
Still nothing.
"…Bro?"
Snooooooooorrrrre.
I stared. Jaw dropped.
"Oh my god."
I put my hands on my head. "I got a narcoleptic bodyguard."
Two hours later, I was pulling the dumbest contraption mankind has ever conceived.
A makeshift raft. With wheels.
I'd salvaged a busted carriage wheel from the gator attack and slapped together some wood planks. It was basically a medieval skateboard for corpses, except instead of corpses, I was dragging around Narcoleptic Samurai Jesus here, passed out on his back like a college kid after twelve White Claws.
Rope around my waist, trudging through the dirt road. Alzareth snored silently as if none of this was any of my concern.
"Yeah, this is my life now," I muttered. "Dragging around a human nuclear warhead who can't even stay awake long enough to walk."
I sighed. "Brislewick is supposed to be four days by carriage. I did two days before Captain Frosted Lizard Death ambushed me. If I don't find an inn soon, I'm sleeping in the dirt while snuggle-bears chew on my intestines."
I swear the guy actually smiled in his sleep.
That's when I heard it.
Rustling. Boots. Bad intentions.
"Oh, fuck me sideways," I whispered.
In front of the main road of our path a group of men came slowly walking towards us. But these weren't just random highway bums— they were mercenaries. Dozens. And leading them?
Oh no. Oh no no no no.
I recognized him instantly. The red ragged cape. The jagged greatsword. The scar running down half his face like God dragged a cheese grater on him.
Varkos the Ashbrand.
An S-rank criminal.
I'd heard his name even in Caldera. Every merchant had. Hell, every child who could spell his own name had heard it whispered like a bedtime horror story.
Wanted in six kingdoms. Bounties so high that a single poster with his face on it could buy you a fortress—assuming you lived long enough to cash it in. Spoiler: nobody did.
This was the guy who burned the royal navy of Dosmere to cinders in a single night—forty-seven ships, gone before dawn. The same guy who cut through the entire Titanwatch Legion, ten thousand trained soldiers, like they were weeds on a summer lawn. He once stormed an A-rank adventurer guildhall, killed every single member, and walked out whistling with their guildmaster's head dangling off his belt.
He wasn't a person. He was a one-man bankruptcy event. A scorched-earth stock market crash wearing boots.
And that was because he was S-rank. The top of the top. The presumed ceiling of human strength.
Stronger than A-ranks not by a margin—but by a whole goddamn timeline. A thousand A-ranks couldn't even scratch an S. One of these freaks could topple a kingdom, and kings knew it. That's why nations treated S-ranks like nuclear warheads—living deterrents. Their very existence tilted political scales, shaped treaties, ended wars before they began.
And here one was, in front of me.
And he was smiling.
"Well, well," he growled. "Look at this. Little merchant dragging a pet behind him."
My legs started shaking.
Then his eyes narrowed. Recognition. "Wait. I know you. The one selling those strange new garments in Caldera. The nobles wear your rags like trophies. Hah." His grin widened, teeth like broken daggers. "That means you're worth something. A walking purse. I'll take you, ransom you, drain you dry of every coin and contract you've scraped together. And when the money runs out? I'll peel you apart slow. You'll make a fine lesson in pain for anyone who thinks they can profit under my shadow."
"…fuck," I whispered. "I knew this whole exploiting-knowledge-from-my-old-world shtick would backfire eventually. Of course it's now. Of course it's me."
My legs started shaking. I turned around, hissed at the human paperweight.
"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"
Alzareth snored louder.
Varkos drew his blade. "This won't take long."
He leaped forwards, closing the distance in less than a hundredth of a second.
The sword came down
And then—
SNAP.
A hand. His hand.
Alzareth had woken up at the exact second to grab a descending greatsword with his bare palm. Didn't even flinch. His eyes were still half-shut, like he'd been interrupted mid-dream.
"Mm. Loud," he muttered.
Before I could even scream, he yanked me by the waist, crouched, and jumped.
We didn't leap. We teleported by gravity.
We flew a kilometer back in one motion. My balls were still somewhere in the stratosphere when we landed.
And then—oh my sweet mother of diabetes—he drew his sword.
Blue fire roared.
And that's when he spoke the two words that would continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.
"Quintuple Dragonforce."
I turned my head. "Quintuple Dragon—what now?"
SWOOSH!
The world lit up.
Five dragons—no exaggeration—Godzilla-sized flaming dragons erupted from his blade, screaming into the sky before dive-bombing the mercenary band like apocalyptic meteors.
I just stared up at them in raw, primal terror, pupils shrinking, and shouted at full volume:
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!"
I hit the dirt, arms over my head, screaming like a toddler on his first rollercoaster.
KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!
The impact? Imagine a mountain exploding. Now multiply it by five. Trees disintegrated. The earth caved in. Firestorms spiraled into the heavens.
When the smoke cleared as I opened my eyes…there was nothing. Just scorched earth stretched across the horizon, the entire landscape reduced to ash and molten scars. The blast radius must have been at least fifty, maybe sixty kilometers across—wiped clean in an instant.
"Huh!?"
Varkos the Ashbrand? Cremated.
His gang? Incinerated.
The entire landscape? Gone. Like someone hit delete on the whole vicinity.
Alzareth slid his blade back into its sheath, casually. He looked at me, eyes barely open.
"You think I got them?"
I slowly turned my head towards Alzareth like a screw in my neck just came loose.
"…HOW COULD YOU NOT, YOU CREMATED THEM LIKE IT WAS MY GRANDMA'S FUNERAL!"
He tilted his head like he was actually thinking about it. "Sometimes they crawl out."
"Are you actually for fucking real? Who the hell is surviving this shit? Name me one person who could outlive this world ending onslaught of mass death!"
He looked sideways into the distance "Popé the Destroyer, probably."
"Seriously. Who the fuck is that guy?"
I took a moment of silence before trying to make sense of the situation I could only describe as a case of severe cognitive dissonance
"…That had to be your strongest move. There's no way you can just—"
"Eh," he said, scratching his neck. "That wasn't really my ultimate move."
"…Excuse me?"
"That's just my signature. I usually spam it."
I blinked so hard I almost sprained an eyeball. "SPAM IT?! BRO, YOU JUST DROPPED FIVE CITY-KILLER DRAGONS LIKE YOU WERE THROWING FIRECRACKERS AT A TAMPON."
He shrugged, deadpan. "It only takes maybe…half a percent of my mana. Don't worry. I already recovered it. Also, what's a tampon?"
My soul left my body. "Half a percent—HALF?! Dude, I can't even buy a toaster with half my mana bar and you're out here casually summoning the apocalypse like it's your ringtone."
He tilted his head slightly. "Could do Hundredfold Dragonforce if I wanted."
I threw my hands up. "HUNDRED—WAIT, HUNDRED?! That's still a basic ability?!"
"Yeah," he said flatly. "Why?"
"…Why? WHY?! Because apparently I'm traveling with a goddamn natural disaster in designer sandals!"
I stared soullessly into the distance, brain still lagging. "…Wait a minute. Hold on. How come I didn't get fried by that attack? That explosion radius was bigger than a city. You literally just nuked the entire area. How am I not a pile of ashes right now!?"
He looked at me like I was asking what two plus two was. "Azure flames only burn what I want them to burn."
"…So you chose not to burn me?"
"Yeah."
"…And the trees? The landscape? All of nature?"
He shrugged. "Didn't choose them. I'm protecting you, not those fucking trees, right?"
I stared at him. "You're insane."
He just yawned.
And that's when it hit me.
The Glaciator—an A-class monster—he cut down like paper.
And now? He just erased an S-rank criminal like it was a corrupted save file.
I gulped. "Dude…what rank are you?"
He paused. "Z-rank."
I froze. My brain started responding like a bargain-bin call center in a thunderstorm
Z-rank?
Wait. No. That was…an urban legend. Something drunk adventurers whispered in taverns, right?
The stories came rushing back.
They say this world is only seventy percent charted and civilized. But the question remains: what lurks in the other thirty? The answer is Zaldorna. The Continent of Death. A land so inhospitable, even the gods themselves mark it as forbidden.
Here, storms rain lightning without end. Winds shear flesh from bone. Insects the size of cathedrals secrete venom potent enough to dissolve stone fortresses. And monsters rise higher than entire mountain ranges. It is not a land designed for man—it is a crucible of extinction.
Only the strongest dare set foot there. By law, you have to be at least A-rank to attempt an expedition. Even S-ranks rarely last more than a week. Yet there are some who do more than endure. They thrive.
These are the Z-class. Adventurers who stride through the lands of the apocalypse as if it were their own living room. To them, Zaldorna is not a death sentence, but a playground. That is the essence of Z-rank: Vanquisher of Zaldorna.
My knees went weak.
"…I'm traveling with a fucking god."