A sharp poke.


    Then another.


    Then another.


    I groaned, shifting under the covers, but the persistent jabbing didn’t stop. My sluggish attempt to swat at the culprit was easily dodged, and yet another poke pressed into my arm, this time a little harder.


    “Come on,” a voice said—flat, impatient.


    I recognized that monotone immediately.


    "Arden, could you at least be more… I don’t know, gentle?" a softer voice chimed in from nearby. Sora.


    There was a brief silence. Then—another poke.


    With a sigh, I cracked my heavy eyelids open, still caught in that sluggish haze between sleep and wakefulness. Arden crouched beside the bed, his gloved hand still poised midair, ready for another jab if necessary. His expression was unreadable behind those dark glasses, but the slight tilt of his head told me he was waiting.


    Still half-asleep, I grumbled and turned my head, only to squint as warm morning light filtered through the wooden blinds. The small, slightly run-down inn room came into focus—simple wooden walls, a rickety chair, a tiny desk shoved into the corner. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for travelers like us.


    I shifted under the covers, suddenly feeling a strange stiffness in my movements—hesitation in the way I sat up, in the way I avoided looking at Arden for too long. The air felt heavier than it should’ve, though neither he nor Sora seemed to notice.


    Then I noticed something strange. Arden wasn’t just trying to wake me up for no reason—his head was angled toward the window. Wordlessly, he jerked his thumb toward it.


    Blinking away the last bits of drowsiness, I followed his gesture and turned to look. My gaze landed on the townscape outside—stone buildings, dusty roads, merchants setting up their stalls—but beyond that, something massive loomed in the distance, rolling forward at an eerie, steady pace.


    A… vehicle? A structure?


    I had no idea what I was looking at.


    It moved like a caravan, but there were no beasts pulling it. It was too large, too solid—nothing like a wagon, yet it rolled across the land with unnatural smoothness. The ground beneath it didn’t even look real. I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The land itself was shifting, reshaping—no, forming—just ahead of the massive construct.


    “What… is that?” I mumbled, still groggy but now very awake.


    Arden shifted, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “A Magi-Train.”


    “The Dalthun Empire’s greatest invention,” Sora added softly from the other side of the room.


    I swallowed, my fingers gripping the blanket a little tighter. Even I had heard of Dalthun—the empire in the desert region, famous for its technological supremacy. They had built things no one else had dreamed of, forging machines that blurred the line between magic and engineering. But something like this…


    I sat up properly, rubbing my face to shake off the last bits of sleep. “You’re telling me… they made a moving fortress? That builds its own roads as it goes?”


    Arden gave a single nod. “They rarely use it unless it’s for war.”


    That statement sent a chill down my spine. My drowsiness disappeared completely.


    I turned back to the window, watching as the massive construct rolled closer, its armored plating glinting under the morning sun. The realization slowly sank in.


    If they rarely used it outside of war…


    Then what the hell was it doing here?


    <hr>


    The closer the massive construct got, the more unnatural it felt. Now that I could see it fully, a deep unease settled in my gut. The sheer size of it was overwhelming—rows of armored compartments linked together like the segmented body of some great beast. Thick metal plating caught the morning sun, gleaming in a way that made it seem even more alien against the dusty landscape.


    But what unsettled me most weren’t its size or its strange, gliding movement.


    It was the weapons.


    Dozens of rune-marked barrels lined its sides, each pulsing with a faint, eerie glow. Some resembled elongated rifles, others were thicker, more like fortress-mounted cannons, but all had that same unnatural shimmer—the telltale sign of condensed magical energy. This wasn’t conventional weaponry.


    It was something worse.


    I swallowed hard. “Are those…?”


    “Magi-Guns,” Arden answered flatly, not even sparing them a glance. “Dalthun’s latest refinement. Compressed magical energy stored in liquid form, loaded into cartridges like potion vials. More accurate than standard firearms. Stronger than any bow. Designed for war.”


    A cold weight settled in my stomach.


    Dalthun was known for its technological supremacy—its mastery over magic and steel. But even I had only heard rumors about their so-called war machines. They were said to be rare, deployed only in times of absolute necessity.


    So why was one here?


    I tore my eyes away and glanced toward the town gates. A crowd had already gathered—villagers, merchants, travelers. They stood in uneasy silence, their murmurs carrying through the air, hushed and heavy. No one looked curious. No one looked excited.


    They were afraid.


    Even the town guards, usually a boisterous bunch, were stiff, gripping their weapons tightly. Their gazes darted between each other, waiting. Maybe for orders. Maybe for courage.


    But no one moved.


    Then—


    HISSSS.


    A sharp, mechanical release of pressure split the air. The construct came to a halt just outside the walls, a metallic hiss trailing off into the heavy silence that followed.


    For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happened.


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    Then—


    The doors slid open.


    A rush of cool, sterile air escaped, carrying with it the scent of polished metal and something faintly electric, like burnt ozone. The stillness deepened.


    Two figures stepped out first—guards. Both wielding Magi-Guns. Their movements were smooth, calculated, almost unnatural. Even the way they scanned the area sent a shiver up my spine. Their heads turned in sharp, precise angles, their eyes devoid of any warmth. These weren’t ordinary soldiers.


    They were elites.


    Then, a third figure emerged.


    A man.


    Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with effortless confidence. His white shirt, left loosely open at the chest, looked almost out of place—too relaxed, too casual. A golden necklace rested against his collarbone, catching the morning light. But the most striking thing about him was his hair—a deep, fiery red, wild yet somehow immaculate, like he had just rolled out of bed looking effortlessly regal.


    He stepped forward like a man who owned the world.


    And, considering who he was, he might as well have.


    With a loud, exaggerated yawn, he stretched his arms above his head, completely unfazed by the heavy atmosphere pressing down on the town. His posture was loose, almost lazy, as if he had just woken from the best nap of his life.


    Then, despite everything—the tension, the fear—he grinned.


    “Ahhh,” he exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “The air here is nice. Much better than the damned desert heat.”


    No one spoke.


    No one moved.


    Then his gaze flicked toward us.


    And his grin widened.


    “Arden!” he called out, throwing his arms wide as if greeting an old friend. “It’s been too long!”


    Arden didn’t react. Not a flinch, not a shift. His expression remained unreadable behind those dark glasses.


    The man didn’t seem to mind. Moving with the kind of self-assurance only the powerful could afford, he strode forward, his guards following in perfect sync—Magi-Guns still at their sides, but never truly at rest.


    Stopping just a few feet away, he placed a hand on his hip, his gaze sweeping over us with lazy amusement.


    “And you must be the lovely ladies keeping him company,” he mused, his eyes flicking toward me and Sora. “Honestly, Arden, with your looks, you could use a few more.”


    I blinked.


    Sora shifted awkwardly beside me.


    Arden, as expected, remained silent.


    The man chuckled. “Not even a reaction? You’re as dull as ever.”


    I frowned. “And you are…?”


    With mock offense, he placed a hand over his chest. “Oh? You don’t know me?” Then, as if delivering a punchline, he grinned. “Radames Antoun, Emperor of the Dalthun Empire. But please, just call me Radames. Titles are such a pain.”


    I stared at him, the weight of his words settling like a stone in my chest.


    The Emperor of Dalthun.


    The leader of the most technologically advanced empire in the world. The man behind their war machines, their weapons, their conquests.


    And he was standing here, acting like this was nothing more than a casual reunion.


    Radames didn’t seem to mind the silence. “Anyway,” he continued, clapping his hands together, “we should talk somewhere more private.”


    I glanced at Arden, searching for a reaction.


    Nothing.


    Radames turned on his heel, already walking back toward the machine. “Come along now, I promise it’s safe. Unless you think I brought this thing just to shoot up the place?” He glanced back, smirking. “Not my style.”


    I didn’t trust him. Not even a little. But something told me we didn’t have much of a choice.


    With a sigh, I followed. Sora walked beside me, hesitant but obedient.


    Arden, as always, moved in silence.


    And as we stepped toward the massive machine, a quiet unease settled deep in my chest.


    This meeting…


    It was about to change everything.


    <hr>


    As we stepped inside the strange vehicle, my breath caught in my throat.


    This wasn’t just any transport.


    The interior felt wrong. It wasn’t made for comfort; it was made for war.


    The walls were lined with dark steel, a dull, cold sheen that made the air feel tense. It wasn’t the polished look of something meant for public use, but something much more… utilitarian. Weapons were mounted on racks, some within easy reach, others encased behind thick glass. I caught glimpses of rifles, blades, and things I couldn’t even begin to identify—mechanical devices that looked like they belonged to another age. The faint smell of oil and metal filled the air, a stark contrast to the dry desert heat outside.


    Even the seats weren’t what I expected. They were stiff, their frames unyielding, like they were built to hold someone in place during a rough ride. It felt like something military, not like the kind of carriages you’d take for a peaceful journey. There weren’t even proper windows, just small reinforced viewports near the ceiling. This wasn’t a vehicle meant for sightseeing or comfort. If this thing was attacked, it wouldn’t just be a train—it’d be a moving fortress.


    And yet, Radames sat in it like it was his personal lounge.


    He casually dropped onto one of the benches, throwing one arm over the backrest as if he were lounging in some luxurious palace. His golden necklace gleamed under the dim lights, the ruby at the center catching the glow like a tiny ember. His confidence was unsettling—he always looked like someone who had already won, no matter the odds.


    “Well, sit down, sit down,” he said with a lazy wave of his hand, as though inviting us to join him in some comfortable living room.


    I hesitated for a moment, then perched on the edge of a seat, back straight, hands folded in my lap. Sora shifted beside me, fidgeting nervously. Arden, as always, settled into his seat without a word, his presence still and heavy, like he was absorbing every detail in the room while the rest of us struggled to adjust.


    Radames leaned forward after a moment, elbows resting on his knees. His grin didn’t fade, but something behind it—something sharper—lurched to the surface.


    “I need your help,” he said, the words heavy in the air.


    I waited for him to continue, but for the first time since we’d stepped onto this bizarre contraption, I noticed a subtle hesitation in his voice.


    “It’s the rebels,” he said, voice growing more serious. “Normally, I’d handle it myself, but these ones are different. They’re not just rebels—they might be Cultists.”


    The word sent a chill through me.


    Sora stiffened beside me, but Arden stayed still.


    Radames’ smile remained, but there was an unmistakable edge to it now.


    “They might be trying to bring back the Demon Lord.”


    The words hung in the air like smoke, filling the space between us.


    I glanced at Arden, expecting him to dismiss it, to shake his head and say something—anything—that would make sense of the madness.


    But he didn’t.


    Radames’ smirk widened. “I figured you’d be interested, Arden. After all, you’re the one who took care of the last one, aren’t you?”


    My breath caught in my throat.


    What?


    I looked back and forth between them, waiting for an explanation.


    Radames chuckled, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Oh? He never told you?” His eyes flicked to me with amusement. “Poor Arden’s too modest for all the attention. He never took credit for what he did.”


    I turned to Arden, but he didn’t react. He just sat there, as calm and unreadable as always.


    My mind scrambled to make sense of what I was hearing. Arden—this Arden—had defeated the Demon Lord? It didn’t make sense. If it were true, wouldn’t he be famous? Wouldn’t there be songs, statues, stories? But instead, he was just Arden—the quiet, unassuming adventurer with a strange set of skills.


    And yet… he didn’t deny it.


    Radames sighed dramatically. “See? He won’t even correct me. What a pain.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “But that’s exactly why I came to you. If these rebels—these Cultists—are really trying to bring back another Demon Lord… well…” His grin spread. “I figured you’d want to take care of it before history repeats itself.”


    I swallowed hard.


    Radames turned to a table beside him and unfurled a map. It wasn’t like any map I’d ever seen—smooth, metallic, with thin glowing lines running through it like some kind of magic-infused ink. He tapped a marked spot in the mountains to the west.


    “Here,” he said. “The Western Ruins. Deep in the valleys, isolated, perfect for hiding. My spies say they’ve been gathering something there—old magic, dangerous stuff. If they’re planning anything, that’s where it starts.”


    I frowned, a thought nagging at the back of my mind. “You already know where they are?”


    Sora raised an eyebrow. “Then why not send your army?”


    Radames met her gaze, his lips curling in a knowing smile. “Ah, see, that’s the problem.” He leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. “If I send the full army, they’ll scatter before we even get close. If I send a small force, they risk being overwhelmed. But you two?” He tilted his head toward Arden and Sora. “You’re the perfect fit. Strong enough to handle it, small enough to slip in unnoticed.”


    I should’ve felt relief. At least he wasn’t asking anything of me.


    But instead, I felt smaller than I had in a long time.


    Arden studied the map for a long moment, then nodded. “We leave at dawn.”


    I blinked, the words barely registering. “Wait, just like that?”


    Arden stood up, already moving toward the exit. “Yes.”


    Radames let out a low whistle, clearly amused. “Cold as ever.” He stretched his arms behind his head like he was lounging in a comfortable chair. “Alright then. Have fun. And if you find anything…” His grin grew sharp. “Make sure it doesn’t live long enough to cause problems.”


    I swallowed, the weight of his words settling over me.


    We were really doing this.


    Cultists. A Demon Lord. And now the truth about Arden—


    Everything was happening too fast.


    And something told me it was only going to get worse.