[Again?]
[He's back again? What is this now—the fourth time? Fifth? I've lost count.]
[What does he want this time? He's already squeezed every drop of ice out of this place. Took every path that mattered, copied every technique worth stealing. And now? Now he just blitzes through it. Doesn't even talk to the NPCs. Doesn't look at the story. Just… shortcut, skip, dash—all the way to the final boss.]
[And for what? Fire techniques?]
[There are no fire techniques here! This is Ice Ninja, not Flame Samurai or Burning Path to Enlightenment. This isn't some dual-element collector's garage sale!]
[Sure, he's a Story Guide, whatever. But is he guiding a Player or just plundering the Story for loot he knows isn't there? This is practically grave-robbing at this point.]
[Do you know what it feels like? Watching someone barge into your home, rummage through your fridge, insult your taste in furniture, then leave with a disappointed sigh because they didn't find the apples you never stocked to begin with?]
[No respect. No curiosity. Just—go, go, go. Get to the dragon. Maybe this time he'll whisper a secret technique between his ancient fangs. He won't.]
[It's getting old.]
[Really old.]
A pause. The void pulsed—an empty black space tinged with drifting gold, like forgotten starlight swirling in a storm. A flicker, and then he appeared:
A short, grey-haired young man floated in the space, wearing a stained lab coat and cracked glasses that glint with fractured light. His hair stuck out like he lost a fight with static electricity, and his eyes were too sharp for how tired he looked. He scratched the back of his head like he was talking to himself—or maybe the void itself.
[At this point, I should start charging him rent.]
He smirked. Just a little.
[Or maybe give him a new illusion. A fake boss. Breathing fake fire. Then watch him cry.]
He leaned closer to nothing in particular, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
[Would serve him right.]
The young man floated weightlessly in the dark, golden-tinged void, arms crossed and expression twisted in a theatrical grimace.
[He's gonna run that same skip again, isn't he? Straight from the Frosted Town to the Glacier Path, skip everything, ignore the hidden blade, punch the ice bear in the teeth and boom—final boss. Again.]
With an irritated huff, he flicked his wrist, and a shimmering golden menu bloomed into existence in front of him. Its elegant interface hovered silently, casting soft reflections on his glasses.
He tapped through the tabs like someone reading the same bad news for the fourth time. His eyes scanned the Player profile glowing faintly in the center.
Name: Gara
Last Name: Unknown
Rank: F
Occupation: Story Guide
Affiliation: [Hiro Hunter]
[Yeah, yeah… wait.]
His finger paused over the affiliation line. A blink. Then a raised brow.
[Still can't get used to that part.]
Even though he had seen it before, it still gave him a pause. The [Hiro Hunter]? An A Ranker? That wasn't a name tossed around lightly. Especially not with all those whispers tying him to the higher-ups in the Grey Rose Organization.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
[What's a bottom-rank Guide like you doing working under him, huh?]
He shook his head, then scrolled down again. More golden text unfolded beneath his fingertip, revealing Gara's story classification.
Story: [Root of All Things]
Type: Original
He blinked again. That part never changed either, but it still hit different.
[Original… That's rare. Especially now.]
He scratched the back of his head, strands of grey hair bouncing slightly with the motion.
[Guess that's something. At least you've got that going for you.]
Still, the void around him pulsed with faint annoyance. Viewership had been dipping. Readers weren't clicking the replay anymore. They already knew what Gara would do. The same skip. The same route. The same outcome. No struggle, no mystery—just rinse and repeat.
He exhaled, slow and long, and shut the menu with a swipe.
[Alright, Gara.]
His eyes glinted behind cracked lenses as he stared into the dark.
[One more run. That's it.]
[If you don't switch it up this time…]
His voice lowered to a murmur, quiet but firm.
[…you're done here.]
The void pulsed once more. Final warning.
...
A short red-haired young man walked alone through a golden wormhole, its endless spirals stretching ahead like a tunnel of light stitched with stories. The glow reflected off his red kimono, illuminating the faint scowl on his face. Each step echoed with faint purpose, but his brows were drawn, his lips tight.
He was clearly annoyed.
'Fourth time already…'
He sighed inwardly, eyes narrowing as the Fragment's entrance loomed closer at the end of the tunnel.
'Why am I even doing this again? I already mastered everything this place offers—every single ice technique in the [Ice Ninja] Fragment is mine. Frost step, glacier wave, even that dumb snow bomb thing. But that final boss…'
His jaw tightened slightly.
'That dragon.'
He remembered the first time he saw it—wings outstretched, molten breath swirling, not a trace of ice in its massive form. A complete contrast to the rest of the Fragment. That alone should've been the clue.
'Thing used to be a minotaur, right? I know I'm not crazy.'
He rubbed the back of his neck with a small grimace.
'I Did my research. Even Paid good Cores to the Blue Trade Organization for Fragment history files. Cross-referenced entries, timelines, event logs… yeah. It was changed. Few years back. Dragon shows up outta nowhere. Not an NPC either. Everything points to him being a contracted Player—one of us.'
That idea had stuck with him like a splinter ever since.
'If he's a Player… then maybe, just maybe… fire techniques? Right? I mean, who drops a fire dragon in an ice fragment without a reason?'
He scoffed, more to himself than anything.
'Tried asking nicely. Got incinerated.'
His eyes narrowed as heat flushed to his face—not from fire, but pure frustration.
'Three times. Three damn times. Didn't even finish his monologue last time before he torched me. That bastard's got issues.'
Still, he kept walking.
Because something told him this time had to be different.
He sighed, the sound barely audible over the hum of the golden wormhole. His sandals tapped quietly against the smooth, light-threaded floor as he slowed his pace.
'Is that dragon annoyed by me by now?'
The thought lingered for a moment, but then he shook his head, scoffing lightly to himself.
'Nah… Dragons in the Story World don't get annoyed. Not really. Not unless they're higher ranked or have some weird emotion-based story. And this one? What, an E Ranker at best? Maybe even another F like me, just with a flashy Original Story.'
He rolled his eyes at that.
'Actually, if he's really an Injuka Dragon, like I suspect, then emotions aren't even in the picture. That subspecies is colder than the ice in this whole damn fragment.'
'It's a little weird how his name or even just Story Name isn't listed in the Fragment's files, and his pictures don't give any results back. Guess I'll have to ask his name this time.'
He came to a slow stop. The golden wormhole tapered off into a swirling void of black ahead—silent, vast, and impossibly deep. The entrance.
Just one more step and he'd be inside again. Fourth time.
He stared into the darkness, hands tightening into loose fists at his sides.
'Alright. This is it.'
He drew a slow breath, then exhaled through his nose.
'Either I get something out of this—fire techniques, anything—or I'm done. I'm not coming back here for a fifth round of humiliation. I'll move on. Explore another fragment. Maybe actually do my job for once and guide someone through a story I've already cleared.'
He looked up, eyes steady now.
'But not until I try one more time.'
With that, he stepped into the black.
...
A voice echoed out of the darkness as Gara's body fully crossed into the fragment. Warm, clear, rehearsed—like a narrator pressing play on a story he knew too well.
["The world was doing well... until the Calamity arrived."]
Gara let out a short laugh, already mouthing the next part with a smirk.
["A huge, fire-breathing dragon descended from the sky and settled on the peak of Mount Ranzai. It demanded tribute from the people—gold, of course, every single year."]
He threw up his hands in mock surrender.
"Gold, obviously. It's always gold," he muttered under his breath, still smiling.
["Those who could not pay were erased from the map. Villages burned. Families vanished. The strongest ninjas gathered, united for the first time in generations, and launched an all-out attack."]
He mimicked an explosion sound with his mouth. "Boom. Didn't work."
["But no matter how many times they tried… they failed. The dragon's rule remained absolute. Everyone knew there was only one force that could end it—"]
Gara raised a dramatic finger, already ahead of the line.
["—The legendary Ice Ninja."]
He chuckled again, softer this time.
["But he hasn't appeared. Not yet. Maybe he never will. Maybe he doesn't even exist."]
A pause.
["The Ice Master, an old man who lost an arm in the first battle, vowed to train the one who could defeat the dragon. He would teach them every secret, every art of the Ice. Until one day, a new legend was born."]
Gara stood still, looking up at the snowy peaks beginning to form around him, forming like memories being reconstructed. The town in the valley below flickered into view, half ruined, half hopeful.
["You, Player… you are destined for greatness. Will you rise? Will you save these people and become their legend—the next Ice Ninja?"]
The voice faded. And silence returned—except for the wind.
Cold. Familiar.
Gara exhaled, breath visible in the air.
"Fourth time's the charm, right?"
...
Gara found himself standing in the heart of a quiet town, its rooftops blanketed in a soft, fresh layer of snow. The sky above was a calm gray, and the faint scent of woodsmoke drifted through the cold air. A gentle breeze stirred the falling snowflakes, and though he wore only a simple kimono—now blue instead of red—he barely felt the cold biting at his skin.
He glanced at a window's reflection, catching sight of his hair—now a soft, icy blue that matched the fabric of his new kimono. He sighed.
Inside a Fragment's Story, appearance shifts weren't unusual. Clothes and hair colors often adjusted themselves to suit the world's visual narrative, the tone of the tale. It didn't happen in every fragment, but when it did, it was subtle—nothing too intrusive, just enough to help you blend in. Faces, builds, scars—those were always yours, untouched. But in the [Ice Ninja] Fragment, everything was built around shades of blue and white, snow and silence, frost and legacy.
He took a step forward, his sandals crunching softly in the snow, and looked around. The town looked the same as it had the last three times he'd visited. Simple wooden buildings clustered along narrow, winding roads, icicles dangling from the eaves like nature's daggers. A few townsfolk walked past him, dressed in thick furs, none paying him much attention.
Not that it mattered. NPCs in a Story Fragment usually had no memory of past loops, unless the Reciter had baked in persistent memory features. This wasn't one of those. Still, the familiarity of it all made his chest ache a little. Same snow. Same sky. Same failure waiting at the peak of that distant mountain.
He looked up.
There it was.
Far away, barely visible, but unmistakable—Mount Ranzai, its jagged peak piercing the clouds. And at its summit… him. The dragon. His goal. His maybe-teacher. His maybe-executioner.
'Welp, I can only hope he'll be a teacher this time around... Hopefully!'
He adjusted his sleeves and moved toward the open plaza of the village. That's where it always began—where the Ice Master would be waiting. The old man, missing an arm and full of solemn wisdom, had become an almost fatherly figure in this frozen world. Each time, he trained Gara in the techniques of frost and silence, each time believing Gara was the one. And maybe, in this story, he was supposed to be.
But Gara had already squeezed everything he could out of that training.
This time, he wasn't here to be the Ice Ninja.
He was here for fire.
...
He had gone through this three times already.
The first time, the system had whispered to him—soft and curious, as if even it was testing the waters. It had told him where to stand, when to duck, and what to say. And when the thugs came at him, all snarls and fists, it gifted him a single technique: a flashy ice burst that froze the ground beneath their feet and made them slip like fools. It had felt cool then—powerful, sharp, like he'd stepped into something bigger than himself.
But now?
Now he didn't need the system's guidance. He didn't need beginner tricks or dramatic freezes. He'd already mastered every ice technique this fragment had to offer. Every slide, every shard, every storm. This was just routine now.
So he kept walking. Silent. Steady. Past the crooked lamp posts and the half-frozen shops with cracked windows. Past the children who paused their snowball fights to glance at him with wide eyes. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed it anymore.
Then, like always, he arrived at the plaza.
And like always—they were there.
The ruffians.
Just a handful of thugs dressed in patched cloaks, leaning against the fountain like they owned the place. One had a club slung over his shoulder. Another was tossing a stone up and down, bored. They laughed too loud, kicked at the snow, barked insults at anyone who passed by.
Gara stopped.
He didn't move. He didn't call out. He just stared at them, expression blank, eyes dull.
He knew what came next. They'd spot him. They'd make some dumb comment. They'd circle him like wolves, push him around, threaten to beat him bloody if he didn't "hand over what he found."
That was the setup. That was the script.
They were here to provoke him. To trigger the story's opening fight. To force his hand.
He let out a slow breath, steam curling from his lips.
But what if... he didn't?
What if he did something different this run?
The thought came quiet, almost playful. But it stayed.
Sure, it wasn't wise to mess with the plot of a story. Reciters usually hated that. Some would even expel Players for trying—boot them out of the fragment entirely.
But not all of them.
And this wasn't some world-shattering twist. It was small. Simple.
Just the introduction to the plot of the [Ice Ninja] Fragment.
Gara stood still, his gaze flicking between the thugs in the plaza and the rest of the village around him. The cold air was thick with silence, the usual hum of the fragment's narrative growing quieter with every second that passed. He was used to it by now—the pressure of the system pushing him forward, the invisible hand of the Reciter guiding him through the motions. But this time? This time, Gara didn't move.
He just waited.
His thoughts drifted, detached. The Reciter would be confused, maybe even angry. He had broken the script, and that wasn't something they took lightly. Not in a Fragment like this.
[Why is he just standing there?] The Reciter's voice echoed through the void of space, his tone low and irritated, tinged with disbelief. [Gara, you know this part. You know what comes next.]
The voice hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the world's rules. But Gara didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the plaza. The thugs didn't notice him yet—they were too busy with their petty bickering and posturing—but he knew what would come. The moment they did, they'd start their routine.
But this time… What if I just let them be?
He leaned against a post, watching the way their shadows stretched on the snow, the idle gestures of their boredom playing out like a routine he had memorized.
What happens if I just stay here?
He could feel the subtle tug of the Reciter's expectations, the invisible pull urging him to get moving. He'd made it this far, after all. He was the one meant to be the hero. He was supposed to rise.
But wasn't that the problem? The system wanted him to follow its path. It wanted him to repeat the motions, master the tricks, and finish the damn Fragment. But he was done with that.
He glanced up at Mount Ranzai in the distance, the peak barely visible through the snowstorm. That dragon would be waiting for him soon enough, ready to deliver the same fiery fate it always did. But Gara wasn't here for the same fate this time. He was here for answers. Answers the system refused to give him.
[He's just stalling, isn't he?] The Reciter's voice was growing more frustrated, the irritation almost tangible. [Why is he doing this? Does he really think this will work?]
Gara's lips twitched into a wry smile.
He could feel the Reciter's eyes on him—those invisible, ever-watchful eyes that weighed every decision. The tension was thick in the air, the pulse of the Fragment just barely starting to crack under the strain of his defiance.
[This isn't the way you're supposed to act. Players don't just stand around.] The Reciter's voice sharpened, its tone bordering on a command now. [Gara, do something.]
But Gara? He didn't flinch.
In the quiet of his thoughts, he could almost hear the distant murmurs of Readers, their attention slowly waning. He knew what that meant. Fewer eyes on the story. Fewer cores generated. It wasn't just the Reciter losing out; he was too.
Fewer Readers. Fewer cores. So much for the show.
He let out a breath, the steam rising in front of him like the fading remnants of his thoughts. He already knew that the Readers were starting to drop off—he'd felt it each time, the slow drain of attention, of engagement. The story wasn't fresh anymore. He wasn't fresh anymore. They were all tired of watching him run the same loops.
So, would the Reciter do anything? Would they force the script forward, force him into action, even though he wasn't playing by the rules? Or would they wait for him to break?
Gara chuckled to himself, low and bitter.
I wonder how long they'll let me sit here before they start scrambling. Maybe I'll give them a real show this time.
He took another slow breath, looking around once more. Would the Reciter really wait for him to mess this up? Or would they finally step in, push him forward, and get him back on track?
Gara stayed still for a moment, observing the thugs. His attention then drifted to a young boy who was walking past the group of thugs. The boy, unaware of the danger looming around him, bumped into one of the ruffians. Without warning, the thug shoved the boy to the ground, sending him sprawling in the snow, causing a commotion. The thug laughed loudly, drawing the attention of his friends.
Gara's lips twitched in response, a mix of cynicism and mild disbelief flickering across his face. He shook his head, unable to hold back a quiet chuckle as the scene unfolded. The Reciter had finally decided to act, manipulating the moment to follow its scripted path. The thugs, the violence, the setup—it was all exactly as it had been in every other run.
But something had shifted, even in the quiet pulse of the narrative.
Most Players would've looked away, or at least stayed detached. After all, the boy was just an NPC—mere code in a world that wasn't real. His pain didn't carry the same weight it would in a real, physical world. But Gara couldn't ignore it.
A quiet sigh escaped him, and for the first time, his resolve solidified.
He began walking toward the thugs, his footsteps crisp in the snow. A chuckle rumbled quietly in his chest, a soft acknowledgment of the game he was playing. The Reciter was probably annoyed at the change in direction, but Gara didn't mind. He'd done it. He had made the Reciter change the plot—even if it was just a little.
It was supposed to be him, humiliated on the ground, setting up his grand entrance as the hero. But now? Now he was going to be the one to step in and save the day. Gara was going to be the true hero in this story—saving a young boy, not himself. And as he did, he'd declare his identity loud and clear.
The Ice Ninja.
And in that moment, Gara felt the cold weight of the narrative shift beneath him. It wasn't just the winds of the story changing; it was him, taking control of it for once.
The boy was struggling, trying to get to his feet, but the thug had grabbed him by the collar, shaking him like a ragdoll.
"What's the matter, little brat? Want to cry? You think you're worth something?" the thug sneered, his breath clouding in the cold air. His friends laughed, egging him on.
Gara's sandals crunched lightly against the snow as he walked toward them, his gaze hardening. He didn't feel the cold biting at his skin anymore. It wasn't about that. It wasn't about the Fragment, the story, or the Reciter's expectations anymore. It was about this moment—about this boy.
He reached the thugs in a few steps, the moment stretching in his mind. The thugs hadn't noticed him yet—they were too wrapped up in their bullying. But one of them turned as he approached, his eyes narrowing.
"Hey, what's this? Got something to say?" The thug smirked, clearly not recognizing Gara, despite the icy aura already beginning to radiate from him.
Gara's eyes lit up, his usual lazy smirk spreading into a full, mischievous grin. He cracked his neck, then rolled his shoulders like he was warming up for a festival rather than a fight.
"Oh, I've got plenty to say," he said cheerfully, stepping forward, hands in his sleeves. "But I'm not sure your brains are thick enough to catch it all."
The thugs exchanged glances, thrown off by his tone. Gara gave them a mock gasp. "Wait—don't tell me. You guys think picking on a kid is peak toughness? No wonder you're all standing in a plaza instead of doing something useful. What happened, huh? Did your mamas not hug you enough?"
One thug growled and stepped forward, but before he could say a word, a slick sheet of ice burst beneath his feet. With a startled yell, he went flying backward, landing flat on his back with a thud and a spray of snow.
"Oh no," Gara said with exaggerated concern. "Man down! Somebody get him a warm cup of shame."
The villagers, previously silent and tense, let out startled chuckles. A few even began laughing outright.
The thug with the boy cursed and tried to step forward—only to find his feet frozen solid into the snow. Gara held up a single finger, a shimmer of cold forming around it.
"I wouldn't move," he said, grinning. "Unless you're trying to learn how to skate face-first."
Then, with a smooth flick of his hand, jagged icicles shot up—not at the thugs, but in a tight ring around them, penning them in. The crowd gasped. The boy, still being held, blinked, then burst out laughing when the thug's cloak caught on a shard and tore straight up the back like a ripped curtain.
"Hey! Th-this guy's crazy!" another thug yelled, trying to escape and slipping face-first into the snow.
Gara stepped into the icy circle, not even slipping once. He crouched down to the boy's level, winked, then gently tapped the ice holding him—melting it just enough to free him.
"You alright, little man?" he asked.
The boy grinned, wide-eyed. "That was awesome!"
Gara stood, turned to the crowd, and spread his arms wide like a performer at the end of his act. "Ladies and gentlemen, your local nuisance patrol has been officially chilled out. No autographs, please."
Laughter echoed across the plaza, villagers shaking off their fear for the first time. The thugs were left groaning and humiliated—trapped, bruised, and thoroughly iced.
And Gara?
He just grinned, snowflakes settling in his now-icy blue hair.
The laughter began to die down, replaced by a ripple of murmurs spreading through the crowd like wind through the trees.
"Did you see that?"
"That was Ice Technique, wasn't it? Just like the Ice Master's."
"But he's so young…"
Dozens of eyes followed Gara as he stepped away from the ring of ice, now melting slowly under the midday sun. The villagers parted without a word, as if instinctively making way.
Whispers turned into hushed conversations, heads turned, speculation bubbling just beneath the surface.
"Could he be…"
"No way. The Ice Ninja? That's just a legend."
"The Ice Master's been searching for decades…"
"Still… you saw the way he moved. Like he's done it a hundred times."
"A foreigner, showing up out of nowhere, controlling ice like that…"
The old woman who ran the bakery clutched her scarf, voice barely more than a breath. "Maybe… just maybe… he's the one we've all been waiting for."
Even the boy he'd saved stood in quiet awe now, eyes wide with realization.
Gara caught the murmurs—of course he did—and his grin only grew. He tilted his head, feigning innocent confusion as he passed by the whispering villagers.
"Huh? Ice Ninja? Never heard of him," he said, stretching with a yawn. "Sounds cool though. Hope he's handsome."
He winked over his shoulder.
The crowd didn't press. Not yet. But the spark had been lit, and it was spreading fast. Just as the story wanted.
Except this time, Gara wasn't following the script.
He was writing a new one.
Right at that moment—because of course it had to be that moment—the crowd parted again, slower this time, reverent.
The tap of a cane on stone echoed across the plaza.
An old man stepped forward, cloaked in thick furs that dragged behind him like the remnants of a storm. Snow clung to his eyebrows, and his long white hair fluttered faintly in the breeze. One of his sleeves hung empty, tucked into his belt. His eyes locked onto Gara, sharp and unreadable.
The Ice Master.
Gara didn't turn toward him right away. He just sighed, eyes skyward, lips twitching.
Of course. Of course, the old man would show up the moment ice entered the scene. Right on cue. Like an actor hitting his mark. Like the world was reading lines from the same dusty script.
'So dramatic,' Gara muttered in his thoughts, hands slipping into his sleeves as he shifted his weight lazily from one foot to the other. 'Next thing you know, he'll say something like 'I've been waiting for you' or 'You're here!!'—ugh. Spare me.'
He glanced at the old man's weathered face, the wind catching just right to frame the Ice Master in a flurry of white.
Too perfect.
'You know, if you're gonna pull clichés like this," Gara mused internally, "you might as well go all the way and give the guy a glowing staff. Honestly, Reciter, come on. You're an A Ranker. Put some effort in. Shake up the formula. Throw a dragon in the marketplace or something.'
Not that he'd ever say that out loud. No thanks. He liked having a head on his shoulders, and he had no illusions about challenging someone with the narrative authority of a Reciter. He was an F Ranker, bottom of the barrel, barely a blip.
Throwing shade at a Reciter directly was like punching the sun—it ended with you blind or dead. Or worse, forcibly ejected from the Fragment mid-cutscene with your Core production tanked.
So Gara smiled to himself, politely blank-faced on the outside, while his thoughts spun with sarcasm and simmering amusement.
Let the show begin.
—End of Chapter.
-------
[PRIVATE SYSTEM CHANNEL: POST-STORY REVIEW – TEXT LOG]Participants: Gara [Root of All Things], Reciter of [Ice Ninja] Fragment.
Reciter: [Gara.]
Gara: Ah. There it is. The classic one-word message full of suppressed rage. Been waiting for this.
Reciter: [You altered the opening.]
Gara: Technically, I inspired a more dynamic opening. Gave the scene emotional weight. Brought in a kid. You should be thanking me, honestly.
Reciter: [You stalled the trigger sequence, rejected the engagement cue, and forced me to reroute the aggression arc onto an NPC.]
Gara: Because it was boring. You've used that fountain setup three times already. Even the thugs looked tired of it.
Reciter: [It's not your place to rewrite the arc.]
Gara: No, but it is my place to make it worth watching. Reader count's been dropping, hasn't it? You think they want to see the same ice-burst hero entrance every loop? Come on. I gave them comedy, righteousness, humiliation. Even the kid laughed! That's new!
Reciter: [You're not a writer. You're a Player. You play.]
Gara: And yet here we are—more attention, better Core flow, villagers whispering the legend already. Admit it, the scene had flair.
Reciter: [You're a flea trying to edit a lion's mane.]
Gara: ...Okay, weird metaphor, but I'll take it. Point is, you're welcome.
Reciter: [You pull this again, I'll drop a frost bear in the next scene. See how clever your improvisation is with that.]
Gara: Frost bear, huh? Alright. But only if I get to name it.
Reciter: [...]
Gara: Thinking "Mr. Fluffles." Or maybe "Snowpocalypse."
Reciter: [End of review.]
Gara: You are warming up to me. Just a little.