"Damn it… why does a variable this powerful have to appear now?"
Lara Greyrat chewed a stalk of wild grass, letting the bitterness keep her awake. She hadn't picked up the habit decades ago; long journeys change people. Now bitterness was the taste she knew best.
Was it ten years ago, when her entire party died?
Or twenty, when the Human-God shattered half her plans?
Either way, she had survived. After ten years of unbroken vigilance, her odds had finally stabilized.
And that was exactly why Lara Greyrat loathed variables. A single powerful fate could rewrite the future she had spent decades forging. When two massive destinies intersected, new variables were born. Therefore, once equilibrium was reached, those destinies must never meet.
Take her and her father, for example. They had not seen each other in thirty years—and never would again. Two colossal fates could secure the future only by walking together forever… or by staying apart forever. The first was impossible; her father would not live long enough to defeat the Human-God. When such a fate ended, the resulting turbulence would be catastrophic. To prevent that, Lara had chosen the cruelest option: permanent separation.
It wasn't so bad. Her father's life had been complete—two mothers at his side, children and grandchildren around him. Her own life, however, had been anything but. Ten years ago she had thought she'd found comrades who could save the world… They died—by her own hand—after becoming the Human-God's apostles. She had buried their names along with the guilt.
The bitterness in her mouth kept her from dozing off on Leo's back. She leaned against the great dog, exhaustion washing over her.
"So tired…"
Memories, duty, expectation—she wanted none of them, only sleep. But she dared not rest outside the city. Orsted had taught her a method to observe while half-sleeping; it would have to do.
She opened her demon eye once more. The newcomer's fate value was exactly double her father's—an absurd magnitude. It violated every law she knew. Even Dragon-God and Human-God did not reach this level. Was her observation faulty? No—she would confirm it in person.
Curiosity overrode caution.
"I'll see what sort of monster this is."
Priority one: never let this fate ally with the Human-God.
After the old man's guidance, my Sword-God style advanced as if riding the wind. In days I stabilized at Advanced rank and already brushed the threshold of Saint—the Light-Slash.
A single casual stroke now bisected monsters; the mud spell I once relied on felt wasteful. My teammates, however, refused to drop the nickname.
"Nice one, Mud-Z!"
"Mud-Z for the win!"
I gave up correcting them. Apparently flashy mud magic leaves lasting impressions.
Within a week I could half-unleash Light-Slash, yet the full arc always collapsed. The clearer my swordsmanship became, the more terrifying the old man's skill felt. Even Sword-King seemed leagues below him. And he had asked me—asked me—to cut him down one day.
I shook off the thought; groceries and rent mattered more.
One ordinary afternoon, Light-Slash flowed. No thunder, no light show—just the quiet certainty that the blade could travel that fast. My aura had finally crossed the required threshold.
Still, one lucky slash does not make a Sword-Saint. Compared with the old man's effortless perfection, my Light-Slash was a candle beside the sun. I would train until I could wield it at will—then maybe claim the title.
To celebrate, I added an extra vegetable to dinner. Meat required preparation and coin; vegetables were cheap.
A blue-haired girl in grey robes and a white hound arrived at the gray border town. Lawless eyes tracked her, but she ignored them.
Her demon eye could not pinpoint the source of the colossal fate; the entire town lay under its shadow. A long observation campaign, then.
First, however, a side errand. She smiled thinly.
"I hear someone is calling himself Mud-Z."
The hound growled agreement.
"Let's educate him."
Today I hunted my first high-rank monster—solo. It appeared with a roar; I answered with Light-Slash. Fight over. Anticlimactic, yet each day my slash grew sharper, measured against the memory of the old man's blade.
I returned to town admiring my new two-star iron sword—second-hand, two hundred green-ore coins. A bargain for a weapon one tier above beginner junk.
At the gate I stopped. A blue-haired girl leaned on a tall staff, white hound at her side. Her gaze locked on me—not friendly.
I had the sinking feeling my peaceful days were over.