Far to the northwest of the Aschover continent.
Hidden deep within a range of unnamed mountains—where even ancient maps dared not reach—lay a cavern tucked behind sheer, jagged cliffs. Inside, millennia-old stalactites dripped heavy droplets onto the damp stone, each impact echoing a mournful rhythm through the wet, stagnant air.
The cold here did not come from snow or ice, but from the utter absence of life itself.
At the center of the cavern sat a flat slab of stone, coated in layers of dust and moss. Upon it curled a massive creature, its colossal body as large as a hill, its scales seamlessly melting into the surrounding darkness. Each scale was the size of a tower shield, stacked in thick, overlapping rows—pitch black, like cooled ash buried beneath a volcano. The few strands of light that managed to pierce the gloom only made the darkness of its hide seem deeper, as though it swallowed the light whole.
Along its spine and shoulders ran faint purple veins, glowing dimly like ancient energy channels yet to fully fade. Its four legs, thick as stone pillars, were tipped with claws like scythes, curved and buried deep into the rock beneath—not for balance, but as though the dragon itself was anchoring its body to the earth, chaining itself down.
From snout to tail, it stretched a hundred meters long. Even with its wings folded tightly at its sides, they stood like looming cliff faces. In this shadowy realm, it was difficult to distinguish what was beast and what was terrain—for the dragon did not merely live in the cavern.
It was part of it.
It had lain there for an age—long enough for stone to weather, moss to grow, and the world to forget its name.
Until today.
Somewhere, in the still, timeless current of existence, its massive body twitched. A heavy eyelid shifted.
Then, one eye slowly opened—glowing gold like molten metal, with a vertical slit in the center, cold and piercing.
The eye of Vagador.
The dragon's pupil reflected the dim light of the cavern—hollow, vast, and deep as an abyss.
It did not roar. It did not move.
It simply… opened its eye.
As if, somewhere far away, a string had snapped.
An invisible string connecting it to something—no, to someone.
This black dragon was Zareth the Blackfang, an ancient and forgotten being.
Though its gaze remained unchanged, something inside began to stir—a cold wave flowing silently through its bones, through ancient veins of power long dormant. The string that had vanished... was not that of an ally, nor a kin, but a part of itself.
Vagador.
A clone Zareth had created long ago—fashioned from the thickest scale at the base of his neck, fused with dragon's blood, and imbued with a fragment of his own will, giving birth to a sentient form.
A long silence passed.
Then, those ancient, tired, and weary eyes shifted.
"Vagador... is dead?"
The voice rumbled like thunder from a mountain gorge—trembling, deep, and coarse.
Its chest rose and fell.
For a moment, the proud presence of an ancient sovereign gave way to something darker… a quiet grief. A sense of foreboding.
"And... the egg... is gone?"
No one answered—only the ghostly whisper of wind circling between stone walls.
Zareth remained silent, then slowly began to rise. Pebbles tumbled from his back and wings, ancient dust swirling through the air. His colossal form stirred in the darkness, like a living fortress awakening from a thousand-year slumber.
He stepped out of the cave.
His breath blew away the fog atop the mountain. His black scales shimmered faintly with purple glints—like dying stars flickering in a stormy sky.
The dragon raised his head. His eyes, deep as eternity, gazed skyward—piercing through clouds.
His wings unfurled, slow and heavy, like the gates of the underworld creaking open.
He took flight.
Wind howled as it tore through the mountaintop, scattering clouds into spiraling vortexes.
When Zareth took to the skies, the heavens fell silent for a beat—daring not to stand in his way.
The mountain range stretched like the spine of an ancient god, forgotten since the dawn of time. Jagged peaks speared the sky, while below, the chasms gaped like the jaws of some great beast.
Zareth the Blackfang—this enormous black dragon—soared through the sky, his wings casting shadows across the land. With every beat, the wind screamed in protest. Yet amidst the overwhelming majesty of the mountains, he seemed no more than a lone mosquito fluttering near the arm of a sleeping giant. Towering cliffs swallowed his form, reducing him to a speck of black, lost in the defiant gray-brown hues of the landscape.
Never before had a dragon's presence felt so small.
So humbled.
Venezia — The Town of Chaos.
Though it lay within imperial territory and was nominally governed by royal law, Venezia operated under an entirely different system. A system without name, without face, and beyond reach.
It had long become a haven for those who lived outside the law—deserters, expelled adventurers, assassins, exiled nobles, and cultists of strange religions. Fights broke out daily, as if violence were the town's native tongue.
At first glance, Venezia seemed no different from any other town—clothing shops stayed open day and night, forges burned endlessly, the market bustled with merchants and buyers, and bands of adventurers came and went. But beneath that prosperous shell beat a frenzied heart—like a wild beast convulsing in silence.
Guards still patrolled the streets, trying to uphold order with the last shreds of authority. Criminals were still arrested, dragged off to jail.
Yet somehow, those very same criminals would be seen walking free by morning—grinning, mocking the very idea of justice.
There were no miracles here. Only power—power born of coin, of threats, of unspoken bonds stronger than iron chains.
And at the center of it all was a name never spoken aloud. A man who did not sit on any throne, yet controlled every motion in the town—from guard orders and market prices to who lived and who died.
The puppeteer behind the monstrous body that was Venezia.
Inside a clean, airy office on the second floor of a well-kept building in central Venezia, a middle-aged man flipped through a stack of papers with measured care.
He appeared about fifty, dressed sharply like a successful merchant. His figure was trim, and his striped gray suit bore not a single wrinkle. His wavy blond hair curled neatly like noodles—an odd detail that only made the most unforgettable part of his face stand out more:
An abnormally large nose. Nearly twice the size of any average man's.
His name was George.
But behind his back, the people of Venezia called him Big-Nose George.
From beyond the closed wooden door, a voice rang out—short and urgent.
"Sir George!"
Without looking up, George answered coolly,
"Come in."
The door opened quietly. A man stepped inside—middle-aged, tall, with eyes sharp as drawn blades. His attire was eerily similar to Mo Gang's in the Dungeon—everything from the fabric to the weapons marked him as someone deeply familiar with death.
A long scar ran from his forehead, across his left eye, and down to his chin—giving him a fierce, icy look.
"What is it, Mo Hamus?" George asked, glancing up.
"It's Celestia. Aaron's daughter." Mo Hamus stood stiffly, left hand across his chest, head bowed low.
Mo Hamus had been born in an isolated village in the northern mountains—an unnamed place where everyone bore the surname "Mo," and the blood of assassins ran thick in every inhabitant.
"You mean... they've returned to town?" George set down the papers, eyes narrowing.
Yesterday, Celestia's army had passed through Venezia—and George's informants had not missed a thing.
Mo Hamus nodded.
"They've found Princess Charlotte?" George's voice dropped.
"Yes, sir. The princess and all the knights are safe. They are currently being escorted back to the capital by Celestia's forces." Mo Hamus paused, then added, "At the moment, they are within our town."
"What are they doing?" George stood, hands clasped behind his back, and walked to the open window. His eyes swept quietly over the plaza below.
"They're buying carriages, sir." Mo Hamus replied—his tone as cold as stone.
"Pass down the order," George said without turning. "No one is to provoke them during this sensitive period."
"Yes, sir." Mo Hamus nodded, turning to leave.
"Wait." George called out slowly.
"My son… what is he doing?"
Mo Hamus paused for a beat, then answered,
"He's at the tavern. Drinking with a few lackeys."
"…Hmph."
George let out a quiet snort and waved him away.
The room fell silent once again.
George remained there, his eyes watching the busy town beyond the window—a place full of noise and secrets too dangerous to speak aloud. No one knew what was running through George's mind at that moment, but one thing was certain: they were not simple thoughts.
Elsewhere in the town of Venezia.
The golden light of the evening sun poured down on the cobblestone streets, gilding them like treasure. Three figures stood before a long-standing carriage shop near the central plaza.
They were Deputy Commander Amar and two other knights, Dren and Reina—members of Princess Charlotte's elite seven-knight guard.
Amar was currently in discussion with an elderly merchant, whose hair had turned a dignified gray.
The occasional sound of hooves echoed from behind the shop, blending with the soft whistle of the wind through the iron balconies. After a brief negotiation, a short contract was signed. A leather pouch heavy with gold was handed over, and a brand-new carriage was brought out of storage. There were no smiles, no pleasantries. Every movement was crisp and cold, as if they were executing a military order rather than a simple transaction.
The carriage quickly rolled through the plaza toward Venezia's largest restaurant, its interior light swallowed by thick curtains and guarded barricades.
Outside the restaurant, over fifty lightly-armored soldiers stood in scattered clusters, maintaining strict formation. The silver emblems gleaming on their breastplates identified them as members of Celestia's legion. Dust clung to their faces, and their eyes remained sharp despite the exhaustion etched deep from their long journey back from the Dungeon.
Inside, time itself seemed to halt.
The grand room boasted a vaulted wooden ceiling carved with dragons and ivy. Warm light from oil chandeliers streaked down in golden rays, blanketing the crimson carpet and polished ebony walls. The faint aroma of cinnamon tea and damp silk gave the room a solemn yet melancholic air. Deputy Fay and the remaining knights stood guard at various exits, their eyes sweeping every corner with practiced vigilance.
Not far from the window stood Mo Gang—the assassin who had once tailed Gen. Sitting nearby was Anatolia, the dark-skinned Elf girl with her distinctive gray hair.
At the center of the room, seated at a large table draped in red cloth, were Princess Charlotte and Celestia. Two noblewomen—one once imprisoned in the Dungeon, the other a legion commander—now sat conversing. Their expressions were serious, though traces of curiosity and gratitude lingered in their eyes.
"So... that man truly was your savior, Your Highness?" Celestia leaned in, eyes wide with disbelief.
Charlotte nodded lightly. She had just finished recounting her rescue—from her imprisonment on the third floor of the Dungeon to the moment she was freed by a man clad in black armor, overwhelming in power, who never revealed his name.
"Do you know who he is?" Charlotte countered, her eyes glinting.
Celestia paused, her gaze lost in memory before she finally nodded. "I met him once. At the end of Dungeon's second floor..."
Anatolia, hearing the exchange, frowned slightly and leaned toward Fay. "Who are they talking about?"
Fay replied in a steady tone:
"A mysterious warrior... so powerful that silence falls upon any who witness him fight."
Mo Gang interjected with a nod of agreement:
"The one in full black armor. When he appeared at the end of the second floor, he ordered his small companion to eliminate four Dead Trees effortlessly."
"It's him...?"
Anatolia looked stunned.
At that very moment, the main doors opened, light flooding in like a blade slicing through the tension. Amar, Dren, and Reina entered. Seeing Anatolia's startled face, Amar frowned. "What happened? Who are you talking about?"
Without hesitation, Mo Gang began to recount everything. Naturally, he told the story in a calm, confident voice, carefully omitting the fact that he had been humiliated and captured by Gen. In his version, he was merely a witness—an observer free of any personal weakness.
None inside the restaurant knew that the very man they spoke of—the mysterious warrior in black armor—was standing just beyond the borders of Venezia.
"Mana drain... this is exhausting..."
Gen groaned, his face pale. Since leaving the Dungeon, he had repeatedly used Light Flash—a combat skill he forcibly repurposed into high-speed movement to shorten travel time.
The immense mana consumption left his body fatigued, his joints aching in silent protest.
He bent down and gently set Dolly on the ground. Without hesitation, he retrieved two high-grade MP recovery potions from his spatial ring, uncorked them, and drank them down in one gulp.
As the western sun dipped lower, Gen and Dolly—one ahead, one following—silently entered the town of Venezia.
Venezia remained lively as ever. The chaotic sounds of the bustling marketplace surged like waves—vendors shouting, hammers striking hot metal in forges, hooves clattering on stone—blending into the symphony of life on the frontier.
Yet the moment Gen and Dolly stepped onto the main street, a ripple spread, distorting the festive air. Sharp, curious, and suspicious eyes turned toward them.
One tall, one small.
The man in front was a young man with tousled black hair, dusty clothes, silver-plated boots, dark gray leather trousers, a long-sleeved brown tunic hugging his frame, and a single silver chestplate glinting in the sun. A warrior, clearly—yet he carried no weapon. No sword, no shield, no bow or blade. The eerie emptiness made people look twice, even three times, with a mix of caution and intrigue.
And the one behind him was even harder to define. A tiny figure swallowed by an oversized cloak. The cloak, clearly tailored for an adult, had been carelessly bundled around a small frame, as if trying to conceal something unnatural.
Its walk was unsteady like a child's, yet each step held a decisive weight—a contradiction, like a creature not meant for this world imitating human movement.
Gen felt the gazes piercing his skin, the unmasked caution in the townspeople's eyes.
Annoyed, he said nothing and veered toward the central plaza.
Before long, they stepped into a large clothing store by the plaza. The door opened with a soft chime, like glass tapping gently against glass.
"Welcome, dear customers!"
A cheerful voice rang out, like wind chimes in the afternoon. The shopkeeper was a short, balding man dressed in clothes so garish they overwhelmed the room's color palette. Upon seeing the guests, he rushed over, a merchant's smile blooming not from hospitality, but from the sense that today promised a profitable sale.
"A backpack and clothes for this girl."
Gen spoke curtly, gesturing to Dolly behind him. The girl clutched a dragon egg tightly in her arms, nearly hidden under the massive cloak.
"Yes, sir!"
The shopkeeper bowed deeply, quickly scanning Dolly's petite figure nearly lost in the thick fabric. He was about to speak when Gen stepped forward and gently removed a new backpack from the counter.
He took the dragon egg from Dolly and carefully placed it inside the pack. With that done, he removed the heavy cloak from her shoulders, revealing a pale, expressionless girl with an unnervingly blank stare.
The shopkeeper gawked briefly but recovered with practiced professionalism, stroking his chin in thought.
"How about these two outfits?" he asked, pointing at two displayed dresses.
Both were young lady's outfits with long-sleeved floral blouses, soft layered skirts, and white ribbons tied at the collar—like punctuation marks ending a delicate story. One was pitch black like a midwinter night, the other pale yellow like the first sunrise of spring.
Gen glanced once, then nodded. "I'll take both."
As he turned to leave, his eyes landed on a white mask hanging nearby. Its design was simple—only two blackened eye holes and a dark slit for a mouth—turning the face into an eerie, expressionless void.
"...And that, too."
Moments later, Gen and Dolly left the shop.
Gen's appearance remained mostly unchanged—still dressed like a basic warrior. But now, a pale yellow backpack bulged behind him, concealing the dragon egg like a hidden secret.
Dolly, on the other hand, no longer looked like a doll. Her black dress clung to her slight frame, silk sleeves fluttering like mist in the wind. A white mask now covered her face, erasing all emotion, all expression. She looked like a character from an old painting or a tragic stage play—innocent, distant... and hauntingly cold.
Gen scanned the plaza, searching for shelter, when he suddenly stopped.
Across the plaza, in the town's lively heart, a group of lightly armored soldiers was gathering. Among them, Gen recognized a few familiar faces—soldiers once under Celestia's command.
"Trouble..." Gen muttered, frowning, and turned the other way, slipping into the narrow alleyways like a maze, away from their line of sight.
Meanwhile, atop the roof of the grand restaurant where Princess Charlotte and Celestia conversed, a figure sat quietly, legs crossed. His silhouette blended into the rooftop—a living shadow, silent and formless, the darkness of the world gazing down from above.
He was clad in pitch-black garments from neck to heel. No sound, no visible breath. This was Aaron, the mysterious man secretly tailing Celestia's forces.
From his high vantage point, he could see all of central Venezia, where golden rays kissed the rooftops.
As Gen entered the alleys, Aaron slowly opened his eyes. Sharp, aged eyes narrowed at the sight of a familiar back.
"Perhaps I'm mistaken..." he murmured, voice low and hoarse like wind whispering through tiles, too quiet for anyone to hear, and perhaps too uncertain even for himself to know if he wanted the answer.