The equipment wing of the Frontier Association was quieter than the training halls.
That alone made Lunaria feel more at ease.
The corridors here were wide and softly lit, enchanted lamps casting a gentle glow instead of the harsh white light used in combat zones. The air smelled faintly of clean fabric, treated leather, and mana-infused metal—orderly, controlled, predictable.
Lunaria walked slowly, footsteps light, hands folded in front of him as usual. His moonlight hair flowed freely down his back, unbound since the ribbon had been broken earlier. Without it, he felt strangely unbalanced, as if a small but important part of his emotional armor was missing.
Still, he did not rush.
He never rushed.
[Equipment issuance located ahead.]
"Thank you," Lunaria whispered, voice soft and polite even though no one was around.
[You are required to acknowledge your reassigned status.]
"…Monitored Frontier," he murmured. "I know."
[This increases survival probability.]
"That's good," he said sincerely. "I'd like to live."
The system paused for half a second—a rare thing.
[Noted.]
He reached the counter marked Frontier Equipment Distribution and waited patiently, even though no one else was in line. When an attendant finally noticed him, the young man blinked in surprise.
"Oh—sorry. I didn't see you there."
Lunaria smiled faintly. "That's okay."
The attendant's gaze lingered on Lunaria's face, then his hair, then flicked away quickly as if embarrassed by his own staring.
"…Name?"
"Lunaria Vale."
The attendant typed rapidly, then paused. "…F-rank Frontier?"
"Yes."
"…With monitoring clearance?" the man added, brows knitting together.
"Yes."
The attendant looked up again, this time with open curiosity. "You're the one from the training hall."
Lunaria tilted his head slightly. "…Am I?"
"You kind of… caused a stir," the man admitted. "S-ranks don't usually stop sparring for anyone."
Lunaria's lashes fluttered as he looked down. "I didn't mean to."
The attendant coughed awkwardly. "Right. Uh—your equipment is ready."
He disappeared into the back room and returned moments later carrying a neatly folded set of hunter clothing sealed in a transparent mana-film.
Lunaria's eyes widened slightly.
"Oh," he breathed.
The attendant placed the bundle on the counter and slid it toward him. "Standard Frontier issue. Lightweight. Reinforced seams. Adaptive mana threading."
Lunaria reached out carefully, touching the surface of the film as if it might disappear if he was too rough.
"It's… pretty," he said softly.
The attendant laughed under his breath. "Most people say 'functional.'"
"I like pretty things," Lunaria replied honestly.
He accepted the bundle with both hands and bowed politely. "Thank you very much."
As he turned to leave, the attendant hesitated. "Uh—Lunaria?"
"Yes?"
"…Be careful," the man said quietly. "People like you get noticed fast."
Lunaria smiled gently. "I know."
He left the counter and followed the signs toward the private fitting rooms reserved for Frontiers. The room he was assigned was small but clean, with a full-length mirror embedded with enchantments that could analyze fit and mana flow.
He set the bundle down on the bench and slowly peeled away the mana-film.
The hunter clothing inside was unlike anything he had worn before.
The inner layer was soft and form-fitting, pale gray with subtle pink mana-thread patterns woven along the seams. The outer jacket was darker, reinforced but elegant, tailored in a way that allowed free movement without excess bulk. Slim armored panels lined the forearms, shoulders, and thighs—not heavy enough to restrict, but strong enough to deflect claws and blades.
Lunaria traced the fabric with his fingertips.
"It's so gentle," he murmured.
[Designed to maximize comfort and efficiency.]
"…I appreciate that," he said.
He undressed slowly, movements careful and unhurried, folding his old clothes neatly before setting them aside. When he pulled on the inner layer, he paused.
It fit perfectly.
Not tight in a suffocating way. Not loose. It followed the lines of his body naturally, accommodating his slender frame without trying to force him into a shape he wasn't.
He exhaled softly.
"I don't feel… wrong in this," he whispered.
[Clothing does not judge.]
"…People do," he replied.
He added the outer layers piece by piece, adjusting straps with practiced delicacy. When he slipped on the boots—light, flexible, enchanted for silent movement—he stood a little straighter without realizing it.
Then he looked up at the mirror.
The reflection startled him.
Lunaria Vale looked back—still soft, still undeniably feminine, but no longer fragile.
The hunter clothing framed his elegance instead of hiding it. His long hair cascaded down his back like liquid moonlight, contrasting beautifully with the darker tones of the uniform. His eyes, usually gentle, held a faint sharpness now—a quiet readiness.
He lifted one hand experimentally.
The reflection mirrored him perfectly.
"…I look like I belong somewhere," he whispered.
[You belong where you survive.]
He smiled faintly. "That's a very comforting way to put it."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the broken ribbon. For a moment, he hesitated.
Then he carefully tied it around his wrist again, the torn ends hidden beneath the knot.
Not to restrain himself.
Not to signal danger.
Just to remember.
A soft chime echoed in his mind.
[Status.]
"Status," Lunaria whispered.
[Level: 1]
[Experience Required to Level Up: 95 / 100]
"So close," he murmured, heart fluttering slightly. "Just one more fight… or one more mistake."
[Preferably the former.]
He laughed quietly.
After changing back into his old clothes—hunter uniform folded and stored carefully—Lunaria left the fitting room and stepped back into the Association halls.
People noticed immediately.
Even without wearing the uniform, something about him had changed. His posture was more assured. His steps lighter, but purposeful. He carried himself like someone who had been acknowledged—even if only slightly—by the world he lived in.
As he passed through the main corridor, voices lowered.
"That's him."
"The F-rank."
"The one from earlier."
Lunaria kept his gaze down, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Attention still made him uncomfortable, no matter how used to it he became.
[Do not internalize external judgment.]
"I'm trying," he whispered.
He exited the building and stepped into the late afternoon light. The city was alive—hunters moving between jobs, civilians hurrying about their lives, unaware of how close danger always lurked beneath the surface.
Lunaria took a deep breath.
"…I should go home," he said softly. "I want to wash my hair."
[Practical.]
He smiled and began walking.
At a nearby intersection, four figures watched him from a distance.
Noctis leaned against a railing, silver hair catching the light. "He changed."
Caelum nodded thoughtfully. "Subtly. But yes."
Riven crossed his arms. "He looks like he's one step away from blooming."
Ash grinned. "Or cutting someone in half."
Noctis's smile was slow and unreadable. "Both can be true."
As Lunaria disappeared into the crowd, unaware of the eyes tracking him, he reached up and touched his wrist where the ribbon rested.
The cloth that marked him as gentle.
The cloth that marked the line.
Soon, he would wear the hunter clothing openly.
Soon, the dungeons would break again.
And when they did—
Lunaria Vale would step forward.
Elegant.
Feminine.
And deadly enough to make the world regret mistaking softness for weakness.