The Radiant Day festival stretched across three full days, and even though the first day had hosted the main procession and the grand parade, the celebrations were far from over.
Morning sunlight filtered through the eco-canopy of Sector 10-02's City Park, painting the walkways in soft gold. Despite the lingering exhaustion from the previous day, the park buzzed with renewed life.
Children chased floating holographic bubbles projected by drone vendors, shrieking with laughter as the bubbles shifted into animal shapes. Adults lounged beneath shade-trees or explored the rows of food stalls. The air shimmered with the scent of sugar, spices, grilled meats, and freshly brewed drinks — a symphony of aromas that promised indulgence.
Holographic streamers traced rainbow arcs overhead, illuminating the festival paths like a trail of stardust.
Musicians — both human, Beastfolks, and Mechanoids — played upbeat Radiant Day themes, mixing drums, synth cords, and choral harmonics that made the entire park feel alive.
In the sideline of this lively atmosphere stood a familiar, bustling stall among many other stalls.
The Maison Bella Café stall was as popular as ever, its pastel signage glowing warmly against the backdrop of the festival. A line had formed since early morning and had yet to shrink. Sweet fragrances enveloped the whole booth — freshly baked éclairs, cinnamon swirls, buttered croissants, caramel-drizzled pastries, and their signature cookie-n-cream Hokaido cheesecake that sold out every other hour.
Although many festivalgoers had come hoping to purchase the limited-edition Radiant Day Cupcakes — elaborate miniature pastries modeled after the First Matriarch of Mega Ark-City 01 — Emmy Ripley had to apologize repeatedly.
"So sorry, dear! We sold out yesterday — and those cupcakes take so much work to sculpt."
People sighed, but understandingly. After all, Maison Bella's regular pastries were already regarded as some of the best in the park — soft, buttery, rich with ingredients that made every bite feel slightly warm and comforting.
And they sold like hotcakes.
Literally.
Behind the counter, the Ripley family bustled with practiced synergy:
Emmy Ripley, bright and warm despite the long day, handled customers with motherly charm.
Sophie, ever the diligent older sister, efficiently boxed pastries with focused precision.
Daisy, sticky from sugar samples, handed out small free tasters to passing children.
Aunt Alura, still slightly hungover from the previous late night's drinking and gambling with her fiends, flirted shamelessly with every other male customer while preparing whipped cream with dangerous enthusiasm.
And Pumpkin, the Orange tabby, laying on the stall counter while expecting buttery goodness and pets from the patrons.
Niero stood behind them, quietly assisting — stacking boxes, carrying supplies, doing whatever physical work needed to be done. Though his body still remembered phantom pain from yesterday's life-or-death fight, he kept a steady smile, masking everything beneath an ordinary festival day.
From a distance, they looked like a perfectly normal family enjoying Radiant Day.
Only Niero knew how close he came to never seeing this second day at all.
As always, Niero somehow ended up attracting the wrong kind of attention—or rather, all the attention. A small crowd of girls gathered around the Maison Bella stalls the moment he showed up to help, eyeing him as if he were the special pastry of the day. Teenagers giggled behind their phones, college ladies leaned in a little too close when ordering, and even a couple of bold middle-aged women complimented his "nice hands" as he handed them their drinks.
Daisy, pure and fierce in her innocence, puffed out her cheeks and marched around like a tiny guard dog.
"Shoo! Shoo! Don't harass my big brother, you predatory aunties!"
Her declaration earned mixed reactions—offended gasps, embarrassed laughter, and Niero sinking behind the counter with a headache.
What Niero noticed nearby is a small stage bustled with children's performances—mini reenactments of the Radiant Empress's legend, simple magic shows that relied more on enthusiasm than skill, and street acts that delighted both kids and nostalgic adults. Laughter drifted across the park like glitter.
It was during this lively chaos that Niero encountered perhaps the strangest customer of the day: a voluptuous red-haired performer with face paint, a glossy red nose… and a colorful clown dress with a brazen boob window that framed her cleavage as if part of the costume design.
"One iced lemon tea… and a croissant, sugar," she purred, her southern drawl dripping with sweetness so sharp it almost cut through the air.
She paid normally—but right as she received her order, she leaned in—far too close—dipped two fingers into her own cleavage, fished something out, and with a flourish, produced a single red flower.
"Ta-daaa~! A simple magic trick, just for a cutie like you."
She winked, tongue peeking out playfully before strutted away.
Niero froze but still took the flower unconsciously. The flower was warm. And moist. Uncomfortably so.
The clown blew Niero a kiss before strutting away, leaving him dumbfounded and Daisy hissing like an angry kitten.
As soon she seeing her little brother holding that flower from that shameless clown, Sophie reacted instantly. Without a word, she slipped a plastic glove onto her hand like a crime-scene investigator, plucked the questionable flower from Niero's grip, and dropped it into the nearest trash bin.
"That clown should be banned from public spaces and get arrested" she muttered with absolute seriousness.
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By 1 p.m., after hours of sweating behind the stall, grease clinging to his skin and the sun hammering down like a punishment, Niero finally allowed himself a break.
"Just ten minutes," he muttered—more prayer than statement—the words tasting like a blood oath to himself… and maybe to that Thai BBQ stall nearby that had been tormenting him with the weaponized aroma of sizzling pork skewers since sunrise. His stomach growled like a feral beast ready to riot.
Aunt Alura, still riding the warm, reckless haze of her bourbon-laced "iced lemon tea," waved him off with a lazy flourish and a grin that sparkled with mischief.
"Go, go~! Take your victory lap, champ! But be back before your mother realizes you've vanished again," she sing-songed, lounging against the cooler like it was a royal throne, giggling in fizzy little bursts that floated around her like soap bubbles.
With that dubious blessing, Niero slipped into the festival grounds—and the world hit him like a blast wave.
Music THUMPED, bass shaking the air like artillery fire. Laughter roared, ricocheting through the crowd in bright sparks of joy. The breeze spun a dizzying perfume of grilled meat, melted sugar, and fried dough—a culinary knockout punch that could drop a grown man to his knees.
He didn't get far before his attention locked onto a booth crackling with raw energy—the Marauder Guild. People swarmed around it, electric with excitement, phones raised, voices sharp with awe. Something about it thrummed under his skin, tugging like invisible wires.
Towering above the chaos was a massive poster of Marauder Lee Han-Gyul—THE WLYDSTORM—fists clenched, coat whipping behind him in a storm of motion, eyes blazing with come-and-get-me defiance. The legend himself seemed ready to burst straight off the display and drag the world into battle.
Niero stopped breathing for half a second—something-old, something-dangerous in him flickering awake.
Adventure. Glory. The unknown.
It pulsed like a heartbeat.
And suddenly… ten minutes didn't feel like nearly enough.
The Marauder recruiters were in full performance mode, blasting the auditorium with a charismatic, adrenaline-pumping presentation that crackled like lightning.
They spoke of missions beyond the Mega Ark-City walls, where every step outside was a gamble with death.
They painted vivid images of the howling blizzards, the feral monstrosities lurking beneath the everchanging environment of the Fringe, and the nightmare ruins swallowed by the frozen wasteland and the anomalous fog.
They roared about the glory of survival, the roar of engines, the thunder of gunfire, and the rush of coming back alive when the world bet against you.
And then came the temptation—
government and megacorp sponsorships,
boosting Citizenship Tier points with every deployment,
and treasure hauls of rare materials, exotic tech, and loot worth more than a lifetime salary.
Niero's pulse exploded in his chest.
Ever since yesterday—ever since the Hollow creature encounter—his resolve had hardened like steel.
He wanted this life.
Danger didn't scare him, even if its suicidal.
If anything, the memory of clawing his way through death's grip only made the fire burn hotter.
He wasn't running away anymore.
He was going to chase the storm.
He wants to get stronger from it.
One recruiter—a wild yet friendly-looking woman from the WYLDSTORM Party, her hair streaked with electric teal—caught the spark in Niero's eyes. She flashed a daredevil grin, leaning forward with the confidence of someone who'd stared death in the face and laughed.
She slipped a glossy brochure into view, the metallic print gleaming beneath the expo lights. Inside, in bold letters, were the paths to become a Marauder:
Bloom Dominion Military Academy,
Open-entry Guild Tryouts
and the official start date—January 21st, 2088.
The future suddenly felt tangible, like a treasure chest within arm's reach.
"So—" she said, voice dripping challenge,
"**Do you have what it takes to ride the storm, kid?"
Niero's breath caught. His fingers trembled with excitement as he reached out—
—only for another hand to snatch the brochure first.
Time stopped.
The roaring crowd around him dulled to a low, suffocating hum.
Niero froze, eyes wide as he whipped around to face the thief—
And his heart plummeted.
It was his mother.
Emmy stood behind him like a silent phantom, close enough that he couldn't imagine how he hadn't sensed her. Her face was composed, unshaken—but her eyes were cold, flat with quiet fury and disappointment.
The warmth in Niero's chest extinguished instantly, smothered like a flame beneath ice.
The storm he wanted to ride had just broken against a wall.
"Break's over," Emmy said, her voice gentle but uncompromising, cutting through the buzz of the expo.
"Your aunt fell asleep AGAIN, and your sister needs help at the stall."
Niero followed her, each step feeling heavier than the last.
His fingers itched for the brochure, for the world that had just opened before him, but Emmy's silent authority tethered him in place.
He kept glancing at her, searching for a crack, a hint that she would understand—but there was none.
She didn't scold him. She didn't call him reckless.
Yet the tight line of her mouth the lingering look she cast toward the Marauder booth, spoke louder than any words could.
Disapproval.
Worry.
Maybe even fear.
And for the first time since yesterday, when the Hollow had thrown him to the edge of death, Niero felt something heavier than survival.
The weight of his dream, bright and untamed, pressing against the chains of family expectation, threatening to shatter him before he could even start.
The storm he wanted to ride… suddenly felt like it might crush him before he even left the shore.
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Later at some point in time, Niero managed to slipped passed the Maison Bella Cafe's booth and his clingily sisters, just to go back into the alley he once fought, under the guise of a quick trip to the public toilet and stop-by at the nearby vending machine for water—the perfect cover for revisiting the site where he had faced down E-rank Goblins and a D-rank Berserker Orc.
He stopped dead in his tracks in the last place he fought, at the back-alley's parking space...
Nothing.
No corpses. No shattered cars. No gaping holes in the walls. Not a single trace of the brutal chaos he had just survived.
The alley looked untouched, almost mocking him with its calm.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't luck. It was the D-Blockade—a dimensional mirror field deployed by Dominion agents. Every smashed brick, every dented car, every drop of gore had been erased, nullified, leaving the alley pristine once the field deactivated.
Niero's chest tightened. The memory of the fight, of claws and blood and screams, clashed violently with the sterile calm before him.
It was a reminder that no one outside his fight would ever understand, and that the world he was stepping into was already filled with forces far beyond his reckoning.
Niero crouched, fingers brushing the smooth, unmarked pavement. Besides the concrete sand and dirt, not a single trace of the battle remained.
Impressive. Niero muttered to himself.
> "Indeed… or so they claim, the Radiant Empress herself provided these technologies," Vuldyr spoke into their thoughts.
A spark of curiosity flared behind his exhausted eyes. Maybe—just maybe—he could figure out a way to reverse-engineer something like this for himself.
For the first time in a while, a small, sharp smirk tugged at his lips.
The Dominion might have wiped the battlefield clean, erased every scar and splintered wall—but he had left his mark where it truly mattered:
On himself.
Through strength, through survival, through experience—he had proven he could endure, and he had walked out stronger than before.
Even in a world that erased the evidence, his experience could never be erased.
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Meanwhile, Agent Takeshi Armitage and his Section 13 teammates glided through Sector 10-02's park, performing a casual sweep under the guise of enjoying the lingering festivities of the second day of Radiant Day.
Though he was slightly annoyed at missing the grand spectacle yesterday, Takeshi moved with surgical precision, eyes scanning for anomalies, hands instinctively brushing the edges of concealed gear, all while pretending to take in the cheerful atmosphere around him.
Yet his focus was elsewhere.
His gaze drifted to the Maison Bella café booth, where the aroma of fresh pastries curled through the air, mingling with laughter and chatter. The crowd's cheer was a shielded backdrop; his mind was on details no one else would notice.
Takeshi approached casually, his posture relaxed, smiling faintly as he gestured toward a tray of doughnuts and two steaming cups of coffee. But beneath that calm exterior, every step, every glance was methodical, calculated—because his visit was never just about coffee.
Takeshi and his three teammates placed their orders—coffee, tea, cakes, and doughnuts—blending perfectly into the cheerful bustle of the park.
While he polished off a plain sugar doughnut, Takeshi's other handheld something far more significant than pastry: a small acrylic keychain, dug from the rubble where the Berserker Orc had fallen yesterday.
The keychain was innocent-looking, almost child-like: a cartoonish cupcake cat stamped with the words "Maison Bella Café." But in Takeshi's hands, it became a clue, a thread pulling him toward a hidden truth.
He studied it carefully, eyes narrowing, mind racing through possibilities, connections, and suspects. Could it belong to the small family running the café? Perhaps the sisters? Their mother? Or maybe that perpetually drunk 'friend' who loitered around the stall?
Nothing was ruled out.
In the midst of laughter and the scent of baked goods, Takeshi's mind was a calculated storm, profiling the culprit behind the brutal massacre of Goblins and the Berserker Orc. Every detail mattered, every small object could tip the scales toward revelation.
As he bit into his plain sugar doughnut and sipped the bitter warmth of his coffee, Takeshi's eyes never wavered from the Maison Bella booth.
Every movement, every gesture, every interaction with customers was logged and analyzed in his mind. The cheerful chatter, the casual smiles, even the way flour dusted their fingers—nothing escaped his notice.
A question gnawed at him, sharp as a blade:
Who among these seemingly ordinary civilians had the skill, the nerve, and the audacity to take down creatures like the Goblins… or the Berserker Orc?
Beneath the laughter and sweetness, Takeshi sensed potential danger, hidden strength, and untold secrets. The quiet park could be a battlefield in disguise—and he was determined to find the soldier hiding behind the mask of civility.
Every sip of coffee, every bite of doughnut, every casual smile was just another piece of the puzzle. And Takeshi intended to solve it before the storm struck again.
Niero burst through the crowd, five mineral bottles clutched in his arms, weaving like lightning toward the Maison Bella café stall. Every step radiated youthful energy and relentless momentum.
He ran straight past Agent Takeshi Armitage, who instinctively froze, senses flaring. The boy's presence was impossible to ignore—not just the obvious agility, the poise of someone used to physical exertion, but something deeper, more telling.
Takeshi's mind ticked. This family… is one of the "blessed" ones.
In a society strained by a severe imbalance of men and women, the mere presence of a son in this household was notable, a rare jewel amid the ordinary. Every movement, every small interaction in this family carried potential significance.
Takeshi's attention never wavered from the Ripleys as he quietly observed their interactions, profiling, calculating—but then his focus sharpened like a blade at a single moment.
"Ugh, damn it! I lost it somewhere!"
The boy's voice cut through the murmur of the café, muttered under his breath in frustration, and Takeshi's eyes narrowed. Every curse, every exclamation, every fleeting gesture could be a clue—an echo of capability, of skill, of hidden potential...
Takeshi's eyes tightened as he overheard the conversation unfold.
The younger sister, Daisy, tugged at the boy's sleeve, her eyes wide and sparkling with innocent curiosity.
"What is it, Big Bro?" she asked, voice full of genuine wonder.
The boy groaned, rubbing his forehead with one hand, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his features.
"The one with the cartoon orange cat with a cupcake body… the one you made. I'm really sorry, Daisy."
Daisy's sigh of relief was soft, almost melodic.
"It's okay. I can always make another—maybe with more glitter!" she said, practically bubbling with enthusiasm.
Takeshi's hand froze mid-motion, doughnut halfway to his mouth.
No…
The description—the cartoon orange cat, cupcake body—matched the acrylic keychain he had recovered from the rubble of the D-rank Berserker Orc.
He narrowed his eyes, mind spinning through possibilities.
If this boy had personally owned and carried the keychain, then he could be the direct link to yesterday's carnage.
Yet Takeshi's instincts told him there was more to consider. The keychain didn't appear to be a mass-produced café trinket; nothing suggested it was a freebie given to customers. Among the family, it seemed exclusively his.
His pulse quickened slightly—not with excitement, not with fear—but with the keen thrill of a profiler spotting a thread no one else could see.
That small, seemingly mundane detail clicked instantly in Takeshi's mind—the cartoon orange cat with a cupcake body, the exact same design as the keychain he had retrieved from the wreckage of the Berserker Orc.
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Calmly, he jotted down the café's address, committing it to memory, and strolled away with his team, expertly balancing boxes of doughnuts and steaming cups of coffee.
Outwardly, he was leisurely, unhurried, unremarkable—just another patron enjoying the Radiant Day festivities.
But inside…
His mind was a whirling storm of strategy. Every angle, every contingency, every potential response from the boy and his family was already being weighed.
The prime suspect had been identified.
Takeshi's next move would be subtle, deliberate, and precise. He's planning to approach them later, gauge their skills, their limits, and their secrets—all without letting them know he already knew far too much.
To him, it's a case waiting to be solved.
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By 8 PM, the Ripley family were methodically packing up their essentials into the familiar "MBC Mobile" minivan, its paint chipped and worn from years of ferrying both pastries and people alike. Every movement was practiced, smooth, almost automatic, like a family who had done this routine a thousand times.
The night air was crisp, carrying faint traces of roasted coffee beans, sugar, and the fading echo of festival music. Lanterns flickered along the streets, casting long, golden shadows across the pavement.
Even as the Radiant Day celebrations dwindled into the distance, leaving behind scattered streamers and the occasional echo of laughter, there was a sense of quiet vigilance about the family. Each of them moved with purpose, aware, perhaps unknowingly, that the world outside their stall was far from ordinary.
Sophie, ever the meticulous older sister, counted the day's earnings with quiet satisfaction, fingers moving like clockwork as she double-checked every coin and bill. Each movement carried precision and pride, a quiet victory after a long day.
In the backseat, Aunt Alura slouched lazily, still half-asleep from her earlier bourbon indulgence, a soft snore escaping her lips, oblivious to the world outside.
Curled into a corner, Daisy rubbed her eyes, stubbornly fighting off the nap her little body demanded, her tiny frame swallowed by the shadows of the van.
Niero, completely spent from two days of adventure, had already dozed off near the window. The faint city glow reflected on his face, giving him the peaceful, almost angelic air of a child untouched by the chaos of the day.
And Pumpkin, the fat orange tabby, had claimed the softest corner of the van, purring loudly and contentedly, as if he, too, had fought through Radiant Day and earned his rest.
In the driver's seat, Emmy Ripley gripped the wheel with steady, unshakable precision, guiding the MBC Mobile through the thick post-festival traffic of the main road. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, and calm, scanning every car, every pedestrian, every minor hazard with the practiced ease of someone who had navigated chaos countless times.
Though the streets were a tangled mess of lights, honking horns, and lingering festival revelers, her hands never wavered, her focus never faltered. Every turn, every lane change, every careful acceleration whispered one thing: the family would make it home safe.
Inside the van, a fragile silence bloomed—the kind of stillness that felt earned after surviving a storm. The world outside still throbbed with the aftermath of Radiant Day, music and drunken laughter echoing faintly through the streets, but in here, everything was soft and human and unbearably peaceful.
Sophie sorted coins with ritualistic focus, the metallic clinks falling like calm rain. Daisy fought sleep, her small fists rubbing at heavy eyes. Pumpkin curled in the corner, purring like a tiny engine. And Niero, exhausted down to his bones, slept with his forehead resting against the cold window, breath fogging the glass with every slow exhale.
For a moment, they felt untouchable—a tiny universe of warmth that no danger or chaos could breach. The dim cabin lights washed their faces in gold; the smell of coffee and sugar still hung in the air like an echo of joy.
Outside, the city lights broke and scattered across the glass, streaking across Emmy's reflection as she drove. Her hands were steady, but her eyes carried the weight of someone who had fought all day to protect this fragile peace. To them, she was the unshakable center—the one who kept the world from falling apart.
And as the van slipped deeper into the quiet of night, gliding toward Sector 13-05, their sanctuary, it felt like crossing a threshold—from turmoil into safety, from fear into belonging.
For now, they were together.
For now, they were home.
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As soon as the MBC Mobile rolled into the familiar garage of their Maison Bella café-home, Emmy sprang into action, her voice carrying the gentle, unwavering authority of a mother who commanded both her family and her kitchen.
"Come on, you two!" she called, shaking Niero and Alura from their lingering exhaustion.
"Help me carry the equipment inside—don't leave a single thing in the van, and remember, we still have standard batches to prep for the last day of Radiant Day tomorrow."
Bleary-eyed but obedient, Niero groaned, dragging himself from the van like a reluctant warrior summoned back into battle.
Alura, still slightly tipsy from the day's earlier indulgences, stumbled along, muttering playful complaints while balancing boxes of ingredients with surprising dexterity.
Even in their fatigue, the family moved with practical coordination, a rhythm born of countless shared days of labor and laughter. Emmy's sharp, calm presence guided them, ensuring that even their tired limbs kept pace and purpose, like soldiers returning home after a long campaign—but this battle was for dough, sugar, and the pride of the Maison Bella legacy.
Meanwhile, back inside the house, Sophie, Daisy, and Pumpkin took up their domestic duties with practiced ease.
Sophie moved with quiet precision, arranging the dinner table, wiping surfaces, and ensuring that everything was clean, orderly, and ready for the evening meal. Every movement carried a sense of responsibility and care, the anchor of the family's rhythm.
Beside her, Daisy, bursting with childlike energy, scrolled through the Ark.Net, searching eagerly for her favorite comedy about a ragtag team of police officers for the entire family eat which watching it. She giggled at the show's ridiculous antics and clashing personalities, the sound of her laughter filling the kitchen like sunlight streaming through the windows.
Pumpkin, the plump orange tabby, wandered between their legs with casual curiosity, occasionally batting at stray pieces of paper or the dangling cords of the TV. He purred contentedly, his eyes half-lidded in lazy amusement, curling up only briefly before deciding it was his duty to supervise the dinner preparations.
The house filled with the warm, comforting aroma of home-cooked food, a cozy contrast to the lingering chaos and glittering noise of Radiant Day outside. In that moment, the small family bubble felt impenetrable, safe, and full of quiet joy, a brief haven before the adventures—and challenges—of tomorrow.
While Niero and Alura hauled ingredients and equipment inside, a small parade of mom-friends and neighbors gathered outside the café. The crowd was a colorful mix: humans, Mechanoids—sapient machines with humanoid frames—and Beastfolk mothers, anthropomorphic animals whose tails swished nervously as they peered at the display cases, eyes wide with hope for a taste of the now-famous Radiant Day-themed cupcakes.
"Any chance of grabbing some Radiant Day-themed cupcakes?" asked one of the Mechanoid moms, her metallic features polished and polite. Beside her, a fox-tailed Beastfolk woman tilted her head, hope shining in her golden eyes.
Emmy, spotting the familiar faces, let out a warm, gentle laugh, shaking her head.
"I'm afraid we're completely out for today, but don't worry—I'll whip up a small batch first thing tomorrow morning!"
The neighbors nodded, some chatting amicably with the family, their voices blending with the clatter of pans and the hum of the kitchen, creating a cozy, bustling atmosphere.
For a brief moment, the café felt like the heart of the community itself—a warm, lively hub where everyone shared in the excitement, the joy, and the promise of another busy, rewarding day ahead.
Once the last crates and utensils were stowed away, Aunt Alura shuffled upstairs, her movements slow and theatrical, groaning softly with every step.
She collapsed onto the living room couch with a flop that echoed through the room, sinking deep into the cushions. Her arms spread wide, and she let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as if to announce to the entire household that her day of "hard labor" had officially ended.
Niero descended into the kitchen like a ghost emerging from a restless night, the dim lights casting long shadows across the polished counters. The air still shimmered with traces of spices, remnants of the morning's preparations clinging like perfume to the quiet room.
At the stove, Sophie moved with practiced grace, knife flashing like silver lightning as she chopped fresh herbs for an Aglio Olio spaghetti. Every motion was deliberate, steady—a calm rhythm that stood in stark contrast to the storm swirling behind Niero's eyes.
Without a word, he stepped beside her.
He reached for a chopping board, and the world narrowed to the blade and his hands. Garlic cloves shattered beneath sharp, powerful strokes; each slice landed with a rhythmic snap, clean and absolute. Asparagus stalks followed, trimmed with ritualistic precision, as if carving order out of chaos.
Then he turned to the grill.
The salmon hit the pan with a fierce hiss, oyster sauce searing into a rich, smoky glaze as steam rose like white fire. The aroma exploded through the kitchen—warm, intoxicating, alive—filling the silence between them more intensely than words ever could.
For a moment, Sophie paused, watching him.
There was something in the way he moved—not just cooking, but fighting something invisible, something heavy.
And in that quiet kitchen, the scent of home wrapped around them both like fragile armor against the world outside.
Sophie peeked over his shoulder, a mix of awe and mild exasperation crossing her face.
"Honestly, Niero… how do you make even simple dishes taste this good? My 'mediocre' attempts never come close," she admitted, a twinge of envy in her voice.
Niero wiped his hands on a towel, grinning with a teasing smirk.
"Well, maybe if you picked up a cookbook, you could finally make something fancy too."
The remark earned him an immediate shoulder punch from Sophie, her laughter ringing out through the kitchen.
"You smug little jackass!" she exclaimed, shaking her head, but her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Niero ducked slightly to avoid a second strike, chuckling, relishing the chaotic, warm comfort of family life. After the trials of the previous day—the battles, the chaos, the relentless danger—this simple moment felt like a victory all its own, grounding him in the love, laughter, and life of the Maison Bella household.
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At the next moment, the Ripley family had gathered in the cozy upstairs living room to dine in, the comforting aroma of Sophie's perfectly cooked pasta and Niero's grilled salmon still lingering in the air like a warm hug.
Plates balanced on laps, they leaned into the glow of the large flat-screen TV, streaming a comedy police show from the Ark.Net. Bursts of laughter ricocheted off the walls, mingling with the hum of the city outside and the quiet clatter from the kitchen, filling the Maison Bella café-home with lighthearted chaos and familiarity.
Aunt Alura, surprisingly sober for the evening, sipped the barely-tea Emmy had insisted she drink instead of reaching for another alcoholic beverage. She nibbled at her food with exaggerated care, muttering playful complaints under her breath but secretly enjoying the calm of the moment.
Meanwhile, Pumpkin, the fat orange tabby, stirred energetically, ears twitching and tail flicking, immediately alert at the scent of his favorite—the grilled salmon. With a victorious purr, he leapt to claim his corner of the table, eyes wide and gleaming, fully embracing the evening feast.
Between bites, the conversation naturally drifted to the Radiant Day festivities.
Sophie leaned forward, eyes sparkling, describing the parade in vivid detail. She gestured as if painting the scene in the air, pointing out the awe-inspiring Sororitae Charlotte Hoffman, her silver hair gleaming like sunlight on steel, and the disciplined Bellatrix Remaris, whose stoic presence seemed to command the very air around her.
Niero's sisters couldn't help but giggle at the mention of the Marauder Lee Han-Gyul, recalling his dramatic poses and over-the-top live-stream antics even before the Radiant Day's parade. Even Aunt Alura let out a soft snort, still half-sober but clearly amused by the chaos of the festivities.
Of course, no family conversation about Radiant Day would be complete without the embarrassing highlights.
The kid who flung a half-drunk strawberry milkshake at Niero drew both sighs and stifled giggles, while Daisy rolled her eyes at the memory of the horde of "predatory" girls who had flirted shamelessly at the café stall.
Niero merely smirked, shoulders relaxed, giving a casual shrug as if to say:
"They're harmless."
And then, inevitably, came the busty clown incident.
Sophie brought it up with dramatic disgust, her voice dripping with incredulity. The memory of the clown shamelessly presenting Niero with a warm, moist flower from her cleavage was enough to make Mom and Daisy recoil, waving imaginary hands at the screen in synchronized horror.
They tried to recall the clown's name.
"I think… it was… 'Loly-Pop Higgabottom'?" Daisy offered uncertainly, her voice a mix of curiosity and mischief.
The name landed like a comic bomb. The entire family froze for a second, blinking at each other in utter confusion over such a ridiculous moniker. Even Sophie laughed, shaking her head, caught between exasperation and amusement.
Niero, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, a complex swirl of embarrassment, disgust… and some inexplicable, unorthodox sense of flattery playing across his expression.
Between the laughter, the teasing, and the retelling of outrageous festival moments, the family slipped into a comfortable, familiar rhythm. The warm glow of shared stories, hearty food, and gentle teasing created a bubble of domestic peace and joy—a rare reprieve that made the memory of Hollow battles and marauding Orcs feel like a distant storm, at least for a little while.
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By 10:35 PM, the Maison Bella household had begun to slowly wind down.
Aunt Alura, still blissfully tipsy from earlier, waddled to her room and collapsed onto her bed with a long, satisfied groan, as if declaring her day of "hard labor" officially over.
Daisy and Sophie followed suit, yawning and rubbing their eyes after the relentless excitement of Radiant Day. Their movements were weary but peaceful, bodies finally succumbing to exhaustion after the day's adventures and laughter.
Even Pumpkin, the fat orange tabby, had claimed his favorite windowsill, curling into a perfect circle and purring softly, the steady vibration a small heartbeat of contentment in the quiet house.
The rooms settled into a gentle, comforting silence, broken only by the soft hum of kitchen appliances and the occasional rustle from the settling city outside.
For a fleeting moment, the world outside—battles, marauding Orcs, chaotic festivals—impossibly distant, leaving the family cocooned in a warm, familiar peace.
Downstairs, Emmy Ripley moved with calm precision at the kitchen counter, preparing multiple batches of the café's standard pastries while also crafting small, delicate Radiant Day-themed cupcakes. Her hands flew over the dough and batter, kneading, folding, and piping with a fluid grace that spoke of decades of experience. For a fleeting moment, the quiet of the kitchen brought a twinge of solitude, until a familiar, eager voice cut through the silence.
"I'll help!"
Niero stepped lightly into the kitchen, eyes gleaming with determination and mischievous pride. Emmy raised an eyebrow, a soft smile tugging at her lips.
"It's alright, Niero," Mom said gently. "I've got this. You've had a long day—rest now."
"I know," Niero replied, rolling up his sleeves with a quiet spark of excitement. "But I want to help. I've got energy left… plus, I want to see if I can actually make these taste as good as you do."
Emmy let out a soft chuckle and stepped aside, handing him control of the dough for the next batch of doughnuts. She guided him through preparing the frostings and buttermilk cream for a small batch of Radiant Day cupcakes, destined for her mom-friends.
Niero's hands moved with enthusiastic focus, a mix of trial, error, and raw determination, while Emmy's calm, practiced presence hovered nearby, ready to correct or encourage. The kitchen became a dance of motion and laughter, flour dusting the air, the faint aroma of sugar and butter blending with the warmth of family and shared effort.
And so, the mother-and-son duo worked side by side, moving in a rhythm that was half-practice, half-play, yet entirely their own.
Niero focused intently on the cupcakes, adding sprinkles and icing with surprising finesse, his movements precise yet infused with youthful energy. He arranged croissants in neat rows, brushed a perfect sheen of egg wash on the doughnuts, and carefully filled a tray of assorted pastries, his hands steady despite the small chaos around him.
Emmy glanced at him, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips.
"Not bad for a rookie," she teased, but inwardly, she was quietly impressed. Her son's initiative, care, and growing skill blended playfulness with genuine talent, a reflection of everything she had hoped to pass on.
The kitchen hummed with life—the quiet clatter of utensils, the soft whir of mixers and their occasional bursts of shared laughter. Flour dusted the air like a gentle snowfall, the aroma of sugar, butter, and freshly baked dough wrapping the room in a warm, comforting embrace.
Outside, the city slept under a calm night sky. Inside, the Maison Bella kitchen throbbed with warmth, family, and the comforting rhythm of tradition—a quiet, domestic battlefield where love, laughter, and diligence mattered just as much as any victory over Hollow beasts or marauder missions.
In this small haven, every sprinkle, every brush of dough, every careful fold was a triumph all its own.
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While Niero kneaded the soft, pliant dough for doughnuts, the warm scent of yeast and sugar wrapped around the kitchen like a comforting blanket. From the radio came a faint melody of classic '90s music, its crackle and hum blending with the rhythm of his work. For a moment, the world felt calm, almost mundane—a stark contrast to the chaos of the Hollow dimension he had survived just yesterday.
Breaking the fragile quiet that hung over the kitchen, Niero lifted his gaze, a storm of confusion and unease brewing behind his eyes.
"Mom… what really happened back there?"
Emmy froze—not visibly, but in a subtle tightening of her breath, a pause so brief it might have been imagined. She brushed flour from her palms with slow precision, her movements controlled, almost rehearsed, before fixing her attention on the dough with a gaze sharp enough to cut.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"At the Marauder booth." Niero swallowed, the memory flashing sharp in his mind. "When I picked up the brochure, you just—you snatched it right out of my hands. Like it was something dangerous. Why?"
Silence crashed down like a heavy curtain. The gentle hum of the kitchen—boiling water, ticking clock, the rolling pin gliding over the dough—suddenly felt deafening. Emmy did not lift her eyes. Her hands, so steady moments ago, worked the dough with a quiet intensity, each motion precise, deliberate, a commander preparing for war rather than a mother making dinner.
"It's nothing you need to worry about," she said at last. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath it—a finality that shut the door cold and hard.
For a moment Niero just stared at her hands, at the way her knuckles whitened with the pressure she refused to acknowledge. His own fingers faltered over the dough, the familiar warmth of the kitchen suddenly distant, fragile—like a safe harbor threatened by an unseen storm.
Niero's fingertips hovered just above the dough, trembling with the tension that coiled in the air. His heartbeat pounded—hesitation warring violently with a spark of burning resolve.
"I know how you feel about the Marauders…" he began, voice low, but the words barely formed before they were severed.
Emmy moved with practiced grace, her hands steady as she slid to the oven and pulled out a tray of steaming cupcake bases. The sweet scent of vanilla softened nothing; her shoulders were rigid; her expression carved from stone. When she spoke, her voice carried a quiet force, like thunder held behind clouds.
"It's nothing for you to worry about, Niero."
Her tone—gentle yet edged in steel—cut like a warning blade.
Something inside Niero ignited. He straightened, resolve sharpening like glass.
"Mom, please. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm smart enough to graduate early—"
He didn't get another breath.
Emmy spun toward him so sharply that the oven door rattled. Her voice struck the air, controlled yet trembling with the weight of barely contained fear.
"Smart enough to finish school at age 15, yes."
Her eyes locked onto his, fierce and unblinking.
"But somehow not smart enough to understand why I can't bear the thought of you stepping beyond these walls."
The kitchen fell silent—only the hum of machinery and the faint hiss of cooling metal.
"The Fringe, the Fog—those things tear people apart. The Marauders don't come back the same, if they come back at all."
Her voice wavered, just once.
"Do you really think I can stand by and watch my son throw himself into a place where survival is a gamble… and the prize is a grave?"
The kitchen seemed to freeze in time, the warm scent of sugar and rising dough **smothered beneath a sudden, suffocating tension. The quiet hum of appliances faded into silence. Niero met his mother's gaze—his spark of defiance clashing against the immovable iron of her resolve. He knew this was only the beginning of a battle neither of them intended to lose.
He drew a breath, youthful conviction trembling along the edges of his voice.
"Mom, being a Marauder is a good thing! You saw the presentations—access to resources, reputation, Bloom Dominion citizenship points practically handed to you, the chance to actually do something meaningful!"
But Emmy's response came sharp and immediate, severing his words before they fully formed.
Her hands stilled over the dough—only for a heartbeat, yet the world seemed to shudder with the pause—then her eyes snapped up to his, hard enough to cut.
"You can memorize every brochure and dream about every reward, but none of it matters if you die the moment you step into that fog."
Her voice was low, controlled—a quiet storm—but each syllable was heavy with the terror of someone who had seen too much, lost too much.
"All the credits, all the loot, every ounce of glory—what use is any of it if your body doesn't come home?"
Silence returned, thick and suffocating.
Niero's hands dug into the dough, knuckles whitening, frustration and desperation clawing against his chest. Her warning crashed into him like a barricade—but beneath the impact, something only burned hotter. A fire that refused to be extinguished, even by fear.
Niero's hands halted mid-knead, fingers buried in dough as fine flour drifted around him like ghostly snow caught in a sudden stillness. His chest tightened, and when he lifted his head, his eyes burned—not with childish rebellion, but with fierce, unyielding resolve.
"Mom, listen to me." His voice trembled—not with fear, but with passion fighting to break free.
"I'm not some fragile, helpless kid anymore. Becoming a Marauder isn't just a whimsical dream—it's something that could change everything for us. It's something I know I'm meant to do. This is my cal—"
He never finished.
BANG.
Emmy's fist crashed down on the counter, a violent crack splitting through the kitchen like a bolt of lightning tearing open the sky. The shockwave sent utensils, pastries, and a cloud of flour exploding upward in a chaotic burst, doughnuts flipping through the air before tumbling back down. Niero recoiled, breath stolen from his lungs.
Even Pumpkin, fearless ruler of the household, jolted from the windowsill with a panicked yowl and vanished down the hall, tail puffed like a bottlebrush.
For a long second, silence strangled the room.
Emmy's knuckles were white, her hand trembling just slightly from the force she'd held back. She inhaled—slow, ragged—as though wrestling down a storm threatening to rip her apart. When she finally spoke, her voice was broken glass wrapped in velvet, firm yet trembling with the weight of everything she couldn't say.
"Niero…"
"Now is not the time to chase a Marauder's suicidal fantasy." Her voice wavered, eyes shining with unspoken terror. "You have no idea what waits out there—the nightmares, the blood, the things that tear people apart and leave nothing but grief behind. I've seen them. I've lost people to them."
She reached out, fingers hovering just above his flour-dusted cheek, but not daring to touch.
"You're still my son. My only son."
Her voice cracked.
"And I will not stand by and watch you march toward death like a fool believing he's invincible. Not without reason. Not without preparation. Not now."
Her gaze locked onto his, unwavering and desperate.
"Please, Niero… just let it go. Just this once."
The kitchen fell silent once more—a heavy, breathless stillness, thick enough to suffocate. Only the faint tick of the oven's cooling frame and the low, relentless hum of the mixer trembling through the countertop dared to disturb it. Niero's chest rose and fell in uneven stutters, breath catching as he wrestled with the weight of his mother's words—each one striking like a hammer to steel, shaping him, binding him, remaking him.
For a fleeting instant, the Hollow, the choking Fog, the screaming metal of gunfire and shattered bodies—all the horrors of the Marauder's world—blurred and faded, swallowed whole by the unyielding force that was Emmy Ripley. She stood before him like a storm carved into flesh: immovable as bedrock, fierce as a thunderhead, the one adversary he could never defeat, never outrun.
A sharp, ragged breath tore from him—half sigh, half battle-cry strangled in his throat. The wildfire of rebellion that had surged moments before burned down to embers beneath her unblinking stare, glowing hot but trapped. He wanted—desperately—to shout, Why Sophie? Why Daisy? Why let them risk their lives as Sororitae, wielding magic against monsters, but chain me here like a child? Why am I the one you won't trust to fight?
But the words lodged like broken glass behind his teeth, slicing, choking. He swallowed them, whole and bitter, letting them burn a path down his throat. Now was not the time—not when every second stretched taut enough to snap.
He dropped his gaze, fists tightening. Then he turned back to the dough, slamming his palms into it with controlled fury, channeling everything he lacked the right to say—anger, fear, longing—into its yielding surface. The dough absorbed it all, reshaping beneath his hands, softening even as resolve inside him hardened like steel left too long in the forge.
For the next hour and a half, mother and son worked shoulder to shoulder, speaking nothing, saying everything. The warm, sweet scent of rising pastries filled the air, curling around them like an embrace, blending with the soft crackle of the old radio and the steady, heartbeat-like rhythm of kneading dough. Conversation died away, replaced by something far stronger: understanding carried in silence. Every shared glance, every mirrored motion, every breath drawn in unison became a quiet vow—family, not spoken, but lived.
When the clock struck midnight, the Maison Bella kitchen gleamed once more beneath the gentle glow of golden lights. Their flour-dusted aprons, trembling limbs, and aching hands remained as proof of the war they had just survived—one fought not with blades or bullets, but with truth and love and stubbornness.
The peace of the room—fragile, painfully human—stood in brutal contrast to the world clawing at Niero from beyond its doors: a world where blood paved tomorrow, where death waited behind every heartbeat, where dreams were currency paid in flesh.
And yet, in that hush, something sparked inside him, bright and unyielding. Not rebellion—resolve. A quiet fire, tempered in grief and love, sharpened by caution, shaped by the immovable shadow of the woman who had raised him. It burned steady, fierce, refusing to be smothered.
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After finishing the final batches of pastries—and the specially crafted Radiant Day cupcakes destined for the neighborhood mothers—Niero wiped the last trace of flour from his hands and quietly slipped upstairs to his room, footsteps soft against the worn wooden steps.
His bedroom greeted him with its familiar controlled chaos, the unmistakable territory of a fifteen-year-old prodigy caught between childhood and the brink of something far greater. Walls plastered with comic book heroes and video game legends shouted in brilliant colors, battles frozen mid-stride, dreams and defiance inked in bold lines. Stacks of manga and strategy guides swayed precariously like towers on the verge of collapse, survivors of countless late-night campaigns.
In the corner, his PC rig pulsed faintly in sleep mode, a quiet heartbeat of blue and white light cutting through the dimness. It cast long shadows over the worktable buried in books on electronics, scattered circuit boards, gears, and half-assembled inventions—projects abandoned only when exhaustion became unavoidable. Each unfinished device seemed to whisper of ideas too big to contain, a testament to a mind burning too bright to ever fully rest.
He moved toward the window, drawn by instinct more than thought. The city sprawled beneath him, alive with roaring engines and neon veins of light that carved through the night. Skyscraper crowns glowed like constellations; distant mountains loomed like jagged shadows against the sky. The world outside shimmered—beautiful, dangerous, limitless. It felt so close he could almost reach out and touch it.
Niero braced his hands against the edge of the desk, leaning forward as though trying to pierce the glass. His gaze swept the skyline, the reflection of the city flickering in his eyes like sparks caught in a storm.
Out there—beyond the safety of flour-dust and warm ovens, beyond the steady heartbeat of home—adventure waited. Risk waited. The unknown waited. It called to him like a siren, whispering of battles to win, horizons to chase, a destiny waiting to be claimed.
But for this moment, in the hush of his room, wrapped in the faint sweetness of cooling pastries and the soft glow of blinking LEDs, he let himself breathe. Dream now. Fight later.
He stripped off his clothes and collapsed onto the bed, wearing nothing but his boxers. The mattress dipped under his weight, springs groaning softly as he buried his face into the pillow and released a long, ragged, frustrated sigh. The blankets wrapped around him, warm and heavy, yet they did nothing to quiet the storm raging beneath his skin—a pressure like molten iron threatening to spill over.
His mother's refusal—her absolute, immovable no—echoed in his skull like a slammed door.
Wouldn't even let him think about it. Wouldn't entertain the idea for a single heartbeat.
The thought gnawed at him, sharp and merciless.
She probably thinks I'm too weak to survive a single scratch… maybe she thinks I'd die from stubbing my toe too hard, he scoffed inwardly, the bitterness tasting metallic in his mouth.
In a society ruled by matriarchal authority, where men were coddled, sheltered, or dismissed as fragile tools to be protected—or controlled—it felt like the entire world was conspiring to keep him small. To lock him away behind walls padded with safety and suffocating concern. His ambitions flickered like a candle fighting against the wind, a spark desperate to become a blaze yet smothered at every turn.
Beyond those walls lay the Fringe—and beyond it, the shifting Fog, and the Hollow that swallowed the unprepared whole. A world where monsters weren't just creatures but twisted reflections of fear and madness. A world where Marauders walked the knife's edge between glory and death.
His mother's fear wasn't baseless, and he knew it. He understood better than he wanted to admit the nightmares that lurked outside Mega Ark-Cities, the abominations the **Radiant Empress** had sealed but never destroyed. Humanity survived inside a walled-off shelters with a magical tree and a demigodess, polished on the surface but trembling with unseen cracks. Ignorance was their comfort. Denial was their luxury.
But knowing that only poured fuel on the fire roaring inside him.
He flipped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as if he could burn a hole straight through it, heartbeat drumming like war.
He wanted more.
More than safety.
More than the cage disguised as home.
More than the future others had prewritten for him.
The fire inside him refused to die.
It only burned hotter.
Niero clenched his fists beneath the blankets, staring up at the ceiling as if he could pierce it with sheer will, imagining the rush of adrenaline, the razor-edge danger, the fleeting glory that came with surviving it all.
"I won't just sit here… I can survive. I'll prove it. One day."
The words were almost a whisper, yet in the stillness of his room, they shattered the silence like a battle cry, ringing louder than any argument he'd ever had with his mother. They echoed against the walls, reverberating through his chest, a vow he could feel burning in his veins.
He rolled onto his side, eyes tracing the shifting, restless shadows cast by the flickering city lights outside. Every neon streak, every glimmer on glass and steel, seemed to pulse with possibility—and danger. His mind raced through strategies, contingencies, and countless what-ifs, a torrent of thought he could neither calm nor ignore. The world beyond the walls, wild, chaotic, and merciless, beckoned him with a siren's call. Each heartbeat fanned the stubborn spark inside him, turning it into a blaze that refused to be smothered.
"They can try to stop me… but I'll find a way." The words escaped in a low growl, almost swallowed by the night, yet each one carried the weight of iron and fire.
Tonight, the Maison Bella house lay in quiet repose. Outside, the streets were still, bathed in the gentle glow of streetlights. But beyond the fragile safety of these walls, the world waited—alive, untamed, dangerous—and Niero's restless heart refused to remain tethered any longer. Every shadow, every distant hum of the city whispered of risk, of adventure, of a life that demanded more than he was allowed… and he would answer that call.
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Niero closed his eyes, but sleep refused to claim him. His thoughts churned too violently, a storm without horizon. Then—somewhere between waking and dreaming—the world slipped away.
His body sank into weightlessness, his senses unraveling, unmoored from the familiar boundaries of his room. When he opened his eyes again, the universe around him had transformed into something vast, alien, breathtaking.
He stood upon an endless expanse, its surface rippling like a dark, liquid ocean, each wave glimmering with starlight. The horizon stretched infinitely, seamless and surreal, reflecting a cosmic night sky heavy with swirling nebulae and brilliant constellations. Overhead, a colossal radiant yellow star blazed with gentle but undeniable power, its light shimmering like molten gold. A smaller star orbited it in slow, reverent arcs, its path so precise it felt like destiny traced in light.
The air—or the illusion of it—pressed close with reverent silence, vibrating with a low, harmonic hum that seemed to resonate through his bones. It felt as though the cosmos itself were breathing, every pulse synchronizing with his heartbeat.
Then—cutting through the infinite quiet—a voice rose. Familiar. Intimate. Yet layered with something far beyond the human.
"Welcome back, Niero."
The sound was warm, resonant, echoing like a chorus of one, threading through the fabric of the space. A figure materialized before him, coalescing from cascading pixels of golden light.
Vuldyr.
She stood in human form, her petite silhouette crowned by a mechanical halo of slowly rotating rings, each etched with luminous runes shifting like living circuitry. Her short, asymmetrical hair framed her face, strands catching the star‑light like metallic silk. The bodysuit she wore shimmered faintly with digital gridlines, pulsing softly with each breath she took, as if she were woven from data and some form of divinity.
Her eyes—brilliant, unblinking—met his.
"It has been some time since you last walked this place," she said, her voice carrying a gentle gravity that wrapped around him like warmth in winter. "Your will, your mind… your very core has changed. It has grown stronger. I can feel the shift."
Niero's heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a drum of war echoing through the cavern of his chest. The air around him shivered and thrummed with expectancy, and the stars above quivered like vigilant sentinels, their cold light bearing witness to a moment far beyond the ordinary.
He parted his lips, but no words came. Every thought, every instinct, screamed that this was no simple meeting, no casual greeting. The cosmos itself tensed, holding its breath.
Then—without warning—the heavens erupted in a torrent of blinding radiance. Waves of light and heat cascaded down, piercing every fiber of his being, resonating in his bones as if the universe demanded reckoning, awakening, transformation. The air roared around him with silent fury, bending space and time, and for a heartbeat, Niero felt infinitely small yet alive all at once.
Through the brilliance, Vuldyr's voice rang clear—smooth, electric, unstoppable—cutting through the cosmic storm with effortless authority:
"Well then… are you ready to face what comes next…? Stargod?"
The title hit him like a bolt of lightning. His blood surged, adrenaline and awe fusing into a single, unstoppable fire. He felt it deep in his chest—the thrill of destiny, the pulse of power, the surge of inevitability.
A grin spread across his face—wide, fierce, untamed. Teeth clenched, fists curled, spirit blazing.
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<<<[ Ch08, Part 5 - END ]>>>