****Author's Note: It is highly recommend you read thr Auxiliary Volume first. Volume 0.
The Administrator caught the moment a rogue System window blinked into existence and started rewriting code—several lines ghosted across the screen at an alarming rate.
"Shit. You have got to be fucking kidding me," he hissed, scrambling back to his seat.
Right there, in real time, one tiny black window among hundreds was rewriting the inner workings of their entire world.
"At this rate I'm going to have to hire a damn assistant… Wait, no. What's the title again—Moderator, right! I'll have to hire one sooner rather than later."
He could already picture the others laughing their asses off.
The thought gnawed at him. He had always bragged about not needing help, but after the non-stop activity of the past two months…
"Man, woman, doesn't matter. As long as they can keep up." He let out a short laugh, amused by his own words. "What am I even saying? They'll probably bail within the week. Let's see… where is it this time?"
He expanded a floating map and clicked his tongue. The data read: Icebard, northwest of the Eurola region.
He sighed when the name of a World Boss came up. "Jötnarkungen, huh? Jeezus. That's a job for the big leagues." He hit Enter and leaned back in his chair, puffing out his cheeks. "There, quest posted. The rest is on you, Shooting Stars. As for me, I seriously need a nap."
— 1.1 —
+------------+
Special Quest (1/4)
Issue: Corrupted Volekeys are devastating the environment, consuming everything in their path and accumulating stats.
Requirement: Eliminate 50,000 Corrupted Volekeys.
+----------------+
Icebard—a five-island archipelago north of the Iregorn region—had been compromised.
Known as a frozen wasteland where anyone below level fifty would freeze in seconds, it had long been called unconquerable. Not only was the weather brutal, but its unique selection of monsters and mobs tested adventurers' skills and resource management.
The first island, for instance, was a war of attrition—plagued with thousands of critters lurking at every corner. Although the vermin looked like harmless little furballs, they were fast and vicious, launching themselves at adventurers and going straight for any exposed flesh.
Any proper raid would have needed to advance carefully, taking breathers along the way.
This required patience, team coordination, and lots of consumables, which is why the Developers established Vároy, a port town run by white-haired NPCs. Three specialty shops, an inn, a smith, and a workshop: everything an adventurer could ever need to attempt a raid.
Vároy became a safe haven in a zone that had seemingly cranked the difficulty up to hell mode. That is, until a small group saw it as an opportunity, claimed every single establishment, and quadrupled the prices, turning a modest but comfortable profit.
An investment that was now being reduced to smithereens by thousands of creatures no bigger than a man's closed fist.
Finn, the weaponsmith, heard someone outside his shop yelling, "What are the Volekeys doing here?!"
"They're out of control! Get to the sea!" shrieked another.
Finn snickered at first. What, are they scared of a Volekey or two? He grabbed a mace from one of the weapon stands and marched outside, fully confident he could handle it.
"Do you need any assistance, manager?" a female NPC clerk asked him.
"Stay there," he said gruffly, ready to take on the menace.
But what he found outside left him speechless—a white tide crashing against buildings.
It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing, because the enormous mass seemed to have a mind of its own. He even believed for a second it was some new kind of gigantic slime variant.
But no.
These were thousands of Volekeys, toppling over each other whenever one stopped to gnaw at the nearest bench or fence post. Not even the town's monument— a bronze sculpture of a blue humanoid with amphibious features—could withstand the rampant horde.
The inn in the distance crumbled when its support beams were consumed by the plague. And from the gear shop came what looked like ghostly apparitions that were nothing but groups of Volekeys trapped under winter cloaks, stubbornly shuffling forward.
The town Finn and his colleagues had claimed as their own was crumbling before his eyes.
His was the only building left standing. Upon realizing it, he turned back—slowly—and crouched behind the counter.
"Manager," the female NPC called, a mild urgency in her voice. "It's not safe here. We should—"
The man shot her a bloodshot glare. "If you know it's dangerous, what are you waiting for? Protect the store!"
The little critters were already at their door, cracking the hinges and munching through the doorframe first.
The NPC glanced outside and nodded. She stood right at the entrance, arms spread wide.
She gave one last look back.
"I'll protect the store," she said with a smile before a hundred Volekeys turned their attention to her.
The crunching of bones, the wet sound of flesh being ripped apart, the tearing of clothes filled the closed space.
Before sinking behind the counter, Finn could only make out the woman's white braid.
He exhaled, only now noticing he was still clutching the mace he had grabbed from the clearance section.
Now he could hear the sound of fangs against metal.
Do they really intend to eat my whole stock?
It was okay—he could endure the torture of being eaten by hundreds of little maws. What hurt was the lost investment. The days he and his colleagues had spent upgrading this boring town, making it their own.
But something in the back of his head told him there was something else. A creeping anxiety he had not felt in ages.
Fear.
But was it the same kind of fright as taking on your first Boss and realizing you were frustratingly underprepared?
Or was it an older kind of horror—when he really ran and hid for his life. His real life. A couple of years ago.
Damn. Is this your idea of fun, Developers? What gives?
He closed his eyes as the walls and roof collapsed behind him, bracing to be eaten alive.
Then a voice broke through. "COME AND GET ME, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS!"
A distant voice, Finn could tell—but loud enough to have been coming from just across the street.
The Volekeys raised their heads collectively and sniffed the air in unison.
Not a single biting sound was heard for a couple of seconds before the once-chaotic army became one and surged forward, converging on the source of that call.
Finn peeked his head out and gulped in disbelief—not a single wall left standing.
Between the splinters of what remained of his wooden floor, he found a blue ribbon.
A mile from the town, a blond warrior beat his right fist against his breastplate like a gorilla, his left arm swinging a shield the size of his whole body like it weighed nothing.
"COME AND GET SOME!"
Thanks to the incantations of his mage teammates, his voice had been amplified to thunder across a three-mile radius.
Then he waited.
He was built like a bear—massive and immovable. His icy blue eyes and wild ponytail made him look like a Viking who had been dropped into the wrong century.
The tremor came shortly after. An endless vibration rolled beneath his feet as every Volekey on the island converged on his position. Their white fur blurred together, making it look as if the snow itself was folding inward toward the unmovable man.
-------------------
Taunt Skill successfully activated!
Warning: Triggered enemies have entered 'Bloodlust' state, gaining a 30% boost to their attack stats.
------------------
"Oh, wow. It actually worked," said Faiza—a girl in a panda hoodie—in a low voice. "Are you sure this little platform of yours is going to hold?"
She was perched on a sixteen-foot stone column conjured by magic, alongside Karin—a taller, sassier teammate—who was watching the incoming wave with pure disgust.
"You think they're going to ram into it? Obviously not. As long as they stay focused on—" Karin sucked in a breath as the first wave of Volekeys surged toward them, then burst out laughing when the critters swerved right around the pillar. "See?! What did I tell you?"
"Then what are you waiting for?" Faiza asked quietly, sitting down with her legs dangling off the edge. "Get the lights going before our boy Billy down there ends up looking like a chew toy."
Karin tossed her long, glossy black hair back and sneered, watching the warrior three hundred feet away disappear under a living white tide.
"Oh, he'll be fine. He can take a thousand of those little things gnawing his junk for a few minutes, easily."
(Karin, quit screwing around and do the thing already,) William said through their Private Voice Chat, his voice low and even. Despite being chewed on by thousands of tiny fangs and claws, he sounded completely unbothered.
"Alright, alright. I was just making sure every single one of them was within range," Karin said, settling a hand on her hip. "Now…"
She snapped her fingers, swapping automatically her casual black skirt and white shirt for a strapless purple dress with matching thigh-highs and gloves. An oversized mage hat settled last onto her head.
(And don't you dare hold back,) William added.
"Wasn't planning to." Karin raised an open palm to the sky, and a staff materialized in her grip. The stone at its tip burned bright as her fingers closed around the rod. "Mega Prismatic Crafting…" she began.
A swirl of violet energy coiled around her as a magic circle bloomed overhead.
Karin's brown eyes blazed with power as she pushed the circle to scale up twenty more times in quick succession, until it loomed over the entire valley. From it, hundreds of smaller circles formed. The light pouring off them lit the area like an aurora borealis.
She licked her lips and released the spell at the top of her lungs: "…Rainbow Cataclysm!"
A barrage of lightning bolts, fireballs, wind bursts, and ice shards rained down as if breathed out by a fleet of dragons.
The earth split. The snow melted. Craters tore through the landscape. Even the pillar Karin and Faiza were standing on crumbled in the chaos.
The hellstorm lasted all of thirty seconds. In the aftermath, a thick fog rolled in—a mix of charred fur and evaporating snow.
Faiza helped her friend to her feet as they coughed. "That was… fun."
"Did we make it?" Karin rasped.
"Too bad corrupted mobs don't give XP, huh. Imagine finally hitting your next level," William said, strolling toward them. His breastplate was gone, putting his massive, sculpted torso on full display—but despite looking like he had been through a blender, his HP bar was still firmly in the green. He pulled up his User Interface and checked the quest status. "We're done here. Let's move."
"Just the Sub-Boss and the World Boss left, huh?" Faiza said, brushing off her leggings.
"Yeah," Karin murmured, grimacing as if they had failed.
Faiza clocked it immediately and snickered. "Are you still mad that Marco didn't pick you for that mission?"
"Nah," Karin replied, turning away. "Marco needed a demon for the job."
— 1.2 —
--------------------
Special Quest (2/3)
Issue: Íssigr, the Ice King, and his royal guard have been corrupted. They have been detected looting other dungeons and hoarding quest rewards (weapons and gear) to accumulate stats.
Requirement: Eliminate corrupted Íssigr.
Requirement II: Eliminate 10 corrupted Ísvarðr.
----------------------
The place was cold as a walk-in freezer, yet the unit moved swiftly, unbothered. Without receiving a single order, each soldier chose a target.
Steel met flesh.
The blue, polished floor that could easily pass for ice was stained by indifferent streaks of red.
Tattered banners of an ancient kingdom—each depicting a wolf bearing stag antlers—hung motionless like stone formations.
The canine monsters protecting the chamber—some encased in a layer of ice—could do nothing against such an organized group. They were impaled by lances without the opportunity to retaliate, or decapitated before activating any Active Skill.
Faolrígh, a ten-foot wolf-like creature with white spiky fur and red eyes, snarled at the group's leader. As the king of that land, Faolrígh possessed the Passive Ability of increasing his stats the more minions he lost—but it meant nothing against the stalagmites that erupted from the floor and drove through his lower body.
The challenger did not laugh in celebration nor brag about their power.
There was no glory in this skirmish. Only silent, deadly efficiency.
As Faolrígh's HP drained to zero, Íssigr, the Ice King, turned to survey the progress of his unit. His soldiers finished off their objectives—drawing a chorus of canine whines—and rushed to form two rigid lines before him.
Without a single word of encouragement or celebration, Íssigr approached Faolrígh's body to collect the spoils—until a distant sound stopped him.
A pair of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside the Boss Chamber.
Calm. Deliberate.
Íssigr turned as the double doors swung open, revealing two figures: a man in a sharp black suit with an enchanted white cape, and a young woman in a form-fitting slit dress.
They looked completely out of place for an arctic-themed dungeon—as if the man was heading into a boardroom and the girl was about to walk a runway instead.
She swept the enormous chamber with a cool gaze, then let out a short, condescending laugh. Her crimson hair fell to her waist, and the cone-shaped buns framing her head looked like horns from a distance.
"Would you look at that? I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it with my own eyes."
"Could this be considered cannibalism, Miss Laflamme? Even though they're not from the same species," the man said with a smirk, his eyes landing on the tall figure on the opposite side of the room.
"Users…" Íssigr said, his voice hoarse and resonant inside his helmet. "Have you come to claim what is not yours?"
"Wow, this one actually talks," the redhead said flatly. "Though I suppose that's to be expected. It's a Boss, after all." She narrowed her eyes. "Did he just call us 'users'? That's new."
"Whatever. Let's just get this done," her partner said, a dark aura already bleeding off him, but the girl caught his arm.
"Marco, hold on. Aren't you even a little curious about what these things were planning? They've been looting dungeons all across the area. There has to be a reason, right?"
He exhaled slowly, half-smiling. "You can ask… only if it entertains you."
"Hey, you!" the girl called from the entryway, her tone as casual as if she were flagging down a waiter. "What were you planning to do with all that stolen gear?"
He exhaled slowly, half-smiling. "You can ask, only if it entertains you."
"Hey, you!" the girl called from the entryway, her tone as casual as if she were flagging down a waiter. "What were you planning to do with all that stolen gear?"
"'Stolen'? Who are you to accuse us?" The Boss' tattered cape caught a dramatic gust of programmed wind—triggered automatically every time he went aggro. "Is it theft to collect what spawns naturally in our lands? You dare call us thieves, when your kind are the ones who break in, conquer, and pillage?"
"Okay, that was totally off-script," the redhead said, frowning. "Wasn't his whole backstory about reviving his dead queen or something? What happened to that?"
"And yet, even with a screw loose, it still finds time for the dramatic monologue." Marco slid both hands into his pockets and planted his feet in a relaxed stance. "Have you satisfied your curiosity yet, Amelia?"
"Not really, but whatever. Let's get on with it."
Marco's eyes flared gold as mana radiated off him.
"Dark Kingdom…" he cast softly, stomping his right foot onto the polished floor. His shadow bled gray and semi-transparent before spreading outward from beneath him, swallowing the entire chamber in a matter of seconds. "...Negative Zone."
The Ice King and every warrior under his command felt gravity pressing down on their limbs, dragging them toward submission.
Everyone received the same notification:
+--------------------+
The battlefield has shifted to the Dark Element.
An oppressive atmosphere closes in around you.
+-------------------+
Followed immediately by another:
+-------------------+
Warning!
'Negative Zone' is now affecting you!
Debuffs applied:
– Vitality reduced by 30%
– Valor reduced by 25%
Buff applied:
– Mana regeneration increased by 20%
Note: Additional Buffs and Debuffs cannot be cast while the Zone is active.
+----------------------+
In the past, messages like that had been nothing more than noise to Íssigr.
He was programmed to adapt his tactics to whatever strategy Users threw at him—to give them a genuine, challenging fight—but the outcome was always the same: he was meant to lose.
But this time, something deep in his code told him that this was wrong.
Having part of his power stripped away felt… humiliating.
Why did he have to die again?
Just so these Users could check off a quest?
And why did it feel like he was about to lose something that actually mattered?
Why was he getting so worked up over this?
Where was this anger even coming from?
It felt brand new—and yet completely, undeniably right.
And why did he have to follow the program at all?
Something ignited inside him, erupting outward as a blast of freezing wind that slammed against every wall of the enclosed chamber.
"I WON'T LET YOU DO AS YOU PLEASE!" he roared.
He let out a war-horn howl, and his warriors snapped to attention—turning as one to face the intruders, weapons already drawn.
"I thought Buffs were supposed to be disabled," Amelia called out, shielding her eyes from the violent gust.
Marco shrugged. "That's not a Buff, he's just rushing his Second Phase." He waved a hand and a vertical tear of black mist split open beside him, solid enough to grip. He pulled it aside like a curtain, revealing a void of pure darkness behind it, and stepped one foot inside. "Why don't you follow his lead and wrap this up quickly?" he said with a smug grin before slipping through. "I want to be back by seven. Dinner at that place you like. My treat."
Marco was gone, but his presence still hung in the air like a set of unseen eyes surveying every inch of his Negative Zone.
The redhead exhaled, arms crossed.
"That does sound nice." She gave the wall of enemies one long, measured look before tilting her head. "Fine… Unique Talent," she recited in a low voice. "Hell Princess."
Amelia's entire body ignited—a sudden, total combustion that bathed the chamber in vivid orange light, like a human-sized match being struck.
For a moment, Íssigr genuinely thought the female User had just killed herself. But when the burning silhouette started walking forward, he screamed, "KILL HER!"
The nearest Ísvarðr lunged, greatsword already raised above his head. The downward slash met resistance, ringing off something with a metallic crash that bounced off the walls — the shockwave snuffed out the human bonfire, except for her hair, which kept burning.
Standing in full view was a feminine silhouette clad in red plate armor, flames still licking off her scalp, blocking the strike with her forearm.
"This isn't a Buff either," Amelia said flatly, the upper half of her face shadowed under her helmet.
She extended her free hand to the side. "Fire Crafting."
A moment later, both of the Ísvarðr's arms hit the ground, along with the broadsword, which rang out against the frozen floor.
Before the royal soldier could retaliate, his body caught fire.
He sank to his knees as his HP hit zero.
One Ísvarðr down. Nine left.
Amelia stepped past the still-burning corpse without a glance. Heat radiated off her in waves. The heels of her boots hissed against the white tiles as she pressed forward.
With her right hand, she leveled a gleaming red scythe at the remaining guards. "Come at me all at once. It'll save time."
The rest charged—not in the measured way they were programmed, but on pure impulse, driven by the loss of one of their own. They had no individual names, only numbers one through ten, but they recognized each other as a whole. And that whole had just lost a piece of itself.
Amelia stretched out her left hand, fingers curled like a talon, and commanded the fire consuming the fallen soldier to pull itself into a floating orb.
The second Ísvarðr thrust his lance forward—and was shoved back before the tip could scratch Amelia's armor. He looked down at his breastplate and found two shards of hardened metal embedded into the steel.
Amelia used the opening to take his head clean off.
Meanwhile, another soldier tried to flank her from behind—and received a shard straight to the ribs.
With a battle cry, Amelia brought her scythe down in a vertical arc, cleaving him from the left shoulder down to the stomach.
Both bodies ignited instantly.
Three Ísvarðr down.
Amelia glanced at the floating fire orb—now about half its original size. Two shots left.
She did not wait for it to auto-fire. She pointed two fingers like a gun and took aim at the only soldier with a bow, already drawing back a shot. The last two shards punched straight between his eyes.
That's enough fuel.
"Belphegoria!" Amelia called out, locking onto her fifth target. "Pyrokinetic Manipulation, now!"
The instant her heel lifted from the floor, a long, translucent feminine figure took her place, rooted to that exact spot. Dressed in black with a wide-brimmed hat and a sheer veil over her face, the entity raised two spindly arms—and the fire from the burning corpses was yanked upward by an invisible force, leaving nothing behind but charred, smoking remains.
Six remained. And they were already starting to read her.
She met resistance—every swing of her scythe parried cleanly.
Clanking echoed down the hallway.
Steel rang against steel, over and over. Back and forth.
A stalemate, even though they outnumbered her.
But you're assuming this is the only thing I'm working with.
She raised an open palm and cast, "Super Fire Crafting, Dragonbreath!" firing a burst of concentrated fire that engulfed an unsuspecting Ísvarðr whole, and singed the one behind him, who was then cut clean in half with a horizontal slash.
Four left.
Behind Amelia, the spirit-like figure quietly gathered the new flames, forming a floating sphere in the middle of the chamber until it blazed like a miniature sun.
Íssigr could no longer afford to hang back.
"Why are you doing this?" the king asked, strolling forward while exerting a fiery battle aura. "You two have already cleared this island's quest a long time ago. Why come back here and start a war?"
"The Administrator rewards us with prototype gear before it goes live," Amelia said plainly, watching the four remaining Ísvarðr close in around her. "That's a pretty damn good deal, if you ask me."
"Gear!" Íssigr shrieked. "And you have the nerve to judge us for trying to get our own!" A blue energy swirled around him before he stomped the ground. "Take this! Winterknight!"
A line of stalagmites erupted from the floor in a straight path, aimed directly at Amelia.
This was the killing move that defeated this dungeon's boss.
No time to channel mana.
"Quick-Dragonbreath!" she fired back.
Ice and fire slammed into each other, erupting in a cloud of steam that blotted out their vision.
Íssigr did not let up—his boot stayed planted, continuously replenishing the ice spikes as they melted.
Amelia knew the moment she stopped her spell, she would be impaled.
The remaining Ísvarðr saw their opening and moved. A sword slash across the back. A hammer blow to the chestplate. An axe crashing into her right shoulderpad.
Her plate armor absorbed most of it—but one of them got lucky, driving a lance through her unprotected thigh.
Blood ran down her leg as she groaned through her teeth.
The pain was brutal. But the damage to her pride hit harder.
She was not supposed to take a single hit today.
"THAT'S IT!" she snarled, her right hand still locked into Dragonbreath.
(Belphy!) she snapped through Private Chat. (Auto-target. Strip my armor, and skewer these four assholes around me. NOW!)
The tall spirit gave a single, silent nod.
Every piece of Amelia's armor turned to liquid metal—her scythe the only exception—before launching off her body like spikes, driving through two Ísvarðr's faces and the other two's chests.
They stopped moving and combusted.
One of the objectives had been completed.
Belphegoria swept up the resulting fire without a word, feeding it into the burning sphere until it pulsed with blinding intensity.
Amelia—now standing in nothing but her gala dress—leveled her free hand like a gun, her eyes flickering gold.
"I hope I get a staff this time," she muttered with a smirk.
Íssigr lost focus for the first time. "What did you just—?"
"Belphegoria's Unholy Creation Number Three," Amelia began, as the enormous fire sphere above her solidified into red metal in an instant. "Longinax!"
A colossal spear launched forward—no room to dodge, and even less point in trying to block.
Íssigr's torso ceased to exist.
As he struggled to form words, he felt it—the new data he had woken up with that morning being deleted. He knew that when he respawned, he would no longer be able to speak for himself.
"We… didn't even…" he managed, before tipping backward.
The massive blade that had ended him dissolved in a scatter of fading pixels. And at the same moment, Amelia's injured leg finally gave out. Her knee met the floor, her blood stark against the white tiles.
Marco emerged from his pocket dimension, voice low and even. "Excellent work, Amelia. I made the right call staying out of your way."
She turned her face aside. "I got sloppy. I'm sorry."
"What exactly are you apologizing for? There's no audience here. Your elegant, gracious image remains perfectly intact."
"You're here, aren't you?"
Marco exhaled and pulled up his User Interface, scrolling through his inventory. "I've watched you bleed plenty of times, Ms. Laflamme. I know it won't be the last." A red bottle materialized in his hand, and he held it out to her. "Here."
Amelia studied it for a moment. It had the shape and label of a sports drink—an A-tier Red Potion.
She gulped it, and the wound sealed shut on the spot. Her loss of blood would get replenished by the time she finished the whole bottle.
"So, are we ready for the main event yet?" she asked, opening her Inventory, tapping a new dress, and changing in the blink of an eye.
"Seems so. I've already received confirmation from William and Helen. They've accomplished their missions. Everybody should be moving toward Jötnarkungen's location as we speak."
He initiated a call through a floating virtual window, which Amelia tapped so she could also interact with it.
Karin's voice came through. [Marco, we have a problem. The Boss has gone missing.]
"What? How could you lose a mountain-sized monster?" Amelia shrieked at the floating window. "What the hell have you been doing?"
[Chill out, Red! We just arrived at the scene, okay? We found its footprints though. Pretty hard to miss. It was heading to the sea. That's where the trail ends.]
"Keep us updated," Marco said before ending the call. With the window still open, he dialed someone else. "Astrid's not going to like this."
Amelia rolled her eyes and snickered as a second female voice—crisp and businesslike—came through.
[Yes? What is it?]
"It pains me to be the bearer of bad news, Guild Master, but it seems that Jötnarkungen—"
[I know,] the voice cut him off. [I've already tracked it down. It's heading toward Scotmark's shores. I'll intercept it before it gets there.]
"Understood. Please give us your coordinates so we can—"
[You wouldn't make it in time. Let me handle it.]
"Hey!" Amelia chimed in, fuming. "Are you actually planning on taking on a World Boss alone?"
Marco closed his eyes and braced himself.
A loud snicker cut through first. [It'd barely classify as a fight since I'll catch it by surprise. And that kind of commentary is above your rank, Laflamme… But I'll let it slide this time. You must be exhausted after your fight with Íssigr. Just have a little faith in your Guild Master, okay? I'll be back at HQ by supper.]
Astrid hung up.
"How reassuring," Amelia said to the empty space the virtual window left behind, before looking away and forcing herself to sneer. "A World Boss leaving its territory, huh? No wonder it's glitched. Scotmark is screwed if the airhead doesn't take it down in time."
So you're not denying she can do it, Marco kept that thought to himself, a faint smile crossing his lips. He then turned to Íssigr's corpse, which had left behind a bountiful scatter of gear.
A message notification blinked for his attention, and he read it with bored eyes—until the contents turned his expression into stone.
Amelia noticed. "Is something wrong, Marco?"
"Change of plans. Get to HQ as fast as you can please, and keep me informed. We're having visitors today."
— 1.3 —[1]
+---------------------+
Special Quest (4/4)
Issue: The World Boss, Jötnarkungen, has been corrupted. For unknown reasons, it has been wandering off his usual spawn point.
Requirement: Eliminate Jötnarkungen.
+-----------------------+
Two hundred miles from Marco and Amelia's position, a black winged lion cut through the southern sky as its golden gaze swept the world below. On its back, a girl lay stretched out—hands laced behind her neck, one knee crossed lazily over the other—completely ignoring the violent, howling wind rushing past her.
"I'll be back at HQ by supper," she said to the floating window, then tapped the end call button with more force than necessary. "What a bitch."
Her feline mount let out a low, soft groan.
"What is it, Veloura? Nah, I'm fine. Tell me, did that thing resurface?" She sat up, and the icy wind shoved her long hair back violently.
From her eagle-eye view, she made out what looked like a moving island below, surrounded by a cold, ominous mist.
"There you are, you big tortoise. We've been chasing you for over an hour, you know that?" She pulled up a large virtual map, tapped their current location, and traced a straight line all the way to Scotmark. "Only twelve miles left, huh." She let out a short snicker. "But seriously, what are you trying to do? Did you catch one of those old monster-attacks-the-city movies and get inspired? Whatever. Time to work."
She got to her feet, and her winged lion gave a soft, eager roar. The blonde girl chuckled.
"Sorry, Veloura. If you get close to that thing, you'll turn into a popsicle—a cute one, but still. Stay up here until it's safe to land, okay?" She opened her Virtual Interface and commanded, "Playlist number one."
She then bobbed her head up and down to the rhythm of an upbeat song playing privately inside her head before stepping off the mount without a second thought, freefalling—her heart rate perfectly steady, like she was out for a picnic.
She sang along on pitch, her voice bright and easy:
"Everyday, I'm thinking of you…
"Everything's not the same without you…
"Everywhere I see your shadow—so nobody understands…
"That while you roam the stars, I'm here bound to paradise."
Then the chorus:
"My he-aa-art goes boom-boo-boom, when you're not around!"
Her golden hair streaked upward like a reverse waterfall.
The midday sun caught her sky-blue armor and blazed off it—making her look like a falling star.
The endless blue sea stretched beneath her, and her tiny destination waited far below.
She picked up her song again:
"Through the stars, I send my plea…
"Just come back and set me free…"
Flying goggles locked over her eyes, feeding her a live trajectory readout. She made corrections by firing short bursts of concentrated mana from her palms, tilting and rolling her body through the air.
"I have so much to say—so come here and hear me sing!"
Two thousand feet above Jötnarkungen, she could already make out a vast, uneven expanse of hardened minerals, studded with ice spires the size of apartment buildings.
"My he-aa-art goes vroom-vroo-vroom, 'cause you're not around!" She paused the song to cast, "Rook Mode."
Nothing about her visibly changed. No aura. No glowing eyes. Just a quiet confirmation in her field of vision—and to the outside world, complete silence.
She snapped her body into a straight, arrow-like drop—and this time, violet energy began coiling around her. She was channeling something that pulsed with magical intent.
She still had plenty of time to build it.
"Twilight Free Style—" she began, the sole of her right foot blazing violet.
She had become a comet.
For a brief moment, that stretch of sea went dark.
"—METEORA CALX!"
She made contact.
Water exploded upward in a massive column.
One of the spires stood in her path and her heel split it in two like an axe through kindling. The momentum did not die there. Astrid Bradford, Guild Master of the Shooting Stars, reached the mineral shell beneath and cracked it open. Enormous chunks launched into the sea, which was now churning in every direction.
The colossal beast beneath the surface let out a screech and ground to a halt.
Jötnarkungen was confused.
Even with new rogue code running through its system, the monster still had access to its old records.
Where was the army that was supposed to challenge it? Users always came in packs—that was practically tradition.
But this? An attack from the sky?
That had never happened before, but was still manageable. Previous encounters had taught it to deal with the bold ones who managed to climb its shell, so in response, Jötnarkungen doubled down on its freezing mist.
Astrid flung an arm up to shield her face as a violent, ghostly white aura wrapped around her and the temperature plummeted far below zero.
She would freeze solid within seconds.
"Queen Mode," she said calmly—and again, nothing visible changed.
No longer biting cold, she assessed the damage from her first strike: a crater about the size of a person. Five feet deep.
She puffed out her cheeks. "I figured. Physical attacks barely make a dent." She rolled her shoulders. "Full magic, then." She clasped her hands once, then dropped them to thigh level, palms open, facing down. "Ultra Aether Crafting…"
Dark clouds rushed in as if they had been waiting for the invitation. The waves rose and crashed against Jötnarkungen's colossal body. In less than thirty seconds, the scene had gone from a calm, open sea to something out of the end of the world.
Jötnarkungen tried to shake off the pest burrowed into its shell—but that was hopeless now.
The energy pouring from Astrid's hands spiked as she screamed, "Quasaris Cannon!"
A beam of concentrated mana tore loose—dense enough to turn blinding white. Its glow could be seen from the coast of Scotmark.
Jötnarkungen had no idea what to do.
It was a mountain with legs. Entire armies had assembled just to try to bring it down—at least in the early days. Once its attack patterns and Second Phase were mapped and studied, an experimented raid group of thirty could put it down in an afternoon.
Being squashed underfoot. Being flash-frozen by its aura. Being crushed by the back spikes that it could launch like missiles—every one of its attacks meant instant death. Even that last option was no longer on the table. The nuisance had brute-forced her way inside its shell.
Jötnarkungen knew why it was being hunted. It was written into its program—to be a target. A prize.
But there was also pride in being special. In being larger than the world itself. In being the wall that knocked down every player who thought they were untouchable. In looking down at everything else like it was beneath notice.
But this time, all of that was being torn away by a single person. A User who did not care about the formalities… About making proclamations of victory before the fight.
By this reckless, impatient woman with no dignity whatsoever.
Or maybe… times had changed. Maybe Jötnarkungen was no longer a name that made people shit their pants.
Damn… He only wanted to see what lay beyond the ocean. To leave that island—that prison—behind.
He wanted to—Wait.
Was Jötnarkungen thinking of itself as he?
And where had this sudden, overwhelming need to break free from the program come from?
He could not understand it as the voice inside him quietly faded out.
Five minutes later, Marco Souza brought his winged cougar down onto the island-sized shell bobbing on the sea and let out a slow whistle when he saw the crater.
"You don't see that every day. Even from you, Guild Master," he muttered to himself—and then flinched as something enormous peeked up from the crater and made him drop straight into a defensive stance.
He held his ground until realizing what he was actually looking at: a giant orb, thirteen feet wide, rising from the rubble, held up by a single pale, delicate hand.
"Oh, hey, Marco. Check this out," Astrid said with a bright grin, crawling out of the hole and setting the massive round object aside without straining. The purple blood staining her armor and hair contrasted with her innocent grin. "Beautiful, innit?"
Marco did not need the System to tell him what it was, but the notification came anyway, floating in his field of vision. It read: Jötnarkungen's Core.
"Splendid loot, Guild Master. Although it doesn't feel right to take materials from a creature that was glitched just a few minutes ago. Don't you think?"
Astrid groaned. "Tell me you weren't listening to what Ricardo Silva said without literally just telling me that." She gave the lustrous giant pearl a pat. "They reset the moment their HP hits zero. Whatever's corrupting them—gone. Poof!"
"So you're saying that what we've been doing from the very beginning somehow fixes whatever's wrong with them?" Marco asked, narrowing his eyes.
But his leader was no longer paying attention, too busy inspecting the core for damage.
"Not a single scratch!" Astrid squealed, genuinely delighted. "Even I'm surprised, considering what I put that poor thing through!"
There she was—the Guild Master with the eternal teenage face, admiring her bounty after eliminating a titan without breaking a sweat.
And ignoring me again, Marco exhaled.
He had seen many displays of power like these before, but the ones starring Astrid Bradford always left him feeling a little overwhelmed.
"Remarkable as always," Marco whispered, and sat down on a chunk of broken shell, fingers entwined. "Guild Master? Have you checked the Guild messages yet?"
"Nope. Was a little busy killing a certain boss. What's up?"
"It's Tamara. She says the corrupted Bunyard situation in Windexeter has been resolved…"
"Great!"
"But someone beat her to it."
Astrid snapped. "I swear to the goddess, if the Death Bringers set foot in our territory one more time, I'll—!"
"It wasn't them," Marco cut in, catching Astrid's eyes. Something about the information clearly amused him. "It was a Shooting Star…"
Astrid's brow furrowed. "But who? Everyone had their hands full with—"
"…Tamara says, and I quote: a Shooting Star who hasn't logged in for five years just did it."
Astrid went completely still, staring at her second in command for what felt like an eternity.
She wanted to say, "Say that again." But no. She had heard it perfectly fine. And she knew exactly what it meant.
It was not a coincidence—that exact combination of words could only mean one person.
Without another word, Astrid summoned her Winged Lion and launched into the sky, leaving the core behind.
Marco watched her go before exhaling, fully aware he would be the one hauling the enormous material back to HQ. Yet he snickered. "Well. This is quite the development."
As she flew toward Londorus, Astrid's mind was a wreck.
She could not form a coherent thought—so she just let it hit her all at once.
Her heart rate had finally spiked.
"I can't believe it," she managed, a bittersweet smile crossing her lips.
Just minutes ago, she had been singing her favorite song on autopilot, not thinking about the words at all.
But now they meant everything.
Especially the last part:
"Through constellations, I search for signs, a love like ours, so rare to find.
"In every comet, I see your smile—in every nebula, I see your eyes.
"So just come back, don't make me cry… Was this just fate? Don't make me laugh!
"The universe awaits for both—together, infinity, 'til the end of time!
"My he-aa-art goes boom-boo-ooom…
"When you are around!"
[1] Sorry for the super long chapter, everyone! You're doing great—almost there!