The Halback branch of the Watarumi Alliance was wrapped in its usual bustle. Young adventurers crowded around the request board, snatching up the latest high-reward jobs like prey being fought over. In the midst of that heat, Zelvin quietly picked up a single piece of paper. "Claeffe Village—Monster Extermination" In the corner of the paper, there was a small note written in pencil. "Complex occurrence of Holy, Flame, and Wind attributes. Difficulty B+". The reward was 200 silver coins. Not bad. However, solo completion was not recommended. Zelvin stared at it for a moment. In his 42 years of life and 25 years of adventuring experience, he was a man who always knew his limits precisely. Even during his silver-rank days, he had refused reckless requests. That was precisely why he had earned the title of gold-rank. "Taking another one, Zelvin?" Branch Director Dolph Maizen leaned out from the office. Fifty-five years old, a former silver-rank adventurer. A wry smile was on his face. "The last one." Zelvin's reply was short. He stated only facts, without emotion. Dolph's eyes narrowed. The branch director, who had sent off countless adventurers, understood the weight of those four words. He was announcing his retirement. "I see." Dolph nodded and returned to the office. No further words were necessary. That kind of relationship had formed between them. Holding the request form in his left hand, Zelvin slowly made his way to the branch's tavern. The hilt of the longsword "Iron Fang" hanging at his waist was unconsciously drawn toward his right hand. The worn leather wrapping fit perfectly to the shape of his palm. It was a companion he had touched every day for over twenty years. "Lord Zelvin!" Suddenly, a young voice cut through. A bronze-rank youth—was his name Laat?—stood blocking his path with clasped hands. His eyes were shining. That light of admiration that young aspiring adventurers often had. "Rather than such a low-rank request, please take this 'Sand Dragon Subjugation of the Flame Rift Valley'! The reward is 500 silver coins! With your skills, Lord Zelvin, you're sure to succeed!" Laat excitedly held out another request form. Zelvin looked at the young man for a moment. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His physique was youthful, and his swordsmanship was faithful to the basics. With five more years of serious training, silver-rank was not a dream. However— "Can't beat age." Zelvin returned the request form. Then, slowly, he placed his hand on his own knee. Over the past few months, when walking long distances, the old wound in his left knee had begun to ache noticeably. Pain he could once ignore was now impossible to ignore. His body was teaching him of its aging. "Besides. The sand dragon isn't strong on its own. It's just weak to sunlight. It has good compatibility with fire-attribute knights. You all would—" Zelvin pointed his thumb at Laat. Behind him stood a female warrior in red armor, also bronze-rank. "If you pair up with the fire girl, your success rate will be high. There's no need to create a role for me." Laat's face fell slightly. But the words that followed were gentle. "Do your best. Your era is still ahead of you." Zelvin lightly tapped Laat's shoulder and moved forward. When he sat at the tavern counter, the proprietor handed him a mug of ale. The sweet-sour aroma tickled his nose. He gazed out the window. The midday sunlight illuminated Halback's streets in white. Inns, general stores, weapon shops, and many people passing through. There was vitality. There was life. It was the era of the young. Zelvin looked at the request form for Claeffe Village again. The difficulty was indeed B+. But complex attributes—actually, in most cases they were easier to counter than single attributes. If you understood the weaknesses of each attribute, it was tactically advantageous. (I've done this so many times I've lost count.) Thinking that, Zelvin drank his ale. The cold liquid passing through his throat seeped into his entire body. He decided to depart in the morning. Forty-five kilometers west from Halback. On foot, a full day if he walked briskly. If his knee was in good condition. ■ He left through Halback's west gate just after sunrise the next morning. On Zelvin's back was a bag packed with the bare minimum of supplies. A week's worth of dried travel rations, medicine, rope, and a longsword. Nothing more was necessary. The road stretched west in a single line toward Tornis's Black Forest. The early summer sunlight filtered through the gaps in the trees, creating dappled shadows. The air was warm, with a green, fresh scent. The breath of a new season. One step, then another. The sound of footsteps on stone pavement echoed rhythmically. Zelvin walked while listening to those footsteps. At the same time, in a corner of his mind, he was remembering something from long ago. When he was twenty. Walking this road for the first time felt like it was only yesterday. The face of the man who had been beside him then could no longer be completely recalled. But he remembered the size of that man's hands. Large, warm, powerful hands. And his laughter. Laughter that made him feel that everything would be all right no matter how difficult the situation. Laughter that gave him courage. Twenty-five years ago, on a certain day, those hands could never be held again. "..." Zelvin continued walking without stopping, simply staring ahead. Remembering had become a habit. Every day, at some moment, he would remember that time. Remembering what was lost was not painful—rather, it had become like a lazy habit. He exhaled a long breath. Zelvin began walking again. ■ There was a small general store beside the road. When the midday sun had grown strong, Zelvin stopped there. The wooden sign read "Nut Pavilion." It was an old shop. Zelvin had passed through here several times before. The proprietor should have changed each time, but— "Welcome." The voice came from a woman in her thirties. She had a bright, approachable face. "Give me travel rations. A week's worth." Zelvin spoke concisely. "Ah, heading to Claeffe, are you? We just got a fresh batch in." The proprietor—a nameplate reading "Liese" hung below—quickly gathered dried dates, dried meat, and butter-kneaded bread. Her movements were efficient, professional. "Recently, that village has had a lot of monsters. A customer who came for repairs mentioned it." Liese made conversation. Zelvin nodded along while paying. "I see." "Oh, wait just a moment. One more thing." Liese disappeared into the back and returned quickly. She held out a small cloth bag. Inside were fragrant dried herbs. "When you're injured, steep it in hot water and drink it. My husband used it often." Zelvin looked at the bag for a moment. From Liese's words, he understood she was a widow. At the same time, he also understood why she was being so kind. "Thank you." Zelvin accepted the herbs. "Oh, by the way. Traveler, how old are you?" Liese asked suddenly. Zelvin answered honestly. "Forty-two." "My! Already that age!" Liese's eyes widened. "My son is aiming to be an adventurer too. He's working toward bronze-rank now. He's been training for years. You're still active at that age? That's amazing!" Zelvin replied with a "Hmm." But Liese's conversation didn't end there. Talk of her son, his training, recent adventurer news. Topics continued one after another. In the end, Zelvin spent more than thirty minutes at the general store. His planned three-hour march from Halback turned into more than four hours. But Zelvin wasn't in a hurry. Rather, he thought this kind of time wasn't bad. It had been a while since he felt a human connection. "Do your best out there." Liese waved. "Your son too—do your best." Zelvin offered words of encouragement and returned to the road. ■ After another three hours on the road. The evening sunlight began slanting through the gaps in the trees. In another two hours, he should arrive at the outskirts of Claeffe Village. However, before complete darkness fell— "Hm?" Zelvin's right hand suddenly felt pain and discomfort. Involuntarily, a small black light rose from his fingertips. It was not flame, but the opposite attribute—the power of darkness. (What is this?) Zelvin's mind instantly processed the situation. The residue of holy-attribute magic was faintly drifting from the forest in the distance. Reacting to that holy-attribute presence, his body had unconsciously manifested the opposite attribute. (Counter-attribute adaptation—) Twenty-five years of knowledge led to an immediate conclusion. Counter-attribute adaptation—a condition where one's skin senses the attribute forces drifting in the surroundings and unconsciously manifests the opposite attribute in minute quantities. It was an extremely rare constitution. Holy attribute presence would trigger darkness attribute, flame attribute would trigger water attribute, and so on. Zelvin had learned of this phenomenon from a single book he had acquired years ago. The one who had circulated that text was Varge Brik—the Gaze of Equilibrium—a secret society. Their mission was to monitor and manage the world's attribute balance, and they never appeared before public organizations. The manuscripts they circulated in secret contained detailed theories of attribute magic not recorded in public texts. Zelvin had once found such a manuscript by chance in the corner of an antique shop and had read it several times. In the text, those who manifested counter-attribute adaptation were called "Destroyers of Equilibrium." The historical records of such manifestations numbered fewer than a handful. And all of them had been pursued by Varge Brik. Cold sweat ran down his back. Zelvin tried to suppress the darkness force in his right hand. Immediately, the small blade disappeared. But the fact that he had manifested it could not be erased. (If someone had seen this—) Zelvin looked around. There were no people on the road. Fortunate. But— At the same time, a different emotion ignited in the depths of his chest. Hope. If this power had awakened in a veteran adventurer considering retirement at forty-two, if it became his strength— (If this power could protect a comrade—) Those contradictory emotions—hope and fear—Zelvin processed internally without changing his expression. But there was one thing he was certain of. The residual heat of the fading darkness blade remained faintly in his right palm. In a hand that had fought alone for years, that had kept others' warmth at a distance, he felt his own body heat—and Zelvin realized for the first time how strangely lonely that sensation was. ■ Confirming the sensation in his right hand, Zelvin continued down the road. Soon, he saw white light flickering through the gaps in the trees ahead. Holy-attribute magic's glow—but irregular. It wavered unstably. Then came the low growl of a beast on the wind. Someone was in combat with a monster. Zelvin's feet naturally quickened. Twenty-five years of physical instinct moved faster than thought. His knee's old wound protested with a sharp ache, but his feet moved forward faster than the pain. There might be someone to protect—that conditioned reflex was completely etched into his body as the final pride of a veteran adventurer. He broke into a run. In the process, the linen bag containing his travel rations came undone. Dates scattered across the road, and butter bread rolled away. Zelvin didn't pick any of it up, running at full speed. That scene—where tension and foolishness coexisted—was left behind on the evening road, witnessed by no one.