The road to Tornyka was long. Inside the carriage, Galen Straivar found himself dozing off unintentionally. His face rested on his left hand, his mouth slightly open. The unguarded appearance of an A-rank adventurer with a 20-year career. Suddenly, the carriage lurched violently. "Whoa!" Galen's eyes snapped open reflexively, and he tried to lift his head. But his lower back—*crack*. "Aaaagh!" Letting out a completely undignified sound, he clutched his back. A middle-aged man writhing inside the carriage. Hardly a picturesque sight. The young adventurer sitting beside him looked at him with exasperation. "Hey, old man, you okay?" the young adventurer asked. "I'm... 38..." Galen replied. Galen's voice trembled from the pain. The young adventurer's exasperation deepened. "For real? A-rank?" he asked. Galen no longer had the energy to convince him. He simply waited for the city of Tornyka to come into view, rubbing his lower back. The sky gradually turned the color of sunset. The frontier town was smaller and more modest than he'd expected. Tornyka, situated in a basin southeast of the Sawtooth Mountain Range. It must have once prospered as a mining town. But now, surrounded by the Ashwood Forest and wastelands, the only sign of activity was the adventurer's request office. "Here we are," the carriage driver announced. The carriage stopped. Galen tried to stand up with determination. *Crack*. His knees responded too. "...Both of them," Galen muttered. He took several deep breaths and steeled himself. Placing both hands on his lower back, he slowly rose to his feet. Each movement sent pain shooting through him. Twenty years of adventuring had left their mark on his body. It took longer than expected to descend from the carriage. The young adventurers had already walked ahead. Galen climbed the stairs to the Rusty Gear Tavern alone, slowly. A wooden door greeted him. The sign clearly read "Wanderer's Guild—Tornyka Branch" with "Rusty Gear Tavern" written beside it. Taking a deep breath, Galen pushed the door open. *Ding-a-ling*. The sound of an old bell echoed. For a moment, the noise inside the shop fell silent. Several adventurers looked at the newcomer. But their gazes soon turned elsewhere. There was no way anyone here would know about something from twenty years ago. "Well, well, Galen. Long time no see," a woman called out from behind the counter, waving her hand. Hydra Morse. The branch chief of Tornyka. Forty-five years old. Her black hair was cut short, and her face bore several fine scars. A former B-rank adventurer with a bold personality. Her skin was deeply tanned, her eyes sharp, and her manner of speech masculine. Her build was rather muscular. How long had it been since Galen last saw her? Three years ago? Five years ago? "Hydra. You haven't changed," Galen said. "You're the one who looks like a wreck. Your gait is strange," Hydra replied. "My lower back," Galen said. "Your lower back?" Hydra asked. Hydra's face broke into a grin. It wasn't a smile of joy at Galen's pain, but rather the kind of smile one gives when teasing a nostalgic acquaintance. "You're still pushing yourself too hard. Well, sit down," Hydra said. Galen slowly lowered himself into the chair beside the counter. Pain shot through him the moment he sat. The most basic human action—sitting in a chair—had become his enemy. "Is this finally it? Real retirement?" Hydra asked as she poured a beer. "Yeah. This is my last request," Galen replied. "I see. Twenty years. You held up well," Hydra said. "You've exceeded the average retirement age of 32 by six years," Hydra added with exasperation. "Experience is still active duty," Galen said, trying to sound tough. But his voice cracked slightly from the pain in his lower back. Several young adventurers in the shop were suppressing laughter. Their gazes turned toward Galen. They seemed to find something amusing in the gap between the title "A-rank adventurer" and the lower-back-pain old man before them. "I don't want to end up like that," one young adventurer muttered to his companion at the same table. Galen heard it. He definitely heard it. When Hydra asked, "Iron pot stew okay?" Galen answered honestly, "Yeah." At least the warmth of the stew would soothe his wounded heart a little. The specialty stew. Three copper coins. Galen saw the price and felt the sting of inflation. A bowl was placed before him. Steam rose from it. Galen picked up a spoon. It was warm. Like being sung a lullaby by one's mother—that kind of gentle warmth. One spoonful of stew. Nothing special, an ordinary taste. But for Galen now, it was the most delicious food in the world. That was when it happened. "Kyaaaaa!" A woman's scream came from outside the town. At the same time— *BOOM!* A sound like the earth itself trembling. The shop window shook. A cup on the counter chimed. The surface of Galen's stew rippled. "What is it?" Galen asked. Galen reflexively tried to stand up. *Crack*. His lower back again. The young adventurers moved toward the window. "That's huge..." one of them muttered. "What is that thing?" another asked. Galen also approached the window, mindful of his body's pain. In the street, a black slime appeared—easily two meters in diameter. The slimy mass was ramming itself against a building wall. The stone of the wall was being corroded by black liquid. "A higher-rank species. Danger level C, or maybe... B?" Galen analyzed. Twenty years of experience automatically assessed the enemy. "That thing hates holy light. It's running away," Hydra said accurately. Hydra's assessment was precise. Dark-attribute monsters avoided their opposite—holy attributes. Normally, a single holy maiden could handle this difficulty. But the problem was— "There's no holy maiden here," one young adventurer said. That was it. Without a user of holy attributes, this slime would continue destroying the town without fear of holy light. Galen—made his decision. He stood up. He put his resolve into his lower back. And he drew his beloved sword—Tetsunga. *Shring*. An old steel longsword emerged from its sheath. This blade, used for twenty years, showed signs of chipping, but its presence remained undiminished. "Old man, wait! That's dangerous!" the young adventurer called out. "We'll go," another said. But Galen's eyes had already changed. The eyes of a beast that had experienced twenty years of carnage. That gaze held an irresistible intensity. The young adventurers were barely managing to call out to him; they weren't truly trying to stop him. "You're an idiot," Hydra said. Hydra reached toward the back of the counter. The red button beside the request board. The emergency signal. Galen headed for the door. However—his foot caught on the threshold. "Whoa!" He tumbled forward. "..." The shop fell silent. An A-rank adventurer who had fallen. Galen stood up from the ground as if nothing had happened. "The step was... high," he said flatly. And with that, he walked outside. Outside, the sounds of combat were immediately audible. The slime was destroying buildings. The voices of fleeing residents. A child crying. Galen gripped Tetsunga. He ran toward the slime. His lower back ached, but that was secondary. "Stop," his lower back screamed internally. "I can't do this either," his knees agreed. "Shut up. Let's go," Galen said. The moment his feet left the ground— His right palm grew warm. And a small blade shot out. A dark-colored, thin blade. *Shwip*. It grazed the slime's surface. The slime trembled. Galen also stopped abruptly. The slime and Galen. Face-to-face, about one meter apart. Perfect silence. "Huh?" The slime's face (which shouldn't exist) expressed shock. "Huh?" Galen wore the same expression. The residents who had been fleeing had stopped and were now watching this strange standoff. The slime hesitated for about five seconds. Then, from somewhere distant—pale light leaked through. Holy-attribute light. The slime turned sluggishly toward it, drawn by the light. And then it disappeared into an alley. Galen dropped to his knees. He stared at his palm. Nothing happened now. It was just an ordinary middle-aged man's hand. An old scar ran across his right knee—a wound from years of adventuring. "...Did I just... use magic?" Galen asked. A man who hadn't been able to use attribute magic in twenty years. A man who had lived as a non-attribute warrior. That man had just now unleashed a dark-attribute blade— Kneeling, his lower back finally reached its limit. Galen slowly collapsed onto the street. Spread-eagle. He simply stared at the twilight sky. "Um... are you alright?" a resident asked nervously. "I'm fine... just resting a bit," Galen replied. He wasn't fine. Galen looked at his palm again. As he stared at it, something in his mind spun at high speed. "Twenty years... I could never use magic, and yet..." Galen muttered. That was definitely a dark-attribute blade. It was clearly something different in nature from physical attacks that would deflect the slime's liquid. During that analysis, twenty years of memories played back at high speed in his mind. "Wait... that time too, and that time..." Galen said. Similar sensations. Throughout twenty years, he'd felt this sense of dissonance many times. But— The pain in his lower back forced his thoughts to shut down. "...Anyway, I'll put on a heat patch tonight and sleep. That's the reality of being 38," Galen said. Galen tried to slowly stand up. It took thirty seconds. He hobbled back to the Rusty Gear Tavern. Hydra stood waiting behind the counter, arms crossed. "So? Thought you were going to die?" she asked. "...Put tonight's room charge on my tab," Galen replied. Hydra sighed and handed him the room key. That was when— "Galen. Don't you think something's been strange about this town lately?" Hydra asked. Her tone had changed. It was serious. "It's not just the slime. We've been getting strange reports from deep in the forest too," Hydra said. Galen's eyes sharpened for just a moment. His instinct, honed over twenty years, quietly but certainly told him: "Something is beginning here." "...Retirement will have to wait a bit longer," Galen said. He headed to his room on the second floor. From the window of his room, looking outside— The town in the sunset, not yet completely dark. In the distance of an alley, a faint holy light flickered briefly. The name Lilia didn't yet exist in Galen's mind. But something was beginning to move. The air of the town. And Galen himself. As Galen stared at it with a puzzled expression, his lower back reached its limit. He collapsed directly onto the futon. He didn't even have the energy left to apply a heat patch. The night of a 38-year-old man passed quietly like this.