In a dingy second-floor room of the cheap inn "Red Copper Pot" on the outskirts of Tulis, the setting sun streamed through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. Guile polished his sword in silence. In his left hand, the short blade "Fang Guard," in his right, a cloth saturated with oil from years of use. He caressed the blade slowly and carefully. A faint scraping sound echoed. This task was akin to meditation. His mind emptied, and only his hands moved. Forty years old. A silver-ranked adventurer. A lifetime as one magically incompatible—what they called a "Void Vessel." Guile's appearance bore the marks of the life he had lived. Black hair streaked with white, cut short. Deep brown eyes held both the sharpness honed by years of combat and the shadow of exhaustion. His features were not handsome—rather, they were hard, sometimes appearing cold. A thin scar ran along his left cheek from a dungeon expedition in his youth, giving him a perpetually vigilant gaze. His body had been forged by decades of swordplay. Lean, muscular. Yet the reality of being forty could not be hidden. His slender frame had lost some of the flexibility of his youth, and signs of decline appeared in places—the cartilage of his shoulders, the joints of his knees, the muscles of his lower back. Over his leather armor hung a weathered adventurer's coat. At his waist hung two swords—the longsword "Wind Breaker" and the short blade "Fang Guard." Both were companions who had weathered many battles. Guile finished polishing "Fang Guard" and took up "Wind Breaker." This was his right arm. When he became an adventurer at eighteen, few had chosen him. "A Void Vessel. Can't use magic. What are we supposed to do with that?" He had lost count of how many times he heard that line before reaching bronze rank. A body incompatible with magical contracts. A body unable to borrow power from spirits. In this world, that meant almost being defective. So Guile polished his sword. For twenty years, every single day, he refined the form of his dual-blade technique, "Twin Fangs." Defense and feints with the short blade, decisive strikes with the longsword. Unable to use magic, he bet everything on "reading" his opponents. He predicted the attack patterns of monsters two or three moves ahead and maximized the openings. When he reached silver rank, Guile was thirty years old. Ten years had passed since then. Guile remained silver rank, his progress halted. Or rather, he could no longer advance. A wound to his back from a recent request never fully healed. The pain had subsided, but the area around the injury remained perpetually uncomfortable. The muscle damage had repaired. But the nerves—something—had not fully recovered. When he gripped his sword, the explosive power of his youth was gone. Guile knew this better than anyone. As he polished "Wind Breaker," a thought crossed his mind. (I've reached my limit.) There was no deceiving himself. His body was declining. Without magic, physical deterioration translated directly into loss of combat ability. This month's request rewards totaled forty-eight silver coins. Compared to other adventurers recently, it was pathetically small. The trust of request givers was falling. Young adventurers were taking his jobs. His savings were around one hundred twenty silver coins. Considering monthly living expenses, he had two months left at most. Tomorrow, he would go to the Stone Board and complete the deregistration procedures. Guile had decided. His life as an adventurer would end here. He leaned his sword against the window and began organizing his belongings. Tools, equipment, memories collected over twenty years. There had been a time when everything was necessary; now it was all superfluous. Rope, light stones infused with magical essence, bottles of healing potion, sharpening stones for daggers... Guile handled each item carefully. Not discarding them, but organizing them. He would not use these again, but he could not bring himself to treat them carelessly. Outside the window, the setting sun tilted further, dyeing the city's outline crimson. The town of Tulis slowly drifted toward sleep. That was when it happened. A cold wind swept through the room. Guile froze. The window was closed. The door remained shut. Yet unmistakably, a cold wind rushed through the room. He reached for his sword, but his movement stopped midway. Because in that instant—a faintly glowing pattern appeared on the floor. Geometric designs. Intricately interwoven lines glowed upon the floor. They were emerald green. The color of wind. Guile held his breath. For someone magically incompatible like him, this phenomenon was utterly incomprehensible. Was it something like the "contract seal" that appeared when a spirit contract was invoked? But he had not cast any magic. His body could not even do that. The pattern slowly rotated, transforming in complexity. Its radiance grew steadily stronger— —and then vanished in seconds. Silence returned to the room. No light remained on the floor. Only the shadows of the setting sun lingered. Guile stood up. His grip on his sword tightened. But no enemy appeared. Only silence filled the room. A hallucination, perhaps. That was what Guile thought. Fatigue and anxiety about retirement had conjured such a vision. He had experienced this many times before. An occupational hazard of adventurers. Spend long hours deep in ancient dungeons in environments thick with magical essence, and sometimes you see things. Even this cheap inn was not completely free of magical contamination. Guile sat on the bed. He took a deep breath. He calmed his mind. But— (No. That's wrong.) An odd sensation lingered in his chest. It was not the discomfort of a hallucination. It was something more concrete, as if something had been "implanted" within him. Just beside his heart, deep in his lungs. There was something there. Guile placed his hand on his chest. He felt nothing through his skin. Normal skin, normal body temperature. But inside— (What is this...?) Guile furrowed his brow. Perhaps he should see a doctor. But the doctor would say "there's nothing wrong." No wounds on the surface, no abnormalities. He would surely be told it was merely nerves. Time progressed into night. Guile put away his organized belongings and carefully stored his swords in a box. He would probably never use his longtime companions again. But he would have Glen maintain them. After twenty years together, he owed them that much care at the end. He lay on the bed. The ceiling was dark, invisible. Guile exhaled quietly toward the darkness. Tomorrow, he would go to the Stone Board. He would tell Vorse of his retirement. Twenty years as an adventurer would end there. One hundred twenty silver coins in savings. He would move to some small village in the west, learn a trade. Teach swordplay, perhaps, or hire himself out as a mercenary— (It is not yet over.) The thought suddenly surfaced. Guile opened his eyes. That sensation in his chest whispered it to him. Something was there. Something had been implanted within him. What was it? Guile placed his hand on his chest again. But no answer came. Only that strange sensation existed there. Outside the window, darkness had completely fallen. The street lamps of Tulis cast weak magical light. What remained was the usual night, unchanged from any other. Yet something had changed. Guile felt it. The sensation in his chest was not mere fatigue. It was surely a harbinger of something transforming him. Guile extinguished the lamp. In the darkness, he fell asleep. But the events of that night would become the most crucial turning point in his forty years of life. Guile did not yet know this. Only the sensation in his chest continued to whisper to him— "It is not yet over."