Date: January 1, 2018 | Ti: 12:45 PM
Location: Sylvaris Central Market District
Perspective: Kaiser
The collar of my shirt was currently my greatest enemy.
Every ti it brushed against my neck, I felt the stinging reminder of the last hour. Celia’s "marking" session had been thorough. My collarbone was a map of bite marks, a physical record of her transition from a screaming yandere to a possessive, clinging bunny.
I had been released from the chains, but my dignity was still in shackles.
She’s turning 18 this year...
Watching her walk a few paces ahead of .
Technically a woman by the world’s standards, yet she acts like a child at tis. Or a grown-up who’s decided that marking is her duty.
I had tried to leave the inn alone to check the local prices for weapons—my 25 bronze daggers were still weighing heavily on my mind like a lost limb—but she had insisted.
After the "tasting," I wasn’t about to risk a round two by saying no.
Celia was walking with a bubbly, bounce, her hands open and swinging at her sides. She looked like she was vibrating with pure excitent, a complete 180 from the girl who had pinned to the bed with chains.
"You’re awfully quiet, Kai," she said, spinning around to face while walking backward. "Still thinking about ee?"
"My poor daggers," I sighed.
"25 bronze is a lot of market-grinding for a ’beginner’ like . Now I’m essentially a civilian with zero mana and zero weapons. I’m just a walking target."
She giggled, her eyes crinkling. "You’re not a target. You’re mine. There’s a difference."
I looked around the Market District.
Sylvaris was a loud, chaotic ss of gears and magic. rchants lined the cobblestone streets, hawking everything from enchanted whetstones to basic mana potions. The air slled of roasted at, ozone, and cheap iron.
It was a world built on "Roles."
"Look at this place," I gestured toward a stall selling heavy plate armor. "Everything is categorized. Everyone has a slot to fill. Healer, Swordsman, Mage, Archer, Tank, Assassin, Bard, Paladin, and Summoner... And much more. That’s the formula for a successful party."
Celia tilted her head, watching a group of mages walk by in their flowing, impractical robes. "Roles? That sounds so... clinical. Why categorize people?"
"To ensure they all survive," I countered. "A Tank takes the hits, the Healer nds the cracks, and the Mage provides the heavy artillery. How would you rate them?"
She tapped her chin, looking at a mage who was accidentally sparking light from his fingertips.
"Mages are the best. Obviously. They can rewrite the environnt. I’d put them at the top. Everything else just seems like... unnecessary labor."
"Yeah, sure," I muttered.
Tell that to the mage who gets his head taken off by a rogue because he forgot to check his flank. As miss world yourself you wouldn’t know.
As we walked, I noticed her movent. Her boots were worn—the leather was fraying at the seams, and the soles looked thin enough to feel every pebble.
How long has she been wearing those? She worries about my daggers but walks around in trash.
"So," Celia said, stopping and looking dead in the eye. "If there are nine roles... what are you, Kai?"
I stopped. I looked down at my palms.
What am I? I am a Level 1 anomaly with no weapons. I don’t fit into a ’Role.’ But if I had to judge my current physical limits and tactical preference honestly...
"Kai? Tell eeee," she nudged my arm.
I smiled, reaching out to pat her head. Her hair was soft, a stark contrast to the sharp energy she usually projected.
"I’d be an Assassin. But a beginner at that. High speed, high lethality, zero margin for error."
"An assassin?" She puffed out her chest, trying to show off her biceps. There wasn’t much muscle there, just lean, pale skin.
"Don’t worry, hubby. Your wife will deal with all the monsters and your enemies. I’m strong! I’ll protect my little beginner assassin."
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
"Hey! Don’t laugh!" she pouted, her cheeks reddening. "I’ll grow! I’ll get huge muscles and then you’ll see!"
"I’m sure you will, bunny," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the silver coin I’d been hiding.
Her eyes widened. She snatched it from my hand, biting it to check the authenticity. "Silver?! Kai, who did you con? Who is currently crying in an alleyway because of you?"
"I didn’t con anyone. It was a gift," I said, leaning back against a rchant’s stall. "Sylvia gave it to ."
"Sylvia?" Celia’s pout deepened. "The ’Drama Queen’ gave you a silver coin? Why? Is she trying to buy your affection? Because I’ll return it. With interest."
"She told to treat you nicely with it,"
"She said it’s a gift for both of us. She was happy you were okay, Celia. She was there during the trial, defending you while you were... out of it."
Celia went quiet. She turned the coin over in her fingers, her bubbly energy settling into sothing more grounded.
"The trial... I rember. I didn’t care who was there. I thought if I lost you, I’d lost everything. I didn’t even notice them."
She looked up at , a flicker of genuine realization in her eyes. "So... Lucas and Levi were there too?"
"Yes," I said. "You’re not alone, Celia. You have friends. Even if you think they’re annoying, they stood in the gap for you."
She stepped closer, wrapping her hand around my arm and leaning her head against my shoulder. The market noise seed to fade out.
"I’m not alone as long as I have you. Without you... I’m always alone. No matter how many people are standing there."
I sighed, patting her hand. "Okay, bunny. I get it."
"Okay, daddy," she chirped.
My heart nearly stopped. I felt the eyes rush to my face as several passersby—a group of older rchants and a passing guard—snapped their heads toward us, eyebrows shooting into their hairlines.
"Don’t call that in public!" I hissed, putting my hand over her mouth before she could spout any more ’good girl’ dialogue.
She muffled a giggle against my palm, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She didn’t care. She was living in her own world, and I was just the unfortunate soul she had dragged into it.
I pulled her along, walking faster to escape the judging stares of the locals.
Look, guys, she’s 17. I’m 17. We’re both minors in the eyes of the law, probably. Don’t take the wrong idea. I’m just a guy trying to buy a dagger and survive a soulmate who thinks public embarrassnt is a love language.
I smiled at a particularly judgntal-looking grandmother as we passed, hoping my "reputation" looked more like a protective boyfriend and less like a victim of a very specific fetish.
"Hmph," Celia pouted as I finally let go of her mouth.
"I can call my daddy whatever I want."
"Not if you want to eat lunch," I muttered.
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
I didn’t answer. I just kept walking, my collarbone still stinging, my pockets containing one silver coin, and my life currently being dictated by a girl who was as dangerous as she was adorable.
This world is going to be a long grind.
My eyes caught the sharp, gleam of tempered steel reflecting the midday sun.
It wasn’t the dull iron of the common stalls; this was professional-grade gear.
I reached out and caught Celia’s hand. Instead of the firm, controlling grip from earlier, I let my fingers lace through hers, pulling her gently toward the stall.
She stumbled slightly, a soft gasp escaping her, her face lighting up with that dazed, "good girl" glow the mont she realized I was leading her.
The stall was a marvel of portable engineering.
It wasn’t just a table; it was a vertical display of movent-focused gear.
Lightweight cuirasses designed for high-dexterity adventurers, boots with mana-venting soles for "Silent-Steps" users, and rows of passive relics—shimring amulets that promised heat regulation or minor poison resistance.
"Kai? What are you looking for?" she asked, leaning her head against my shoulder as we ca to a halt.
"Tools, bunny," I murmured. "I can’t keep fighting with my insults and fists."
The rchant looked up. He was in his early thirties, with sun-darkened skin and eyes that had seen enough monster raids to know a real custor from a window-shopper.
He wiped his hands on a grease-stained apron and gave us a professional nod.
"New to Sylvaris?" he asked, his voice a gravelly baritone. "Just rolled in from the Southern Trade Routes myself. Na’s Garen. I specialize in gear for those who prefer not to get hit. What’s your poison?"
I leaned against the counter, my eyes scanning his inventory. "Do you have any extending composite swords? Or perhaps a reaper?"
Garen raised an eyebrow. "A reaper? You’ve got expensive taste, kid. I don’t keep those in stock—they’re too specialized. But composite? I might have sothing that fits the bill."
He reached beneath the counter. His shop was a labyrinth of organized clutter—vials of buff-potions tucked into padded slots, leather straps hanging like vines, and crates of raw ores waiting to be forged.
With a heavy thud, he placed a long sword on the velvet display mat.
It was a striking piece of work.
The blade was long and sleek, etched with intricate skull designs that seed to shift under the light. The handle was a deep, bruised red, featuring a guard shaped like a curved fang.
I picked it up, the weight familiar and grounding. I aid the tip toward the sky, feeling the balance. It was a composite blade—chanical, with extendable segnts held together by high-tension wire-chains.
"It’s only a sword, Kai," Celia comnted, her voice suddenly dropping that bubbly lilt. She leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she inspected the steel with a cold, professional detachnt.
"The lethality is capped. If you go up against a High-Tier flyer or a Great-Oak Golem, this won’t do much. It’s too normal. Too... cheap."
I looked at her, my mouth slightly ajar.
This girl... one minute she’s blushing because I patted her head, and the next she’s sounding like a veteran executioner.
"And the handle is too big for a standard grip," she continued, pointing a delicate finger at the fang-guard. "It’ll snag on your clothes during a rapid-draw. You should stick to daggers, Kai. This isn’t special enough for you."
Either she has far too much experience, or she’s spent way too much ti hanging out with the wrong crowd.
Garen let out a booming laugh, leaning his elbows on the counter. "Well, she’s certainly got an eye for detail, I’ll give her that! You’ve got yourself a sharp one, kid."
He looked at Celia with a grin. "You’re right about the weight and the size, miss. But you’ve misinterpreted the fundantal difference between a composite blade and a composite sword."
"What is the difference?" Celia tilted her head.
Garen took the sword back from , his calloused hands gripping the reddish handle with a reverence that didn’t match his rugged exterior. He held the blade horizontally, the skull designs on the steel seeming to chatter under the shifting sunlight.
"This isn’t just a toy for show, little lady," Garen said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp.
"Back in my adventuring days, before a stray Wyvern tail decided my knee didn’t need to work anymore, this was my signature. I call her ’The Reverend Insanity.’"
He tightened his grip, and suddenly, the air was filled with a sharp, chanical snick-clank.
The blade didn’t just move; it fractured.
The solid steel separated into 15 distinct segnts, connected by a shimring, high-tension chain that glowed with a faint, oily light. With a flick of his wrist, Garen sent the blade whistling through the air. It extended nearly five ters, the segnts biting into the wooden post of his stall with a terrifying, jagged rhythm.
Celia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide as the "cheap" sword transford into a whip of death.
"It... it extends?!"
"5 ters of unpredictable lethality," Garen grunted, flicking his wrist again.
The internal spring-loaded reel inside the hilt hissed, and the segnts flew back together, locking into a solid blade with a sound like a guillotine closing.
"The chanic is simple: centrifugal force drives the extension, and a high-tension mana-coil handles the retraction. At five ters, you can decapitate a scout while his friends are still drawing their bows. You can hook it around shields or trip a charging beast."
He looked at the blade, a shadow of bitter experience crossing his face.
"But there’s a reason you don’t see the Knights of Asura or those fancy S-rankers swinging these around. To reach its pri, you need insane grip strength and reflex. The recoil alone when it snaps back would rip a normal man’s shoulder out of its socket. And the chains... they’re the weak link. Literally..."
"One bad strike against a heavy plate, and they snap. It’s unpredictable. A suicide weapon in the hands of anyone less than a master."
Celia reached out, her fingers hovering near the edge. "It’s... it’s incredibly sharp. I take back what I said, Garen. This isn’t normal." She looked up at him, her brow furrowed.
"But if it’s so versatile, why did you stop? Why aren’t more people using it?"
"Because it’s unrealistic in real combat," Garen sighed, handing the sword back to . "Nobody has the sense of knowing exactly when those chains are at their breaking point. It’s a gamble, every ti you swing."
"I want it," I stated. My voice was flat, leaving no room for negotiation.
Celia and Garen both jumped, staring at in total surprise. "Kai, did you hear him?" Celia asked, her hand clutching my arm.
"The chains break! It’s unfavorable! You could be in the middle of a fight and—"
"I’m fine with an unfavorable chance," I interrupted, my thumb tracing the fang symbol on the guard.
"Chains can be reinforced. chanisms can be optimized. I don’t need a weapon that’s perfect; I need a weapon that can be modified to suit my pace."
"Ahahahah..."
"An engineer, eh? You’ve got the eyes for it, kid. If you’re so smart, why not just slt your own from scratch?"
"Materials are expensive," I said, giving him a dry look. "And slting is a bother. Smog, heat, the ti investnt... it’s a drag. Buying a solid base is more efficient. What’s the price?"
Garen’s smile faded. He looked at the sword, then back at .
"10 gold."
Ten gold? My life felt like a coordinated scam.
"10? For a weapon that might explode in my hand at any mont? Let’s be realistic, Garen."
Garen laughed, but there was a touch of sadness in it.
"I’ve had this sword for 8 years. Adventurers co, they look, they hear the ’unpredictable’ part, and they walk away. But you..." He leaned over the counter, his eyes locking onto mine.
"Your eyes have this fla, kid. A cold one, like you’re ready to ignite the world just to see how it burns. I want this blade to shine in soone’s hands one more ti before I retire for good."
He held up four fingers. "4 gold. That’s as low as my pride will let go."
Four gold. It’s a steal for this level of engineering, but considering I’m currently rocking a net worth of one silver and so loose change, it might as well be a million. This is the ’grind’ people talk about.
"It’s still too much for right now," I said, leaning back and crossing my arms. "Can you hold it for a few days? I’ll manage the money. I just need to... optimize my current financial situation."
Garen shrugged, sliding the sword back into a protective leather sheath.
"Sure. Like I said, it’s not like I’m drowning in sales for a death-trap. She’ll be here when you’ve got the coin."
Celia let out a relieved breath, she clung to my arm again, her eyes shining.
"Don’t worry, hubby! We’ll go on so many quests, you’ll have four gold in no ti! And then I’ll watch you swing that scary chain-sword and—"
"Quiet, bunny," I muttered, but I didn’t pull away.
I looked at her boots again. They weren’t just worn; they were hard to even walk upon. How can she claim to be my ’queen of curses’ while walking on soles thin enough to read a newspaper through? The first rule is simple: my bunny doesn’t walk in trash.
"Garen, do you have any combat-ready footwear for won? Sothing that can handle a high-dexterity user."
Celia’s hand tightened on my arm, her eyes snapping toward in genuine shock.
"Kai? What are you doing? You didn’t even have enough for your own daggers! You’re weaponless—"
I reached into my pocket and let the silver coin dance across my knuckles—the shimring proof of Sylvia’s ’gift.’
"I’ve got just the thing," Garen said, his grin widening as he saw the silver. He ducked back under his counter, rummaging through a crate labeled Specialized Mobility. He erged a mont later holding a pair of boots that made Celia’s breath hitch.
They were red. Deep, blood-red heels with silver filigree along the arches. They looked like sothing a noblewoman would wear to a ball, not sothing a fighter would wear to a slaughter.
"Now, don’t let the shape fool you, little lady," Garen said, setting them on the counter.
"These are modified with a mana-vented invisible base. To the world, you’re on four-inch heels. To your feet, it’s like you’re walking on flat, ergonomic combat boots. They’re enchanted for terrain-resistance—mud, snow, sticky cursed swamps—nothing sticks. They’re built for the hunt."
I looked at Celia. Her eyes were fixed on the red leather, her pupils dilated.
"Do you like them, Celia?"
"I... I’ve always wanted a new pair, but..." She reached up, her fingers grazing the Ring of Empty Chaos. Her voice wavered, her possessive side clashing with her guilt.
"Kai, you’re spending your only—"
"I’m buying them,"
I tossed the silver coin onto the counter. It spun, humming against the wood. I gave Garen a sharp, calculated smirk.
"Keep the change."
Garen picked up the coin, weighed it, and then let out a dry chuckle.
"Actually, kid... these are 2 silvers. High-grade enchantnts don’t co cheap."
...My aura. My beautiful, calculated aura of dominance. It just evaporated.
Note to self: always check the price tag before the dramatic toss.
I didn’t let the embarrassnt show. I simply leaned forward, my gaze turning cold and predatory.
"Consider it a down paynt. I’ll pay 5 gold for that composite sword in a few days instead of 4. A simple loan for the extra silver. Deal?"
Garen looked at , then at the blushing, dazed ss that was Celia
"ahahah.."
He let out a loud laugh and gave a conspiratorial wink. "5 gold later for a silver now? You’re a terrible businessman, but a hell of a partner. They’re yours, kid."
"Give a seat."
He kicked a small wooden stool toward . I grabbed Celia by the waist—and guided her into the seat.
"Kai? What—here? In public?" she whispered, her face turning a shade of red that matched the shoes.
"Sit,"
I knelt down in the middle of the crowded market street.
I reached out and took her foot in my hand, my fingers sliding over the worn leather of her old boots.
"I can... I can do it myself," she stamred, her hands hovering nervously over her lap.
"Let take care of you, Celia," I said, looking up at her from my knee.
"It’s the least I can do. I don’t want to take anything from you. I want to give you everything you’ve ever wanted. Now, be a good girl and stay still."
Celia let out a tiny, soft "Mmm," her resistance crumbling instantly. She sat back, her hands gripping the edges of the stool, her eyes shimring as she watched work.
I unlaced her old boots, my touch deliberate and grounding.
When I slid the red heels onto her feet, I made sure my fingers lingered against her skin, feeling the way she trembled under my touch. The fit was perfect.
It was as if the heels were an extension of her own mana.
Looks pretty on her.
I stood up, offering her my hand for support.
She took it, rising from the stool with a newfound grace. She looked taller, sharper, and utterly flustered. She looked down at her feet, a shy, beautiful smile breaking across her face.
"Thank you, Kai..." she whispered.
"ntion it not," I replied, pulling her close to my side as we began to walk away from the stall.
I felt like I had the situation under control. The money was a future problem, the sword was waiting, and my girl was satisfied.
But as we turned the corner, I felt a sudden, icy prickle at the back of my neck—a sensation of being observed by sothing far more dangerous than a rchant.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Standing near a coffee cart across the street was a strange girl. She was holding a steaming cup in her hand, her posture perfectly still.
But her eyes... They were pink. They were hollow, dark, and filled with a silent, murderous intensity that seed to drain the color from the air around her.
She didn’t move.
She just watched us.
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