There Is No World For ■■

"I can prove that young man's innocence."

At the unfamiliar voice, both Yeomyeong and the elf turned their heads almost simultaneously.

Beyond the rubble of a collapsed building, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed clearly.

Yeomyeong frowned slightly as he realized the footsteps were unnaturally light.

This wasn’t a matter of footwork or mana—it was impossible for someone with flesh and muscle to produce footsteps that weightless.

"Who are you? Identify yourself."

Before he could finish his question, something cloaked in rags emerged from the darkness.

The figure drew closer to Yeomyeong and threw off the tattered cloak, revealing its face.

"It's been a while, Earthling guided by the stars."

The figure was a skeleton with empty eye sockets blazing with blue flames—no flesh, no muscle, only the simplest kind of undead animated by distorted mana.

"A necromancer wielding blue necromancy? There’s no way any of those who survived the U.S. military would still be around..."

As the elf muttered in disbelief, Yeomyeong recognized a familiar mana emanating from the skeleton’s flames.

A ghostly fire he'd seen somewhere before.

"Could it be...?"

As suspicion turned into certainty, the skeleton cut him off.

"Earthling, your savagery matches that of the elves who act so brutishly. Is it fitting for you to behave like beasts on par with them?"

"..."

"Chopping off the arm of a foolish elf too dense to distinguish between the crystal sold to Dungan Heavy Industries and the one stolen? That’s practically animal cruelty."

"...Dungan Heavy Industries? Stolen crystal?"

The elf’s shocked expression as she looked up at him didn’t matter to Yeomyeong, who aimed his sword at the skeleton.

The blade, infused with the mana of his Severance Oath, trembled as if ready to strike at any moment.

"Oh, you've grown sharper."

The ghostly fire in the skeleton’s hollow eyes curved into a crescent, like a faint, mocking smile.

Yeomyeong recognized that expression immediately. How could he forget? The arrogant smirk of an undead mocking human frailty.

"Kahal Magdu."

A skeleton dragon who had killed his mercenary comrades and sought his life in northern Manchuria.

The undead before him was undoubtedly one of Kahal Magdu’s creations.

Yeomyeong didn’t bother asking how the creature from Earth had ended up in Drayterial or why it appeared here.

Kahal Magdu was an international criminal who followed money from one battlefield to the next.

There was nothing to discuss with such a being—only violence to exchange.

With that judgment, Yeomyeong released his sword aura, shattering the skeleton into fragments.

"Stop lurking and bring your true body."

Even as bone shards flew and the skull split in two, the skeleton’s voice continued undeterred.

"I merely came to say hello, yet your maturity still doesn’t match your skill. Is it the Saint's influence?"

"Shut up, you worthless lizard who doesn’t even make good broth."

The insult came straight from the Saint herself, used to mock Kahal Magdu.

When Yeomyeong repeated it, the half-destroyed skull burst into laughter.

"Your tongue’s improved, I’ll give you that. But what about the rest of you? This time, the Saint won’t be around to save you."

"..."

"If you’re scared, take the train tomorrow and flee, just like in Manchuria. I’ll graciously show you merc—"

Crash—

Before the skeleton could finish, someone stomped down on its skull, grinding it into powder with deliberate precision.

The one responsible dusted off her shoes and looked at Yeomyeong.

"Things are messier than I thought," Seti remarked with a bitter smile.

Yeomyeong nodded and, spotting a short-haired girl peeking out from behind her, couldn’t help but mirror Seti’s wry expression.

"Uh... Hello, brother-in-law?"

***

The burning city was beautiful.

Under the night sky, the flames roared like a purifying fire incinerating ancient garbage.

But "Chicken" knew the fire wouldn’t last long.

Only part of the city had been caught in the blaze, and more importantly...

"There isn’t enough fire for all those who deserve to burn."

His yellow, beast-like eyes pierced through the darkness of the city, beyond the firefighters trying to quell the flames.

At the edge of his vision stood superhumans:

magicians under Namgung Jeongbaek, knights under Seogung Jeongbaek, and even a witch wielding a massive spear.

They watched the chaos caused by the elf and the unidentified human superhuman, hiding in the shadows between buildings and flames, silently keeping each other in check.

Their cowardice amused him, but Chicken didn’t mock them.

The World Tree Crystal was worth it. A treasure so valuable it stripped away all pretense of virtue, leaving greed exposed.

If not for the orders of his superiors... he, too, might have been among them, searching for traces of the elf.

"If I’d known the crystal was here, I would’ve brought more forces. What a shame."

As his thoughts wandered, Chicken recalled the earlier fight and raised a finger.

"Shepherds, I have questions. Step forward, those willing to sacrifice."

The moment his words ended, three figures with pig heads emerged from the darkness and knelt before him.

There were no explanations, no conversations.

Chicken gazed at the pig-headed ones for a moment before pressing his mana-charged finger against their foreheads.

"Your sacrifice will be the foundation of our great nation."

The pig-heads trembled, vomiting torrents of black blood—so much it seemed impossible it could come from their bodies.

Standing ankle-deep in the black pool, Chicken drew on its distorted mana.

As the pool bubbled in response to his mana, he asked a question of the being beyond it.

"Immortal King... was the thunderbolt I saw earlier the Rainbow-Sundering Thunderbolt?"

The blood pool opened like a living mouth and answered in a chilling voice.

[No, what you saw was not the Rainbow-Sundering Thunderbolt.]

One pig-head collapsed. Two remained.

"Then is it a martial art stemming from the same root as the Rainbow-Sundering Thunderbolt?"

[It is a fruit of the tree from which the Rainbow-Sundering Thunderbolt grew.]

The second pig-head fell. Chicken paused, choosing his final question carefully.

After long deliberation, he cautiously asked:

"If I were to obtain that martial art, would it benefit my homeland?"

The pool didn’t answer immediately.

Not until the last pig-head trembled and fell did it respond, its voice ambiguous between a sneer and a warning.

[It would. If you can obtain it.]

***

The "Song of the Camel" was a tavern as old as Drayterial's history itself.

Even during the economic collapse when Earth’s construction companies fled, or when the city was carved up by three different Court Lords, the tavern had stood its ground. Like all old things, it was quiet, its visitors limited to elders nearing the end of their days and fools lost in the back alleys.

Tonight, however, the fire raging in the city center seemed to have driven away even those shadows of customers.

The owner, seeing no chance of anyone arriving, decided to close early. Just as he hobbled his creaky body toward the door to lock it, four hooded figures suddenly burst into the tavern.

“We’re closed for the night—”

The elderly man cut himself off when the foremost figure tossed a gold coin toward him.

“An elven gold coin? Pinel, is that you?”

At the mention of the name "Pinel," the hooded figure removed their hood, revealing their face—a striking elf with fiery red hair.

The tavern keeper, puzzled about why he hadn’t recognized them earlier, realized it was because of the elf’s missing left arm.

The old man stared silently at the elf and the rest of the group for a moment before stepping aside to let them in. Once the group had entered, he glanced outside and promptly bolted the door shut.

“What’s going on at this hour? And what happened to your arm this time?”

As naturally as ever, the old man pulled out a bottle of liquor while he asked.

The elf, whom he had called Pinel, responded indifferently, “A minor misunderstanding.”

A missing arm was a "minor misunderstanding"? Typical elves.

Clicking his tongue, the tavern keeper went to stoke the fire in the hearth but paused mid-motion, as though something had just occurred to him.

“Don’t tell me... the fire in the city center is your doing?”

“It’s the result of a minor misunderstanding.”

This crazy elf. The old man almost swore aloud but stopped himself, glancing at the other customers.

Moments later, he brought out liquor, dried meat, and some honey-coated fried pastries as snacks, setting them on the table where the four had gathered.

“So, what brings you here? And who are these people?”

“They’re the ones involved in the misunderstanding.”

“...”

Finally, the tavern keeper took a closer look at the hooded individuals.

Two girls, devouring the honey pastries as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Judging by the calluses on their hands, they were likely knight trainees or squires.

And then there was...

“...Hmm?”

A young man with golden eyes and black hair.

Arms crossed, he lounged comfortably against the back of his chair, his presence faintly familiar.

Where had the tavern keeper seen someone like him before? Just as his thoughts began to drag on, the elf’s voice interrupted.

“A bottle of your clearest liquor.”

The tavern keeper’s expression darkened immediately at the order. It wasn’t a simple request—it was a code, something only he and the elf understood.

“Are you serious?”

The old man asked in disbelief. Pinel shrugged his single remaining shoulder, silently affirming.

After giving the group one more assessing glance, the tavern keeper brought out a bottle of liquor and two cups, sitting down at their table.

“Pinel, if this decision ends up harming the city, Demeronde will have to clean up the mess himself.”

The name "Demeronde Marx," the leader of the elves, had an immediate effect.

The group’s atmosphere shifted, and the young man even uncrossed his arms, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt.

However, the weapon wasn’t drawn.

The tavern keeper made no threatening moves—instead, he calmly uncorked the bottle, the rich aroma of fine liquor spreading through the room.

“Well then, let’s start with introductions.”

The young man glanced between the elf and the tavern keeper with a look of confusion before tilting his head slightly and replying.

“My name is Cheonyeomyeong.”

“...What? Cheonyeomyeong? Seriously?”

The tavern keeper, thinking he might have misheard, turned to the elf, who responded with another shrug.

The old man licked his lips nervously and leaned forward.

“Are you really that Cheonyeomyeong?”

“...‘That’ Cheonyeomyeong?”

“I mean the Liberator of the Dragon.”

The Liberator of the Dragon? What kind of nonsense was that?

Not only the young man who had introduced himself as Cheonyeomyeong, but even the girls munching on their snacks stared at the tavern keeper in bewilderment.

The old man, aghast at their ignorance, exclaimed:

“Cheonyeomyeong! The Earthling with a conscience, who freed the Dwarven royal guardian dragon, Orse Tabul, from the clutches of the Korean military without asking for anything in return!"

“...”

“...If it’s just a coincidence of name, then I apologize.”

The moment his words ended, an awkward silence settled over the room.

Before the silence could stretch any longer, Cheonyeomyeong, looking slightly flustered, replied.

“I did free Orse Tabul, but... calling me the Liberator of the Dragon seems a bit...”

He seemed about to say more when the tavern keeper abruptly grabbed his own cheek and tore his face off.

Or rather, removed an intricately crafted artificial mask that had covered his face.

Rip.

The sound of tearing leather accompanied the removal of the mask, revealing a face beneath that looked nearly identical to the one before. The only difference was the stern expression replacing the tavern keeper’s previously casual demeanor.

The sudden reveal left both Cheonyeomyeong and the girls stunned. The tavern keeper, however, simply looked at them expectantly.

Another awkward silence.

It was clear none of them recognized him. The old man coughed awkwardly and introduced himself.

“My name is Bikov Alexeyevich Marmeladov.”

Neti narrowed her eyes at the long Russian name, while Seti and Cheonyeomyeong tensed for entirely different reasons.

The name had appeared in the confession of the desert wraith, Dagal.

“The citizens of this city call me the Court Lord of the East.”

The Court Lord of the East.

The old man before them was one of the three Court Lords who ruled Drayterial.