There Is No World For ■■

Central Training Yard of Namgung Jeongbaek’s Fortress.

Neti rubbed her eyes as she stared at the container.

But no matter how much she rubbed them, the container in front of her didn’t disappear.

Was this real? A container, complete with handles and chains to make it easy for a dragon to lift?

Neti, blankly staring at the container, slowly turned her head toward her sister.

“...Sis, weren’t we supposed to ride on the dragon’s back?”

Seti, who was moving water canisters, gave a breathless, incredulous laugh.

“I never said we’d ride on its back.”

“...”

“And how would you eat and sleep on a dragon’s back? Quit your nonsense and help move the supplies.”

With that, Seti pointed to a corner of the training yard. In the storage area, folding chairs, sleeping bags, and boxes of food were prepared for loading into the container.

Neti grumbled but obediently picked up a food box. It was heavy.

Curious about what was inside, she pried it open slightly and was greeted by dried fruit, canned goods, and the ever-hated Spam.

‘...Perfect recipe for constipation.’

Muttering under her breath, Neti carried the items into the container. Then, turning toward the Saint, who was inside organizing the cargo, she asked:

“Saint, didn’t you ride on the dragon’s back?”

“Huh? No? It's not a short distance—it takes more than ten days. How would I manage on a dragon’s back? I couldn’t even sit on a horse like that.”

“Then?”

“I set up a tent.”

“...A tent?”

No matter how big a dragon was, could you really set up a tent on it? As Neti tilted her head in disbelief, the Saint added,

“You know cliff camping? Like that. I anchored ropes between the scales and pitched a tent... Oh, it wasn’t that hard. Got a little motion sick, though.”

She said it like it was nothing, but Neti couldn’t even pretend to agree. She’d just admitted to dangling off a dragon’s body for over two weeks.

She’s insane. Completely insane.

Clicking her tongue, Neti went back to moving supplies.

It didn’t take long to finish. Partly because two superhumans were carrying the cargo themselves, and partly because there wasn’t much to load into the container to begin with.

Anyway, by the time all three girls had moved the supplies and were sipping on some water—

A massive shadow fell over the fortress.

The red dragon, Orsé Tabul.

He circled once over Namgung Jeongbaek’s stronghold, then descended onto the training yard.

Boom—!

Rocks and dirt burst upward from the impact, and the servants and guards of the fortress flinched in terror.

Had Balagu—not Namgung Jeongbaek—not warned them in advance about the dragon’s arrival, they probably would’ve all bolted in panic.

Even so, just because they didn’t flee didn’t mean they weren’t scared. Some began to pray to their gods, others dropped to their knees in reverence.

But the dragon didn’t care what the humans in the fortress did.

His attention was focused solely on the people in the training yard—especially the Saint, standing close to the blue-eyed girl.

[I have come at your call.]

****

Rooftop of Jeongbaek Fortress.

Watching the dragon land in the training yard, Balagu swallowed hard.

He’d known it was coming, but seeing it in person left him speechless.

Yet Yeomyeong, the one who summoned the dragon, looked utterly calm.

After a brief glance to confirm the arrival, he continued the conversation they’d been having.

“The illusion on your face will last, at most, two more days. After that... have you thought of anything?”

That finally snapped Balagu out of his daze, and he responded,

“Yes, I plan to wear a mask.”

“Really? Then we’ll need to give you a good reason to wear one.”

Yeomyeong said that and cast Bloody Tears’ illusion magic on Balagu’s face.

Balagu picked up a mirror and checked—there was a large scar running across his face.

“This scar...”

“It’s an excuse. If you say you’re wearing the mask to cover a scar, it’ll make people less suspicious.”

“Ah...”

“But you can’t wear it every day. So find someone useful who can vouch for you when it’s off. A fellow disciple, maybe...”

As Yeomyeong went on with unsolicited advice, Balagu suddenly blurted out,

“Yeomyeong-nim... are you a Hero?”

“...What?”

The hell are you talking about? Yeomyeong furrowed his brow and stopped talking. Balagu cautiously continued.

“Just from what I’ve seen at your side... you defeated Dagal in the Demon Realm, you gave our tribe—who were once slavers—a chance to atone, and you saved this city.”

“...”

“And you even saved countless people whose names and faces you didn’t know from a missile attack, together with the Saint.”

“...Where did you hear that...?”

Yeomyeong trailed off, then shook his head. He probably heard about the nuclear missile from Finel.

Blabbermouth. Pressing his temples, Yeomyeong replied flatly,

“A Hero? Please. That just happened.”

A string of coincidences, nothing more. He never did any of it with noble intentions.

Case in point: he’d also spread rumors in the city to sow chaos.

Balagu, having heard Yeomyeong’s answer, closed his mouth, as if choosing to respect it—though his face said he wasn’t convinced.

A short silence.

Yeomyeong, watching the dragon latch the container’s chains onto its neck, opened his mouth again.

“Balagu. Do you know why rain wets the earth?”

A sudden, cryptic question.

Balagu, instead of asking what kind of nonsense that was, answered seriously.

“I don’t know...?”

“The answer is: it just does.”

“...”

“Rain doesn’t care if weeds grow where it falls, or if poison plants take root. In the same way...”

“...It wouldn’t care if flowers bloom either.”

Balagu finished his sentence, and Yeomyeong let out a light laugh.

“Exactly. I’m no Hero. Can’t be one, don’t want to be one.”

Just like rain doesn’t fall with the intent to make flowers bloom, his good deeds were never done for the sake of doing good.

Understanding Yeomyeong’s metaphor, Balagu nodded.

“...Yes, I understand.”

That was the end of the conversation. Yeomyeong and Balagu left the rooftop in silence, heading for the training yard.

By the time the Saint, waiting for them, spotted them approaching—

Balagu, who had been silent the whole way, spoke again.

“Yeomyeong-nim.”

“What now.”

“...Whatever the rain may be thinking, the flowers will still be grateful for it.”

Is that how it works? As Josef and Finel approached from the distance, Yeomyeong let out a faint chuckle.

****

Unlike their sudden meeting, their farewell was rather ordinary.

There weren’t many to say goodbye to.

Josef the arms dealer, Finel the one-armed elf, and Balagu.

“Never thought I’d grow my business by cozying up to power. Thanks to you, I’ll be padding my pockets nicely. If you return to Earth, say hello to Old Man Jangman for me.”

Josef’s goodbye was as blunt as he was. A true arms dealer who lived and died by money.

“I hope we meet again. Saint, Miss Seti, Miss Neti, may you all stay well.”

Balagu, still wearing Namgung Jeongbaek’s face, was polite—though he did add something a bit too sentimental.

“Yeomyeong-nim, if possible, I’d like to plant a flower field in the city. Please come visit again someday.”

Yeomyeong replied that he would, and then turned to bid farewell to the one-armed elf.

Or at least, he tried to.

But Finel skipped the goodbye and said this instead:

“Think I can catch a ride on that container? Up to the Elven Forest, maybe?”

It was a sudden request.

Yeomyeong glanced at Orsé Tabul, asking with his eyes if it was okay. The dragon responded, flames curling at his lips:

[If it’s just leftover ashes, I’ll gladly drop them off at the forest. Commie.]

“...”

Communists ride for free? Yeomyeong shrugged at the dragon’s aggressive tone.

Rather than looking disappointed, Finel handed Yeomyeong a sealed letter, as if he’d expected this.

“Then Yeomyeong, take this.”

“...A letter? For who?”

“It’s a report for our commander. If you stop by the city, send it along to the Elven Forest.”

Yeomyeong accepted it without complaint.

And with that, the farewells were done. The group climbed aboard the container.

As they did, Neti muttered something about being a "dragon rider" or whatever, but when Seti raised a fist, she shut up immediately.

Just as the dragon spread its wings to take off—

Yeomyeong, remembering something, leaned toward Neti and whispered something in her ear.

Her face lit up, and without a word, she telekinetically flew out of the container and climbed onto the dragon’s back.

“...Yeomyeong, what did you just tell her?”

In the spot Neti had just vacated, Seti narrowed her eyes at him.

Like a wife who just realized her husband secretly bought their kid a toy he said he wouldn’t.

Yeomyeong sat beside her and replied,

“Nothing much. Just sent her on a little errand.”

With that as the cue, the dragon soared into the sky.

The container jolted violently, but the group didn’t mind. The only real casualty was Corvus, who snorted and stirred in his sleeping bag.

Anyway, high above the city, the dragon looked down and repeated the words Neti had just whispered to it:

[Humans of the city.]

[The ruler of the Court has knelt before me. From this day forward, he is my contractor.]

[I swear on my treasure: this is a warning.]

[Anyone who defies this declaration will be reduced to ashes, not even bones left beneath my flames.]

The dragon’s declaration was half-hearted at best.

Inside the container, the Saint gave a dry laugh.

“‘Ruler of the Court’? That’s a vague-ass title. And he didn’t even mention his own name? Seriously? Swearing on a treasure he doesn’t even have? This is all bullshit, start to finish. Yeomyeong, did you just make the dragon lie for you?”

Yeomyeong shrugged.

The Saint shook her head like she couldn’t believe it—but Seti just snorted and elbowed Yeomyeong in the ribs.

And just like that, with Neti’s faint scream echoing from outside the container—

Yeomyeong left the Trash City behind.

****

They say misfortune never comes alone.

Merchant Tindamel thought that saying couldn’t be more true. He should know—he was living proof of it.

It all started with the mercenary company’s betrayal.

Originally, he had planned to contract with an Earth-born mercenary group recommended by the dwarves, but was persuaded by the argument that “you should always trust your own kind” and hired Dodon’s Brotherhood instead.

It wasn’t because Tindamel was stupid or reckless.

Dodon’s Brotherhood was one of the most famous mercenary groups in the Central Region, boasting ten superhumans among their ranks.

But the greater the trust, the harsher the betrayal.

“Merchant, we’ll be taking the goods from this trade run.”

If it had been the usual Tindamel, he’d have shown those traitors the sharp taste of an Earth-made automatic rifle.

But his bodyguards had long since gone south to Drayterial, chasing some big-score opportunity, and those proud Earth-made guns were now in the hands of the very mercenaries robbing him.

Damn it. That so-called “big score”—was it worth it?

And misfortune didn’t stop there. While rifling through his cargo, the mercenaries discovered something they absolutely shouldn’t have.

He had hidden it among ordinary goods just in case—but who would’ve thought that one of those bastards had a background in potion smuggling through the Elven Forest?

“An Awakening Potion? Hey, merchant, who were you planning to sell this to?”

Even when they held blades to his throat, Tindamel stayed silent.

Because of some merchant’s sense of courage? No. Because the moment he named the buyer, he’d be a dead man.

Unfortunately, the mercenaries mistook his silence for defiance.

What followed wasn’t just threats, but grotesque torture.

Getting his fingernails ripped out—he could handle that. But the screams of his fellow merchants? That, he couldn’t bear.

They were companions who had crossed the Fertilizer Road with him for decades. Family who had seen the rise of railways and changing times together.

When the caravan’s scribe finally screamed under water torture, Tindamel made up his mind.

“I’ll talk. Bring Dodon.”

The mercenaries who had been torturing him smiled vilely and stepped outside the tent.

Who would’ve thought that the special bath tent they’d prepared for travel would become a torture chamber?

Tindamel shed bloody tears as he looked at the unconscious scribe.

Soon after, a broad-shouldered man entered the tent.

Dark brown skin, heavily scarred torso exposed—Dodon himself.

“Well now, Tindamel, you’ve finally decided to speak? Would’ve saved us both time if you’d done so earlier.” 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Dodon said this as he nudged the unconscious scribe with his foot. Tindamel nodded and pleaded:

“I’ll tell you everything. Where I got the Awakening Potion, and who was meant to receive it... So please, spare the other merchants.”

“Of course. You talk, and they live. Mercenaries live and die by their honor, right?”

Honor, my ass. Tindamel swallowed the curse and followed Dodon out of the tent.

He was dragged to the center of the caravan’s camp, in front of a campfire. Dodon pushed down on his shoulder.

With superhuman strength pressing down, Tindamel crumpled to his knees instantly.

As the mercenaries snickered around him, Dodon interrogated him like a military officer.

“Well then, speak. Who sold you this precious Awakening Potion? And who was the buyer?”

A predictable question. Who makes Awakening Potions? Obviously necromancers.

And who buys them? Nobles in bed with necromancers, of course.

So the point of this whole setup was clear: get a noble’s name from Tindamel, then blackmail them with the recording.

The Earth-made voice recorder held by a mercenary behind Dodon was proof enough.

“...Come on now. Out with it.”

Dodon urged him, but Tindamel shut his eyes tightly, unable to answer.

Was it really the right move to speak now?

The moment he told the truth, he—and everyone here—might...

As that thought crossed his mind, a gust of wind blew over his head.

So strong it shook the campfire and sent leaves scattering.

It was no natural wind. Both Tindamel and the mercenaries looked up.

Above them: a massive shadow, big enough to blot out the night sky.

“...A dragon?”

Dodon muttered, and at that exact moment, the dragon began its descent.

The mercenaries could only stand and gape as the creature landed.

One quick-witted man pointed a flashlight at it—but it barely lit up the dragon’s chest.

“...What the hell is that?”

There was something strange strapped to the dragon’s chest.

What should he call it? A neatly shaped iron box?

The mercenaries looked puzzled—but Tindamel, being a merchant, recognized it instantly.

A shipping container?

And not just any container—it was a standardized Earth-made container, the kind used during the Vietnam War.

Why the hell would a dragon have that?

While everyone stood frozen in confusion and dread, the dragon unlatched the container from its neck and lowered it to the ground.

Thunk—

Immediately, the container door flung open, and three people climbed out. No—three people, and one crow.

That alone was strange enough.

But it didn’t end there.

Next, the dragon reached up to its own neck and helped someone down.

A tall, short-haired girl. The moment she touched the ground, she doubled over and vomited.

A younger girl’s giggles, a worried voice offering comfort, and a young man patting her back.

An absurd, dreamlike scene that made everyone blink in disbelief.

The first to recover his senses, of course, was Dodon.

“...Everyone, prepare for combat.”

No sooner had he spoken than the mercenaries raised their weapons—mostly the Earth-made automatic rifles they’d stolen from Tindamel’s caravan.

Clack.

The sound of chambers locking into place echoed through the camp—and finally, the people who had dismounted from the dragon turned their heads.

They kept chatting among themselves, but only two began slowly walking toward the campfire.

“Sh-should we shoot?”

“No. Wait.”

Soon, the firelight revealed the pair’s appearance: a young man with a vaguely annoyed look, and a white-haired girl wearing an eyepatch.

“Hello there! We thought you might be a merchant caravan. Mind if we take a look at your goods?”

The girl with the eyepatch asked cheerfully.

An awkward silence followed, thick with disbelief. Dodon answered.

“...Who are you?”

“Just a traveler passing through.”

“A traveler? Riding a dragon? Are you... a Hero, by chance?”

Dodon’s cautious question.

The girl smiled, about to answer—when Tindamel suddenly slammed his forehead into the dirt and shouted.

“Saint! That’s the Saint! O, Great Five Gods!”

“...Ah.”

“Saint, please save us! These mercenaries betrayed our caravan and are trying to kill us! Please, I beg you—urk!”

Just as Tindamel began to shout even louder, Dodon pressed a hand to his neck and knocked him out.

Brief silence.

Before that silence could drag on too long, Dodon sighed and spoke.

“Saint... this is all a misunderstanding. Please, allow me to explain.”

****

“...A misunderstanding?”

“We may appear to be a mercenary group called Dodon’s Brotherhood, but in truth, we are a secret imperial counterintelligence unit.”

Dodon’s voice was calm. Even the mercenaries standing beside him looked like they were wondering, Is this for real?

But when Dodon subtly moved his hand behind his back and gave a signal, the mercenaries snapped back to focus.

Everyone, ready. On my signal: the girl, hostage.

The superhuman mercenaries, having caught the signal, began to slowly drift away from the campfire. Dodon continued speaking without pause.

“We received intelligence that this merchant was secretly working with necromancers to supply Awakening Potions to the Empire. We infiltrated as mercenaries and are now in the process of detaining him.”

At that point, Dodon motioned for one of his subordinates to bring out the evidence.

Soon, one of the ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) mercenaries returned, holding not one, but two Awakening Potions.

“You see? These are Awakening Potions—only necromancers can create them. Undeniable proof that these people colluded with necromancers.”

Despite the dramatic display, the Saint remained unimpressed. Dodon swallowed hard and added,

“Also, you mentioned you needed supplies, correct? You may take whatever goods you want from the caravan, aside from the evidence.”

He finished his pitch and waited for the Saint’s response—but the one who replied wasn’t her.

It was the young man standing beside her.

“And what proof do you have that you’re actually a secret imperial unit?”

“We just showed you the Awakening Potions...”

“That proves the merchants were working with necromancers. It doesn’t prove you’re a secret ops unit.”

A sharp observation. Dodon cursed inwardly, but answered calmly.

“...We are a secret unit. Obviously we wouldn’t carry identification.”

At this point, he was praying they’d just leave.

But the young man tilted his head with a crooked smile.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“...Relief? What do you mean?”

“I was worried you might really be imperial agents. But since you can’t prove it... killing all of you won’t be a problem. Right?”

“Are you saying the Saint intends to harm agents of the Empire? This is all just a misund—”

“Spare me the bullshit and scrub off that filthy reek of twisted mana.”

It was over.

There were paladins who could sense twisted mana, and that guy was clearly one of them.

“Twisted mana? What are you talking about...”

Feigning surprise, Dodon covered his mouth with one hand. With his other hand, he brought his index and middle fingers together—another signal.

Go.

The subordinates who had slipped into the shadows began to move.

At that same moment, twisted mana surged through the veins of Dodon and the superhuman mercenaries.

“Now! Take them!”

Dodon drew his sword and charged.

With ten superhuman mercenaries and the support of the riflemen, taking the Saint hostage should be simple. That’s what he believed.

But his plan unraveled immediately.

Not a single subordinate fired a shot.

To be precise—they couldn’t.

Before they could react, they were all seized by their necks and lifted into the air.

Telekinesis.

Crushing telekinesis strong enough to simultaneously grab dozens of throats.

Dodon gritted his teeth and dodged the barrage of magic.

The plan had gone sideways, but they were already committed. If they didn’t capture the Saint, they’d have no chance of survival.

“Kill them!!!”

At his shout, the superhuman mercenaries attacked from four directions, targeting the young man and the Saint.

Then, the young man clenched his fist in midair.

Another spell? Dodon readied himself to counter—but what flared from the young man’s hand wasn’t magic.

It was light. A cold, sharp glint of sword energy.

A blade?

When did he draw a sword? The question never made it to his lips.

Before he could say anything, the young man swung his sword—and the heads of two approaching superhumans were lopped off cleanly.

Thud—

Two heads hit the dirt. Before the blood could even spill, more attackers surged in.

One from the right, with a dagger. Two from the left, with swords.

As the young man stepped back to shield the Saint, the dagger-wielding mercenary lunged into his guard.

Blade met blade—

And another life vanished.

It wasn’t the young man who died, but the dagger-wielding mercenary.

A meaningless death. Or so it seemed—until the body began to swell.

BOOM—!

A corpse explosion—flesh and blood weaponized with magic. The young man turned his back to shield the Saint and took the blast head-on.

Yes!

Dodon cheered. If the two sword-wielders rushing from the left could just grab the Saint, they’d have a chance—

CLANG!

The next moment, the young man, covered in the explosion’s aftermath, casually swung his sword and deflected both attackers’ blades.

Then came the ice spikes.

The two stunned mercenaries, unable to even attempt a corpse detonation, were impaled straight through the neck.

“...What the fuck?!”

How was he still alive? That was a real corpse explosion—even if it was a makeshift one.

But Dodon didn’t get to finish the thought.

Before he could process the red mana flickering around the young man’s body, the barrel of a revolver met his forehead.

BANG!

The bullet fired from the Saint’s revolver tore straight through Dodon’s skull.