Back when Felix first stepped into the Kawalerielki City of Kazimierz, he was still just a boy—unpolished, untested. His face, his words, his every move carried the rawness of someone who had only just set foot into the world. He had planned carefully, rescued the Black Knight, and then left. Now, after so many years, he returned to this city. The city was unchanged. But he was no longer the same.
To MagicZX, the Pioneer was more than just the leader of Tomorrow's Development. He was an NPC with magnetic presence, a figure who shouldered his responsibilities with unwavering resolve. Watching him evolve—from a lone wanderer to the leader of an entire force—MagicZX couldn't help but feel fortunate. Fortunate that he had been close enough to witness this rise with his own eyes, step by step.
He didn't mean to belittle the Pioneer.
But the man before him now—a middle-aged figure clad in a suit, weary yet steady—pulled his gaze in a way that surprised even him. Beneath the sharp lines of his suit, his frame was clearly hardened through long years of training. His expression was tired, yes, but his eyes cut like blades, sharp enough to freeze the heart.
This NPC radiated history. Depth. A story begging to be uncovered.
MagicZX for the first time he found himself drawn—truly drawn—to a male NPC other than the Pioneer.
He silently mouthed the name in his mind:
Młynar.
Even the sound of it struck him as beautiful.
"Who's there."
The voice cut like a knife. Both Felix and Młynar turned their heads at once. Felix had assumed it was just a passerby, but to think someone had been hiding and eavesdropping? Bold—shameless, even. Still, what surprised him was himself: thanks to his training with Degenbrecher, he could now sense the presence of others.
It was strange to describe, perhaps like a human's so-called sixth sense—the instinct you feel in a crowded café when you know someone is staring at you, or that eerie premonition just seconds before your parents open your bedroom door, footsteps muffled, and you slam Alt+Tab in panic.
As for Młynar? He had already noticed from the very start.
"Apologies," MagicZX quickly bowed, sincerity written across his face. "I didn't mean to overhear the Pioneer's conversation with this gentleman."
"Oh, it's you…"
Felix narrowed his eyes. "One of Tomorrow's Development?"
"Yes."
Felix's expression shifted. "Then what if we hand the bounty hunter group to them?"
"From my sources," Młynar replied smoothly, casting a brief glance at MagicZX that nearly made the young man's heart race, "this group numbers over a thousand. Their target isn't just Margaret. They're also going after any knightly orders who share her ideals."
"I see."
Felix nodded. A king should face another king. The Armorless Union would aim its main force at Margaret. The mercenary bounty hunters could take care of the supporting knightly orders.
"We'll keep in touch."
Młynar rose quickly, already heading out. He had only borrowed this brief time to pass Felix the intel; his real duty was far more mundane—fetching food for the office. If he dawdled, he'd be slapped with overtime again.
Felix watched him leave, then turned his gaze onto MagicZX, a faintly amused smile tugging at his lips.
"So. What did you come here for?"
"Ah—yes!" MagicZX shook himself out of his daze, forcing his thoughts away from Młynar's sharp eyes. "Pioneer, we've noticed unrest in the Kawalerielki City during the nights. Is it the Armorless Union again? If there's anything we can do to help, please—don't hesitate to tell us."
So they'd come to request a quest. Felix's smile deepened slightly, and he gave a small nod.
"The Armorless Union is targeting knightly orders that still uphold Margaret's chivalric spirit. We don't have the manpower to cover them all. When the time comes, we may need your assistance."
MagicZX straightened his back, pride swelling in his chest. His mind was already racing, charting out strategies and preparations for the players' next collective action.
With their current strength, they had no way of stepping into the main battlefield. Their average levels were still too low—at best, the strongest professional players among them were only level thirty-five. They couldn't hope to change the course of the war. What they could do was cut in from the sidelines, clear out some of the trouble for Pioneer, and that alone was enough.
They might have had the heart to march straight onto the frontlines, but the truth was simple—stats didn't lie, and theirs just weren't high enough yet.
As for bounty hunter groups? Please. This wasn't their first time. Back in Kazimierz, players had already clashed with bounty hunter bands before. Once you've done it once, the second time's easier.
And this time, they weren't just a handful of stragglers or a small squad. This time, they had numbers—two hundred players strong, the size of a full company.
Two hundred players against a thousand bounty hunters. The advantage was theirs.
Even though no official quest had come down, Magic ZX took Felix's words as nothing less than a war signal, a sign that something big was coming. Excited, he rushed back into the spectator stands and spread the news to the players waiting for the matches to start.
"Are you kidding me? This time the enemy's headcount is in the four digits?"
"So what? That's why Pioneer brought us here. Four digits or not, I'll cut them down all the same."
"We're winning this."
The crowd of players burst into chatter, the air buzzing with excitement.
Down in the arena, Margaret stood steady, her gaze locked on the light knight facing her—a man a little taller than she was. He said nothing. He simply drew his blade.
Four years of setbacks. Four years of pressure. Four years of wearing a mask. Those years had ground down the brash youth who once spat taunts before a fight, traded jabs during it, and bragged afterward. He wasn't that hot-headed rookie anymore. Six years of blood and steel had reshaped him into something else: a young man seasoned in battle.
But his title? His role? That hadn't changed.
The K.G.C.C's dog. A dog he would always remain.
He knew full well what was at stake if he lost. That was why he would do anything, absolutely anything, to win. For the championship. For a taste of freedom.
But the truth was, he was already too deep in the mire to claw his way out. Even if he did take the Champion's Crown in the Kazimierz Major, escape was impossible. Victory only meant endless sponsorships, ceaseless endorsements, being paraded until the end of his days.
Maybe that was why he accepted the Organization's leash in the first place. Poor. Alone. A young knight with no backing. In those circumstances, bending the knee to the K.G.C.C's hand seemed… logical.
It wasn't until later, after his failures piled up, that he understood the truth: to them, he was nothing but a dog.
A mutt they'd never let stand at the table.
Still… that was all he had left to offer. The resources they gave him demanded a return. Investment had to be met with profit. He knew that much at least.
Losing to the Black Knight? That was no one's fault but his own. He hadn't been strong enough, and there was no excuse to be made. When he later heard they had exiled the Black Knight from both the Major and Kazimierz itself, he'd felt only one thing: satisfaction.
Now, though… he almost envied her. Because unlike him, she'd managed to break free.
He never would. Alive, he was shackled. Dead, the Organization would still twist his name into their tool.
Yes, in the Kawalerielki City he seemed untouchable, basking in privileges only nobles enjoyed. But that supposed freedom? That was the cruelest prison of all.
Across from him, Margaret dared not underestimate her opponent. Sixteen years old, and she'd fought her way to this stage—luck, yes, but also strength.
If she threw the match now, it might ease her burden, buy her a little safety. But Margaret wasn't that kind of knight. Even if the odds were stacked against her, even if she knew her family and her sister would worry themselves sick, she still stepped forward.
Announcer's booming announcement reached their ears like a distant echo.
The light knight and Margaret charged, blades bared, crashing toward each other head-on.
The Light Knight's style hadn't changed—his weapon and movements belonged to that same dazzling, dangerous school of quicksword combat. His strikes were deliberately misleading, designed to trick the opponent into guarding the wrong angle. One misstep, one wrong parry, and his opponent would be dragged into his tempo and cut down. It was this very style that had won him so many fans.
The blade of Margaret's Lance-sword flared with radiance. As the thrust closed in, she neither dodged nor flinched. At that moment, she herself became searing brilliance, hurling straight into the Light Knight.
"Wait… is that—"
Senomi blinked, stunned by the spectacle of Originium Arts at work.
"That's light," Felix said calmly, watching beside her. "The purest light element… with a touch of heat."
In truth, Originium Arts were never so easily defined. Calling it "light" was just a forced explanation. Light was just light—how one turned it into a weapon was beyond him. Yet there was no denying the pressure it put on the knight, who found himself struggling under Margaret's radiance.
He squinted against the stabbing brilliance, his vision clouded. More than that, he felt the heavy force behind each of Margaret's swings. His own quicksword style relied on lightness, on staying ahead and overwhelming the opponent before they could respond. If he lost that edge, if she found a single opening to counter, brute force would crush finesse.
Gritting his teeth, the knight vented compressed gas from his armor, accelerating until his body blurred into afterimages. He flickered around Margaret, his sword dancing, leaving shallow scars across her armor. He wanted to end the fight with one clean strike, but Margaret's defenses were airtight—her limbs and vitals shielded, never giving him the chance.
Then her Lance-sword ignited further, a blazing sheath of light wrapping its edge. Its reach stretched farther, gleaming as though she held raw sunlight itself. She swung, and the blade sheared off a corner of his armor's decorative plating.
The knight exhaled sharply. He knew the truth—he wasn't drawing out the true potential of his experimental armor. Worse, he wasn't even fully accustomed to it yet before the sponsors shoved him onto the stage. He wasn't making excuses—his experience dwarfed Margaret's by years. From opening dominance to a dead-even exchange, he could already feel it slipping.
It wasn't unlike a gamer fumbling a match, then muttering in chat that he "lagged." He could see it clearly: if he and Margaret were the same age, he would never be her equal.
Then—
A spear of pure light crashed down from the heavens.
The knight saw it, clear as day. He leapt back instinctively, but fate betrayed him: he landed just as the spear struck, and the shockwave rattled through the ground into his body. His head spun. Margaret was already charging.
He drew, slashing desperately. His exquisite, instant draw cut through the first ray of light. But then came the second. The third. The fourth. Each one harder, heavier, relentless. Light and heat coalesced into a full spear in Margaret's grip. She hurled it with all her might.
The knight's chest burned. For an instant, he felt it—pierced through.
Boom!
He collapsed to the ground. But when he looked down, there was no wound. Nothing pierced, no blood spilled. Yet the phantom ache lingered in his chest, the warmth seared into his flesh.
No illusion. Not entirely.
His breath caught. He lifted his head, voice hoarse but unyielding.
"…Why did you stop?"
Margaret planted her weapon in the ground, bracing herself. Her body was spent, mana drained, but her gaze stayed resolute.
"As your opponent, I respect you, Light Knight."
He froze.
"…You respect me?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "Your strength is undeniable. You are a true contender for this year's championship. And your sword—your sword carries emotion, a force I can still only learn from."
His expression twisted—half laughter, half tears. For a moment he could only breathe. Then, slowly, he raised his hand.
"…I yield."
The audience roared in shock.
"Wh-what's this?! The Light Knight, after that overwhelming barrage, has chosen to surrender! He must have suffered an injury too grave to continue! But fans, don't despair—this means he'll fight again in the loser's bracket, and there's still a chance he'll claw his way back to face Margaret in the grand finals!"
Behind the commentator's voice, The Announcer's forehead dripped with sweat. In the broadcast booth, his earpiece nearly exploded with frantic chatter from the K.G.G.C sponsors' offices.
"Light Knight, screw your ancestors!"
"What kind of joke is this? Just one fight and it's already over? What a disgrace, what a letdown!"
"Didn't I say from the start we should've pushed up Verdant Knight and Foam Knight instead? Have you all forgotten that pathetic display four years ago when Light Knight lost to Black Knight? Hah? Light Knight, what a useless piece of trash."
"Announcer, suppress this news. Spin it so that the audience remembers Light Knight surrendered only to protect Margaret from getting hurt. Talk up his so-called gentlemanly spirit!"
Even while cursing, they still made sure to pass down orders on how the match announcers should phrase things.
The Announcer wiped the spit from his lips. What else could he do? Start hyping, of course.