"Who the hell is that NPC?"
Several players who had rushed up stopped dead in their tracks. All around them lay bounty hunters knocked out cold, and in the rain ahead, a blond middle-aged man walked away without a glance back. Their jaws dropped.
What kind of situation was this—an advanced NPC?
The atmosphere was unreal.
"His name is Młynar. His class seems to be a Liberator under the Guard branch… All of this mess? That's his doing."
Magic ZX cleared his throat, but couldn't hide the awe in his voice. In fact, he was practically on the verge of becoming Młynar's number-one fan.
That depth in his words, that heavy voice, that ferocious swordsmanship—it was enough to make Magic ZX's heart race.
"So… do we follow him?"
"He's already gone. We'd better stick to the job."
Magic ZX coughed lightly, reluctant to look away, but finally tore his eyes from the rain-shrouded figure. He stretched, shivering at the damp weight in the air, and glanced at the debuff icon glowing on his HUD.
"Ugh. Why does it feel like it's always raining in the Kawalerielki City? This humidity debuff is slowing all our movements down."
"What can you do? It's the devs' weather setting. Not like we get a say."
They grumbled as they gathered themselves. With the bounty hunters cleared, they had no time to loot. They packed up quickly and returned to their base. Their siege had only just begun.
Adventurers were fighting. Knights were fighting. And so was Margaret.
She made no effort to hide her presence. But as she neared a knight stronghold under siege, a volley of bolts sliced through the rain, whistling toward her.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
Margaret spun her Lance, swatting three from the air. With a backflip, she avoided most of the barrage, but one bolt still grazed her shoulder, leaving a searing line of pain. No paralysis followed—good. Just as she had prepared, she'd taken poison antidotes before leaving safehouse.
The silver-glowing bolt lodged into the pavement behind her, hissing in the rain.
And then, figures emerged.
Dozens of assassins from the Armorless Union stepped into view. Each one clad in night-black ghillie suits, positioned across rooftops and high vantage points. Their crossbows gleamed cold, faces hidden behind goggles and masks. No expression, no hesitation—only killing intent.
And among them, she saw the one who had fired.
Different.
This assassin didn't match the rest. A girl with long silver-white hair, clad in a uniform of the same bright hue, Compound bow in hand. Against the dark backdrop, she was stark, radiant—impossible to miss.
In any group, the most unusual one is the leader. This girl was clearly theirs.
"Reckless," Platinum said softly. Her clear voice cut through the rainfall, tinged with lazy boredom and faint irritation. "Helping the knights, on the eve of the finals? Foolish choice. Let's finish this quickly."
"Step aside," Margaret demanded.
"Try me."
The two girls, nearly the same age, locked eyes.
Margaret sprinted forward, weaving through ruined cars and shattered walls. Rain and arrows rained down on her alike.
Platinum showed not the slightest fear. She drew and loosed in one smooth motion. A silver arrow slammed into a nearby car, the runic energy within it detonating the engine.
BOOM!
The blast hurled Margaret backward. She crashed to the ground, but her body shimmered faintly with a golden aura, glowing in the storm.
And she kept closing the distance.
Her lance flashed, its edge gleaming as she struck for Platinum's face. The silver-haired archer bent low, dodging fluidly. She may have looked like a simple bow-user, but her close-quarters skills were far from ordinary.
Drawing another arrow, she charged it with silver light and parried Margaret's lance head-on.
Gold met silver in a clash that lit up the rain. Margaret's raw strength overwhelmed her—but Platinum had already accounted for that.
With a twist, she hurled her glowing arrow forward and used the recoil to spring backward. Her leap carried her atop the knight statue dominating the plaza.
From the air, bow drawn, she loosed three silver arrows at once, each trailing radiant streaks down toward Margaret below.
Margaret blocked one arrow, deflected another, but the strain was catching up to her—her arm was numb, and she was forced to sidestep to avoid the next volley.
High above, Platinum observed coldly, her bow still drawn. She spoke into her earpiece with detached calm:
"Margaret's already under pressure. Lord Lazurite, how's your side?"
"…Ah, I've run into a bit of trouble. Might not be able to regroup with you."
Roy's lazy voice floated through the comm, accompanied by the clang of steel and sharp shouts.
Platinum frowned. That wasn't how things were supposed to play out. According to the plan, Roy should've arrived here, finished off Margaret, and given her the chance to finally call it a night. But now, he was tied up elsewhere.
Who could have stalled him?
"Little Pegasus, guess you'll just have to improvise. Hey, don't glare at me like that—I wasn't planning to kill your niece!"
A pause, then Roy's laugh cut off into a grunt.
"Damn, this one's clingy. I'll hang up here—handle it as you see fit."
Platinum: "…"
She stifled a yawn, but the rain dripping cold down her neck killed the urge. And as if things weren't bad enough, two of the assassins she'd brought along had already been sniffed out and knocked unconscious by Margaret.
Chivalry. How utterly pointless.
She nocked another arrow, but this time aimed at the ground near Margaret's feet instead of her chest.
So tired. So bored. Why was there never overtime pay? Why did the boss always make empty promises while treating them like disposable tools?
If she could redo her life, Platinum knew she'd never have joined the Armorless Union. Endless overtime, no pay, no leave, sick days docked from wages—this wasn't a career, it was a prison. She'd rather be a mindless receptionist, smiling at visitors and sipping coffee, than stand here in the freezing rain pulling a thankless night shift.
She just wanted to go home.
"Look out! Lady Platinum!"
The urgent warning in her earpiece snapped her back to reality. She twisted aside just in time, an elegant thrust missing her heart by inches.
From the shadows stepped a knight in traditional plate armor, wielding a rapier longer than most would dare to use.
"A knight…? No."
Platinum narrowed her eyes, drawing her bow once more and fixing her aim on the intruder.
"Not one of the Major's knights. A third party, then? I don't recall anyone with your skill being part of this siege."
"Perhaps you simply don't know enough."
The stranger's voice was calm as his gaze slipped past her visor and landed on Margaret. The warrior was still catching her breath, one hand pressed to her bandaged shoulder.
"Lady Margaret, are you all right?"
"…I can still fight. Thank you, mysterious knight."
"Good. Then let's break through together."
"My thanks."
No more needed to be said. Understanding passed between them in three sentences.
Platinum's lips pressed into a thin line. If Roy had been here, they could've crushed both Margaret and this nameless knight without effort. But now, with only her against two fighters of this caliber, the odds weren't in her favor.
"Fall back," she ordered curtly.
"…Understood."
Her assassins were paid barely three thousand a month—throwing them at Margaret and this knight was a waste. Better to retreat, regroup, and reassess.
Platinum exhaled softly, rain pattering against her bowstring. Tonight's farce was nearly over. But somewhere in the shadows, another faction was moving pieces across the board.
She didn't know their name, their crest, or their purpose—only that they were strong enough to tilt the balance.
And as for the curtain call of this farce… that would have to wait until tomorrow evening, when the finals began.
Platinum cast a glance at Margaret, whose beautiful face was etched with fatigue, then turned away. Her figure slipped into the shadows, vanishing amidst the towering buildings.
"…They've left."
"Thank you for your aid."
Margaret turned to the knight beside her, voicing her gratitude. He merely nodded, sheathed his sword, and walked forward in silence.
"Sir, are you also headed to the Knights' stronghold for the rescue?"
"…I'm only doing what I must. Nothing more."
"Then why not travel together?"
The nameless knight inclined his head coolly. "As you wish."
In an instant, their pace quickened, boots striking the rain-slick pavement. Yet the roar of the storm swallowed the sound of their steps.
---
Boom!
At the top floor of a luxury high-rise in the Kawalerielki City—once Felix's residence, and still his as long as his ties with the K.G.C.C. remained. Whether it was truly his or not hardly mattered; the Organization would fight to secure it for him regardless.
On the eve of the finals, he hadn't returned to his hotel. Instead, he came here, standing at the balcony, eyes drawn toward the horizon where five blazing infernos lit the sky.
He pushed open the glass doors. Rain lashed against his skin like needles, carrying faint echoes of shouting and chaos from afar.
"…I don't quite understand. Why did you call us here, Pioneer?"
Closing the balcony doors, Felix toweled the rain from his face and sank back onto the sofa. Lifting a glass of champagne, he raised it toward the two seated across from him—an imitation of Gatsby's effortless toast, or so he fancied.
"I saw your performances in the arena. They impressed me. I suppose I invited you out of simple interest. Still, for a first meeting, I admit my approach may be… unconventional."
His gaze lingered on the two knights before him—Verdant Knight and Foam Knight, clad in their formal uniforms. They exchanged a quick glance, confusion and hesitation flickering in their eyes.
Verdant Knight had heard of the Pioneer. Four years ago, when she saw the Black Knight depart, she had spoken of his mysterious savior—her employer. That name had stayed with her. Now, four years later, the man himself sat before her, and she couldn't help but wonder at his intentions.
"Foam Knight, it's a shame about your match. You lost to Verdant Knight in the lower bracket. By sheer strength, you might have had the advantage—but her speed and adaptability outmatched you."
Foam Knight shook his head humbly. "I'm older than she is. In a duel, perhaps I hold a slight edge in raw power and arts, but the outcome was plain enough…"
"Don't belittle yourself. Acknowledging your flaws is good—but never forget your strengths."
Felix shifted his gaze to Verdant Knight, catching her doubt. "You must be wondering why I invite you here, on such a night."
"…I'll admit I am."
Verdant Knight brushed her hair back and took a sip of champagne. "Even the K.G.C.C. knows nothing of this, I assume?"
"I'm hardly their subordinate. Inviting knights into my home is my choice, not theirs to approve."
Draining the last of his glass, Felix leaned back. "Tell me—how has the Organization reacted to your losses?"
"…For me, not too harshly," Verdant Knight replied first. She had fought as an arena knight in the Kawalerielki for nearly a decade, with a steady fanbase of her own. Though under the Organization's banner, she wasn't bound by blind loyalty. She expected fewer sponsors and fewer shows in the coming year—but nothing so dire as exile.
Foam Knight's face was harder. His defeat at Margaret's hands had propelled her straight into the finals, and the Organization had deemed his failure unforgivable. Worse, his family had moved to the Kawalerielki because of his career. He had already known what punishment awaited him, but still—he had no choice.
"…Foam Knight. Your family—"
"The reckoning hasn't come yet." He forced a bitter smile. "If the Light Knight wins the finals, perhaps the Organization will ease my punishment, with the title still secured. But if Margaret takes the crown…"
He coughed lightly, voice low and heavy. "…It's not that I begrudge her victory. I only wish my family could remain safe."
"You're not wrong to think that way, Foam Knight."
Verdant Knight's expression softened. At their age, ideals weighed against reality. Perhaps Foam Knight once dreamed of winning the tournament with honor, or of seeing a knight like Margaret, bound to chivalry, claim victory. But reality was harsher: he was a husband, a father, bound to protect his family. And if Margaret triumphed, the Organization's reprisal was inevitable.
Felix studied them both, then lifted his glass once more, eyes glinting in the dim light.
"…Would either of you be interested in working for me?"