The sun above Azur was pale, not golden. Its light didn't bless the skin—it surveyed it, like a god tired of pretending to care. Daves Frojas walked beneath it, his steps carrying neither urgency nor purpose, but a quiet calculation only the damned could appreciate.
He was heading toward the Adventurer's Guild.
It lay, as many things do in this world, on a threshold: between the slums that reeked of unrealized dreams and the polished cobblestones of Domain Union proper. Azur was its heart. A heart with black veins and perfume.
Also in Azur: the Establishment of the Game.
The Game… where the Hero's journey truly began. Where Shadow Light met his trials and tribulations, and where I must, absolutely must, shove myself into the frame. Like a background actor who refuses to stay out of focus.
He had three Ultimate Skills. None for combat. None for glory. Just raw, unforgiving intellect. Enough to draw the attention of the Guildmaster? Maybe. But the Guildmaster was number 30 in the Domain Protector Association—
A man who probably uses his urine to cure curses and his breath to banish devils. Meeting him? A fairy tale.
Thus, three doors, each more insulting than the last:
1. Pass the entrance test. Impossible. My skills couldn't slice butter on a hot day.
2. Get sponsored. Also impossible. I'm as broke as a moral compass in a villain origin story.
3. Join the villains.
Oh yes. Cults. Sectes. The regressors and the fallen. The big bads hiding behind smirks and robes.
Option three it is.
It meant regression, corruption, becoming one with the rot. A path with fewer happy endings than a tragedy told backward. But it was the only way.
Daves wasn't evil. Not in the cartoonish sense. But he was infected with something far more dangerous than hatred:
Conviction.
He didn't walk to hurt others. He walked because if he waited for the world to make space for his dreams, he'd be six feet under before his first wish.
His goal was his. Other people had theirs. If theirs collided with his? Too bad. If he gave his up to make them smile, what did that say about his belief in it?
If you can't kill, abandon, or sacrifice for your goal, maybe it isn't your goal. Maybe it's just a polite suggestion.
He reached the border of the city proper. His feet ached, but his body remembered the pain like a lullaby.
Poor bastard. This body walked too much and got nowhere. No wonder he ended up with a yandere wife and no sword.
He flashed his F-rank badge to the guards. They, as expected, began their usual theater of mockery.
"Well, well, Frojas. Off to play hero again? Where's your sword, boy?"
Oh, right. That thing. Completely forgot I might need it in the big, scary outside world.
"Haha, must've left it behind," Daves replied with a sheepish chuckle, doing his best impression of a golden retriever in human skin.
The guards guffawed like hogs in armor.
"Tsk. Just say you're broke, man. How'd you bag a wife? Must've drugged her, huh?"
Smile. Endure. The venom is temporary.
You will eat every word you spit today. Slowly. With salt.
He walked past them, face still, soul boiling.
***
Matabe Adventurer Guild.
Created by the forgettable. For the forgettable. Daves couldn't recall the name Matabe in any major storyline. Good. Easier to bend shadows where light doesn't reach.
Inside, the place was vibrant. Loud. Alcohol, sweat, and perfume—all dancing together without shame. It was like a maid café that gave up halfway and decided to be a tavern instead.
They're here. They have to be here.
He scanned every corner like a man searching for a lottery ticket in a landfill. But no cloaked figures. No cryptic recruiters. No fateful encounters.
Wrong Guild? Or maybe the author changed things post-publication? Damn it, Mom.
Then, he saw him.
A relic in human skin.
An old man slouched in a corner, his cane etched in a script only someone like Daves could read.
Chinese calligraphy—but twisted. Stylized. Dripping with regression.
A member of that sect. The one that would push the Hero to break his oath. The cult that made angels weep and devils applaud.
Daves smiled. Not the polite kind.
Jackpot.
He sat across from the old man, like death sitting across from senility.
The man's eyes were vacant—emotionless, blank, like glass over madness. Daves cleared his throat.
"Pardon the intrusion, good sir. Might I know your name?"
No response. Just a blink. Silence. Tension.
Right. Criminals don't pass out business cards.
"Then perhaps, sir, you could introduce me to your... superior."
Before the sentence ended, the cane twitched.
Daves didn't flinch. He wanted to. His instincts screamed like children in the dark. But he stayed still.
Fleeing meant forests. Monsters. A sacred fruit with a 0.01% survival rate. Not today.
"I have knowledge," he said carefully, "about the prophecy. I wish to walk the path of regression. I believe… that humanity must first fall, to rise."
Those words weren't his.
They were theirs. A secret phrase. A slogan used during the cult's final confrontation in the original story.
Thank you, 4th Wall.
The old man blinked again.
"How do I know you're not a trained spy?"
Daves chuckled.
"If I were, would we still be talking? Your organs would be decorating the ceiling."
A nod. Approval? Maybe. Or just boredom.
"How did you recognize me?"
"The script on your cloak. Common in high-tier sects. Learned it from an enslaver I met."
A lie. A clever one. Slavers were known to deal with regressors. Plausible deniability. Enough to explain his knowledge. Enough to silence suspicion.
The best lies are wrapped in familiar horror.
The old man stared. Thought. Then, wordlessly, handed Daves a vial.
Purple. Swirling. Whispering.
A soul potion.
He left without another word.
***
Daves walked slower now.
The world around him felt richer than his old one. The air had taste. The buildings had memory. The dirt beneath his boots whispered better stories than anything his real world had to offer.
This world… was hers.
His mother's masterpiece.
The one thing she loved more than anything. A place she sculpted with sorrow and fire and bleeding fingers.
Mom…
His hands trembled. Not from fear. From memory.
He clutched his chest, as though trying to hold a heart that wasn't breaking but slipping.
Why now? Why does the pain resurface only when things start to feel warm again?
He exhaled. Regained composure. Straightened his back.
There was a beautiful woman waiting at home.
One who would kill him in his sleep if he stepped wrong.
A smile crept back.
Ah, marriage.