The heavy curtains of the inn's guest room were thick with the scent of aged wood and lavender, but they did little to block out the insistent light of the midday sun.
"Yawn..."
I sat up slowly, my head spinning with that strange, heavy fog that only comes from a sleep so deep it feels like you've traveled through time.
My muscles felt like lead, yet curiously rested.
I stood up, stumbling slightly as I navigated the unfamiliar floorboards toward the door.
My mind is still half-stuck in a dream about system points and gacha rolls.
I pulled the door open, intending to find the washroom, and nearly walked straight into a wall of scales.
"Whoa!" I yelped, jumping back.
Standing in the hallway was a lizardman.
He was tall—imposing, really—with emerald-green scales that shimmered like oil on water and a snout that looked like it could snap a branch in half.
He blinked at me with slit pupils, a low hiss of surprise escaping his throat.
"S-sorry! My bad, I wasn't looking," I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The lizardman gave a slow, rhythmic nod and moved past me with a graceful, swaying gait.
It took me a solid five seconds of staring at his retreating tail to remember where I was.
Right. Another world.
Get it together, Zevion.
After a quick, bracing wash, I hurried downstairs.
The common area of the inn was buzzing with the low chatter of travelers and the savory, mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat.
I spotted my group at a corner table and waved.
"Yo! Is breakfast ready yet? I'm starving," I called out, sliding into a chair.
The three of them turned to look at me simultaneously.
Ravel sighed, her violet eyes filled with a mix of pity and exasperation.
Mashiro just blinked, her head tilting to the side in that bird-like way of hers.
"Breakfast?" Ravel asked, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm.
"Zevion, it's noon. We've been sitting here for twenty minutes deciding what to order for lunch."
I blinked, looking from her to the window where the sun was clearly past its zenith.
"Really?"
They gave me a collective look that said, 'Yes, really.'
"So... how long was I actually out?" I asked, feeling a cold sweat.
"For about a whole day and this entire morning," Ravel replied, crossing her arms.
"You slept through yesterday like you'd been hit by a Sleep powder."
I sat back, stunned.
I'd skipped an entire day of my new life just by closing my eyes.
"I guess that explains why my stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself."
Lunch arrived shortly after—a hearty spread of thick stews and crusty bread that tasted far better than any medieval fare had a right to.
As we ate, I listened to them recap their "lost" day.
Apparently, they hadn't done much beyond some light scouting and walking around the capital's central districts.
As I chewed, a realization hit me.
Wait... was this the first time I was completely unguarded in a long while?
I had been dead to the world, totally vulnerable, and yet I felt fine because I knew Giratina was with them.
I glanced at the silent, golden, brilliant girl picking at her food.
Damn, I'm becoming too cautious—or maybe too reliant, I thought, a frown creasing my brow.
If I just lean on her for every shadow in the night, I'll never actually grow.
I can't let her presence become a crutch that stops me from getting stronger on my own.
"So, what's the move?" Ravel asked, leaning forward once the plates were cleared.
"What's our actual plan for this world?"
I wiped my mouth and sharpened my focus.
"First, we need a teacher. We have the potential to learn anything this world has to offer, but we don't even know what we don't know yet. We need an 'in.' But to get a good teacher and the resources we need, we need capital. Step one: get money. Step two: find someone to show us the ropes."
I looked at Ravel.
"Did you find any leads yesterday?"
"Not a specific person," she said, her expression turning serious.
"But the atmosphere in the capital is tense. There's a 'Royal Selection' happening. Apparently, the kingdom is split into five major camps, each backing a different candidate: Crusch, Anastasia, Priscilla, Emilia, and Felt."
I fell into a deep silence, tapping my fingers on the wooden table.
Five camps.
That meant five potential power structures to tap into—or five ways to get caught in a political meat grinder.
"What if we join one?" I mused.
"Or better yet, what if we stay neutral? A private mercenary group that helps whichever camp pays the most. We need money more than political loyalty right now. We can pick a side once we're actually strong enough to matter."
Ravel tapped her chin.
"If it's money you want, the Anastasia camp is backed by the Hoshin Trading Company. She's a merchant at heart. But joining a camp this early... it might lock us into a path we can't walk away from later."
"Then neutral it is," I decided, standing up.
"Decision is made up for that then. For today, we go monster hunting. It's the classic way to earn startup cash and get a feel for the local power levels. Also, Mashiro?"
The girl looked up from her sketchbook.
"You should decide on a weapon today," I said firmly.
"You're part of this team, and that means you'll be fighting too."
Mashiro gave a small, quiet nod.
There was no fear in her eyes, just that smoothing, calm acceptance.
We left the inn, the cool air of the capital hitting us as we wove through the bustling streets.
As we reached a central square, I noticed a dense crowd gathered around a massive stone bulletin board.
"Hmm? What's the commotion?" I wondered aloud. "A festival? A tax hike?"
"No," Ravel said, her eyes narrowing as she peered over the heads of the crowd.
"Those are the official posters for the five Royal Selection candidates."
"Hooo... well, let's see what we're dealing with then."
I pushed forward, slipping through the gaps in the crowd until I stood directly in front of the board.
It was a classic medieval announcement—no high-res photos, just five incredibly detailed hand-drawn portraits and short bios for each girl.
"So this is how they do it here, huh?" I muttered.
"I honestly thought with magic being a thing, they'd have something like holographic displays or at least magical projections. I guess the 'civilian' side of magic isn't that advanced here."
Ravel glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.
"Do you think magic is a miracle tool that can do anything just because you wish for it?"
"Yeah," I replied without a trace of hesitation.
"Magic can do anything. If it can't, it just means the person using it isn't creative or powerful enough."
Suddenly, a sneering voice from the crowd behind me broke my focus.
"Sigh... a half-elf as a royal candidate? Is the Council of Sages senile?"
"It's a joke," another man spat. "A half-elf on the throne is just proof of how corrupt the system has become."
"There's no way a relative of the Witch should even be allowed to breathe the same air as us, let alone rule us."
I looked back at the poster for the girl named Emilia.
A half-elf with silver hair.
I put the pieces together instantly.
This 'Witch' they mentioned must be the source of their terror, and she must have been a half-elf, too.
Fear is a powerful poison, I thought, watching the vitriol on the faces of the commoners.
This Witch must have been a monster on a god-like scale if her mere resemblance was enough to make people want to lynch a girl they'd never met.
If this were a manga, I mused darkly, this Emilia girl would eventually break under all this hate and become exactly what they're afraid of.
It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"Sigh... people can be so naive and foolish sometimes," I said, my voice carrying further than I intended.
"They don't even think of the possibility that if you shower someone with enough hate, they'll eventually become the nightmare you fear, even if they started out as a saint."
The crowd went silent for a heartbeat.
A burly man with thick, calloused hands and a face flushed red with anger stepped toward me, looming over me.
"Huh? You think this is a joke, boy?" he growled.
"Do you even have a clue how many thousands died because of the Witch of Envy?"
I looked up at him, my expression bored.
I didn't care about his trauma or his "righteous" anger.
To me, he was just a flawed NPC with a narrow mind.
"Oh? And do you know why she killed them? Don't give me that 'she's a monster beyond anyone's understanding' bullshit. Maybe she was despised like you're doing now. Maybe she was shamed just for being born. Who knows? Maybe one day she just snapped and decided to give the world exactly what it expected of her."
The man turned a deeper shade of purple.
He lunged forward, grabbing my collar with a meaty fist and hoisting me off my feet.
"What are you getting at? Does that justify the slaughter, you freak?!"
I looked him dead in the eyes, my pulse not even quickening.
"Yeah. To her, it probably did. If I were surrounded by people like you all my life, I'd probably find it pretty justified too."
My voice was cold—viciously so.
Maybe she killed many innocents in the process, but when she was innocent, probably nobody cared.
So why should she care now?
I know this is only my interpretation—I could be wrong.
But I didn't care whether the Witch was truly "good."
What I couldn't forgive was the hypocrisy of the crowd.
Witch maybe one thing, but on an innocent half-elf just because she is half-elf?
The man's face contorted.
He pulled his arm back, his fist trembling with the urge to smash my face in.
I didn't move.
I was already calculating the drop—I could pull a heavy iron pipe from my inventory six feet above his head.
The acceleration alone would crack his skull before his punch landed.
It would be a good test of my reaction speed.
But just as he started to swing, a small hand reached out.
"Don't hurt him."
It was Mashiro.
She had stepped up beside us, her small fingers lightly grasping the man's dirt-stained shirt.
Her voice was as monotone as ever, but there was a strange weight to it.
The man didn't even look at her.
"Huh? Why should I listen to you, brat? He's a witch-worshiper! He needs a lesson!"
With a rough shove, he pushed Mashiro aside.
She stumbled back a step, her expression unchanging.
Seeing him touch her changed my plan.
I shifted my mental focus from the pipe to a combat knife, intending to drop it from ten feet up—straight into his shoulder.
But before I could trigger the inventory release, the man suddenly let out a strangled, wet cough.
He collapsed to his knees, his face going pale as he clutched his stomach, his grip on my collar disappearing as I dropped back to my feet.
I blinked in surprise.
Mashiro stood right where he had been hit.
Her left arm was no longer just a sleeve; it was encased in a glowing, crimson-red gauntlet that throbbed with a low, weird red power.
The square went dead silent.
Ravel's jaw dropped, and even I felt a jolt of genuine shock.
Mashiro looked down at the man groveling in the dirt, her voice flat and cold.
"I said... don't hurt him."
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