-----Narrator POV-----
The holy carriage rolled along the uneven stone road, its once‑white paint softened by a fine layer of dust and its wheels caked with mud and grit. Each jolt sent a gentle sway through the frame, and as it tilted, sunlight slipped through the open roof and struck a polished shoulder plate inside, flashing with a sharp, clean glint. The knight beneath it sat heavy and unmoving, like a statue carved from steel.
Across from him, another knight quietly flipped through a small prayer book, turning each page with a soft rustle that blended with the steady clatter of wheels and the faint shifting of armor. Amid this calm rhythm, the rookie leaned forward with barely contained impatience, eyes fixed on the prayer‑book knight; when the next page turned, he could no longer hold back.
"Cap… may I ask a question?" the rookie blurted.
A fidgety knight in simpler, less ornate armor tapped the helmetless captain. The captain had a pale, orderly face and a sweep of blond hair. He did not look up as his gaze stayed fixed on the small book in his hands.
"Voice your concern, rookie," he said without lifting his eyes.
"I was wondering why we need this magnitude of militia to retrieve the saint sent by Milis?" the rookie asked.
The captain remained statue‑still. He closed the book with a measured motion and the knight beside him felt the carriage shift. The captain's brow furrowed, then he turned his head just enough to make eye contact with the apprentice.
"In the human‑demon war, humans were inferior to the demons in both technology and power. That is why Milis and the Empire of Arvan took the fight to them. They led the battle at the forefront because they had the resources and the will to hold the line."
"The kingdom of Arvan?" someone echoed, voice small in the cramped space.
"The Empire of Arvan was one of the largest powers on the central continent at the time. It ruled vast lands, but war breeds corruption. Heavy taxes and extortion to fund the fighting hollowed out the state from within, and the empire unraveled, so the demons pushed through the northern mountains, and in less than a decade they threatened to overrun the whole region and make the Milishiton stronghold their foothold."
The captain snorted, a short burst of breath through his nose, then lifted his head and resumed the explanation.
"When the war turned bleak for humanity, Saint Milis sought a way to aid his followers. He took his holy sword and broke it into seven fragments so its power could reach the mortal world."
"Only when all seven fragments are gathered will the holy sword manifest. Then a hero chosen by Milis will be able to raise it and offer their service for humankind."
He tapped the side of the carriage wall with two fingers, a habit born from years of command. "The priest we escort carries one of those fragments. He is part of the sword itself. That makes him a beacon. We secure him by any means necessary. That is why you are all here."
A young knight tilted his head, confusion creasing his brow. "Is this amount of power really needed?"
The captain turned toward him with a look that could curdle milk.
"Pampered children who know one trick with a sword think they stand above the world." He scoffed and reopened his book, the pages whispering as they settled.
"A word of advice from your senior. A title like Water King does not make you omnipotent. The saint is a vessel of Milis's power. Even a single fragment draws enemies the way a flame draws insects."
-----
Orsted's view sharpened as the figures ahead came into focus, and the tension in his brow dug even deeper into the lines of his face. He slowed his steps, watching the group move through the clearing with small, natural motions that made each of them easy to pick out.
A frog?!
His eyes widened at the last. A frogfolk traveling openly among other races was rare enough, but moving with a mixed group like this was almost unheard of.
Orsted pushed power into his legs and launched forward, ready to take the frogfolk's head in a single clean strike. The ground cracked under his feet as he moved, his body already leaning into the kill. Then he stopped mid‑motion, every muscle locking in place.
The frogfolk was holding someone.
A small figure was pressed close against its side, half hidden by the creature's arm. Long black hair hung over her face in tangled strands and her white‑and‑blue scholar's robe was dirtied and torned at the edges as if she had been dragged through rough ground in the short time they had been separated.
The sight hit him like a blow. His killing intent collapsed, replaced by a cold, sharp focus that held him still. The frogfolk adjusted its grip, and the girl's hair shifted enough for him to see the faint rise and fall of her breathing.
The human at the front lurched forward, completely unaware of the danger behind him.
"Oi, oi, Geese!" he shouted as he stumbled, grabbing the beastfolk's arm for balance. His voice cracked with panic.
"The hydra is dead? I thought we could rely on your information. Did you trick us? Huh?"
He kept ranting, still oblivious to the way his companions had gone stiff. The halfling's breath caught in his throat. The dwarf's hand froze halfway to his shield. Even the beastfolk's tail stopped moving. All of them felt the crushing pressure standing just a few steps behind them.
Only the drunk man kept talking.
He turned around mid‑complaint, ready to throw another accusation, but the words died in his throat. A strange figure stood before them, silent and unmoving, yet radiating a hostility so sharp it felt like needles pressing into their skin. The drunk man's eyes widened as the weight of that gaze pinned him in place.
"Oh, erh… grandpa? Were you the one who killed the hydra?" he asked, squinting at Orsted as if trying to place a familiar face.
The moment the others heard him address the stranger, their expressions twisted with dread. The halfling's knees buckled. The dwarf's jaw clenched. The beastfolk's ears flattened. All of them turned slowly toward Orsted, fear draining the color from their faces.
A vein pulsed on Orsted's forehead.
"Let go of the child."
The words vibrated through the air, heavy enough to rattle bone. Every sober warrior in the group shifted their stance, feet planting, hands tightening around weapons. They felt the threat in his voice like a blade against their throats.
But the drunk man only blinked, completely unfazed. He looked from the girl in the frogfolk's grip to the tall, gray‑haired man before him, still convinced he was talking to some harmless elder.
"Eh? The brat? Do you know her?"
He took a casual step forward, weaving slightly, and his companions' eyes widened in panic.
Behind them, the frogfolk warrior shifted. Its webbed fingers slid toward the small tools strapped at its waist.
Orsted's jaw tightened as the drunk man kept talking to him like they were old friends. Each careless word scraped against his patience, and his teeth ground together as he tried to remember the man's face.
Something about him felt familiar, but the memory refused to surface. This time loop had twisted too many events and now even recognizing someone had become a strangely difficult.
How do I know this person? When did our paths cross?
The more he searched his memory, the more the frustration built in his chest.
The frogfolk still held Nanahoshi close, her hair covering her face and every second she remained in that creature's grip tightened the knot in Orsted's gut.
He drew a slow breath, cold and steady, and the killing intent around him thickened like a storm ready to break.
Once Nanahoshi is out of that frog's hands…
His eyes narrowed, the decision settling in him like iron.
I will slaughter everyone here.
He forced the thought aside and focused on the girl still held by the frogfolk, that alone kept Orsted from tearing through the group on the spot.
"I am the girl's guardian. Now I demand that you let go of her and—"
"That is not how negotiation works, grandpa. You must not be hasty."
Orsted's eyes widened. No one had interrupted him mid‑speech in years. The shock stalled him long enough for the drunk man to keep talking.
"We came here for that boy lying on the ground."
He pointed past Orsted, toward the right. Sebastian lay frozen on the dirt, eyes wide as he watched the world twist around him.
Orsted gave the boy a brief glance, then turned back to the man. The demand made no sense, and curiosity cut through his irritation.
"For what reason do you want this child?"
The drunk man stuck his pinky in his ear and twisted it lazily, wearing a confused expression.
"That is none of your-"
A sharp crack split the air, loud enough to feel like it tore through the room itself. A violent burst of wind exploded outward, knocking over columns and slamming against the walls. Dust and chunks of stone whipped through the space as the shockwave thrashed everything in its path.
When the wind settled and the dust thinned, the scene came back into focus. A massive shield of light shimmered in front of the drunk man, its surface made of tight hexagon patterns that pulsed like a living barrier whist his arm was stretched forward, palm flat, aimed straight at the priest's eyes.
Orsted stared down at him, hostility burning in his eyes. The sudden display of power explained the man's confidence. He shifted his gaze to the frogfolk and saw a faint symbol hovering above its head: a circle with a horizontal slash cutting through it, dark and ominous like a shadowy halo.
Tsk.
The thought clicked into place.
A power balance curse.
Orsted's shoulders tightened as he recalculated the situation, and the tension in the room thickened again.
-----Orsted POV-----
My thoughts tightened into a single stream the moment I recognized the mark floating above the frog's head. Frogs were creatures born in the deep swamps of the Milis continent, and even though they preferred to shut themselves away from the rest of the world, their curiosity always pushed them toward things they should never touch. That curiosity grew into desire, and depending on the frog, that desire could drive them frighteningly far. Some chased knowledge with the same hunger as dragons, digging into ideas until they reshaped entire eras. I remembered the Fighting God Armor. That design had first come from a frog warrior obsessed with testing the limits of metal and battlefield tools. Even Father had once mentioned seeking advice from a frog shaman when creating the time‑loop curse meant to defeat Hitogami. Frogs had always been like that. Brilliant. Dangerous. Selfish. They pursued only what they wanted, and nothing else mattered.
Encounters with them in my loops were rare and unpredictable, and every time one appeared, the risk of disaster rose. A single mistake could drain power, twist events, or collapse the loop entirely. Watching this one now, holding Nanahoshi with that cursed symbol floating above its head, made the danger feel even sharper. The frogfolk shifted its grip, and I felt the curse pressing against me, trying to level the field.
It was a power balance curse that forced two sides to meet on equal ground.
This frog was a variable I could not allow to continue. The thought settled in my chest like a cold stone. This variable had to be removed from the loop, no matter what followed.
The drunk man's smug voice grated against my ears.
"Resorting to violence, old man? Do you not know we have a hostage?"
His tone was light, almost playful, and it clashed horribly with the ragged state of his face and the black hair sticking to his skin. Nanahoshi flailed in the frog's grip behind him, her eyes wide with fear.
I kept my gaze locked on him.
"You are very confident in the frog's spell."
"We were saving it for the hydra, but—"
A flicker of light flashed at the edge of my vision. I stepped aside and a massive blade tore through the space where I had been standing. The impact shook the entire floor, cracking stone and sending a violent gust of wind blasting outward. Dust and debris exploded across the room, forcing everyone back and widening the distance between us.
The beastfolk who had swung the sword landed heavily, saddles grinding against the fractured ground. His eyes widened as he stared at the crater he had created. He looked down at his own hand, opening and closing his fingers as if trying to understand the strength he had just displayed. Then he lifted his gaze toward me, awe spreading across his face.
"What power…"
The drunk man snapped at the beastfolk without even looking at him.
"Oi, Agnar! Are you trying to kill your own teammate?"
He staggered on his feet as the yellow hexagon shield around him flickered and broke apart like shattered glass. The last pieces of light faded from the air, leaving him exposed again.
Agnar didn't answer. He barely even reacted to the scolding. He simply reached down, grabbed his broadsword, and lifted it back into a fighting stance. His eyes stayed locked on me, burning with a strange mix of excitement and disbelief.
"Still getting used to this strength," he muttered, flexing his fingers around the hilt.
The strike came in faster than I expected and the wind behind it hit with far more force than it should have. Even the shockwave that brushed past me felt heavier than normal, almost doubled in weight.
My limbs were not slowing on their own.
The curse was dragging my body down.
I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs until the air felt heavy in my chest. The room vibrated with the sound of my voice as I spoke, each word echoing off the cracked stone.
"The Oxali's curse." The moment the name left my mouth, the frogfolk's throat pouch twitched and the drunk man's smile faltered for a beat.
I stepped forward and shrugged the dark cloak from my shoulders, letting it fall away like a discarded weight.
"It combines and distributes power evenly among everyone inside its radius, an efficient curse for taking down opponents far stronger than you."
I tilted my head, cracking my neck one way, then the other until the sound cut through the dust and silence.
"There is one major flaw... The caster cannot move from its position once it is cast."
The frog's eyes widened as the others shifted, closing ranks and planting themselves between me and the frog, their postures tightening into a defensive wall.
I breathed in, felt the air fill my lungs, and let it out in a long, steady sigh. Heat gathered in my chest, a low, coiling pressure that rose until it spilled from me.
"Brace yourselves."