The morning over Rigel Canyon broke bone-chillingly damp. In this era, with six long decades still remaining until the death of the Demon Lord, dawns on the northern border never brought relief—only freezing fog, dampness, and a sticky, skin-deep anticipation of an attack.
Deep below, at the bottom of the colossal stone rift, an icy river roared with a hollow fury. It served as a natural barrier, severing the relatively peaceful Central Lands from the cursed North. Spanning this abyss was a bridge—massive, wide, its ancient stone arches biting tenaciously into the bedrock. The only path into the fortress of Baal. The single thread connecting two worlds.
For the guards standing the morning watch by the black-iron-bound gates, this day promised to be yet another string of dreary, dragging hours soaked in cold. If one ignored yesterday's commotion with the heavily battered refugees and the personal intervention of the Hero of the South—which had thrown the entire garrison into an uproar—everyday life here flowed monotonously. Soldiers, clad in heavy steel cuirasses, shifted lazily from foot to foot, wrapping themselves in cloaks and glaring grimly into the gray veil of fog over the bridge.
They expected this day to be exactly like hundreds of others before it.
They were wrong.
An extraneous sound pierced through the monotonous howl of the wind and the rush of distant water. A sharp, heavy splash. It didn't sound like the thrashing of a large fish or a stone plummeting from the cliff. The sound was harsh, unnatural, making the sentries instinctively tense up and shift their grip on their halberds.
Before the sergeant could even give the order to check the parapet, a human hand slapped wetly onto the very edge of the bridge's stonework—right where the sheer wall dropped straight into the churning river. Fingers dug into the joint between the ancient bricks with frightening ease.
A second later, the muscles on the arm flexed, and a man, emerging straight out of the abyss, landed on the bridge smoothly and absolutely silently. No thud of boots, no clatter of stone. Just the quiet patter of water dripping from his body onto the cobblestones.
The sentries froze. Their knuckles turned white from tension, and their lungs forgot how to breathe. Baal was covered by a powerful magical barrier, but not a single defensive weave was designed to account for someone simply scaling a sheer, slippery cliff straight out of a raging river, a fall into which guaranteed certain death.
The alarm horn had almost touched a young recruit's lips, but the moment the morning light fell on the intruder's thoroughly soaked blond hair, the sergeant sharply pushed his subordinate's weapon down. Recognition clicked in the veteran's mind. He remembered that brazen, infuriatingly cocky face perfectly well from last evening.
Izayoi Sakamaki stood before the locked gates of Baal, and his entire appearance could only be described as... refreshing.
He was stripped to the waist. Icy river water ran in thin streams down a perfect torso devoid of a single scar. His dark-blue school uniform jacket and yellow t-shirt were tightly twisted and tied carelessly around his waist like a sash. And slung over his right shoulder, the youth carried a tightly packed, suspiciously bulging canvas sack, from which thick, dark moisture dripped rhythmically onto the cobblestones.
"Yo, officers!" Izayoi barked cheerfully, shattering the tense silence of the dawn.
He shook himself like a large stray cat, flinging excess water from his hair. A broad, snarky grin blossomed on his face. Crossing his free arm over his chest, he stopped right in front of the gate doors and stared at the guards with blatant disdain, his whole demeanor proclaiming: I've arrived. Open up.
The young guard, the first to snap out of his stupor, swallowed nervously. Without taking his wide eyes off the half-naked guy, he leaned toward the sergeant and hissed:
"Listen... did we let anyone out at all in the last few hours?"
His partner twitched his shoulder in annoyance, not even turning his head, and gave a similarly quiet, angry reply:
"We've been stuck at this post since morning, why the hell are you asking me?"
They shifted their gazes back to Izayoi. The guy's face currently expressed an extreme degree of boredom. He shifted lazily from foot to foot, arching an eyebrow.
"Well? How long am I supposed to stand out here?" he inquired, a slight rasp in his voice.
The guard sergeant, trying to claw back at least a fraction of his lost military authority, took a step forward. He straightened his back, trying to sound as stern as possible.
"Passage into the city is closed for all arrivals. Martial law. To enter, you need to present travel documents, a Guild token, or get direct permission from the Northern Border Command. Those are the rules, kid."
Hearing this, Izayoi winced as if he'd bitten into a sour lemon. All his feigned cheerfulness evaporated instantly, replaced by blatant disappointment. He cast a glance at the massive gates, then looked at the sergeant like a madman trying to forbid a river from flowing with a piece of paperwork.
Arguing with bureaucrats was boring. Kicking the gates down would be fun, but too noisy, plus old man Hans had asked him yesterday not to break state property.
"Ah, screw it," Izayoi tossed out lazily, waving off the dumbfounded guard.
He took a couple of unhurried steps back, gauging the distance.
"Hey, where are you..." the sergeant started, but the words caught in his throat.
Right before the eyes of the garrison, the youth simply bent his knees slightly and pushed off the ground. There were no flashes of mana, no magic circles, no characteristic hum of levitation spells. Only the dry, cracking snap of stone failing to withstand monstrous physical pressure.
Izayoi's body shot upwards in a perfect, sheer trajectory. The soldiers at the gates craned their necks, feeling their jaws drop. They watched, wide-eyed, as the blond figure with a heavy sack on his shoulder cleared the twenty-meter height of the fortress wall with the grace of a cannonball ignoring gravity.
But an even greater shock hit the sentries keeping watch at the very top of the wall. Gripping their bows, they watched in mystical horror as a man flew over their helmets, eclipsing the rising sun. At the apex of his mocking jump, Izayoi managed to maintain an absolutely relaxed posture in mid-air. Meeting the gaze of one of the frozen archers, he gave a teasing wink, and then plummeted downward like a stone.
A second later, the dull, heavy thud of a landing echoed from the fortress courtyard.
A heavy, ringing silence hung over the wall. The only sound was the flapping of flags in the wind. The sentries exchanged bewildered glances, having no idea what to do.
"C-captain?" a soldier squeezed out in a trembling voice. "Sound the alarm?"
The shift commander, a veteran whose face was covered in a web of scars, slowly lowered his hands. He deliberately averted his gaze, hiding his eyes from his subordinates so they wouldn't see his own chthonic bewilderment.
"Belay the alarm," he said hollowly, emphasizing each word. "Are you out of your minds? The Hero of the South personally vouched for that kid yesterday. Lord Roderic called him his guest."
The veteran swallowed hard and lowered his voice to a threatening whisper: "Besides, officially, we didn't let anyone out through the main gates. If we raise a stink right now and report to command that some guy just jumped over a twenty-meter wall, the Count will think we're chugging moonshine on duty and throw the whole garrison in the brig. No need to panic the civilians and piss off the brass. Since he's the Hero's guest, let the Lord deal with his aerial circus acts himself. Back to your posts, everyone!"
***
Ten minutes later, Izayoi was confidently striding down the narrow, crooked streets of Baal. The morning dampness didn't bother him, but his empty stomach insistently demanded attention. Reaching the right intersection, he pushed open the creaky door of an already familiar magic shop.
Inside, twilight reigned, thick with the smell of dust, dried belladonna, and old paper. Behind the massive counter, resting her head on a dry palm, sat the elderly proprietress. The early hour and complete lack of customers had lulled her into a light senile doze.
BAM.
A heavy, moisture-soaked canvas sack slammed forcefully right onto the polished countertop, letting out a distinct, wet squelch.
The woman flinched in fright, nearly dropping her glasses, and bolted upright. The first thing her sleepy gaze focused on was the dirty bundle of fabric. And right behind it towered the figure of a wet, half-naked guy. The expression on his face radiated such a degree of boundless smugness that the shopkeeper was instantly washed over by a wave of irritation.
Realizing his spectacular wake-up call had succeeded, Izayoi didn't waste time on polite pleasantries. He deftly pulled the string cinching the neck of the bag and, with one jerk, dumped its contents onto the counter.
"Quick as promised, granny!" his voice boomed, bouncing off the shelves of potions.
Precious mana crystals tumbled out before the dumbfounded merchant's eyes with a dull clatter. There were many of them. An unbelievable amount. But what truly took her breath away was their size. There were specimens as large as a grown man's fist, with perfect, flawless facets. They glowed from within with a deep, pulsating violet light, radiating such a dense magical aura that arcane miasmas practically hung in the air. Under normal conditions, stones of such purity took decades to form inside the bodies of exceptionally powerful and strong monsters.
Izayoi leaned both hands on the edge of the counter, baring a perfectly straight row of teeth in a grin: "Well, look here. I, to be honest, don't really know much about their quality, cut, or your local pricing. So I decided not to sweat the small stuff and just gathered a bunch so I wouldn't have to make two trips. I'm counting on your honest, professional appraisal. Oh, and I prefer cash."
His cheerful, almost businesslike tone shattered against the woman's pale, frozen face. The merchant, whose gnarled fingers had begun to noticeably tremble, perched jeweler's loupe glasses on her nose. Carefully, as if afraid of getting burned, she picked up one of the largest stones with special brass tongs and held it up to the light of a lamp.
She checked the density of the structure. Looked for flaws. But there were none. There was no panicky terror in her eyes—she had lived on the border for too long. But a profound, chilling shock paralyzed her professional skepticism.
"Where did..." she uttered quietly, strangled, not taking her eyes off the pulsating core of the crystal. "Where did you get all this fortune?"
"Oh, just out there, in the woods nearby," Izayoi waved off carelessly, nodding toward the north. "Took a walk about a kilometer and a half from your walls, plenty of this stuff running around there."
He met the woman's heavy, darkened gaze. She was looking at him not like a lucky hunter, but like a dangerous lunatic. Izayoi thought for a second, remembering that the locals didn't use his familiar metric system.
"Well... I mean, if we measure by your human standards," he tried to translate his physical capabilities into an accessible format, "probably a couple of hours of a leisurely walk. If you don't rush and just take in the fresh air."
The woman slowly, brokenly shook her head and carefully lowered the crystal onto a soft cloth backing.
"That is absolutely impossible," she cut him off firmly, her voice regaining its former steely sharpness.
"Oh come on, let's just skip the eternal nagging," Izayoi clicked his tongue in displeasure, feeling irritation washing over him. He hated making excuses. "We had a clear deal: I bring the loot—you pay hard coin. What difference does it make where I found them? They aren't stolen."
However, the old woman unceremoniously interrupted him, slamming her dry fist on the counter so hard the flasks jingled.
"Listen to me carefully, boy! Monsters that form crystals of this size and density in their bodies do not inhabit the area around Baal. They roam much further out, deep in the frozen wastelands of the Northern Plateau. They have never approached the borders of human fortifications. And if you found them two hours away from here... that means the front line has already been breached, and the Demon Army is standing right on our doorstep."
Those words made Izayoi perk up instantly. Information about a shift in the territory of powerful monsters was excellent news. It meant that big game capable of providing him with proper entertainment was much closer than he had anticipated.
He narrowed his purple eyes slightly, evaluating the old woman, and then simply shrugged, putting on the most innocent face possible: "Well... honest truth, not lying. They showed up themselves, asked for it themselves. The result is right in front of you."
Wise from years of trading and dealing with the most motley riffraff, the woman scrutinized him. Beneath all that feigned arrogance, insolence, and irritating boyish smirk, she saw a terrifying, crystal-clear sincerity. The boy really wasn't lying. He wasn't bragging. For him, wiping out a dozen elite beasts truly wasn't anything difficult.
The realization of this fact knocked the ground out from under her. The old woman closed her eyes, banishing a primal fear of the unknown, and stared at the boy with a different look—a keen, analyzing gaze. She examined his mana-devoid aura, his smooth skin, his lack of weapons.
The silence in the shop dragged on. Izayoi quickly grew tired of being the object of such intense scrutiny. He crossed his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow in displeasure.
Finally, the woman broke the silence. Her voice sounded hollow, half-questioning: "So you're... a 'Warrior'?"
Izayoi, whose knowledge of the laws of this universe was thus far limited only to bits of information about magic, instantly showed genuine interest. His eyes gleamed predatorily. He leaned forward, looming over the counter, and asked with sincere curiosity: "What kind of 'Warriors'?"
***
Half an hour later, Izayoi was leisurely strolling along the bustling stone pavement of Baal. In his right pocket, a tight, weighty pouch stuffed with Strahl gold and silver coins pleasantly weighed down the fabric. The merchant turned out to be honest—or too scared to cheat him.
By this point, his jacket had completely dried under the rays of the morning sun. The guy simply draped it over his shoulders on top of his bare torso, leaving it unbuttoned like a cape. In his left hand, he held a long wooden skewer loaded with huge, juicy chunks of roasted meat. He bit them right off as he walked, squinting in pleasure and caring absolutely nothing about how it looked from the outside.
With his free right hand, right inside his pocket, he melancholically rolled a copper coin. Out of boredom, he squeezed his fingers. The metal groaned pitifully and gave way. Izayoi easily crushed the coin into a dense cube, then flattened it with his thumb into a thin plate, and finally rolled it into a perfect sphere.
His thoughts were occupied with something else. From the old woman's unhurried, grumpy tale, a rather amusing picture of the local combat ecosystem began to emerge.
It turned out that "Warriors" in this world weren't just soldiers with swords. They were a distinct caste, a conceptual counterbalance to mages. Their strength was focused exclusively on inflicting and withstanding colossal physical damage. The difference lay in the fundamental approach. While mages spent their whole lives withering away over dusty grimoires, memorizing formulas, and meditating for the sake of mana control, Warriors walked the path of pure, primal overcoming. From childhood, they tortured their bodies so they would mend stronger than steel, training muscles and tendons through secret methods, turning their own flesh into an absolute, indestructible weapon.
Strengthen the body with special methods, huh... Izayoi smirked, swallowing another chunk of meat. A dangerous, anticipating fire flashed in his purple eyes.
He licked his lips, tasting the spices, and suddenly stopped.
His hypersensitive hearing, capable of filtering a needed sound out of the city noise, caught a distinct, rhythmic clanking of iron. Footsteps. A multitude of heavy, steel-clad feet. They were moving in sync, cutting off any routes of retreat.
Izayoi slowly turned his head.
The crowd of townsfolk on the narrow street began to hurriedly part, pressing themselves against the walls of the houses. Armed soldiers of the city guard marched out of the alleys, blocking off the intersection from all four sides. Halberds lowered, crossbows drawn. They were commanded by a tall officer with a face crimson from anger, who had finally tracked down the culprit behind his morning migraine—that very madman they had been searching for since dawn.