A shrill metal bell tore through the quiet morning, the alarm on the nightstand screeching with stubborn insistence.
Under the thin blanket, a lump of a person wriggled once and let out a muffled whine.
Riiing, riiing, riiing—!
The noise went on for a solid half minute before a pale, clean arm suddenly shot out of the rumpled cocoon, irritated at being disturbed. With a sharp, violent smack, it landed precisely on the alarm's button.
Silence—instant and absolute.
The arm vanished back into warmth as if it had never existed.
The blanket tightened again. The rounded silhouette beneath shifted once, tracing a tempting outline, and the room was left with nothing but the city's faint waking hiss outside the window—and the steady, long breathing returning under the covers.
Five minutes later.
Riiing, riiing, riiing—!
The bell shattered the quiet again.
This time, the figure under the blanket reacted more dramatically.
Morningstar practically sprang upright in a reflexive bounce, forcing her back straight. Her hair was a mess, plastered across her face. Her eyes were still shut, lashes thick enough to cast tiny shadows in the morning light.
Her body swayed slightly with each breath, as if she could fall asleep again even while sitting up.
A beam of daylight slipped through a gap in the curtains and cut across her pale face like a bright blade.
After several minutes of struggle, her eyelids finally pried open to a thin slit, as if glued together. Then a huge yawn burst out—completely ungraceful—shaking her narrow shoulders and squeezing a tear to the corner of her eye.
Only then did her bleary gaze focus, staring blankly at the light beam where dust motes floated in silence.
A new day had begun.
Morningstar threw off the blanket and planted bare feet on the icy floor. The shock jolted her a little more awake. She padded into the cramped washroom with a soft patter.
She turned on the faucet. Water hissed faintly.
The bottles and tubes around the sink were few, their labels worn—every single one a cheap brand she'd stocked up on during promotions.
She went through the motions, practiced and quick: lather, rinse, pat. Foam washed away under the stream. In the mirror was a neat face that couldn't quite hide exhaustion—faint shadows under the eyes.
She looked at herself, and the invisible ledger in her head flipped open automatically:
This month's compensation I fronted for that reckless rookie Proxy still hasn't come back.Last month's "tea money" to smooth over trouble for another agent went straight onto the credit card.
As a small-name intermediary on the Inter-Knot, Morningstar wasn't bad at making money.
She had a sharp eye and flexible connections; she could always sift through the chaos of commissions and find the easy ones.
But her wallet was a leaky bucket she could never patch.
Because every time those green, hot-blooded rookie Proxies and agents screwed up, she was the one gritting her teeth and pulling out her own cash to fill the hole.
Compensating clients for losses. Soothing victims. Sometimes even paying negotiation fees when a gang got angry enough to "talk."
Every time she helped, the numbers in her account went on another diet.
She shook her head hard, scooped a handful of cold water, and slapped it onto her face.
The chill bit deep—ripping away the last thread of sleep.
In the mirror, her eyes sharpened again.
Because whenever she pictured those rookies—once reckless and clueless—slowly growing, becoming reliable, even standing on their own with real confidence in their smiles…
She'd think:
The belt-tightening days are worth it.
That kind of satisfaction couldn't be bought with a number on a screen.
She got dressed.
A T-shirt she'd snagged on end-of-season discount, washed a little pale. Jeans with frayed knees—last year's clearance trophy.
There wasn't a single thing on her that could be called "presentable."
She faced the water-spotted little mirror, inhaled, clenched both fists at her chest, and shouted at her reflection with everything she had:
"Come on, Morningstar!"
"Don't mope! Today too—do your best! There are still so many rookies waiting for you to help! Don't let them down!"
The pep talk bounced around the tiny bathroom. She straightened her spine as if it truly injected strength into her.
Back in her creaky old desk chair, she booted up her computer and logged in.
The screen's bluish glow lit her focused face.
Her daily work was simple: panning for gold in an ocean of commissions—using hard-earned instincts and an experienced nose to pick out the low-risk, low-effort, decent-pay "sweet" jobs.
And most importantly, grabbing them before the faster-clicking veteran brokers could spot them and snatch them away—so she could feed those precious beginner-friendly jobs directly to the rookies she was keeping an eye on.
This was her battlefield. This was her mission.
The moment the Inter-Knot homepage refreshed, an abnormal heat marker slammed into her field of view.
A single post had been pinned to an absurd height. The heat icon was glowing red-hot, stamped with an exaggerated EXPLODING tag.
Posted late last night—only a few hours ago—and it had already rocketed to #1 on the real-time chart. The historical heat badge beside it was even worse: Top 1 of the Month.
What kind of earth-shattering drama was this?
Curiosity tugged at her. She skimmed the title:
[To promote the healthy development of the Inter-Knot industry, protect practitioners' rights, and encourage mutual aid, we have established the Inter-Knot Collaboration & Development Foundation.]
Morningstar's shoulders instantly tightened into a knot.
She rubbed her eyes instinctively, then glanced at the crisp date in the corner of the screen.
"April Fools'? …No, that already passed."
She muttered, disbelief thick in her voice.
Was this a joke?
On the Inter-Knot, the default rule was survival of the fittest. Chaos and predation were normal.
Protection? Mutual aid? A foundation?
She knew every word in that sentence—so why did they feel impossible when put together?
She let out a snort of laughter, but her finger still clicked the post anyway, carrying a thread of hope she hadn't even realized she had.
The post unfolded in an almost official tone.
At the top was the foundation's public mission statement, black text on white:
Shared Risk: Provide small security funds for high-risk commissions to reduce losses from accidents.Rookie Cultivation: Reward and subsidize outstanding veteran Proxies and brokers who train newcomers and share experience.Community Support: Special support for brokers maintaining commission coordination in high-risk, low-reward areas like the Outer Ring.Industry Research: Fund research that benefits all practitioners—Hollow stabilization patterns, new equipment development, etc.
Just reading those first lines made her feel dizzy, like she'd been hit with a warm wave.
Was this real?
Finally… someone couldn't stand it anymore and was going to clean up this lawless mess?
Let rookies start on solid ground instead of falling into bottomless pits?
It was—
A warmth surged up inside her chest, nearly bursting out of her throat.
For Morningstar, nothing was more comforting than watching the industry become safer and more orderly—watching rookies suffer less.
But the next second, her instincts—honed by too many bruising years—screamed.
She wasn't a naïve newcomer. Pretty words and grand blueprints didn't buy trust. She'd seen too many empty promises.
She shook her head hard, forcing the excitement down, and began scrolling fast. She jumped past the shiny rhetoric, her eyes locking onto the only part that mattered:
The rules. The money.
Low Accident Rate & High Satisfaction Grant: Rewards brokers who maintain long-term high completion rates, strong client satisfaction, and low casualties among affiliated Proxies and agents.
"…This one…"
Morningstar's breath caught. Her heart felt like it was seized by an invisible hand—then started pounding violently.
"I… I match that."
The words came out before she could stop them, laced with a pride she hadn't noticed blooming.
In the entire Inter-Knot, she was probably the only one who protected rookies like a mother hen—obsessively screening commissions, evaluating risk, nagging them with safety reminders until they rolled their eyes.
Over time, her stats had become ridiculous: clean, beautiful, industry-benchmark numbers. Every high completion rate and low casualty figure was paid for with her nerves and her wallet. Anyone questioning her could be answered with a single line:
Check the record.
Her fingers trembled as she moved to the next line.
Rookie Mentor Stipend: Provides stipends to individuals who consistently and systematically produce training materials and actively mentor newcomers, to encourage knowledge sharing.
Morningstar sucked in a sharp breath—this time, it was real shock.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened.
Training materials? Active mentoring?
The "Starling Guide"—the handbook she'd written with sleepless nights poured into every page.
From beginner equipment choices, Hollow survival rules, negotiation tactics, common traps and scams—every tiny detail, written for one reason:
So rookies could stay alive.
Was there a second guide on the Inter-Knot that was this systematic, free, and genuinely for the rookies?
Most so-called "guides" floating around were either scattered tips or bait posts hiding crucial information.
What she'd done—comprehensive, structured, free—was unique.
"Does that mean…"
Her voice went thin, almost unreal.
"…all the stipend money would go to me?"
A pie the size of a truck fell from the sky and landed right in her lap.
For three seconds, pure joy surged through her whole body. Her scalp even tingled.
After living tight for so long, it felt like she could finally see an exit sign.
She could practically imagine the relief of looking at her balance and seeing a long line of zeros.
Then—like a switch—her smile collapsed.
Her eyebrows fell, and a deep crease formed between them. Her fingers unconsciously picked at the cheap mouse.
Was that… really okay?
If she took all the money, what incentive would anyone else have to share?
Wouldn't that twist the whole purpose?
This foundation wasn't supposed to crown one person—it was supposed to lure more veterans into helping rookies.
No. That wouldn't do.
She shook her head firmly, eyes clearing with decision.
I won't apply for that stipend.
Let it sit there as a beacon. Let it pull others in.
Knowledge only has value when it flows.
She steadied herself and moved on.
High-Risk Community Service Subsidy: Additional support for brokers providing coordination in high-risk, low-income areas such as the Outer Ring, to keep commission systems from collapsing.
"What a coincidence—again?!"
She almost shouted.
Lately she'd been thinking about the Outer Ring.
The rookies in New Eridu, under her guidance, were finally growing stable—finally able to stand without her constant hand.
So her mind kept drifting to the Outer Ring: chaotic, dangerous, low pay—so unpleasant that even hardened veterans avoided it.
Yet it was full of desperate people and desperate need.
She'd been wavering.
Going there would probably mean even less income and much higher risk. And the travel costs alone were a mountain she couldn't climb with her current finances.
This subsidy clause felt like it had been written for her.
With it, she could go—and she could breathe.
Her eyes lit with real eagerness.
Then the last one.
Crisis Response Security Fund: When a broker suffers major loss due to force majeure (e.g., client fraud, gang threats, sudden commission disasters), they may apply for a one-time emergency fund to get through the crisis.
"This clause is incredible!"
Morningstar couldn't hold it in anymore. The shout came out shaky—and it carried the edge of a sob.
She leaned back hard, chest rising and falling.
"The world… the world is finally getting better."
The sentence burst straight from her heart.
More than the awards, more than the stipends, more than the Outer Ring subsidy—this one mattered to her the most.
Old memories surged up: arrogant clients demanding impossible compensation; being cornered in an alley by gangsters; Hollow volatility spiking mid-mission and turning a routine run into a disaster.
Every time had pushed her to the brink.
This security fund was a rope thrown to someone drowning.
She reread the clauses, again and again, faster each time. Her heart beat harder with every line.
Shared risk. Rookie cultivation. High-risk subsidies. Crisis protection.
Every single rule fit her perfectly.
Each requirement felt like it had been written by someone who knew her life.
Could it be… could her hard years finally be ending?
Could she stop counting every last Dennies? Could she catch her breath—help even more rookies?
Hope rose like sunlight.
Then fear followed close behind.
Nothing this perfect was ever real.
Was this a prank? A hacker's joke? A new kind of scam by some big broker fishing for information?
Or worse—a gang's new trick?
Her joy cooled into caution.
She couldn't celebrate too early.
Then her eyes finally found the signature at the bottom of the post.
And she saw—
PHAETHON.
"Phaethon?!"
Morningstar yelped so loudly she nearly fell off her uncomfortable chair.
She stared at the name, refusing to believe it.
Phaethon.
The only legend among Proxies. The strongest Proxy everyone acknowledged.
That name meant the impossible.
Other Proxies could only offer basic route guidance and pray their agents survived, or they had to personally escort teams into danger and gamble with their lives.
Only Phaethon—by rumor—possessed technology so absurd it could maintain real-time contact across Hollows, punching straight through the barrier between inside and outside.
A terrifying 100% completion rate.
A peak everyone could only look up at.
If… if this really was the legend taking the lead—
Morningstar's breathing turned shallow.
Then this foundation's weight was completely different.
With Phaethon's status and credibility, maybe… maybe it actually could function.
Her trembling finger scrolled down and clicked into the comments.
As expected, it was a warzone.
The top pinned comment dripped with sarcasm:
"Wake up. This is obviously a scam. Phaethon's account was confirmed destroyed days ago. And now 'Phaethon' posts again? Fake. Fishing."
Under it, the replies exploded.
A counter-comment shot to the top:
"Do you even understand how the Inter-Knot works? Distributed storage. Every account's unique ID is stamped into the network foundation at creation—nonforgeable, nonreplicable.
Phaethon's account really was destroyed days ago. That means the UID was wiped from the network record. Irreversible.
But look at this account now—ID, history traces, signature code… it's identical to the destroyed one.
You know what that means? It means someone has the power to resurrect a unique identifier inside a decentralized network that's supposed to be unalterable.
That level of force is the only thing worthy of the name 'Phaethon.'
This isn't a scam. This is a declaration."
The comment's tone carried a kind of horror-struck reverence.
The replies piled up instantly:
"Holy—when you think about it, that's terrifying.""My scalp is tingling…""Restoring a destroyed UID on a distributed network??? That's… not human.""The foundation is the least scary part. That restoration is the real nightmare.""If he can do that, crypto would be—wait, no—"
The thread filled with reaction images and lines of stunned disbelief.
Every exclamation mark hammered Morningstar's heart.
She understood enough tech to know what it meant.
And precisely because she understood, the implication hit even harder:
This wasn't "hacking."
This was rewriting part of the Inter-Knot's underlying reality.
A cold shiver ran from her feet to her skull. Every hair on her arms stood up.
Her earlier estimate of the foundation's power had been far too conservative.
Then, in the middle of her buzzing shock—
Ding!
A crisp system notification chimed in her Inter-Knot backend.
Morningstar snapped out of it, fumbled the cursor, and clicked the flashing icon.
A formal private message popped up—tone meticulous, formatting official:
[Dear Ms. Morningstar,
Based on your outstanding long-term performance as an Inter-Knot commission coordinator—high completion rate, high client satisfaction, and exceptionally low casualty rate among associated Proxies and partners—and based on your major, systematic contributions to the rookie Proxy community through your free publication and sharing of The Starling Guide, the Inter-Knot Collaboration & Development Foundation Review Committee confirms that you fully meet multiple support standards.
By committee decision, the Foundation will grant you an advance award of 500,000 Dennies to recognize your contributions.
In addition, the Foundation has activated a personalized "Broker Liability Insurance" policy for you.
Effective immediately, all Proxies and brokers who accept commissions directly recommended by you will automatically share coverage under this policy.
If, during your duties as a broker, or during the execution of commissions by partners you have recommended, you encounter force majeure risks (including but not limited to client fraud, external violence threats, sudden mission-site disasters, etc.) and suffer major financial loss or personal safety threats, you may apply for an emergency security fund according to the policy terms for urgent turnover and risk buffering.
Thank you for your efforts toward a healthier, sustainable Inter-Knot community.
We look forward to working with you to build a better industry future.
Sincerely,Inter-Knot Collaboration & Development Foundation]**
Time seemed to freeze.
Morningstar stared at the screen, every word burning into her eyes—especially the number:
500,000 Dennies.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her face held only shock and blank disbelief.
Half a million. Insurance. Shared coverage. Emergency funds.
It wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't a phishing mail. It wasn't a backend glitch.
The foundation—this impossible thing tied to Phaethon—had actually sent her money.
And it came with protection.
No way… it was real?
She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if not doing so would let a sobbing laugh explode out and echo through the room.
Her shoulders shook violently. Tears surged without warning, instantly blurring everything.
Five hundred thousand Dennies.
And something even heavier than money:
A safety net.
Today… might really be her lucky day.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 178)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 150)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League ( 126 )
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter110)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter190)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter105)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter225)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 65
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 77
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
I'm Grinding Proficiency Like 46
From Kiana, Lord Ravager, Onwa 195
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
Warhammer: My Primarch Is Remi 170
From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass Volume2/5
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 225
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 65
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 76
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 66
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 65
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 210
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 154
I, a Reincarnation-Loop Player Volume4/30
The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 115
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 67
Uma Musume: From Beginner 130
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 85
Uma Musume: I Want All 105
I Can Copy Unique Skills 100
Summoning an Evil God, but the 70
Supernatural Multiverse 90
My Harem Is Indescribable 85
Jujutsu Kaisen: Heroic Spirit 90
"I'm just a Valkyrie passing through." 68
Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 100
Still playing traditional Honk 69
The Most Filial Son Under Heav 75
What Should I Do After Switchi - Volume2/3
Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 60
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 55
Transmigrated as Sukuna 71
Checking In in Demon Slayer 75
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 80
I Refuse to Become a Heroic 66
My Best Friend Into a Slime? 58
A Saiyan Stands Above Marvel 65
What Do You Mean by Using a Lab Mod to Be the Hero? 63
Tanya Starts from Re:Zero 59
Why did they assign me to Uma 55
MYGO Beauties 56
DanMachi: Emiya the Giant Hero 45
The Gacha Merchant Who Started 49
Honkai's Otherworld? Wait—Who Are You People?! 36
Emiya Shirou, Determined to Slay Every Curse and Evil Spirit 35
The Uma Musume Who Became 30
I'm Definitely Not the King of 35
After Maxing Out Every Class 35
My patreon : patreon.com/queen_sin
My patreon : patreon.com/queen_sin