In our world, far from the blood-soaked snowfields of Aethelgard, the military had established their base of operations in a converted factory on the outskirts of Kyubu. The facility was utilitarian and cold—all concrete walls and metal fixtures, stripped of any comfort or warmth. It served its purpose: to be a place where dark work could be done away from prying eyes.

  In one of the facility's darker rooms—a space lit only by a single window that allowed in thin streams of moonlight—Commander Adelheid Konrad paced back and forth with restless energy. He was a man clearly in his fifties, his face lined with the kind of stress that came from years of military command and darker pursuits. But his movements betrayed his composure—there was something frenetic about the way he moved, like a predator caged too long.

  "Anything?" He stopped abruptly and turned to face the young soldier standing at attention near the table. "Hm? I asked: anything?" His voice was harsh, cutting through the silence like a blade.

  "Yes, sir! And... no, sir!" The soldier was visibly nervous, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Except for the severe cold emanating from the artifact, there's been no change, sir. Nothing."

  The artifact in question sat on a table in the center of the room, carefully positioned as if it were a holy relic or an unexploded bomb. It was pitch black and cylindrical in shape. Its surface seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and the air around it shimmered with an unnatural cold—the biting chill of winter. Frost had formed on the table beneath it, spreading outward in delicate crystalline patterns.

  "Damnit!" Konrad slammed his fist on a nearby wall, making the soldier flinch. "It's been two and a half months since that Vincent bastard vanished!" His voice rose with each word. "By the logic of that world, he should be dead by now! And when he dies, the feather should reappear here, right? RIGHT?!"

  As he spoke those last words through clenched teeth, Konrad turned his attention to another occupant of the room—one the soldier had been carefully avoiding looking at.

  In the corner, chained to a heavy ring bolted into the concrete floor, lay a man in a pitiful state. He was clearly emaciated, his ribs visible through torn clothing. His body was a canvas of torture—old scars layered with fresh wounds, bruises in various stages of healing creating a sickening palette of purples, yellows, and greens. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut. He lay on his side in his own filth, breathing shallowly, occasionally trembling despite the room's warmth.

  Commander Konrad crossed the room with measured steps and squatted beside the broken man. Without gentleness, he grabbed a fistful of the prisoner's matted hair and pulled him up into a sitting position. The man groaned weakly but didn't have the strength to resist.

  "I said, right?" Konrad's face was inches from the prisoner's, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Answer me."

  "Y-y-yess," the man rasped, his voice so low and hoarse it barely qualified as speech. "I-ff he di-e-ed... the fea-the w-ill... app-pe-ar again..."

  This tortured soul was one of the rebels of country Naben, part of the group that called themselves the Kyubu Katanas. They had been thorns in the Jerma military's side for months, protecting something the forces desperately wanted. Now, most of them were dead or captured, and the conflict still raged. This one had lasted longer than most under interrogation.

  As he finished his sentence, the prisoner coughed violently. Blood—bright and fresh—sprayed from his mouth, splattering across Commander Konrad's face and pristine uniform.

  For a moment, Konrad didn't move. Then, slowly, he released the man's hair, letting his head drop back down. The prisoner slumped forward, barely conscious. Konrad stood up with deliberate calm, as if the blood on his face were merely water, and accepted a handkerchief from one of the soldiers standing by the wall.

  He wiped his face methodically, cleaning each spot of blood with careful precision. When he was satisfied, he handed the soiled cloth back to the soldier and turned away from the prisoner.

  "Feed him to the dogs," he said calmly, as if ordering coffee.

  "Yes, sir!" The soldier saluted sharply.

  The effect of those words on the prisoner was immediate and devastating.

  "N-no! Ple-as-ee!" He tried to crawl forward, his chains rattling. "It w-as a mis-take! I told y-ouu the tr-uu-th! Please! Y-ou pr-omi-sed! My freed-om! My family's freed-om!"

  Konrad paused and looked back over his shoulder, a small smile playing at his lips. "And that's exactly what I'm granting you. Freedom from this life. You should be grateful, really." His smile widened, showing teeth. "Of course, your family—your daughter—will follow suit."

  "No! No no no no!" The prisoner's voice broke completely, dissolving into desperate, animalistic pleading. "Please! PLEASE! Not my daughter!"

  But the soldier had already grabbed him by the chains and was dragging him toward the door. The prisoner's fingernails scraped against the concrete floor, leaving thin trails of blood as he tried to find purchase, tried to stop his inevitable fate. His screams echoed down the hallway long after the door closed, gradually fading into the distance until they were cut off abruptly by another door slamming shut.

  Silence returned to the room.

  Konrad walked to the window and gazed out at the night, his hands clasped behind his back. After a moment, he spoke without turning around. "Sergeant Wolf."

  A figure stepped forward from the shadows near the wall—a man in his thirties, well-built, with the bearing of a career soldier. "Yes, sir."

  Konrad turned to face him, his expression now one of cool calculation rather than anger. "Vincent Karl. That's his full name, correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "He was from your squad." It wasn't a question. "Tell me, Sergeant—do you believe he's capable of surviving in this unknown world, this Aethelgard, all on his own?"

  Sergeant Wolf shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. "Sir, I don't know anything about this world you speak of, but if it's anything like our world... yes, sir. Probably. Vincent was... resourceful."

  "Oh no, no, no." Konrad shook his head, his smile returning—but it was a cold smile, without humor. "I assure you, Sergeant, Aethelgard is nothing like our Earth. It's far more dangerous. Far more cruel. Monsters that would make your nightmares seem pleasant." He paused, studying Wolf's face. "And yet, your buddy is surviving there somehow. He's either hiding exceptionally well, or..." He trailed off meaningfully. "...he's adapting. Thriving, even."

  Wolf swallowed hard. "Commander, I assure you, Vincent is more of a coward than anything else. He's not that skilled. If he's alive, it's because he's hiding, not fighting."

  "Oh really?" Konrad's eyebrows rose. "Hmmm. Perhaps my memory is betraying me. Because as I recall, he's the one who saved your sorry ass during the Mount Aso incident. Or did that not happen?"

  Sergeant Wolf's face went pale. Sweat began to bead on his forehead despite the cool temperature. "Sir, I... I... y-you seem to know a great deal about this world, and I don't understand why or how we got into this situation. Sir, please—can you explain what's actually going on? This world you speak of? The artifact? All of it?"

  Konrad's expression hardened. "Of course you don't know anything about this. You're nothing but a pawn, Sergeant. A tool that was supposed to do what it was told and ask no questions." His voice began to rise, anger creeping back in. "But of all the squads involved in this operation, of all the men I had placed throughout the military, your squad had to be the one to encounter the rebels who possessed the artifact I needed. And you—you and your squad member Vincent—he took it and lied to me and vanished into that world!"

  He stepped closer to Wolf, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Is this how you teach your squad members to behave, Wolf? Theft? Deception? Treason?"

  "No... no, sir. I... I didn't know he would—"

  "SHUT UP!" Konrad's shout echoed off the concrete walls. "Do you even understand why a nobody like you is here, in this room, talking to me instead of rotting in a cell?"

  Wolf stood rigid, his jaw clenched. "...Yes, sir."

  At that exact moment, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

  Konrad's demeanor changed instantly, the rage evaporating and being replaced by cold professionalism. "Come in."

  A soldier entered, snapping to attention. "Sir, we have him. The elder."

  A slow, creepy smile spread across Konrad's face. "Good. Very good." He turned back to Wolf, his tone now businesslike. "You have until dawn to write down every little detail you know about Vincent Karl. Everything—his habits, his fears, his skills, his weaknesses. Everything. Submit the report before sunrise."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Dismissed."

  The facility's detention area consisted of several cells with vertical iron bars, designed more for interrogation than long-term imprisonment. In the center of one such cell was a simple setup: a small table with two chairs facing each other, one currently occupied.

  The occupant was an aged man, likely in his seventies, sitting with perfect posture despite his circumstances. His eyes were closed—not in sleep, but in meditation or perhaps prayer. He wore traditional clothing, a mixture of white and black fabrics that suggested some kind of formal or ceremonial purpose. His face was serene, marked by the gentle lines of someone who smiled often. His long grey hair was tied back in a neat ponytail that fell past his shoulders.

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  This old man was the elder of the Kyubu Katanas.

  The cell door opened with a clang of metal. Commander Konrad entered, removed his cap, and set it on the table before sitting down in the empty chair across from the elder. For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Konrad leaned back, studying his prisoner with the air of someone examining an interesting specimen.

  "So," Konrad began, his tone almost conversational. "What was your name again?"

  "Ebisawa Kenzo." The elder's voice was soft but clear, carrying a depth that suggested inner strength despite his advanced age and current imprisonment.

  The contrast between the two men was stark. Konrad, in his fifties, wore the stress and violence of his life openly—his face riddled with harsh lines, his short greyish-brown hair starting to thin, his green eyes cold and calculating. He was fair-skinned and well-built, his dark green uniform crisp and decorated with insignia that spoke of rank and authority.

  Kenzo, on the other hand, seemed to embody a different kind of strength—one built on decades of discipline and spiritual practice rather than physical domination.

  Konrad tapped his fingers on the table in an irregular rhythm. "I heard you were blind. Is that true?"

  Kenzo's closed eyes tightened slightly at the corners—a small smile. "My eyes no longer see the physical world, if that is what you're asking."

  "Hmm." Konrad continued his finger-tapping. "Well, Ebisawa Kenzo, let's get straight to the point. I'm a busy man, and I suspect you'd prefer this conversation to be brief as well. I don't know if you've received any news about recent events, but your clan's long-cherished treasure—that artifact you've protected for decades—has been opened."

  Kenzo's composed expression shifted. His already-closed eyes seemed to shrink further, his eyebrows drawing together. "What? No. It can't be. That's not possible." He shook his head slowly. "You gain nothing by lying to me, Mr. Konrad."

  "Hm. Lying?" Konrad's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Leon."

  "Yes, sir." The soldier who had accompanied Konrad stepped forward, carrying a metal case. He opened it and carefully removed the artifact—that same pitch-black cylinder that had been sitting in the other room—and placed it on the table between the two men.

  Frost immediately began spreading across the table's surface from where the artifact touched it.

  "There it is," Konrad said, gesturing at the object. "Why don't you look at it? Oh, wait—you can't, can you?" He leaned forward. "But you can feel it. Go ahead. It's right there. Touch it and tell me I'm lying."

  Kenzo's hands, which had been resting calmly in his lap, began to tremble slightly. Slowly, he brought them forward, placing them on the table. His fingers found the artifact, and he began to examine it by touch—running his hands along its length, feeling its surface, its temperature, its texture.

  The change in his demeanor was immediate and dramatic.

  His composure shattered. He jerked backward so violently that his chair nearly tipped over. His breath came in short gasps. "No... how? How is this possible?" His hands gripped the edges of the table as if to steady himself against an earthquake only he could feel.

  "What do you mean, 'how?'" Konrad's voice was filled with false innocence. "Wasn't it your clan that always claimed the artifact was unopenable? That it was sealed by ancient powers beyond mortal understanding? And yet..."

  Kenzo fell silent, his breathing gradually slowing as he fought to regain control of himself. Then, unexpectedly, a small smile returned to his face. "It's... it's actually a good thing, then." His voice was quiet but sincere. "Whoever opened it must have been pure of heart. This is... perhaps this is as it should be. Everything happens for good."

  "What?" Konrad stared at him for a moment, then began to laugh—a harsh, humorless sound that echoed off the cell walls. "Ha! Haha! You can't be serious!"

  But Kenzo's smile remained. "Only those who are truly brave, truly fearless, and who possess a genuinely good heart can open the Ebonwing. It is one of the artifact's protections. If it has been opened, then the person who opened it was worthy. Everything happens for a reason, Mr. Konrad. Even this."

  "Ebonwing?" Konrad's laughter died. "So that's what you call it. Interesting." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "By the way, this 'pure of heart' person you're so optimistic about? He's one of ours. One of my men. If you catch my meaning."

  Elder Kenzo's face darkened slightly, but he forced his smile to return. "Just because he is one of your men doesn't necessarily mean he is a bad person, Mr. Konrad. The heart reveals itself in unexpected places. Perhaps—"

  "I hate to break this to you, old man," Konrad interrupted, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, "but your 'pure-hearted' hero is the one who killed your son in cold blood. Along with the rest of your people at Mount Aso. Shot them down without hesitation." He let out a small chuckle. "Still think he's pure of heart?"

  Anger erupted within Kenzo—a volcanic surge of rage and grief and disbelief that threatened to consume him entirely. His son. His beloved son, who had carried on the traditions, who had been good and kind and dedicated to protecting their people. Dead. Murdered by the very person the Ebonwing had deemed worthy?

  HOW?

  The single word screamed through his mind. His entire belief system, everything his clan had stood for across generations, everything he had taught and lived by—all of it crumbled in an instant. The foundations of his understanding of the world, of justice, of the cosmic order, shattered like glass.

  He felt himself teetering on the edge of madness, his breath coming in short gasps, his hands beginning to shake—

  Fuuuuuuu...

  He took a deep, controlled breath. Then another. And another. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled himself back from that abyss. He was an elder. He had trained for decades in maintaining inner peace, in finding calm even in the storm. He would not break. Not here. Not in front of this man.

  When he finally opened his eyes—those hollow, sightless eyes that somehow seemed to see more than Konrad's ever could—his voice was steady. "Name?"

  "Oh, right—it's Vincent Karl."

  "Karl..." The elder repeated the word continuously. He straightened up, looking at Konrad.

  "What do you want, Mr. Konrad?"

  Konrad smiled, satisfied. This was the response he'd been waiting for. "Nothing major. Just another way to reach Aethelgard. That's all." He spread his hands as if the request were reasonable. "Whatever information you have—methods, rituals, theories, legends, anything at all—just lay it down. Do that, and I'll leave your island alone. Your people can return to their lives. No more raids. No more arrests. No more... unfortunate accidents."

  Kenzo's jaw tightened. "I know nothing, Mr. Konrad. The only thing we had, the only method we possessed, we protected for decades. The Ebonwing was it. And now it's gone, used up. We have nothing left to give you." His voice carried both sadness and bitter anger. "You'll just have to wait for whoever traveled to that world to die. That's the only way the artifact will reset and return. That's how it's always worked."

  "Are you absolutely sure about that, Elder?" Konrad's tone remained pleasant, but there was steel underneath. "I'm patient. I've waited years already, building toward this moment. I can wait a bit longer if necessary. But..." He leaned forward. "I'm quite certain that waiting for your Mr. Pure-of-Heart to die would be pointless."

  Kenzo's blind eyes seemed to focus on Konrad despite their inability to see. "Many have crossed into Aethelgard over the centuries, Mr. Konrad. As you must know from your research. All of them were defeated within days or months at most. The world is simply too hostile for someone from our realm to survive long-term. Why would you assume this time will be any different? The Karl you speak of is a bastard—a one-in-a-million mistake. He will die more gruesomely than his predecessors."

  "An excellent question," Konrad admitted, "and one for which I don't have a concrete answer. But I have a feeling. Call it intuition, call it pattern recognition, call it whatever you like. But something about this situation feels different. You'll just have to trust my word on this."

  Elder Kenzo looked genuinely worried now, his face going pale. His mind was clearly racing, calculating possibilities, considering outcomes.

  "Your country has already abandoned you, your land," Konrad continued, his voice dropping to an intimate, almost friendly tone. "Tokdo has made it clear they won't intervene on behalf of the Kyubu resistance. You have nothing to gain by staying silent, Elder. But you have so much to lose." He paused for effect. "If you refuse to cooperate, I'll have no choice but to make examples. Your people will die in slices. Burned to death. Drowned. Whatever sends the clearest message." He let that sink in. "You'd better open your mouth right now, while you still have people left to save."

  Elder Kenzo sat in silence, his hands folded in his lap, his face a mask of internal struggle. Finally, he stood up slowly. He raised his hands and began clapping his fingers together in a specific rhythm—a prayer pattern, perhaps, or some form of ritual acknowledgment.

  He chanted softly in his native language, words that Konrad couldn't understand but that clearly held deep significance. The prayer or ritual took a solid ten minutes. Konrad sat waiting with a deepening frown, his patience wearing thin but his curiosity keeping him in his seat.

  Finally, Kenzo lowered his hands and whispered one word: "Fine."

  Konrad's frown immediately transformed into a smile of triumph. "Good. Very good, Elder Kenzo. You've made the right choice."

  SIDE A: Night at the Smith Guild

  In the Smith Guild in the Bear Path, the contrast to the military facility couldn't have been more stark. Where the base in Kyubu was all cold concrete and harsh fluorescent lights, the Guild was warm wood and soft lamplight. The building smelled of parchment and ink and the faint metallic tang of weapons in storage.

  In Master Rhanes's office, Lovia was handing over the day's reports. She stood before his desk with a leather-bound folder, reading from various documents and providing updates on the guild's many ongoing quests and the town's development.

  Rhanes sat behind his desk, brimming with energy. Despite the late hour, he looked alert, occasionally making notes as Lovia reported.

  "The theft at the Marpin mansion has been handled," Lovia began, her voice professional and crisp. "It turns out to be the work of a Silversnout by the tracks."

  "Of course it was." Rhanes didn't look up from the document he was reviewing.

  "The Karg theft quest—one of our members successfully captured the thief."

  "Good."

  "However..." Lovia hesitated. "The Karg owner is refusing to pay the agreed-upon fee. He claims that the Kargs were already sold to the city."

  Rhanes looked up, his expression hardening. "Did the owner agree to the terms of the contract before we took the quest?"

  "Yes, sir. Signed and witnessed."

  "Then I'll deal with him personally." Rhanes made a note. "Next."

  "One of the residents near the Southern District reported witnessing what appears to be an orc settlement—" Lovia continued her reports one by one, methodically covering various guild matters.

  But Rhanes could tell something was bothering her. She was delivering the reports competently enough, but there was a distraction in her eyes, a slight hesitation before she moved to each new item.

  "Lovia," he said finally, setting down his pen. "Is something wrong? You look worried."

  She bit her lip. "It's... it's nothing major, sir."

  "Just say it."

  "It's Kuro and Fenric." The words came out in a rush, as if she'd been holding them back for hours. "They took a quest this morning to hunt Korguls in Tuskber. They left early, right after dawn, but it's so late now and they haven't returned yet. I'm just... you know."

  Rhanes leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing at his lips. "You don't have to worry about them. Korguls are troublesome, sure, but they're not beyond their capabilities. They'll be fine."

  "How can you be so sure?" Lovia's worry came through clearly now. "It's Kuro we're talking about—a complete novice who barely knows which end of a sword to hold! Fenric is experienced, yes, but Kuro... Master Rhanes, I'm genuinely worried something might have happened."

  Rhanes found himself in an awkward position. He remembered Kuro's explicit request during their conversation about the sword retrieval mission: Don't share my involvement in the fight that I just witnessed you taking them out. Let people think what they want. At the time, Rhanes knew all too well why he said that, as he had been piecing the elements together.

  "Uhm..." Rhanes cleared his throat. "They're probably just camped out somewhere. You know how beautiful our skies look in the outskirts, especially this time of year. They're probably stargazing, the moons... They probably lost track of time."

  "Hmm..." Lovia didn't look entirely convinced, but she seemed willing to accept the explanation. She opened her mouth to say something else—

  A knock came from the office door.

  Both Rhanes and Lovia turned toward it, puzzled. It was very late—well past the hour when anyone should be conducting guild business.

  "Yes?" Rhanes called out, a hint of concern in his voice.

  A city soldier stepped inside, wearing the dark blue uniform of the Bear Path's guard.

  Rhanes stood up instinctively. "Is something wrong, guard?"

  "Sir," the guard said, his expression serious. "Chief requests your presence. Immediately."

  "What?" Rhanes's confusion was evident. Chief? Why? Now? What would he want?

  "I don't know much about it, sir, but I think it's about Daro Artwern."

  Rhanes's face darkened. "Hmm..."

  The soldier remained at attention, waiting for Rhanes's response, while Lovia exchanged a worried glance with her master.