The morning sunlight fell like a golden veil, passing silently through the window lattice as though gentle hands were smoothing across the bedsheets, finally coming to rest upon the fluttering lashes of a young man, gilding his handsome features with a faint sheen of gold.
"Mmgh..."
With a low groan, Orum opened his eyes and sat up in bed, stretching his limbs with a refreshed, well-rested ease.
He had dreamed a long dream last night, one that spanned the full length of an entire month.
Most of the dream's contents had receded like a retreating tide within seconds of waking, slipping away beyond recall. Yet Orum still remembered the overall framework with clarity, and the most pivotal scenes remained vivid in his mind.
At the beginning, the golden-haired interrogator had still been able to put on a tough front.
By the end of the first week, only her mouth remained tough.
By the final week, the golden-haired interrogator had fully become Pavlov's dog: the moment her ears caught a command, she would produce a conditioned response entirely beyond her control.
"You dream of what you dwell on."
Orum pressed a hand to his aching lower back and began to reflect:
"Maybe I've been suppressing myself a bit too much lately, and that's why I'm having dreams like this..."
Ever since crossing over into this world, the constant threat to his survival had sat upon Orum's chest like a boulder, keeping his heart tense and stifled.
Aside from the times he'd been slaughtering goblins or teaching troublemaking street kids a lesson, he had barely released any of that pressure.
Suddenly, Orum's pupils shrank.
"Wait. Why did that woman in the dream have golden hair and blue eyes, and look somewhat like Captain Felix..."
"But the Captain is a man!" Orum clapped both hands over his face.
"I'm done for. I have serious psychological problems. I need to find a therapist."
...
At the same time, on the other side of Blackwater Town.
Emerald Dragon Heart Inn. On the broad terrace of a luxury room.
Seraphina's body was rigid, stiff as a marionette, and she could barely stand without the support of her lady-in-waiting, Linda.
Though Seraphina still maintained her cold, imperious expression and the commanding aura that seemed to hover above all others, her body was utterly without give, and every inch of her skin had become so sensitive it was almost unbearable.
Even the simple contact of Linda's supporting hand felt as though an electric current ran through her legs at every moment, softening her knees, threatening to send her crumpling to the floor.
Her gaze was a tangle of conflicting emotions: three parts shame and fury, three parts utter disbelief, and four parts something that could only be described as fawning reverence.
It was as though she could no longer distinguish whether she stood in reality or was still trapped within the depths of a terrible dream.
Once Seraphina had taken her place at the designated position, lady-in-waiting Linda channeled her mana into the arcane-device bracelet and activated the Transfer Circle spell.
Standing within the gradually brightening transfer array, Seraphina turned her head and cast one last glance toward the center of Blackwater Town, in the direction of the Oak Inn.
"What manner of depravity must lurk in the heart of that boy? Was he raised in a den of succubi?"
It was no use. The moment she merely thought of his face, her saliva began to flow involuntarily, welling up beyond her control.
Seraphina forcibly suppressed the physiological reaction, biting down hard on her lower lip, and only barely managed to avoid embarrassing herself in front of her lady-in-waiting as the transfer activated.
"My mind must be riddled with cracks by now. I need to go to the confessional and have a Sister take a look at me."
...
Twenty minutes later.
Emerald Dragon Heart Inn. A lavishly furnished reception room.
An oakwood table inlaid with ivory and gemstones held a pot of fine Sylvan tea, its fragrant steam curling gently upward. This was a variety of tea leaf from the fae territories, priced dearly per pound, yet offered freely to guests as a courtesy.
Orum lifted the teacup and took a small sip. The tea was silky on the palate, carrying a soft herbal fragrance and a faint lingering tartness.
Seated across from him was a silver-haired old man dressed in an immaculate, precise manner, wearing a monocle, with a sharp and calculating look behind his eyes. The gaze behind that lens was keen and composed, as though it could see straight through a person.
The silver-haired old man extended his hand and slid a cool crystal card across to Orum.
"Lord Orum, the monthly bonus and mission earnings as stipulated by the contract are all contained within this crystal card. You may redeem it at any bank in Blackwater Town."
He then carefully pushed a page of lambskin parchment, covered densely in ornate cursive script, to a precise position in front of Orum.
"A detailed breakdown of all earnings is listed below. Please review it at your convenience, Lord Orum."
"I appreciate your diligence, Steward Nicholas." Orum nodded politely and accepted both the crystal card and the parchment.
The man before him was Felix's personal steward, Nicholas.
In addition to managing Felix's daily affairs, Nicholas was responsible for all financial matters pertaining to the Ice Hawks Company, keeping every account immaculately clear and never once falling behind on payments or asking unnecessary questions.
Every time Orum looked at Nicholas, he was struck by a peculiar impression, as though he were looking at a machine with no emotions: perfectly operational, utterly without error.
This was what a top-tier butler from the royal capital looked like. His professionalism was like a blade sharpened over decades, its edge never once losing its keenness.
Orum lowered his eyes to the parchment. Every item of income was laid out in precise figures, written with admirable clarity and legibility:
This month's fixed salary from the Ice Hawks adventuring company: 100 gold coins.
Reward for saving Ronald's life: 300 gold coins.
Bounty share for eliminating the goblins and bugbears in Loch Village: 16 gold coins.
Bounty share for reporting the Black Gate intelligence and submitting "Extradimensional Remnants" to the monitoring station: 40 gold coins.
Share of the loot value from slaying the cultists: 85 gold coins (the largest portion from the desecration runes).
Net bounty share from slaying the juvenile minotaur, after deducting combat costs from the combined value of the bounty and body materials: 300 gold coins.
Beyond these, there were also scattered miscellaneous gains: loot taken from the roadside bandit group led by Erik, a team of four; a reward for rescuing five Loch Village survivors; and a small portion of spoils recovered from the goblins and bugbears.
These assorted gains were likewise recorded on the parchment, amounting in total to 20 gold coins.
All together, the total income came to 861 gold coins.
Orum had not expected that this single mission would bring him earnings as high as 861 gold coins.
Adding in his prior savings, and subtracting the last few days' expenses for food and lodging, Orum's total wealth had now reached the staggering figure of 1,110 gold coins.
The massive bonus from this mission had arrived at just the right moment to resolve Ronald's most pressing crisis, and that loan was now something he could repay on his own.
Naturally, Orum no longer needed to offer him financial assistance.
As for the orphanage, Orum had already paid a visit. The situation was more transparent than he'd feared.
It was primarily the result of a recent famine, compounded by rampaging monsters that had drastically reduced the number of supply caravans, driving up grain prices. At the same time, the number of orphans being taken in had increased, and the orphanage's original capacity was straining under the weight of it all.
Once this period passed, things would improve.
Orum tucked the crystal card away, offered his thanks to Steward Nicholas, and turned to leave.
He had barely stepped out of the reception room into the wide velvet-carpeted corridor of the Emerald Dragon Heart Inn, when he abruptly caught sight of an imposing, towering figure heading straight toward him, standing nearly two and a half meters tall.
It was the vice-captain of the Ice Hawks, Raygore!
He had come to collect his salary from Nicholas as well.
Orum studied the frame before him, even larger than the last time they had met, and his pupils contracted slightly. "Vice-Captain Raygore, have you grown taller?"
"That's correct. Approximately one-twentieth taller." Raygore's deep, resonant voice emerged from beneath his ferocious iron mask.
Orum looked at Raygore's even more imposing and powerful physique with a trace of admiration. "True to the warrior bloodline of the Karakak clan, every battle to the death makes you stronger."
Raygore gave Orum a brief nod, then moved to push open the door to the reception room.
But in the next instant.
Boom!
The solid oak door let out a thunderous crack, as though it had been struck head-on by a battering ram, and instantly splintered apart, slamming into the wall on the other side.
Gazing at the reception room before him, now reduced to a scene of utter wreckage, Raygore turned to Orum and Nicholas and said with an apologetic air:
"My body has just undergone growth. I have not yet fully adjusted."
"Roughly how long will the adjustment take?" Orum asked, genuinely curious.
"A week at the fastest. Half a month at the slowest," Raygore replied.
"That's not too bad, then."
Orum thought back to the building where Raygore lived, which was in one of the more modest and inexpensive tiers of accommodation. Perhaps considerations like this played a part in that choice.
After all, if the lodgings were too valuable, the cost of any accidental damage would be ruinous.
...
Ascending a staircase carpeted in velvet, Orum followed his memory directly to the most opulent suite on the third floor.
The heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, a narrow sliver of darkness beyond it, the interior quiet as still water.
By prior arrangement, Felix was waiting inside.
Orum knocked. From within the room, Felix's rich, resonant voice came immediately:
"Come in."
"Captain, regarding my weapon..." Orum pushed open the door and had barely begun to speak when his entire body gave a violent shudder.
In the dim luxury of the room, a pair of blazing golden slit-pupils suddenly ignited, locking onto him with the full, crushing weight of a collapsing mountain and a raging sea.
Dragon Might!
Time seemed to freeze in that instant. Orum's mind erupted in a roar of white noise. Staring into those vertical, luminous eyes, he was gripped by an illusion: he was back in the hellish inferno of Loch Village, being ground beneath the terrifying Dragon Might of the red dragon, and every memory of the days since was nothing more than a fleeting dream.
Every muscle in his body clenched. The two hearts in his chest immediately went into a frenzy, hammering and thundering like war drums beaten without mercy.
In the fraction of a second when Orum's reflexes nearly launched him backward and through the doorway.
The golden slit-pupils, blazing with fierce light, abruptly dimmed. The savage emotion surging within them gradually subsided.
Only then could Orum make out clearly that seated upon the velvet chair amid the darkness was not a monstrous dragon, but Felix, his golden hair slightly disheveled, his eyes still bearing their slit pupils.
"Orum, my apologies." Felix's face carried a look of genuine regret, the feral ferocity in his eyes now entirely gone. "After the last battle with the minotaur, the dragon blood within me has awakened further."
"This uncontrolled Dragon Might will persist for some time, until I can fully master this power."
"Captain, once you have mastered it, will you be able to release Dragon Might freely at will?" Orum asked, somewhat taken aback.
At Orum's words, Felix's lips curved into a faint smile.
"That's right. At that point, I'll be able to release Dragon Might as I please. The potency, however, will be several dozen times weaker than the red dragon you've encountered before. It will serve an auxiliary function rather than a decisive one."
"Even so, that's quite formidable."
Looking at Felix's imposing slit-pupils, Orum couldn't help but feel a quiet surge of envy.
When would he ever have Dragon Might of his own?
At that point, a single glance would be enough to make enemies drop to their knees in prostration.
Unfortunately, Orum was neither a dragon descendant nor possessed any draconic bloodline whatsoever.
For him, aside from the path of panel feedback, every other route to acquiring Dragon Might was either prohibitively complex or simply not worth the cost.
"The minotaur's war spear is over there. We'll take it to Master Torin's smithy. The blacksmith can use it to forge you a new weapon."
Felix gestured toward the side of the room, where beneath an elegantly furnished windowsill, a massive black wooden case sat in repose, shaped uncannily like a coffin.
Sealed within the case was that pitch-black war spear forged in the depths of the Nine Hells.
Though the spear's shaft had been broken in two by the explosion, during the subsequent clearing of the battlefield they had carefully gathered both sections and every fragment, storing them in this specially made case.
This was the primary purpose for which Felix had arranged to meet Orum today.
Upon appraisal, the minotaur's war spear had been determined to be forged from Infernal Steel, a material from the Nine Hells. Its hardness ranked just below mithril, yet its density was more than five times that of ordinary steel.
In the material plane, Infernal Steel was a substance that simply did not exist naturally, making it extraordinarily rare, though demand for it was not particularly high.
The reason was straightforward: the absurd weight of Infernal Steel weapons was enough to strain even a minotaur, a race renowned for brute strength, when wielded in combat. For an ordinary human, it was beyond consideration entirely.
As for those rare few who had transcended the mortal threshold, high-tier melee combatants with the strength to wield an Infernal Steel weapon, they would typically choose materials far better suited to enchantment such as "Divine-Forged Alloy" or "Mithril," using them to craft legendary-tier weapons for themselves.
Even by Felix's well-traveled standards, Orum was the only warrior he had ever known who had chosen Infernal Steel for a heavy weapon.
"Understood." The word fell from Orum's lips without any excess. His arm muscles tensed all at once, and he simply hoisted the coffin-like wooden case, carrying it with effortless ease as he strode toward the door.
The sight made Felix's pupils contract. He fixed Orum with an astonished gaze. "Orum, has your strength broken through again?"
Orum's steps were steady, his manner completely composed as he replied: "Yes, Captain. After this battle, my Patron was very pleased, and late last night, He bestowed new rewards upon me."
"I see." Felix asked nothing further.
After all, a saying had long circulated across the continent:
Whatever warlocks get up to, mind your own business.
...
Even bearing a load that could have buckled a warhorse, Orum's pace remained swift. Before long, he and Felix arrived at the largest and most magnificent smithy in Blackwater Town, a grand establishment operated by gold dwarves.
The moment they stepped through the entrance, a wave of scorching air, laced with the rhythm of hammering, surged forward to greet them. The temperature spiked sharply, easily clearing forty degrees.
They had barely entered the smithy when a tiny, bean-sprout-sized dwarf child came sprinting toward Orum and cried out:
"Grandpa, it's bad news!"
"The monster who wrecks the shop is back!"
"Who exactly is the one wrecking the shop?" Orum's expression darkened, and he retorted with complete conviction:
"Your smithy's weapons are just too light!"