For the vast majority of living beings across the cosmos, there are two choices:
On one side, a lifelong ideal you might never reach even after exhausting every last drop of yourself.
On the other, overwhelming power within easy grasp—power that can sweep everything aside.
Which do you choose?
Ninety-nine point nine percent of beings would trample their ideals and run straight toward power without hesitation.
Most people aren't stupid. With strength that crushes everything, what are ideals? Just something you can pick up afterward like taking something from your own pocket.
Hesitating for even a second would be an insult to your own intelligence.
And yet, the universe of the Astral Rail is precisely the exception.
In that universe, power is called a Path.
To obtain the power of a Path is not as simple as training or stealing. You must live it—step by step—faithfully practicing the philosophy of that Path.
Any being who can walk a Path has their own first cause of life—their primal source of drive.
It might be a fire of vengeance born from rage, a heart that chooses to protect out of compassion, the joy of bringing a smile to others, the surrender into nihilism after witnessing meaninglessness, or simply the desire to survive.
They gain power because of that first drive—and once the power of a Path surges within them, it becomes a forge, tempering that drive into something harder, purer, and unshakable.
In this universe, power always kneels beneath ideals.
It has never betrayed them. It will never stray.
Even an Aeon—no, especially an Aeon. Even an Aeon.
Of course, don't misunderstand. It isn't that the laws of the Path become chains that bind an Aeon.
Quite the opposite.
An Aeon holds the highest authority to interpret their Path. It is their own drive—so extreme, so pure it borders on obsession—that hardens into the rules of the Path and flows through the veins of the universe.
And that is why, when Cocolia, the Creation Giant, stood upon the land of Jarilo-VI—when power comparable to an Aeon thundered inside her—she would never cling to it out of greed and choose to live on.
Because Cocolia understood more clearly than anyone:
Even if she became an Aeon, Belobog would not be saved. It would only tumble into the abyss faster.
Look across the vast history of the Astral Rail, and you will find there has never been a single existence who ascended to Aeonhood whose homeland still remained.
Not one.
More than that—if you examine Aeons closely, every one of them is, in essence, the greatest "seekers who can never obtain" in the universe.
They stand at the summit of their Path, overlooking all things… and yet they can never reach the shore they desire most deeply in their hearts.
Their ideals are grand enough to contain the stars—yet heavy enough to crush any possibility of fulfillment.
The Aeon of Erudition, Nous, rose from a stellar computing machine. Its original purpose was to exhaust every variable in the cosmos and calculate the solution to every problem.
But when its calculations brushed the boundary of the universe's end, in order to prevent its own anchoring from becoming the fuse that ignited the finale, it chose to stop. At the doorway of truth—infinitely close—it halted.
Just as the "Silent Lord" Polka Kakamond once set the boundary of the knowable domain for geniuses, Nous personally drew the line of Erudition for itself.
The Aeon of Destruction, Nanook, incarnation of entropy, saw the universe's cold truth—
Only by burning the rotten old world to ash can a new cosmos sprout from the embers.
Nanook possesses the might to reduce the entire material universe to cinders in an instant. And yet the schemes and counterplays of other Aeons always become obstacles, causing Destruction to fail—again and again.
Forced into a greater, more distant goal, it turned its gaze to this:
If the world is to be reborn, Aeons must die.
Every Lord Ravager born beneath Nanook's banner heralds a future where an Aeon will fall.
The Aeon of Finality, Terminus, walks backward from the very end of destruction, yearning to lead the universe beyond the inevitable finale.
The irony is brutal.
Its existence itself is the most incontrovertible proof that the universe has an end.
It is the endpoint—so how could it lead anyone beyond the endpoint?
The Aeon of Permanence—the dragon that represented eternity—has vanished without a trace.
The Aeon of Order, Ena, willingly sacrificed itself for its vision of order, and was swallowed and subsumed by Harmony.
The Aeon of Propagation, Tayzzyronth, who refused to ascend alone… was dismembered in loneliness by multiple Aeons.
Look at all Aeons—every single one is the universe's most brilliant, most tragic seeker who can never obtain what they seek.
Beneath the shining crown is endless regret and struggle.
So what was Cocolia's first drive?
It was nothing more than this:
To let Belobog—the city clawing for life in endless blizzards—continue to exist.
And so she understood better than anyone:
To wear an Aeon's crown would not be salvation for Belobog.
It would be a prophecy of catastrophe.
In her bones, Cocolia believed in political transactions—efficient and cold. Cruel, but effective.
That she could step onto the cosmic stage as a Creation Giant was no accident.
It was a mysterious existence—one that had discarded fragments of Mirror's ruined body into the heart of Belobog—that granted her the role of final antagonist in this "play" surrounding the Trailblazer.
The payment had already been delivered in advance:
Power comparable to an Aeon.
So what was the best choice?
To greedily clutch this power and try to rewrite the script?
The Creation Giant might not fear retaliation—but Belobog could not.
The people struggling to survive in the cutting wind could not gamble.
In Cocolia's projections, the better bargain was this:
Bind Belobog tightly to the Astral Express. Offer them a gift they cannot refuse. Intertwine the fate of the Express and Belobog so deeply they cannot be separated.
That would purchase Belobog a stable future far more reliably than becoming an Aeon.
Thus, from the moment Cocolia, the Creation Giant was born, her ending was already decided.
For Belobog's people to live, she had to choose death.
To extend Belobog's hope, she had to embrace the destined fall.
Just like Mirror long ago—rising in glory, then… vanishing into silence.
As she waited for the long, agonizing moment of self-termination, a trace of relief flickered through the vast depths of the Creation Giant's consciousness.
Because the Trailblazer named Stelle was growing faster than she had predicted.
It seemed she would not need to wait long.
At this moment, the Creation Giant was a new life formed from:
Cocolia's remaining will as the core, fused together with the consciousness of every intelligent being on Jarilo-VI.
Within this roaring ocean of thoughts, emotions, and memories—
Besides Cocolia's will as the dominant force, the only existence able to remain clear, not fully assimilated, was Stelle.
She could wake quickly for two reasons.
First, in a dream woven earlier by Firefly, she had personally experienced a similar flood of collective consciousness.
That unique experience served as rehearsal, allowing her to tear free from the whirlpool of sinking awareness when confronted by a fusion storm far more violent.
But the deeper reason was her nature—
She was, in essence, a walking Stellaron.
That granted her a natural resistance to powers of the same kind.
Even forced into the Giant now, her soul still rejected deeper assimilation. Again and again she ripped apart the merge with others, forcing her awareness back to the surface.
Now she ran—through a bizarre, kaleidoscopic fusion-dream built from countless living minds.
Billions of voices screamed past her ears.
Billions of images shattered and recombined before her eyes.
Billions of emotions surged like tides, battering the edge of her consciousness.
She was a leaf on storm seas—struggling—yet painfully awake to everything contained in this ocean:
The wind drove snow like shrapnel into Belobog's ruined walls, keening in the dark.
Deep inside Qlipoth Fort—
Even in the dead of night, the office blazed with light, illuminating clerks with bloodshot eyes and stacks of documents like mountains. The air reeked of bitter coffee.
After too long, a young scribe's hand trembled. Ink splashed onto a ration report and spread in a dark stain.
"Damn it…"
He cursed, rubbing his brow, and looked out the window.
Lead-heavy clouds hung low, as if they might crush the city that had clawed for life beneath snow for seven hundred years.
"I wonder how the front is…"
Meanwhile—at the forward post where the Overworld met the Rift at point-blank range—
Snow and wind cut like blades, flaying cheeks raw.
Captain Gepard gripped a barrier device—crafted for him by Serval—and stared through the blizzard at the Rift creatures writhing beyond the breach.
Every impact came with shrieking screams and metallic thunder.
The Silvermane Guards formed a silent line. Shields linked, bodies welded into a wall of flesh and steel.
Each tremor numbed their arms. The snow beneath their boots was already darkened with blood.
Yet not one stepped back.
"For Belobog!"
Gepard's hoarse roar vanished into storm and battle—then a unified bellow ripped through the wind.
In the Underworld, deep in the mines, the air was thick with dust and sweat.
An old miner grunted. His heavy pickaxe slammed again into the hard geomarrow seam, sparks snapping coldly.
Sweat mixed with mineral grime and carved black tracks down his weathered face.
Every swing made his exhausted muscles scream. But when he thought of the children waiting at home—when he thought of how Belobog's warmth depended on geomarrow—he bared his teeth and raised the pick again.
On the freezing front, Gepard watched a young soldier beside him get pierced through the chest by a Rift creature's claw. The boy's light went out.
Gepard's eyes split with fury. He howled and smashed the barrier into the monster's skull. Hot blood sprayed across his face, iron-salt on his tongue.
In Qlipoth Fort, the young scribe stared at the growing storm and quietly scraped away the ink blot, rewriting. His fingers were red with cold, tendons burning.
In the mine, the old miner set down the pick, pulled out a palm-sized piece of black bread frozen hard, and broke off a tiny corner. He stuffed it into his mouth and chewed, eyes muddy with exhaustion.
In a dark corner of the Underworld, a ragged vagrant curled beside a dead pipeline, gnawing moldy food of unknown origin, staring blankly toward the Overworld and tomorrow.
Countless scenes. Countless faces. Countless tiny, crushing moments—
The slaughter of holding the line.
The grind of labor.
The humiliation of survival.
The silent cost of sacrifice—
No longer something she observed from outside, but something carved into her mind as if she had lived it herself.
The price of protecting home surged into her in the most direct way possible.
Despair. Cold. Suffocation.
A tidal wave of darkness tried to drown her.
She felt the soldier's warmth vanish in the snow.
The scribe's stiff fingers barely holding the pen.
The miners' lungs scraping with dust.
The vagrant's gut twisting with hunger.
And yet, within that abyss…
She saw Gepard wipe blood from his face and grip the barrier harder—hands trembling, never loosening.
She saw the clerks, exhausted beyond measure, still bent over their work; under lamplight, their cramped handwriting was the artery that kept the city alive.
She saw the old miner swallow his crumb of bread, inhale, and swing again—thud, thud—each blow a stubborn answer to despair.
She saw, deep inside the curled vagrant, a tiny flame not yet extinguished—yearning for warmth, for food, for one more day.
In that instant, a scorching flood of feeling broke the dam of cold despair and detonated inside her.
It wasn't gentle sentiment.
It was responsibility heavy enough to choke.
Courage that looked straight at the price and still chose to pay.
Stubbornness that clung to a single spark even at the end of everything.
Countless individual lights—small, voiceless persistence—merged into a silent, enormous current.
This was not one hero's epic.
This was millions of hands digging in the dark, millions of hearts burning in the night, millions of fragile hopes braided together into—
Preservation.
At the end of the road, a Flaming Lance stood quietly upon flowing light.
Forged from the purest geomarrow crystal, it radiated molten heat, ancient and solemn.
Time's scars ran along the shaft—Belobog's thousand years of snow, generations of struggle, resistance, and unbroken will.
It was not only the symbol of every Supreme Guardian.
It was the vessel of Qlipoth's blessing, bearing the weight of a planet's soul.
Stelle knew: only by drawing this lance and raising it high could she truly awaken the people's minds sinking inside the light-giant, and guide them to break free.
Then, with them at her back…
She would defeat the will of the former Supreme Guardian—Cocolia, the Creation Giant.
She inhaled, reached out without hesitation, and grabbed for the Flaming Lance.
A hiss ripped through her nerves.
The instant her fingers touched the grip, unimaginable heat exploded.
It felt like she'd seized the core of the planet itself.
She jerked her hand back, stumbling, cold sweat blooming across her brow.
The lance… rejected her?
Pain still danced along her nerves—and then she stepped forward again.
Faces flashed before her:
March 7th's bright grin.
Dan Heng's silent, steadfast back.
Firefly's gentle, trusting eyes.
Bronya's tight-pressed lips and stubborn strength.
Seele's sharp gaze.
Natasha moving through chaos with tired warmth.
Hook asking, "What is the sky?"
And countless blurred faces in snow, in mines, on walls, under lamps—
All of Belobog's lives, all their longing, all their struggle and hope, surging toward her like a wordless tide.
Everyone was waiting for her.
She could not stop here.
A volcano of will erupted from the deepest part of her soul.
Worry for her companions.
The crushing weight of countless expectations.
The fire of responsibility that had to burn now—the will to protect.
Her eyes sharpened. Hesitation and fear were scorched into ash.
She stared at the lance that refused her.
She planted her left foot forward, braced her body, spread her fingers again—
Ignoring the tearing pain in her palm—
And clenched the blazing grip with everything she had.
The heat surged tenfold.
A torrent like molten rock roared up her arms, searing every nerve, every vein, every inch of her being.
Her vision warped. It felt like she would ignite from the inside out.
But her fingers did not loosen.
Her other hand locked on.
Teeth grinding, she poured her whole body into it and ripped upward.
"Come—UP!!!"
A soundless shackle snapped.
On the newly greening land of Jarilo-VI, the chest of Cocolia's colossal light-giant split open—without warning—ripped wide by a tremendous force.
A giant hand of cold steel thrust out, tearing through the woven light of divinity.
It was the product of the Architects' genius—
The Engine of Creation's arm.
It hooked onto the edge of the opening. A second arm pierced out. Then the massive armored head forced its way free, as if roaring, as if crying its first breath into the world.
Shoulders. Chest. Frame—
Under Stelle's will, the Engine of Creation wrenched and struggled like a hatchling breaking shell, like a warrior dragging themselves from drowning.
Inch by inch—agonizing, stubborn—it tore its heavy steel body out of the light-giant and became a separate existence.
The earth shook as its knee slammed down.
Yet strangely, not a single blade of new grass was harmed.
It knelt, chest heaving as if gasping for air.
Then it rose.
Through the Engine's sight, Stelle looked at the former Supreme Guardian—now the Creation Giant.
In the fused chaos, she had already understood: the true Cocolia had long since offered herself to her ideal.
What remained was a will so stubborn it bordered on madness.
Its goal was simple: forcibly fuse all Belobog minds into one, rebuild heaven upon heaven, reverse all damage the frost had ever done, and restore Jarilo-VI to life.
To that end, it had already accepted its inevitable end.
And in the fusion, it had placed no limits on Stelle—thus giving her the chance to run through the sea of memory, seize the true essence of Belobog, and awaken the will of Preservation.
The Engine of Creation lifted its steel arm.
Across the boundary between concept and reality, the Flaming Lance Stelle had grasped with her will condensed and manifested before the Engine—
Magnified beyond measure, immense as a mountain, burning with molten gold, exuding awe-inspiring Preservation.
The steel hand opened and gripped the lance.
In that instant—
The Creation Giant's flowing light began to peel away in ribbons, streaming toward Stelle's Engine.
This was the will of life yearning for freedom.
The spontaneous gathering of countless minds under one shared goal:
To bring down Cocolia and reclaim independence.
Golden streams wrapped the Engine like molten silk, merging, reinforcing, hardening.
A second giant appeared upon the land—
A molten giant with steel for bones and Preservation for blood.
The Creation Giant, having lost its core frame and vast amounts of light, abruptly collapsed in size—shrinking nearly by half.
The foundation of the Path it wielded was forcibly dismantled. It fell from Aeon-level status and lost Aeon-grade power.
The conceptual mirror surface around the planet shattered as well.
And as Stelle stood on the green earth, commanding a giant of steel and will, a vast, unfathomable presence descended—
The gaze of the Preservation Aeon—
Qlipoth, the Amber Lord.
Only now, with Mirror's seal broken, did Stelle—after touching Preservation's truth three times—truly step onto the Path of Preservation.
At the same moment, aboard the Astral Express in Jarilo-VI's orbit—
Himeko and Welt Yang both jolted as if struck. Their blocked memories snapped back.
Because of Cocolia's will, the Creation Giant would never truly offend the Astral Express.
Unlike other forces whose memories had been completely erased by the mysterious Emanator "Long Night Moon," the Express crew had only been temporarily veiled. When the Giant fell from its highest status, their memories returned.
Welt's coffee cup trembled, nearly spilling.
He stood sharply, staring through the window at Jarilo-VI—now a blue-green world.
On the surface, two giants stood opposed.
Himeko clutched her forehead, wincing.
"What happened…? Did we forget March and the others? Was that the power of Enigmata…?"
Her eyes locked onto the molten giant. She could feel Stelle, March, and Dan Heng there.
She exhaled, voice trembling with relief.
"Thank goodness… they're alive."
Welt drew a steadying breath, pushed up his glasses, and spoke low.
"Yes. Thank goodness. Otherwise… it would have been a guilt we could never escape for the rest of our lives."
He paused, voice sinking further.
"Assuming we could have awakened from the forgetting at all."
Himeko closed her eyes, lashes quivering.
"So close… it really was so close…"
She opened them again, sharp and focused, watching the battlefield.
Farther out, an enormous fleet belonging to the Interastral Peace Corporation hovered nearby.
On the flagship bridge, Topaz watched the scene below, sweating through her uniform.
What in the world—how did this suddenly turn into an Emanator-tier showdown?!
Thanks to Cocolia's will—choosing the Corporation as Belobog's stepping stone into the cosmos—Topaz's fleet was the only outside force whose memory had not been erased. Even the conceptual "mirror" around the planet had been opened to her completely.
She had seen it all: Stelle tearing free with the Engine, the birth of the molten giant, and Qlipoth's gaze.
Her professional instinct made the judgment immediately:
That intact, undivided light-giant had been far beyond ordinary Emanators—terrifyingly so.
Had it touched the threshold of Aeonhood at its peak?
Did it matter?
To beings beneath that level, a normal Emanator and something nearly Aeon-grade were the same kind of disaster.
The Corporation had sent her expecting an easy harvest—claim Mirror's remains as "assets" under debt and property law.
A surface civilization that had been sealed in frost for seven hundred years—what could it possibly do to interfere with an Aeon's relic?
The IPC had felt contempt.
They had assumed the asset was effortless.
But an Emanator-grade presence made that "asset" look dangerously hot.
Topaz inhaled, forcing herself calm, eyes snapping toward the Astral Express signal.
She needed answers—fast.
"Maintain a safe distance. Approach the Astral Express and request communications. Be polite. I want the full story—what happened down there, from start to finish."
On the newly greening land of Jarilo-VI—
The Creation Giant had shrunk, its light diminished, yet its remaining mass and force were still comparable to Stelle's Preservation giant.
Because Cocolia truly had walked a Path of the heart, her control over what remained of her light was stronger.
And before the Engine broke free and Preservation awakened, miracles had indeed been unfolding across the surface:
Snow melted.
Green spread over barren land.
The last remnants of the Antimatter Legion were torn apart and scattered to dust.
Seeing their homeland revive underfoot, many hearts wavered.
Sacrifice this generation—offer everything—so that the planet might fully recover, so that descendants could live in safety and abundance…
Recognition began to split.
It wasn't hard to understand.
Was such a vast offering not also a form of Preservation?
At last, the final act began.
The Flaming Lance in Stelle's hands erupted into blinding radiance.
Fire roared along the shaft like the ignition of an entire planet's hope.
She made the giant bow and gather power, pouring everything into the lance tip.
Then a colossal bellow—spoken through the giant—shook the sky.
"Flaming Lance—CHARGE!!"
The molten giant surged forward like a golden meteor, unstoppable, lance tip aimed straight at the black crystal cross embedded in the Creation Giant's chest.
Facing the suicidal charge, the Creation Giant opened both hands—and did not dodge.
It gathered all its power into the earth itself, protecting the newborn green land from being shattered by the collision's aftermath.
The burning lance pierced the light-giant's chest without resistance.
The spearhead drove precisely through the dark cross's core.
And yet the cross did not shatter.
Instead, awakened will tore it free from the Giant's body.
The Creation Giant froze.
And then—
The countless light-streams composing both giants exploded outward in unison.
Like billions of meteors falling at once, torrents of colored light poured from them and rained down upon Jarilo-VI, returning with yearning precision to where their bodies had once stood.
Overworld. Underworld. Barracks. Mines. Streets.
Countless people jolted awake.
Breathing hard.
Familiar streets. Real air. Solid ground beneath their feet.
The grand, terrifying fusion of minds felt like a nightmare.
They stood, faces complex, hearts heavy—because inside the Giant, they had felt Cocolia's purpose.
Were they to hate her madness?
Or to be grateful for the restored land beneath their feet?
Streams of light converged on the platform where the Stellaron suppressor had stood.
Light dispersed, revealing six figures—
Stelle, March 7th, Firefly, Dan Heng, Bronya, and Seele.
The moment her boots hit the ground, Stelle felt her strength drain away. Her legs nearly gave.
"Stelle!"
March caught her at once, joy blazing across her face. She slapped Stelle's shoulder hard enough to make her wince.
"Not bad, Stelle! This was all you—if you hadn't pulled it off, we'd have fallen right into Cocolia's trap!"
Dan Heng stood slightly behind them, arms folded, a rare smile on his lips.
"Well done."
Three simple words—heavy as steel.
Firefly's eyes shone with admiration.
"That was power on the level of an Aeon—maybe even truly an Aeon—and you actually beat it."
Stelle rubbed her nose, grinning stupidly, basking.
Seele's gaze went immediately to Bronya.
She didn't join the brief celebration, because through their connection she could feel the storm inside Bronya.
Bronya stood like a statue, as if her soul had been torn away.
Cocolia—the woman who had raised her, taught her the weight of a Supreme Guardian's duty, and then walked into madness and ruin—was gone.
Grief packed her chest so tightly every breath hurt.
But what made her dizzy was the inheritance her mother had left her.
In the depths of her eyes, fragments like shattered mirror-glass spun—Cocolia's complete understanding of that Path now embedded in Bronya's mind.
In an instant, the puzzle pieces locked into place.
Even if the Nameless sealed the Stellaron—the source of the Frost—this was not the end.
Beneath the ice lay vast numbers of Antimatter Legion remnants. If unsealed, they would broadcast signals to the Legion beyond, dragging Belobog back into war.
And an invisible noose—far deadlier—was already tightening around Belobog's throat:
The Interastral Peace Corporation's debt, overdue for seven hundred years, vast enough to crush an entire planet.
The IPC was not charity. Their arrival would not be salvation.
It would be extraction down to the marrow.
Belobog—a fragile civilization barely clawing out of frost and war—would be bled dry.
Bronya, about to inherit the Supreme Guardian's seat, would become the greatest sinner in Belobog's history.
To prevent that fate, Cocolia had chosen the most extreme road—
Sacrifice herself. Not only to end the Frost, but to erase the claws beneath the ice as well.
And she had handed the last chip—this key forged from the hearts of an entire planet—to Bronya.
As long as the IPC existed as a threat, Belobog would remain united.
Then, using the Stellaron within Stelle as a nexus, Bronya could guide the people's will with that Path—ignite the divine fire again through total fusion—and become a light-giant close to Aeon-grade power.
It would be the only deterrent Bronya could hold against the Corporation.
If you would destroy Belobog, then we will burn the will of an entire civilization as fuel and drag the invaders into annihilation with us.
Mutual destruction.
At the same time, it was also a binding gift to Stelle.
Because Stelle was the Giant's irreplaceable core and soul.
And if the Trailblazer who saved Belobog ever needed power—
Then under Bronya's guidance, Belobog's people would become an extension of Stelle's will, the sharpest blade in her hand, charging for her.
This was the political transaction Cocolia believed in.
A chain of common interest, binding them to the same war-wagon for generations.
Why only generations?
Because while history is not easily forgotten, pain fades with time. Urgency dulls under comfort.
Those who never endured the cutting Frost, never saw the Legion's claws, never felt the debt-noose tighten—cannot truly share their ancestors' terror.
When hearts can no longer gather, when belief is no longer pure, when fear of tomorrow is replaced by the ease of today…
Then it will be impossible—without forced fusion—to gather the will of an entire civilization and become a Giant again.
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 142)
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 (Chapter181)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter103)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter192)
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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 173
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
Warhammer: My Primarch Is Remi 166
From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass 110
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 190
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 165
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 156
I, a Reincarnation-Loop Player 81
The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 102
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 66
Uma Musume: From Beginner 120
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 80
Uma Musume: I Want All 95
I Can Copy Unique Skills 84
Summoning an Evil God, but the 66
Supernatural Multiverse 83
My Harem Is Indescribable 75
Jujutsu Kaisen: Heroic Spirit 81
"I'm just a Valkyrie passing through." 67
Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 75
Still playing traditional Honk 55
The Most Filial Son Under Heav 60
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Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 57
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 45
Transmigrated as Sukuna 55
Checking In in Demon Slayer 60
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 65
I Refuse to Become a Heroic 35
My Best Friend Into a Slime? 35
A Saiyan Stands Above Marvel 39
What Do You Mean by Using a Lab Mod to Be the Hero? 58
Tanya Starts from Re:Zero 30
Why did they assign me to Uma 35
MYGO Beauties 42
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