The return to Ozuna's Inn should have been a hero's welcome. Instead, it was a trial by fire.
As the heavy oak doors swung open, the warmth of the hearth was immediately eclipsed by the icy glares of three young women.
Arthur, still wearing the soot and dried black ichor of the Yatan believers, took one look at the faces of Alfia, Meteria, and Nana and realized he had made a tactical error.
"Sieza, now." Alfia commanded, pointing her weirwood staff toward the floor.
Arthur didn't argue. He dropped into a formal seiza position—knees tucked, back straight, head bowed—on the woven rug.
"You promised," Nana hissed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You said you were 'only leading.' You said you were 'just an advisor.' And yet, your strength has increased? You didn't just lead, Arthur. You slaughtered."
"It was a target of opportunity," Arthur tried to mutter, but Meteria's gentle pout was more Piercing than a dagger.
"We were worried, Arthur," she whispered. "If the 'Blessing of the Gods' failed, you would have been alone in that dark place."
From the corner of the common room, a booming laugh erupted. Airgid, the retired swordsman, was leaning against the bar, clutching a tankard of ale. "Gah-ha-ha! The 'Hero of Patrain,' brought to his knees by three lasses! This is better than any theater in the capital!"
'Shut up, old man,' Arthur thought, but the mockery wasn't just coming from the physical world.
Inside his mind, the mental echoes of his legendary predecessors decided to join the fray.
«How pathetic,» the cold, haughty voice of Madra, the Undefeated King, resonated in his consciousness. «A successor to my swordsmanship, trembling before a few loud-mouthed children. My spirit weeps for the future of the continent.»
«At least the girls have spirit,» added Haicyen, the Founding Emperor of Saharan, his voice dripping with amusement. «But really, Arthur, you're heir to the Saharan throne. Have some dignity. Or at least lie better next time.»
'You two are the worst,' Arthur shot back mentally. 'Where were you when the High Priest was chanting, and I have to fight an opponent 5 times stronger than me? You didn't offer a single tip then, but you're the first to rub salt in the wound when I'm being scolded.'
«Those were low-level trash,» Madra countered dismissively. «If you require our tactical genius to face children playing with shadow-magic, then you should forget about our legacies. We are here to help you kill gods and emperors, not swat flies.»
Once the lecture—which lasted a grueling forty minutes—concluded, the atmosphere shifted.
Arthur stood up, his legs slightly numb, and reached into his inventory. He pulled out the [Sun Sword]. The room seemed to brighten as the golden blade caught the lamplight.
"Nana," Arthur said, his voice turning serious. "This is for you."
Nana's eyes widened, reflecting the shimmering gold of the steel. She stepped back, her hands held up in a gesture of refusal. "Arthur... that's a Legendary artifact. I saw the aura. I can't take that. I'm just a rearguard adventurer..."
"You're not just a rearguard," Arthur interrupted, stepping forward and pressing the hilt into her hands. "You're my rearguard. And soon, you'll be much more. This sword has a hidden path. Once we find a priest of Rebecca to bless it, it will grant you the power of the Sun God's Successor."
Nana's fingers closed around the white dragon-leather grip. The sword didn't burn her; it hummed, recognizing the fierce loyalty in her soul. Behind her, Cecil watched with a professional eye, her "Heart of Grind" skill sensing the immense potential of the weapon.
"Tomorrow," Arthur announced, looking at his gathered party. "We leave for the Gray Marsh. I need to close the gap between my current level and my true potential. And you all need to get used to your new gear."
The Gray Marsh was a place where the sun went to die. A thick, sulfurous fog clung to the stagnant pools, hiding the skeletal shapes of Ghouls and Mire-Wraiths.
Five days later, however, the marsh had been transformed into a high-efficiency slaughterhouse.
"Fire Bolt: Multi-Cast!" Alfia's voice rang out through the mist. Three orbs of concentrated crimson flame streaked through the damp air, slamming into a pack of Ghouls. The monsters didn't even have time to moan before they were turned into pillars of steam.
"Wind Bind!" Meteria followed up instantly. A swirling green vortex erupted from the muck, pinning the surviving charred monsters in place.
"My turn," Nana cried. She moved like a golden streak. The [Sun Sword] didn't just cut; it vaporized. As she swung the blade in a wide arc—her [Ember Sword] skill—the undead ghouls were cleaved in two, their flesh cauterized by solar heat before they could even hit the mud.
Thwack! Thwack!
Two spears whistled through the air, pinning a Mire-Wraith to a rotting cypress tree. Cecil blurred past, reclaiming her dual spears with a practiced twist.
As a Berserker with peak Weapon Mastery, she was a whirlwind of controlled violence. She didn't just attack; she dissected her targets with a cold, industrial efficiency.
In the center of the chaos moved Arthur.
He had retired his heavy greatsword for now, choosing his "old mate," the [Prodigy Sword]. It was the blade that had accompanied him through his first hundred levels, light and perfectly balanced for his high Agility. In his left hand, he held the [Deluxe Sword], a high-quality parrying blade.
Swish! Slash!
Arthur danced between the trapped Ghouls. Even with his reset levels, his combat sense was that of a peak Ranker. He didn't waste energy on grand movements. He targeted tendons. He pierced eye sockets. He moved with a "Great Reset" efficiency that made every stat point count.
[You have defeated a Wandering Ghoul!]
[Experience Gained: 4,200]
[Level Up!]
"Arthur, behind you!" Meteria shouted, her Sylph spirit darting forward.
Arthur didn't turn. He spun the Deluxe Sword into a reverse grip and thrust it blindly backward. The steel slid perfectly into the open mouth of a lunging Ghoul. Using the hilt as a lever, he vaulted over the falling corpse, his right-hand Prodigy Sword decapitating a second monster in mid-air.
Watching him from the sidelines, Alfia felt a shiver of awe. "His level is low... but his movements... it's as if he's danced with death a thousand times and memorized the steps."
For five days, they lived in the rhythm of the hunt. They slept in shifts around small, magical campfires. Meteria would sing songs of the spirits to keep the marsh's depression at bay, while Alfia spent her resting hours scribbling complex mana circles in the dirt, debating the theoretical limits of Fourth-Tier spells with Arthur.
Nana took charge of the cooking, while Cecil and Arthur performed field repairs on their gear. It was a well-oiled machine, a party of five that functioned as a single organism.
Arthur felt the "Great Reset" dividends piling up. Because he held the [Prince of the Eternal Sun] class, every level-up granted him +14 stat points instead of the usual 10. His growth was vertical, a jagged line shooting toward the heavens.
By the fifth evening, the fog of the Gray Marsh began to thin as they reached the southern edge. Arthur sheathed his twin blades and wiped the muck from his brow. He pulled up his interface.
Name: Arthur
Class: Prince of the Eternal Sun (Legendary) / Undefeated King's Apprentice (Unique) / Pagma's Apprentice
Level: 73
Strength: 410 | Agility: 580 | Intelligence: 320 | Stamina: 440
He had climbed forty-one levels in five days. To any other player, this was a mathematical impossibility. But Arthur had the optimized spawning logic of Morpheus, the support of four genius-level NPCs, and the sheer, relentless "Heart of Grind" that defined his existence.
"Arthur, you're staring into space again," Meteria teased, reaching up to wipe a smudge of ghoul-ash from his cheek. "We should head back. Father will have the stew ready, and Alfia is vibrating with excitement to show you the new 'Mana Compression' theory she's drafted."
Arthur looked at his party. Alfia, leaning on her staff; Meteria, smiling at the spirits dancing in the twilight; Nana and Cecil, checking their boots for wear. They were no longer just NPCs he had rescued. They were his foundation.
He thought about the Red Knights, the elite arm of the Saharan Empire, currently scouring the northern mountains for the "frequency" of his hijacked class. He thought about the Fourth Prince, Edan, who had been stripped of his destiny by a player's desperate fluke.
"Yeah," Arthur said, his eyes flashing with a brief, ruby tint of concentrated red energy—the mark of Madra's influence. "Let's go home. We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we leave for Winston."
He stood tall in the dying light of the marsh. He wasn't an ant anymore. He was a Level 73 monster with the heart of a King, the hands of a Legend, and a party that could challenge the world.