The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. A lone butterfly, its delicate wings shimmering with faint blue light, hovered over a purple blossom. Though the sky was bright, the bioluminescence clung to its wings like remnants of a dream, pulsing gently with each movement. It drank from the flower's nectar, its tiny legs gripping the petals, its body swaying with the soft rhythm of the wind.
The grass whispered in the breeze, bending under the weight of morning dew. The wildflowers, painted in hues of violet and gold, swayed lazily, their fragrance mingling with the scent of sun-warmed soil. The land stretched wide and open, an unbroken sea of green and gold beneath a sky streaked with drifting clouds.
Then—like a streak of fire—a creature tore through the silence.
A bird, its feathers a blazing shade of orange, shot past the butterfly with impossible speed. The air trembled in its wake, a shockwave rippling through the grass, flattening the delicate petals and sending the butterfly into a startled ascent. The flowers bent violently, their stems straining against the force, and for a moment, the world seemed to reel from the sheer velocity of the creature's flight.
No ordinary bird could move like that. Its speed was unnatural—terrifying, even. A force that did not belong to the quiet, tranquil morning.
And then, as the tremor settled and the grass slowly righted itself, another sound crept into the air.
A rhythmic creaking. The steady roll of wooden wheels against the dirt path.
Somewhere beyond the bend in the road, a cart was approaching.
Chapter 1: The Dust Road.
The year was 1601 (Post-Menma). The Earth, once a cradle of technological marvels, had regressed into an era that mirrored the pre-medieval age. Gone were the roaring engines of cars, the thunderous echoes of guns, and the soaring wings of airplanes. The great towers of steel and glass had crumbled into dust, their remnants swallowed by time. Humanity had lost the light of science and invention, but in its place, they had gained something extraordinary—something that defied logic.
The very air pulsed with unseen energy, alive with Menma, the virus that had reshaped the world. It was everywhere, lingering in every breath, clinging to every surface like an invisible mist. For centuries, it had woven itself into the fabric of life, a silent force that granted those who survived its touch abilities beyond nature's design. These powers, known simply as Menma, were as unpredictable as the people who wielded them. Some saw them as blessings, others as curses, but one truth remained: the world had become a place of mystery, where the line between survival and extinction was as thin as a whisper.
A lone, dusty road stretched endlessly through the countryside, winding like a scar through rolling fields of wildflowers and golden crops. The wind carried the scent of earth and sun-dried grass, mingling with the faint fragrance of distant blossoms. Along this path, an old wooden cart rattled forward, creaking with every uneven bump. The horses pulling it—two aging beasts with shaggy coats—moved at a sluggish pace, their breaths coming in steady, labored huffs. The cart itself was a patchwork of worn wood and frayed fabric, its canopy riddled with small tears where sunlight speared through in golden shafts.
Inside, the stifling heat pressed down like an invisible weight. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred by the uneven journey, coating everything in a fine layer of grit. A young man sat on the left bench, his back stiff with growing discomfort. His short, unruly black hair clung to his damp forehead, and sweat glistened on his pale skin. Dressed in a loose black jacket and simple gray trousers, he cut an unremarkable figure—aside from the irritation flickering in his dark eyes. Every jolt of the cart sent another wave of frustration coursing through him, the relentless shaking threatening to unravel his patience.
Across from him, on the right bench, lay a girl, motionless as a statue. Her long, flowing black hair, streaked with deep blue strands, cascaded over the wooden surface like liquid silk. A thin blue cloth, resembling a blindfold, covered her eyes, obscuring whatever expression might have been hidden beneath. Her skin was porcelain-pale, luminous in the dappled sunlight, and her lips—naturally rosy—were slightly parted, as if caught in an unspoken breath. She exuded an eerie stillness, an unnatural calm that seemed at odds with the chaotic motion of the cart.
The scent of aged wood, sunbaked leather, and faint traces of sweat mingled in the air, blending with the rhythmic creak of the cart's wheels and the steady clop of hooves against the dusty path. At the front, guiding the horses with weathered hands, sat an elderly man. His white hair fluttered in the breeze, and though his back was bent with age, there was a quiet contentment in the way he hummed an old tune under his breath. To him, this was just another peaceful day on the road.
For the young man, however, it was anything but peaceful. The sweltering heat pressed against his skin, and the cart's endless jolting was a slow form of torture. Two hours had passed since they had set off, and his patience had worn thin. With a sigh of exasperation, he finally broke the silence.
"Old man," he said, his voice carrying a strained edge, "it's been two hours already. Shouldn't these horses be faster than this?"
The driver glanced back through the small wooden window, his smile unwavering. "My apologies, young sir. These horses are twenty-four and twenty-six years old. They're not as spry as they used to be, and their Menma isn't what it once was."
Menma. The word lingered in the air like a whispered legend. It was more than just a virus—it was life itself, the unseen force that had reshaped the world. When Menma first swept across the Earth, it didn't stop at humans; it seeped into every living thing, rewriting nature's rules. Some animals became stronger, faster, their abilities harnessed for labor and companionship. Others… changed. Some grew monstrous, their Menma-enhanced instincts turning them into nightmares that lurked in the wilds.
The young man frowned, momentarily forgetting his frustration. "Twenty-six years? That's past the average lifespan for a horse. Why haven't you replaced them?"
The old man's grip on the reins tightened slightly, but his expression remained gentle. "Replace them?" he echoed, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. "Many have told me the same. But to discard them simply because they've grown old… that's not something I can bring myself to do. They've been with me for so long—they're like family."
For a moment, the young man said nothing. His gaze drifted to the driver's white hair, fluttering in the wind like a banner surrendering to time. He had expected some practical answer—cost, availability, convenience. Instead, he had been met with something else entirely. These horses weren't just tools; they were reminders of years gone by, of journeys taken and burdens shared.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He lowered his head slightly, trying to ignore the constant shaking of the cart.
His thoughts turned to the girl across from him. Not once had she moved since the journey began. The cart rocked and swayed, yet she remained undisturbed, like a figure carved from stone. Even her breathing was so faint it was barely noticeable. He studied her with growing curiosity.
How can she be so calm in this infernal heat? he wondered. Is she even awake?
A mischievous thought crossed his mind.
I wonder… if she'd be angry if I suddenly threw up on her...
Chapter 2: Her Name Is…
The rickety cart continued its slow, uneven journey toward Petita Village, its wheels groaning with each turn on the dusty, sunbaked road. The midday heat pressed down like an invisible hand, thick and stifling. Inside, the young man with messy black hair clenched his fists, focusing all his willpower on keeping his stomach under control. The last thing he wanted was to vomit on the girl still lying motionless across from him.
The journey dragged on for another forty-five minutes before the cart finally neared the village gate. The scenery shifted from endless fields of golden crops and wildflowers to a more structured landscape—wooden fences lined the road, marking the outskirts of farmland. The scent of freshly turned soil mixed with the distant aroma of bread baking in stone ovens, signaling that civilization was close.
The village stood within a sturdy wooden palisade, the thick trunks of trees arranged in neat rows, their surfaces smoothed and reinforced to create a solid boundary. The entrance was framed by two towering pillars of wood, giving it a sense of strength, yet there was an unmistakable rustic charm to the structure—well-kept but not extravagant.
At the gate, two guards stood watch. They wore simple, matching uniforms—dark tunics with a small badge stitched onto the left side of their chests, near the heart. The badge was a symbol of authority.
At their sides hung long swords, their blades catching the light with a faint gleam, ready for use.
As the cart came to a slow halt, the old driver let out a satisfied sigh before climbing down, stretching his back with a soft groan.
"We made it before one o'clock. Good timing, don't you think?" His voice carried a lighthearted tone, as if the rough journey had been nothing more than a leisurely ride.
The young man jumped down from the cart, his boots hitting the dry earth with a dull thud. He glanced up at the sky, shielding his eyes with his fingers from the blazing sun. village walls in the distance.
"We left at nine-thirty," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck while walking with quiet steps from the back of the cart toward the old man standing beside the horses. "I'm surprised you're this optimistic."
The old man chuckled, patting one of his horses on the neck. "Aren't you going to wake your friend?" he asked, nodding toward the cart.
slowly directed his dark eyes toward the window at the front of the carriage. He moved closer, his fingers grazing the rough wood of the frame as he leaned in to steal a brief glance. The girl with the long black hair and blue blindfold was still lying there, completely still, as if the cart's relentless jolting had never affected her.
"I don't know her," he admitted flatly.
The old man raised a bushy white eyebrow. "Really? I thought you two knew each other since you boarded the cart together."
The young man shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Coincidences happen, don't they?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, flipping it toward the old man. "When I said you should replace your horses, I didn't mean you had to get rid of these two. Buy a couple of foals for work and let these two retire. They deserve to spend their years grazing in peace."
The driver caught the coin, his expression momentarily surprised before softening into a warm smile. "Thank you. You're a kind young man after all." He hesitated before adding in a quieter tone, "By the way, just out of curiosity… why did you come to this village specifically?"
The young man answered without hesitation. "I was told this is the closest route to the Kingdom of Saita. I'm aiming to take the entrance exam for Ragandarok Academy."
The old man's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't expected that his rickety cart might have carried a future student of the prestigious Ragandarok Academy. But before he could respond, one of the village guards, who had overheard the conversation, stepped forward.
"Who told you this was the right route?" the guard asked, skepticism lacing his voice.
The young man turned toward him, unaware of the shift in tone. "Some merchants."
The guard stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Merchants, huh? I doubt they misled you on purpose, It's true this road leads to the Kingdom of Saita, but there's a band of nine highway robbers along the way. Petita Village is a safe place, but once you leave and try to continue toward the kingdom, no merchant or cart driver will take you. And honestly, can you blame them? No one wants their cart stolen."
The air between them grew heavier. The guard, standing near the village gate, remained motionless except for his sharp eyes, watching the young man's reaction. The old driver, on the other hand, seemed unsurprised—like he had known about the danger all along.
The young man furrowed his brows. "What about the knights? Isn't that their job?"
The guard let out a slow breath, glancing up at the wooden sign above the gate. The words Petita Village were carved into it, worn by years of sun and rain.
"We've already sent a request to the knights, but it's been forty days, and we haven't heard back. I didn't expect them to delay this long… Your only option is to turn back and take the main road, but that'll take too much time. I'm sorry to say this, but I don't think you'll make it to Ragandarok Academy in time. The entrance exam is the day after tomorrow, right? You still need to register tomorrow. It's going to be tough."
The young man remained silent, his gaze fixed on the village sign. His mind was already running through possible solutions when a new voice cut through the tension.
"Lazy guard, it's better if you stop trying to blame the knights."
Everyone turned to see the girl with the long black hair and blue blindfold approaching. Her voice was calm, yet there was an undeniable authority in it.
"Do you see that badge on the left side of your chest?" she continued. "It says you're a recognized guard of the Kingdom of Saita. And, coincidentally, that's also where your heart is. Didn't they tell you that means you're supposed to sacrifice your life to protect this village?"
The guard's expression shifted slightly, though he recovered quickly. "Our duty is to protect the village, not the road. Before you blame me, you should know the law better."
The girl stopped walking once she reached the young man's side. Her next words were spoken in the same composed tone.
"The knights are needed everywhere in the world, every day. If they haven't arrived here yet, it's because they're overwhelmed with work. And since I hate hearing you talk about them like that, I'll take care of this band of robbers myself."
She said it with such casual certainty that, for a moment, the young man found himself wondering—could she really see through that blindfold?
As if the conversation was already over, she turned toward the village gate. Before she could take another step, the old driver called out gently, "Excuse me, young lady…"
He held out his hand, expecting payment for the ride.
In response, the girl pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her sleeve and placed it in his hand. The old man unfolded it, revealing messy handwriting that read:
"Fayrouz; the future strongest knight in the world."
The scene was almost comical. The contrast between her dead-serious expression and the ridiculousness of offering a signature instead of payment left both the guard and the young man momentarily speechless.
The old driver blinked in confusion. "What… is this?"
"It's my signature," she replied confidently. "In three years, I'll become the strongest knight. When I return, I'll grant you a special service."
The guard couldn't suppress a chuckle at the unexpected turn of events. Before the old man could react, the young man reached into his pocket, placed a copper coin on top of the paper, and muttered, "Again, thank you for the ride."
Fayrouz tilted her head slightly, as if reconsidering something. Then, in an odd move, she plucked the paper back from the old man's hand and handed it to the young man instead.
"I'm Fayrouz, a future knight and soon to be the strongest knight in the world."
The young man blinked, caught off guard. "I'm… Fulan," he said automatically, then quickly frowned. "Wait, that's not what I meant to say. What's the point of this paper anyway?"
"It simply means I owe you."
Fulan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Are you planning to travel through villages with just this paper? You should carry some actual coins. That's the law of life."
But before he could get a response, Fayrouz was already walking toward the village gate.
Fulan groaned before following after her. "Hey! I didn't say I accepted this ridiculous piece of paper!"