Dwargonia, Moth Pole Prison
Deep within the frozen spine of Dwargonia's northern mountains stood Moth Pole Prison—the kingdom's most secure prison facility and its proudest architectural threat.
An enormous open-pit mine carved into the ice surrounded a single central watchtower known simply as the Pole. From its peak, guards observed every movement below. There were no walls. No need. The frozen wilderness beyond was more loyal than any soldier. Anyone who escaped would simply… stop moving eventually.
After a two-day train ride through endless, Levi and Mara arrived.
They were escorted past rows of glaring dwarven inmates clad in identical green uniforms and matching green caps, their eyes following the foreigners with hostility.
Downward they went.
Past iron gates.
Past steam pipes hissing like irritated serpents.
Past heavier and heavier doors.
At the end of a dim stone corridor stood a huge, round dwarf—which, basically human-sized—wearing a pristine red uniform that strained heroically at the buttons.
"Hohoho! Welcome, Mr. Minister and Ms. Ambassador!" he boomed in a voice so aggressively jolly. "I am Warden Nikolaj Cinderclaws!"
Levi inclined his head politely. "Leviathan, Murican Minister of Foreign Affairs."
"Mara, Ambassador to Dwargonia," she added calmly.
"Hohoho! As instructed by Grand Marshal Axebreaker, this will be your new home. Allow me to show you our best accommodations!"
He swung open the cell door with theatrical pride.
The room was stone.
Cold stone.
He gestured grandly. "Our finest bed."
A lumpy mattress lay in the corner.
"And the bathroom."
He pointed to a metal toilet that looks like a crime scene.
SLAM.
The iron door shut.
The lock clicked with cheerful finality.
"If you need anything," Cinderclaws continued sweetly, "please do not bother to ask these steam-armored guards. Their job is to ensure rude guests do not disturb the peace. Enjoy~ Hohoho!"
He waddled away, laughter echoing down the corridor like a festive threat.
"But there's only one bed," Levi said brightly. "Ah well. Goodnight, I guess."
He stepped toward it without hesitation.
Mara slowly pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Sir… does your 'devil's intuition' still say everything will be fine?"
"Nope." Levi replied with a smile.
"…Sigh."
---
Hearthguard Cairn, Great Fortress
SLAM!
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS, DWORDOUG AXEBREAKER!?" Tubrat Silverfist roared, smashing his podium.
The Grand Council held an emergency session.
"Not only did you storm the Murican embassy without approval, you sent their minister and ambassador to the most dangerous prison in Dwargonia!?"
"And the most secure," Dwordoug insists.
"We are trying to understand your reasoning," said Calgirra Oakenbrew. "Your 'reliable source' claims the demons planned to attack the capital… but why imprison them in Moth Pole? Why not interrogate them here!?"
"It's secure!" he repeats like a stubborn child.
"We found no mass destruction weapon in their embassy. Nothing!" Orroth Sandbeards countered.
Axebreaker insisted. "Leviathan himself is a weapon of mass destruction. If he transforms, civilians die!"
Nelfilyn Bluespire massaged her temples. "What do we tell the Muricans? They are waiting for our reply."
"Tell them to explain why their allies sank our civilian ship!" Dwordoug snaps. "Why they're starting a war!"
"DWORDOUG!" Tubrat bellowed. "YOU also started the war when you stormed their embassy! WHERE is your proof!?"
"Tch. I'll get it. I'll interrogate them myself."
Dwordoug Axebreaker stormed out.
The doors shut heavily behind him.
---
Langley, BICH Headquarters
Mo' and Janet sat in a briefing room, watching Megan through a video feed from Dawn New Port.
"The Archmage confirmed it," Megan reported. "The mana signature came from a low-tier spell. So I inspected the site again and found this."
She held up charred fragments of parchment.
Janet's eyes narrowed. "Are those…?"
"Yes. Explosion scrolls. Lots of them. The killer-cook likely activated them all at once. It mimics the signature of high-tier magic."
Janet exhaled. "Someone used our Vandorian method…"
Megan nodded. "They copy our playbook to the fullest. Against us."
Both agents looked to Mo'.
Mo' leans back, folding his arm.
"…Then it's our turn to make a move."
---
A House in Dawn
Midnight had settled over Dawn outskirts—one of those thick, suffocating quiets where the entire town collectively decided there was nothing productive left to do except sleep. The streets were dark, the sky honest, and the only nightlife came from the occasional candle trembling bravely behind wooden shutters.
Inside a modest stone house, a retired adventurer sat alone by the fireplace.
Age had not softened him. It had simply reorganized him. His muscles were thicker now, dense from years of swinging steel. A massive claw-shaped scar carved across his face served as a permanent mark from the rival who had once defined his youth. He took a slow sip of ale and exhaled, long and heavy.
"Ahh…"
His gaze drifted to the wall.
Mounted proudly above the hearth was the enormous red head of a sabertooth with distinctive stripes hung proudly as a trophy.
"Oh, Tigger…" he muttered softly, brushing his fingers against the preserved fur. "I miss the days when you and I chased each other through the woods. You trying to eat me. Me trying to prove I could out-hunt you… If only I could go back."
Thud.
The sound came from upstairs.
The old adventurer froze.
Midnight noises were rarely blessings. Decades of surviving dungeons had trained him well: unexpected sounds after midnight usually meant ambush, betrayal, or something expensive breaking.
He reached for his old battleaxe from the wall. The weapon was nicked, chipped, and still reliable. Much like him.
He climbed the stairs slowly.
Thud. Thud.
The noise came again. From his son's room.
He approached the door, heart steady, breathing controlled. He nudged it open just enough to see inside.
His son's armor stood proudly on its rack—heavy plate polished to a gleam under the moonlight. The broadsword rested beside it like a loyal companion waiting for battle.
He pushed the door open wider—
—and in the middle of the room, a muscular young man was spinning in awkward circles, one hand raised dramatically while the other held a Murican smartphone, recording himself.
"WHAT THE HELL! THIS AGAIN!?" the father roared.
"D-Dad!?" The young man nearly dropped his Murican phone before desperately shoving it behind his back.
"You're supposed to be asleep! Your party has a dungeon raid tomorrow morning! A ranked one! And you're doing—" he gestured vaguely at the dance pose, "—this?"
"I told you, I don't want to go to the dungeon tomorrow! I already announced a livestream for tomorrow!"
"What do you mean you don't want to go? And how are your party members supposed to fight without their damage dealer?"
"Well, they can just rent Murican guns," the son muttered. "They've saved enough."
The father stared at him for a long moment. Then he dragged a chair across the floor with a heavy scrape and sat down.
"Son. Listen. I used to be an adventurer like you—"
"Then I took an arrow in the knee," both father and son said at the same time.
"You've told me that thousands of times, Dad," the boy groaned. "You're basically an NPC at this point."
"What the hell is an NPC?" The father frowned deeply. "Never mind. Kids and their weird slang…"
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"What I'm trying to say is this: an adventurer's reputation depends on trust. If you don't show up for your party, you won't find a group willing to take you in the future."
"I told you, Dad! I don't want to be an adventurer anymore! I want to be a dance content creator!" The son replied.
"Son, be realistic! Being content creator won't earn you gold!" The father roar.
"Yes, I can! One day I'll be on Murica's Got Talent! Everyone will see how amazing I am! Then I'll move to Hellywood!" The son roar back.
The father stared at his son's towering physique—arms thick as logs, shoulders built for crushing barricades, legs capable of kicking down dungeon gates.
"But—you're NOT a dancer! Look at you! Those big muscles are for swinging a greatsword, not for spinning a dance partner!"
"SEE!? You're doing it AGAIN! You've been telling me what to do since I was a novice! When I wanted to be a bard, you forced me into the warrior class! When I wanted to put skill points into intelligence, you made me put everything into strength! What's wrong with a warrior having high intelligence!?"
"Because a warrior is NOT supposed to be intelligent!"
"AAAGH! YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING HELICOPTER PARENT!"
"LANGUAGE! AND WHAT THE HELL IS A HELICOPTER PARENT!?"
For better or worse, Murican influence had cracked Ravendawn wide open. Where once there were forty respectable fantasy classes—warrior, mage, ranger, priest, and so on—now there were thousands of career paths no guild registry could properly categorize.
Influencer.
Streamer.
Professional commentator.
Unboxing specialist.
The generational gap had not merely widened. It had been catapulted into orbit.
Arguments like this had become common across Dawn. In homes once united by swords and shields, parents now found themselves battling ring lights and audience analytics.
But tonight, neither father nor son noticed the silent silhouettes moving across the rooftops above them—figures clad entirely in black, gliding from house to house with disciplined precision.
They moved quietly toward the newly built port.