Twenty-five years after the death of a hero, the world kept turning.
Warm was living up to its name. The southern city basked in late summer heat, its white stone buildings reflecting sunlight until the streets shimmered like water. Market stalls overflowed with produce from the surrounding farmlands; golden wheat, plump tomatoes, baskets of apples that filled the air with sweetness. Children ran through the plaza, laughing, while their parents haggled over prices with merchants who had never known war.
Dante sat in the shade of a tavern's awning, a half-empty mug of ale in front of him. He didn't need to drink anymore—hadn't needed to for years—but it helped him blend in. Kept people from asking questions.
He looked human enough now. Twenty-five years of careful evolution, strategic skill point allocation, and relentless grinding had given him nearly complete control over his vampiric nature. His eyes only showed their true crimson in darkness or combat. His skin no longer burned in sunlight. He could eat regular food, even if it provided no sustenance.
To anyone watching, he was just another traveler in his early thirties, dressed in dark traveling clothes, nursing a drink while the midday heat drove everyone else indoors.
[Level: 73]
[Sunlight Resistance: 94%]
[Blood Bank: 2.1 / 8.0 Liters]
[Days Since Last Feeding: 16]
The system's warnings had become background noise years ago. He had learned to sustain himself on monster blood, demon essence, and the occasional magical creature. It wasn't optimal—the system reminded him of that constantly—but it was sustainable. It was human.
Or as human as a vampire could be.
"Did you hear?" A woman's voice cut through his thoughts. Two merchants had settled at the table next to his, fanning themselves with wide-brimmed hats. "About the priest? The one from the Hero's Party?"
Dante's hand tightened on his mug.
"Heiter?" the other merchant replied. "What about him?"
"He passed away. Two weeks ago, they said. Peaceful, in his sleep. The whole city of Äußerst went into mourning. They're saying he raised some orphan girl, taught her magic, can you believe it? A priest teaching magic!"
"Well, he was always eccentric. Remember the stories? How he'd show up drunk to demon hunts but still managed to save everyone with his barrier spells?"
They laughed. The kind of warm, nostalgic laughter people used when remembering beloved fools.
Dante stared into his ale.
Heiter is dead.
He had never met the man. Twenty-five years of existing in this world, and he'd never made it to Äußerst. There had always been another demon to hunt, another town under threat, another reason to stay away from the remnants of the Hero's Party.
Coward, he thought. You were afraid of what meeting him would mean. Afraid of making yourself real to them.
"They say the girl went off with that elf," the first merchant continued. "You know, Frieren? The Hero's mage? Apparently she came back for the funeral and took the girl as an apprentice. Imagine that, being taught by one of the legendary Four."
"Lucky girl. Though traveling with an elf... I hear they're strange. She'll probably drag the poor child across the continent for decades."
Dante tuned them out. His mind was already piecing together the timeline.
Heiter dead. Fern traveling with Frieren. That means the main story has begun.
The funeral at Himmel's grave. The decision to journey north to Aureole, to the land where souls rest. Frieren and Fern, mage and apprentice, walking the same roads the Hero's Party had traveled fifty years ago.
It was happening. The story he'd watched on a screen in another life was unfolding in real-time, just a few weeks' travel from where he sat.
And he had missed Heiter entirely.
"Another round?" The tavern keeper appeared at his elbow, a portly man with a friendly smile.
"No, thank you." Dante placed a few coins on the table, more than the ale was worth. "Actually, do you know if there are any bounties posted? Demons, monsters, anything?"
The tavern keeper's expression shifted, became more serious. "You a hunter?"
"Something like that."
"Might want to check with the guild hall, then. There's been talk of something in the Shadowfen Marsh. Travelers going missing. Could be bandits, could be worse." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Between you and me, the mages are saying they're detecting unusual mana patterns. Old magic. The kind that shouldn't exist anymore."
Dante nodded slowly. "I'll look into it."
"Careful out there. Era of Peace doesn't mean the world's gone soft."
No, Dante thought as the tavern keeper walked away. It just means people have forgotten how to recognize danger until it's too late.
He stood, adjusting his coat. The weight of his equipment had become second nature; the enchanted daggers hidden in his sleeves, the compressed blood vials strapped to his thigh, the emergency escape runes sewn into his collar. Twenty-five years of preparation, and he still felt like he was one step behind.
The market plaza stretched out before him, full of life and light and laughter. A little girl ran past, chasing a ball, her mother calling after her with mock exasperation. An elderly couple shared a bench, holding hands in comfortable silence. A street performer juggled flaming torches while a small crowd clapped in delight.
This is what Himmel died for, Dante realized. Not glory. Not legend. This. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by the fear of annihilation.
And somewhere north of here, Frieren was beginning to understand what that hero had meant to her. What ten years of adventure had been worth. What she had lost by not paying attention to the passage of time.
Dante had paid attention. He had counted every day, every year, every level gained and demon slain. He had watched the world change from a distance, always moving, never settling, never letting himself become attached to places or people.
Because attachment means loss, he reminded himself. And I've had enough of that for two lifetimes.
But Heiter's death sat heavy in his chest; a loss he hadn't earned the right to feel. He hadn't known the man. Hadn't shared drinks with him, hadn't heard his stories firsthand, hadn't been there when he needed someone.
He had simply existed in the same world, walking parallel paths that never intersected.
"Maybe that was the point," Dante muttered to himself as he headed toward the city's northern gate. "Maybe some of us are meant to walk alone."
The Shadowfen Marsh was three days from Warm. Three days to reach whatever old magic was stirring in those swamps. Three days to do what he'd been doing for twenty-five years; hunting the things that hid in the cracks of the Era of Peace.
He didn't look back at the city as he left.
Behind him, the laughter continued. The market hummed with life. The world moved forward, as it always did, leaving the dead to their rest and the living to their burdens.
And Dante walked into the wilderness, a vampire pretending to be human, hunting monsters while the real story unfolded somewhere beyond his reach.
[Quest Detected: Investigate Shadowfen Marsh]
[Recommended Level: 65+]
[Warning: Ancient magic detected. Proceed with caution.]
He dismissed the notification and kept walking.
The sun was warm on his face. The road stretched ahead, dusty and familiar.
And somewhere in the north, an elf and her apprentice were learning what it meant to journey together, while Dante continued his solitary path through a world that had moved on without him.