​Once again, our paths crossed. Lazarus—the monster who sought to end my life and tear Lavender away from me. ​The air around us felt heavy, charged with the scent of trampled grass and metallic dust. I was consumed with rage seeing him trample her under his boot, but I knew I couldn't simply charge in. His weapons were formidable, and my internal energy was too depleted to fuel the Time Sword's abilities for long. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the tension in my muscles. ​He refused to release her, his voice dripping with twisted possessiveness. "Hahaha! My apologies, but I cannot let this one go. She is my property, and only death will separate her from me." ​I demanded to know why he was so obsessed with her. Was it her Celestial Item? ​Lazarus looked genuinely puzzled, as if he had no idea what a Celestial Item even was. He claimed Lavender was merely the child of his former servants—tools he had sold to Prince Ferdy of the Zeron Kingdom. He ad

​ ​The next morning, I made preparations early. Since I couldn't take the children with me, I found and paid a group of hunters I had worked with previously to act as their mentors. I wasn't sure if the three-month apprenticeship I negotiated—funded by the gold I’d earned from selling materials—would be enough, but it was the best I could do for their future. ​I wanted to teach them myself, to be the older brother they needed, but I couldn't sacrifice their safety for my own selfish desire for a family. I said goodbye with a smile, hoping our paths would cross again someday. ​I left Kitam and headed toward Black Raven territory. As I trekked through the woods, the canopy overhead grew thick, filtering the sunlight into patches of shifting green. According to the map I bought, there were still "Red Zones"—areas where the military refused to tread. Unfortunately, the Black Raven village sat deep within one. Monsters still teemed in those mountains, and the soldiers weren't willing to

​A few minutes after Ora introduced herself, she requested a private place to speak where the villagers wouldn’t overhear. The tribal chief nodded, his expression guarded, and led us into his small, sturdy wooden home to discuss the mission. ​"Please, Master, think this through carefully," Frexia interjected. She stood near the entrance, her arms crossed tightly, eyes flicking toward us with visible distrust. She clearly viewed us as nothing more than polished con artists. ​The chief, however, looked at Ora with a contemplative frown. "I can sense a mystical presence emanating from her," he murmured, his voice low. "She is what she says she is." I couldn't blame Frexia for her skepticism; even I had struggled to believe Ora was a Prime Spirit until she had actually used her power on me. It was a heavy, surreal weight to carry. ​"You’re right, it is unbelievable," I said, letting out a long, weary sigh that seemed to deflate my shoulders. "Even I didn't want to believe it, but unfort

​​Frexia’s attention was caught, and she turned to look at me. She remained silent, but her eyes betrayed her curiosity about what I had just revealed.​I smiled at her reaction, feeling a sense of pride in my ability—something no one else could ever replicate. However, I confessed to her that while my celestial item could rewind time, the "Time Sword" constantly consumed my lifespan as a consequence. That was exactly why Ora had forbidden me from using it repeatedly.​"It’s not like I actually want to keep rewinding time," I muttered, laughing bitterly. "Who would want to die? It’s not exactly a pleasant experience." I chuckled at the thought of Ora believing I enjoyed resetting time every time I died in battle, when in reality, it caused immense trauma to both my mind and body.​"There is nothing good about dying in battle—the suffering, the desperation, the regret, and the rage. I feel all of that every time before I die."​I let out a long, shaky sigh and fell silent, gazing up a

​The air in the workshop was cool and smelled of cedar and old sawdust. Early the next morning, I began laying out my tools, preparing to teach the tribespeople the basics of craftsmanship. Their current equipment was brittle and poorly balanced—hardly fit for a village surrounded by danger. Back in my youth, I had spent years in a woodworking factory, lungs filled with dust as I turned out chairs, cabinets, and sturdy fixtures. That muscle memory felt like a lifeline now.​While I was hunched over a workbench sketching gear designs on a scrap of parchment, Ora floated over. She watched me for a moment before asking if I was just wasting my time here instead of focusing on my training.​"Wasting time?" I protested, not looking up from my sketch. "Frexia has put me through hell for two days straight. Believe me, drawing a chair leg is infinitely better than accompanying that Amazonian on another one of her 'recreations.'"​Ora crossed her arms, her expression turning serious. She remin