Time flew by, and a hundred years passed in the blink of an eye.
The world underwent earth-shaking changes. Science and the humanities rose to prominence, mysteries and legends were interpreted, and humanity's conquest of nature clipped Angel's wings, shattered every secret with Rules and standards, drove ghosts from the sky, and chased goblins from their burrows.
Chains of Heaven, Argo Heroes, Twilight of the Gods, King Arthur and the Holy Grail, the Saint of Crimson Lotus... The stories of old had fallen onto paper, reduced to lines of faded text.
Yet the winds of change could not disperse every veil of mist.
Britain, Wales, Blackmoya Village.
The remnants of night faded away. Dawn's faint light filtered through the clouds and spilled over the mortal world, awakening the sleeping earth.
The villagers rose one after another. Smoke curled from every household, and after enjoying a delicious meal, people headed outside as usual. They habitually lowered their heads and closed their eyes to offer a few prayers before decorations made from animal skulls inside their homes and Rune Stones hung by their doors, then began their usual work.
Worn down by time, many of the patterns on those animal skulls and Rune Stones had become blurred, and even their original meanings had gradually been forgotten.
But some things had ultimately been engraved into that ancient inheritance.
According to the teachings passed down through generations, they still remembered that they were descendants of druids, the last generation of Celts, with the bloodline of red dragons flowing through them.
But for making a living, such things had already become insignificant.
In recent years, even this isolated and conservative village had chosen to open up for everyone's livelihood, even developing druid culture into a gimmick to attract tourists from elsewhere.
And the one who