I Fought Kal'tsit? Seriously?

He saw golden wheat fields and an endless plain, clearly separated from the cage of steel and neon, drawing a stark boundary between light and dark.

In the night, the wheat fields' gold had already faded, yet the neon signs still flashed without pause in the lightless darkness. Neon gas gave off a scorching glow that fell across his face.

For someone like him, Kazimierz had never truly welcomed him. He had known that long ago.

It was only that the neon lights had not been so dazzling back then, and the wheat fields had still retained their vivid gold, even in the darkness of night.

Risky actions would not earn everyone's approval.

The three of them, including him, were promptly scolded by the Banshees who rushed over, who demanded to know why they could not have been taken into the sky with them—ah, no, why they had suddenly done something so dangerous.

Fortunately, with his guarantee as an outsider and the Banshee Lord's repeated assurances, Nastya received only a brief warning before leaving. The other Banshees, meanwhile, passionately surrounded them to discuss the matter of the flying house.

Fatigue came flooding in like a tide, belatedly catching up to his tottering body.

Controlling the wind while dividing his attention had ultimately consumed too much energy, leaving him somewhat overwhelmed. Next, he needed to properly adjust to and adapt to the limits he had reached this time, while figuring out how to reliably wield this newly acquired power.

But before that, dawn should have arrived in reality.

So Lamaline quickly brought him back to the courtyard, allowing him to rest peacefully instead of being endlessly disturbed by that chattering flock of Banshees.

After a long while, Gerald woke from his dream.

The wilderness sky gradually brightened beneath the morning light. A faint glow pierced the remnants of night and slowly rose from beyond the horizon.

He drew the sword at his waist. Its blade was as pristine as new.

Thankfully, neon light had never once shone upon this sword. It had thus escaped the erosion of time and remained as sharp as ever, without the slightest trace of rust.

After a long silence, he sheathed the sword and headed toward the other side of the camp.

It was time to begin the journey home.

Skill Recovery +0.5/Second

The first person he encountered was Saria.

The Vouivre had slept well last night. The fire at last night's campfire had already died out, leaving behind a pile of fully burned firewood.

She had found a river in the nearby forest earlier and, before the sun rose over the edge of the horizon, gone to briefly wash her face and body.

By the time Gerald woke up, Saria had already rekindled the campfire.

She wrapped the tomato can in Enamel and broke down its packaging, then placed the contents into a pot to simmer over low heat. The scent of processed food quickly wafted through the air.

Hearing footsteps approaching from afar, Saria raised her head and looked at the person walking toward her.

"What happened last night?" Her voice carried obvious confusion. "You feel... different."

"I got my family's sword from Kannott."

Gerald did not hide it either. He picked up a bowl and spoon from the ground, served himself breakfast, and found a place to sit. "Someone is looking for me, in a way that defies common sense. Just like when you saw me use Originium Arts before. Clearly, I'm hiding secrets even I don't know about."

A peculiar fragrance drifted through the air. Saria's mind went blank for an instant, but she immediately shook her head and refocused. "Could someone have been monitoring your movements all along?"

"Not likely. When he took possession of this sword, he didn't even know I was the one it would be passed on to."

The sword hung at Gerald's waist, looking somewhat out of place with his current attire. "Don't worry about it. Since they deliberately made this move, they'll naturally come find me themselves. Let's proceed to Rhodes Island as planned."

At that moment, a voice rang out from the distance.

"Ah, friends, it seems your plans have changed somewhat?"

Kannott swayed his iron head as he dragged his burly body down from the truck. Compared with his size, the truck's front door appeared rather short. When he stepped down, the entire vehicle lightly shook as though voicing a protest.

He slowly walked over to the campfire. Firelight reflected off his cold iron helmet, giving it a faint warm sheen. The scent of tomato soup mingled with the smells of the other ingredients, creating a strange yet enticing aroma that made Kannott instinctively turn his gaze toward Gerald.

"You look like you've changed somehow, friend," he said, probing slightly.

"That's the second person who's said that about me today." Gerald rubbed his brow as he tried to brush it off with an excuse. "I probably overslept. Don't worry about it."

How else could he explain it?

Tell them he had returned to the past, united with a noble Banshee Lord, and made a house fly into the sky, nearly turning his mental state into a complete mess?

"No."

Saria suddenly interjected from the side, calmly but directly pointing it out. "It's the fragrance."

"The lady is correct."

Kannott glanced at the boiling soup. Thick liquid churned in the pot as its aroma spread with the steam.

His gaze swept the surroundings, confirming that no strange medicine had secretly been added before he nodded in satisfaction and looked back at Gerald.

"I've smelled something similar before," he said. "It was on a playboy. He held a small bottle in his hand and praised it to the heavens, trying to sell it for an outrageous price."

Kannott's iron helmet swayed slightly, as though he were reliving the scene. "Of course, I knew it was overpriced, but I still bought it because I wanted to gamble on a possibility. And he got what he wanted: several hundred Refined Originium Ingots."

He shrugged, making his iron helmet produce a faint metallic scrape. "But clearly, my judgment was right. He died horribly in the end and never spent a single coin of the money in his hands. What a pity—though not for him. I mean, it was a pity I couldn't get my money back. Someone else got it for free in the end. What a losing deal."

At this point, Kannott seemed to shake his head regretfully. He slowly reached into a wooden crate beside the campfire and took out a piece of dry bread. "A Banshee tore his heart out from behind, and the whole lower half of his body was shredded beyond recognition... Ah, I haven't said what that little bottle was. It was Dreammist Essence."

"A fragrance made by Banshees, given only to the one they love. One drop can leave someone utterly entranced. Even so, this is the first time I've seen a scent this distinctive."

Both their gazes converged on the Pegasus, then quickly shifted away.

"In any case." The merchant coughed and changed the subject. Ever since discussing that strange prophecy yesterday, he had decided not to ask about the Pegasus anymore. "Though I didn't intentionally overhear it, were you two planning to change your destination just now?"

"You know where Rhodes Island is currently docked?"

Saria was the one who asked. After all, she would be the one paying in the end.

"I do. They've caused quite a stir near Chernobog. Reunion, have you heard of them?" The helmeted head nodded. "I heard Rusthammer recently took in some drifters from over there. Quite a spectacle... It's a shame I didn't witness it myself."

"A pharmaceutical company repeatedly appearing in conflicts between nations, and on no small scale either—is it merely a broker of interests, or a manipulator hiding behind the scenes?"

"Anyway." Kannott did not intend to keep wandering off topic. "You can find that company near Lungmen. If you're taking the Messenger Station route, you'll probably need a full month to get there."

Gerald looked toward Saria, his gaze questioning.

She gave him an affirmative response. Saria nodded and said, "Normally, Rhodes Island has a fixed patrol schedule and set lengths of stay in each country... My information was blocked for a period while I was in Mansfield, but once we reach the Columbia office, we'll be able to find out when they're coming next."

"Then where is that office?"

"There happens to be one in Trimounts, right above my shop." A peculiar laugh came from within the iron helmet. "Though I can't waive the guide fee, I have to say, we really are fated, aren't we, friend?"

Once the plan was settled, Saria stepped aside and began cleaning up the remaining trash in camp. She raised her hand, and a faint light appeared at her fingertips. Enamel then spread like flowing water, wrapping around the rubbish on the ground.

With a faint glow, the trash slowly broke down, eventually becoming fine dust that returned to the wilderness soil.

On the other side, Kannott began packing up the tent beside the vehicle. Despite his burly frame, he moved with surprising agility and efficiency. He bent down and raised his hands, quickly rolling the tent neatly and tying it together with its frame. Then he grabbed the bundle and flung it onto the back of the truck.

Hearing footsteps behind him, Kannott rubbed his waist and asked, "What is it, friend? Is there something you want to say to me without that lady hearing?"

"I just have a question."

Under the sunlight, Gerald appeared to be holding something in his hand, carefully examining it against the sun overhead.

Yet Kannott could not understand what he was doing at all.

"That Dreammist Essence you mentioned—was it only a small bottle? About the size of a thumb? Or the size of a water bottle?"

Kannott fell silent for a while. Once he confirmed the other man was not joking, he sighed. "Oh, friend, if it were a bottle as large as a water bottle, every artist in Leithanien would be willing to kill me for it—you should know that even a single drop can inspire someone, let alone an entire bottle."

"I see."

Gerald stopped his strange gesture and calmly put the object in his hand back into his pocket. "It's nothing. I was just curious."

Curious what could possibly have caused an entire bottle of fragrance to suddenly appear on him.

Thoughts on Going Premium

The first time I seriously started writing a novel was probably around August last year.

Before that, I watched some editor livestreams and felt that perhaps I could give it a try, so I submitted my first three chapters. At the time, I was writing Harry Potter fanfiction.

It did pass, but the situation wasn't great. I wrote fifty thousand words and hardly anyone read it. Later, through conversations with others, I realized I had many problems to improve on, including market research, genre selection, and pacing.

So afterward, I chose a subject I was more familiar with and came here to write about Arknights.

As for the game Arknights, I'm basically a pure roguelike player. Regarding the story, I only seriously followed it during the first two years or so—blame Dossoles. After that, I mostly looked at datamines and skipped through the storylines that interested me. So many parts of this story are based more on instinctive considerations, along with some private research. If you notice anything wrong, please point it out in the chapter comments or reviews. I'll correct it when I see it.

Still, it would be best to reduce arguments. On these issues, it is difficult for any of us to convince one another, and Arknights' setting cannot exactly be called meticulous. Retcons are also common.

As for updates, I'm currently in my fourth year of university. With graduation to consider, this semester will be somewhat stressful, but I'll try to add extra chapters while maintaining regular updates. I'm not sure whether I can release a huge batch tomorrow, but I'll try to write as much as possible over these next three days and see how things go.

Whether you think the work has quality issues or pacing issues, you can ask me in reviews, chapter comments, or private messages, though I may not always see them immediately. But as for urging updates... I've truly done my best. I simply can't write that much, and no matter how much you urge me, I probably won't give up my own life for a novel. If I end up unable to graduate or find a job, that would be putting the cart before the horse.

Still, I haven't missed an update so far, and I've maintained at least four thousand words every day. I believe this pace can be sustained steadily.

So if you truly feel the update frequency is unsatisfactory, I hope you can let chapters accumulate for a while before returning to read. Even if the results are terrible, I'll accept it.

All I can say is, please be understanding.

Dreammist (4K)

The most convenient way to travel from the Gaspar Wasteland to Trimounts was to leave by following the road of the Messenger Station.

This road was not only the main route for pioneering teams and tourists, but also the only practical choice available to most people.

Rusthammer's infamy was still spreading through the wilderness between Columbia and Kazimierz. No one wished to take side paths that strayed from the main road, even if doing so could more than double their transport efficiency.

What could stop merchants from pursuing profit was naturally the threat of death. This loose group had committed all kinds of horrifying atrocities—though many cases had been exaggerated and made more vicious by the media.

Some people even used certain incidents as a way to promote themselves and make money, hiring private security contractors from Blacksteel Worldwide to handle security along specific routes and earn "just the right amount" in service fees.

Unfortunately, they had thought the matter far too simply.

After all, the Columbia Gold Notes they earned were nothing more than scraps of paper to some people. They could not buy their lives back from Death.

Towering flames burned the national flags and supplies together. Rusted hammers smashed through the heads of those who stood in the way, making blood spray forth and burn even more fiercely amid the flames.

After that, no one was willing to deal with such a band of wasteland thugs anymore.

Then, under the deliberate policy of certain people to nurture bandits for their own benefit, the Messenger Station—a foothold for messengers to analyze terrain, transmit information, and replenish supplies—was quickly transformed from an outrageously crude little building into a small base capable of housing thousands. It even had barbed wire and watchtowers like those at the border.

Of course, its public functions remained unchanged as a cover. Whether ordinary messengers or Catastrophe messengers, all had their own independent rest areas and dedicated contact stations. This meant that the vast majority of messengers would stop here when setting out on the road.

In this way, the Columbia military's attention could shift from countless small paths where Rusthammer might appear to the main road they had personally built, greatly reducing the areas they needed to guard against.

Perhaps those important figures had initially only concluded through gathered information that Rusthammer would not attack certain areas. They used that as evidence to allocate funds for building the base, while also skimming their own share. There were even recent rumors that from some point this year onward, the Messenger Station would introduce transit fees and tax policies for goods.

What those important figures had not considered was that Rusthammer did not attack the Messenger Station simply because there was a fundamental consensus in the wilderness.

Except under extreme circumstances, no one would harm Catastrophe messengers who traveled through the wilds.

In Ursus, they were called "Imperial Night Watchers"; in Minos, they were "Harbingers of Misfortune"; in fallen Gaul, they were "Shields of Civilization."

Though their names differed, one thing was shared.

They were the foundation of civilization.

"Pretty fast. I can already see the station."

Gerald used the Pegasus's long-distance vision to peer into the distance and instinctively began to stand.

Behind him, Saria unceremoniously covered his body with Enamel, swiftly connecting it to the roof and forcibly dragging the restless Pegasus back into place. "Do you want me to cut all your hair off directly?"

"No, go ahead, go ahead."

Only then did Gerald remember that someone behind him was cutting his hair. He hurriedly waved his hands and sat back down sheepishly. "Just leave some at the ends. I'm not used to having the back of my neck completely exposed."

Snip, snip.

The sharp "scissors" formed by Calcification moved lightly through Gerald's hair. Accompanied by crisp sounds, locks of cut hair drifted down.

The wind atop the truck was firmly kept outside by the Pegasus's Originium Arts. The scattered strands piled around their feet, lightly bouncing with the vehicle's swaying, yet never showing any sign of falling off the roof.

As passengers catching a ride, they did not actually have much room to choose.

Kannott clearly had a strong aversion to letting others occupy his "shop" alone. Perhaps certain experiences in the past had made him deeply wary of anyone being alone with those collectibles. Thus, the roof became one of only two places they could stay. The other option was for the two of them to squeeze into the cramped space at the back of the truck.

Gerald chose the former without hesitation.