The journey together was not short.
Mei's ears were constantly filled with the minstrel's songs and the strumming of his lyre, making the trip feel exceptionally leisurely.
Whenever they passed a landmark, the poet could recount its legends and stories with such vivid detail it was as if he had personally witnessed those events unfold.
Mythological epics.
Folk legends.
Goblins and specters.
He spoke of these romantic fantasies, always maintaining that while they might not truly exist, he chose to believe they were more than mere fiction.
The miracles of Antut, the might of the Gods and Kings, the mystery of Firenze, the destiny of the Twelve Knights: the poet held an infinite yearning for them all.
He said with a smile, "If those figures could one day step out of legend and meet in this era together, how breathtakingly spectacular would that be?"
Mei laughed upon hearing this.
"Perhaps it truly is possible."
"HAHAHAHA!"
The minstrel didn't care how absurd such a fantasy was; he simply felt that such an event would surely be a magnificent epic beyond imagination.
"If it were truly possible, I would give anything to see it with my own eyes."
A few days later, they passed through a secluded village.
Though remote, the villagers were exceptionally hospitable. Despite their humble surroundings, they possessed an unusually abundant variety of food.
Fine wine.
Fresh fruit.
Fragrant meats.
They lacked for nothing.
As outsiders, Mei and her companion were treated to a warm welcome. Amidst the joyous sounds of singing and dancing, an elderly woman leaning on a cane brought fine wine to the two.
Her smile was gentle and kind.
"Our place is so remote, we rarely get visitors. It just so happens we've had a bountiful harvest, and everyone is in high spirits. Please, both of you, enjoy yourselves to the fullest."
"That is most kind of you! Thank you!" the minstrel quickly replied.
His lyre sang out as he joined the festivities, plucking a tune while sharing tales of his travels with the villagers.
Late that night, a deathly silence fell, and the darkness took on a sinister edge. The villagers silently gathered outside a small house.
Under the moonlight, the old woman pushed open the door, her face contorted with a look of extreme, twisted greed.
THUD!
She gripped a sharp blade and drove it into the bedding.
Only to find the bed was empty.
...
In the mountains.
Under the cover of night, the minstrel hurriedly led Mei away from the village.
"A village that is practically cut off from the world couldn't possibly have such abundant resources," he whispered. "It's too eerie, no matter how you look at it."
He added, "I've heard that in some places, there are evil rituals where they sacrifice living humans to mountain goblins in exchange for food. I hope I'm just being paranoid."
Mei remained calm. "You are surprisingly cautious."
"Of course," he replied.
While the poet genuinely wanted to know if mountain goblins were real, he wanted to stay alive even more.
He had survived years of traveling only because he was sufficiently careful.
One should not intend to harm others, but one must never be without a sense of self-protection. In remote, isolated places, once human nature twists, the resulting evil becomes too hideous to look upon.
However, fortune, be it good or bad, seemed to be playing with them. A fog began to rise in the mountains, a thick white haze that reduced visibility to a mere two or three meters.
After wandering in circles, they found themselves standing before a small log cabin. A warm, amber candlelight flickered within, looking disturbingly out of place in the middle of the desolate wilderness.
The minstrel wore an expression of helpless resignation. He turned to Mei. "You don't think there are actually goblins in these mountains, do you?"
Mei was unmoved. "That depends on what kind you're talking about."
There were certainly no treants or flower spirits here: only an old witch.
CREAK.
The aged wooden door swung open.
The first thing they saw was a cascade of beautiful, flowing hair. A woman of immense charm and elegance opened the door, offering them a dazzling smile.
"Guests, please, come in."
The woman's voice seemed to carry an irresistible mana. By the time the minstrel regained his senses, he was already inside the cabin, seated at a table.
Three cups of water sat upon the table.
The minstrel gave Mei a look of defeat; it seemed they were doomed.
He kept his tone as respectful as possible. "Madam, thank you for your hospitality."
"Don't be a stranger."
The lady's face was exquisite; her faint smile was the kind that could make a person drown in infatuation.
She asked the two, "Are you intending to cross this mountain?"
The minstrel nodded. "We are."
The woman's smile widened. Her posture was lazy, making her appear even more bewitching, yet the poet felt an unsettling anxiety, as if sitting on a bed of needles.
The lady produced a small twig.
"People rarely visit these mountains. Why don't you play a game with me? We shall spin this twig on the table. When it stops, if it points at you, you may make one request of me. If it points at me, it means I may make one request of you."
There were two of them, Mei and the poet, so logically their odds of winning seemed higher. However, the minstrel didn't feel they had the power to refuse.
Several times he thought of fleeing or striking out, but his mind would lapse into a dazed trance, leaving him unable to move.
The lady added, "Any request will do."
The minstrel couldn't bring himself to think of anything else. He felt a profound malice radiating from this game.
"I only ask that you let us leave safely."
"Of course, that is no problem."
The lady's gaze shifted to Mei. Looking into Mei's clear, untainted eyes, she felt a surge of envy.
"I like your eyes. If I win, I want them."
Mei had never taken this witch seriously. A mere Tier 1 entity could only lord over others by hiding in the deep woods like this. Such clumsy parlor tricks were frankly tedious.
Still, since it was a wager, she would play along.
She said to the lady, "Then I shall have your heart."
"No problem."
The lady put on a show of sportsmanship. "In the interest of fairness, you shall be the one to spin the twig."
Then, the minstrel nervously gave the twig a spin. Mei looked bored, while the lady remained composed and confident. Only the minstrel was dripping with sweat.
Soon, the twig slowed to a halt. The lady's expression shifted from smugness to shock, and finally to disbelief. The twig settled, pointing steadily toward Mei.
"How is this possible?!"
The outcome was clearly beyond her expectation. Before she could react, a wave of agonizing pain made her shriek.
THUMP!
A beating heart dropped onto the table. The minstrel's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He had expected a trap; he never thought the lady would follow the rules so literally.
Bright red blood stained her dress. The lady's face turned deathly pale, a ferocious glint swirling in her eyes.
She glanced at the poet first, then whipped her head around to glare at Mei.
"It was you!!"
In a fit of rage, the noblewoman let out a piercing shriek as her true form was revealed: a withered, hideous old hag. She had played this cruel game countless times, never failing, and certainly never paying a price.
The witch loved toys, but this time she was the one being played with, nearly losing her life in the process.
"It was you!! I know it was you!!"
Her shrill, jagged scream sent visible ripples through the air, instantly splintering the table. The shockwave knocked the minstrel unconscious where he sat.
The hag's hands mutated into bear-like claws as fangs sprouted from her gums. Consumed by fury, she lunged at Mei, looking ready to devour her whole.
Mei didn't even blink.
A tiny spark of fire flickered for a fraction of a second before exploding into a pillar of flame. It engulfed the pouncing witch instantly, turning her shriek of rage into a scream of pure agony.
"AAAAAUGH!!"
The intense fire roared with violent hunger.
The screaming stopped as quickly as it had begun; the hag was reduced to a pile of ash before her body could even hit the floor.
In the corner, a grey-furred rat trembled uncontrollably. Paralyzed by terror, it stared at Mei, who remained seated and calm, not daring to make a single sound.
From the moment Mei had effortlessly plucked out her heart, the witch knew she was dealing with someone far above her level.
Someone she never should have provoked.
As it turned out, Mei's power was even more terrifying than she had imagined.
Faced with the reality of her situation, the witch's anger vanished, replaced by a fear so cold it nearly froze her soul.
In truth, that aged body only held half of her spirit.
The other half resided within this very rat.
It was her ultimate failsafe.
Inside the quiet cabin, the grey rat crept forward with shaky steps, hugging the shadows of the corners and praying to go unnoticed.
Slowly, silently, it neared the exit.
Driven by a desperate will to survive, it squeezed through a gap beneath the door.
The moment it cleared the threshold, the witch felt a surge of manic joy.
I made it out!
Hahaha! I actually survived!!
Suddenly.
KREEEE!
A sharp hawk's cry echoed from the sky. An instant later, razor-sharp talons clamped down on the rat, and it was swallowed whole in a single gulp.
"Ssss. Ow."
When the minstrel finally woke up, his head was spinning. He stumbled to his feet, wincing as his hand touched a tender lump on the back of his skull.
He looked around the cabin, feeling dazed.
"I'm... I'm not dead?"
Overjoyed to be alive, the poet let out a sigh of relief. At the same time, he realized that Mei likely possessed a power that was anything but ordinary.
He was wise enough not to pry.
Pushing the door open, he found that the bright morning sun had chased away the fog, leaving the mountain path clear.
Before leaving the cabin, the minstrel cast one last look at the objects inside.
On a side table sat a solar sandglass, seemingly capable of precise solar calculations. He noticed an inscription on the base of the hourglass: Solar Calendar, Year 476.
"Was that woman a witch?" the minstrel asked, curious.
"Yes," Mei replied.
Having crossed the mountain, they continued their steady march forward.
Perhaps because he had seen so little before, the poet began to notice more and more strange, new things along the way.
He discovered places where people used devices called waterwheels. Wooden machines that drew water from rivers to irrigate fields, drastically reducing human labor.
Continuing onward, he arrived at a town where the people were obsessed with the study of numbers and logic.
They claimed that "calculation" was present in everything.
The minstrel tried to grasp their mathematical language, but his head began to throb after only a few moments.
Overwhelmed, he quickly abandoned any plans to study it.
Traveling downriver, he initially saw only tiny boats.
Gradually, the vessels grew larger and the sails taller, their craftsmanship so sophisticated it left him in awe.
One day, he was startled by a deafening explosion.
He later learned that people nearby had discovered a black powder. A substance that burned with incredible speed and possessed terrifying power.
The poet asked Mei what it was; she told him it was called "gunpowder."
When the river finally met the sea, it was time for them to part ways.
They arrived at a port once known as the "End of the World," which had since transformed into a sprawling harbor city.
The minstrel was stunned by the city's prosperity. When he heard rumors of another continent across the ocean, he was ecstatic.
He decided right then and there to board a ship.
He had to see that other land for himself. After bidding Mei farewell, he resolutely stepped onto a vessel about to depart.
...
On the ship.
The minstrel watched the crowds celebrating on the docks and asked a sailor nearby, "What day is it? Everyone seems to be celebrating something."
"Oh, that?" the sailor replied casually. "It's been exactly one hundred years since the harbor was completed in 1453. Everyone is having a festival to mark the centennial."
"I see..." the poet replied instinctively. Then, he froze. He turned back, his face a mask of utter confusion. "Wait, what year did you say it was?"
"This year? It's 1553, isn't it?" The sailor almost lost his confidence under the poet's intense gaze. He thought for a second, then nodded firmly. "Yeah, definitely. It's 1553!"
"What? 1553?"
The minstrel stood there, speechless.
If he remembered correctly, he had only been traveling for about half a month. How could a hai-week journey have spanned over a thousand years?
...
Many years later.
An old man with silver hair and a hunched back stepped off a ship. An aged lyre was slung over his shoulder.
Once ashore, he headed straight for the nearest tavern.
Inside, a boisterous crowd was gulping down ale. The old man ordered a few mugs. Once he had a good buzz going, he began to regale the room with tales of his travels.
The drunks roared with laughter.
"Hahaha! Old man, you're spinning yarns! You really went to the New World?"
"There's more than just one new continent out there," the old man said with a faint smile. "The place people call the New Continent is the Eastern Land. Beyond that, there are the Western, Southern, and Northern continents. Each landmass is as vast as the one beneath our feet."
One drunk asked, "So, what do the people out there call our home?"
"For a long time, we were isolated from the four continents. There was no contact for ages; we were forgotten by the rest of the world. Because of that, they call the land beneath us the 'Lost Lands'."
With that, the old man plucked the strings of his lyre. The drunks drank and joked while listening to the old man hum verses, chronicling everything he had seen over the years.
The atmosphere grew lively.
The drunks took turns buying the old man drinks.
At that moment, someone brought a mug of ale and sat down beside him. The old man turned to look. The face before him was both hauntingly familiar and strangely distant; old memories began to surge back like a rising tide.
Mei raised her glass to the old man.
"How was the journey?" she asked with a smile.
The old man burst into a hearty laugh. "It was absolutely, undeniably magnificent!"
To witness the development and transformation of the world through the eyes of an ordinary man, for a poet, there could be no more romantic fate than that.
...
Since the era of Firenze, large-scale supernatural warfare had rarely plagued the mortal realm. By the present day, extraordinary powers had almost entirely entered a state of hibernation.
This gave rise to the current Mystic Faction.
As time flowed, the Mystic Faction naturally split into various opposing camps and organizations. Under the weight of mutual restraint, the global situation grew increasingly stable.
Until it was certain that the reigns of the Firenze Empire and the Agal Empire had truly ended, the Mystic Faction refrained from making any significant moves. To do otherwise was a futile gesture.
Even if the Tier 3 Grand Travelers fought until their brains spilled out, they still stood zero chance against two empires wielding Tier 4 or even Tier 5 combatants.
With the supernatural in dormancy, the world's development returned to the hands of ordinary people. From the moment explorers from the four continents set foot on the Lost Lands, the region finally re-entered the gaze of the Mystic Faction.
After a thousand years, their hibernation had proven to be the correct choice.
Voices from the Mystic Faction echoed within a cavernous, shadowed space.
"Is it confirmed?"
"Confirmed."
"The Firenze Empire and the Agal Empire annihilated each other. Our patience was not in vain; the sovereignty of the world has returned to our hands."
"In that case..."
"No. Continuing the senseless, disordered infighting of the past is meaningless. My only desire now is to end this war as quickly as possible, to finish this mission."
This mission had been far too brutal. The number of Grand Travelers who had lost their lives was beyond counting, and the variables that had emerged exceeded the breaking point of many.
Many had long since lost the heart to scramble for victory; survival had become the only priority.
"We need a decisive power to end this war. But the question of whose hand the world's sovereignty ultimately falls into is not for us few to decide."
Void Wanderers and Transcenders were naturally diametric opposites.
Many had used this war for supremacy to harvest "kills" from rival spaces, accumulating massive amounts of Points.
The two sides lacked even a shred of trust, making total consensus impossible. Furthermore, even Grand Travelers from the same space were not of one mind; some wanted to end the war immediately, while others most certainly did not.
Only a decisive, crushing power capable of overwhelming everyone could force this war to a close. And that power needed to be held firmly in the hands of the Grand Travelers.
"Everyone, I have a proposal."
Within the gloom, one individual offered a feasible suggestion.
Not long ago, the Mystic Faction had detected an incredibly potent force. They initially believed a new powerhouse had been born, but the reality was quite different.
It was a force they could neither fathom nor control. The entire Mystic Faction had exhausted nearly every means at their disposal just to barely contain it.
Through extensive research, they discovered that this power could transcend time and space, allowing them to forge a contract with anyone and summon them into this era.
It was utterly inconceivable.
The essence of this power was far greater than what they had accessed.
However, the Mystic Faction's resources were limited, and they could only study it to this extent. Because no single entity could harness this force alone, it had remained under the joint surveillance of the faction's major powers to prevent any massive catastrophes.
But now, this power could finally serve a purpose.
To keep the war from regressing into the chaotic, unbridled state of the past, they would confine the conflict to a specific scope. The smaller the scale, the faster the resolution.
The decisive force required to end this war would be summoned by the Mystic Faction from the myths and legends of old. The summoned party would be bound by a contract with them, thereby keeping the entity under restraint.
The major factions would resolve the selection of their representatives through internal competition. Ultimately, the chosen champions from each faction would enter the fray, and the final victor would assume control over the Tier 3 battlefield.
Thus, they would bring this mission to an end.
A perfectly flawless plan.
After a long while, the major powers of the Mystic Faction concluded their deliberations and cast their votes.
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
And so, the matter was settled.
How exactly the major powers would determine their representatives through internal competition remained unknown. But beyond that, they faced one more task.
They had to scour the world for historical relics.
While that power could summon anyone across time and space, without a medium, the results would be entirely random, and the uncertainty was simply too high.
To guarantee that they could summon an entity of sufficient power, the major powers needed to use artifacts left behind from the age of myths and legends to pin down a specific target.
The stronger the link between the relic and the individual, the higher the success rate of the summoning. After negotiations, the major powers agreed to perform the summoning ritual in one hundred years' time.
At that point, whether a suitable relic was found or not, the war would be forcibly triggered. The Lost Lands held the most ancient and potent myths and legends of all.
Therefore, it was selected as the battleground.
The Mystic Faction's influence over the Lost Lands was the weakest, making it the ideal location to avoid any unnecessary interference or bias between the major powers.
Seventy years after the decision was made, a Void Wanderer trekking across the Lost Lands stumbled upon the very relic they had been desperate to find, deep within a desolate desert.
"I've finally found it!!"
...
The desert.
The wind carried the crisp, rhythmic tinkling of bells. A lone figure stood atop a sprawling, dilapidated ruin, holding an ancient stone tablet carved with archaic script.
The most precious relic of the Ancient Era.
The Firenze Empire's Lucerne Text.
"With this piece of gear, the victory is practically locked in."
The Void Wanderer's face lit up with triumph.
The Lucerne Text was inextricably linked to the Firenze Empire. He didn't dare dream of summoning the entire Firenze Empire, for that was fundamentally impossible.
However, even if summoning the most mysterious and legendary Monarch of Firenze was out of reach, calling forth even a single one of the Twelve Knights would grant them a crushing, insurmountable advantage.
Any one of the Twelve Knights was formidable in their own right, and if it were Julius, he was a force of nature that few in the era of myth and legend could ever hope to challenge.
In the bag!
It was a guaranteed victory!
...
As one of the top-tier factions within the Hyperdimensional Space, the Raitei Legion was, naturally, one of the major powers within the Mystic Faction in this mission world.
A Legion member returned with a relic recovered from the Lost Lands. A black chest was placed upon the table and promptly opened.
"Commander-in-Chief, this war is ours to win."
Inside the chest, a flash of pure white caught their eyes. Sealed within lay a severed arm from a statue. Although the power within had been all but drained, it was undeniably a top-tier legendary relic of myth.
The Legion member was overflowing with confidence.
"This is the severed arm of the Mother God from the legendary Holy Cathedral of Antut. We discovered it at the bottom of a lake, beating the Nova Legion to it by a hair."
The Raitei Legion Commander-in-Chief stared fixedly at the Mother God's arm. A rare, sharp smile traced across his stern features.
"Excellent."
The major Legions on the side of the Void Wanderers had all made significant acquisitions, and the Transcender faction had similarly secured what they believed to be relics that would lock in their victory.
...
At the headquarters of the Decussate Star.
A Transcender presented his find to the final commander of the Decussate Star in this mission world. He produced a shattered sword.
"Commander, we have recovered a relic of the legendary Julius, the undefeated knight of the Firenze Empire, specifically his sword, broken in that final battle."
Julius was, to a certain extent, the very personification of victory. Throughout the epics of the Firenze Empire, he had never tasted defeat. Even in his final stand against the King of Agal, the result was a mortal wound dealt to his opponent, leading Agal to perish shortly after from his injuries.
How could one lose with such a trump card?
At the absolute worst, it would be a stalemate!
That was the conclusion of the Decussate Star.