"I wonder how Blank, Sienna, and the others are doing now."
A man with a chiseled face pushed aside the hide curtain, sunlight spilling over his bare torso. His lean, balanced frame was inked with a lifelike black scorpion. Its tail curled around his waist, two emerald-green eyes etched across his chest glowing faintly like the gaze of some vengeful specter.
It had been more than half a year since Orson settled into life among the Firevenom tribe, and he had completely adapted to their hunting and raiding ways. Most of the time, he simply observed from the sidelines, rarely intervening unless it was absolutely necessary. But even the simplest strike from a God-tier adventurer like him was enough for the tribesfolk to treat him as if a god had descended to walk among them.
The scorpion tattoo on his body had been their gift. They said it was the totem of their first tribal chief’s beast companion, a guardian spirit with overwhelming magic immunity that shielded the Firevenom from evil. The mark carried a deeper meaning as well—only the next tribal leader had the right to wear it.
Darulubus’s schemes to make him a son-in-law hadn’t ceased for a single day. The man’s persistence was tireless, almost absurd.
Orson drew a deep breath and looked out at the landscape. Below the ridge, peaks loomed shrouded in mists, layers of clouds wrapping them like veils, lending the mountains a mysterious allure. At times, the fog would blanket the entire valley, turning the world into something like a dreamscape. When the sun broke through, shafts of light pierced the haze, divine and illusory all at once.
"I wonder how they’re living now. My child... should have been born by now. A boy or a girl? Does the baby look like me?"
A faint smile tugged at Orson’s lips. In this world forsaken by the gods, the Infinite Dimensions system worked in fragments. Communication was basically limited to shouting range, even private chat only worked within a short distance. Most functions on his interface were greyed out, locked and unusable.
Oddly enough, he didn’t mind. It gave him a peace of mind he hadn’t felt in years. The memories of the Perfect World still tore at him, moments that stabbed like knives whenever they returned. Yet even an adventurer’s immortal spirit could not resist the passage of time. Time did not erase the pain, but it taught him how to live with it.
Orson turned to see Darulunina smiling at him, sharp little tiger teeth peeking through. In less than a year, the girl had grown taller than him by half a head. And Darulubus hadn’t been lying—Darulunina was indeed a rare beauty, even among the Fireborn.
Towering at nearly six feet, her bronzed skin and long, slender legs gave her the physique of a world-class model. Her wild, yet softly refined features carried a blend of feral allure and elegance. Draped in the pelt of some beast, she leaned in, looping her arms around his neck, gazing at him with unabashed affection.
Orson gave a helpless smile. The girl’s persistence was unshaken, her confidence indomitable. Drunken boasts to her friends about seducing him and birthing the "next generation of the Godchild" had become almost a ritual. Unfortunately for her, his vigilance was ironclad, and her plots had come to nothing.
Her brazenness reminded him of Madman—thick-skinned, relentless, and fueled by an almost frightening inner strength.
"New outfit?" Orson teased, raising a brow. Darulunina had swapped into a wild, form-fitting brown outfit that accentuated her athletic curves. Around her neck hung a string of pale-blue crystals—an ancient draconic relic from before the Sunforge’s fall, once brimming with power, now reduced to a mere trinket.
"You’ve got no memory at all. The Awakening Ceremony is coming."
"Isn’t there still ten days or more?" Orson blinked.
"Stupid. You think the journey doesn’t take time? Besides, my father says the roads are bad this year. We leave early."
She poked his forehead playfully. Orson chuckled sheepishly. He had grown far too accustomed to Aeloria doing all the traveling, fighting, and eating for him. Walking across tens of thousands of kilometers on his own feet again? That would take some adjusting.
Soon, the Firevenom tribe held a grand send-off. Three bowls of liquor, several pounds of beast meat, and a jumble of ceremonial blessings from the tribe’s priest to invoke their ancestors’ protection. By the time the rituals ended, it was already deep into the night.
"My daughter’s in your care!" Darulubus sniffed, wiping his nose.
"With me here, they’ll be safe." Orson answered with steady conviction. Whatever else he might feel, the tribe had treated him as one of their own, and he’d grown deeply bonded with them. The youths behind him cheered, full of restless excitement. Every one of them was the pride of their families. He, Orson, owed it to them to deliver them safely to their destination.
"One more thing. The Sacred Mountain of Ascension—some return in half a year, others in four or five. So... best take care of that business before you go." Darulubus’s brow arched, his voice dropping.
Orson broke into a cold sweat, about to refuse the "offer," when the tribal chief’s face hardened. A fist hammered his chest, heavy with unspoken weight. "Listen."
Something flickered in the man’s eyes, something Orson could not ignore. But before he could press, Darulubus bellowed, "Set off!"
Thousands of Firevenom roared as one, pushing the young warriors onto waiting boats drifting in the current.
"Three years from now the Cold Scourge will return. We’ll be migrating south. From this day on, she’s yours. Do right by her, and find us when it’s done."
Darulubus waded waist-deep into the stream, shoving the boat forward. A whisper pinged in Orson’s private channel: "Don’t look back. No matter what happens, don’t look back."
Stunned, Orson could only watch as the boat slipped downstream, beyond the limits of the chat’s range. The last thing his eyes caught was a shadowy figure wiping away tears.
The thundering of war drums rolled across the valley like stormclouds.
"They’ve sounded the war drums! A battle? Dammit, why didn’t they bring us along?" a young warrior named Nuhachit cursed.
"Father!" Darulunina cried, panic surging. She tried to halt the boat, but the rapids seized their oars and swept them away.
"Waterfall!" someone screamed.
There was no time. The boat surged toward the drop, the youths clinging desperately to its sides.
Orson’s fingers curled. For the first time in a year, the Supreme Arcane Blade materialized in his hand.
The boat struck the plunge—then steadied, the rebound of Orson’s spell cushioning its fall. They landed smoothly on the lake below.
The youths stared at him, stunned. Several girls dropped to their knees. "A divine miracle!"
"Told you! The Godchild wields a real weapon, not some firewood stick!"
"Your face stings, doesn’t it? Admit it hurts!" Nuhachit, ever Orson’s self-appointed lackey, puffed with pride, running his mouth at his peers.
"My father... will they be alright?" Darulunina’s voice shook, her eyes brimming with fear. "Those were the Thunder Drums. They’re only beaten in war."
Orson forced a smile, ruffling her hair. "Even if it’s war, trust your father. A Tri-Shift warrior doesn’t fall so easily."
She nodded faintly, reassured. Darulubus was recognized as the strongest across the land. Were it not for their ancestral oath never to provoke conflict, the Firevenom would have long since unified the surrounding tribes.
As he comforted her, Orson’s heart ached. He didn’t dare dwell on the meaning in Darulubus’s eyes. But he had seen it, clear as day.
The gaze of a warrior ready to die.