The dusty road stretched endlessly before them, heat waves dancing above the cracked earth like restless spirits.

Mud walked beside Matthias, his voice—still a marvel after three years of possession—humming fragments of half-remembered melodies.

The boy’s wooden prosthetics clicked against stone with mechanical precision, each step a testament to his father’s craftsmanship and the mysterious restoration that had begun with screams and blood.

His newly recovered sight, a gift that had returned alongside his voice during that transformative night, still struggled with the harsh brightness of the Strife Zone’s unforgiving sun.

Each step kicked up small clouds of reddish dust that clung to their travel-worn clothes, and the air tasted of iron and distant smoke—sensations he could finally appreciate with a tongue that had grown from nothing.

From the moment they’d decided to abandon their original destination for Shirone Kingdom, both had carried the same unspoken doubt—surely the Strife Zone held nothing but chaos and ruin.

Yet as the horizon shimmered with mirages, fate presented them with an unexpected encounter that would change everything.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my…” The voice carried an odd cadence, musical yet strangely anachronistic. “Why the hell am I seeing an old-fashioned anime-like character from Dororo in this fantasy world? Wait, it’s because it’s a fantasy that I can find something like this, huh…”

The Minstrel stood in the middle of the road, his colorful garb a stark contrast against the desolate landscape.

Strings of his instrument caught the sunlight, casting prismatic reflections that danced across his weathered face.

He muttered these incomprehensible words while studying Mud with an intensity that made the boy’s skin crawl.

“So, little mud boy,” the Minstrel continued, his voice shifting to something more grounded, more present, “you really want to know why your body looks like this?”

Mud’s wooden fingers unconsciously traced the junction where artificial skin met the translucent flesh of his torso—the boundary between what the devils had taken and what his father had restored. “Yes, Mr. Minstrel, do you know anything about this?”

The Minstrel’s eyebrows shot up in mock offense. “Hey, do you think I look that old?”

The question struck Mud like a physical blow, and his artificial eyes—marvels of Matthias’s craftsmanship that could see mana flows but still struggled with bright light—widened in surprise. “I couldn’t see before my restoration, but I can read your mind. And your thoughts carry the weight of too many years for someone your size, so I assumed you were older than father…”

“Huh?!” The Minstrel’s voice cracked with genuine shock. “He did? Boy, are you a demonkin?”

“Oh, come on, of course not.” Mud’s voice—still sometimes surprising him with its existence—carried a weariness that belonged to someone far older than his ten years suggested.

The devils had stolen more than body parts; they had taken innocence itself, leaving behind a child who understood mortality in ways that made adults uncomfortable. “I’m just like any other person, at least in the parts of this body that remain mine. If you want to know more than this, you’ll have to pay, and I don’t think you’ll be able to.”

Matthias watched this exchange with growing unease.

There was something about the Minstrel’s casual mention of impossible stories that set his teeth on edge—stories that seemed to understand the nature of Mud’s curse with uncanny accuracy.

Yet when the boy nodded eagerly for the tale, his artificial features animated with genuine curiosity, the old craftsman found himself leaning in as well.

The Minstrel’s fingers danced across his instrument’s strings, producing haunting melodies that seemed to weave themselves into the very air around them.

His voice took on a storyteller’s cadence, rich with emotion and painted with vivid imagery.

“There was once a boy, raised alone by a puppeteer in a land where demons devoured human flesh…” The tale unfolded like a scroll of ancient parchment, revealing stories of sacrifice, cursed body parts, and a young warrior’s lonely journey. “The old man dies of old age, and the boy starts to wander the Land of the Rising Sun. As he gets closer to the devil, he can feel where it is. However, he doesn’t have magical mana like this place, so he can’t see where it is. All the time, he used a sword to kill those devils that ate human flesh and blood, catching travelers and villagers without anyone knowing…”

As the story progressed, Mud found himself hanging on every word.

The parallels to his own situation were too obvious to ignore—the cursed body parts scattered across realms, the inability to see or hear, the sense of something malevolent having carved pieces from his very soul.

His wooden fingers clenched involuntarily as memories of his own transformation surfaced: the impossible scream that had torn from a throat that shouldn’t exist, the blood flowing as his mouth formed for the first time, the overwhelming sensation of tasting air.

The Minstrel continued, his voice growing softer as he reached the story’s heart. “The young teen met a mischievous little girl, and they journeyed together. They cried and said goodbye, but in the end, they went their separate ways because the young teen didn’t want the little girl to die a sad death. The young teen left the girl alone after he killed his birth father and went on his way to kill the other devil who was using his body to travel around that world.”

The melody shifted, becoming melancholic and haunting. “Years later, the young teen would never realize that the girl he left behind was actually the last devil he needed to kill.”

“So what happened next?” Mud’s voice cracked with emotion. “Did the boy and the girl get together in the end?”

“Of course they had a happy ending!” The Minstrel’s grin was both genuine and heartbreaking.

Clap, clap, clap!

Mud’s applause echoed across the empty road, his wooden hands producing a distinctly hollow sound that reminded all present of his artificial nature.

But Matthias’s expression remained troubled.

There was something in the story’s undertones that spoke of tragedy disguised as hope, of endings that might not be as happy as they appeared.

“Oh! As expected of the former headmaster of Ranoa Magic Academy, two generations ago!” The Minstrel’s eyes twinkled with hidden knowledge. “You seem to understand what I was getting at when I told you that story!”

Matthias sighed deeply, his weathered shoulders sagging under an invisible weight.

The crafting scars on his hands—marks from years of working cursed materials to give his adopted son a chance at life—seemed to ache with remembered pain. “I… sigh… what a shame…”

“Yes, that’s the way life is.” The Minstrel’s voice carried the wisdom of countless roads traveled and stories told. “When you get something, you give up something else. When you realize that you have to take charge of your own life, things will get better.”

“Thank you for your wise words, Minstrel Lynn…” Matthias’s voice carried the gratitude of a man who had spent seven years fighting devils with nothing but love and craftsmanship.

“I’ve said everything I wanted to say! Now it’s up to you, former headmaster, to get the child’s life back! See ya!”

Lynn waved with theatrical flourish, but before he could take more than a few steps, wooden fingers grabbed the hem of his colorful shirt with surprising strength.

“I know you’re going to the Strife Zone,” Mud said, his voice small but determined, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll go in the same direction as us.”

“It’s fine,” Matthias added, his weathered face showing the first hint of hope in months.

The prospect of finding answers to Mud’s condition, of perhaps discovering others who understood the nature of demonic curses, made his craftsman’s heart race with possibility. “Having more people around is better than just wandering around aimlessly.”

“Um, um, what father said!” Mud nodded vigorously.

Lynn looked between them for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “All right, let’s start our trip!”

“Let’s!” Mud pumped his fist in imitation of the Minstrel’s enthusiastic gesture.

The year that followed became a kaleidoscope of stories and gradual healing.

They never reached Shirone Kingdom, instead following Lynn from village to village throughout the Strife Zone.

Each settlement was a study in post-Metastasis adaptation—some thriving through innovation and cooperation, others barely clinging to survival.

Lynn’s repertoire seemed endless.

He told tales of pirates fighting corrupt navies, of ninja wars and hidden tragedies, of heroes who sacrificed everything for ideals that may have been flawed from the start.

Every story resonated with Mud in ways that made his artificial heart ache—tales of people who had lost pieces of themselves, who fought to reclaim what had been stolen, who discovered that victory and tragedy often wore the same face.

“It’s improvised, and I don’t remember the whole story,” Lynn explained one evening as they sat around a campfire, Matthias preparing their simple meal with hands that never quite stopped trembling from the strain of maintaining Mud’s prosthetics. “I’m not all-knowing and all-seeing, and as a person, I’m sure I’ve forgotten something. So I just make them up as I go along, hahaha!”

Despite the casual admission, Mud found comfort in the stories.

Even Matthias seemed to relax, his perpetual worry lines softening as the months passed and his son grew stronger, more confident in his artificial body.

The changes in Mud came gradually, then all at once.

His sight had returned first, during his original transformation three years ago, but now his vision sharpened beyond normal human capability.

Then his hearing—the second piece reclaimed—manifested during a thunderstorm that seemed to echo with the screams of dying devils.

One moment the world was muffled by his artificial ears, the next he could hear whispered conversations from across crowded marketplaces, could distinguish the subtle differences in heartbeats that revealed emotion and intent.

“Knowledge is power, read more books to get more power! You hear me, Mud!” Lynn declared as they entered what might have been the most prosperous library any of them had ever seen.

“Of course, Mister Lynn!” Mud reached eagerly for a leather-bound tome.

“No, you’re not old enough for that one yet!” Matthias intercepted the book with practiced ease, his craftsman’s instincts still protective despite Mud’s growing independence.

“Aww… but dad…”

“No! Lynn, you should know what’s good for a kid and what’s not!”

“Hahahaha!” Lynn’s laughter echoed through the library, earning them several disapproving looks from other patrons.

The hub they finally discovered exceeded every expectation. Rising from the Strife Zone like a jewel embedded in rough stone, the settlement sprawled across several interconnected districts, each more prosperous than most kingdom capitals.

“This is the most prosperous land in the world,” Lynn explained as they crested the final hill. “A dozen years ago, every country wanted to rule over this hub. And the place where the old principal broke his leg…”

“Indeed…” Matthias’s voice carried a note of wonder tinged with old pain.

His memories of Ranoa Academy, of the life he’d abandoned to care for an impossible child, seemed distant as dreams compared to the thriving metropolis before them. “I never expected this place would become this prosperous…”

The architecture was a fascinating blend of necessity and ambition.

Buildings rose in terraced layers, their walls embedded with defensive enchantments that hummed with barely contained power.

Market stalls lined every street, offering goods from across the known world—and some that seemed to come from places that shouldn’t exist.

After weeks of research in the hub’s extensive libraries, they’d found tantalizing hints about Mud’s condition.

Most texts agreed that devils inhabiting human bodies could be destroyed, but the methods were either impossibly dangerous or required power beyond most mortals’ reach.

The few accounts of successful exorcisms spoke of individuals with abilities that transcended normal magical classification—beings who existed at the intersection of multiple realms of power.

“I just thought of it!” Lynn’s sudden exclamation shattered the library’s peaceful atmosphere as he slammed shut a particularly explicit tome.

Both Mud and the old man jumped at the outburst, earning another round of disapproving stares.

“It’s that group, the one led by the Cloud God right now. They must know something about these devils, I think…”

“Cloud God?” Matthias’s brow furrowed. This was clearly a new development in the rapidly changing world, something that had emerged during his years of isolation with Mud.

“Of course, you never heard of him. He’s a child not much older than Mud, a Miko who came to light after the Metastasis calamity.”

“A Miko? When did a Miko become someone who could hold the God title?”

“He is, in fact, the first, since we don’t really know what a Miko is in the first place. They’ve all been hidden away by those sick Millis church people… Anyway, besides the Dragon God, the only people strong enough to deal with devils are those who follow the Cloud God. We should go to where they’re based in this city and ask about them.”

“Well, asking won’t hurt.”

The building that housed the former Arbalest operations dwarfed even the hub’s impressive architecture.

Its facade was a masterwork of both form and function—elegant stonework interwoven with defensive runes that made the old man’s magical senses tingle with recognition and fear.

“This is a big store,” Matthias said, his voice barely above a whisper. Not even Ranoa had possessed a store this magnificent, let alone one situated in what should have been lawless territory.

How could anyone maintain such a place in the middle of the Strife Zone? The magical fortifications reminded him of his old academy, but these defenses were more sophisticated, more purposeful.

“Yes, Arbalest’s people had great stores wherever they went…” Lynn’s voice carried a note of something—respect, perhaps, or caution.

“It’s not named Arbalest though?” Mud squinted at the elegant script above the entrance.

“This is where Arbalest’s people gather to look for those hurt by the Metastasis. People with great strength gather here to help save people in trouble. One reason they made this place so big is to give the people they saved more places to stay. But now it’s become a place to buy and sell monster parts… They even make their own magic weapons here, which is pretty cool, right?”

“Indeed… gulp…”

Despite his status as a former Magic Academy headmaster, Matthias could feel the overwhelming pressure radiating from guards positioned at every corner.

Some worked openly as staff, while others lurked in shadows he could sense but not quite see.

The magical saturation of the building was so intense it made his teeth ache—a sensation he hadn’t experienced since his days researching high-level enchantments.

“This is a very dangerous place…” Mud couldn’t help but voice what they all felt. Every attempt to extend his mana radar met with gentle but firm resistance, as if the building itself was politely asking him to keep his magical senses to himself.

A staff member approached them with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to dealing with dangerous situations. “What do you need help with, Mr. Minstrel?”

“Oh! Amazing, you even know me!” Lynn’s theatrical surprise seemed genuine this time.

“Of course, Master Claude told us to watch out for you. Since I don’t sense any animosity, we’ll leave it aside. But, little boy, please don’t use radar in our shop.”

Mud gulped and pressed closer to Matthias, his prosthetic body responding to his emotional state with minute adjustments in posture and breathing that his father had programmed to seem more human. “I’m sorry, but this boy just got his eyesight back recently. Before, he usually used mana radar to see his surroundings… please be understanding…”

The staff member’s expression softened slightly as several hidden guards nodded confirmation of Matthias’s honesty. “So, what would the great Minstrel want to know?”

“Hahaha, you won’t believe what I’m about to say, of course. But I think Rudeus or Claude might understand if I quote ‘Dororo’ regarding what’s happening with this kid!”

The staff member’s confusion was evident, but before he could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows with supernatural quiet.

Both Matthias and Mud tensed, magical energy crackling around the former’s fingertips while the boy’s prosthetics hummed with defensive enchantments.

“Minstrel, what do you want to know?”

“Oh! If it isn’t the lurker! Man, didn’t we have a great time in Begaritt? Why so scary?”

Lynn’s casual tone suggested familiarity, pointing out that he’d known the man had been following them since Rapan.

Lucas sheathed his blade and settled at the counter with fluid grace.

His eyes, when they met the Minstrel’s, held the weight of countless missions and carefully guarded secrets. “What would the Minstrel, who knows everything, want to know? Can you just get to the main point? I have other things to do…”

“Haizz, don’t be like that, Undertaker. Let’s just reminisce about the past a little bit…”

Lucas’s stare could have frozen fire. “Minstrel, state your business.”

“Geez, what a bad attitude. Alright…”

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