Arch 1: "Arrival at the new dawn."— Chapter 12: "Tsumiya = Monster."

The night air, more than a simple breeze, was a lively and mischievous breath, a frigid gust that slipped like a playful ghost through the gaps in clothing and crept onto the skin, raising tiny hairs with a delightful shiver. It carried the unmistakable promise of autumn moons, that cold touch reminiscent of damp earth and dry leaves, of profound silences and the magic that only dares to emerge under the starry mantle. It was a cold that purified the lungs and sharpened the senses, making each inhalation a reminder of the vastness of the outside, an unspoken invitation to the adventure that awaited in the gloom. The pearly disk of the moon, a majestic alabaster gem suspended in the unfathomable immensity, did not merely illuminate; its presence was a spell. It bathed the landscape in a milky, ethereal glow, transforming the known world into a realm of silver and shadows, where every element acquired a new, almost dreamlike, quality. Each tree, each rock, each blade of grass took on a new dimension, its contours softened by the pale light, as if an invisible artist had blurred the edges of reality. At their feet, long dancing shadows stretched and contracted with each gust of wind, seeming to take on a life of their own, dark phantoms moving to the rhythm of a silent waltz, adding a mysterious aura to the ascending path. And above all, the dark velvet of the sky unfolded, immense and deep, a cosmic canvas dotted by the tireless flicker of millions of stars. Tiny icy diamonds scattered generously by an invisible hand, they did not just shine; they twinkled and glittered with overwhelming beauty, distant yet so present, as if the entire firmament were celebrating a mysterious and silent celestial festival. They invited the few witnesses to raise their gaze and get lost in the immensity of its secrets, to dream of distant worlds and heroic deeds. It was, without a doubt, a night made for adventure, for bold dreams and, perhaps, for the most unexpected encounters. High on the hill, solitary and proud, the old cabin stood as a silhouette against the night sky. Before, that place had been the epicenter of epic imaginary battles and stealthy games of hide-and-seek, a sacred realm where laughter and shouts of victory echoed incessantly in the afternoon. The village children had forged their first legends there, their small bodies moving with the agility of warriors and the cunning of explorers. Now, however, the cabin cast an ominous shadow, its aged wooden facade and sunken roof giving it a spectral appearance that made one's hair stand on end, a trap of silences and creaks. But tonight, something seemed different. A faint, flickering light filtered through one of its windows, a yellowish pulse in the darkness, betraying a presence that shouldn't be there, as if something or someone had dared to claim that forgotten stronghold. That light, just a candle or an improvised lamp, was enough to cast a shadow inside, a barely discernible figure that confirmed their worst fears. A group of brave heroes, whose courage was only surpassed by their childish determination, stealthily advanced along the stony path that snaked towards the summit. Their tiny silhouettes moved among the large shadows of the trees, like small explorers in a vast unexplored territory. The company consisted of three intrepid members: the valiant Knight, his heart roaring for glory; the perceptive Sorcerer, whose prudence was a counterpoint to his companions' audacity; and the mysterious Mage, calculating and reserved. Their small hearts beat in unison with the rhythm of adventure, an accelerated drumming that resonated in their ears, while their steps grew slower and more cautious as the cabin, now a ghostly beacon that inexorably drew them, grew larger with each meter traversed. They were heading straight for the spooky fortress where, weeks ago, they had sighted those strange shadows that had stolen their precious playground, their personal sanctuary of fantasy. The heroes, armed to the teeth with their arsenal of childish justice, were ready for confrontation. The Knight, undisputed leader with unwavering conviction, wielded a rustic wooden sword, whose imaginary edge had sliced countless orcs and cardboard dragons in countless fictional battles, and was now ready to face a real challenge. The Sorcerer, with his sharp mind and volatile temperament, jealously guarded a magical stone that, at the precise moment, would release a small but forceful explosion on impact, his secret weapon against the unknown. And the Mage, calm and calculating, carried a cheap earth element scroll, capable of conjuring a dusty barrier that would disorient any enemy, an elemental shield woven with the purest cunning. The dense, expectant silence of the night was only broken by the trembling voice of one of them, which cracked like a branch under pressure. ???: [—I-is it really necessary to go back to that spooky place?] It was the brown-haired boy, no, it was the mighty Sorcerer, Archimedes, clutching his treasured firestone, which clung to his small hand like an anchor in the tempest of his fear. His voice, a sharp and nervous whisper, betrayed the dread that squeezed his chest with each uncertain step, a tight knot that prevented him from breathing normally. His eyes, large and round like glass marbles, scrutinized every dancing shadow in the forest, every gnarled bush, expecting any dry branch to turn into a lurking monster, ready to pounce on them. He followed the firm and determined steps of his leader, who marched with his wooden sword over his shoulder, an expression of confidence, subtly tinged with a little arrogance, drawn on his youthful features. ???: [—Don't worry, Archimedes, the others are terrible cowards. They stayed home with their mommy, hiding under their beds. But we, we will be the heroes who will put an end to the monsters who dared to kick us out of our dungeon! You'll see! When we tell our story, everyone will regret not coming!] The boy with the sword, whose soft white hair was subtly illuminated by the moon, giving him an almost celestial air, made a subtle movement with his hand, adopting a battle stance that, in his imagination, was worthy of a legendary paladin. Although his "armor" was merely peasant clothes, worn and patched, his aura of a hero was undeniable, a glow of conviction that only a child could emanate with such purity. The moonlight tangled in his locks, creating a silvery halo that seemed straight out of the most epic illustrations they treasured in their deepest dreams. The third hero, the astute Mage whose name was Julian, burst in with a hiss, his patience hanging by a thread as thin as a spider's web, about to break. Julian, with the cheap earth element scroll firmly rolled and clutched in his hand, let out a sigh that sounded more like a snort, his words tinged with barely contained irritation, as if each sentence cost him a titanic effort. Julian: [—You two are so... so irritating, you get on my nerves right to the core. And you, Jorgen, especially you. You're unbearable. At least Archimedes has a bit of common sense in his little head. For once, listen to him! We should go back to the village right now. I'm more than sure those "shadows" we saw were nothing more than our own fears projected by the night, or perhaps a fat stray cat playing with our imagination. I'm absolutely sure of it! Logic dictates it! But, look, at least you've done something remotely good in your life, Jorgen...] A dramatic pause hung in the air, tense and expectant, as Julian's face flushed faintly as he abruptly changed the subject. For a moment, an expression bordering on admiration, almost devotion, softened his features as he continued, his voice unexpectedly soft and dreamy, a total contrast to his previous irritation. His usually sharp eyes seemed to get lost in a distant memory. Julian: [—...I don't know how you managed to steal the scroll from your older sister's room... She, in a way... is pure perfection. A role model. Much, much better than someone like you. She is the very definition of perfection in every imaginable sense.] But that brief reverie dissipated as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a look of exasperation that the Mage directed at his companions, as if waking from a beautiful dream to return to a nightmare. Julian, whose messy black hair contrasted with the almost magical gleam of his leader's white hair under the moon, frowned. His coal-dark eyes darted between the timid Archimedes and the arrogant Jorgen, as if he were witnessing the most absurd and repetitive scene of his young existence, an endless comedy that no longer amused him. Jorgen, the white-haired Knight, caught the hint with the speed of a predator, his usual smile turning into a mocking and contemptuous sneer. He rested the wooden sword against his shoulder, one hand on his hip, posing as the great hero he believed himself to be, puffing up like a peacock. Jorgen: [—What's wrong, Julian? Is the great Earth Mage turning into a chicken? Do you want to play with dolls with the little girls? If so, you can leave our group tomorrow and go join the girls'. I'm sure you'd have more fun with their teacups and toy flowers and their stupid chatter. There are no monsters to face there!] Julian gripped the scroll tighter, his knuckles whitening as he suppressed a sharp retort already forming on his tongue. Anger rose in his throat, but he knew arguing with Jorgen was like trying to reason with a wall. Jorgen, pleased with his small victory, seemed to gloat for a moment, his gaze fixed on the Mage, who seemed to be seriously debating whether to abandon the mission and his exasperating leader right there, in the middle of the path. But just as the silence threatened to become uncomfortable, and the tension was palpable in the air, the Knight's expression changed dramatically. His eyes, previously full of mockery and mischief, suddenly became more focused, acquiring a serious and determined gleam rarely seen on his features, as if a switch had been flipped. With a quick and decisive movement, Jorgen lowered the tip of his wooden sword and gently thrust it into the loose earth of the path, the faint thud breaking the tense silence like a warning shot. The gesture, intended to capture his companions' full attention, was the prelude to a change in tone, to a seriousness that forced them to listen. Jorgen: [—Listen carefully, both of you! This is a serious mission! One of life or death! Our objective is to eradicate the monster that dared to kick us out of our dungeon, the one that took over our cabin, our playground! And you, Julian... don't say that about my sister again, because it sounds... it sounds weird and I don't like it at all. You sound foolish when you talk about her like that!] The Knight Jorgen snorted, though a slight, barely perceptible blush crossed his cheeks as he defended his sister's honor, revealing that Julian's comment, despite his arrogant facade, had stung him more than he would admit aloud. His brotherly pride, though hidden under layers of bravado, had been touched. The sorcerer, Archimedes, whose figure seemed to shrink a little more with each step that brought them closer to the ominous silhouette of the cabin, had been observing the subtle and already familiar interaction between his two companions. It was the usual pattern: Jorgen, the arrogant leader, would deliver a taunt with the lightness of a dart, and Julian, the astute mage, would respond with a mix of exasperation and a touch of well-calculated venom. A repetitive dance of provocations and retorts. But this time, Archimedes saw an opportunity, a small crack in Jorgen's battle front that perhaps, just perhaps, he could exploit to achieve his most fervent desire at that moment: to return to the safety and warmth of his own bed, where monsters only existed in bedtime stories. He approached them with small, somewhat hesitant steps, almost shuffling his feet, gently waving his hands in front of his body, as if trying to appease not only his friends, but also the growing panic he felt in his own stomach, a cold, heavy knot. Archimedes: [—I-it's okay, there's no need to argue right now, guys. Not even a little bit! No need to fight! How about... how about we listen to Julian? He always has good ideas, right? He's the smartest. And everyone goes home. That would be much more fun than this! Much more! The monster... The monster must be sleeping! O-or doing monster things right now. Yes, monster things! Boring things, I'm sure. We shouldn't bother it, we shouldn't make it angry... It could be dangerous if we wake it up or interrupt it while it's doing its monster things!] Archimedes's voice came out soft, almost a thread lost in the night silence, with a subtle nervous tone that betrayed his palpable lack of enthusiasm for resuming the expedition to the cabin. His eyes, large and round like glass marbles, darted frantically between Julian and Jorgen, desperately seeking some sign of support, some democracy in the situation that made his hair stand on end just imagining the shadowy figure of that "monster." His presence in that place was entirely due to Jorgen's persuasion, who with his usual overwhelming enthusiasm and his promise of glory, had convinced him to come a few hours earlier, while they were distractedly playing in the small village square. A simple "It'll be epic, Archimedes! And you, with your firestone, will be key!" had been enough to drag him into this terrifying adventure, although now the epic felt more like a mistake. Jorgen, however, turned his head with theatrical indignation, as if the mere suggestion of retreating was a personal affront to his honor as a Knight, an indelible stain on his heroic resume. The idea of a reward, tangible and gleaming, already danced in his eyes under the moonlight, and he had no intention of letting it slip away. Jorgen: [—Huh!? But Archimedes, what are you saying! That's crazy! If we go on the expedition... If we come back with the monster's head, or at least irrefutable proof of its defeat, we can ask Mr. Lyson to give us a reward! A real one! One of those that changes your life! They say Mr. Lyson was a renowned swordsman in his youth. A real hero, one of those from the stories! And... and if we're brave, maybe he has a relic from his prehistoric times! Something ancient, valuable! A magic amulet, a miniature sword with hidden powers, or a treasure map... Who knows! A trophy that gives us more power than we can imagine! Imagine, Archimedes! We would be the heroes of the village, the ones who freed our dungeon! And all the other children would be dying of envy! Even the girls! And my sister would stop thinking you're a fool, Julian!] Jorgen's enthusiasm was almost contagious, his voice rising with each word, painting a vivid picture of glory, treasures, and the sweet honey of admiration. His eyes gleamed not only from the moon, but from the pure excitement of the fantasy he himself created, a masterpiece of heroism and riches. The prospect of a "trophy" from Lyson, mixed with the story of a "prehistoric swordsman," was the engine driving his valiant, though naive, determination. For Jorgen, this was not just an adventure, it was an investment, a way to solidify his status, obtain tangible benefits from his heroism, and, most importantly, gain the recognition he felt he deserved. He crossed his arms, his wooden sword still stuck in the ground like a banner, and looked at his companions with a mix of challenge and pure conviction, as if his words were the most irrefutable truth in the entire universe. "And my sister would stop thinking you're a fool, Julian." Those words, uttered with an almost insulting flippancy by Jorgen, a verbal dart without intentional malice but with devastating accuracy, were more than enough for the young mage, Julian. They resonated in his mind not with the distant echo of a bell, but with the percussive force of an ancient gong, a deep vibration that pierced his carefully constructed layer of irritation and landed directly on the most sensitive core of his being. Until that moment, he had been quite disheartened by the idea of returning to the cabin, each step a physical burden that weighed on his legs and a mental burden that oppressed his spirit. Each breath of the cold night air was a constant and piercing reminder of the absurdity and dangerously senseless nature of the endeavor they had embarked on. His logical mind, always seeking patterns and rational explanations, shouted at him that they should return, that the "shadow" that so terrified Archimedes and excited Jorgen was, without the slightest doubt, a mere game of childish imagination, a conjuring of darkness and fear, or in the worst case, some confused wild animal that had wandered near the rickety structure. However, he had only persisted in this outlandish "mission," a true madness in his eyes, due to a single reason, one he guarded jealously, like a sacred treasure, in the deepest and most inaccessible part of his small heart: his leader, Jorgen, was, for better or worse, the brother and blood relative of a beautiful woman whom he, as a young aspiring man and, above all, as a burgeoning knight of honor, admired with all his being. It was a pure admiration, almost ethereal in its intensity, that transcended simple superficial attraction to become a platonic ideal, the noblest of aspirations. For Julian, Jorgen's sister was not merely a flesh-and-blood figure; she transcended individuality to become a symbol. She was not just a pretty face or a kind voice, but the very embodiment of immutable grace, serene wisdom, and an inherent goodness he rarely, if ever, found in the rough and often chaotic world of the village. In an environment where aspirations were often as mundane as the next harvest or the mischief of the day, she represented an elevated ideal, a standard of virtues that his young mind still struggled to categorize, but intuitively recognized as the purest and most admirable. To dishonor her, to tarnish her image—not only physically, but the abstract image of her being—even in the smallest and seemingly most insignificant of acts, was unthinkable for Julian. It was an affront not only to a person, but to the principles of order and beauty that she unconsciously represented for him. And within this complex web of admiration, the current mission acquired disproportionate importance. To fail in an undertaking like this, even if it was a childish fantasy and, at heart, devoid of real meaning, meant much more than a simple defeat for Jorgen. It meant a point of dishonor, a stain on the family honor. And by extension, for the family to which she belonged, which Julian intrinsically linked to the essence of his ideal. The question that tormented Julian's incipient philosophical mind was devastating: if Jorgen failed, if he proved "foolish," cowardly, or inept in the eyes of the world, what would she think of the lineage from which he came? Would that shadow of inefficiency subtly tarnish her own immaculate image, the "perfection" that Julian so treasured? Julian somehow, Julian felt, in some incomprehensible and deeply rooted way, the silent guardian of that honor. It was not a self-imposed task born of pride, but of an almost mystical sense of duty. His primary objective, then, transcended childish squabbles or the pursuit of adventure. It was a dual mandate: first, to protect Jorgen from his own recklessness, from his bravado that often landed him in compromising situations; and second, and more crucially, to safeguard the beautiful woman, his ideal, from any trouble or dishonor that might spill onto her through her brother's actions. It was an existential weight too great for his young shoulders, a responsibility he was only just beginning to comprehend in its complexities, but which he felt with an overwhelming force, like the echo of a promise made in a dream. The perfection he attributed to Jorgen's sister was not just aesthetic, that of a superficial beauty that fades with time, but a moral and spiritual perfection, an unalterable beacon in his young and chaotic universe, a fundamental truth that guided his actions. And for that perfection, for that unbreakable ideal, Julian was willing to face any shadow, be it real or a product of the most vivid imagination, for his own existence seemed, at that moment, linked to the preservation of that sacred standard. Julian: [—Enough, you convinced me...] He said in a low voice, almost a whisper that was lost in the murmur of the night, but charged with iron resolution. He subtly averted his gaze, the barely perceptible blush from before deepening slightly, an innocent embarrassment at having been so easily manipulated, or perhaps, at the magnitude of his own secret motivations. He clenched his teeth in a gesture of impatience with himself, and his hand, which until then had cradled the old scroll with a mix of tediousness and caution, now squeezed it with renewed force, as if drawing a new and mysterious energy from it. He didn't want to admit, not even to himself, that his leader's tactic, however crude and manipulative, had worked with alarming precision. The weakness Jorgen had exploited was, ironically, his greatest strength. Julian: [—Move it, Archimedes, we have a mission... I have a mission I must not fail.] He said with a sudden enthusiasm, a spark that had not existed in his dark eyes before, mixed with a hint of barely disguised shyness. His voice, which until a moment ago had distilled exasperation, now sounded firm, almost inspiring. And without waiting a moment longer, he advanced quickly and decisively, his slender figure making its way along the path, as if an invisible force was pushing him forward. The change was so abrupt, so complete, that it surprised even Jorgen, who watched him with a raised eyebrow, an expression of genuine perplexity crossing his face at the unexpected turn of events. The "great Earth Mage" had gone from complaint to resolve in a blink. However, the surprise quickly gave way to a subtle smile of triumph that spread across his lips. The stratagem, by chance or by sheer luck, had worked. Jorgen: [—Come on, Archimedes... Move! That monster is going to get a beating for the humiliation we suffered. It'll see who the real owner of this dungeon is!] A more noticeable smile, now full of bravado and renewed confidence, began to show on Jorgen's lips. He adjusted his grip on his wooden sword, his pale hand almost colorless under the moonlight, an ethereal contrast to the snowy white of his hair and the distant sparkle of the stars. He walked again with an accelerated pace, his figure as a small Knight leaving a trail of determination in the night, ready for confrontation. Archimedes: [—B-but?] Archimedes was confused for a brief moment, rooted to the path. His mouth opened and closed, trying to formulate an objection, a plea, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn't comprehend Julian's sudden and drastic change of attitude. He knew, from vague comments or some furtive observation, about Julian's admiration for a certain person, a distant and almost unattainable figure. But for Jorgen's words, so clumsy and direct, to have such a devastatingly effective impact? That surpassed his limited understanding of human psychology, or at least, of Julian's. With no other option, feeling fear and loneliness begin to envelop him in the silence left by his friends, Archimedes quickly looked to both sides with a sudden pang of terror. The darkness of the night, which despite the beautiful stars and the bright moon, seemed to spread into every corner, now seemed like a menacing abyss. He realized, with a shiver that ran down his spine, the madness of his situation: he had run away from home, from the safety of his bed, to follow two lunatics to a haunted cabin. That was what scared him most, not the monster, but the consequences of his disobedience! With an inaudible cry of childish desperation, he quickened his steps, his heart galloping in his chest like a war drum, trying to catch up with his friends before the night, with its shadows and secrets, devoured him completely. His small firestone, now more an amulet than a weapon, felt cold in his palm. △▼△▼△▼△ («Come on, come on, Tsumiya, just a little more, just a little more, soon we'll finish the rest and then we can rest.») The thought went directly to Tsumiya, an echo of his own internal voice, an attempt at self-consolation that sounded more like a lament than an encouragement. He had come to the conclusion that his "cheat skill," the one that the blessed talking marble had "granted" him, was a full-fledged "Deus ex Machina," the protagonist's trump card. The problem was that, for now, he felt nothing beyond a general increase in energy, a constant and faint hum in his body, like an idling engine promising power without delivering it. He continued sweeping the floor with a little less enthusiasm than before; the tracksuit that he once considered his hero's uniform now felt somewhat cumbersome. The discomfort of the hoodie, which he had embraced with the conviction of a warrior donning his armor, became unbearable, so he had removed it, leaving it in a small pile to the side. At least now he could move more freely, his white t-shirt, already slightly stained with the cabin's dust, being his only upper garment. There was a primary doubt in his mind, a question that gnawed at the foundations of his self-image as a protagonist: Why on earth should the protagonist of his own isekai be sweeping an old cabin? The protagonist, he, Tsumiya Higeri, was supposed to be on a throne by this point in the story, or at the very least, have met a beautiful and devoted woman on the first day of his arrival, the classic heroine who faints into his arms or looks at him with admiring eyes. He had awakened from the void with the promise of being the "most fortunate," the "supreme protagonist," the "center of all that matters." And what did he find? A dusty cabin and a broom. A beginning for the "Legend of the Divine Mop," perhaps, but not the "Legend of the Omni-powerful Hero" he had in mind. Instead, the only thing Tsumiya had been greeted by was an entity resembling an emerald talking marble, which seemed to be hallucinating with strange desires and words about greed, and which, to top it all off, had given the great Tsumiya Higeri the nickname "Sutsu," as if they were great friends or a "pet" he had acquired in some tutorial. It hadn't even bothered to ask his name, or introduce itself properly. The marble, in its self-proclaimed omniscience, had already sentenced his destiny and essence without even granting him the benefit of the doubt. Although it had already made clear its intention to "use him," with an alarming frankness that Tsumiya had chosen to interpret as a "genuine connection" between the hero and his support system. It was not the idea of a beautiful goddess with a sweet voice and angelic smile that he had expected upon his arrival in this new world; those goddesses always appeared in the tutorial, didn't they? And it certainly wasn't the archetype of a beautiful waifu he might have imagined, one of those who, even as deities, have some complex or trauma that only the protagonist's love can heal. No, this was an emerald marble with a superiority complex and a strange fixation on greed. Life, Tsumiya thought, was truly unfair to protagonists. He would have even settled for a LitRPG world. At least it would have been easier that way! In a LitRPG, he would have a clear interface, numbers floating above monsters' heads, an easy-to-monitor health bar, and quests with explicit and well-defined rewards. He would have known what to do, what skills to level up, where to farm experience points without having to sweep the damn floor for his bread. LitRPGs were efficient, predictable, with tutorials that didn't make you doubt your own morality and a class system that turned you into a hero without needing to philosophize about your "innate greed." He could have chosen to be a "Hero with Sword-Master-Magic-Healer-Chef-Alchemist Skills" and be done with it. But no. In his version of the "isekai reality," all he had was an invisible "cheat skill," a talking marble that manifested in his unconscious (and called him "Sutsu" without any explanation), and the prospect of an adventure beginning that seemed more like a divine punishment. Where was the status screen? Where were the skill points to increase his strength or charisma (especially his charisma for the harem)? Where were the achievements unlocked by cleaning a cabin or scaring away curious children? The emptiness of his previous life in Japan, now that he thought about it, seemed less uncertain than this reality where not even a decent "system" deigned to appear. Tsumiya: [—Maybe the marble is the status screen.] Tsumiya told himself with a mental shrug, knowing he was being too demanding right now, but preferring to believe everything he knew about the genre to achieve the "happy ending" and "redemption" through his own thoughts. Tsumiya: [—Yes, that must be it. It's just a very... metaphorical status screen.] It was the first time an isekai protagonist had to interpret their game system. That, without a doubt, made him unique. But also irritatingly inefficient. With a sigh, Tsumiya tightened his grip on the broom handle, his mind already wandering to how he could "gamify" the cleaning. An achievement for "Disinfected Cabin"? Experience points for "Polished Floor"? And what if the "monster" supposedly lurking in the cabin was actually a "zone boss" that would grant a rare item upon defeat? The marble had spoken of "plans," of "latent ambitions." Perhaps sweeping the cabin was the first mission, a prologue to unveil the true power of the ^Second Law^. It had to be. It couldn't be that his "canonical event" was reduced to this. A small pang of optimism, as ridiculous as the situation itself, spurred him to finish the job. After all, an isekai protagonist doesn't give up in the face of adversity, no, rather: a hero. Not even a hero can give up in the face of the adversity of a dirty cabin. Tsumiya: [—I, Tsumiya Higeri, cannot give up! This is for my honor as a hero in potential, and for, and for... For them... My stars! Yes, my beautiful stars.] Tsumiya said in a softer tone of voice, almost a murmur that was lost in the warm atmosphere of the cabin, an improvised sanctuary. A subtle and dreamy smile spread across his lips as his gaze drifted to the wooden ceiling, his mind already traveling to glorious futures that were just beginning to take shape. "Stars"... Yes, the girls of his future harem. Bright, numerous, each unique in her own way, waiting to be discovered and admired by him, the protagonist. That was the secret motivation, the spark that drove him to keep sweeping even when his brain screamed "this is not fit for a hero!" Because what would a great hero be without his court of beauties? It was an intrinsic part of the isekai package. He wanted to become a hero, of course, the epitome of courage and virtue. To get money, heaps of it, so he would never again have to worry about rent or the price of good ramen, and so he could support his future retinue. To have a harem, large and diverse, with girls of all races and classes, who would idolize him and fight for his attention, each a "star" in his personal firmament. To be famous, for his name to resonate in every corner of the continent, etched in ballads and legends. And, finally, to live a quiet life, worthy of someone like him, worthy of a hero in potential, worthy of Tsumiya Higeri. A fairy tale ending, with him as the undisputed protagonist, surrounded by his "stars." After all, two days had already passed since his arrival in this world. For anyone else, the disorientation would have been overwhelming, the terror of the unknown paralyzing. But for Tsumiya, although it had seemed quite strange at first glance when he appeared in the forest late at night, he strangely understood the language of this place. The words, the phrases, flowed naturally in his mind, despite the writing being very different, a tangle of symbols that bore no resemblance to kanji or the English alphabet. Probably, his mind had reconfigured during his teleportation, a small "compatibility patch" that the universe had granted him, no doubt. Tsumiya: [—Surely these are the protagonist's perks. I have plenty of perks, this world is supposed to be made for me!] Tsumiya said with a subtle arrogant tone, almost as if he were boasting to an invisible audience. With a final energetic sweep, he cleared away the last of the dirt from the floor, scattering the last particles of dust towards the cabin's threshold. He surely would have finished sweeping hours ago if he hadn't suddenly fallen unconscious, the broom consequently thrown to the floor, and himself lying there in any manner, immersed in that surreal "dialogue" with the emerald marble. Now, however, the cabin was clean, or at least clean enough for a hero who had just awakened to his destiny. A first achievement in his new world "tutorial," he told himself, with silent satisfaction. But at that instant, amidst his little personal celebration, a subtle, yet unmistakable sound, interrupted the atmosphere. It was like the rustling of dry leaves, followed by a distant murmur, approaching his location. It wasn't the wind, nor the lament of some nocturnal animal. It was footsteps. Several of them. And voices, though still indecipherable. Tsumiya: [—Could it be Lord Lyson?] Tsumiya said in a low voice, subtly raising an eyebrow in confusion. He had briefly interacted with old Lord Lyson in his cabin when he received his healing. Lord Lyson, the village leader and a man knowledgeable in healing magic. It would not have seemed strange for Lord Lyson, concerned about the new "inhabitant" of the abandoned cabin, to approach at this hour of the night. After all, he was the one who managed the internal affairs of the community. Perhaps he was coming with more information, with some official mission, or even with a proposal to join the local "adventurers' guild." Tsumiya was already imagining the forms, the ranks, the quests. It was perfect! A classic beginning for the protagonist. He straightened up, trying to appear as "heroic" as possible, the dirty tracksuit belying it, and an expression of serious readiness. This was the moment of his first great interaction with the world. However, the murmur grew clearer, and the voices were definitely not those of an old man. He could distinguish children's laughter, followed by small, determined footsteps. It was a group, and they were close, very close. Tsumiya frowned. Children. At this hour? And why were they approaching his cabin? The shadows of the night, which until a moment ago had been accomplices to his daydreaming, now played with his nerves. The moonlight, filtering through the treetops, cast long, distorted silhouettes. Tsumiya's heart, which had beaten with an almost religious euphoria, now began to thump with a different rhythm: the adrenaline of the protagonist preparing for his first important encounter. It wasn't Lord Lyson. It was... something else. Something that destiny, with its peculiar sense of humor, had decided to send him as his true first mission. («It's good to help others...») The air became charged with palpable tension. In the darkness, the unmistakable sound of footsteps stopping right in front of the cabin could be heard. The silence became absolute, broken only by the soft creak of the wood settling and the whisper of the wind. Tsumiya held his breath. This was the moment. His first grand entrance, his first interaction as the hero of this new world was to help the children who were now coming to the cabin. The greed for glory, for admiration, and for a good game "tutorial" burned within him. He prepared himself.