I'm fighting Kal'tsit? Really?

He saw the golden wheat fields and the endless wilderness clearly separated from the cage of steel and neon lights, drawing a clear boundary line between light and darkness.

In the darkness, the golden hue of the wheat fields had faded, yet the neon lights continued to shine incessantly in the lightless night, their scorching glow striking his face.

For someone like him, Casimir didn't actually welcome him, and he had known that for a long time.

Back then, the neon lights weren't so dazzling, and the wheat fields still maintained their vibrant golden hue, even in the darkness of night.

------

Risky actions will not be approved by everyone.

Including him, the three of them were all berated by the succubi who rushed over, questioning why they couldn't take them with them when they flew into the air—no, why they suddenly did something so dangerous.

Fortunately, with his guarantee as an outsider and the repeated promises of the Banshee Queen, Nasti was only given a brief warning before leaving, while the other Banshees surrounded them in a heated discussion about the flying house.

Fatigue surged up belatedly like a tide, chasing after his swaying body.

Diverting his attention to controlling the wind ultimately took too much energy, leaving him feeling somewhat overwhelmed. He now needs to adjust, adapt to this extreme state, and figure out how to reliably utilize this newly acquired power.

But before that, the real world should be dawning.

So Ramalen quickly took him back to the courtyard so that he could rest peacefully without being bothered by the chattering witches.

……

After a long while, Gerald woke up from his dream.

The sky over the wilderness was gradually brightened by the morning light, and the faint light pierced through the remnants of night, slowly rising from the other side of the horizon.

He drew the sword from his waist; the blade was spotless.

Fortunately, the neon lights never shone on this sword, thus protecting it from the erosion of time. It remains as sharp as ever and has never rusted in the slightest.

After a long silence, he sheathed his sword and walked to the other side of the camp.

It's time to head home.

Chapter 57 Skill Power Recovery +0.5/second

The first person he met was Seria.

Waifan slept well last night; the fire at the campfire had died down, leaving behind a pile of burnt-out firewood.

She found a river in the forest not far away and went there to wash her face and body before the sun rose above the horizon.

When Gerald woke up, Saria had already relit the campfire.

She dismantled the enamel-wrapped packaging of the tomato cans, placed the contents into a pot to simmer over low heat, and the aroma of industrial food quickly filled the air.

Upon hearing footsteps approaching from afar, Saria looked up at the person walking towards her.

"What happened last night?" Her voice was filled with obvious doubt. "You seem... different."

“I got the family sword from Kannot.”

Gerald didn't hide anything. He picked up a bowl and spoon from the ground, scooped up some breakfast, and found a place to sit down. "Someone is looking for me, in an illogical way, just like when you saw me using Originium Arts before. Obviously, I'm hiding some secrets that I don't even know myself."

A strange fragrance wafted through the air, and Saria's consciousness wavered for a moment before she quickly shook her head to refocus: "Could someone be monitoring your movements?"

"It's unlikely. When he took over the sword, he didn't even know that I was the one being handed it over to."

The sword was tucked into Gerald's waist, somewhat out of place with his current attire: "Don't mind it. Since they've gone to such lengths, they'll naturally come looking for me themselves. Let's proceed with the original plan to Rhodes Island."

Just then, a voice rang out from afar.

"Ah, my friend, it seems your plans have changed a bit?"

Kannot swayed his iron head and dragged his massive body off the truck. The truck's front door seemed rather small compared to his size, so much so that the whole truck swayed slightly as he stepped off, as if in protest.

He slowly walked to the campfire, the firelight reflecting off his cold, hard helmet with a faint, warm glow. The aroma of tomato soup mingled with the scents of other ingredients, creating a strange yet enticing smell that made Kannot instinctively turn his gaze to Gerald.

"What changes have you noticed, my friend?" he asked, with a hint of inquiry.

“This is the second time someone has said that to me today.” Gerald rubbed his temples, trying to find an excuse to brush it off. “I probably overslept. Don’t worry.”

Otherwise, how else could he explain it?

He told them he had traveled back in time, united with a noble succubus queen, and made a house fly into the sky, nearly ruining his mental state.

"No."

Saria, who was standing nearby, suddenly interjected, calmly but directly pointing out: "It's fragrance."

"This lady is right."

Cannot glanced at the boiling soup; the thick liquid simmered in the pot, and its aroma wafted out with the steam.

His gaze swept around, making sure no strange potions had been secretly added, before he nodded in satisfaction and turned his attention back to Gerald.

“I’ve smelled something similar before,” he began, “on a playboy. He was holding a small bottle, exaggerating its value, and trying to sell it for an exorbitant price.”

Kannot's helmet swayed slightly, as if he were reliving the scene. "Of course I knew it was overpriced, but I bought it anyway because I wanted to gamble on a possibility. And he got his wish and got several hundred refined Originium Ingots."

He shrugged, the movement causing the metal helmet on his head to make a slight metallic scraping sound: "But clearly, my judgment was correct. He died a terrible death, without spending a single penny of his money. What a pity—not for him, but for the money I couldn't get back myself. In the end, it all went to someone else for nothing; it was a losing proposition."

Kannot shook his head with a hint of regret as he finished speaking. He slowly reached into a wooden box by the campfire and picked up a piece of dry bread. “The banshee ripped his heart out from behind, and his lower body was torn to shreds… Ah, I haven’t told you what that little bottle is yet. It’s Dream Essence.”

"The fragrance made by the succubus is only given to the one she loves, and a single drop can make one intoxicated. Even so, this is the first time I have ever seen a fragrance that is so special."

Their gazes met simultaneously on Pegasus, then quickly shifted away.

“In any case,” the merchant coughed, changing the subject. Since their discussion of the strange prophecy yesterday, he had decided not to inquire further about the Pegasus. “Although I didn’t overhear it intentionally, were you two planning to change your destination just now?”

"Do you know the recent location where Rhodes Island docked?"

This was a question raised by Saria, since she was ultimately the one responsible for paying the bill.

“I do know that they’ve caused quite a stir around Chernobog. The Reunion Movement, have you heard of it?” The helmeted head nodded. “I heard that Rusthammer recently took in some wanderers from there, and it was quite a spectacle… It’s a pity I didn’t witness it myself.”

"A pharmaceutical company, yet it frequently emerges in the power struggles between nations, and its scale is not to be underestimated—is it simply a profit broker, or a hidden manipulator behind the scenes?"

"In short," Cannot said, not intending to go on any further, "you can find the company near Lungmen. If you want to go through the messenger stations, it will probably take you a whole month."

Gerald looked at Saria, his eyes questioning.

The other party gave him an affirmative answer. Saria nodded and said, "Normally, Rhodes Island has a fixed cruise schedule and the length of time it stays in various countries... When I was in Mansfield, my information was blocked for a period of time, but as long as we go to the Columbia office, we can find out when they will come next."

"So, where is that office located?"

“There just happens to be one in Trimont, right above my shop.” A distinctive laugh came from the helmet. “While a fee for guiding me is inevitable, I must say, we're quite destined for each other. Isn’t that right, my friend?”

……

After finalizing the plan, Saria walked to the side and began cleaning up the remaining trash in the camp. She raised her hand, and a faint light appeared at her fingertips. Then, enamel spread out like flowing water, enveloping the remaining trash on the ground.

Accompanied by a faint glow, the trash slowly decomposed, eventually turning into fine dust and returning to the wilderness.

Meanwhile, Cannot began packing up the tent beside the truck. His burly frame moved with unexpected agility and efficiency. He bent down, raised his hand, and in no time had the tent neatly rolled up, tying it up along with the frame. Then he picked up the items and tossed them all onto the back of the truck.

Hearing footsteps behind him, Kannot rubbed his back and asked, "What's wrong, friend? Is there something you want to say to me that needs to be said in private?"

"I just have a question."

In the sunlight, Gerald seemed to be holding something in his hand, examining it closely through the sunlight.

However, Cannot simply cannot understand his current actions.

"Is the Dream Essence you mentioned just a small bottle? About the size of a thumb? Or is it the size of a water bottle?"

Kannot remained silent for a while, and after confirming that the other party was not joking, he sighed: "Oh, my friend, if it were a bottle the size of a water bottle, all the artists in Letania would be willing to kill me for it—you know, even a single drop can inspire people, let alone a whole bottle."

"That's it."

Gerald stopped his strange actions and calmly put the object back into his pocket: "It's nothing, I was just a little curious."

I was curious about what could possibly cause him to suddenly have an entire bottle of fragrance on him.

Testimonials

The author first officially began writing a novel around August of last year.

I watched some editors' live streams before, and then I felt that I might be able to give it a try, so I submitted the first three chapters to them. At that time, I was writing HP fanfiction.

It's over, but the situation isn't great. I wrote 50,000 words and hardly anyone read them. Later, in conversations, I realized there were a lot of problems, and I still have a lot to learn about market research, topic selection, and pacing.

So later I chose a subject I was more familiar with and started writing on this cat website.

Regarding the game "Porridge," I'm basically a pure roguelike player. I only seriously read the story for the first two years (all thanks to Dosoles). After that, I just skimmed through the data and skipped over the parts that interested me. So, much of the plot is based on my subconscious considerations and some personal research. If you find any problems, please point them out in the comments or reviews, and I will correct them after I see them.

However, it's best to minimize debate. On this issue, it's difficult for either of us to convince the other, and the game's mechanics aren't particularly refined; retconning is commonplace.

Regarding updates, I'm currently a senior in college, and the pressure this semester will be quite high considering graduation. However, I will try my best to maintain updates while also adding extra chapters. I'm unsure if I can have a particularly large update tomorrow; I'll try to write as much as possible over the next three days to see how things go.

Here, whether you feel there are quality issues or pacing problems with the work, you can ask me in the book review section or via private message, although I may not see them immediately sometimes. But as for urging me to update more... I've really tried my best, but I simply can't write that much. Even if you urge me, it's unlikely I'll give up my own life for the novel. If I really can't graduate and can't find a job in the end, then it might be a bit of putting the cart before the horse.

However, I haven't stopped updating yet, and I maintain at least 4000 words of updates every day. I think I can maintain this pace steadily.

So, if you really feel that the update frequency is not satisfactory, I hope you can wait a while before coming back to check, even if the results are bad, I will accept it.

All I can say is, please be understanding.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Dreamlike Vision (4K)

The easiest way to get from Gaspar Wasteland to Trimont is to leave along the road from the messenger station.

This road was not only the main route for pioneers and tourists, but also the only practical option for most people.

The infamous reputation of the Rust Hammer still lingers in the wilderness from Colombia to beyond Casimir, and no one wants to take the off-road, even if it would more than double their transport efficiency.

What can stop businessmen from pursuing profits is the threat of death. This loose group has committed all sorts of horrific tragedies—although many of these cases have been amplified and distorted by the media.

Some people even use certain incidents as a way to promote themselves and make profits, hiring private security contractors from Blacksteel International to handle security work on certain routes in order to earn a "just right" commission.

Unfortunately, they oversimplified these issues.

After all, the Columbia Gold Tickets they earned were just a piece of waste paper to some people, and couldn't buy their own lives from the clutches of death.

The towering flames burned the flags and supplies that symbolized the nation to ashes. Rusty iron hammers smashed the heads of those who tried to stop them, causing blood to gush out and burn even more fiercely amidst the flames.

Since then, no one has been willing to deal with this group of wasteland thugs.

Subsequently, under the deliberate patronage of certain individuals, the messenger stations, originally used for geological analysis, information transmission, and resource replenishment, were quickly transformed from rudimentary and appalling little houses into small bases capable of accommodating thousands of people. They even constructed barbed wire fences and outposts resembling those found on the border.

Of course, as a cover, its overt function remains the same—both regular messengers and disaster messengers have their own rest areas and dedicated communication stations. This also means that the vast majority of messengers will stop here before embarking on their journey.

In this way, the Colombian military can shift its focus from the countless small paths where rusty hammers might appear to the main roads they have paved themselves, thus reducing the area they need to be wary of.

Perhaps those powerful figures initially concluded that Rusthammer wouldn't target specific regions by gathering information, using this as evidence to allocate funds for building bases and incidentally embezzling their share. There are even recent rumors that the messenger stations will introduce new fees and taxes for goods sometime this year.

Those bigwigs just didn't realize that the reason Rusthammer didn't attack the messenger stations was simply because there was a fundamental consensus in the wilderness.

Except in extreme circumstances, no one would harm a messenger of natural disasters traversing the wilderness.

In Ursus, they were known as the "Night Watchmen of the Empire"; in Minos, they were the "Bane of Doom"; and in the fallen Gaul, they were the "Shield of Civilization".

Although the names vary, one thing is certain: they are all the same.

They are the foundation of civilization.

……

"It's pretty fast, I can already see the post station."

Gerald was gazing into the distance with his heavenly vision when he instinctively reached up.

Behind him, Saria unceremoniously covered his body with enamel, quickly attaching it to the roof, forcibly pulling the restless Pegasus back to his original position: "Do you want me to just cut all your hair off?"

"No, please make yourself at home."

Gerald then remembered that someone was cutting his hair behind him, so he quickly waved his hand and sat back down dejectedly. "Just leave a little bit of the ends, I'm not used to having the back of my neck completely exposed."

Click, click.

The calcified, sharp "scissors" glided deftly through Gerald's hair, and with a crisp sound, strands of hair were cut off and fell gracefully to the ground.

The wind on the roof was firmly blocked by Pegasus's Originium Arts. Strands of hair piled up at the feet of the two, bouncing slightly with the movement of the vehicle, but there was no sign of them falling off the roof.

As passengers hitchhiking, they don't actually have many choices.

Cannot clearly had a strong aversion to having someone else occupy his "shop" alone. Perhaps due to certain past experiences, he was deeply wary of anyone being alone with the collection. Therefore, the roof of the truck became one of their only two options, while the other was to have the two of them squeeze into the cramped space at the back of the truck.

Gerald chose the former without hesitation.