Even in a capital city fallen to hell, there are still places of safety. Chief among them is the royal castle.

Guarded by Gazef Stronoff—the kingdom's strongest warrior—and his elite corps, further protected by layers of defensive wards built up by generations of court mages, its defenses are said to withstand even demons of difficulty rating 100 or higher.

Yet, if one were to ask where the most secure place in the kingdom was, none would hesitate to answer: here.

Hundreds had gathered. But these were no mere civilians.

Helmets gleamed, leather and plate armor overlapped, and polished full-plate reflected the firelit night. In their hands were swords, spears, axes, hammers, and staves—all enchanted with magic. Shields bore crests, robes shimmered with wards.

They were adventurers. Each bore the emblem of their rank-plate.

"Have they arrived?"

"Yes!"

At Monkyspanner's words, a representative stepped forward and bowed.

Behind him stood hundreds of adventurers. Among them: Adamantite-class, the highest rank. Beneath them, Orichalcum parties in full force. Dozens of Mithril and Platinum parties stood in orderly ranks like trained battalions.

And yet, what truly set them apart was not their number, but their equipment.

Every weapon gleamed with enchantment, every armor-piece carried magic.

Such gear far surpassed what Platinum-ranked adventurers could normally afford. But these were not ordinary adventurers.

"Four sub-parties of Iron Oath, thirty-five in total, assembled!"

"Three sub-parties of The Jolly Cask, nineteen in total, assembled!"

"Three sub-parties of Cranium, twenty-six in total, assembled!"

Three banners stood raised:

A shield marked with clenched fists.

A frothing barrel spilling ale, painted with a laughing face.

A banner split with jagged stone.

Each represented an Orichalcum-ranked party. Yet they were not "lesser" because of lack of skill. In terms of ability—and the enchanted items they wielded—they were in no way inferior to famed groups like Blue Roses or Red Drop.

They remained at Orichalcum rank for a reason: to them, there could only be one Adamantite party. To place themselves at the same level would be an insult to their name.

Thus, their banners stood not in defiance, but in loyalty—each swearing fealty beneath a greater crest.

Kneeling at their head was a young man, helm replaced by a silver-white headgear.

"With this, Lord, the ten parties stationed in the capital—of the twenty-seven under the Re-Estize Kingdom's Dragon's Dream—stand assembled!"

"Well done, Rot. This was no safe summons, yet you brought them without fear."

"No fear at all! To stand upon the battlefield at your side, Lord Monkyspanner—it is the highest honor!"

The young man's eyes shone like stars. Rot—one of Dragon's Dream's own, who had, despite his youth, honed his talents and earned his place in the legendary party.

And now, the impossible had come to pass. To fight beneath the same sky as his Clan Lord.

For generations, the Clan Heads of Dragon's Dream had been spoken of as beings beyond heroes, wielders of transcendent might. None had ever fought side-by-side with them. They were too distant, too otherworldly.

A lineage stretching back 150 years—noble houses and royal families alike had sought to bind themselves to this power. Kings and dukes had begged the Clan to take their daughters as wives or concubines, to mingle blood and secure strength.

But Dragon's Dream had always refused.

Even when the Dragon Kingdom's princess made a public proposal, risking an international incident, the Clan Lord turned her away without hesitation.

How then was succession secured? By the most enigmatic of means: each Clan Head appeared one day with a chosen successor, introducing them publicly without warning. And every such heir, though unblooded, was as powerful as their predecessor.

Their strength, their mystery, their refusal to bend to kings or crowns—these made Dragon's Dream something greater than a guild, greater even than a nation.

They were adventurers, yes, but adventurers whose very existence had become a deterrent, a force of balance between nations.

Information brokers, dealers of enchanted relics, even sellers of legendary-grade artifacts at auction—whether from ruins, dungeons, or… made by their own secret means, none could say.

Rumors and suspicions abounded, yet none could tarnish their reputation.

And so it was that Dragon's Dream stood immortal in history: a Clan above nations, its leaders ever unmatched, its mysteries unbroken.

And now, in the capital of Re-Estize, under the banner of the Sixth Clan Head, they stood assembled—hundreds of blades awaiting their master's command.

Even across one hundred and fifty years of history, there are only a handful of records where the Clan Head of Dragon's Dream personally took the field.

Drake El Dragondream, who restored order to a world drowned in chaos one and a half centuries ago. Lion El Dragondream, who stood at the very front line a century ago and repelled an invasion, saving the Kingdom itself.

Such moments are vanishingly rare.

The reason is simple: there are few occasions worthy of their intervention.

These are men hailed as the World's Strongest, Guardians of Humanity itself. If they must move, it would be for nothing less than a national catastrophe.

And as adventurers, they never waged war between nations—only when legends arose, be it a monster of myth or a demon king of old, did they bare their fangs.

And now, at this very moment, such an event had arrived.

The capital was aflame, demons swarming like locusts, black fire devouring the city and drowning the streets in blood.

Could this be what the world had looked like two centuries ago, during the Evil Deities's rampage?

Those caught in the maelstrom wailed in terror. Yet young Rot could not suppress the exhilaration that boiled within his chest.

A boy born in squalor, destined to crawl forever in the mud, had been reborn the day the Clan reached out a hand. He had cast aside the filth of his past name, and in its place taken up the mantle of Adamantite adventurer Rot, sworn vassal of the Great Clan.

And before his very eyes stood the highest of honors: his Lord, the Clan Head himself, was about to fight.

Death held no fear. For the Clan that had saved him, for the man who had recognized his worth, he would gladly give his life. And now, he would witness with his own eyes the true battle of Monkyspanner El Dragonsream—the World's Strongest.

More, fortune smiled upon him. His seniors were absent: Thunder Sword and Sky Orchid away on missions to the Azerlisia Mountains, Resonant Bell dispatched to the Theocracy, War Spear still abroad on leave.

Had they been present, they would have snatched this honor from him, mocked and scolded him for daring to stand so close. But by sheer providence, Rot—youngest of the Clan—now found himself at the very front, close enough to see, to feel, to remember forever.

His heart pounded, hot blood flooding his face, his whole body trembling in rapture at the glory to come.

"All parties under Dragon's Dream are ready for battle! Give the order, my Lord!"

A thunderous cry erupted. Hundreds of adventurers raised their weapons high, the ground trembling with their roar. It was a sight like no other—an army of heroes.

Normally, a single Platinum-ranked party was said to rival a hundred militiamen. But here, an entire army of such parties stood assembled—Mithril, Platinum, Orichalcum, and even Adamantite ranks, all beneath one banner. In terms of raw might, this host rivaled armies of tens of thousands.

"This… this is Dragon's Dream… this is the Great Clan itself…!"

From nearby, Evileye's voice trembled even through her mask.

This was what one hundred and fifty years had wrought: a Clan that had defended mankind not from men, but from demons, monsters, and beings of otherworldly horror.

Guardians of Humanity, untouched by the petty wars of kings, yet ever the wall against the inhuman.

Spears and blades gleamed as they rose, their radiance piercing the heavens.

It was an army worthy of legend—a sight not seen since the days of the Thirteen Heroes.

Evileye had seen Blue Roses, Red Drop, and other famed Adamantite parties. She had fought beside them. But compared to this? Even she had to admit: Dragon's Dream was something greater.

Even the rumor of one of their sub-parties had seemed daunting, but assembled together, they were overwhelming.

If they had existed in the age of Landfall 250 years ago, perhaps even that disaster might have been averted.

Surely with this strength, even the legions of demons could be swept aside. Surely here lay hope.

And yet…

While the adventurers roared in fervor, while Evileye trembled with awe—Monkyspanner's eyes were cold.

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