CHAPTER 148: [147] EVERY CHILD IS A WORLD HERITAGE

Silence hung in the air for a moment, filled only by the gentle sound of raindrops against the glass window.

Kiriya inhaled, then exhaled slowly. "So... there’s no other way for us to return to our original dimension?"

Elanor, who had been standing tensely by the window, slowly returned to her seat. Her gaze was still somewhat distant, but now more focused. "For now... I’m not certain."

That answer nearly extinguished the last ember of hope in Kiriya’s chest. But before he could say anything, Elanor continued, her voice soft yet carrying a weight—as if she were reopening old memories.

"But... there might be a development. In an old research project I left behind at Starford Academy—a thesis I wrote when I was still an active student. It’s possible... someone has continued it."

"Starford Academy?" Kiriya narrowed his eyes.

Elanor nodded. "That place is the center of all magical and dimensional knowledge in the western continent. I graduated from there, centuries ago. In its main library, there are a few confidential records and personal theses I left behind. Theories on dimensional rift stability and spiritual tethering across worlds."

Kiriya nodded slowly. "That academy lies in neutral territory... under the supervision of the five western kingdoms, right?"

"Correct," Elanor replied calmly. "Many people consider Starford Academy a free city—a place where knowledge flows without boundaries. But the reality is far more complex. That city is heavily guarded by the International Magic Council. Not just anyone can step inside. Every visitor must carry a permit or formal invitation, which typically takes weeks—sometimes months—of administrative processing."

Kiriya sighed, then leaned back into the plush sofa, eyes gazing at the ceiling. "Heh... Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. But... at least there’s hope."

Elanor gave a faint smile, sipping her tea from the porcelain cup with natural elegance. "And as it happens... I can arrange your access."

Kiriya turned quickly. "You can?"

"Mhm, of course," Elanor replied casually, setting her cup back on the small saucer with a soft clink that nearly disappeared into the quiet of the room.

Kiriya chuckled. "Of course... of course you can, Golden Witch."

---

Meanwhile, in the southern region, just outside the gate leading into the Penal Plains, Ren had already been awake since dawn.

He opened the van’s rear door, washed his face with cold water stored in a small tank, then did some light stretches under the morning sun. After brushing his teeth, he stepped back into the vehicle and touched the digital panel.

"Time to work."

He powered up the computer and began reviewing the data for the Armor Techno Mark III structure. Damascus steel with regenerative properties was the project’s main focus.

He sat in silence, staring at the project for a long time.

"Damn it... I could finish this in two hours with Transmutation," he muttered under his breath. But that wasn’t the point. He didn’t want to rely on something he didn’t fully understand. He wanted to prove: human technology could advance even without the aid of his power.

"I need a workshop. A proper place... and quiet."

His eyes gazed far to the south. The Penal Plains stood like a blurred black line—mountains and untamed wild forests, bleak but full of promise. Maybe that would become his second base. The first? Still standing quietly back in the soil of Japan, where it all began.

After saving the data, he woke up Ultro. Their light morning conversation about sensory calibration and weather log updates was oddly comforting. But Ren was tired of sitting still. He decided to walk through the Eks city market, which was just beginning to stir.

The market looked like a slice of the past—low wooden buildings with curved roofs reminiscent of the Mongol Dynasty era, spice vendors under tattered cloth tents, and the scent of damp earth mixed with smoked meat.

But amid the rising bustle, Ren’s steps came to a sudden halt.

The sound of chains clinking. Soft at first, then growing clearer.

From the western side of the market, a group of large men with scarred chests and chains hanging from their necks walked with bowed heads. Gladiators. Their hands were bound, faces battered—some not moving at all, like the living dead.

Ren stood still, watching.

But what froze his blood wasn’t the men.

Three of them—three of the "new participants"—were still small. Far too small.

Children. Eight years old. Maybe younger.

The chains were far too heavy for their small bodies. One of the children even had to be dragged by a spear-wielding guard because she was too weak to walk.

A little girl sobbed softly, but no one paid attention. The eyes of merchants and townsfolk stared on with blank, indifferent expressions—as if this scene was just another part of daily life in the city of Eks.

Ren didn’t move. His fingers clenched until his knuckles turned white, his jaw tightened. The world around him seemed to dim, like the market noise slowly sucked into the distance. His eyes were fixed on one image—a small child, no older than eight, collapsing under the weight of a chain that hung from her tiny neck.

Her knees struck the stone road, skin scraping open, reopening wounds that hadn’t yet healed. She whimpered softly, her voice nearly drowned by the clatter of iron boots and the faint cries of the other prisoners. No one stopped. No one turned. As if it was just another everyday sight—like a bland cup of morning tea no one would remember.

Ren stood frozen, his chest tightening. The fantasy world that modern humans often romanticized as an escape from boring life... was far darker than they imagined. There was no magic that saved everyone. No white knight who always arrived in time. Just the brutal reality of an immature civilization.

In his mind, Ren understood—this wasn’t about humans or beastkin. Not about race. It was about values. About a legacy that should be protected. He believed: children were the heirs of the world. The ones who carried hope, who would continue the struggle, preserve knowledge, ethics, and culture. Without the next generation, the world would be nothing but a cycle of wounds repeating endlessly.

But in front of him now, those children were given no chance to inherit anything. They were taken, imprisoned, turned into spectacle, then thrown into arenas for the entertainment of foolish adults who had lost their sense of humanity.

Ren grit his teeth. He could feel the emotion boiling in his chest like water about to spill. His body tensed, not out of fear, but from holding back the rage surging like magma. His eyes were no longer calm. No longer sharp from logic. But from instinct.

"This... is not the world I want..." he muttered softly, yet with weight.

He turned slightly, glancing at the laughing faces, cheering for the line of prisoners like it was a circus. Some were gambling, others shouting the names of their favorite fighters. Not a single one cared about that child—still struggling to rise, her knees bleeding, her eyes already devoid of hope.

Ren took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. But his chest remained tight.

Then his legs began to move on their own.

One step.

Two steps.

His third step echoed heavily across the gravel and market shouts. Ren approached slowly, like a shadow beginning to swallow the morning light. His eyes didn’t blink as he stared at the little girl—a beastkin child, fox-like ears, matted hair stuck to her dirt-smeared face. She lay still, the iron chain still hanging from her neck, trembling with every breath.

"Hey, kid... You alright?" Ren’s voice was soft, gentle, but carried a deep tremor in his soul.

The child slowly lifted her face. Her eyes were empty, the light gone, as if the world had long since stopped meaning anything. But what she saw was something unfamiliar—a pair of sharp eyes belonging to a young man, and more importantly: a hand.

A clean hand, open, not clenched in violence... but offering something she couldn’t even remember the feeling of—kindness.

Ren didn’t wait. He gently took her tiny hand and helped her stand. Her knees were still bleeding, her face pale, but she stood—if only because that hand hadn’t let her go.

Then from his jacket pocket, Ren pulled out a special bandage. Not just any bandage—his own invention, designed to seal small wounds while injecting antibacterial agents and promoting tissue regeneration. With practiced ease, he pressed it against the girl’s wound, then adjusted the chain’s placement so it wouldn’t hurt as much.

The child still didn’t understand. She kept looking at him, as if wanting to ask... "Why?"

Ren only gave a small smile, though his lips were tight.

But then, the sound of iron boots stomped from behind. Ren didn’t need to turn. The scent of cheap metal, sweat, and... greed. It was enough.

"Hey, you!" a rough voice barked. Ren turned around.

Three beastmen stood behind him. The first was burly, with tall stag-like antlers. The second was tall, wearing leather armor with a horse’s tail twitching behind him. And the third... a fat, pink-skinned figure with tusks jutting from his mouth—a boar beastman in a stained luxury robe. He was the slaver.

"You’ve got some nerve touching my merchandise in public," he said, pointing a meaty claw at Ren.

Ren said nothing. His gaze was sharp. Cold.

"If she’s injured, that’s my problem. If she dies, it’s my loss. And if you wanna play street hero, do it somewhere else!" His voice rang loud, drawing the attention of the marketplace.

Other guards began to circle around Ren.

But the young man simply patted the little girl’s head gently, then stood to face them all.