They would be happy to know that Aarlon is not living a happy life.

  To the citizens of Ravenmoor, Aarlon was the pinnacle of human achievement before he’d even hit eighteen. As he stepped out of his family’s obsidian-glass carriage, the morning sun caught the gold embroidery of his Hunter’s tunic. A crowd of commoners erupted into cheers, tossing flower petals that smelled faintly of expensive mana-perfume. Aarlon waved back with a practiced, weary grace. ‘Look at them,’ he thought, his heart sinking. ‘Not a single person in this crowd is holding a volume of "The Alchemist’s Misery." Not even a weekly Shonen jump. What a desolate, uncultured wasteland.’

  Walking through the gates of the Hunter’s Academy was like a royal procession. Students didn't just move out of his way; they practically vibrated with the hope that he might step on their shoes so they could frame the footprint.

  "Good morning, Young Lord Aarlon!" a student squeaked, offering him a premium grade-A Mana Potion as if it were a casual juice box.

  "May your blade never dull!" a senior shouted, respectfully leaning his head.

  Aarlon sighed, accepting the potion. It tasted like blue raspberry and extreme social pressure. In his high-class realm, "Business" was a dirty word. People didn't sell things; they conquered things. To suggest opening a retail store was like suggesting one become a professional dirt-taster. In the middle of "Advanced Behemoth Decapitation 101," Aarlon wasn't taking notes on neck-joint weaknesses. Instead, he had a copy of ‘I Was the assasinator until I was targeted’ hidden inside his heavy leather grimoire.

  ‘The margins on these imports would be insane,’ he calculated, ignoring the professor’s lecture on the Seven Realm War. ‘If I could just get a shipment from the Third Realm, I could corner the market. But no. I have to learn how to kill a Shadow-Slug with a toothpick because "Dad did it when he was twelve."’

  After a day of being poked by tailors and asked for tactical advice he didn't have, Aarlon slipped away to the "Slums" or as he called it, Paradise. Camir’s bookshop was a leaning pile of damp wood and dusty shelves. Camir himself was currently trying to boil a single carrot for dinner.

  "Oh, look," Camir deadpanned, not looking up from his pot. "The Golden Boy has arrived to grace my humble hovel with his glittery presence. Careful, Aarlon, there’s a spot of dust on your boot that costs more than my life insurance."

  "Shut up, Camir," Aarlon groaned, collapsing onto a rickety stool. "An officer tried to challenge me to a duel today just so he could 'feel my aura.' I just wanted to finish Chapter 54."

  "I’d trade my soul to the demons right now to have your aura," Camir hissed, eyes flashing with jealousy. "I want the potions. I want the fans. I want to stop eating vegetables!"

  "And I want to stand behind this counter, ignore people, and organize my tankobon collection by genre and color," Aarlon countered. "The deal is still on the table. You take the Dagger, I take the apron."

  "We tried that last week," Camir reminded him. "You put on my rags and people thought it was a new 'high-fashion Hunter trend.' Within an hour, half the nobility was wearing ripped burlap."

  The laughter died down as a cold chill swept through the shop. This wasn't the normal drafty wind of the slums. Aarlon felt the weight of the Dagger of Mania Resal resting at his house, except it wasn't just a weapon. Back at the manor, "Aunt" Mania, the demon bound to the blade, was probably currently judging his father’s choice of house interior. The Seven Realms were on the brink of a massive, reality-shattering war, and the Hunter Association was sharpening its teeth. Aarlon looked at his manga, then at the dark horizon. He didn't want to be the hero of the Seven Realms. He just wanted to be a merchant. But as the shadows lengthened, he realized the world might not give him a choice, unless he found a way to turn the "System" into a business model.

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  Yet, he was nothing special, just born in the most prestigious household.

  To the citizens of Ravenmoor, Aarlon was a legend in waiting. He was an Emner, after all. In this realm, the name Emner didn't just mean nobility; it meant invincibility. If a giant, many-clawed demon decided to snack on City Hall, Mr. Serlon Emner would simply put down his fork, delete the threat before his soup got cold, and return to finish his lunch. If a legion of steel-armored robots haunted the local academy, Mrs. Welisa Emner would dismantle them between stops on her shopping spree, barely chipping a nail. Even Ashlis Emner could clear a road crisis before her afternoon nap. The Emners were the reason people smiled. They were the ultimate "Demon Haters." Aarlon waved at the cheering students as he walked through the academy halls, his smile as fake as a gold-plated nickel.

  If only they knew, he thought.

  The world saw his family as the shield against the darkness. They didn't see the darkness currently sitting at their mahogany dining table, complaining about the quality of the tea. Aarlon’s "fans" wouldn't be so cheerful if they met Mania Resel. She was his childhood nightmare turned unwanted advisor—a demon as regal as a queen and as ancient as the stars. She was the true owner of the Dagger, and as long as the Emners held it, they were hers.

  "Aunt" Mania was the dirty secret behind the realm’s success. She didn't protect the realm; she invited the "worthy" to attack it. She cast a dark aura over the barriers like a dinner bell, summoning top-tier monsters from outer space just to test the Emners' mettle. She had a terrifying, unshakeable faith in his family’s power, a faith Aarlon found suffocating.

  ‘I don’t want to be a test subject for an ancient demon,’ Aarlon mused, dodging a group of fans. ‘I just want to sell books where the monsters stay on the pages.’ As the sun set, casting long, orange shadows over Ravenmoor, the atmosphere shifted. The Dagger of Mania Resal pulsed at on the cushion, currently owned by his dad. A cold reminder of the contract written in blood. The Seven Realms were preparing for a war that his family, and their "Aunt", had practically invited.

  Aarlon looked at a rare, smuggled manga he’d hidden under the floorboards. It was a story about a man who gave up everything to find peace.

  ‘Soon,’ Aarlon thought, his eyes hardening. ‘I’m going to find a way out of this hero business. Even if I have to lose everything to do it.’ His dream will come true because danger never knocks. It broke in.

  The evening before the red moon, Aarlon stood on the balcony of the west wing, watching the sunset bleed into the horizon. In his hand, he absentmindedly flipped through a volume of manga, but his eyes were on the High Vault where the Dagger was kept.

  "You’re staring at it again," a bright, melodic voice rang out.

  Ashlis leaned against the doorframe, her training gear still smoldering with lingering sparks of mana. She was vibrant, a literal lightning bolt in human form, radiating the kind of "main character" energy that Aarlon found exhausting.

  "It’s a curse, Ashlis," Aarlon said without turning. "The Dagger. Mania. This whole 'Chosen Family' business. If I ever get my hands on that blade, do you know what I’d do? I’d find the deepest forge in the Seventh Realm and melt it into slag. I’d shatter the curse so we could finally just… sleep."

  Ashlis walked up beside him, her expression shifting from a grin to something more solemn. "Break it? Aarlon, that’s so gloomy, even for you. You want to destroy the very thing that makes us relevant."

  "I want to be irrelevant," he countered. "I want us to be normal."

  "Normal is a luxury the other realms don't have," Ashlis said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp ambition. "You want to break it because you're tired. But I? I want it because I’m hungry. Not for blood, but for balance."

  Aarlon finally looked at her. "Balance?"

  "The Seventh Realm hoards all the mana because Mania keeps the Dagger here," she whispered, her voice full of life and dangerous hope. "If I held the Dagger, I wouldn't break it. I’d use it to divide the strength. I’d carve new channels of power into the deprived lower realms. I’d change the system entirely, Aarlon. I wouldn't just protect the world; I’d fix it."

  Aarlon sighed, turning back to his book. "You want to be a revolutionary. I want to be a shopkeeper. We’re both dreaming, Ashlis. Neither of us is ever getting that dagger. We are not enough evil to have it."

  Ashlis laughed, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "Maybe. But if the day ever comes, brother, I hope you’re ready to fight me for it. Because your 'peace' would leave the world empty, and my 'ambition' would make it roar."

  Aarlon smiled to himself. Really, fighting to inherit the dagger would be fun. Ashlis is way more stronger than him. She is Emner perfection. It will be better if she got the dagger but it means the dagger will stay on this planet. No, it better be destroyed in the right hands. Aarlon trusted his sister, but she was his rival, this fact was the driving force behind why he practice his combat skills even when he plans to use them for nothing good. They will come handy when the war between him and Ashlis will start, and he is so ready for it. Little does he know what the dagger really demands from him.