The first light in Arial Village didn't rise—it crawled.
Mist clung to the grass like it didn't want to let go.
Shy fingers of light crept over the hilltops, brushing dew off leaves, warming rooftops one slanted tile at a time. The apricot tree stirred—just slightly—its branches kissed by a warmth still hidden behind the hills. The world moved slow. Gentle. Like it wasn't quite ready to wake up yet.
A rooster tried to crow.
Failed halfway.
Gave up with a sneeze.
In the backyard of the Frei family, the grass still held the chill of dawn.
The training post stood tall—an old tree stump carved into a dummy, its belly stuffed with hay and regrets. A crooked wooden rack held a few sticks pretending to be swords. The rest had long since retired into the bushes.
Kevin and Levin were already out there—straight-backed, focused, and far too prepared for this early in the morning. Kevin wore a loose training robe, arms folded like a strict monk with an opinion. Levin bounced slightly on his heels, eager, determined, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back like a man ready to prove something.
And then…
Lyra Swift.
She stood across from them like a glitch in the schedule.
One hand holding a teddy bear.
Hair tangled like she fought it and lost.
Shirt slightly on backwards.
Shoes on the wrong feet.
Eyes half-lidded, one yawn still leaking out.
"G'mornin', Kevin," she mumbled, swaying slightly. "I haven't brushed my teeth yet. Hehehe."
The rooster sneezed again.
Before training began, Lyra casually dumped me on a boulder like yesterday's soup.
Didn't even look back. No ceremony. Just plop—one second I was her spiritual companion, the next I was lawn décor.
She marched toward her "post"—which, for some reason, was sitting cross-legged in the dirt directly in front of Kevin.
Fists clenched.
Eyes sparkling with raw determination.
And absolutely zero discipline.
Levin dropped beside her like a loyal sidekick, legs crossed, hands on knees, trying very hard to look serious.
Kevin stood tall in front of them, wielding a long stick like a commander. Or worse—like a bootleg Severus Snape at a summer camp, minus the cloak but with the same disappointed soul. He began drawing glowing shapes in the dirt, each stroke slow and deliberate.
I watched them from my boulder perch. Half interested.
Half wondering if I was dreaming.
Honestly? She left me alone.
Not bad.
Might nap.
"Alright," Kevin said, voice sharp. "Focus up. Today, we begin understanding the Magic Root system."
SNORE.
The sound was instant.
"ZZZZZ… zzzZZZZ… ZZZ…"
Kevin's eyebrow twitched like it was trying to escape his face.
Levin leaned over and shook her shoulder.
Lyra blinked. Yawned. Then grinned sheepishly. "Ah—sorry, I was too sleepy! Hehehe."
Kevin exhaled through his nose like a kettle about to blow.
"Before I explain the Magic Root system, I will first—"
"TOK. TOK. TOK."
"TOK. TOK. TOK."
Lyra flailed. "NOT ME! NOT ME!"
Everyone turned, looking around.
It was me.
I was trying to do pushups.
And instead, I ended up just… hopping in place.
Like a cursed dice doing interpretive dance.
"...My bad," I muttered to Lyra.
Lyra turned to Kevin, serious as ever.
"Oh, Dan was exercising too. He's doing warm-up."
Kevin said nothing.
Levin tried not to laugh.
Kevin exhaled. Tried again.
"Alright. Again. Before I explain the Magic Root system, I'll first briefly go over the history of magic—like what you all learned in school—"
Lyra raised her hand.
"Yes, Lyra?"
"I'm five," she said flatly. "I don't go to school."
Then she raised her leg, turned around, and casually walked toward the backyard gate.
Kevin blinked. "Wait—where are you going?"
"I'm going to school first before listening to you. BYE."
She took two confident steps before Kevin's last brain cell waved a tiny white flag and leapt off a cliff.
In pure panic, he made a wild, unfiltered grabbing gesture—no spell, no chant, just sheer adult frustration.
And somehow, against every magical principle known to man, Lyra yoinked backward like a boomerang child.
"WOAH—!"
She crash-landed back into her dirt seat, cross-legged and confused.
Kevin, barely holding it together:
"Oh, LYRA SWIFT. You SIT here, my lady—SIT TIGHT, and LEARN WELL. About the school thing? MY BAD. I APOLOGIZE."
He snapped the stick back into his palm like a man preparing for trial.
"OKAY? Can we START this PROPERLY now?"
It was in that moment Kevin realized:
He had made the single worst decision of his entire life.
Agreeing to teach this hurricane how to use magic.
Me?
I was on the sideline, halfway rolled off the boulder, laughing like a drunk hyena.
HAHAHAHA—AT LEAST SOMEONE ELSE SHARES MY PAIN NOW!
WELCOME TO THE CLUB, KEVIN! HAHAHA—
I'M EVEN WILLING TO PATREON YOU JUST TO WATCH THIS SLAP COMEDY DAILY! HAHAHAHA!
And just when I thought the universe couldn't bless me harder—
From the house next door, Selena peeked through her window.
She saw Kevin mid-breakdown.
She saw Lyra being Lyra.
She saw me, or more specifically, the rapid spasms of my dice body crackling like someone short-circuited a toy.
And she laughed.
Laughed like an evil empress watching her enemies fall one by one.
The kind of laugh that echoed through generations of villainy.
The kind of laugh that said:
"I didn't pay a single coin, and yet someone else became the babysitter."
Oh, what a perfect day.
And it wouldn't stop there.
Because this wasn't just today.
This was the beginning.
Kevin didn't sign up to tutor a child for free.
He accidentally enlisted in a long-term magical ragnarok.
While Lyra "trained"—
She shouted "MAGIC FIST" and punched a turnip.
Fell asleep face-first in a puddle.
Chased a squirrel with zero hesitation.
Then declared the ground was made of lava and climbed a tree barefoot.
It often included shouting mid-spell, napping mid-lesson, "magical instincts" squirrel chases, and the occasional innocent cabbage set ablaze.
Meanwhile, Selena would simply sit by her window, sipping tea like a retired villain queen.
Calm. Composed.
Watching the show.
Every. Single. Morning.
And laugh.
And she laughed.
Sometimes, she even took notes.
"How many days until he breaks?"
So far, the leading guess was four and a half.
The notes she was taking?
Betting slips.
Selena wasn't just observing—she was the mastermind.
She kept a second notebook.
Not on magic.
But on Kevin's emotional stability.
Because, somehow… Kevin started getting terrorized.
Wrongly accused.
Targeted by a maniac.
"I heard the maniac cried," one villager whispered, "because his cabbage knight got bombed by Kevin."
"Said it was his only blood family left—killed in such a tragic way."
"Swore he'd get revenge. Been sharpening a carrot ever since."
And Kevin's life?
It had never been so dull.
Or so dangerous.
No one really knew what Justice in Pink was.
But everyone agreed on one thing:
Kevin was probably… misunderstood.
And definitely the victim.
And just like that—
Selena's window became a throne.
Lyra's training became a circus.
And Kevin…
Kevin became a legend.
A tragic one.
The first man in history to be hunted by vegetables.