Kays Translations

Chapter 1: The Lost Traveler

Sixty-seven days ago, the flames of war that had engulfed nearly the entire world finally dissipated with the conditional surrender of the Helpha Empire and its vassal states.

The spring breeze, rich with the fragrance of flowers, swept away the lingering gloom. Under the warmth of March sunlight—gentle yet carrying a trace of chill—the rays once again shone upon the southwestern coast of the Karpas Continent, illuminating White Sand City. Once prosperous, the city now lay in ruins, scarred by the devastation of war.

High above the velvet-blue sky, an “Ankasha-class” airship—its hull riddled with holes, thirty-two dark steam cannons jutting from its flanks—dragged a trail of twin-colored steam, one black and one white. With a deep rumble, it moved slowly, almost lazily, toward the distant line where the sea met sky.

Sunlight spilled across the cold, massive steel body of the airship, its hull bearing the insignia of the Sky Patrol Fleet of the Republic of Loring—an unspoken reminder that the gods of war had not yet entirely departed.

At the edge of the cape, the colossal lighthouse statue of the Sea god Alonsos rose into the heavens. Two years earlier, during the Helpha Empire’s cross-sea bombardment, the giant had lost an arm. Now, in the sunlight, that one remaining half-arm jutted diagonally toward the sky. Throughout the war, whether during the impassioned or dreary speeches of successive mayors of White Sand City, the statue had stood as a symbol of the noble spirit of its 360,000 citizens—unbending, never yielding to the evil Axis.

Yet now, as sunlight crept past the shattered statue of the sea god, its rays fell gradually upon the sprawling slums by the seaside.

In one corner of those slums, a dimly lit attic that had burned its lamp through the night creaked open. Pale, thin hands—made fragile by malnutrition—pushed against the old wooden door facing the sea.

As the door opened, a boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with black hair and black eyes, stretched with a long, lazy motion before poking his head out. He greedily drew in a deep breath of fresh sea-salted air.

Exhaling the stale air from his chest, the boy lifted his bloodshot eyes toward the statue lighthouse of the sea god. His expression was complicated, his gaze filled with a weariness far beyond his years.

In his eyes, too, reflected the image of the Ankasha-class airship drifting away. He could clearly see the burly minotaur soldiers, steam rifles slung across their backs, and the small goblin engineers, wielding oversized wrenches as they scurried about, busy repairing some unseen part.

This sight, far sharper than that of ordinary humans, came from the boy’s faint trace of elven blood.

Thanks to that diluted elven lineage, the boy also carried a striking appearance. Though still young, his features were already sharp and handsome—sword brows, starry eyes, and a face like carved jade.

“Good morning, Sea god Alonsos. Marlon Lister greets you. Heh… counting this one, I’ve now said good morning to you twenty-five times. So—could you perhaps grant me a little blessing today?”

Lowering his gaze once more to the mist-shrouded statue, the black-haired, black-eyed boy murmured softly to himself.

Then, turning his head, he glanced back into the dim attic, where the faint glow of a lamp lit the small desk within.

Upon it lay a large bound stack of squared manuscript paper, neatly arranged. On the cover sheet, written in slightly clumsy but elegant Loring script, were two lines of florid lettering—

The Little Prince
by Marlon, the Wandering Traveler

…

Yes, Marlon thought of himself as a “wandering traveler.”

Back on Earth, he had been nothing more than an ordinary, half-reclusive office worker, tied to the routine of nine-to-five. At work, he stole moments to scroll his phone. After hours, he moonlighted as a hobbyist web novelist. And once the writing and posting were done, he would spend late nights bickering with strangers on forums.

But that wasn’t his whole life. Every weekend, Marlon would brave wind and rain to volunteer at a children’s welfare home in the suburbs. Each month, he would take one-third of his salary and writing income, spending it on food and books to donate to the children there.

When he encountered beggars—old or young—on the streets, he never gave money directly. Instead, he would step into the nearest eatery and return with a hot meal to place in their hands.

Friends often called him foolish. “This is a world ruled by money,” they would say. “Why bother with those destined to be cast aside? You’ll get nothing back!”

Marlon’s only answer was a faint smile, and the soft reply: “Yes, I know it’s foolish. But if I can do something—if I have the means to help, even just a little—that’s enough.”

Such was Marlon. Like other young people, he enjoyed the conveniences of the high-tech age. But unlike many, his heart remained gentle, unclouded by indifference.

Until twenty-six days ago, when that life was abruptly broken—

That day, after finishing another shift of volunteer work at the orphanage, Marlon returned to his tiny apartment, showered, and sat down at his computer. On the forum he frequented, his eyes immediately caught a blazing-hot thread, already hundreds of replies deep: “The Fantasy World of the Future in Your Eyes,” posted by a user called “God of Gods, Aio.”

Curious, Marlon clicked it open.

After skimming seventy or eighty replies, he already felt a little weary. Aside from the trolls, all the descriptions of this so-called “future fantasy world” shared the same core: endless war. A world of sword and sorcery forever mired in bloodshed and hatred, stuck at a medieval stage of civilization.

But humanity on Earth—though it had fought countless brutal wars—had still, step by step, advanced from barbarism to modern civilization.

Even in a world filled with elves, werewolves, vampires, and other non-human races—were they not all still intelligent beings? And could a world of intelligent beings truly be frozen forever in the Middle Ages?

Impossible. Every great war, followed by every peace, would inevitably lead to cultural and technological exchange. And with enough accumulation, culture and technology would erupt into unstoppable breakthroughs.

On Earth, “heaven-sent geniuses” had appeared time and again, harnessing steam, oil, and more to ignite explosive progress. In a fantasy world with magic and mana crystals—sources far stronger than anything on Earth—could no such genius ever arise?

To Marlon, the answer was clear. Even in a world where gods walked among mortals, history’s tide would eventually sweep from the Age of Gods toward the Age of Men.

Whether powered by steam, battle-aura, or magic, machines of steel would someday replace beasts and dragons of flesh and blood, ruling sea, land, and sky.

And the gods who once towered above mortals—when the wellspring of faith inevitably dried up—would, if not fall in disgrace, at least be forced into obscurity, fading into the background.

Or perhaps new gods would emerge: “God of Riveted Steel,” “God of Steampunk,” and the like.

In short, Marlon envisioned a “future fantasy world” unlike Earth’s path, yet just as inevitable—a civilization of its own. Of all the words he knew, only “steampunk” came close to describing it.

Backwardness and advancement side by side. Magic and science coexisting.

With this vision, Marlon had hammered at his keyboard for half an hour, pouring his thoughts into the forum as the 197th reply.

“You—are correct! You—shall be rewarded!”

The instant his finger hit Enter, before it had even lifted from the key, a voice thundered in his ears, brimming with absolute authority.

Then darkness swallowed him. Without even the chance to be properly terrified, Marlon lost all consciousness.

When he woke again, he was no longer an Earth office worker. He was Marlon Lister, a fourteen-year-old boy of the White Sand City slums, living in a world where gods had retreated to the shadows, and mortals were rising through wisdom—just after a grand war of magic and steam had been fought across the world.

From the inherited memories of this “Marlon Lister,” images surfaced: green-skinned orcs, long-eared elves, bearded dwarves; steam trains venting white mist; steel airships soaring across the skies. All of it proved the correctness of his vision of the “future fantasy world.”

His once plain face had transformed into the sharp-browed, jade-like handsomeness of a young star—resembling, faintly, a fair-skinned version of Louis Koo. That, at least, was some consolation.

But what mattered far more was his identity now—war orphan.

The Republic of Loring, though recently freed from the smoke of war, was preoccupied with vying for spoils against its two rival allies. It had no time to spare for the likes of Marlon Lister.

At least in the slum where he lived, there were over two hundred such orphans, homeless, destitute. Malnutrition and loneliness gnawed at them, day by day, until they became wretched shadows, despised as “slum brats.”

Compared to them, Marlon’s situation was better. He at least had a broken attic to shield him from the wind and rain, and an occasional income from copying work.

Yet for someone used to Earth’s comforts, the rickety attic and unpalatable food were nearly unbearable.

So, from the very first night—twenty-six days ago, the moment his soul had crossed into this world—Marlon began to write.

Perhaps because of the crossing, he now remembered with crystal clarity every film, novel, magazine, and song he had ever encountered.

“Heh. To waste what Heaven has given is to invite its punishment.”

“For my own sake—and to help those poor children—I must make use of these memories.”

And so, before he ever greeted the Sea God Alonsos at dawn, before opening the attic’s broken wooden door to the sunlight, Marlon—fully merged with the memories of the orphan Marlon Lister—had already sworn this to himself.

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