Trailer/Teaser 3 for Chapter 7: Big Daddy Raga's Home

Arc 1: The Cursed Hero 

Chapter 7: Big Daddy Raga’s Home

Narrator’s Voiceover:

Van the Flint was a Level 4—one of the strongest in the city, in fact—yet still only a Level 4. Even so, combined with his strongest skill and exceptional magic, he could stand toe-to-toe with any of his stronger Level 5 brethren, the Gulliver brothers. 

This was no mere conjecture either; those words came from the mouth of the eldest brother, Alfrigg, himself.

Yet Fushgro Dosojin’s face was carved from stone. Mourning Tiger could mutilate its own body for a temporary reinforcement boost indefinitely, so long as Deer kept healing it. Combined with the kamikaze attacks of the Rabbits, his Shikigami were more than a match for this empowered adventurer.

(If the little cloners supposedly carried weapons in their shadows, as according to Goddess Freya’s deduction, that proved an even truer statement.)

Whether they could maintain the battle long enough to wear Van down for their stampeding coup de grâce, when the last of the Shikigami would join the fray to finish the job and claim victory, remained to be seen.

The combatants were now nearly shaking with anticipation. Many spectators were similarly on edge, their breath caught in their throats, their palms slick with perspiration, their hearts burning with jealousy at the display of Blessed and Cursed prowess.

Even the executives, when looking past their own envy of this sorcerer who had captivated their goddess so, would begrudgingly give Dosojin his deserved flowers for his riveting display.

The brood of halfling craftsmen would grant him a sunflower, acknowledging the loyalty, solidarity, and camaraderie displayed between him and his Shikigami.

The wise king would confer upon him a crimson tiger lily, recognizing his fellow yet amateur strategist’s cunning, patience, and courage.

The foolish king gave him a purple rose, honoring his fellow denzin of darkness’s gladiatorial prowess, spartan mental fortitude, and samuraian skill with arms.

The wrathful chariot would shove an iris at him, conceding his predatorial gait, shared love of pole weapons, and starvation for power between himself and his urchin-haired foe.

The Divinely Ordained King would offer him edelweiss, hoping that he would have the drive, fearlessness, eye for beauty, and scorching love to reach for it and pluck it from her hands, so high—

(To reach for her and take her away from the golden cage he had watched her languish in like a starving piglet).

The Nameless Mirror, reflecting the faces of a broken goddess, a fanatical zealot, and an inquisitive hostess, awaited their destined fourth to complete them.

The stage was set, the actors had donned their garb and slipped into the skin of their theatric personas. Now only the snap of the director’s fingers was needed to signal the curtains to rise.

The snap rang out like the stomping hooves of a cursed bovine.