Chapter 446: Chapter 445- Problem rising

“You didn’t have to bring so many things,” Raven said as she stood beside Adrian, watching the maids carry away sack after sack of rations and load them onto the carts waiting outside.

The sheer amount was staggering.

More than two thousand kilograms of grains, pulses, and other essential ingredients required to keep the people fed had been brought in one go.

All of it had come from Adrian—transported effortlessly using the Inventory feature he had only recently acquired.

Adrian wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her gently closer as he said, “It’s nothing to worry about. Your people are my family now too.”

Raven’s brows knit together slightly. She glanced at the carts once more before looking up at him, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Didn’t it cost a little too much?” she asked quietly.

Adrian chuckled, entirely unbothered.

“I can earn enough to buy twice this amount just by crafting a single basic armament.”

That wasn’t an exaggeration.

The people back in his world were growing borderline obsessed with his creations.

After selling a few of his first-grade armaments—and after the students of Runebound showcased their performances during the contest—Adrian’s market value had soared beyond expectations.

If he ever walked into an auction offering even a single second-grade armament, he could probably fill an entire vault with gold.

Querella grinned at the sight before her. Stepping closer, she traced a finger along Adrian’s jaw and teased,

“Aren’t I the lucky one? Grabbing myself such a rich husband.”

Her lips curved playfully as she added, “Don’t you fear I might take advantage of you?”

Adrian caught her hand, his expression relaxed as he brought it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss upon her fingers.

“Whatever is mine is yours,” he said without hesitation. “And if I can’t help my wife in a situation like this, wouldn’t that make me a failure of a man?”

Raven felt her heart flutter at the word wife—spoken so naturally, so casually.

There was no doubt, no uncertainty in his tone. He spoke as if their bond was already an unshakable truth.

“Your Majesty.”

A maid approached with her head bowed respectfully.

“The grains have been loaded onto the carts.”

Raven turned toward her, her expression settling into calm authority.

“Send Christopher and Gale along with them,” she instructed. “Make sure the distribution is equal. No exceptions.”

The maid nodded immediately in understanding.

Hunger was a dangerous thing.

It could strip people of reason, drive them to acts they would never consider otherwise.

Some might try to take more than their share. Others might prey upon the weak once the supplies ran low.

That was precisely why Raven entrusted the task to her two most fearsome generals.

Not merely to oversee the distribution—but to make the consequences of greed unmistakably clear

The maid gave another bow before leaving the two of them alone.

Adrian hummed thoughtfully before asking, “So… how is everything going? Even though we met just a few days ago, it feels like a lot more time has passed.”

Querella smiled faintly.

“For me, time slowed down the moment you disappeared,” she said. “If it weren’t for the endless work I keep myself buried under, I might have painted the entire palace with your face by now.”

Adrian chuckled.

“That would’ve been rather embarrassing to walk into.”

Guiding her gently by the hand, he led her toward the small terrace at the end of the room. From there, the view opened up to dark, brooding clouds rolling overhead and rows of modest houses stretching into the distance.

The gloom hanging over the town made his chest tighten.

It was impossible not to notice the contrast—between these quiet, struggling streets and the lively paths he walked every day near the academy, where laughter, ambition, and comfort were taken for granted.

The disparity was stark.

And it weighed heavily on him.

“Please don’t make that face,” Querella said softly. “I would feel guilty.”

She snuggled closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“I know very well what kind of responsibilities you carry. So if you keep worrying even now—when you’re finally supposed to be resting—it would crush me with guilt.”

Adrian turned toward Raven with a soothing smile.

“If I stop caring about them,” he asked quietly, “will you too?”

Querella clicked her tongue and grumbled, “Well… no. But surely, we can spare some time away from worldly problems and focus on each other.”

Adrian hummed in agreement.

“You’re right.”

Without any warning, he scooped her into his arms—and the world shifted.

Querella gasped as the scenery changed in an instant, her arms instinctively locking around his neck.

“Aren’t you getting better at this?” she asked, still startled.

Adrian nodded as he lowered her gently onto the bed.

“The more I use a spell, the better my control becomes,” he explained. “For now, basic spells are no problem. But large-scale magic and complex formations… those are still beyond my reach.”

Raven opened her arms, and the moment he lay beside her, she wrapped herself around him once more.

Feeling his warmth so close, she let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” she murmured, “until I had you back beside me.”

Adrian dipped his head and pressed a soft peck to her lips.

“I’m here now,” he whispered, “to make up for it.”

Raven held his gaze for a heartbeat longer—then leaned in and kissed him.

Their lips met in a gentle, lingering embrace, savoring the closeness they had been denied for far too long. It was unhurried, soothing, familiar.

The faint heat of the candle in the room paled in comparison to the warmth blooming between them.

And in that moment—his thoughts narrowed to the woman in his arms—Adrian never once thought to check the Dimensional Group Chat.

Had he done so, he would have returned to his world instantly.

But for now… nothing else existed.

…

Crackle—

Thunder rolled across the battlefield as Annabelle found herself facing beings unlike any enemy she had slaughtered before.

They were inhumane—nearly identical in appearance. Red skin stretched tight over warped frames, dark veins bulging violently beneath the surface, and hollow crimson eyes locked onto her with a singular intent: eradication.

She had been fighting them for nearly twenty minutes.

Yet there was no end in sight.

Her formless sword rested at her waist as she scanned the battlefield, searching for the sorcerer controlling them. If someone was directing this tide, cutting the head would be far more efficient than carving through the body.

But the chance never came.

One of the creatures launched itself at her, its speed surging unnaturally midair. A massive fist tore through the rain, aimed straight for Annabelle’s face.

The raven-haired woman snickered.

She pivoted lightly on her heel.

The monster sailed past her—and landed behind her.

A clean arc flashed.

Dhak.

The creature split cleanly in two. Its upper body crashed to the ground while its lower half remained standing, twitching for a brief, unnatural moment.

Then came the part she was already too familiar with.

Muscle fibers writhed. Bones extended. Skin crawled and stitched itself anew.

From the severed halves, flesh bloomed.

A torso formed where none existed. A pair of legs jutted out from the upper half.

In the span of a breath, one monster had become two.

Annabelle exhaled slowly, her grip tightening.

So that was how they multiplied.

Crackle—

Lightning split the sky as Annabelle moved.

She didn’t draw the blade.

The first creature lunged. She stepped inside its reach and drove her elbow into its throat. Cartilage collapsed. The impact lifted it off the ground before she twisted, seized its wrist, and slammed it headfirst into the mud hard enough to crater the earth.

Before it could regenerate, her heel came down.

Boom.

The skull burst. Not split—crushed.

She flowed into the next.

A red blur rushed her flank. Annabelle ducked low, swept its legs, and pivoted with the motion, her knee slamming into its spine. The creature folded backward unnaturally. She grabbed its head mid-fall and smashed it into another charging body.

Two went down.

A third leapt from above.

Annabelle glanced up, eyes cold. She snapped her blade.

The air detonated.

The creature was hurled sideways, slammed into a broken rock, and embedded halfway through stone. Its limbs twitched uselessly.

Good.

As long as she didn’t cut them.

They came faster now—four, six, then more. Identical bodies. Identical hunger. The battlefield churned under their feet as Annabelle became a storm moving against the current.

She used momentum. Used mass. Used precision.

A punch to the temple. A palm strike to the sternum that liquefied organs. A throw that snapped necks against the ground. She ripped arms from sockets and used them as bludgeons, pulverizing skulls instead of slicing through flesh.

Every kill was deliberate.

Every movement final.

Still, they kept coming.

Thunder roared again as one managed to grab her cloak. Annabelle twisted, letting the fabric tear, and drove her forearm through its jaw. Bone splintered. She wrenched free, spun, and kicked another clean off its feet—sending it crashing into two more.

Bodies piled.

Regeneration slowed when they were reduced to paste.

So she kept breaking them.

Minutes blurred. Her breath stayed steady, but irritation crept in. Not exhaustion—inefficiency.

Then one slipped through.

A feint. Crude, but timed.

She crushed the first, stepped forward—and felt it.

A sharp burn across her ribs.

Annabelle hissed and leapt back as claws tore free, her blood splashing onto the mud. The wound was shallow, barely more than torn flesh, but it was enough.

Enough to annoy her.

Enough to force thought how she could end this soon.

The creatures recoiled slightly, reacting to the scent. Their hollow eyes flickered. Interest sharpened.

Annabelle straightened slowly, pressing two fingers to the wound. Warm.

“Tch.”

She stared at them now—not as enemies to be killed, but as a problem to be solved.

Slashing multiplied them. Crushing slowed them. But they adapted. Numbers would win eventually—not through strength, but through persistence.

She glanced at her sword.

Then away.

No cutting.

Burning? Maybe. Complete annihilation. Or—

Her eyes lifted, tracking the dark clouds, the thunder still rolling overhead.

Or the source.

There had to be one.

Annabelle clenched her fist, blood dripping from her side as the monsters began to circle again, more cautious now.

Her lips curved—not in amusement, but resolve.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Time to smell some burnt meat.”

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