The guild smelled of iron and damp leather. Frieren sat near the wall, hood low, watching adventurers come and go as she always had. Time passed. It usually did. The Dragon Lord’s reign was something people spoke of in tense whispers, but to her it sounded distant—another cycle, another name.

Then the doors creaked open.

Several adventurers staggered inside, boots leaving dark trails on the floor. One collapsed outright. Another leaned against the wall, laughing weakly as if the pain hadn’t reached him yet. Frieren’s eyes lifted, narrowing just a fraction as she took in the wounds—burns layered over claw marks, magic scars still humming faintly.

“Front lines?” she asked, her voice calm, almost bored.

“Gone,” one of them muttered. “Not pushed back. Gone. Dragon warriors everywhere… three times as many as the last reign 500 years ago. Whole nations fighting just to hold roads.”

Frieren was silent. Memories stirred—of past Dragon people, of battles that had once felt absolute. This felt heavier. Denser.

She rose from her seat, staff resting in her hand like an old habit. Her expression didn’t change, but her decision had already been made.

“So it really is that bad,” she said quietly.

Outside, the world was already at war. Frieren stepped into it, unhurried as ever, walking toward the front lines as if answering a call that had waited centuries for her to notice.