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... he capital like wildfire.

Inside The Mcronald, the once-rowdy chatter of the lunchtime crowd had turned into a low, reverent buzz. The restaurant no longer felt like a place to just eat—it felt like a battlefield’s aftermath. Cernan Vellmont’s blood had been cleaned off the cobbles outside, but the mark he left—both metaphorically and literally—lingered in the air.

Inigo wiped down the counter, the smell of seared beef clinging to the air as grease popped on the skillet. Lyra pas ...

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Until he became the lowest-ranked master, his lonely and luckless life never changed.

Suddenly one day, a descendant injected him with a nanomachine, and the machine started ‘speaking’ to him.

[I am the seventh generation Nanomachine manufactured by Sky Cooperation, and I am operating as a central nerve connected to your brain.]

“What? What are you talking about?”

This was beyond the boy’s knowledge, he turned pale.

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[“I am the seventh generation Nanomachine.]

“Nano Mashin?”

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The boy’s face hardened.

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“Um, are you really Mashin?”

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