Bruxa, Bolas de Fogo e o Deus Maligno do Vapor
Ao atravessar para um mundo onde o ocultismo e a indústria do vapor coexistem, objetos amaldiçoados, a Agência de Contenção, o fanatismo dos deuses malignos... Naquele ano, o rei estava gravemente doente, o sucessor era jovem e inexperiente, o poder estava disperso, e o império balançava sob ventos de tempestade. Naquele ano, no exterior do império, grandes eventos aconteciam e civilizações estrangeiras observavam com cobiça. Naquele ano, o profeta trouxe uma profecia: a era da civilização estava prestes a chegar ao fim. Naquele ano, Ethan chegou a uma pequena cidade na fronteira da capital imperial e, para sobreviver nesta era repleta de perigos, começou a praticar a magia da bola de fogo. Anos depois, Ethan observou um meteoro caindo das nuvens e percebeu um problema. A magia básica que ele aprendeu parecia não estar certa. (Já com mais de dez milhões de palavras e obras concluídas, sem registros de abandono, estilo invencível, leve e sem tragédia, garantia de finalização — pode consumir sem preocupações~)
Bruxa, Bolas de Fogo e o Deus Maligno do Vapor
‘Your proficiency in Fireball has reached its maximum level.’
The last flicker of flame extinguished, and at last, a look of satisfaction appeared on the face of the young man with ashen hair seated at his desk.
This was Ethan’s second year in this world, and for two years, he had devoted himself to a single pursuit—mastering the Fireball spell.
Four thousand and fifteen prayers, sixteen thousand and sixty castings, and finally, his proficiency in Fireball had reached the pinnacle of perfection.
But soon, Ethan’s smile faded. Compared to others, he was now merely a little more adept at Fireball, the most rudimentary of spells.
Beyond this window lay ancient gods awakening, new deities ascending, and their formidable followers; Ethan had no wish to become entangled with those frenzied beings.
This world was fraught with peril, and the road ahead was long.
Ethan lit the gas lamp in his room. Papers were stacked upon the desk, the topmost being a notice issued by the guild a few days prior.
‘Bounty Target: Werewolf. Estimated Danger Level: Tier One.’
The commission came from Mrs. Royce of the town. A few days ago, her husband had taken a hunting rifle and gone into the woods, never to return. When the guild assembled a search party, they found his half-devoured corpse; the chest cavity had been cleaved open, and the assailant had swallowed his heart.
All evidence pointed to a werewolf—a creature born of failed ascension by worshippers of the goddess of the hunt, reduced to mindless monsters who devoured hearts.
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