Murrchel Academy, Kamora Site
Kamurine otherwordly ship stood upright in the ruined academy's center devouring the trademark tomb of murrchel, the ship was stanidng on the soil like a grand sword piercing the ground benasth with force.
And it's metallic exterior reflected the low moonlight through the wall. Few small shaped violet light flickering in it's hull, the eerie light casting a ghostly purple color all over the murrchel broken campus.
Even from long distance the ship could seen, instead of the tomb of murrchel, the ship is a reminder to humanity, that they're in endgame.
Murrchel Magic Academy, once alive and revelry with students, now silent like ghost graveyard. The banner of empire that used to hung on the front of academy is now torn and brned, and the very countryard is now dead soil.
Principal Luewon Rodger had already left, along with the last of the faculty. What remained was only the echo of human civilization—and the Kamurine's shadow upon it.
Every whisper across the continent now spoke the same dread: Doomsday is near.
Humanity had lost its power, its leaders, and its hope.
The Tournament of Survival—the so-called "divine contest" that would decide Earth's fate—was nothing more than a stalling game, a ritual before extinction.
Around the fallen ship, a dozen shadows crept through the wreckage. Those shadows moved with extreme stealth and silence, even the footsteps is left no sound.
Wearing dark ninja costume a black belt in waist, their faces hidden behind a half mask, on there back katana rested, they slowly move towards the kamora site, appearing as ghosts wanting revenge.
The Kamurine guards had little time to react before the first sword hit its mark.
A steel whisper cut the air—then a head rolled, green blood spattering against alien alloy.
sharp bursts. But by the time the guards turned, the assassins had already vanished into the dark.
Five—six—seven bodies fell before the Kamurine realized they were under siege.
The ninjas leapt over corpses, landing light as shadows. They glided around the ship's hull toward its main gate, their movements so precise it seemed even time itself paused to watch them work.
71 Logun Street, Lord Vaskho Town.
After two days of travel, Abraham finally secured a room. It was small and colorless: an off-white single bed, an old fan creaking above, one closet, one door—no windows. A cage, but a clean one. He dropped his luggage by the bed and exhaled.
"The receptionist was an elf," he muttered. "So the rumor woas true, the Eldritch races are the one running human towns now… Guess the arrow hit the bulls eye."
The Eldritch—elves, ogres, dwarves, goblins—had all risen since the invasion. They filled the cracks left by human ruin, rebuilding the ashes with their own rules.
Abraham hurridly rush to washroom. It's too time consuming so he decided to, just spalsh water on his face to fresh himself from the journey. Changing his dusty overcoat with a clean, fresh white shirt and matching pant.
Pulled out a notebook from his luggage he lay down to his single whitish bed. In the first page was filled with the name Joel, written repeatedly in a messy hand. Seeing it made his throat constrict.
He turned few pages with pace, looking for a blank page on the notebook. After few page turned he find a blank page, then he firmly pressed his hand onto the blank page. Thoughts scattered in his head like sparks from broken wires.
Notebook Entry:
Likely Lorchen
Ways to counter Kamurine magic:
1) Shorfian Sacred Artifacts — lost relics rumored to nullify alien energy.
2) Shorfian Secret Art — "Shormancy" — forbidden magic arts kept sealed for centuries, now humanity's last chance.
3)Beast Tamers — those with at least two or three tamed beasts. It could be anyone, but those with more strong attack tamer have to be the first priority.
Counter their magic means understanding it. We still know nothing of their true nature.
Elsewhere, inside the capital's Golden Council Room
"4)Counter their magic means understanding it. We still know nothing of their true nature, and that's why i personally send few specialist" a brown-haired man said while adjusting his shimmering glasses.
He wore a tailored black suit, polished boots, and a calculating smile. The man sat before a vast golden table covered in papers, maps, and five open telephones lined in a row. A nameplate before him read:
Mr. Honfier Jack
Sect of Following Land, CEO of Green Vaskho Industries.
Five distant voices echoed through the phones- The kings.
"Jack," one voice rasped through the static, "I personally like all point and agree with it,you have full authority to prepare the counter-strategy. Secure what's left of the Shorfian magic. Make them agree to our terms."
Another voice added, mocking but admiring, "You've always been the best at making people say yes, Jack."
On the sixth golden chair seated Principle Luewon Rodger , The head of Murrchel Academy. His long white mustache shake as he spoke.
"Mr. Jack, if i not distrub you, would you please kindly tell me why i'm here?"
Jack pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His smirk widened, the kind that promised either salvation or treachery.
"To win, old man," he said smoothly. "To perfectly demolish the Kamurine… we'll just have to cheat."
He leaned forward, voice dripping with quiet conviction.
"The best way to win a duel or argument is to make sure your opponent never realizes they've lost or defeated. The late they realize the more benfictial it gets for you, for us. We'll bleed them slowly—through exhaustion, through illusions, through the Weaver's Veil."
Back in Vaskho
Abraham paused his writing.
"The Weaver's Veil… it existed in my past life," he murmured. "A forbidden art that transfers an enemy's aura and stamina tcaster. But it took at least eight strong long-range mages to channel it. Principal Rodger might've been one of them…"
He shut the notebook a beautifull smile play out on his face, reveling he indeed hit the main point in note book, and stood upright. Pull out a sand-colored overcoat and black hat from his luggage, he whispered to himself as if someone else hearing inside this cube shape room, "Time to get hunted."
System popped out in thin air
[Beast Taming Progress — Lil Nefiham: 72%]
Abrham ignored system like he never awaken the ability to see the blue screen of system like every other mundane.
The inn was nearly empty. Chairs overturned, doors open, no guards, no life. The elf receptionist had vanished, leaving only the dim glow of a half-lit chandelier. The world was ending—no one cared for rules anymore.
As he stepped into the cold street, a stray thought hit him 'Mr. Honfier didn't asked me for advance rent fee.'
He almost smiled.
1:00 A.M. — Thermo Street, Lord Vaskho Town
On the night in this kind of street was harsh and cruel for normal civilian. Streets were sequezzed passages between old buildings, the buildings were lay low as if those were tired of all the commotion humanity going through.
Thermo Street, one of those street that belongs to thug. And now in this dooms, this street is also sounded like sage.
But the slience is more scarier than regular hassle, this street was never a safe road for walk, specifically for abroad visitors or the civilians; it was where the foolish and drunken meet and do all the stuff, and predators disguised as people stalked their prey.
Abraham walked it anyway.
In his hand, three poker cards spun between his fingers—each move precise, deliberate, a silent rhythm to keep his senses sharp. The moonlight barely touched him, and the air smelled of rain and iron.
Then came the footsteps.
Soft at first, then louder—seven sets, circling him like wolves.
He slightly smile, licking his lips, tilting his black hat just slightly. "Here comes the bad guys of the story," he murmured.
Seven shadows lunged from the dark. They moved fast, blades flashing. Abraham didn't flinch. He raised his arms in a lazy T-pose, head tilted as if mocking the night itself.
The moon broke through a cloud—and its pale light revealed them.
Ogres. Horns curved backward like iron thorns, eyes burning yellow beneath cloaks soaked in blood. The stench of rot hung on their weapons.
They hesitated. The man before them looked unarmed, careless. Yet something in his calm unsettled them.
One finally snapped and charged, roaring, blade raised high.
Abraham whispered, almost lovingly: "Here comes the hero of the story… oh wait—sorry."
A blue flash split the air.
In that instant, time fractured.
The attacker froze mid-swing, his body severed clean in half. The flash solidified into form—a tall elf, golden-haired, her long ears glinting beneath the hood of a dusty cloak. A blade of blue mana shimmered in her hand, runes glowing across its length, a single sapphire flower hanging from the hilt.
She exhaled sharply. The ogres didn't hesitate now—they all rushed in at once.
Six attacks from six directions.
Another blue flare.
A step, a flash of blue light in thin air, then quiet.
When things cleared, all six ogres were either split open, out cold, or dead. Their blood sizzled on the stones.
Abraham hadn't move from his earlier place, his hands still up in the 'T' postion, his expression was calm and childish as if kid watchin his favourite hero to fight.
Then he move his arm finaly to clap for his hero or heroine.
The elf turned, her cloak moved with her movement. As she turned fast the cloak fell off her shoulders, and in the dark street and in dim moonlight her apparence reflect in Abraham eyes.