There were no clouds in the sky.
Strange. The sky was not usually clear before a battle this big. But tonight they were shining—cold, silent, as if they didn't know what was happening below. Or did, and didn't care.
Wulfric was running.
The sound of his shoes on the stone floor echoed in the old corridor. Behind him came the torchlight—and with that light came the footsteps of hundreds of people, their anger, their fear, their greed. All of it forming a wave that was coming to swallow him up.
But Wulfric wasn't afraid.
He was counting.
Twenty-five steps. Turn left. Then the stairs. Down into the old hall. There, under the third stone of the floor...
A faint line appeared at the corner of his mouth. It couldn't be called a smile. It could be called—satisfaction.
The corridor ended. Wulfric turned left. As he descended the stairs, he looked back once—the torchlight was still far away, but approaching. People who know him, who fear him, and who want to kill him out of that fear are coming after him.
The anger born of fear is the most dangerous.
He had learned this many years ago. When he himself was young. When he himself had anger, fear, dreams.
Now there is nothing left.
There is only a goal.
He stopped at the Hall.
A large room. It had once been part of a palace, perhaps—high ceilings, broken pillars, moss-covered floors. Wulfric had chosen it for many reasons. The main reason—it was at the bottom of this hall, under the third stone in the floor, where he had set his trap.
Three months ago.
He stood in the middle of the floor. He closed his eyes for a moment. A wave of energy surged from his Mana Heart—invisible, silent. He felt every trigger point embedded in the floor. One hundred and twelve. All was well.
Good.
Then he moved away a little. He stood in a corner of the Hall, behind a broken pillar.
And waited.
They came in droves.
First came the previous group—about fifty. Some of them were Wulfric's acquaintances. Old enemies. Men who had once fought shoulder to shoulder with him, then turned back in fear when they realized how far he could go.
More were coming after them. A hundred. Two hundred.
More than three hundred.
So many people had come to kill one man. It was a recognition—a recognition of how dangerous he was.
Wulfric took it as a compliment.
They spread out in the middle of the hall. Some raised torches. The light filled the room.
"Where is he?" — one shouted.
"He entered this hall."
"Hidden. Search."
Wulfric watched from behind the pillar. His gaze was calm, observant. He was counting—how many were in the trigger zone of the floor, how many were still outside, how many were coming.
A little more. A little more.
Then it happened.
Another group entered from outside — they were late, walking quickly. As they entered, the density inside the hall exceeded a certain limit.
Wulfric's fingers moved slightly.
Just slightly.
At first there was no sound.
Then the floor shook.
A roar rose from beneath the ground — deep, visceral, like the anger of the earth itself. The trigger points activated simultaneously. A blast of mana so great that stones began to fall from the ceiling of the hall.
Then came the light.
Blue-white light. The light of ice magic. Wulfric's favorite color — cold, ruthless, beautiful.
Before the people knew it, everything was over.
The blast wave threw them against the wall. Screams erupted — in a thousand different voices, in different languages, but with the same meaning. Panic.
Wulfric stood behind the pillar. His own Ice Barrier surrounded him — already.
The dust began to settle.
When it was all over, only a few people were standing in the hall. Most were on the floor. Not moving.
Wulfric emerged from behind the pillar.
His clothes were bloody — but it wasn't his own blood. It was dusty. There was a cut on his cheek — a memory of a previous fight. Black under his eyes. He had fought, run, planned for a long time. His body was tired.
But in his eyes?
There was nothing in his eyes.
No fear. No anger. No sadness.
Just a calm gaze — as if he were watching the results of an experiment.
"Three hundred and twelve." He calculated in his mind. "Let's say ten got out. Three hundred and two. I thought three hundred and fifteen. Thirteen less. Next time we'll have to give a little more coverage in a trap like this."
The survivors began to stand up. Wounded, angry, but still fighting spirited.
One of them stepped forward — tall, strong, with old scars on his face. 5 Star Magician. Wulfric knew him. Gregor. They had once studied under the same master.
"Wulfric." Gregor's voice was heavy. "It's over. Can't you see? So many people..."
"Two hundred and ninety-seven." Wulfric said quietly.
Gregor paused. "What?"
"Two hundred and ninety-seven. That's how many people were in my trap. You didn't ask, but you meant to say 'so many people died.' So I gave you the number."
Gregor's face hardened. "You... don't you have any regrets?"
Wulfric tilted his head slightly. He thought seriously about the question. Then he said: "No."
"Grimoire." Gregor's voice changed. It didn't soften — but a desperate note came. "Give us the Grimoire. Just that. You won't be chased anymore."
Wulfric didn't smile. But something came into his eyes — a hint of amusement, perhaps.
He reached for his chest. There, inside his robes, was a book. Old, leather-bound, black. The cover was unwritten. But whoever held it knew — every page of this book was Wulfric's eight hundred years of research.
The deepest secret of magic.
What he was seeking — the formula of creation, the source of magic, the true nature of Mana. He had reached its threshold. Just a little bit.
But before he could, they had come.
"Grimoire." Gregor said again. Mana began to gather in his hands.
Wulfric took out the Grimoire.
He stood with it in his hands for a moment. His fingers brushed the cover once.
Eight hundred years.
How many people had passed. How many nights had passed. How many times had he thought this would happen, this would happen. How many times had he failed. How many times had he had to stand up.
And now, at last, when he had almost reached—
"So many innocent people died to write your Grimoire."
Another voice—from behind. Someone new had come.
"So you have no right to live anymore."
Wulfric didn't turn around.
He knew this would come. He had heard this argument over and over—from different voices, at different times. It had never swayed him. It would never sway him.
But they weren't wrong.
He knew innocent people had died. He knew his path was covered in blood. He had never denied it.
He just didn't think it was a reason to stop him.
Wulfric placed both hands on the Grimoire.
Gregor shouted: "No!"
But it was too late.
Wulfric's Mana entered the book through his hands — all at once, with all his strength. It was a special technique. The Grimoire destruction seal. He had created it years ago — just for this moment.
The book began to glow from within.
Blue light. Then white. Then nothing.
Gregor's Mana surged out of his hands to attack — but he stopped. He just stood there. Frustration, anger, betrayal all twisted his face.
"Why?" he asked. The pain of genuine incomprehension in his voice. "Why destroy it? All these years of work..."
Wulfric took the Grimoire's ashes in his hands. Cold ashes.
"Because," he said, "it's better not to have it than to give it to you."
What happened next was quick.
At Gregor's signal, they all attacked together. Wulfric fought—but he knew it was the last fight. There was almost no Mana left in his body. An eight-hundred-year-old body, the decay of years. How long would he stand?
A blow.
Then another.
He fell to the floor.
He stood up.
He fell again.
But there was no fear in his eyes.
That was the strangest thing—the people standing around him felt uneasy looking at those eyes. There shouldn't be so much peace in the eyes of a dying man.
At the last moment, Wulfric lay down.
Looking up at the ceiling.
They were leaning, but he couldn't see anymore.
He thought.
If only I had found it. The source of Mana. The true essence of magic. If only I had had a little more time...
This should have been the last thought of a wasted life.
But from somewhere came a strange certainty.
This time I would do it right.
Where did this thought come from? He didn't know. But it came.
And then all was darkness.
First the smell.
The smell of earth. The smell of burnt wood. And another smell — the smell of human sweat, the smell of cooking, the smell of poverty.
Then the sounds.
Somewhere someone is arguing. Somewhere a child is crying. In the distance a dog barks.
Then the feeling.
The hard floor. Thin cloth. Cold air.
Wulfric opened his eyes.
The roof. The earthen roof, cracked, mossy. The morning light was coming through a small window.
He lay for a while.
No panic. No confusion. He slowly assessed his condition — the way a physician looks at a patient.
The body is small. The arms are thin. The muscles are weak.
He sat up.
He looked around.
A small room. A few more people were sleeping in the corner — children, teenagers. Their clothes were dirty, torn. The noise from outside was coming through a crack in the wall.
Wulfric got up and went to the door. He opened the door and looked outside.
A slum.
Small houses, one next to another. Narrow streets. Mud floors. People are just waking up — some are fetching water, some are lighting fires.
Wulfric's gaze wandered this way and that. Then it stopped.
Familiar.
He knows this slum. He knows this bend in the road. He knows that distant tower.
Dang city.
This is where he… he lived as a child.
That means—
Wulfric looked at his own hand. A fifteen-year-old hand. The bones are visible, the veins are visible, but there is no strength.
He checked his Mana Heart.
1 Star (Initial). Water Element.
So small.
When he was this age in his previous life, he had been this old. 1 Star. A dot — small, trembling, barely born. How far had he come from that dot in eight hundred years.
And now that beginning again.
But this time the only difference was — this time he knew where to go.
"This time properly."
At that moment, there was a movement at the mouth of the alley.
The sound of a horse-drawn carriage. The noise of people. The people of the slum began to gather to one side.
Wulfric raised his head.
A boy ran past and said: "The Voss family has arrived! The wizard is looking for the child!"
Wulfric stopped.
Voss.
Viscount Aldric Voss.
He knew this name. He knew this man — or would know him, in this life. He knew who Aldric was, he knew what Aldric did, he knew every secret of Voss Mansion.
And he knew about this day.
This was the day — the day Aldric's men came and took him. This was the beginning.
Wulfric now had eight hundred years of experience behind him. He knew where what was, who was whose enemy, when which family rose and fell, what he would find wherever he went.
But first of all, he knew — what Aldric was.
This boy standing there with the body of a fifteen-year-old.
Wulfric tidied up his torn clothes a little. He wiped the dust from his face with his hand. Then he started walking towards the crowd.
There was no emotion on his face.
Just one thought running through his mind — calm, steady, unwavering.
This time.
This time properly.