The crimson sky hung like a wound—the sun a swollen, blackened coin nailed to the heavens, bleeding
sickly light across the horizon. Time had no purchase here. Minutes stretched like old rope, fraying
at the edges.
This world was not Gekkai.
I trained beneath my teacher's watchful gaze. She saw every muscle's movement, catalogued each
wasted motion, and guided me toward perfection. Her eyes missed nothing.
Include Touki.
Her reaction to it was... amusement. Curiosity, even. With each sword technique I demonstrated, she
dissected its advantages and flaws with surgical precision.
Sword God—the speed it demanded. Swift ends. But in a battle of attrition? A death sentence.
Water God—the defensive posture. Impenetrable. Until the enemy catches you off guard.
North God—the adaptive fight stance. Fluid. Responsive. But against overwhelming offense?
Crushed.
When I asked which was her favorite, she went silent. A minute passed. Two. Her eyes grew distant,
as though she were sifting through memories buried centuries deep.
"Each serves a purpose," she finally said. "To choose one would be unwise."
She told me to master the basics of each—then forge my own technique from the pieces.
So I did.
First came the Sword God: heavy vertical swings followed by horizontal cuts, each repeated
hundreds of times until my arms screamed and my grip turned to iron.
Then the Water God: all about stance, about roots. She ordered me to stand still, mind clear,
for nearly an hour while she hurled stones at me. Each one demanded my defensive instinct answer. By
the end, my body was a canvas of bruises.
As for the North God—that was sparring. No magic. Just swords. Just her relentless, merciless
blade carving lessons into my flesh.
I lay on dead grass, chest heaving, back pressed to the earth. Teacher stood nearby, inspecting her
nearly-broken student with something that might have been satisfaction.
"Enough." She rose in a slow, deliberate motion. "Rest. Heal your wounds before the test."
Cold slid down my spine. "Understood, Teacher... what kind of test?"
I cast healing magic, warmth flooding through me as wounds knitted shut and bruises faded.
"Good." She pointed toward a jagged spike on the horizon—a mountain that tore the sky like a fang.
"Your test lies there."
My stomach dropped. The monolith was half the size of Mount Fuji, miles away across barren
wasteland.
"You will run there, lap its perimeter, and return. You may not fight anything you meet." Her voice
was ice. "Run... or die."
My muscles went rigid. "Teacher, what happens if I die?"
Her smile widened—sharp, amused. "Do not worry. I will be watching."
I forced a breath, stretched my calves, and mapped the terrain with my eyes.
This was not a jog. This was a gauntlet.
"Teacher, please don't let me get eaten."
The words were more to steady myself than to plead. Then I exploded forward.
I tore through the front gates, breath measured, legs a metronome. The manor fell away, and a murky
swamp rose to meet me—air thick with rot, trees like grasping fingers.
I funneled mana into my boots. The mire froze beneath me, a glittering ribbon of ice. I ran across
it without losing speed.
Back at the manor, Scáthach watched the frost cut through the gloom. Surprise flickered across her
face—then a proud, dangerous smirk.
"His mana control is sharper than I thought," she murmured. "Perhaps he is ready."
The land turned hostile. Humidity clung to my throat like a hand. I dropped from a five-story ledge,
gravity magic softening the fall before my boots hit cracked earth.
The ground answered.
Skeletal hands—bone claws—tore up from the soil with a hatred that smelled of old graves.
I didn't give them time. I poured Touki into my legs and became a blur. To the undead, I was a
phantom—a streak of motion they could not touch.
Above, Scáthach tracked every step. "Speed. Precision. Cold calculation." Her voice was wind. "My
student is a monster. Let us test his reflexes."
A labyrinth of stone pillars swallowed the battlefield. Lightning magic meant nothing against hollow
bone.
I vaulted—a gust of wind slammed into me, sending me backward into waiting hands. I cursed, wind
magic snapping me free.
Flying felt like a mistake. Trial is a test after all.
I hit the ground and moved like a living weapon—earth dagger in hand, senses razor-sharp. An undead
soldier swung a rusted blade at my spine. I parried, used the block to launch myself, kicked off a
pillar, and kept the rhythm.
Mistake after mistake taught me the course. By the fourth run, I flowed through it.
Scáthach's voice was a scalpel. "His reaction time could be faster, but his magic covers the gap.
His judgment is absurd for his age... as if he were forged in trenches."
The terrain shifted—a graveyard of bones, a sand sea littered with the skeletons of titans. Each
step sank. Speed bled away.
I paused on the skull of a dead dragon and tossed a stone.
The sand answered.
A monstrous eruption—a behemoth the size of a bus, a maw that could swallow a cart whole.
Spikes blocked the path. The only way forward was across bone-strewn sand, requiring leaps that felt
impossible.
I lightened my gravity, summoned wind, and launched.
Midair, something transparent dove at me—an invisible predator my detection magic could not see.
Scáthach's spear drove through the phantom with a sound like grinding glass. The creature
disintegrated into nothing.
If she had not intervened, I would be dead.
Anger flared—hot and sharp. The phantom revealed itself only when it struck.
I planted my feet, raised a wall of earth, and sprinted with my eyes on the sky. One hand whipped up
a sandstorm; the other propelled me forward.
The sand worm sensed the vibration and breached—a whale of hate rising from the dunes.
I spun midair, a vortex of wind tearing at the flyer's balance. It faltered. Fell. Right into the
worm's waiting jaws.
There—a gap in the stone wall ahead. I poured the last of my energy into a final burst.
My boots slammed into solid ground. I scrambled through the narrow opening—lungs burning, heart
hammering, alive.
Behind me, the crimson sky watched. And somewhere in the distance, my teacher smiled.
The chasm split the world for kilometers—a raw, jagged wound in the earth that left me oscillating
between breathless awe and sheer terror. No monsters clawed their way out of the abyss, at least not
yet, but a cold, phantom finger traced my spine with every step, whispering of the dangers waiting
in the dark.
For thirty agonizing minutes, I picked my way toward the far edge. When I finally reached it, the
path ahead smoothed out, cutting straight toward the towering silhouette of the mountain. I kept my
eyes moving, hyper-aware. Behind me was nothing but a sheer, inescapable cliff face. Forward was the
only option, straight into the jaws of the unknown. Anxiety pooled in my stomach, heavy as lead.
Then, the earth groaned.
At first, it was a faint vibration beneath my boots—a subtle heartbeat in the stone. Within seconds,
the tremor escalated into a violent, churning quake that shattered my balance. I fell to one knee as
the horizon warped. The massive peak ahead wasn't just shaking; it was lifting. Rocks cascaded
like waterfalls as the mountain tore itself from the earth, and then, out of the swirling dust, they
found me:
Two colossal, crimson eyes.
Dark, unblinking, and locked entirely onto my fragile frame.
Did Teacher send me here to die? The thought screamed through my mind, frantic and deafening. The
creature wasn't just scaling the mountain—it was the mountain.
A sudden, piercing ring lanced through my skull. I clapped my hands over my ears, grimacing as the
agonizing pitch gradually softened, reshaping itself into a resonant cadence that vibrated in my
chest rather than my ears.
"The world of shadow has no welcome for the living," the voice boomed. It was feminine, yet heavy
with the weight of millennia. "It is the sanctuary where the dead accept their end."
The titan lowered its head a fraction, the movement shifting tons of earth. "Yet, you are no
stranger to death, living one. Death spares those anchored by purpose, but you... you still drift,
blind to your place in this world."
It leaned down further until its massive visage nearly touched the dirt before me. I stood utterly
paralyzed, breath trapped in my throat, staring into the crimson abyss of its gaze.
"You march forward with your eyes closed," the beast rumbled, its breath a gale-force wind. "Fear
clouds your vision—fear of what has been, and fear of what is to come. No power, not even that of
the gods, can burn away that fear. Tell me: why do you seek strength just to fill a bottomless
pit?"
I choked on my own breath. My fists clenched so tightly my knuckles turned white, but my throat
remained locked. I had no answer.
With a slow, heavy exhale that felt like disappointment made manifest, the beast turned away. It
sank back into the earth, melting into the landscape as it returned to its ancient slumber.
"She always did have a remarkably sharp tongue," a voice purred beside me.
Scáthach.
Her voice was a soft contrast to the titan's roar, yet it held an undeniable, commanding gravity.
She stepped into view, reaching out to stroke my hair. The tenderness of her touch felt like a
mother's comfort, entirely at odds with the lethal aura she usually projected.
"Teacher..." I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. "Is there a way to actually erase fear?"
"And why would you ever want to do that?" she replied, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"Only fools live without fear. Even the divine know terror, my student. Do not let an old woman's
riddles dictate your stride—remember your training. Besides, fufu... what you seek will only make
the trials ahead that much sweeter."
A different kind of chill raced down my spine. I looked up into the captivating, dangerous eyes of
my mentor and forced a fragile, wry smile.
"I understand, Teacher. Please... just don't try to get me killed."
====x====
Day after day, Scáthach made her student's life a living hell.
She watched him like a hawk, analyzing every stumble, hitch, and hesitation as he traversed her
brutal trials. The moment she mapped his weaknesses, she weaponized them, subjecting him to a regime
of training he hadn't even thought possible.
On that first horrific day, she stripped away his magic and threw him bare-handed into a churning
horde of the undead. Forced to fight like a gladiator in a blood-soaked arena, he hacked and slashed
for a grueling, unending day until his muscles utterly failed him. When the onslaught finally
paused, his veins pulsed with white-hot agony. It felt as though his very cells were on the verge of
detonating.
This vicious cycle became his reality for nearly two months. The moment a task began to feel even
remotely manageable, she ruthlessly cranked up the stakes. The mindless undead, whose clumsy
movements he had slowly learned to predict, evolved. They grew cunning, adapting their tactics,
while their rusted gear was replaced with sturdy, razor-sharp steel.
She's trying to kill me.
The thought constantly echoed in Oberon's mind whenever he collapsed onto the ash-stained sand. Yet,
beneath the absolute exhaustion, a strange contradiction bloomed.
No pain, no gain. She's cruel, relentless... but strangely, I feel safe.
Even in the rare moments of quiet, her heavy, omnipresent gaze pressed against his skin. Scáthach,
the legendary Queen of the Land of Shadows, was always watching—calculating his progress, searching
for the exact fracture point to shatter the boundaries he thought defined him. He knew her absolute
authority over this realm; the very moment he surpassed a perceived limit, the undead hordes would
instantly retreat on her unspoken command.
You never know your true limits until they are tested to the breaking point, over and over.
Dragging oxygen into his burning lungs, Oberon waited until a fraction of his strength returned—just
enough to force his trembling legs to stand.
Then, a sensation hit him—something he hadn't felt since the day he first set foot in this bleak,
desolate realm.
His eyes widened. "Nature energy...?" he muttered aloud.
Tracing the phantom thread, his eyes locked onto a sprawling, skeletal forest of dead trees. Driven
by pure instinct, he staggered forward. Strangely, the oppressive presence of the undead had
completely vanished from the area.
As he ventured deeper, a familiar warmth washed over him, reminiscent of the ancient elf forests.
With every slow, deliberate step, the decay began to recede. The gnarled, dead bark took on a
subtle, vibrant hue.
Then, with one final step, reality inverted.
The oppressive gloom vanished, replaced by an impossibly bright, living woodland. The melodic song
of birds filled the air, a gentle, warm breeze caressed his face, and the scent of something
intoxicatingly sweet filled his lungs. Turning around, Oberon stared in awe. He was looking through
a shifting, glass-like barrier that cleanly divided the vibrant paradise from the stark, dark
wasteland outside.
Driven by overwhelming curiosity, he pressed onward, letting the thick nature energy guide him like
an invisible hand. Maintaining what little vigilance his exhausted mind could muster, he walked for
a few minutes until he stumbled upon a sight that defied all logic.
In the center of a lush, sun-drenched meadow sat a grand table, laden with a feast of sweet pastries
and succulent, roasted meats. The aroma hit Oberon like a physical blow. After months of choking
down the foul, rotted flesh of the undead just to survive, his rational mind fractured. Forgetting
all his training, ignoring the blatant risk of traps or poison, he lunged forward.
A short distance away, entirely unnoticed by the ravenous youth, Scáthach stood in the shadows of
the canopy, watching her student tear into the food like a starving animal. A faint, amused smirk
tugged at the corner of her lips, though it was swiftly chased away by an annoyed frown at how
easily his guard had crumbled.
Turning her gaze toward a secluded alcove in the trees, the Queen of Shadows spoke aloud.
"You spoil him far too much, my lady."
====x====
Gekai
High above the pristine canopy of the Alf Forest sat the grand castle of the King. On the
surface, the capital breathed an air of absolute tranquility. Citizens went about their daily
routines leisurely, bathed in the dappled sunlight of their woodland home. Yet, beneath the serene
facade, whispers of dread were spreading. Near the border of Rakkia, those attuned to the wind
could feel a drastic, unsettling shift in the world.
Inside the castle's grand council chamber, the atmosphere was suffocatingly heavy.
The Jarls of the surrounding forests sat around a massive circular table—a historic design meant to
symbolize their equal standing. Apart from them, perched high upon his elevated throne, King
Larfal watched in silence. Before each Jarl lay a fresh intelligence report, hand-delivered by
royal decree.
"This..." Jarl Levos was the first to break the silence, his weathered face hardening into a
grim scowl. "If this report holds true, the war ahead will be unlike anything our people have ever
faced."
The parchment in his hands detailed a terrifying development: an unprecedented volume of magical
materials was being shipped directly from the Empire to Rakkia. Worse still, they weren't even
trying to hide it. The enemy caravans were brazenly using the public trade routes, entirely out in
the open.
Directly across the table sat Jarl Folwin. His expression was solemn, but his tone carried the
smooth, dismissive air of a lifelong politician.
"You give them far too much credit, Levos," Folwin said lightly, waving a manicured hand. "So they
have more magic weapons. What of it? It is likely nothing more than low-tier garbage."
Levos snapped his gaze toward him. To his deep displeasure, a faint, unmistakable smirk played on
Folwin's lips.
"I am not giving credit to our enemy, Folwin," Levos hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous
rumble. "Unlike you, my concern lies with the warriors who will actually bleed on the front lines.
They are the ones who will suffer heavy casualties because of your so-called 'low-tier' magic."
The jab hit its mark. Folwin's smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, defensive scowl. The
air in the room grew thick enough to choke on.
"Why, you—" Folwin started, half-rising from his chair.
"ENOUGH!"
The commanding voice belonged to Hyrmr, who stood like an unyielding statue beside the King's
throne. "We are here to discuss a war, not to bicker like children."
Folwin crossed his arms, sinking back into his seat with a deep, resentful frown.
"As the report states," Hyrmr continued, grounding the room with her steady tone, "the upcoming
conflict will not mirror the past. Magic weapons will flood the vanguard. However, remember that the
Crozzo family—the master artisans behind these armaments—are few in number, despite their gifts.
Forging such power takes time. We still have a window to prepare."
"Is there an estimate?"
The question came from Jarl Beldroth of the Fanache Forest, a towering man with wild, flowing
hair and a massive, muscular frame. He leaned forward, pinning Hyrmr with a sharp gaze. "When do
they march?"
"A year after the harvest season concludes," Hyrmr replied, laying the brutal truth bare.
A heavy silence settled over the circular table. Beldroth's knuckles turned white as his grip
tightened against the edge of the wood.
"I will ready my soldiers," Beldroth said, his voice thick with unspoken weight. He sat back down,
his jaw tightly clenched, clearly swallowing words he chose to withhold.
Next to rise was Jarl Calarel of the Yanite Forest, a realm renowned for its brilliant mages.
Slender and pale, with long, golden hair that swept down to her hips, she commanded the room with
quiet grace.
"I will deploy additional mages to the border," Calarel stated firmly. Then, she paused, her sharp
eyes shifting toward the throne. "However, Lady Hyrmr... my scouts have picked up strange anomalies
lately. Someone—or something—has been actively helping our patrols from the shadows."
The room plunged into a profound silence. Seeing that the King remained tight-lipped, Calarel
pressed on, her tone hardening.
"This is my theory: I believe these events are directly connected to the Black Knight—the one
who single-handedly defeated the One-Eyed Black Dragon."
A collective ripple of tension went through the Jarls at the mention of that name. Ever since the
day the One-Eyed Black Dragon tore across the continent, kingdoms had been desperately searching for
the identity of the mysterious knight who halted the calamity. The only concrete detail recounted by
survivors was that the savior was an elf, marked by long, pointed ears and shimmering silver hair.
Folwin let out a sharp, mocking snort. "A fairy tale spread by the vermin in the lower streets."
"It is unwise to dismiss Guild intelligence so easily, Folwin," Calarel shot back, her gaze turning
ice-cold. "I have personally investigated our borders. Whoever this benefactor is, they have been
secretly repairing our alert barriers and quietly eliminating smugglers along the perimeter. They
leave behind pristine results—and absolutely zero traces. Exactly like the Black Knight."
As the overseer of the forest's magical barriers, Calarel knew the anomalies were real. An invisible
hand was protecting them.
"That matter will be set aside for now," King Larfal finally spoke, his voice cutting through the
debate like a blade. "Whoever they are, their intentions currently align with our survival. Our
immediate focus must remain on the storm gathering at our gates."
The King's eyes hardened as he looked upon his council.
"Levos, Beldroth. I task you both with expanding our ranks and reinforcing our armaments. Focus your
production on heavy shields and defensive vanguard tactics. Our enemy comes bearing magic swords;
you must be the wall they cannot break."
Both Levos and Beldroth rose, bowing in perfect unison. "AT YOUR COMMAND, MY KING!"
King Larfal nodded, turning his gaze toward the remaining two Jarls. "Calarel, Folwin. You will do
the same. Mages and archers will be the vital heart of this coming war. Increase the training
regimens of your vanguard and backline units immediately."
They bowed their assent. With his mandates delivered, the King stood and exited the chamber, Hyrmr
following a half-step behind him.
As the heavy oak doors closed behind the royals, the formal mask of the council shattered. Folwin
was the first to storm out, though not before tossing a look of pure disdain over his shoulder at
Levos.
"You two truly cannot stand the sight of each other," Calarel sighed, walking alongside Levos down
the grand hallway.
"I merely lack the patience for short-sighted politicians," Levos muttered.
"Levos," Beldroth called out, his deep voice echoing against the stone corridor. He caught up to
them, his expression stern. "I heard a rumor about your son. Is it true? Has he still not returned
from his trial with the Lunarians?"
Levos went quiet for a moment, the lines of a father's worry showing on his face. "It is true. And
because of his long absence, Viska has been entirely restless at home."
Calarel let out a soft, genuine giggle, picturing the formidable Viska pacing her halls in a panic.
"Knowing how fiercely attached she is to her son, I truly pity your ears when he gets back. Still,
you must be proud. Your family has a bright future ahead."
Levos smiled faintly. "Thank you, Calarel. And should my scouts find any concrete word on your
'unknown benefactor,' I will ensure the report reaches your desk first."
"That Black Knight..." Beldroth spoke up, his voice dropping to a low rumble as they slowed their
pace. "If even half the rumors are true, he might be the most terrifying elf to ever walk this
earth."
The three Jarls walked in silence for a moment, the sheer weight of the rumors hanging over them:
The ability to take flight at will.Single-handedly annihilating monster hordes.Summoning massive humanoid stone constructs and monoliths from the earth.Going toe-to-toe with a calamity dragon that had destroyed the Fultone Kingdom in a single night.
"The world outside our forest is growing restless over a power like that," Calarel murmured,
crossing her arms defensively. "I've spent the last month flushing out foreign spies trying to
infiltrate our borders just to catch a glimpse of him."
Levos stopped at the crossroads of the corridor, looking out a high window toward the peaceful city
below.
"Then we have even more reason to follow King Larfal's orders," Levos said, his voice resolute. "The
storm is coming, my friends. We must be ready."
Beldroth and Calarel nodded in grim agreement, the peace of the forest suddenly feeling incredibly
fragile.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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