Ren emerged from Wyrmgate Hollow with his armor scorched, blades worn, and blood crusted over the side of his face—yet he walked with purpose, his presence heavier than ever. The mana-rich winds of the surface brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of distant trees and mountain soil. He looked up into the fading light of day, a calm exhale leaving his lips.
Back inside the Still World, Ren immediately went to work.
The anvil hummed the moment the Soulforged Anvil Fragment was placed and integrated into his smithy setup. Its resonance felt deeper, more harmonious—as if even the tools acknowledged the gravity of what was to be created. He laid out the Obsidian Dragonhide, Abyssfire Steel, and Heartglass Crystals, aligning them with the schematic blueprint titled:
Blueprint: Drakeborn Harness – Mythic Armor Set
• Tier: Mythic
• Description: A battle harness forged for those who walk between mortality and draconic divinity. Enhances physical and magical might, bolsters resistance to mental corruption and eldritch magic. Adapts dynamically to the wearer's draconic traits.
Over several hours, molten metal fused with enchanted hide under Ren's guided forging. Infused runes shimmered with the energy of his own breath, forged into the very seams with his blood and essence.
The result—an imposing black-and-scarlet armor that looked woven from darkness itself. Sleek and segmented for mobility, with glowing red veining pulsating from within. When he equipped it, the system responded immediately.
[SYSTEM PROMPT]
Equipped: Drakeborn Harness – Mythic
• STR +150
• AGI +120
• MAG +100
• Passive Effect: [Draconic Resilience] – Reduce all elemental damage by 30%.
• Passive Effect: [Heart of the Flame] – MP regeneration increased by 50% while in combat.
• Passive Effect: [Will of the Abyssfire] – Immune to Fear and Charm effects.
Next was the Spellframe Core—a weapon enhancement node designed to amplify spellcasting while bound to a weapon. Ren carefully embedded it into the hilts of his twin blades, and watched as subtle circuitry-like runes laced their way up the blade spines, glowing with an intelligent light.
He swung both blades once—and the magic within hummed in reply.
Ren left the Still World shortly after and made his way down the road toward Veltharn. His presence was unrecognizable, his aura now heavily masked thanks to enchantments layered into his armor, though those sensitive to mana still felt the thrum of something powerful as he passed.
By the time he entered the city, the sky was dimming into twilight.
He walked straight to the guild hall.
As he stepped inside, Guild Master Garron Thorne turned from his second-floor perch, sensing the familiar yet evolved presence. Ren's eyes met his, and the man gave a short nod before descending.
They stepped into a private conference room once more. Ren wasted no time.
"I found something deeper within Wyrmgate Hollow," he said. "A sealed chamber. A god-tier entity—Salvatore, a Demon God. The seal was damaged… but I resealed it."
Garron's expression darkened. "A demon god… That would explain the tremors we felt here a few days ago."
"I have the details," Ren continued, placing a small enchanted stone on the table. "Dungeon map. Known elite spawns. Environmental hazards. Potential cult activity. It's all in there."
Garron sat back, impressed. "You did all this solo?"
Ren simply nodded.
"And the materials?"
"I used what I needed," Ren said. "The rest… we'll put into the guild's inventory. The same arrangement stands—gear production, funding for recruits, training, infrastructure."
Garron leaned forward, tone sober. "Ren. If you truly sealed a Demon God, then your presence in this world is no longer a simple advantage—it's a necessity. The moment that seal cracks again, we'll need more than luck."
"I'll be ready," Ren replied. "But next time, I won't just seal him."
His fingers closed tightly around the pommel of his blade.
"I'll finish it."
Ren stepped out of the guild hall into the dusky streets of Veltharn, his boots heavy with fatigue. The events of the Wyrmgate Hollow weighed on him—especially that moment, gripped in Salvatore's hand, moments away from death. Even now, the echo of that demon god's mocking voice scraped at the back of his mind.
He checked into a local inn, exchanging a few gold coins for a modest room. After a warm bath and a change of clothes, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. Rest eluded him. That creeping sensation—of vulnerability, of being powerless even for a moment—gnawed at his core.
His frustration stewed. With a sigh, he stood up and decided to clear his thoughts elsewhere.
The tavern was alive with music and laughter.
Warm firelight danced across the walls, casting flickering shadows over the rough wooden beams. The scent of roasted meat, spiced potatoes, and cheap ale filled the air. Voices filled the room—adventurers sharing tales, arguing over drinks, and speculating about the guild's newest incentives. Posters for dungeon bounties and monster sightings decorated one wall. A bard played a stringed instrument near the hearth.
Ren sat quietly at the end of the bar, hood up, ordering food and a strong bottle of local wine. The clatter of mugs and the roar of laughter filled his ears as he chewed on a leg of lamb and sipped his drink.
At first, he only listened.
He heard stories—half-truths and exaggerated tales of the "solo adventurer who cleared an extreme dungeon," or "the one they say fought a dragon and survived."
Ren smirked faintly. Rumors travel fast.
One drink became two. Then three. The tension began to unwind.
At some point, someone shouted, "Oy, stranger! What's yer story, eh?"
The tavern turned.
Ren blinked, cheeks flushed. The haze of drink had settled into him.
He reached into his coat and pulled out his guild badge.
"S… S-rank," he hiccuped. "Name's… Lone Wolf."
Silence fell.
Mugs stopped mid-air. A fork clattered to the floor. A pin-drop silence stretched through the tavern like a blade.
Then—
"ARE YOU INSANE?!" someone shouted, leaping to their feet.
"The Lone Wolf?!"
"That guy fought a dragon!"
"The demon slayer!"
"HE CLEARED EXTREME MODE SOLO!"
Panic turned into awe. Then awe turned into a cacophony of voices bombarding Ren.
Ren tried waving his hands to calm the crowd down, stumbling over his stool. "N-No really, I'm just here to drink…"
Before the crowd could completely overwhelm him, someone else stepped in.
A slender figure moved through the crowd with surprising ease.
A petite young woman—no older than her early twenties—with short-cut dark hair, bright green eyes, and a confident air, sat herself down beside Ren. Her leather armor was scuffed from use, a finely crafted bow slung across her back.
"You're really the Lone Wolf?" she asked with a raised brow. "You don't look like a myth slayer."
Ren hiccuped again, looking up blearily.
"…Name's Alter," he slurred with a crooked grin.
She smirked. "Sure. Alter." She extended her hand. "Call me Kaela. Sharpest shot from here to the Bramble Peaks."
Ren shook her hand lazily.
"What're you doing drinking with the riff-raff?" she teased.
"…Needed to forget," he murmured, his voice dropping into something heavier for just a moment.
Kaela's smile faded a little at that.
The night wore on with stories, cheers, and laughter. Somehow, Ren ended up in the middle of it all—leading drinking games, arguing over whose sword was shinier, and shouting "TO ADVENTURE!" with the rest of the tavern until the rafters rang.
Morning light filtered in through wooden blinds.
Ren groaned as he sat up slowly, his head pounding. His armor was gone. His shirt gone. He blinked at unfamiliar walls.
"…Where the hell am I?"
He turned—
A woman lay beside him, tangled in the sheets. Her robes were pooled near the foot of the bed, her long golden hair strewn over the pillow. Arcane runes traced faintly across her shoulder.
Mage, he thought.
She stirred slightly but didn't wake.
Ren's eyes widened. "Oh no…"
He quickly pulled on his trousers and shirt, quietly collecting his belongings. As he tied his boots, he whispered to himself,
"I really need to stop drinking…"
Ren stood by the edge of the bed for a long moment, gazing down at the peacefully sleeping mage. Her long lashes fluttered as she dreamed, unaware of his conflicted thoughts. She looked so young—maybe in her early twenties—yet there was a quiet strength in her expression even in sleep.
Ren ran a hand through his tousled hair with a sigh. I really need to stop drinking.
Though his memories were foggy, he remembered laughter… a conversation that started quiet and ended with them sharing drinks away from the crowd. One thing led to another, and—he wasn't the type of man to take something lightly, even if it was unplanned.
He moved quietly, pulling on his gear with practiced precision. With a soft breath, he activated Silent Steps, his presence vanishing as he slipped out the room without waking her.
The hallway of the unfamiliar inn creaked beneath his boots. As he descended the stairs to the tavern below, all noise stopped.
Every pair of eyes locked onto him—glared, judged, burned with quiet fury.
Ren slowed mid-step, awkwardness tightening in his chest.
Did I do something wrong? he thought.
Then—
"Good morning, Alter!" a chipper voice called out.
The waitress—a redheaded young woman with freckles and a spring in her step—bounded past the tables and smiled up at him. "Rough night? You must be starving."
Ren blinked. "Uh… I guess?"
She giggled. "All that work must've left you drained."
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean… work?"
The waitress leaned in conspiratorially, grinning without shame. "You were aggressive, Mister Alter. Everyone heard. Five hours and twenty minutes to be exact." She winked.
Ren's jaw fell slightly open. His gaze swept the room—dozens of adventurers glaring like he'd just stolen their loot chest.
He took a cautious step back and gave an apologetic smile. "I… apologize for the noise. Truly."
No one said anything.
The waitress, bless her, didn't seem to mind at all. "Would you like to bring something back to the room? We have a special fruit tonic today—good for muscle fatigue." Another wink.
Ren coughed into his hand, flustered. "Yes. Please."
She darted off to the kitchen, returning moments later with a heavy tray—steamed vegetables, seasoned meat, warm bread, a bowl of soup, and two tall glasses of glowing red tonic.
Ren bowed slightly in gratitude, trying not to meet any more angry eyes. "Thank you."
"Tell your lady friend we said hi," the waitress teased as he retreated upstairs.
Back in the room, the mage stirred as the door clicked shut. She sat up, pulling the blanket over her chest. Their eyes met.
"…Good morning," she said sleepily, voice rough from the night.
Ren set the tray on the table and gave a sheepish smile. "Morning. I brought food. Thought you might be hungry."
She blinked, then smiled faintly. "A gentleman after all, huh?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I try."
She took one of the fruit drinks from the tray and sipped it gratefully, sighing with relief.
Ren sat down across from her, eyes curious but respectful.
"You didn't have to bring food," she said, a slight smile forming.
"After all that noise?" Ren smirked, sipping his own drink. "It felt like the least I could do."
That earned a small laugh from her, tired but genuine. "Fair."
A moment passed before Ren cleared his throat. "I… didn't catch your name last night."
She tilted her head slightly. "You gave me 'Alter.' Shouldn't I be the one asking that?"
"…Fair," he echoed with a shrug. "Let's just say I don't use my real name often."
"Mm. I figured." She set the glass down and met his gaze. "I'm Lira. Arcane-class mage. Mostly fire and spatial manipulation, with some illusion weaving. Formerly from the capital academy, but I left a few years back."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "Left? Most mages fight tooth and nail to get in there."
"I did too," she replied, her voice turning a little quieter. "But the higher I climbed, the more political everything became. Less about magic—more about who you knew, what families you pleased. I didn't want to be a pawn."
Ren nodded slowly. "So you became an adventurer."
"A free one," she said with a small grin. "Been traveling with Kaela for over a year now."
"Kaela… the archer from the tavern?" Ren recalled the petite woman with the sharp eyes and easy confidence.
"That's her. She's the responsible one. Probably gave me hell when she found out I wasn't in my room this morning."
"I imagine," Ren said, chuckling under his breath.
Lira looked down at the food and picked up a piece of bread. "We've been helping smaller towns along the edge of the Veltharn region. Kaela's looking to form a formal party and register with one of the bigger guilds."
"And you?"
She paused, then said softly, "I'm still looking for my reason. My purpose. Power is one thing—but I want to do something with it. Something that's mine."
Ren leaned back, thinking. Her words echoed in his mind. Power is one thing…
After everything he'd done—fought, forged, sacrificed—he understood that sentiment far too well.
"You're strong," he said.
She glanced at him, a brow lifting. "You didn't even see me cast a single spell last night."
"I didn't mean magically," Ren said with a smirk.
She looked away, her face slightly red. "...You're ridiculous."
They shared a quiet laugh. Comfortable silence settled between them as the food slowly disappeared.
"So, Alter…" Lira said, looking at him with a playful but inquisitive gleam in her eye, "what about you? Why hide your name?"
Ren looked at the empty glass in his hand. He thought of the battles, the dungeons, the lives he'd taken, the near-deaths, and the demon god still clawing at his memory.
He smiled faintly, not answering directly.
"…Let's just say I've made a few too many waves lately."
The city's guild hall was abuzz with morning activity when Ren and Lira stepped through its tall stone doors. The moment they entered, voices softened, eyes turned. Even dressed casually, Ren's presence drew attention like a force of nature.
They found Kaela near the job board, her bow slung casually over her shoulder as she studied the available missions. Her sharp eyes flicked over as they approached, and a grin tugged at her lips.
"Well well," she said, nudging her hip against Lira's. "Look who finally crawled out of a mystery room."
Lira rolled her eyes. "Good morning to you too."
Kaela then turned her attention to Ren, giving him a once-over. "Alter, right? Fancy teaming up? We've got a few missions lined up, and I'd like someone who can make people vanish with a single stare."
Ren offered a soft chuckle but shook his head. "Thanks. I appreciate the offer—but I've already set my next destination. There's a dungeon far to the north, hidden deep in the frozen mountains. That's where I'm headed."
Lira blinked. "You're leaving? Already?"
Ren gave her a warm but guarded smile. "I won't be gone long. Just need to handle a few things. I'll be back in a few days."
Kaela gave him a curious look but nodded. "Then take care up there. The north's no joke."
"I know," he said simply.
As he turned to leave, Lira hesitated—then called out, "Alter."
He paused and glanced back.
"…Stay warm."
He offered her a faint smile, then disappeared into the crowd like a fading shadow.
One Week Later — Northern Frostlands
Snow stretched across the mountains like a silver sea, unbroken and cruel. Bitter winds howled through narrow passes, stinging every inch of exposed skin. Despite the thick furs and enchantments layered over their gear, the party of six trudging through the frost felt the bite of winter deep in their bones.
Kaela moved ahead of the group, her eyes scanning the terrain. She paused, brushing a hand against a faint imprint in the snow. "Boots. Big ones. Recently made."
"They're close?" one of the party members asked, teeth chattering.
"Maybe," Kaela replied.
Behind her, Lira pulled her scarf tighter around her face, her eyes narrowed against the swirling wind. Arcane heat pulsed faintly around her fingertips, keeping frostbite at bay.
As they pressed forward, Kaela leaned over to her. "Think your mystery man is still up here?"
Lira didn't look over. "It's been a week. He could be anywhere by now."
Kaela grinned, teasing, "You miss him?"
Lira exhaled through her nose and rolled her eyes. "Kaela."
"Oh come on," the archer said with a laugh, "Five hours and twenty minutes. No one's forgetting that any time soon."
Lira's cheeks burned red—but whether from the cold or embarrassment, even she couldn't tell.
They pushed forward, deeper into the mountain's grip, unaware that their paths would soon cross again with the very man they spoke of—and the darkness that lay buried beneath the frost.
The blizzard grew heavier, flurries swirling in thick sheets around the small expedition party. Visibility dropped to mere meters as the wind howled through jagged cliffs and snow-choked ravines.
"Eyes sharp!" the party leader barked, hand raised to signal a halt.
The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.
Kaela froze mid-step, scanning the drifts.
Then—a roar. Not from the wind. Deeper. Primal.
A shape burst through the whiteness—massive, furred, towering. A yeti, with fangs like icicles and claws thick as spears. It crashed toward them, eyes glowing pale blue.
"Engage!" the leader yelled.
Lira was the first to act, hurling a Fireball spell that struck the creature's chest. The blast sent snow billowing into the air—but as the flames dispersed, the yeti still stood. Smoke curled harmlessly off its thick, frost-coated fur.
"Damn it," Lira cursed, backing up. "Its coat is too dense!"
Kaela let loose two arrows—one caught it in the shoulder, the other in the cheek. The beast staggered for half a step, then bellowed and rushed them. The ground shook beneath its charge.
Kaela gritted her teeth. "Not good in this terrain!"
They braced for impact.
But then—a flash. A blur of motion cut between them and the yeti.
A figure burst through the snowdrift, twin longblades drawn—both edged in mythic steel, adorned with dragon motifs, each blade trailing streaks of mana like comet tails.
Slash! Slash! Slash!
The stranger danced between the yeti's limbs, blades moving like a storm. Lightning-fast strikes tore into the beast's legs, sides, and underarms—vulnerable points exposed beneath the dense fur.
"Twenty-hit combo!"
The final strike drove both blades through the yeti's throat. The creature choked, gurgled, and collapsed into the snow with a thunderous crash, steam rising from its twitching body.
For a moment, silence.
Then the stranger stood straight, blue and silver armor gleaming under the snowlight. A wolf-pelt cloak hung from his shoulders, frost layering the fur. His helmet, smooth and horned like draconic bone, concealed his face entirely. But even so, his presence was… overwhelming.
The blades, still faintly humming, were lowered to his sides.
The expedition leader stepped forward. "That… was incredible. Thank you, stranger."
The figure gave a slight nod. Then his voice rang out—calm, commanding:
"Follow me. There's a shelter nearby. This storm's only getting worse."
No one questioned him.
Kaela and Lira shared a glance. They both stared at the stranger as he turned to walk, his boots crunching in the snow, cloak whipping behind him.
Those swords. That voice.
That presence.
Could it really be…?
"…Alter?" Lira whispered.
But the wind swallowed her words as they followed him into the storm
Dawn crept slowly through the snow-veiled sky, casting a soft bluish hue across the mountainside. Within the shelter, the warmth of the fire still lingered, and the scent of seared meat and savory spices filled the air like a beacon of comfort.
Alter stood at the center of it all—his obsidian-blue armor dimly reflecting the hearthlight as he stirred a pan over the fire. A small pot of stew simmered beside it, seasoned with herbs he'd foraged from a nearby hot spring cave the day before.
He didn't need sleep—at least not in the conventional sense. One of his newly acquired passive skills allowed him to recover mental and physical stamina with brief meditation, leaving him fully alert through the night. He had kept watch, his senses honed, detecting distant shifts in mana or the quiet crunch of ice in the wind.
Behind him, groggy voices stirred.
Kaela stretched and sniffed the air. "Is that—wait… are you cooking?"
"Morning," Ren said, glancing back with a half-smile. "Breakfast is ready."
One by one, the expedition team rose and gathered around the fire, drawn by the aroma and the promise of warmth. Alter handed out bowls with quiet precision, his motions practiced and efficient.
Lira accepted hers, sitting beside him. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I had time," he replied simply.
Kaela took a bite and groaned in delight. "Okay, if this whole adventuring thing ever gets old, you'd make a killing running a tavern."
Ren chuckled. "I'll consider it."
After they ate, the group relaxed around the fire. Lira glanced sideways at Ren, her voice quiet. "You never came back… to Veltharn. We waited."
"I know," Ren said, gazing into the flames. "I planned to. But I found rare ores in these mountains—deep veins of froststeel and evercrystal. Materials perfect for forging cold-resistant gear. With the right alloy combinations, I could create resistance sets for every elemental type. I've already finished frost and fire. I'm still working on thunder and earth."
Kaela whistled. "So you've been on a forging spree this whole time?"
"I want to increase my success rate in terrain-specific dungeons," he said. "Gear that adapts to the environment is key. My current armor resists cold well enough, but it's still incomplete. I'm experimenting."
His gaze drifted to the others—most of whom still wore basic frost cloaks and enchanted leather. Nowhere near sufficient for the harsh tundra ahead.
He stood, walking to a crate near the back. From within, he pulled out a bundle of fur-lined cloaks, gloves, and thermal accessories.
"I made spares. I planned to use them for trade," he said, laying them out. "But it looks like you need them more."
The team's eyes widened in shock and gratitude.
"You're serious?" one of the rangers asked.
Kaela let out a teasing laugh. "Wait, wait—did you make this all just for Lira?"
Lira flushed instantly. "Kaela!"
Ren chuckled and handed Kaela her cloak. "No. But she was the reason I considered carrying extras."
The archer grinned smugly. Lira turned redder and muttered something into her stew.
Ren strapped on his gear again, his expression returning to focus. "But we can talk more about that later. We've got an expedition to complete. The missing team may still be alive."
Lira cleared her throat, eyes narrowing. "Right. Mission first."
Kaela clapped her hands and stood. "Alright, Lone Wolf—lead the way."
Outside, the cold waited.
But now, they had warmth. And unity.
And the silent promise of blades and magic ready to strike at the darkness ahead.
Outside the shelter, the mountains looked less cruel than the night before. The storm had passed. The morning sun—rare and timid in these latitudes—peeked over jagged ridges, casting a golden shimmer on the endless white.
Ren stood still for a moment, letting the sunlight warm the surface of his wolf-fur cloak. The twin dragon-forged swords strapped across his back hummed softly with ambient mana. He scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes, noting the slight changes in the snowdrifts, the shape of the windswept paths, and the distant sparkle of a frozen ridge far ahead.
"That way," he muttered. "Last recorded location of the missing party."
He turned and began to move.
Where his boots stepped, the snow barely shifted. His body moved with trained efficiency, slicing through drifts without resistance. But not long after, he glanced back and frowned.
The others weren't faring as well.
Kaela grunted, knees sunk deep in the powder. "I hate snow."
One of the clerics cursed under their breath as they tripped for the third time. Even Lira, despite her best efforts, was forced to trudge slowly through the knee-deep frost, her breath visible in frustrated huffs.
"Everyone stop," Ren called.
They did, grateful to pause.
Ren lifted his hand, fingers weaving a simple but clever pattern. Runes shimmered briefly in the air.
"Float. Weightlessness."
A pulse of soft mana swept over the team like a breeze, and suddenly their burdens eased. Armor felt featherlight, the snow beneath them seemed… distant.
"Try stepping forward," Ren said calmly.
The ranger tested it first—then blinked in shock as his boot didn't sink. He was walking on the snow as if it were solid stone.
The others followed, expressions turning from disbelief to excitement.
"No way," Kaela said, practically skipping forward. "This is amazing!"
Ren smirked as he floated slightly above the surface and walked effortlessly beside them.
"How are we not leaving tracks?" Lira asked, looking behind them.
"The spell distributes pressure evenly across the surface," Ren replied. "You weigh nothing to the snow."
Kaela nudged him. "You've been holding out on us."
"Hardly. Just didn't want you freezing to death halfway through the walk."
She grinned. "Teach me that one!"
"You're an archer," Ren said, raising an eyebrow. "If anything, I should be teaching Lira magic."
Lira flushed and tried to hide her smile behind her scarf.
Kaela laughed. "Fine. Then teach me how to shoot fireballs."
"That might take a little longer," Ren replied with mock seriousness, eyes scanning the icy cliffs ahead. "But if we get back alive, maybe I'll consider it."
He raised his hand again, casting a brief detection spell across the valley.
There—faint residual mana, traces of battle.
His gaze narrowed. "We're close."
Then he started walking again—this time faster, gliding over the snow as the sun climbed higher.
And behind him, the others followed, leaving no trace behind.
The team arrived at what remained of the missing expedition's camp—tattered tents half-buried in snow, scorched ground, and broken weapons scattered across the clearing. Blood stained the white earth. The remains of a campfire lay cold and blackened, the air still thick with the scent of smoke and steel.
Ren crouched low, inspecting the prints. "They were ambushed," he muttered. "Too many assailants… and they weren't beasts."
He followed a set of lighter, narrower footprints that trailed away from the camp, disappearing into the dense white.
"Here," he said. "They fled—or were chased. Multiple directions, but there's one dominant trail."
Kaela stepped closer, noting the patterns. "These are… Elven?"
Ren's eyes narrowed. "Ice Elves. Light on their feet, swift, and brutal."
Lira paled. "That's bad."
"It gets worse."
Ren paused, tilting his head slightly. His ears twitched.
"Battle," he whispered. "About half a klick northwest. Thirty survivors… facing at least double their number."
He turned, voice suddenly sharp with urgency. "Move!"
The team sprinted across the terrain, now gliding above the snow thanks to Ren's earlier spell. Moments later, they crested a ridge—and saw the chaos below.
A desperate battle was unfolding. A group of thirty humans—adventurers and soldiers—were fighting tooth and nail in a snowy clearing, surrounded on all sides. Their attackers moved like shadows in the snow—pale-skinned, silver-haired Ice Elves, unleashing deadly volleys of arrows and vanishing only to reappear with daggers aimed for throats.
"Stay here," Ren commanded. "Support them from the ridge. Don't engage directly. Ice Elves are assassins first, warriors second. They'll bait and flank you."
Kaela nocked an arrow without a word. Lira readied a fire spell, her brow tense.
Ren turned. He tapped the ground behind them with the tip of his sword.
A soft blue rune flared.
"Teleport marker—just in case."
And then, he vanished.
A blur of wind and snow shot forward, carving a trench in the powder. The team blinked in astonishment as the shockwave reached them.
"H-he's gone…" someone whispered.
"Was that… teleportation?"
Down below, Ren reappeared mid-air, swords drawn, his body twisting in fluid motion as he landed amidst the chaos. His blades moved faster than the eye could follow, deflecting daggers and redirecting arrows with precision honed by countless battles.
But even Ren could not fight freely—his surroundings were unpredictable, crowded with allies. The elemental marker strategy would only endanger the humans.
So instead—he adapted.
With swift, precise movement, Ren darted through the chaos, grabbing wounded and cornered humans. In a flash of blue light, each one vanished from the battlefield—only to reappear moments later on the ridge.
Kaela stumbled back when the first person appeared in front of her.
"Wha—?"
A second flash. Then a third. Lira gasped as more adventurers dropped into view, many bloodied, confused, or barely conscious.
"Don't just stand there," Kaela said quickly. "Get them behind cover!"
One by one, Ren evacuated the remaining fighters. Arrows flew through the space he had occupied a heartbeat earlier. The Ice Elves, quick to adapt, tried to chase, flank, predict his movement.
But they failed.
Moments later, the clearing was empty of humans—only the elves remained.
In their sharp, melodic tongue, one hissed, "Where did they go?"
A voice answered them in their own language—low, calm, and unmistakably human.
"Behind you."
They turned.
Ren stood alone in the snow, blades drawn. His armor steamed with mana heat, blood running down the curve of one blade.
"I offer you one chance," he said fluently in Elvish. "Leave. Now. Or may your gods receive you in the afterlife."
The elves snarled—arrogant, proud, born and raised in the cold hatred of humanity. They laughed.
Then they charged.
Ren's eyes dulled with resolve.
"So be it."
The first elf vanished in a flash of steel, his throat opened before he could blink. The second tripped into a fire rune that exploded beneath his feet. The third was cleaved in half as Ren blinked behind him, a teleportation marker pulling him out of the crossfire.
Then came the markers.
Fire. Lightning. Earth. Wind.
Ren's elemental markers lit up the battlefield like a battlefield of divine wrath. Tornadoes howled through the trees, lightning flashed in jagged arcs, and walls of stone crushed fleeing attackers.
The elven formation collapsed.
Ren didn't stop.
His blades moved with practiced fury, his movements chaotic and unreadable—flickering in and out with teleportation, striking in lethal sweeps. One by one, the Ice Elves fell. Some tried to retreat. None made it far.
When the last dropped to the snow, Ren stood alone, breath visible in the cold, his swords dripping crimson onto the pure white.
The battle had ended.
But his heart was still burning.