The forest falls away behind us as the towering walls of Marisport rise ahead. The sun is at its highest point, and the air smells of fresh fish and sea breeze. Despite the massive walls, there are no soldiers in sight—only merchants coming and going through the city gates.
"We're finally here," Stela says, sounding genuinely cheerful.
We came to this place to upgrade my gear, and because Stela knows a very famous blacksmith here.
"It's a beautiful city," I say, gazing up at the towering walls.
As we enter the city, I see sunlit cobblestone streets and houses that look just like the German-style buildings back in my world. I wonder if it's just a coincidence, or if every world has something like this.
As soon as we arrive, Stela pulls her hood tight to hide her elf ears. It seems the hatred toward elves really is everywhere—or at least throughout this kingdom.
We cross the market. Stalls overflowing with colorful fabrics, exotic fruits, cheap charms, and spices that sting the eyes. People talk loudly, laugh, haggle. Nothing like the silent tension of Korsi. This place feels calmer, and clearly prosperous.
Stela points to a shop.
"That's where the most famous blacksmith in town is."
We approach the forge. A dwarf stands outside, hammer in hand, sweat glistening on his broad forehead. His beard is braided with iron beads, and his eyes are as sharp as his blades.
"What do you want?" he grumbles, barely glancing at us.
"I'd like to see your wares," I say—but he stops hammering the anvil and notices Stela.
The dwarf stares at her as if sizing her up, then spits on the ground.
"Get lost. Out of here." He spits again. "I don't work for elves." He crosses his arms.
"She's not evil," I say, trying to calm things down, but the dwarf ignores me.
"Like all the rest!" he mocks. "Elves bring curses! Get out before I call the guards!"
Stela says nothing. She just pulls her hood back up and turns away. I follow, jaw clenched. It's not worth fighting over a racist with a hammer.
We walk in silence down a side street, away from the noise. The sun now touches the horizon, painting the sky orange and violet. Stela walks with her shoulders slumped. I've never seen her like this—defeated, not by a blade, but by a word.
"It's fine… We'll find another blacksmith," I tell her.
She nods, but doesn't reply.
We haven't walked far when four figures step out of an alley. Bandits. Ragged clothes, chipped knives, smiles full of broken teeth.
"Hand over everything you've got," says one of the men, his face covered.
Another bandit eyes Stela.
"Well, look at this—we could take that elf and sell her." He starts laughing and moves toward her.
I don't wait. I lunge. My sword slices through the air. The first strike opens the leader's chest. The others attack together, but I activate [Predator's Sense]—time slows, their movements become predictable. I dodge, spin, strike. I unleash [Fiery Burst] on the last one, who collapses screaming as his clothes burn.
The fight lasts less than a minute.
When it's over, the golden panel appears:
[Level Up – Level 18]
[New Skill: Flame Ward]
[World's Hero – Level 18]
I take a deep breath. My hands tremble—not from fear, but from fury. Why does everyone see Stela as a threat?
"Let's go," she says softly.
We walk until we reach the shore. The beach is empty. Just the sea, the waves, and us. We sit in the sand, our feet buried in the cool dampness. The sun sinks slowly, as if reluctant to leave.
Stela removes her hood. Her silver hair glows in the dying light. She looks at me, and for the first time, I see fear in her eyes.
We sit together on the sand, watching the sunset. I wonder if Stela will ever be okay after all the hatred she's endured. She just gazes at the horizon and begins to hum a quiet, soothing melody.
"Why do you want to get stronger?" she asks, without looking at me.
I don't know how to tell her—that I'm meant to kill the Demon King, or at least face him. But we've been traveling together for a while now, so it's better to tell her the truth once and for all.
"I was summoned from another world…" I say, my voice unsteady. "And… my mission is to assassinate the Demon King."
I don't know how she'll take it. She doesn't seem evil, and I don't think she works for the Demon King—but even so, it would mean turning against someone who gave refuge to all the elves.
Or so she's told me.
Stela doesn't look at me. She stands up with a calm that hurts more than any scream. Her hands tremble. Her eyes fill with tears—not from anger, but from a sorrow so deep it aches to witness.
"Was I just a knife walking toward me this whole time?" she murmurs through clenched teeth.
Then, in a voice choked with emotion—almost a stifled cry—she speaks:
"I'm not just an elf. I'm not just a traveler."
She pauses. Then, with a calm that cuts deeper than any blade:
"I am Stela Demiurge. The Demon King."
The wind carries away her words. The waves keep crashing. I keep breathing. But something inside me breaks… and rebuilds itself at the same time.
I say nothing. just look at her. And in that silence, I know she understands.