The world was drowned in crimson.
High above the sleeping lands, where no road dared to climb and no life had taken root, a lone peak clawed at the heavens.
Snow lay thick upon its jagged spine, untouched by footprints, and the air was thin, sharp enough to cut.
Here, beneath the cold and merciless gaze of the crimson moon, a solitary figure stood.
Mark.
His black coat was long enough to catch the wind, its edges snapping in slow, deliberate rhythm.
The mountain's silence seemed to bend around him, as if even the air feared to stir without his permission.
His face, half-shadowed beneath the hood, was turned toward the far horizon—toward the faint glimmer of towers and walls that marked the distant elven capital.
The light of the moon bled across the snow, staining it in shades of deep red.
In that glow, his eyes caught the reflection—two cold mirrors that seemed to look not at the city, but through it.
As though he could already see what would burn, what would fall.
Behind him, the sound of cautious footsteps on frost broke the stillness.
A messenger emerged from the shadows of the ridge, his breath ragged in the thin air.
He stopped several paces back, not daring to step into Mark's direct line of sight.
"My lord… the Phoenix has moved."
The words seemed to linger, swallowed by the wind before reaching the peak's edges.
Mark did not turn.
The crimson moonlight etched every line of his stillness into something almost statuesque.
At last, his voice came—low, controlled, and quiet enough that the mountain itself seemed to lean closer to hear.
"So… it begins."
From within his coat, he withdrew a small silver token.
Its engraved circle and seven curved blades caught the moonlight, gleaming faintly like something alive.
He turned it in his fingers once, then closed his fist over it.
His next words were calm, but they carried a weight that made the messenger's breath catch.
"Prepare," he said, his gaze fixed on the distant kingdom.
"We will invade the Elf Kingdom. Start preparation."
Above them, the crimson moon hung unmoving—a silent witness to a game that had just begun.
The air was thick with smoke.
A small girl ran barefoot through the burning ruins, her tiny frame staggering under the weight of terror. Around her, the world was fire and shadow—collapsed homes, smoldering beams, and the silent forms of those who would never rise again. Her sobs tore through the crackle of flames.
"Help! Please! Somebody!"
Her voice was raw, breaking with each breath. Tears streaked her dirt-covered cheeks as she stumbled, tripping over a fallen roof beam. She crashed to the ground, palms scraping against blackened stone.
When she lifted her head, she saw her—
Linda.
The girl's eyes lit with desperate hope.
"Please… help me! Please!"
Linda's heartbeat quickened. She sprinted forward, her boots crunching over shattered glass, each step faster than the last.
But before her hand could reach the girl, the weakened skeleton of a building groaned, and with a deafening crack, it collapsed. The girl's scream was cut short as stone and timber swallowed her whole.
Linda froze. Her breath caught. Her eyes widened in horror.
"No… no, no, no—!"
The flames roared around her, but all she could hear was the sound of her own voice breaking. She fell to her knees, the heat biting into her skin, her hands trembling helplessly over the mound of rubble.
The weight in her chest was unbearable.
> "Why…?"
Her cry became a scream, raw and primal, echoing into the smoke-filled sky—
And then she woke.
Her body jolted upright, her breath ragged, sweat clinging to her skin despite the cool air of the room. Her hands were still trembling. The smell of smoke still lingered in her mind.
---
Linda's eyes snapped open.
Her chest heaved, drawing in quick, shallow breaths. The shadows in the dim room seemed to curl and shift, as if something unseen had been waiting for her to wake.
Someone was standing there.
Her heart skipped a beat.
A tall figure loomed only a few steps away, its presence filling the space with a suffocating weight. Instinct screamed danger. Without thinking, she raised her hands, weaving her magic in a flurry of desperation.
Bolts of energy lashed out toward him—
Yet, they never struck.
Each one dissolved into the air, fading like mist before rain.
The figure didn't move.
Only then did she truly see it.
The black, earthen mask—smooth yet cracked in places, as if it had survived fire and ruin—covered his entire face. Two eyes, glowing a deep, unnatural crimson, burned through the narrow slits. They did not blink.
When he finally spoke, the sound was wrong.
Too deep.
Too heavy.
As if blood itself had learned to speak.
> "Do you… have the silver token?"
The words seemed to pull the warmth from the room, leaving only the cold weight of his gaze.
Linda's breath quickened.
Shock twisted into defiance. Without a word, she hurled another wave of magic at the figure.
He didn't even step aside.
With a single motion—a mere flick of his hand—the air tore open.
A chain, deep crimson as if forged from solid blood, lashed out from the void and coiled around her. Its surface pulsed faintly, like a vein carrying something far older than life.
The moment it touched her, she felt it—
Her magic vanished.
Her strength bled away in an instant, leaving her limbs trembling and useless.
> "Do you have the silver token?"
His voice was slower now, colder, as if the question itself was a verdict.
"I… I don't have it—"
The chain tightened.
Pain crushed the words in her throat, stealing the air from her lungs. Her vision swam, the world shrinking into red and black. Moments later, she slumped, unconscious.
Ashenix stood in silence.
He reached up, removing the black ceramic mask. For a heartbeat, the crimson glow in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something unreadable.
> "She could've been my friend… if she had been honest with herself."
He looked upward.
The sky above was pale, yet the crimson moon still hung there, cold and distant. His voice, now quieter, was no less heavy.
> "Right… wrong… who decided them?
If you die for your homeland, you call yourself righteous.
If someone defends their homeland against you, they're the villain in your story.
So… you are a villain in theirs.
Thinking you can save everyone and remain a 'good person'… that's foolishness.
There is only life… and death.
The weaker you are, the more you'll be chained and trampled.
Only power lets you live."
Without another glance at the silent room, he lifted Linda effortlessly into his arms.
In the next breath, his figure blurred—
—and vanished.
---
Morning light poured over the white spires of the Elf Kingdom.
The streets still bore the scars of the previous night—cracked stones, scorched walls, the faint smell of burnt mana lingering in the air. In the distance, workers moved quietly, clearing rubble and tending to the wounded.
Far from the open streets, within the high walls of the royal palace, a different scene unfolded.
In a chamber lined with emerald banners and guarded by silent sentinels, members of the Makela family sat around a long obsidian table. The air was heavy with the scent of polished wood and old magic.
A secretary stepped forward, a thin stack of parchment trembling slightly in his hands. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of what he was about to say.
> "He appeared… from nothing.
One moment the skies above the royal keep were clear—
the next, he stood there.
With a single strike, he erased half the mountain."
Whispers spread around the table, but the secretary pressed on.
> "The power displayed was… beyond any record in the kingdom's history.
The Royal Guard fell in moments. Even the King's spiritual bird was grounded.
We did not see his face. We do not know his origin.
What troubles the public most are two matters—"
He raised two fingers.
> "First…
He defeated all our forces and slaughtered many of our kin.
To fill the void in our defenses, there are voices calling for the inclusion of ghouls and dwarves into our military ranks. But, as you know, such a move is… opposed by the Elven Council."
A faint murmur of disapproval circled the table.
> "Second…
The abduction of Saint Linda.
She vanished in front of all, carried away into the sky—
yet, this morning… she was found in the heart of the city.
In the Grand Cathedral.
No one saw her arrive."
The chamber fell silent. The flicker of the enchanted lanterns seemed louder than the breaths of those present.
Outside the sealed doors, the rest of the kingdom could only guess what decision would be made next.
---
The secretary's words lingered in the air like smoke.
A sharp voice cut through the silence.
It belonged to Elarion Veyr, a high-ranking noble draped in silver robes, the emblem of the Pious Elven Rule gleaming on his chest.
> "This is no time for reckless alliances.
The dignity of our people must remain intact.
We will not taint the Royal Guard with ghouls and dwarves.
The attacker may have been strong, but abandoning our traditions is the first step toward losing our soul as a kingdom."
Several heads nodded in agreement, their faces set in cold, unyielding lines.
But then another voice rose from the opposite side of the table.
Tharion Melk, leader of the Restoration Faction, leaned forward, his voice calm yet edged with urgency.
> "Our people are starving, Elarion.
Our streets burn.
Half our mountain is gone.
You speak of dignity while our craftsmen can barely rebuild the walls.
Raise the ranks of our finest smiths, engineers, and builders.
Reward their work.
Without them, this city will crumble long before another attack."
A wave of murmurs swelled again—agreement from some, scorn from others.
The room split visibly into two halves:
Those clinging to tradition, and those demanding practical survival.
At the far end of the table, in a seat half-shrouded in shadow, sat an old elf.
His hair was like strands of snow, his hands resting motionless on a cane of blackwood.
He had not spoken a word since the meeting began.
His pale eyes drifted between the arguing factions, unreadable, as though he were listening to something no one else could hear.
The arguments grew sharper. Voices rose.
But the old elf simply watched…
…waiting.
The voices clashed louder and louder—tradition against necessity—until a single, thunderous BANG silenced the room.
The King's hand had struck the table.
His golden crown caught the morning light streaming through the high windows, his eyes sharp as steel.
> "Enough!" he barked.
"You bicker over titles and ranks while a power capable of leveling half our mountain walks free.
Tell me—does anyone here know when he will strike again?
No? Then stop dreaming about the future.
Our first priority is to prepare for war.
We will hunt this enemy down before he hunts us."
A tense silence followed, every noble frozen in place.
Then the King's gaze shifted to the far end of the table.
The shadowed corner where the old elf sat—the one who had not spoken a single word until now.
The former Sword Saint.
His voice came slow, steady, and tinged with age, yet carried enough weight to command the room.
> "Thank you, Your Majesty… for granting me the right to speak."
The nobles turned toward him.
Some looked relieved.
Others… unsettled.
The old warrior's pale eyes lifted, their light dim yet unyielding.
His fingers tapped once against the blackwood cane.
The former Sword Saint shifted in his seat, the faint creak of wood echoing in the tense hall.
His gaze swept slowly across the table, pausing just long enough on each noble to make them feel… weighed.
> "We all know," he began, his voice calm yet sharp,
"that our common style of warfare relies on the Holy Weapons.
And to wield them—mana is required.
The strength of each weapon varies…
depending on the user's mana capacity, their battle experience,
the nature of their race, their lineage, and their innate talent."
He leaned forward slightly, placing both hands atop his cane.
> "If I were to classify their purposes, they fall into five domains—
Attack, Defense, Tracking, Obscuring the enemy,
and Elemental influence."
A few scribes scribbled notes, though most nobles only listened in uneasy silence.
The old elf's voice lowered, becoming almost a whisper—forcing the room to lean in.
> "Now tell me…
Did any of you see him wield a weapon or element of any kind—
other than his spirit bird?"
The question hung in the air like a blade over the neck.
Some exchanged glances.
Others looked down, as if the polished surface of the table might have an answer.
The old man's eyes narrowed.
The old elf's gaze lingered on the silent faces before him.
When no one spoke, he exhaled slowly, the sound like wind through ancient branches.
> "Then… I shall tell you."
His voice carried no rise in tone, yet it cut through the murmurs like steel.
> "He will not attack again—
not for now.
Because he has already taken what he wanted."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber.
Some frowned, others stiffened, but none dared interrupt.
> "This is not mercy," he continued,
"nor hesitation.
It is simply… strategy.
We are not his goal.
We were an obstacle—removed in passing."
Silence followed, heavier than any chain.
Somewhere outside, a bird sang—a sound far too gentle for the truth that had just been spoken.
---
The chamber's tense silence dissolved into the rustle of morning wind.
Scene shifted—away from the marble halls of the elven council—
to a modest, sunlit home nestled between ivy-covered walls.
The door creaked open, and the sound of cautious footsteps filled the small entryway.
Several young faces appeared—students, still in their academy uniforms, clutching small gifts and baskets of fruit.
"Linda…" one of them spoke softly, as if her name itself might break her.
She sat propped up on a couch near the window, a blanket draped over her legs.
Her skin was pale, her eyes distant—yet when she looked at them, the faintest flicker of warmth touched her gaze.
They gathered around, offering words of comfort and shallow smiles, as though afraid that anything too loud or too cheerful might reopen unseen wounds.
One girl gently placed a small bouquet of white flowers on the table beside her.
> "We're glad you're safe… after what happened."
For a moment, the room was filled with the hum of polite chatter,
but beneath it lingered an unspoken weight—
the knowledge of what she had seen,
and the shadow of the man with the black ceramic mask that still haunted her every blink.
A quiet knock tapped against the wooden doorframe.
One of the house's maids stepped into the living room, bowing her head slightly.
> "Miss Linda… two more visitors have arrived. They came late—the first is Alfred, and the second… is Joe. Shall I let them in?"
The name Joe lingered in the air, heavier than the maid perhaps realized.
Linda's fingers tightened slightly around the blanket, her eyes flickering toward the doorway as if bracing for something.
"…Let them in," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The maid nodded and disappeared into the hallway.
Moments later, the door opened again—
Alfred stepped in first, his tall frame shadowing the doorway, a faint look of concern in his sharp eyes.
Behind him, Joe followed, his usual confidence muted, as though the weight of recent events had carved something quieter into his expression.
Neither spoke immediately.
The air between them and Linda felt like a fragile thread—one wrong word, and it might snap.
Alfred stepped forward first, his movements careful, deliberate.
He offered a slight bow before speaking.
> "Hello… I hope you recover quickly. I didn't mean to disturb you."
Linda gave a small nod, motioning for him to sit. As a half-elf, Alfred was permitted the courtesy of a seat in her presence. He lowered himself onto the cushioned chair without another word.
Joe entered a moment later, his eyes briefly scanning the room before stopping at Linda.
> "Wishing you a swift recovery… Saint Linda"
But unlike Alfred, Joe remained standing. By custom, humans and goblins were forbidden to sit before an elf of her standing.
As he took his place quietly in the corner, a few elves in the room exchanged fleeting glances—thin, sharp smiles and sidelong stares that carried more weight than words. One servant's gaze lingered just a moment too long, as if silently reminding Joe of his place.
Linda's lips curved into a faint, polite smile, though her eyes carried an unreadable distance.
> "Thank you both for coming. We barely even know each other, and yet here we are… We have an exam in less than a week, so I expected everyone to be studying instead. Still, I appreciate you making the time—and I hope you've both been preparing well for it."
As the polite exchanges continued, Joe's gaze drifted toward the polished wooden floor.
The faint clinking of porcelain cups and the murmur of conversation blurred into a dull hum in his ears.
> So… I'm the problem here, huh?
The one without "social value."
His jaw tightened as he watched Alfred sit comfortably, his half-elf heritage granting him a seat Joe would never be offered.
> You were born with it. Status. Respect. Doors that open just because of your blood.
And you flaunt it like you earned it. How can you take pride in something you never worked for?
Joe's fingers curled slightly at his side, nails pressing into his palm.
He said nothing—because that's what people like him were expected to do.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Joe's lips—barely there, but sharp enough to cut through his own thoughts.
He lifted his head, meeting Linda's gaze with polite calm.
"Thank you for having me," he said, voice steady. "But I should take my leave now."
The words were wrapped in courtesy, yet behind them, a quiet ember smoldered.
Without another glance, he bowed slightly, then turned toward the door.
The smile lingered just long enough to disappear as he stepped outside.
---
As the door closed behind Joe, the room seemed to exhale.
A whisper cut the silence first, then another followed, sharper.
"How dare a human visit the Saint?"
"He didn't even kneel."
"Disrespectful… and they let him stand there as if he belonged."
The murmurs grew bolder, weaving through the room like snakes.
Even without Joe there, their words were meant to pierce.
Linda's expression stayed neutral, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes.
Alfred's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Outside, Joe was already too far to hear—or perhaps he simply chose not to listen.
The first heavenly demon I have more understanding for your story now Darkness.