The Frost-Bitten Grave
The Northern Domain of the continent of Velgrith was a place where the sun was a distant, cold memory.
According to the geographical records, this region was part of a world that was 55% mountainous, and here, those peaks were carved from perpetual ice and jagged stone.
The wind didn't just blow; it howled like a dying beast, carrying the scent of ancient frost and the rot of a civilization that had been forced to its knees.
In the outskirts of this frozen wasteland sat the Dark Elf Village.
Once, it had been a vital node in the trade routes between the Northern territories and the Silverwood Kingdom, known for its vibrant marketplaces and exotic goods.
Now, it was a half-ruined cemetery of wood and thatch. Stalls that once overflowed with elven spices and Silverwood silks lay shattered, their contents buried under a thick layer of grey slush.
Unsold goods, once precious, rotted where they had fallen, their stench masked only by the oppressive psychic cold that emanated from the Northern Demon Lord's fortress.
When Blade Lunaria stepped into the village, the atmosphere shifted. He was a vibrant, jarring contrast to the desolation—a young man with crimson-red hair that seemed to catch what little light remained and red eyes that burned with an intense, unwavering determination.
He wore his signature bright red adventurer's outfit, and on his back was a heavy broadsword wrapped in tattered cloth, its hilt warm to the touch.
The Dark Elves watched him from the shadows of their broken homes. Their crimson eyes, usually sharp and proud, were dulled by exhaustion and a despair so deep it had become a physical weight.
An elderly man, his skin the color of parched earth and leaning heavily on a staff of gnarled oak, approached Blade.
He was the village chief, a man who had seen his people transition from prosperity to servitude.
"You're not a demon," the chief rasped, his voice a dry rattle.
"Nor do you carry the stench of the Church's priests. So what business does a human adventurer have walking into a grave?"
Blade slowly surveyed the devastation, his expression softening from tactical analysis to a gentle, non-resentful smile—the mask he wore to carry happiness wherever he went.
"I think I've seen enough to understand the truth, Chief. The suffering of your people isn't a natural disaster. It stems directly from the throne sitting on that mountain."
A young elf, his hands bound in tattered rags, clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"We used to trade with Silverwood! We were part of the Velgrith Union! But now... humans don't even dare approach. They fear the Northern Demon Lord more than they value our lives. His armies took everything—our food, our dignity, our children."
Blade's gaze hardened. The "Lovable Failure" persona he often projected in Valerion slipped for a fleeting second, revealing the clinical coldness of the Master of Shadows lurking beneath the crimson hair.
"Then I'll go meet him myself," Blade said, his voice a calm promise.
"Wait for the trade caravans. They'll be coming back soon."
---
The Song of the Abyss and Flame
The Northern Demon Lord's Fortress was a monolithic structure of obsidian and ice, rising from the mountains like a jagged needle.
Blade stepped through the massive black gates, and the world seemed to scream in response.
His blood began to hum—a low, resonant frequency he called the "Song of Battle." It was the manifestation of the Shadow Core power he kept suppressed, now seeking a release.
Dozens of demon guards, creatures of shifting shadow and frost, lunged at him the moment he crossed the threshold.
They were elite warriors of the Empire, but to Blade, they were merely variables to be deleted.
He didn't even draw his sword at first. He moved with a speed that made the air crack—a glitch in reality that left only red afterimages behind.
By the time the guards realized he had passed, their forms were already dissolving into grey ash.
In the Great Throne Hall, the Northern Demon Lord rose from a seat of frozen bone.
He was a titan of malevolence, his skin a patchwork of blue ice and grey stone, his eyes twin pits of absolute zero. He laughed, a sound like grinding glaciers.
"A human dares walk into my domain? A Rank-C insect thinks he can topple a Lord of the Empire?" the Demon Lord boomed, sensing the card Blade carried.
He raised a hand, and the moisture in the air crystallized into thousands of icy spears, each one aimed at Blade's heart.
"I am the North! I am the winter that never ends!"
Blade didn't flinch. He responded with a gesture, and a wall of roaring crimson flames erupted from the floor, vaporizing the spears before they could even travel a meter.
He advanced without hesitation, his boots clicking on the frozen stone.
"Your winter is overstaying its welcome," Blade said.
"And your reign ends here."
The Demon Lord swung a massive axe of enchanted obsidian, a blow that could have leveled a city block.
Blade slipped past the strike, his movements faster and sharper than any observer could track.
As he moved, he finally gripped the hilt on his back. The tattered cloth burst into cinders as the blade ignited with Hellfire Demise—a unique magic that combined the heat of a supernova with the hungry void of the Abyss.
"Hellfire Demise!"
A single, horizontal burst of fire cut through the hall. It wasn't just heat; it was a conceptual erasure.
The flames didn't burn the Demon Lord; they consumed the very mana that held his physical form together.
In a heartbeat, the towering monster shattered, his icy skin crumbling into a fine, grey powder that was instantly scattered by the wind.
The fortress trembled, its structural integrity failing with the death of its master. Blade sheathed his sword, the crimson flames dying down to a faint ember.
He looked at the empty throne and muttered to the silence,
"Another throne left empty. The board is getting smaller."
---
Rebirth and the Queen's Shadow
As word of the Northern Demon Lord's fall spread, the "False Peace" of the region was replaced by a frantic, genuine energy.
Caravans from the Silverwood Kingdom, previously blocked by the Demon Lord's boundary accords, cautiously entered the Dark Elf village.
For the first time in over a century, humans and elves stood side by side, trading goods and sharing stories of the "Crimson Adventurer" who had walked through a fortress and left only ash.
A small elven child, his eyes wide with wonder, tugged at the hem of Blade's red cloak as he prepared to leave.
"Big brother… are you the one who freed us? Are you the hero from the stories?"
Blade gave a faint, sad smile, his red eyes reflecting the boy's innocence.
He thought of Tokyo, and the way he had once protected a kitten not out of heroism, but because it was honest.
"I'm just an adventurer passing through, little one. Make sure you keep that marketplace busy."
He turned away, leaving the village behind before the crowds could gather.
---
Hundreds of leagues to the south, in the capital city of Lunargent, Queen Bellatrix of Silverwood raised a slender eyebrow as she received the report.
She was a woman of legendary beauty, with long silver hair and eyes like deep-sea sapphires.
"The Northern Demon Lord… eliminated in a single afternoon?" she asked, her voice a melodic ripple in the silent council chamber.
A court official, bowing low, spoke carefully.
"Your Majesty, all signs point to the Rank-C adventurer known as Blade Lunaria. He was seen entering the village just before the fortress collapsed."
Bellatrix shook her head, her silver hair shimmering.
"No. The reports of his 'atrocities' at Port Marina are inconsistent. He does not kill the innocent. Someone is trying to frame this boy, using his strength as a mask for their own shadows."
Beside her, Mistral, the Watcher Hero, closed his eyes. He was a creature of the First Summoned Hero's order, and a cold suspicion had begun to take root in his mind.
A Rank-C adventurer who can delete a Demon Lord? He is either a god in hiding... or the Darkness Lord himself.
---
The Ambush in Mistral City
Days later, as Blade walked through the crowded streets of Mistral City, the tension in the air finally snapped.
The Watcher Hero, Mistral, leapt down from a high rooftop, his divine blade drawn and glowing with a sickly, artificial radiance.
"Blade Lunaria! Today, you die for your crimes against the Union!" Mistral roared.
Blade drew his sword, the crimson steel ready to meet the strike—but before the clash could begin, royal guards swarmed the plaza.
"Stand down!" their commander shouted, their halberds forming a ring around the two combatants.
Mistral's eyes burned with a manic rage. His target suddenly shifted—not toward Blade, but toward the royal carriage of Queen Bellatrix, which was passing through the square.
"If I cannot have your head, I will have the Queen's! Die, Bellatrix!"
He unleashed a high-level elemental spell, a torrent of destructive wind aimed directly at the carriage window.
But before the magic could land, a radiant, violet-black barrier flared to life around the Queen. The wind magic shattered harmlessly against the shield, leaving the carriage untouched.
Bellatrix exhaled, staring at the shimmering barrier that protected her gown.
"A barrier...? But our mages didn't react in time. Who cast it?"
From the deepest shadows of a nearby alley, Blade lowered his hand, his eyes glowing with a faint purple hue before returning to their usual red.
"Not today," he whispered to the wind.
Mistral cursed as he was restrained by his own guards and dragged away, his reputation as a "Hero" shattered by his own desperation.
---
The Secret Verdict
In a heavily guarded hidden chamber within the palace of Mistral, Queen Bellatrix met Blade in absolute silence. She studied him closely, her sapphire eyes trying to peer beneath the "Lovable Failure" mask.
"You saved my life," she said softly. "And you cast that barrier. A Rank-C adventurer doesn't possess that kind of primordial magic, Blade. I'll be direct. We need you. Demons have infiltrated our palace, our cities... I can't even trust my own Watchers anymore. Will you help me dismantle this False Peace?"
Blade shook his head, his crimson hair falling over his eyes.
"I'm just an adventurer who walks his own path, Your Majesty. I don't serve politics, and I don't follow the scripts written by your gods. My justice is my own."
Bellatrix bit her lip, then gave a slow, understanding nod.
"…Then at least allow me to thank you. Remember this, Blade Lunaria—your path is yours to choose freely. But if you ever seek a throne of your own, Silverwood will remember who saved its Queen."
---
The Great Demon Lord's Fear
Deep within the heart of the Demon Empire, at the Throne of Shadows, the Great Demon Lord Az'Zulgar slammed his fist onto an obsidian table, the impact shattering the stone into a thousand shards.
"The Northern Demon Lord… dead? Erased from the map?" he roared.
His generals, high-ranking demons who had lived for centuries, exchanged uneasy glances.
"My Lord, the rebellion is growing bolder. First, the Eastern throne was emptied by the shadow-wraith Shujin. Now, the North has fallen to a human boy. If this continues—"
"Silence!" Az'Zulgar bellowed.
Yet inside, his thoughts trembled. He remembered the magical resonance from eight years ago, the signature that matched the Dark Magic God Umbyas.
He thought of the masked Shujin, then of the rebels, and now this
"Blade Lunaria." He began to realize that the chessboard was no longer under his control.
His eyes narrowed into lethal slits of burning gold.
"…Find this Blade Lunaria. Bring me his head, or bring me the truth of what he really is."
---
✦ To be continued...