The knights stood frozen, their faces blank with incomprehension.
W-what in the blazes just happened?
When the Seventh Elder had commanded them to seize Louis Berg, they’d anticipated a routine capture. Nothing more than overpowering a single man through superior numbers.
You call this routine?!
One knight’s scowl deepened as he stared at their fallen leader.
The Seventh Elder lay crumpled where the arrow had sent him flying, his body twisted at unnatural angles. What manner of projectile could inflict such devastation? The knight’s mind reeled, unable to process what he’d witnessed.
Fuck. I knew something was off from the start!
Crushing Presence. Every knight who wielded Aura knew the technique by reputation, but none had seen it employed like this. To paralyze dozens of warriors simultaneously, rooting them in place through sheer terror—this must be what the Grand Duke’s legendary presence felt like, according to the veterans’ tales.
Dammit. I’ve got to run if I want to live…!
The realization struck him like cold steel. No matter how mediocre their skills—unable to reach even Aura Expert level—what they faced defied all logic. Louis Berg had been merely an Aura Adept until recently, which left only two possibilities.
Either he’s been concealing his true strength all along, or he’s achieved Aura Master through raw genius.
Either way, his course was clear: flight.
The knight lifted his foot, muscles straining against invisible bonds. But the moment he broke free, his leg buckled beneath him.
Crack.
He collapsed, his body refusing to rise.
“Uh—?”
Horror replaced confusion as he stared at his mangled limb. The leg bent backward at an impossible angle, yet somehow the pain felt distant, muffled by overwhelming terror.
“…S-spare me,” he whispered, the words escaping without conscious thought.
If he remained here, death was certain. Louis Berg had become something beyond their understanding—a predator who had concealed his nature until the perfect moment to strike.
“AAAHHHHH!”
The scream tore from his throat as panic consumed him. Clawing at the ground, he dragged himself away from the monster wearing a man’s face, driven by a single desperate imperative: Escape.
As he crawled, the knight offered every prayer he could remember, begging that the creature might show mercy.
* * *
I observed the Seventh Elder’s crumpled form in silence.
Despite taking Buckshot at close range, the man still drew breath. His body possessed surprising resilience—though given his pitiful swordsmanship, physical toughness was likely his only redeeming quality. Without it, he never would have achieved Elder rank.
Not that it matters now.
The Seventh Elder lived, but barely. He couldn’t even maintain proper posture, let alone pose a threat. Finishing a crippled opponent would be simple work.
I raised my bow, drawing a bead on his swaying form. The Elder gasped for breath while struggling to lift his sword, pathetic wisps of Aura still clinging to the blade’s edge.
“Come... at me,” he wheezed, brandishing the wavering weapon.
His Aura carried the bitter taste of killing intent mixed with desperation.
I shook my head at the pitiful display. “No talent.”
“…Shut up.”
“You know it yourself. Such weak Aura—you’d have served yourself better focusing on physical conditioning instead.”
“I SAID SHUT UP!” His howl scraped raw against the air, face contorting with shame, resentment, and rage. “What would the likes of you know about my efforts? My suffering! What could you possibly understand!”
The words poured from him like poison from an infected wound.
He’d endured constant comparison to the High Elder, weathered endless mockery. Others had called him talentless while watching newcomers surpass him with ease. Self-loathing had likely become his closest companion.
But why should I care?
From my perspective, he was simply a mediocrity who’d chosen the wrong path—and then dared to threaten me. Such creatures deserved no pity.
“How would I know?” I replied calmly. “How pitiful you are, what kind of life you’ve lived.”
“Then what gives you the right—”
“But why should I know? Are you the only pitiful person in this world?”
The world overflowed with those denied their dreams, packed with people who strived despite lacking talent. To equate them with this vermin would be the true injustice.
“Make all the pathetic excuses you want, but you’re just a coward. A thief too frightened of real effort, coveting what belongs to others.”
“What would you know, born to wealth and achieving everything effortlessly!”
“Born to wealth?” A scoff escaped me as I lowered my bow. “Let me show you something.”
I walked to one of the fallen knights and retrieved his sword. The blade was well-maintained, its edge keen. Gripping the weapon, I took a steadying breath.
“I had no talent for the spear. No—it wasn’t only the spear. Before I mastered the bow, I couldn’t find aptitude with any weapon.”
The Seventh Elder’s glare wavered.
“So I tried them all. Swords, spears, maces, throwing knives. Everything I could get my hands on.” I raised the sword, feeling its familiar weight. “And the sword was what I had least talent for.”
The blade descended in a perfect vertical cut, no Aura to enhance its passage. Clean. Precise. Anyone could see the technique was flawless despite the lack of supernatural enhancement.
I lowered the weapon, exhaling slowly.
“I swung it tens of thousands of times. Until my palms bled and my fingers couldn’t close. Until I couldn’t lift my arms. Still, I kept swinging.”
I examined my palm—smooth, unmarked. The scars of my efforts had vanished with my regression, but the muscle memory remained.
“Others mocked me, but what choice did I have? I possessed no natural talent. Only persistence.”
“…So what?” The Seventh Elder’s voice cracked.
“Could you do this?” I met his eyes directly. Ten thousand swings. Not millions—just ten thousand. Could you manage that much?
Understanding flickered across his features. His grip tightened on his sword, knuckles white despite his swaying stance.
“I could do that much too!”
He raised his blade—and immediately lost his grip. The weapon clattered to the ground, his weakened fingers unable to maintain their hold.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have happened. But he was wounded, his strength depleted.
But here was the biggest reason: he’d never developed the ingrained responses that came from true dedication.
If he had genuinely swung a sword tens of thousands of times every single day, injury wouldn’t have cost him his weapon. Such discipline left permanent marks on both body and spirit.
“Th-this is because I’m weakened!” he protested. “Normally I wouldn’t—”
The words died as he recognized his own disgrace. Silence fell between us, broken only by his ragged breathing.
The Seventh Elder dragged himself forward, step by labored step. I tensed, expecting an attack, but he moved toward the other knights instead.
What is he planning?
He stopped beside the fallen warriors and raised his head. His eyes had changed—no longer simply enraged, but carrying the terrible clarity of unwelcome truth.
“…You say I didn’t try? Don’t give me that shit. I tried. I swung my sword while others slept, and I didn’t shy from politics if only to climb higher. But words won’t convince you. So then...”
Whoosh!
CRASH!
He drove his blade into the earth, releasing every scrap of remaining Aura in a single, desperate surge.
Crack!
The ground beneath the knights began to split, ominous fractures spreading outward like a spider’s web.
“Eh.. Ehh?!” The immobilized knights tried to move as understanding dawned.
Too late.
“No…!”
“Save me!”
Their cries echoed as the earth collapsed, sending them tumbling into the gorge below.
I snapped my bow up and loosed an arrow in one fluid motion.
Thunk!
The shaft punched through the Seventh Elder’s chest, spinning him around before gravity claimed him.
“Urrk—!”
He plummeted into the chasm, his body striking the waters far below with a distant splash.
I rushed to the edge and peered down. Waves lapped against the rocky walls, but of the Seventh Elder, I saw no trace. The sea beneath the gorge had already begun to settle, as if nothing had disturbed its surface.
“…Damn.”
I bit my lip, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. I should’ve ended him instead of wasting time talking. Overconfidence had made me careless.
Following the current with my eyes, I traced its path toward the distant shore shrouded in black mist. The Demonic Realm. That’s where the waters would carry him.
“…He’s finished,” I murmured, finding some comfort in the thought.
Still, unease coiled in my chest like a living thing.
If the Seventh Elder somehow survived his journey to that cursed land, he would no longer be the man I knew. The Demonic Realm twisted everything it touched, transforming ordinary humans into something far more dangerous.
* * *
Meanwhile, as Louis Berg had predicted, the Seventh Elder broke the surface with a choking gasp.
“Cough! Cough!”
Water filled his throat as the current swept him along, his strength too depleted to fight the flow. He let the river carry him, focusing only on keeping his head above water.
“Argh… Feels like hell,” he groaned, struggling to orient himself in the strange, mist-shrouded landscape.
Black fog rolled across the terrain in unnatural patterns. The Demonic Realm—exactly where he’d intended to go, though not quite how he’d planned to arrive.
“Nngh!”
Crack!
He gritted his teeth and yanked the arrow from his chest, fighting to stand on trembling legs. Blood seeped between his fingers, but he pressed forward anyway.
He had failed to obtain Louis Berg’s supreme Aura cultivation technique. Now only one path to power remained.
“…I’ll become a master of their mighty power—the Demonkin,” he whispered, murderous light flickering in his eyes.
He would embrace the transformation by any means necessary. With that power as his foundation, revenge would finally be within reach.
Scrape!
The Seventh Elder dragged his sword across his own flesh, carving a ragged wound into his arm. As long as this scar remained, he would never forget his purpose.
Louis Berg. The High Elder. Everything in the North that had conspired against him.
Step. Step.
He walked forward with grim determination, each footfall a promise of vengeance.
His destination lay deeper in the Demonic Realm’s eastern forests—the dwelling place of the Demonkin responsible for the Ayla Village massacre.
There, he would find the power to make them all pay.