The dust in the subterranean chamber slowly settled, revealing Malakor slumped against the shattered stone wall. His lungs burned as he coughed up dark, viscous blood. The physical strength behind Anwan’s strike was absurd—far beyond what any child or normal human warrior should possess.
Malakor gritted his teeth, his purple eyes glowing with a mixture of rage and terror. He clutched his broken shoulder, struggling to raise his curved scimitar.
"You... what kind of monster are you?" Malakor spat, his voice trembling. "No human can dodge an Eos blade at point-blank range... without casting a single enhancement spell!"
Anwan stood ten feet away, his iron broadsword held steadily at his side. His breath was perfectly even, his posture relaxed. His absolute vision took in every microscopic detail: the fractured bone beneath Malakor’s shoulder leather, the erratic pulse in the demon’s throat, and the faint, shimmering mana gathering around Malakor’s left palm behind his back.
"I don't use spells," Anwan replied calmly. "You moved your eyes to my head, but your balance shifted toward my left shoulder right before you stepped forward. Your movement was loud."
"Loud?!" Malakor snarled. "Arrogant human leech!"
With a desperate roar, Malakor whipped his left hand forward. A dense sphere of dark purple fire erupted from his palm, hurtling toward Anwan at breakneck speed. The sheer heat of the spell incinerated the air, cracking the cavern ceiling above.
Anwan didn't jump away. He didn't brace for impact.
Instead, he took one precise step forward, angling his torso by thirty degrees. The flaming sphere passed within an inch of his cheek, scorching a few strands of his dark hair before slamming into the cave wall behind him with a deafening explosion.
BOOM!
Before the shockwave could even disperse, Anwan closed the distance. His iron blade flicked through the air like a striking serpent.
Thwip!
The edge of Anwan’s sword sliced cleanly through Malakor’s wrist. The demon's scimitar clattered onto the stone floor, still attached to his severed hand.
Malakor shrieked in agony, clutching his bleeding stump as he fell to his knees.
"Stop," Anwan said softly, resting the tip of his broadsword lightly against the base of Malakor's throat. "If you cast another spell, my sword will reach your heart before your magic ignites."
Malakor froze. The icy composure in the young boy's eyes was terrifying. It wasn't the gaze of a bloodthirsty killer or a zealous knight; it was the hollow, absolute focus of an apex predator inspecting its prey.
"Who... sent you?" Malakor gasped, his breath ragged. "Was it the Royal Guard? The High Mages?"
"I am just an adventurer," Anwan answered simply. "I came here to hunt Cave Stalkers for forty-five silver coins. But you are causing monsters to spawn unnaturally. Who is Lord Araw?"
Malakor’s eyes widened slightly at the name, but then a twisted, fanatical grin spread across his bloodstained lips.
"Lord Araw... is the future of this world, boy. You humans drove us to near extinction with your filthy beam cannons. You locked us in the barren wastes while you lived in luxury. But the balance is shifting. The Catalysts are already planted across all Five Kingdoms..."
Anwan’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"All five?"
"Yes!" Malakor laughed hysterically, despite his pale, failing complexion. "Fontaniska... Osburn... Allegria... Costas... Eromentis! Soon, the monster surges will overwhelm your defenses. Your armies will bleed on the borders while our Eos infiltrators tear your courts apart from the inside! You cannot stop what is already set in motion!"
"I see," Anwan said quietly.
Before Malakor could utter another word, Anwan’s wrist twitched.
Slice.
The iron blade passed cleanly through the demon’s neck. Malakor’s body went limp, collapsing onto the cold cavern floor.
Anwan wiped the blood off his blade against Malakor’s cloak and sheathed his sword. He then walked over to the pulsating crimson crystal sitting on the stone pedestal.
The Catalyst of Abaddon hummed with thick, volatile mana. Surrounding it, the dozens of monster eggs pulsed rhythmically, reacting to the dark energy flowing through the air.
Anwan inspected the pedestal. His sharp vision caught a series of fine, hairline cracks running through the base of the crystal where the mana was being channeled into the ground.
"If I shatter the base, the flow should stop," Anwan muttered to himself.
He drew his broadsword with both hands, raised it high above his head, and brought the heavy iron pommel slamming down onto the core point of the pedestal.
CRACK!
The crimson crystal shattered into a thousand useless fragments. The glowing purple vapor immediately dissipated into thin air, and the pulsating monster eggs withered, turning into brittle, lifeless husks.
Silence returned to the cavern.
Anwan searched Malakor’s body, retrieving the leather-bound ledger the demon had been writing in earlier. Though most of the text was written in an ancient demon script, the maps inside clearly marked the trade routes of the Five Kingdoms, decorated with ominous red seals.
Anwan tucked the ledger inside his coat next to Princess Feodia’s royal amulet.
"I should return to the Guild," Anwan said aloud, turning back toward the cave entrance. "And buy some roasted meat."
Two days later, inside the grand estate of Lord Vane—one of the high-ranking noble ministers of the Fontaniska Kingdom—a heavy silence reigned.
The room was opulent, decorated with golden tapestries, fine velvet curtains, and expensive foreign paintings.
Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Lord Vane himself. He was sipping wine from a crystal goblet, his face calm and dignified.
Suddenly, the shadows in the corner of the room lengthened.
A tall man in a tailored black coat stepped out from the darkness as if emerging from deep water. He had handsome, sharp features, pale skin, and a pair of dark obsidian horns curving gracefully from his forehead.
Araw Candias.
Lord Vane didn't flinch. He slowly set his crystal goblet down and looked at Araw with cold, unblinking eyes.
"You enter my private study without knocking, Araw," Lord Vane spoke, his voice carrying an unusual, rhythmic resonance.
Araw let out a smooth, pleasant laugh, walking over to the window to look out at the bustling city below.
"Forgive my lack of manners, Minister Vane. Or should I say... Eos-4?"
'Lord Vane' smiled thin-lipped. In a faint ripple of distortion, his human appearance flickered, revealing the true form of an Eos Clan shapeshifter beneath the noble facade. The real Lord Vane had been silently eliminated three months ago, replaced seamlessly by one of Araw’s four elite infiltrators.
"Report," Araw commanded, his tone shifting from polite to absolute authority.
"The infiltration of the Fontaniska court is proceeding without flaw," Eos-4 replied smoothly, shifting back into the human form of Lord Vane. "I have successfully diverted forty percent of the border patrol budget into 'infrastructure projects.' The northern garrisons are understaffed and unprepared for a large-scale siege."
"Good," Araw murmured, resting his hand against the glass. "And the other kingdoms?"
"Eos-1 has successfully taken the place of the High General in Allegria. Eos-2 is currently maneuvering into the inner council of Costas. Eos-3 remains stationed near the dragon borders to monitor any movement from the sleeping lords."
Araw nodded, satisfied.
"The humans rely entirely on their intellect and beam artillery. They believe they are the supreme rulers of this era simply because they won a single war. They do not realize that a kingdom built on greed is as fragile as dry glass."
Suddenly, a small shadow imp—a tiny, winged demon messenger—flew through the open window, landing on Araw's shoulder. It whispered frantically into his ear before dissolving into black ash.
Araw’s eyes darkened slightly. The pleasant smile faded from his face.
"Lord Araw?" Eos-4 asked, noticing the subtle shift in his master's aura. "Is something wrong?"
"Malakor is dead," Araw said coldly. "The Catalyst at the Northern Whispering Caves has been destroyed."
Eos-4 blinked in disbelief.
"Impossible. The Whispering Caves were assigned a low-priority classification. The Royal Knights have not sent any strike teams to that sector. Was it an encounter with a wandering High Mage?"
"No," Araw replied, pulling a small scrying orb from his pocket. He channeled a thread of mana into the glass, revealing a blurry magical replay of the cavern fight left behind by Malakor’s dying mana trace.
In the projection, they saw a short, young boy in simple leather armor sidestepping Malakor’s speed-blitz attack with terrifying ease. They watched as the boy dodged point-blank hellfire without using a single defensive spell, before casually severing Malakor's hand and ending his life.
Eos-4 stared at the projection, his jaw tight.
"That boy... he isn't using mana. His physical body isn't glowing with aura either. Who is he?"
Araw stared intently at the young boy's face in the projection. His sharp mind analyzed every frame of the fight.
"Look at his eyes," Araw murmured softly. "He isn't reacting to the attacks. He is predicting them before the muscle impulse even completes. He possesses absolute visual perception."
"Should I send an assassination squad to eliminate him?" Eos-4 asked, a dark aura flaring around his fingers.
"No," Araw said, raising his hand to stop him. "A boy with those eyes is no ordinary adventurer. Sending lower assassins will only reveal our presence to the King earlier than planned. Let him move."
Araw turned away from the window, his expression returning to its cold, calculating calm.
"Keep your focus on the court, Eos-4. Accelerate the timetable for the Fontaniska border crisis. We will let the tide of monsters test this boy's limits for us."
Meanwhile, inside the Royal Palace of Fontaniska, Princess Feodia sat in her private library, surrounded by stacks of ancient history books and political maps.
The afternoon sun streamed through the grand stained-glass windows, illuminating her silver hair.
Sitting across from her was an elderly man wearing a faded white tunic over a simple leather vest. He had gray hair, a sharp beard, and a weathered face covered in old battle scars.
It was Anwan’s master—the former Grand Knight Commander of the Royal Guard.
"Sir Rodas," Feodia said respectfully, pouring a cup of herbal tea for the old man. "I am grateful you accepted my secret invitation."
The old man took a sip of the tea, letting out a satisfied grunt.
"You don't need to use formal titles with an old retiree, Your Highness. I am no longer a commander. Just a lonely old man living in the woods."
Feodia smiled softly, but her expression quickly turned serious.
"I invited you here because I am deeply concerned about the state of our kingdom. The border reports are being altered before they reach my father's desk. The ministers claim the monster surges are minor, but my personal scouts report entire border villages disappearing overnight."
The old Commander set his teacup down, his gaze sharpening.
"So, the snakes in the court are finally moving, are they?"
"You suspected this?" Feodia asked, surprised.
"I didn't just suspect it, Princess. I left the Royal Knights ten years ago because I realized the corrupt nobles were selling military supplies on the black market," the old man grunted, leaning back in his chair. "And now, with the Demon race quietly gathering strength in the shadows, it was only a matter of time before someone smart enough decided to exploit our internal rotting."
Feodia leaned forward, her blue eyes shining with determination.
"Sir Rodas, I need allies I can trust. People who are not bound by noble politics or gold."
The old man chuckled, a fond look appearing in his eyes.
"You've already met the best person for the job, haven't you?"
Feodia’s cheeks flushed slightly, but she nodded honestly.
"Anwan saved my life. He cleared the goblins without a second thought, and he didn't care for gold or status. But... he is so young. And his physical growth..."
"Don't let his small body fool you, Princess," the Commander interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "Anwan's body matures at a third of the speed of normal humans. At sixteen, he has the frame of a child, but his reaction speed and visual perception are things that cannot be taught by any knight academy in the world."
The old man stood up, walking toward the grand balcony that overlooked the capital city.
"He doesn't understand politics, and he doesn't care about grand ideals. But if this kingdom falls into chaos, his sword will be the one thing that cuts through the lies."
By the time Anwan returned to the Fontaniska Capital, twilight had fallen over the city.
He walked through the crowded streets, his boots clicking softly against the cobblestones. In his hand, he carried a heavy parchment sack filled with hot, freshly roasted chicken legs that he had purchased using his quest reward money.
As he walked past a quiet, deserted alleyway near the noble district, a sudden, powerful breeze swept through the street.
The air pressure dropped drastically in a single second.
Anwan stopped in his tracks. He took a bite of a chicken leg, chewing slowly as his absolute vision instantly scanned his surroundings.
The wind didn't feel like normal air. It carried a strange, primordial warmth—the scent of ancient ozone and wild, burning gold.
From the roof of a three-story stone building above the alley, a tall figure silently stepped out into the moonlight.
It was a woman.
She wore a flowing, crimson silk gown that fluttered gracefully in the night breeze. Her long, golden hair fell down her back like liquid sunlight, and her eyes were a mesmerizing, glowing amber.
She looked down at Anwan with a mixture of curiosity and mild disdain.
"A human child... walking through the night with a sack of greasy meat," her voice echoed, carrying a deep, melodic resonance that vibrated through the very air itself.
Anwan looked up at her. His absolute perception immediately analyzed her frame—and his eyes widened slightly.
Beneath her beautiful, human appearance, Anwan’s perception caught the overwhelming, terrifying mass of energy coiled within her. She was not human. She was not a demon. Her presence was as vast as a mountain range.
She was one of the Four Great Dragons.
Layla—The Dragon of Wisdom and Slumber.
"You are very large," Anwan said plainly, his mouth half-full of chicken. "Or... your energy is very large."
Layla blinked her amber eyes, genuinely taken aback by his response. Normally, any mortal who felt even a fraction of her ancient aura would fall to their knees in trembling terror.
"You can feel my presence?" Layla asked, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned over the edge of the roof. "Interesting. A mere human child with eyes that can peer through my illusion spell."
She drifted down from the roof, floating effortlessly onto the cobblestone alley without making a single sound. She stood two feet away from Anwan, looking down at his short frame.
"Tell me, boy. Why does an insect like you carry the scent of broken demon magic and royal fontaniska blood?"
Anwan swallowed his food, holding up his bag of roasted meat politely.
"I just finished a quest in the cave. Are you hungry? The chicken is very good."
Layla stared at the greasy bag of meat being offered to her by a teenager who reached barely up to her chest.
For the first time in three hundred years, the Great Dragon Layla was completely at a loss for words.
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