The clash of wood against condensed mana echoed through the forest clearing, a sharp crack splitting the morning stillness. Klav launched backward, both hands outstretched, summoning three shimmering orbs of temporal energy—each pulsing with unstable light, orbiting him like predatory moons.
Daniel didn't flinch. He stepped forward, footwork crisp, his wooden sword held low, tip angled toward Klav's chest. The boy hurled the first sphere.
Daniel slipped to the side. The orb struck the ground where he'd been, erupting in a flash of warped light and soundless pressure. Leaves were flung skyward. The air bent unnaturally.
Klav dashed forward, hands glowing. The remaining two spheres circled him, repositioning with eerie precision. Daniel pivoted, knocking aside Klav's open palm with the flat of his sword, then ducked under a retaliatory blast that singed the edge of his tunic.
Another sphere detonated just behind him. Daniel's balance broke. Klav pressed the advantage: quick, precise, and clever.
He's improving fast. His instincts are catching up to his power. No wonder he was an SSS-rank Grand Mage.
Daniel gritted his teeth, parried a sweeping blow of raw force with a tight roll of his shoulder, and retaliated. His wooden blade cracked across Klav's thigh, not hard, but enough to stagger.
Klav grunted and slid back. His final sphere hovered defensively in front of him.
He's re-reading me like an open book, Klav thought, frustration and awe mingling behind his eyes. But he's bleeding, so I just have to tag him again.
And it was true. Daniel's shoulder dripped red. A ragged gash ran along his ribs from a glancing arc of released energy. His jaw was clenched tight, sweat and blood streaming down his face. But his eyes were sharp. Focused. Calculating.
Klav stepped forward, raising a hand but Daniel moved.
He exploded forward with a sharp grunt, low and fast like a shadow slicing through grass. The sphere struck, but Daniel barreled through it. The blast knocked the wind from his lungs, and his world turned sideways for a moment, but his grip held.
Then the wooden blade was at Klav's neck, pressed firm. Daniel stood over him, chest heaving, eyes wild.
Blood dripped down his arm, spattering the ground between them. His legs trembled. His breath rasped like torn cloth. But his blade was steady.
Klav stared up at him, stunned. Not afraid. Not even disappointed. Just quiet. And then—
A single drop of blood slid from Daniel's chin, landing on Klav's shoulder.
Daniel exhaled shakily, his voice low, almost grim: "…You still hesitate."
Klav closed his eyes. Then nodded.
The two fell to the ground, exhausted. Their backs pressed into the soft earth; sweat soaked through their clothes and mingled with blood. They looked at each other and laughed: low and tired, but genuine.
Then they sighed. The breeze passed gently over them: cool, tender, brushing their faces like a balm. For a moment, they could have fallen asleep right there—if not for the sudden sound of fast-approaching footsteps.
Rough boots stamped the ground in rhythm. Dozens, maybe twenty men, marching quickly. Then: silence.
The boys sat up. Calmly, almost lazily, they dusted themselves off and rose. Klav flexed his fingers; Daniel adjusted his torn sleeve. Across the clearing stood a squad of armed men: some holding spears, others with crude short swords. Their eyes were locked on the two. At the front stood Daren: his smug, bloody smirk curling with hate.
"I've been watching you two," he sneered, his voice sharp with arrogance. "Training here every day, thinking you're better than everyone else."
Daniel opened his mouth, but closed it. Better to let him run out of breath.
Daren continued: "But today is the end of your journey. You humiliated me. In front of my friends. And now, people laugh. Rumors spread. My reputation: shattered. I'm the son of a nobleman and they laugh at me!"
His face contorted with fury as he pointed. "So now, you both are going to die!"
Daniel sighed, slowly. His expression twisted—not into fear, but into something cold and smug. He tilted his head slightly, voice dipped in condescension: "You spoiled brat, come at me."
Klav shifted nervously, stepping closer to Daniel and whispering: "We a-are t-too spent. I can barely stand. My mana's still high, but my limbs are useless from fatigue."
Daniel nodded slightly. He's right. Even I haven't fully recovered. His eyes scanned the group. They're all strong. At least D-rank. I'm barely holding D+, and that's after I just beat Klav.
Then, aloud: "It's my fault your reputation fell. So leave Klav out of this." He turned slightly, whispering to Klav: "Run. When I say so."
"But..." Klav started, voice shaky.
Daren grinned wider, his eyes gleaming with cruelty. "Sure. I'll leave Klav. But where's the fun in that?" Then he raised his hand and roared: "Kill them both!"
Daniel didn't hesitate. He shouted: "Run!"
Klav bolted to the right: clumsy, stumbling, but fast. The men charged.
Daniel met them head-on. His wooden sword cracked against one man's knee: the leg buckled. Another lunged—Daniel twisted, catching a blow to the ribs, then a kick slammed into his stomach. He hit the ground but rolled, slicing one attacker across the face. Blood sprayed. Another fist crashed into his jaw.
Then, one of the men drew a jagged blade, thrusting downward.
Daniel saw it coming too late. His limbs refused to respond in time.
But the man froze: literally. A thin layer of frost encased his arms and face. His mouth opened in shock. Behind him, Klav raised trembling hands: his face pale, eyes glowing faintly. Three unstable mana spheres shimmered above him, then launched forward.
Two exploded against a group of men, knocking them into trees. Daniel sprang up. He tore through another four, rage and desperation in every swing.
But then: a new figure stepped forward.
Taller than the rest. Broad shoulders wrapped in steel-reinforced leather. His presence alone silenced the fight. The men parted to let him through. A glint of metal on his chest. A short sword at his hip. Calm, arrogant eyes.
A C-rank Adventurer.
Daniel felt the aura. It pressed on him: weighty, suffocating, like trying to breathe underwater. His arms ached. His legs shook. But still: he screamed and lunged forward.
The man smiled.
Then kicked Daniel mid-air.
The world tilted sideways. Pain exploded across Daniel's ribs. He slammed into a tree, bark cracking beneath the impact. He coughed blood. Vision blurred.
The adventurer didn't slow. He stepped forward and struck again: a blow to the chest that sent Daniel rolling. Daniel struggled to stand—but another boot caught him in the face. His mouth filled with blood and dirt.
"You're loud," the man muttered.
Daniel swung wildly. The sword was caught, twisted from his hands. A gauntleted fist crushed his shoulder. Bone cracked. Daniel screamed.
Then the adventurer raised his blade. Cold, cruel, calculated.
"You die now."
He stepped forward.
And then—
A blur.
Gold tore through the air.
A radiant blade sliced clean through the adventurer's neck. Blood erupted like a geyser: arterial and violent, spraying across the grass in wide, pulsing arcs. The man's eyes widened: his body frozen mid-motion. A gurgle escaped his mouth as his head slipped sideways and hit the dirt with a wet thud.
His body crumpled, twitching.
Before the collapsing corpse stood a figure: tall, cloaked in light. Gold armor shone beneath the rising sun: not polished and ceremonial, but scarred, scorched, earned. His eyes—hidden behind a thin helm—glinted with something sharp.
In one hand: a golden sword, still dripping. In the other: nothing but silence.
The battlefield stilled.
Daniel, barely conscious, blinked up through bloody eyes.
Who...?
The golden warrior stepped forward, his voice gravel and thunder.
"You touch these two again: you won't be the only ones I'll make bleed."
The others ran.
Only Daren remained, frozen in horror.
The golden warrior turned slowly. His armor shimmered in the dappled sunlight; blood still dripped from his blade, trailing into the earth like ink. He looked down at Daniel—wounded, barely holding onto consciousness—and knelt.
"I am Saint Torren," he said, voice low but clear, "of the Church of Light."
He pressed a gloved hand gently over Daniel's chest. A faint warmth pulsed through Daniel's body: not overwhelming, but enough to dull the pain and seal the worst of the open wounds. Klav stumbled toward them, mana flickering behind his eyes, face pale with shock and awe.
"You saved us..." Klav breathed.
Torren stood. "I arrived late. That's on me. But not one of those bastards will touch you again."
His eyes flicked to Daren, still frozen, trembling, the cocky smirk long gone. The boy had dropped his blade. He was breathing fast; his eyes darted from Torren's golden sword to the headless corpse of the C-rank adventurer.
"You—You can't touch me," Daren finally sputtered. "My father is Lord Vayren of Norhill. If you so much as lay a hand on me—"
Torren was in front of him before the sentence finished. He grabbed the front of Daren's collar and hoisted him off the ground with one arm.
"You think nobility shields you from judgment?" Torren's voice was cold, stripped of warmth. "You think your father's title means I won't drag you by the throat into the light?"
Daren's mouth opened to respond, but no words came.
Torren turned to the boys. "Rest here. You're safe now."
Then, without another word, he marched off, Daren thrashing weakly in his grip.
---
The estate of Lord Vayren stood tall and prideful, its banners fluttering in the wind, its guards standing ready in polished rows.
Then the gates burst open.
Torren walked in, armor stained with dried blood, dragging Daren behind him like a rag. The nobles gasped. Guards reached for their weapons—then saw the emblem on his shoulder. The golden sun of the Church of Light. They froze.
In the main hall, Lord Vayren stood up from his throne-like chair, voice rising in disbelief: "What is the meaning of this—"
Torren flung Daren to the stone floor.
"He tried to orchestrate the murder of two boys in the forest. Brought twenty men, including a C-rank mercenary."
Vayren scowled. "They must have provoked him. Do you know who I am? I can call for a hearing—"
Torren stepped forward. The very air seemed to bend around him.
"No. You won't."
His voice was iron.
"You will say nothing. You will do nothing. Your boy lives because I chose mercy. Speak again, and I will strip your titles, burn your banners, and bury your name beneath the weight of Light's judgment."
Vayren's mouth opened. Then closed.
Silence fell.
Torren turned his back on them and left the hall without a glance.