Year: 7002 A.A. | Location: The ArchenLand–Narn Borders, The Dancing Lawn.
The borders of ArchenLand and Narn were no longer the serene green valleys they had once been. What had stood as rolling plains and silver streams had been churned into a grotesque mockery of itself — a scarred frontier where beauty and ruin wrestled side by side. The ground bore the testimony of a hundred battles: scorched patches black as coal from fireborn spells, craters where lightning had kissed the earth, and great furrows like wounds carved by mana-infused steel. The smell of ozone hung in the air, mingled with dust and the faint metallic tang of blood.
And yet, despite the silence of the ruined land, the field was far from quiet. For on either side of the valley stood two armies — Narn and ArchenLand, both taut as bowstrings, thousands of eyes locked on the heart of the field where two figures met. Kon and Razik. Titan against titan. Every soldier seemed to sense it: the outcome of their duel would tip the war itself.
It was Kon who moved first.
His voice rang out clear and sharp, like a bell tolling the beginning of judgment:
"2nd and 3rd Claw: Hayalet Kalkan + Çarpışan Pençe!"
(Ghost Shield + Collision Strike!)
His twin swords flashed in a wide, deliberate arc. Yet no visible stroke followed. There was no shining beam, no rippling wave of mana tearing through the battlefield. The silence that followed was so sudden, so complete, that even the winds seemed to hesitate.
Had the attack failed?
Razik's eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing across his expression. But before he could think further—
SLAM!
An invisible weight crushed into him. It felt like being struck by a hammer born of air itself, a force without form yet undeniable in its violence. He staggered backward, paw boots grinding against the fractured earth until he managed to plant himself, teeth gritted, shoulders hunched against the unseen assault.
"What the hell was that?!"
The words tore from him, more baffled than angry. His mind ran in circles, searching desperately for an explanation. He had faced warriors who wielded flame, lightning, steel, and storm, but never one who struck with nothingness — with blows unseen, intangible, yet as solid as the mountains.
Kon wasted no time with explanations. He was already moving, his swords weaving arcs of cold precision, pressing his advantage like a predator that had scented weakness. His body was silent where Razik's burned with sound and energy, his movements refined to the point of seeming effortless. Each step forward was deliberate, each cut merciless.
Razik, forced to react, brought up his plasma-forged blade in time to meet the gleam of Kon's twin steel. The clash rang out like the cracking of thunder, sparks bursting between them as mana flared in protest. Energy rippled across the ground, shaking dust loose from shattered stones.
Their weapons locked, both straining, both leaning into the other's strength.
Kon's eye were steady — calm, almost unreadable.
Razik's were aflame with heat, confusion, and something dangerously close to frustration.
Kon twisted, his blade sweeping upward in an uppercut slash with the elegance of a dancer but the ferocity of a beast. Razik recoiled in the last breath, barely sparing himself from ruin. But the escape was not clean.
Another invisible blow slammed into him — crushing him sideways, forcing his muscles to scream and his balance to falter. He skidded across the battlefield, dust pluming around him. His grip on his blade strained, his knuckles white.
He ground his teeth and spat. 'He isn't releasing any visible attacks… but I'm still getting hit. How in the blazes…?'
And then came the flurry.
Kon pressed in with relentless speed, his blades singing a rhythm no ear could follow, each swing hidden beneath the veil of his ghostlike technique. The air itself became his weapon, invisible claws slashing from nowhere and everywhere. To the armies watching, it was like seeing one man duel a phantom, Razik reeling back from strikes no eye could track.
Panic flickered in Razik's chest, a thing he despised and shoved down violently. His pride snarled, demanding retaliation.
"Enough!" he roared, his own mana igniting in a violent storm. His sword crackled with incandescent plasma, a star caught in steel.
"Kuvvet Yumruğu!"
(Albido Fist!)
He swung, releasing a slash that seemed to rip the very sky apart, the air sizzling and shrieking around it. The force carried with it the promise of obliteration, the kind of blow designed to erase whatever it touched.
But Kon did not falter.
He did not flinch, did not hesitate, did not even break the calm rhythm of his breathing.
He countered.
Another invisible strike lashed out from nowhere, unseen yet undeniable, meeting Razik's incandescent storm head-on.
The two forces collided.
BOOOOM!
The world erupted.
A deafening explosion thundered through the valley, a roar that shook the bones of every soldier on the field. Light and darkness, force and force, collided in a maelstrom so violent that the earth split open, cracks racing like lightning veins across the scarred plain. Dust and debris spiraled high into the heavens, blotting out the sun, until for one heartbeat it seemed as though the sky itself had fallen.
The shockwave tore outward, sweeping across the battlefield like an angry tide. Warriors on both sides shielded their eyes, braced their spears, and clung to the earth.
And then — silence.
As the dust slowly drifted and the trembling ground settled, two silhouettes emerged from the ruin.
Kon stood firm. His stance was unchanged, one sword drawn low at his side, the other sheathed — as if he had not needed it. His expression betrayed nothing, though the faint aura of discipline radiated from him like a mountain unmoved by storms.
Opposite him, Razik emerged battered but unbroken. He rolled his shoulders, lips pulling into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. His pride would not allow him to show fear — not here, not now, not before thousands who watched. Yet beneath the smirk burned a fire, part fury, part exhilaration.
Kon's stance wavered ever so slightly. It was not his blades that trembled — they remained steady in his hands, steel unmoved — but something deeper, something less visible. An unease pressed into his chest, hollowing out his breath.
"What did you do, Razik?" His voice was dangerously calm, the kind of calm that felt like the surface of a storm-choked sea. "Not too long ago, I felt it. That was Trevor's mana… and something else. Something familiar but twisted. And it was coming from ArchenLand."
The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Even to speak them aloud was to invite a fear he did not want to believe.
Razik's lips curved into a grin — that crooked smirk that mocked not only Kon, but every soldier, every Lord, every soul who had dared to put hope in ArchenLand.
"Now why would I spoil the surprise?" he said, his tone smooth with malice.
He might as well have driven a knife between Kon's ribs.
Kon's silence said enough. The stillness of his body, the narrowing of his eyes, the faint tremor of his aura — all betrayed what churned inside him. He did not want to imagine, and yet he could not stop himself.
'Trevor… ArchenLand… What have they done?'
The tension broke when it leaked from his very being: a dark aura seeping out, flickering in jagged tongues like black fire. It clung to him, wrapped around him, swaying as if it were alive. It was not rage alone — it was grief, dread, and fury mingled, a reflection of the storm now raging inside his chest.
Razik instinctively stepped back. For all his arrogance, his instincts knew danger when they saw it. He tilted his head, however, masking his caution with mockery.
"Oh? Getting serious now, Tiger cub?" He chuckled, leaning lazily on his plasma-forged sword as though this were nothing but a conversation between old friends.
Then, with deliberate cruelty, he let the venom drip.
"Fine. Since you're so eager to know… let me tell you. Your safe haven—your precious ArchenLand—is being raided as we speak."
The words struck harder than any invisible blade could.
Kon's eyes widened, his grip on his swords tightening until his knuckles paled. The battlefield seemed to tilt beneath his feet, and for a heartbeat he could not breathe. The image of ArchenLand — its white walls, its banners rippling proudly, its children playing in the sunlit courtyards — burst into his mind. Then, unbidden, came a darker vision: those same walls shrouded in smoke, those banners blackened, those children screaming.
"What?"
It was less a question than a gasp, a sound dragged from a throat suddenly dry.
Razik's laughter filled the valley. It was loud, vulgar, and cruel — a sound meant to echo in every soldier's chest. His shoulders shook, and with mock theatrics he wiped a nonexistent tear from his eye.
"Shocked?" he jeered. "One would have thought it impossible, huh? With the Deniz Clan's shield? Even we thought it nearly impossible—until we found a way in."
The words carried across the battlefield, and like a stone cast into still water, ripples of unease spread through the armies. The warriors of ArchenLand stiffened, eyes darting to their captains, silently begging for denial. But there was none. For none could deny the malice with which Razik spoke.
Kon felt his throat constrict. His mind reeled. Impossible. The shield was absolute… Wasn't it? He had told himself that a thousand times. He had trusted it, leaned on it, made it the anchor of his assurance. And now —
"We knew you were trying to pressure us into an all-out war," Razik continued, words smooth as poison. "So, we let you think you were winning. This entire battle? A distraction. We allowed you to push us into a full-scale clash, keeping the Narn Lords occupied while we infiltrated your precious capital."
Every syllable was a dagger twisted deeper.
Kon stood frozen, his body taut, his spirit caught between fury and despair. It was as if Razik's confession had reached down and hollowed him out from the inside. All this… every strike, every wound, every drop of blood spilt here… and all the while…
Razik's grin widened, stretching into something grotesque.
"By now," he said with relish, "the capital should already be in flames. Heard Trask was the one sent there." His smirk deepened, his tone dripping with mock sorrow. "You don't want to know what he does to people…"
The moment those words left Razik's lips—
—Kon's body erupted.
A crimson pillar of mana tore upward, piercing the heavens like a spear of living fire. It was not just light; it was fury, grief, and willpower condensed into raw destruction. The ground itself convulsed beneath him, the air thickened, and the valley was bathed in an unnatural red glow.
Razik staggered back, his smirk faltering for the first time. Instinct screamed at him. His claws tightened on his plasma-forged sword, and with a sharp motion he stabbed it deep into the cracked earth. It was the only anchor against the storm threatening to fling him into the sky.
The force seared his fur, singeing it in black patches. His weapon, infused with Albido, trembled violently, the steel shrieking as crimson energy pressed against it.
"What… the hell… is this?" His voice cracked against the wind.
Before him, Kon had changed.
The Tiger Lord was no longer clad in battle-worn armor but in a form that belonged to something greater, something ancient. A crimson suit, its sheen like molten glass, clung to his body, veins of glowing mana coursing beneath its surface. His right arm was sleeveless, deliberately bared to reveal the blazing sigil etched into his flesh — Hazël #4 like a brand. Upon his finger gleamed the Crimson Ring, the Arya of Destruction, radiating authority older than kingdoms.
A golden belt cinched around his waist, the mark of his order, while twin swords rested in sheaths at his waist behind his back. Behind him, an open red kilt flared wildly in the storm of energy, snapping like a banner in defiance of the world.
His aura did not radiate outward like normal mana. No — it consumed. Space trembled around him as if it were being gnawed at, erased by the crimson tide.
Razik, despite the danger, felt his lips twitch into a grin.
"Oh?!" His voice trembled with exhilaration. "The Grand Kaplan form? You've actually gotten stronger!"
But his excitement lasted only a heartbeat.
Then he heard it — faint at first, like a distant whistle carried on the wind.
A shrill, sinister sound.
It grew louder.
The whistling wasn't from Kon's swords. It wasn't from the air tearing apart around him. It was the sound of reality itself being undone.
Razik's grin faltered. His eyes widened.
The crimson pillar wasn't stabilizing — it was expanding.
And the ground beneath their feet… was disappearing.
Not breaking, not shattering — disappearing. Rocks, soil, roots, even the lingering corpses of soldiers near Kon's aura flickered into dustless nothingness, erased from existence.
Razik's claws dug deeper into his sword hilt. "This… this isn't just power—" His words caught in his throat. He swallowed hard, eyes darting to Kon's transformed form, that unyielding gaze glowing like molten amber.
"He's erasing everything around him."
Razik acted without hesitation. For all his arrogance and smugness, he was not a fool. His instincts — honed through centuries of combat — told him plainly: if he did not strike first, he would not live to strike at all.
He pressed his palms together, compressing his mana into a singularity of light. The air around his hands screamed, warping, as though the laws of creation itself resisted what he was about to unleash. His voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the crimson storm.
"Maximum Output: Plasma Blast!"
In his palm, a bead-sized orb flared into existence. It was tiny, almost laughably so — no larger than a child's marble. But its brilliance seared the eyes, and its weight dragged against the very fabric of space. The battlefield shuddered under its presence. Soldiers on both sides fell to their knees, covering their faces, unable to look at it directly. Even the earth beneath it quivered, as though recognizing that it held enough power to vaporize a mountain.
With a flick of his wrist, Razik released it.
The orb streaked forward, faster than the eye could follow — faster than thought itself. To be exact, 3 orders of magnitude faster than the speed of light. It lanced through the battlefield, a line of pure inevitability.
But the moment it entered Kon's crimson aura…
It ceased.
No sound.
No explosion.
No resistance.
It was as if it had never been.
Gone.
Erased.
A bead of sweat rolled down Razik's temple. His breath caught. His claws dug into his palms until blood trickled down.
"This…" he whispered, voice trembling despite himself. "…is impossible."
Kon did not answer. He only took a step forward.
And with that step, the crimson pillars surged outward, stretching further, like the expanding ribs of some monstrous beast. The ground dissolved wherever his aura touched, hills flattening into nothing, trees disintegrating before they could even fall.
Razik's instincts screamed. His chest tightened as he realized what he was truly facing.
"He's not thinking… he just wants to destroy everything."
Grinding his teeth, he made his decision. Raising his hand, he gave the signal.
"Fall back! Now!"
His troops, disciplined even amidst chaos, obeyed instantly. A flare of runic light rippled among their ranks as a teleporter began shuttling them in batches, vanishing in blinding flashes of white.
Razik turned back one last time, locking eyes with the storm that was Kon.
"I'll admit it," he said, his voice low but steady. "You're strong. Maybe even stronger than me." His claws flexed on the hilt of his blade. "But this isn't over. If you survive this day, we'll settle our score another time."
And with a ripple, space folded. His form bent, twisted, and vanished into the ether.
Kon's eyes darkened. His chest heaved.
"I won't let you escape."
The Crimson Ring pulsed against his finger, urging him onward. His aura responded to his fury, surging outward like a tidal wave. The ground around him cracked and dissolved as the crimson field expanded, reaching hungrily for the retreating soldiers.
One of Razik's men, a young Tracient barely more than a boy, stumbled as the teleportation sequence took too long. His terrified eyes widened as the crimson storm touched the tip of his spear. In an instant, the weapon flickered out of existence — then his arm began to follow.
Kon's power reached for him.
And then—
A single feather drifted across the battlefield as if it was an arrow.
White. Brilliant. Pulsing with mana.
It whistled softly as it cut through the storm, grazing Kon's cheek before spiraling downward, coming to rest at his feet.
And with it came a voice, strong and commanding, resounding within his mind.
"Pull yourself together, Lord Kaplan! You are about to endanger your own army!"
It was Talonir.
Kon froze.
The words struck him harder than any blade Razik could have conjured. His chest tightened. His eyes darted to his periphery, and for the first time, he saw them — his own soldiers, his people, cowering in terror. Not at Razik. Not at the Narn army.
At him.
His crimson aura had stretched dangerously close to their lines. Another few heartbeats, and they would have shared the fate of Razik's soldiers. Their armor rattled. Their breaths came in shallow gasps. Some clutched their weapons not in readiness, but in fear, as if expecting their own Lord to erase them.
Kon's rage faltered.
The aura collapsed inward. The crimson pillars shrank, then vanished, pulled back into his chest like a dying flame. The battlefield dimmed, returning to its natural hues of smoke and blood.
Silence fell.
Kon clenched his fists, staring at the ground where the feather lay. He hated what he felt — the sting of shame. He had almost lost himself. He had almost become the very thing he swore to fight against.
And yet, there was no time to linger.
The Özel #30 General rushed to his side, his breathing ragged, his armor scorched from the aura's touch. He bowed quickly, then spoke, his voice strained.
"Sir! They've retreated… but—" His words caught, as though they pained him. "We've received multiple distress signals. Something has happened in ArchenLand."
Kon's entire body stiffened. His claws flexed against his palms. His heart skipped.
"…What did you say?"
The general swallowed hard. "The signals were faint, but urgent. Something… catastrophic. We couldn't get details."
Kon turned sharply, his golden eyes burning once more — not with blind fury, but with a sharpened resolve. His voice, though steady, carried the edge of thunder.
"Organize the army. Lead them back to the capital at once. I'm going ahead."
The general barely had time to respond before Kon bent his knees, the ground beneath him fracturing. With a deafening crack, he launched himself into the sky.
The shockwave flattened the earth where he had stood, leaving a crater etched deep into the battlefield. Dust and shards of stone spiraled upward in his wake.
The soldiers could only watch as their Lord became a streak of crimson tearing across the horizon, vanishing into the distance.
The wind roared against his face as he raced toward ArchenLand. His body burned, his veins screamed, but he pushed harder.
One thought thundered again and again within his skull, louder than the rushing air, louder than the Crimson Ring's whispers, louder than the world itself:
"HOW?!".