"I want you...to leave the Emberhold city"
"What?" Flester said, astonished by what Fey had just told him. "Leave? You mean run away?"
"Yes," Fey replied softly. "I want you to run. And if you meet anyone from Frosthold... take them with you. Go somewhere safe."
Flester stared at her, disbelief flickering in his eyes before a laugh escaped him. "You're kidding, right?" he said, still chuckling, while the cold princess only glared back, unamused.
"Sorry," he added between breaths, "but there's no way I'm leaving everything behind and running."
Fey sighed, a solemn look dimming her ice-blue eyes. She glanced around the clearing before meeting his gaze again. "I understand," she said quietly. "But Flester, you don't need to be a hero. You don't have to save everyone." Her words carried warmth, a sincere smile softening her frozen demeanor.
Flester only gave a flat stare, suppressing another laugh as he drew in a deep breath. "I'm not staying behind to save people," he said. Then, after a pause, he looked down. The images flashed in his mind — the applause after helping an old woman, the cheers echoing after every short-lived victory in the tournament, the fleeting smiles of strangers.
Yes, helping others felt good. It gave him a strange, unexplainable satisfaction. But deep down, he knew — that feeling wouldn't last forever. Not for someone like him.
he clearing was still, caught between silence and the soft murmur of the wind. Grass swayed gently, brushing against old roots and stones scattered across the ground. Faint light filtered through the forest canopy, slipping between branches and pooling in uneven patches across the earth.
It was calm — too calm for the conversation that was about to follow.
Flester stood near the centre of the clearing, his cloak stirring faintly around his boots. A flicker of warmth pulsed beneath his skin — the Flame Elemental Symbol, restless even when he wasn't. No matter where he went, that mark would always betray what he was. He could wear the plainest clothes, silence his power, even act ordinary — but he could never belong among common people again.
His gaze dropped to the earth, expression unreadable. He wasn't even sure why he had stayed in this city. Emberhold was noisy and tense, a place always holding its breath before the next disaster. Yet something in him refused to leave. Perhaps it was instinct. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that Kael was here — and Kael was the key to becoming stronger.
"Moreover, where would I escape to?" Flester finally asked, his tone even, though a trace of weariness hid beneath it.
Fey stood across from him, her pale cloak rippling faintly with the wind. The frost-marked insignia on her armor glimmered softly whenever the light touched it, a faint shimmer like starlight on ice. She said nothing at first, her sharp eyes tracing the edges of the clearing — the fallen logs, the quiet trees, the faint mist curling near the ground.
"Back to Frosthold," she said at last, her voice steady. "Where else?"
Flester turned to her, a faint, humorless laugh escaping his throat. "And you think I'd be safe there?"
The princess didn't answer. The silence between them deepened, filled only by the sigh of wind passing through leaves. Somewhere far away, a crow called once, then all fell quiet again.
"No matter where I go," Flester said slowly, "once the beasts were enhanced, nowhere in this kingdom — or in this world — will be safe."
His eyes darkened. He raised one arm lazily, palm upward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a tiny flame flared to life — a soft, hovering ember that danced above his hand. Its glow painted faint red glints across his features, tracing the edge of his jaw, his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
"For one to truly master Elemental Magic," he said, "he must become one with it — changing his ideals and way of life until he is the element itself."
The words were not his own. They were old, too old — carried from another age, spoken by a god who had long since vanished. The words of the Great Imperial God, whose voice once shaped the elements themselves.
Fey's expression softened for a heartbeat. "Those are the words of the Imperial God..." she murmured, her tone quiet and distant, as though repeating something she had heard in childhood. But the warmth in her eyes faded as quickly as it came. She exhaled, then stood straighter, brushing a stray leaf from her cloak.
"Don't try to stand out too much," she said.
Flester blinked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. The princess's usual pride had returned — her chin lifted, her expression cool, her presence commanding. The brief flicker of emotion she had shown vanished behind a wall of composure.
"This next part is classified information," she said after a pause, her tone lowering slightly.
That caught his attention.
"For some reason, Emberhold is now being guarded more heavily than even the Goldenhall Capital," she continued. "The reason isn't known yet… but I doubt it's something any of us would want to hear."
Her gaze flicked toward the treeline again. The forest seemed empty — only the gentle rustle of leaves and the hum of distant life. Yet she still scanned it, searching for anything out of place. She found nothing.
"And that's why powerful figures will soon gather here," Fey said. "Seeing a commoner outshine them will not sit well with anyone. Even if I wanted to back you, the Frost Clan is weak — both politically and literally — compared to the others."
Flester remained silent. The ember above his palm shrank slightly, its glow softening but never dying.
"So stand down," Fey finished quietly. "Wait until the time is right."
With that, she turned away. Her steps were measured, her posture perfect — every movement practiced, as if she were walking away from a battlefield rather than a conversation. The faint shimmer of her frost magic lingered in the air as she disappeared into the woods beyond the clearing.
Flester stayed where he was. The silence returned, pressing against him like the weight of the sky. He watched the flame above his palm — so small, yet defiant, refusing to fade.
His lips curved into a faint, tired smile.
"Stand down, huh?" he whispered.
The ember flared brighter in his hand, as though answering him — alive, restless, and burning with quiet rebellion.
"Leave... or fight?"
That was the question that had haunted Flester for days. It had been over a week since his reunion with the ice princess — the beautiful, cold-eyed Fey — and, just as she had warned, powerful figures had begun pouring into Emberhold.
He'd seen them in the streets, at the taverns, in the training yards — knights in gilded armor, nobles wrapped in silken robes embroidered with clan insignias, and mages whose presence alone made the air hum faintly with mana. The city was shifting. Watching. Waiting.
Flester had adapted quickly. He trained less, spoke little, and when he did practice, he made sure it was as discreet as possible. His movements were slower, his aura suppressed. He moved like a commoner — clumsy, unremarkable, forgettable.
It bothered him deeply. Every swing that lacked precision, every misstep he forced upon himself, grated against his pride. But Fey was right — it was safer this way. In Emberhold, standing out meant being marked.
And yet, his disguise had brought him an unexpected discovery.
Since using his powerful, flame-heavy techniques was far too risky, he focused on the simpler ones — the low-tier forms, the kind of magic that rarely drew attention. Days turned into nights, and Flester trained relentlessly, pushing those weaker spells to their limit.
And that was when the truth struck him.
He was terrible at combat.
Not weak — just fundamentally flawed. The so-called prodigy, the boy blessed by flame, survived not through skill or technique, but through sheer power and instinct. His grand spells had carried him farther than he'd realized, covering the gaps left by inexperience. Without them, he was just another mage with clumsy footwork and poor timing.
For a while, that realization stung. But then came the understanding — and with it, a plan.
The only reason he had survived so far was because, even in the face of death, he never panicked. His calm was unnatural, almost inhuman — a clarity that stayed with him through every strike, every flame, every scream. That composure had let him wield powers beyond his own and control them with surprising finesse.
So that would be his foundation.
Flester sat on the cold grass of the clearing that night, his fingers resting lightly against the dirt as small, flickering sparks drifted from his fingertips. Each ember floated upward before fading into the dark.
He smiled faintly to himself.
He finally had something to build upon — something that was his and his alone.
He didn't need grandeur, or divine words, or impossible power.
He just needed to become better.
A proper combat-oriented mage.
Simple... yet essential.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks blurred into a month since Flester had left the icy walls of Frosthold and stepped into the endless white of the Frost Forest.
The first few days had been nothing short of torment. The cold gnawed at his bones, the silence pressed on his mind — but it was the battles that carved themselves deepest into his memory. The first day was uneventful, a cruel calm before the storm. The second, however, had been different.
He had crossed blades with a prodigy.Even now, when he looked back on that fight, he realized how inexperienced Raizen truly had been. The boy's power was raw, his control shaky, but his talent… undeniable. By the next time they met, Flester knew Raizen would not be the same. He would have evolved — sharpened by battle, refined by purpose.
And then, there was Kai.The calm storm. The silent beast. Handsome, composed, and deadly — a predator in every sense except for the lack of growls and claws. Facing him had been like staring down inevitability itself.
Surviving them both should have been impossible. And yet, he had done just that. There were reasons, of course — though only two mattered. The first, that they had merely been sent to test the bearer of the Flame Symbol. The second, far more unexpected — the sudden arrival of Night within the forest.
"Truly a coincidence," Flester muttered, his tone dripping with irony.
The last day inside the Frost Forest held no more glory — just quiet footsteps retracing a dangerous path through the snow, the same way he had entered.
A week later, he found himself standing at the gates of Emberhold, its orange rooftops glowing against the dawn. Another week passed in relentless trials. Then came Fey — and with her, a reminder of everything he still lacked.
He trained, struggled, learned, and for the first time in a long while, rested.And now, as the sun rose on yet another morning, he realized with a quiet exhale —
Day 31. One month since he left Frosthold.
Flester let out a long sigh.He had been through quite a lot, and yet here he was — still practicing the same basic forms he had once dismissed as dull and unnecessary. Every strike, every block, every movement was stripped to its essence.
No flair. No spectacle. Just precision.
He understood now — true mastery wasn't about overwhelming strength or dazzling techniques. It was about control. About surviving long enough to use every ounce of his power where it mattered. Each motion refined, each attack deliberate. He no longer swung his sword to hit; he swung to end.
As the morning wind brushed against his face, he opened himself to the Symbol's flow. Knowledge poured in — endless forms and forgotten techniques, from crude, stumbling slashes to elegant dances of death that only the most refined swordsmen could perform.
The flood of memory settled like ripples in his mind, and when the calm returned, so did clarity.He had decided.
He would forge his own sword style.A technique that was his and his alone — built from everything he had learned, seen, and endured. It would take time. Maybe years. But it was possible. And he would make it so.
Still… theory was one thing. Real battle was another.He needed an opponent — someone who could push him, break his rhythm, and force him to grow.
And fate, it seemed, had been listening.
That afternoon, as the light of the 31st day began to fade, a powerful and familiar voice echoed across the courtyard.
"Hey there, brat."
Flester froze mid-swing, his heart skipping a beat. He knew that voice.