Edgar
Edgar, training overseer for the royal family and veteran of decades of combat, had absolutely enough.
This... this thing standing on their sacred lake—human-shaped but definitely not human, given the sheer density of magic radiating from it—had committed approximately seven different forms of blasphemy in the span of five minutes.
First, he'd been falling toward their sacred grove, clearly intending to crash into one of the World Trees whose roots sustained the entire forest's magical ecosystem. Lyria had managed to redirect him at the last second with a gust spell, saving the tree but dumping the intruder into the lake instead. Then he'd killed the Aquatherion—the ancient beast they'd been carefully nurturing for six months as a training exercise for their young warriors. One punch. One punch and their well-planned evolutionary apex predator had been reduced to a corpse on the lakebed.
But the third transgression—and this was the part that made Edgar's eye twitch with genuine fury—he'd released some kind of catastrophic magical discharge that had obliterated everything in a fifteen-foot radius. Every monster, every magical creature, every carefully maintained ecosystem inhabitant. Gone. The sacred lake, which had taken decades to populate with the right balance of creatures for training purposes, was now essentially a very large, very empty bathtub.
And now this pest was calmly walking on the water's surface as if he owned it, looking around with the dopey expression of someone who had no idea what they'd done wrong.
"He dies," Edgar announced flatly, his voice carrying the finality of stone cracking.
"Agreed," said Theron, one of the dark elf guardians, already drawing his bow with practiced efficiency.
"He's too dangerous to let leave," added Lyria, her hands crackling with wind magic that sent small eddies across the lake's surface.
They didn't bother with formal declarations or warnings. This was their forest, their sacred ground, and this intruder had forfeited any claim to mercy the moment he'd desecrated it.
Max found himself in the surreal position of playing defense against a coordinated assault from multiple directions, and his borrowed devil body responded with instincts honed through months of brutal combat training. Ice spears materialized from thin air, their crystalline surfaces glinting as they hurtled toward him with deadly precision. Wind blades, invisible but deadly, sliced through the air with sounds like tearing silk that made his ears ring. Arrows—very magical arrows that left trails of green light—arced from three different positions, their fletching whistling as they cut through the humid air.
His right hand snapped out almost before he consciously registered the threat, and a barrier of crimson magic materialized, deflecting the ice spears with contemptuous ease. The impact sent vibrations up his arm, but the sensation felt distant, filtered through muscle memory that belonged to someone else.
The wind blades met a wall of compressed air that he'd unconsciously created, neutralizing them before they could reach him, while his left hand moved in a complex gesture that summoned fire in a controlled spiral, incinerating the arrows mid-flight. The heat washed over his skin, but his body barely registered it as discomfort.
"Okay, seriously, what did I even do?!" he shouted, genuinely confused and increasingly frustrated as his feet shifted to maintain his position on the water. More spells came in rapid succession—lightning that split the air with thunder, filling his nostrils with the sharp smell of ozone, followed by vines that somehow erupted from the lakebed despite being underwater. WAIT! HOW'S THAT POSSIBLE?? But the rough, woody textures scraped against his ankles before he burned them away with flames that left the acrid smell of charred plant matter hanging in the air.
When purple magic was released to attack him—space magic, his instincts identified with alarm—Max met it with a barrier of pure destructive force that simply erased it from existence with a sound like reality tearing.
"Look, can we talk about this?!" he tried again, deflecting another volley of attacks, but the elves weren't listening. Their faces were set in grim determination, jaws clenched, eyes narrowed—the kind of expression that said talking was over and violence was the only language left.
That's when Edgar stepped forward, and everything changed. His hands glowed with golden light, and the air around the elf shimmered with concentrated magical energy that pressed against Max's chest like a physical weight. The sheer density of the building spell made Max's instincts scream warnings— about the raw destructive potential being compressed into a single point.
Oh, Max thought with growing dread. This is going to suck.
But his body didn't give him the luxury of giving up. His eyes darted frantically across his surroundings, cataloging escape routes with tactical awareness that had been drilled into this body through rigorous training. The elves had him boxed in—a bay-like formation with armed warriors on both shorelines, and several more perched in the branches above like the world's most beautiful and deadly snipers. Their positioning was professional, practiced, the kind of tactical encirclement that spoke of experience.
But directly behind him, past the open water, there was a gap. No elves, no obvious obstacles, just open lake leading to what looked like less populated terrain. If he could time it perfectly, use the chaos of the next exchange to his advantage, he could bolt in that direction before they repositioned. Okay, Max. You can do this. Just like dodging spoilers on release day—timing is everything.
Meanwhile, Edgar's chanting grew louder, each syllable weaving together into something potent. The words were ancient, melodic yet harsh, each one resonating with power that seemed to draw energy from the earth itself. Golden light coalesced around the elf's ornate staff, growing brighter with each passing second until Max had to squint against its radiance. The air itself seemed to thicken with concentrated magical energy, pressing against his skin like invisible hands.
The temperature around Edgar dropped noticeably, frost creeping across the water's surface in delicate patterns, while simultaneously the golden light grew warmer, creating a disorienting contrast that made Max's head spin. He could feel it building—not divine judgment or holy retribution, but something far more dangerous: pure magical force compressed to the point of near-physical solidity.
Max's hands moved subtly, crimson energy gathering between his palms as he began charging his own Power of Destruction. But unlike the elves' flashy displays, he kept his magic condensed, hidden behind his body, building pressure like a coiled spring. The magic hummed against his skin, vibrating with barely contained force as his posture shifted incrementally—weight on his back foot, shoulders angling toward his escape route, knees bent just slightly for maximum acceleration.
To the elves, it might have looked like fear. Like he was cowering, preparing to take the hit.
As Edgar felt the magic reach its peak, the concentrated energy of years of magical study flowing through his staff and into the spell matrix he'd constructed. Many decades of practice had gone into perfecting this particular incantation—a Light Lance designed to pierce through even the most resilient magical defenses through sheer density alone.
And this creature's magical signature definitely warranted such force. Now that Edgar was focused, really feeling the intruder's aura, there was no mistaking what stood before them. The presence was unmistakably unnatural, tainted with the kind of concentrated power that made veteran warriors check their weapons twice.
If only Princess Riveria were here, Edgar thought grimly. With her Falna, this thing wouldn't even register as a threat. She could probably obliterate it with a mid-tier spell.
But she wasn't here. So Edgar would have to make do with what he had—which was considerable.
He drew in a breath, feeling the spell's power surge to its crescendo, and began the final verse:
"Sworn blade of Alf, keeper of ancient oaths,
I call upon the guardians who came before.
From roots of the blessed deep,
Through branches where our ancestors sleep,
By light eternal, pure and true,
I summon judgment to break through!"
The staff blazed with intensity that made the afternoon sun look dim by comparison. The spell had become something alive, writhing with condensed purpose—layer upon layer of pure force folded into itself until the very air warped and shimmered. The pressure was so intense that the water beneath Edgar's feet dipped, creating a small crater as if the lake itself was trying to flee.
"For the forest!" he roared, thrusting his staff forward.
"Light Lance: Radiant Judgment!"
The other elves immediately scattered, giving the attack a clear path. They knew Edgar's magic—knew that standing anywhere near its trajectory was a recipe for collateral damage.
The spell erupted from the staff like a meteor given singular purpose. A lance of golden-white magic, so bright it left afterimages in the eyes of anyone who looked directly at it. The very air around it ignited from friction alone, creating a trailing corona of white-hot flames that vaporized moisture into steam instantly.
The lance screamed across the water's surface, tearing through air, leaving scorched mist in its wake. The water beneath its path parted, forced down and away as if even the lake dared not touch something so destructive. The opposite shore had already been evacuated; they'd learned from past training accidents that Edgar's maximum-power spells had a tendency to keep going well past their intended target, often carving furrows through rock and earth for many yards.
Every elf held their breath, waiting for the satisfying impact, the creature's inevitable defeat.
Max saw the attack coming and moved with desperate precision.
His own spell—the concentrated ball of Power of Destruction he'd been hiding—shot forward to intercept. Not to win, not to overpower, but to deflect just enough to buy himself the split second he needed.
The two spells collided mid-air with a sound like reality tearing, a deafening CRACK that echoed across the lake and sent shockwaves rippling outward in visible distortions.
Crimson-black energy met golden-white light, and for a brief moment, they struggled against each other like two opposing forces locked in mortal combat. The collision point sparked and crackled with unstable energy, purple lightning dancing between the conflicting powers as Max gritted his teeth, feeling the strain in every muscle. It felt like trying to hold back an avalanche with his bare hands—sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles trembled with exertion as he poured more power into his spell, trying to force a stalemate, trying to create enough chaos to—
But Edgar's spell was simply too dense, too concentrated. The Light Lance punched through Max's defensive magic like a hammer through wet paper, though its power was diminished, scattered into multiple smaller streaks of light. Instead of hitting him dead-center as intended, it caught him on his right side with the force of a truck.
"AHHHHHHH!" Max's scream was genuine, raw with pain as concentrated magical energy seared across his shoulder. The sensation was wrong on every level—not divine judgment but pure destructive force, like being struck by compressed lightning that burned from sheer density alone. His body reacted violently to the overwhelming magical pressure, smoke rising from the point of impact as tissue charred and cells screamed in protest. The smell of burning flesh—his own flesh—filled his nostrils, and the taste of copper flooded his mouth as he bit his tongue.
But the impact also did exactly what Max needed—it launched him. His body rocketed across the water's surface like a skipping stone thrown by a giant, propelled in a wild, uncontrolled trajectory that sent him hurtling away from the elves, away from the lake, toward the distant tree line and beyond. Wind rushed past his ears with a high-pitched whistle, and his eyes watered from the speed as he managed to orient himself mid-flight, using his magic to stabilize just enough that he wouldn't splatter against the first tree he encountered.
The world became a blur of green and brown as he shot through the forest canopy, branches whipping past, leaves exploding in his wake with rustling sounds that merged into a continuous roar until—
The forest ended abruptly, and the landscape shifted from lush woodland to something else entirely. Sand. Golden dunes stretched out before him as far as he could see, the temperature jumping from temperate to scorching in the span of a heartbeat. The air went from humid and earthy to dry and suffocating, the heat hitting him like opening an oven door just as he hit the sand hard, tumbling and rolling across the dunes.
Each impact sent up plumes of golden particles that got in his mouth, his nose, his eyes until he finally came to a stop at the bottom of a particularly large dune, face-down, tasting sand and regret and the lingering metallic bitterness of his own blood.
Back at the lake, smoke drifted lazily across the water's surface where the spells had collided, carrying the acrid smell of burned ozone and scorched magic. Edgar lowered his staff, breathing hard from the magical exertion as sweat beaded on his forehead and his arms trembled slightly from the strain. Around him, the other elves slowly emerged from their cover, weapons still ready but expressions shifting from battle-focus to something more satisfied.
"Did you see that?" Theron said, a satisfied smirk spreading across his dark-skinned face. "Went flying like a kicked goblin."
"Good riddance," Lyria added, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "Filthy creature had no business near our sacred waters."
Edgar nodded, though a small part of him—the part trained in tactical assessment—noted that the creature had managed to partially deflect his strongest spell. Weakened it enough to survive, even if just barely, which spoke to considerable magical reserves and combat instincts honed through genuine training.
But survival didn't matter if the intruder was no longer their problem. The desert beyond the forest was harsh, unforgiving, and filled with its own dangers. Whatever that thing was, it was someone else's problem now.
"Right," Edgar said, straightening his robes and dismissing the lingering magic from his staff. The glow faded, and he felt the weight of exhaustion settle into his bones. "Let's assess the damage to the lake's ecosystem and begin planning the northern sea expedition. We'll need to source new training beasts within the next month if we're to stay on schedule."
The elves began to disperse with renewed purpose, already discussing logistics and monster capture strategies as their voices faded into the forest. The sacred ritual could be rescheduled. The training could continue. The intruder was gone, and all was, once again, right with their world.
Allen
He had been surveying the southeastern forests for more than an hour now, his legs carrying him at speeds that would make most Level 5s weep with envy.
Find the soul. Bring it back. Do not fail Lady Freya.
The comet Lady Freya had spotted could have fallen anywhere in this region—the southeastern territories encompassed multiple forest zones, from the outer edges of Alf Royal Forest to the smaller Seolo forest and everything in between. Without a precise location, Allen had been forced to survey the outer perimeters of each wooded area, searching for any sign of impact or magical disturbance that matched what he was looking for.
It was tedious, frustrating work that grated against his natural impatience, but the thought of failing Lady Freya kept him moving. Two hours passed as he blurred through the landscape, scanning, searching, finding nothing but normal forest activity and the occasional startled animal.
Then he felt it—a massive surge of magical power emanating from one of the forest settlements. Heavy. Concentrated. The telltale buildup of a serious spell being charged, the kind that made the air itself vibrate with intensity.
Allen's combat instincts, honed through countless dungeon expeditions and battles, immediately triangulated the source and his mind made the connection in an instant. That's where it fell.
He didn't hesitate. Lady Freya had sent him to retrieve that soul, and he would do exactly that regardless of whatever persecution awaited him. The elves could protest, could file complaints with the Guild, could challenge him for trespassing—none of it mattered as long as he completed his mission. Without delay, Allen launched himself toward the magical surge, his body flickering across the landscape faster than most eyes could track.
He swept through the outer forest like a black hurricane, paying little attention to the settlement structures or the elves going about their business. His focus was singular, locked on that concentration of power ahead, and he arrived at the lake just in time to witness something extraordinary.
Two attacks collided mid-air with a sound like reality tearing—crimson-black energy meeting golden-white light in a spectacular display of magical force. For a brief moment they struggled against each other, neither willing to give ground, the collision point sparking and crackling with unstable magic. Then the golden lance won, punching through the defensive spell and striking a figure on the right side of the lake, launching them with devastating force toward the open area on the left, toward the desert regions beyond the forest.
Allen's eyes locked onto the target. That must be the one Lady Freya wants.
He got only a brief look before the figure disappeared into the distance— blue hair, distinctive magical signature dark and layered with potency—but it was enough. Without hesitation, Allen charged forward, his feet barely touching the water's surface as he channeled magic to maintain his momentum, racing after the trajectory of the fleeing soul.
What he hadn't accounted for was how the elves would react to a second intruder violating their sacred lake within minutes of the first.
"ANOTHER ONE?!" Edgar's voice roared with genuine outrage, his face flushing red with renewed fury.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" Lyria shrieked, her hands already crackling with wind magic that sent her hair whipping around her face.
"THEY'RE MULTIPLYING!" Theron shouted, knocking three arrows simultaneously with practiced efficiency.
But this time was different. This time, every elf in the settlement felt the overwhelming power radiating from the new intruder—a first-class adventurer's aura, unmistakable and crushing compared to the strange malicious presence of the first. This wasn't some unknown creature that had stumbled into their territory. This was a threat.
Edgar's eyes widened in recognition. "WAIT! That's Vana Frey—" he started to shout, but his warning was drowned out by the roar of dozens of elves already launching their attacks.
The elves, already on edge from the previous encounter and now facing what they perceived as an even greater threat, did what any rational group of highly-trained magical warriors would do when their sacred space was violated twice in one day.
They fired everything they had.
Ice spears, wind blades, arrows, vines, light magic, earth spells, space spells and what appeared to be several very angry squirrels erupted from every direction simultaneously. "Every elf in the settlement who could cast joined the assault, creating a concentrated barrage that converged on Allen's position with the unified fury of an entire community that had absolutely had enough of today. The air filled with the sounds of tearing wind, crackling ice, space ripping open and screeching woodland creatures as magical attacks layered upon magical attacks.
Allen's body moved on pure instinct, dodging and deflecting with practiced ease. The attacks didn't actually hurt—his level was too high, his endurance too strong—but the sheer volume of projectiles hitting him from multiple angles at once threw off his forward momentum completely.
"I'M ON OFFICIAL FREYA FAMILIA BUSINESS, YOU TREE-HUGGING—" Allen's protest was cut short as a particularly large ice boulder slammed into his back with a dull thud, knocking the air from his lungs. Another volley hit him from the left, then the right, then from above because apparently some enterprising elf had decided aerial bombardment was the answer to everything.
Allen felt his forward momentum not just stop but reverse as the accumulated force of dozens upon dozens of spells—none individually powerful enough to harm him, but collectively annoying as all hell—pushed him backward through the air like a ping-pong ball caught in a hurricane.
"THIS IS NOT—" WHAM "—HOW DIPLOMATIC—" CRASH "—RELATIONS WORK!"
His body tumbled through the air, spinning wildly as more attacks continued to pummel him from every conceivable angle. The forest grew closer, then the mountains, the trajectory carrying him in the complete opposite direction from his target, away from the desert and toward the human settlements of Altena.
Max, still tumbling across the sand dunes, felt his magical senses suddenly spike with warning. That overwhelming presence he felt during his flight here was moving. Being moved. His trajectory was... opposite? Max's borrowed combat instincts tracked the movements through pure magical awareness even as he clutched his shoulder as he rolled.
We're being shot in opposite directions, Max realized with a mixture of relief and confusion. What the hell did he do to piss them off that badly?
He caught one final glimpse through his enhanced vision—that black-haired figure tumbling through the air in the distance, being pelted by what looked like the combined magical arsenal of an entire elven settlement. Wait, is that a wolf? On closer observation, he deduced he is actually a Cat guy and his expression was a mixture of outrage and disbelief, and even from this distance, Max could sense the raw fury radiating from him.
Really, Max thought with exhausted satisfaction as he finally stopped rolling, I need to send those elves a thank-you gift if I survive this.
Allen landed hard against a rocky outcropping near the human settlements of Altena, creating a small crater and sending up a cloud of dust that filled his mouth with grit. His back hit the stone with a jarring impact, and he felt pebbles rain down on his head as he lay there for a moment, completely still, processing what had just happened.
The elves had attacked him. Him. Allen Fromel, Vana Freya, Level 5 adventurer and the fastest warrior in Orario. They'd recognized who he was—he'd heard one of them start to say his title—and attacked anyway. They'd treated him like a common pest and literally thrown him out of their forest in the opposite direction from his target.
Slowly, he sat up, brushing rock dust from his clothes with sharp, angry movements. His ears lay flat against his head in barely suppressed fury. His expression could have curdled milk from fifty paces.
But bitching about them wouldn't complete his mission. He took a steadying breath and reached into his pack, pulling out the lunch prepared before he left—dried meat, some kind of spiced bread, and what tasted like preserved fruit. He ate mechanically, refueling his body while his mind processed both the situation and what he'd observed during those crucial seconds at the lake.
He couldn't sense the target's magical signature anymore—the distance was too great now, and whatever that creature was, it had clearly learned to suppress its aura. But unlike before, when he'd been searching blindly across multiple forest territories, Allen now had something better: clarity and tactical assessment.
He'd gotten a clear glimpse during those crucial seconds and his mind reviewed the features of the mage, committing them to memory. The elves' attack had launched the creature in a perfect arc, and he tracked every angle, every vector of possible locations he could land in.
But beyond just appearance, Allen had analyzed the brief combat exchange with professional precision. The target was competent—at least Level 2, possibly higher. His defensive reflexes had been sharp, the way he'd positioned that counter-spell showing genuine combat experience. The crimson-black magic he'd used had a distinct feel to it, unlike anything Allen had encountered before.
Though that injury from the elf's Lance would drop his combat effectiveness considerably, Allen mused, chewing thoughtfully. The target had taken a solid hit, and even if he had regeneration abilities, that kind of concentrated magical trauma would leave him weakened for days. Still, his magic is sound. Controlled. Whoever trained him knew what they were doing.
If I comb the desert thoroughly, I'll find him, Allen thought with cold certainty as he finished his meal and activated his magic once more. His body began to blur with gathered momentum, the familiar sensation of his speed-enhancing abilities flooding through his muscles.
...
The four-day journey from Altena's shore to the deep desert regions was a blur of grasslands, scrublands, and increasingly arid terrain. Villages passed in streaks of color, guards shouting challenges he ignored. Dire Wolves, bandits, wild apes, and even a territorial wyvern fell or fled before his relentless pace. Allen rested only when absolutely necessary—brief hours of sleep snatched behind rock formations while consuming his provisions—before pushing forward again.
His strategy was simple: check every settlement along his route for information. A blue-haired stranger with distinctive magical power would be memorable—someone would have seen him. But the scattered villages and trading posts he passed yielded nothing. No sightings, no rumors, just frightened people who wanted nothing to do with a Level 5 blazing through their territory at supernatural speed.
By the fourth day, the first true dunes appeared on the horizon—golden and rippling, stretching endlessly under the sun. The heat hit him like a physical wall as grassland gave way entirely to sand, and Allen adjusted his pace, conserving energy for the systematic search ahead.
His expression settled into the contemptuous scowl that had become his trademark as the desert proper opened before him. Somewhere out there, in that vast expanse of sand and heat, was the soul Lady Freya desired. It would take time—checking desert settlements, questioning merchants and travelers, combing dunes and canyons—but Allen would find his target.
That bastard better be worth all this trouble, he thought, his hair whipping in the desert wind. Level 2 or not, injured or not, that magic of his was interesting. If Lady Freya wants him, there must be something special about that soul beyond just combat capability.
Allen pushed forward into the desert, his determination unwavering. Lady Freya's quest would not fail—not because of distance, not because of monsters, and certainly not because of some tree-hugging elves with attitude problems. He would check every settlement, question every traveler, and leave no stone unturned until he found the blue-haired target.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
Very interesting things happened and Max is now in a Desert with more questions than before and an injury. You think Allen will catch Max? And if he catches, would Max join Freya?? Let me know your thoughts in a comment/review.
Next update will be on Monday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.