On the human continent, strength was not a feeling. It was a measurement.
Mages spoke in circles. Each circle crossed was a gate opened toward a deeper understanding of mana—its density, its flow, its laws. Eight circles… that was the ceiling. A ceiling humanity had stared at for centuries, never once breaking through.
Swordsmen, on the other hand, spoke in stars. A star was born when a warrior learned to condense mana until it overflowed from the body as aura. One star made a man dangerous. Two made him respectable. Five made him monstrous. Eight… was almost unreal.
Aren had neither circle nor star. He did not have mana. But he had a blade, a technique that forced him to be precise, and a mind that refused to die.
And tonight, beneath the cold shadows of the trees, that would have to be enough.
—
Aren climbed first.
He chose an old tree, its trunk wide, its main branch slanting diagonally like a solid arm. He climbed without haste, without urgency. Every foothold was chosen where the bark was thickest, where the wood groaned less. He had learned not to betray himself.
Stella followed, almost too easily. She settled beside him, kneeling, one hand resting on the branch as if it were a study desk.
Below them, the bandits' camp spread between the trees. Not a camp of starving peasants. Not an improvised group.
There were sentries. Guard rotations. Clear distribution.And above all… a center.
At the center stood a man in dark robes. The air seemed heavier around him. Not because of cold—but because something was pushing things away. As if the mana of the world itself respected him too much to remain close.
Aren narrowed his eyes.
"How many?"
Stella counted calmly, barely moving, her gaze sweeping angles, distances, blind spots.
"Sixteen," she whispered."Not counting the leader."
A weight settled at the base of Aren's neck.
"Classes?"
She answered without hesitation.
"Six archers. Elevated positions, paired."
"Seven melee fighters—swords, axes, daggers. Short patrol routes."
"Three mages. Fourth circle… disciplined. No chatter."
Aren looked at the man in the center.
"And him."
Stella went quiet for a heartbeat. Then—
"Sixth circle."
Aren turned his head slightly, as if a word alone could shift reality.
"You're sure?"
"Yes. I'm not guessing. I can feel the structure."She steadied her breathing."A sixth circle… he's not just a combat mage. He imposes rules."
Movement stirred behind the central ring.
Three reptilian silhouettes slid between rocks. Humanoid lizards—tall as men, compact muscle, elongated jaws, thick claws. They were unchained.
They obeyed.
Stella murmured, "Three stars each… but they're trained. Waiting for a signal."
Aren clenched his jaw.
"The tamer."
Stella nodded.
Farther back, tied to a tree, Hassan was still breathing. His eyes half-closed, beard stained with dried blood—but his chest rose and fell.
Aren felt his chest tighten.
"We're getting him out."
Stella looked at him. No mockery this time.
"We get him out," she repeated.
Aren inhaled.
"Plan."
—
They descended without sound.
Behind a rock, Aren drew a crude map in the dirt with a stick.
"Frontal assault equals suicide."
"Daytime is worse."
Stella nodded.
"Night."
"Archer's first. They control distance."
"Mages next. If they cast together, we die."
Aren pointed again.
"Blind them—they panic."
"Mute them—they lose coordination."
Stella narrowed her eyes.
"And the leader?"
Aren stared at the ground.
"Avoid him until the pack is gone."
"If we fight him, it's last."
"And if it goes wrong?"
Aren looked at his hand. The scars on his fingers. His tired body.
Then—
"Then we decide."
Stella smiled faintly.
"Alright."
—
Night fell.
Torches flickered through the camp. The bandits spoke low, but not fearfully. Danger didn't rattle them—it sharpened them.
Aren moved first.
He slipped between trees like a creature that had learned to walk without leaving tracks. His breath was slow. His steps are nonexistent.
First target: left archer. The pair is closest to a dead angle between two rocks.
He waited.
One.Two.Three.
The archer turned his head toward his partner.
Now.
Southern Sword Technique — Simple Pierce.
The blade slid under the ribs, perfectly placed beneath the cage flourish. No cry.
The man opened his mouth—no sound came.
Aren withdrew the blade and caught the body before it fell. He laid it down gently. As if even death had to remain quiet.
The second archer turned.
"Huh—?"
Stella moved.
A whisper. A word barely breathed.
Wind — Fine Blade.
The air compressed invisibly. The bow snapped—then the throat.
The body collapsed into the grass.
Aren glanced at her. She wasn't pleased. Just focused.
"Four left."
They advanced.
Two archers on a ridge. Torchlight. Bad angle.
Aren studied it. Too exposed.
Stella gestured.
Wind — Push.
The torch wavered. Shadows danced. The archers leaned forward, annoyed.
"What the—"
Aren was already behind them.
He struck the first's wrist with the flat—just enough. Then a short thrust to the throat.
The second raised a dagger.
Stella fired a pinpoint flame.
Fire — Sting.
Not lethal—just the hand.
The man screamed. Aren finished him.
Seconds.
But now, the camp felt it.
A mage at the center turned.
His hand rose. A circle formed.
"Intruders!"
The camp exploded into motion.
Swordsmen rose. Archers shouted. Mages formed ranks.
And at the center… Azarat smiled.
"Finally."
—
Aren stepped in front of Stella.
"Stick to the plan—fast."
"Finish archers."
She nodded.
Arrows flew.
Aren dove behind a trunk. An arrow thudded into wood.
Stella twisted the wind.
Wind — Deflection.
The next arrow veered into dirt.
Aren charged.
He closed distance.
An archer fired point-blank.
Aren twisted—the arrow grazed his cheek.
He thrust.
Simple Pierce.
Throat.
The last archer retreated—but Stella hurled a thin fire lance.
Fire — Lance.
It pierced his chest.
Archers down.
But the mages and melee closed in.
Seven melee. Three fourth-circle mages.
Aren breathed.
"Stella—right."
"I'll take the left."
"You'll get surrounded."
"I know."
He advanced.
Two swordsmen rushed him.
Aren entered their space.
Feint—throat.
Parry.
He slid under and stabbed the thigh.
The man fell screaming.
The second swung.
Aren sidestepped, felt steel graze ribs, struck with the guard.
Jaw.
Then—
Heart.
But a spell ignited behind him.
Stella cut it.
Wind — Sever.
The flame died.
Aren rushed the mage.
The mage raised a barrier.
Aren stabbed.
The blade slowed—then pushed through.
The mage collapsed, choking.
"One!" Aren shouted.
A haxe slammed into his guard.
Pain shot through his arms.
He staggered.
Stella burned the haxeman's shoulder.
Aren plunged into the opening.
Another down.
They were thinning the pack.
But Azarat hadn't moved.
He watched.
Then raised his hand.
The night froze.
A black sphere formed.
"Cover!" Aren shouted.
He dove behind a tree.
The sphere struck.
The tree… became dust.
Aren's stomach dropped.
"That erases."
Stella paled.
"Tainted darkness… disintegration."
Azarat stepped forward.
"You're learning quickly," he said calmly."But learning isn't enough."
The lizards moved.
They charged.
Aren waited for the first to open its jaws.
He stabbed upward.
The blade pierced its throat.
It fell—but a claw ripped his shoulder.
"Ngh—!"
Stella blinded the second with fire.
The third slammed Aren down.
Pain exploded.
He rose anyway.
Decision.
He stabbed the leg, slowed it.
Stella severed its neck with wind.
The beasts fell.
Aren panted.
Stella too.
Azarat clapped slowly.
"Well done."
Then he spoke—his voice suddenly colder.
"Tell me," he said, eyes narrowing, "Where are the crates?"
Aren stiffened.
Azarat's gaze sharpened.
"Hand them over," he continued calmly, "And you may leave alive."
Silence.
Aren stepped forward.
"Not in your dreams."
Azarat smiled.
"Then die."
The darkness formed again.
—
Aren dodged as the sphere erased another tree.
Stella struck—wind, fire—barrier absorbed.
Aren closed distance.
He thrust.
Barrier.
A drop of blood.
Azarat recoiled.
He snarled.
"You think I make mistakes?"
Aren answered with a feint.
Stella burned him again.
Azarat charged—physically fast.
Darkness surged.
Aren deflected, dodged, and burned stamina.
"Protect me," Stella said.
Aren stepped forward.
She concentrated.
Circles appeared.
One.Two.Three.Four.
Azarat rushed.
Aren blocked. Redirected. Distracted.
Stella released.
Fire — Crown of Incandescent Blades.
Swords of fire erupted and struck Azarat from all angles.
He burned. Screamed. Fell back.
Stella collapsed.
Azarat rose—charred, furious.
Aren charged.
Southern Sword Technique — Final Pierce.
The blade entered beneath the ribs.
Decision.
Heart.
Azarat froze.
"…Impossible…"
He fell.
Silence.
Aren dropped to his knees.
Stella and Hassan lay unconscious.
Alive.
"…At least," Aren whispered, "we survived."
And the forest held its breath.