Morning came, casting a pale golden hue across the village, but its warmth did little to dispel the lingering shadows of grief.

The faint chirping of birds was the only melody in an otherwise somber silence, as if nature itself mourned with them.

Asael, Anne, and Kenta stood quietly, the soft morning breeze tugging at their cloaks as they prepared for their journey.

Their faces were marked with determination, but the weight of recent losses was etched into every glance, every movement.

Anne carefully packed their supplies—water, dried meat, herbs, and some healing potions—into a small, worn satchel.

It wasn’t an ordinary bag.

Crafted by the Mage Tower, it contained a small subspace enchantment, capable of holding far more than its size suggested while remaining light as a feather.

"I’ll carry it," Kenta offered, his voice steady despite his youth.

Anne hesitated, her protective instincts flaring, but Asael gave a slight nod. "Let him."

Kenta slung the bag over his shoulder, the lightness betraying the many burdens—both physical and emotional—it carried.

As they stepped outside, the villagers gathered in small clusters, watching with solemn expressions.

One of the older men, his face weathered like cracked bark, approached them.

"Have you all decided to go?" he asked, his tone tinged with both concern and reluctant acceptance.

"Yes," Asael replied simply, his golden eyes reflecting the morning light with quiet resolve.

The villager sighed softly, then straightened. "Okay. Let me guide you."

Without another word, the man turned, leading them through narrow forest paths where the trees stood tall and silent, their branches whispering secrets of battles past.

The ground beneath their feet grew uneven, roots snaking out like ancient veins pulsing with forgotten stories.

After some time, they emerged from the forest, standing at the base of a small mountain.

The jagged cliffs loomed above them, casting long shadows that crept across the rocky terrain like dark fingers.

The villager stopped, pointing upward.

"This is the mountain. If you climb, you’ll find him. But… are you sure? It can be really dangerous."

Asael glanced at the mountain, then back at the villager, his gaze unwavering.

"Don’t worry. We’ll be careful."

The man gave a reluctant nod, then turned back, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving the trio alone with the mountain—and whatever awaited them above.

With a deep breath, they began their ascent.

At first, the climb was uneventful, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves.

But as they rounded a bend, the sight that greeted them stole the breath from their lungs.

Bodies.

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Lifeless, twisted, broken bodies.

Monsters of every kind—goblins, orcs, and creatures Asael didn’t even recognize—were strewn across the rocky path.

Their corpses were grotesque remnants of a battle long since ended.

Many had been cleaved in half with a single, clean strike, their flesh split as easily as parchment.

Others were torn apart, their wounds jagged and raw, as if some beast with razor-sharp claws had ripped through them like fragile cloth.

The stench of death hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating, mingling with the faint metallic tang of dried blood.

Kenta gagged slightly, his face pale, but he pressed on, his jaw clenched tight.

Anne’s expression was grave, her hand instinctively resting on the small pendant around her neck—a silent prayer on her lips.

"What… happened here?" Kenta whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Asael said nothing, his golden eyes scanning the carnage.

The bodies weren’t just killed—they were slaughtered.

They continued upward, and the further they climbed, the worse it became.

The path grew narrower, winding through jagged rocks and shattered boulders.

Some stones were split cleanly in half, as if sliced by an impossibly sharp blade.

Others were reduced to rubble, scorched black by what appeared to be intense heat.

Burn marks marred the ground, forming dark patches where flesh had melted into stone.

In some places, the very earth had been torn apart, claw marks embedded deep into the soil.

It wasn’t just a battle.

It was a massacre.

The evidence of raw, overwhelming power was everywhere.

It was as if something—or someone—had torn through these monsters with the ease of wind through leaves.

The air grew thinner as they neared the mountain’s summit, the jagged rocks beneath their feet sharp like the very edge of a blade.

The sky above was a pale gray, clouds swirling ominously as if mirroring the unease settling in Asael’s chest.

Then, without warning, Asael stopped.

His hand shot out instinctively, halting Anne and Kenta behind him.

"Stop here," he whispered, his brown eyes narrowing.

Something was here.

Something powerful.

The atmosphere grew heavier, pressing down on them like an invisible weight.

The faint rustle of wind seemed to vanish, replaced by an eerie, oppressive silence.

Then—

A voice echoed through the stillness.

Cold. Calm. Devoid of emotion.

"Who are you all?"

From the shadows of jagged rocks, a young man emerged.

His presence was unassuming, yet it carried the weight of a thousand storms.

His hair was an icy blue, strands tousled by the mountain breeze, matching the piercing chill in his sharp, sapphire eyes.

A sword rested at his hip, its sheath as simple as the clothes he wore—tattered, worn, yet dignified in a way that hinted at nobility long abandoned.

But Asael didn’t need to see the sword to know.

This was the one.

The one who had turned the mountainside into a graveyard.

The one who had massacred those monsters without breaking a sweat.

Power radiated from him, invisible yet undeniable, like the faint crackle of lightning before a storm.

Asael’s instincts screamed, not with fear—but with respect for the overwhelming force standing before them.

Anne took a hesitant step forward, her eyes narrowing slightly as recognition flickered in her mind.

"Are you… Duke Driesell’s son?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a mix of awe and disbelief.

The name hung in the air like an ancient echo.

Duke Driesell, the strongest swordsman of his era, known for wielding thunder itself with a blade forged from storms.

His bloodline was legendary—marked by their blue hair, piercing eyes, and the unmistakable azure blade they carried.

But they were all supposed to be dead.

Killed during the Demon King’s invasion.

Except for the rumors—whispers of a lone survivor.

The youngest son.

Steven Driesell.

The young man tilted his head slightly, as if trying to recall something distant and irrelevant.

"Hmm… wait. Have I seen you somewhere?" His voice remained indifferent, as if even curiosity was too much effort.

His eyes flicked to Anne. "You’re the Saintess, right?"

Then his gaze shifted to Asael.

Unimpressed. Unbothered.

"Then that makes you the Hero."

Asael and Anne nodded, though neither felt like titles mattered here.

Steven’s fingers brushed lazily against the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable. "So, tell me—why have both of you come here?"

Asael took a step forward, steadying his voice. "We came to investigate the rumors. About the mysterious monster on this mountain."

Steven’s lips curled slightly—not a smile, more of an afterthought. A mockery of amusement with no warmth behind it.

"Is that so? I was just bored, so I killed them," he said casually, gesturing vaguely toward the mountain littered with corpses. "Didn’t realize boredom would earn me a nickname."

His words were light, but his eyes—empty, cold, distant—told a different story.

A man untouched by the weight of life.

Or perhaps a man who had already lost everything worth caring about.

Anne clenched her fists, her lips parting to speak, but Asael stepped forward.

"Can you help us?" Asael asked, his voice firm despite the chill that crawled up his spine.

Steven’s response was immediate. "No. I can’t and I won't."

Blunt. Sharp.

Like a door slammed shut.

"What? But we need your help!" Asael’s voice rose, frustration seeping in.

"With your power, we could save countless lives. We could fight back, defeat the monsters, the Demon King—"

Steven’s eyes flashed for the briefest moment—not with anger, but with something colder.

Indifference sharpened into disdain.

"Why should I help you?" he interrupted, his tone like ice cracking under pressure.

Asael faltered, the words caught in his throat.

"Because our goals are the same," he finally managed. "To defeat the Demon King. To save humanity."

Steven’s chuckle was soft, almost amused, but it held no joy—just a hollow echo.

"You’re wrong," he said, stepping closer, the faint clink of his sword against its sheath the only sound.

"It’s your goal to save humanity. My goal is simple—kill the Demon King. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Asael frowned. "Aren’t they the same?"

Steven stopped, his eyes locking onto Asael’s with a gaze so cold it felt like staring into the void.

"No. They aren’t."

His next words cut deeper than any blade.

"I am willing to sacrifice humanity to defeat the Demon King. Are you?"

Silence.

Asael opened his mouth but found no answer.

His heart raced, not with fear—but with the weight of doubt.

The words lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Steven’s gaze softened—not with kindness, but with pity.

"Thought so."

Without another word, he turned, walking away as if the conversation—and their existence—meant nothing.

"Now get lost," he added, his voice carried by the mountain wind, as cold and sharp as the blade at his side.

Asael stood frozen, the question echoing in his mind long after Steven’s figure disappeared into the trees.