Alaric pressed his back against the crumbling stone wall, every sharp inhale piercing his side where the blood soaked through his fingers. He had to steady himself—had to hold his breath, even—as he risked a glance around the corner, assessing the situation from his cover. He dreaded what he would see.

Across the alleyway, his maidservant, Jana Lionsmane, was locked in a brutal clash with the creature who’d sent him reeling into this alley. She moved fast, her fists a blur of strikes against the trollkin’s hide, but each hit seemed like it barely scratched the brute.

She had a better chance with her sword, but that same sword had shattered earlier against the tough skin of that green-skinned monster.

“No, no…” His chest tightened as he watched her—she was powerful, a fighter who had bested her share of beasts and men alike, but this was something else. It was a demonic trollkin, massive and lumbering, that towered over her, blocking her strikes with one thick, tree-like arm while the other raised high, ready to smash her.

Every blow Jana tanked from him was deadly. He could see that her life was slipping with every impact, every time she dodged, and every time she hit the monster.

But if she fell here, it’d be on him. All on him, and there was no way he’d survive then. Alaric felt like shit.

Alaric grumbled, frustration boiling beneath his calm. His mind ran back to the start of this damn ambush. It had just been another evening. Although there was an incident in the woods, he hadn’t been part of the unlucky group to have gotten swept in it.

He came to the city to buy an artifact. All he’d wanted was to do that, to buy a protective artifact in the black market that could be useful against demons. After all, demons had become a commodity in the academy somehow, and it was better to be prepared for it.

He hadn’t expected to encounter two demons right before entering the market though. While he and Jana were entering, those two demons were coming out of the black market. Alaric should have stayed silent, but he had spotted the face under the hooded figure, noticing the broad, hulking shape beneath the cloak. The Trollkin. Alaric failed to contain his shock, and the situation advanced. In a bad way.

Jana got involved in trying to defeat the demons so that they couldn’t harm him, and now here she was, taking blows meant for him. She was losing, and she was doing that badly.

“Fucking hell.” It was a bad image for a prince to curse, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t often lose control, but this—watching her get pounded into the ground as he huddled in the shadows, was intolerable.

Alaric was the third prince, far from the line of succession. Naturally, he had close to no supporters backing him. But Jana was one of his few true allies, someone he trusted to have his back when the stakes were high. He’d strategized so carefully to come this far, building plans to seize the throne, preparing for alliances and victories that would set Roshmar on a new path. For he didn’t trust his foolish older brothers to run the country and believed only he could save his small country from the two oppressive Empires it was sandwiched between.

He had ambition, but he didn’t have the backing. And the only important enough person whose backing mattered to him was about to die.

What kind of King was he going to become if he couldn’t save one person?

The thought stung more than the injury. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to his feet, the pain a dull, hot ache that trailed up his ribs as he moved. He had to be quick—had to distract the trollkin before it landed another brutal blow on her.

From the looks of it, she wouldn’t survive another blow. So Alaric had to do something to give her a chance to escape. He stumbled into the alley, his hand still pressed to his side, his voice hoarse but rising above the sounds of the clash. “Hey, you green muscleheaded baboon! Over here!”

It was a silly taunt, but it worked. The troll’s head turned, its eyes narrowing as it caught sight of him. Alaric swallowed hard, forcing down a fresh rush of panic as the creature loomed toward him. He opened his mouth, summoning the best taunt he could muster, but only managed, “Come on, you piss-drinking—” before a cold hand fell on his shoulder.

“Ah, you’re distracting my partner.” The voice was smooth, casual, almost amused. It sent a chill down his spine.

Alaric twisted sharply to find a dark elf standing behind him, his face half-hidden by shadows and a wicked smile playing across his lips. Light purple hair fell on his shoulders as he grinned at Alaric’s shock.

The youngest prince of Roshmar barely had time to react as the elf raised a hand, and it rushed toward his face. “Take a nap,” the dark elf said, his tone so dismissive it set Alaric’s blood boiling.

The hand inched closer, every muscle in Alaric’s body screaming at him to move, to fight, to do something. But his body betrayed him. He was injured, and he was bleeding, prompting him to be frozen in the face of inevitable defeat.

The punch didn’t reach him, however. With a dull thud, a powerful grip clamped down on the elf’s wrist, halting the strike in mid-air. A blonde figure stepped into view between them, his presence crackling with mana.

Professor Katheran.

“What do you think you’re doing,” his voice rasped with rage, “to my student?”

The elf’s smug expression shattered, replaced by wide-eyed shock. But before he could stammer out a response, Katheran’s arm shot forward, backhanding the dark elf across the face. A surge of energy exploded from the strike, propelling the elf through the air and slamming him through walls and buildings in a crash that shook the very ground.

The night echoed with the sound, the once silent street now filled with the city’s alarm as magic burst through the atmosphere. Alaric stared dumbfounded. Just how strong…

For a brief moment, relief washed over Alaric. The professor was here! He whose name was known across the continent as the Spellsword. But the feeling dissolved as his gaze snapped back to the battlefield, searching frantically for Jana. His heart thundered as he spotted her leaning against a wall. Her breath came in short gasps, and her focus locked on a different spot—the place she’d been fighting only moments ago.

Ignoring the pain searing his side, Alaric staggered to her. “Jana! Are you…?”

She gave him a nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the same place in the darkness. He followed her gaze, his stomach twisting as he tried to catch what held her attention now.

Jana was here instead of fighting because the trollkin was busy. It was trading blows with another Professor. Alaric recognized him as Oran Valmyre, whose towering form matched the massive trollkin. The clash between them was immense, their punches colliding with deafening blasts, shockwaves rippling through the air with each strike.

Alaric could hardly believe it—the sheer strength radiating from both combatants was enough to flatten a small building. Alaric should have felt a strange calm settle over him. They were safe now. Jana was safe. He could afford to feel grateful, if only for a moment.

Instead, Alaric felt small caught between powerhouses.

The fight raged on, echoing into the night as the professors held the line, their magic lighting up the darkness like a storm crashing through the city. Alaric took Jana back to the academy and into the infirmary.

****

Zelyr the Dark Elf’s vision spun as he staggered upright, wiping blood from his mouth, the sting of dust and grit grinding against his skin. He was steady enough to process what had happened, even if his body had taken a hit he hadn’t seen coming.

Katheran. He’d known that the Spellsword of Lightning would be trouble when he’d come searching the city tomorrow, but he’d only half-expected the professors to have actually made a move tonight already. Now here he was, walking over, sparking with familiar arcs of electricity.

“Didn’t expect a welcoming committee, Spellsword,” Zelyr called out, adjusting his stance as he raised his hands. He muttered a spell as a pair of translucent purple shields materialized over his palms. He hoped they’d be able to endure some strikes.

Katheran shot forward, his gaze cold as steel. “When I heard there were demons in the city, I hadn’t expected it to be you, Lavender Snake. Did you not know I was here? Should have thought this through,” he replied, his voice cutting sharp.

“Don’t we sound official,” Zelyr grunted, and in response, Katheran slammed his fists forward. He barely managed to block the punch which would have rendered his face toothless otherwise. But the shields trembled, sending out cracks that rippled like thin glass ready to shatter. He needed a plan. Fast.

“Argh… You know, I could have guessed Waybound would send its best and brightest, but two of the finest professors?” he said as the fists pushed down on his shields, angling for time, searching for an opening as he spoke. “What’s the matter, Spellsword? Couldn’t handle this alone?”

That was a funny taunt for a man who had taken a knee, looking up at the clenched jaws of the man wearing shades at nighttime. Katheran’s mouth twitched, but he kept silent, his blows relentless. When he withdrew his fists and punched again, the shields began to splinter under the assault.

One more hit like that, and they’d break entirely.

Zelyr clapped his hands. Whirling wheels of magic circles materialized around him, consuming him, and he reappeared a few meters away from his position. He stood, muttering another spell while giving Katheran a sly grin.

“...Fine. I’ll take you seriously now,” Katheran said, loosening his fists. Then, in a flash of blue and white, his grip tightened around the hilt of a sword that materialized in his hand, charged with a flickering pulse of lightning. The energy surged down its length, radiating an ominous light across Katheran’s face as he leveled it at Zelyr.

Uh oh… Zelyr’s smile faltered, barely managing to keep up his calm facade. “Not even a little mercy for old times’ sake?”

“Don’t talk as if we’re friends, you fool,” Katheran’s sword lashed out, searing through the air with a crackling hum. Zelyr sidestepped. His spell wasn’t ready! He decided to abandon the spell and call forth mana shields again. His shoulder nearly caught in the blow, but he wasn’t fast enough. Pain shot through his left arm, the searing slice cutting deep.

He stifled a shout, clutching his arm as he barely regained his footing. Behind him, the remnants of a wall crumbled to dust, lightning searing through it.

Knew he wasn’t playing fair tonight.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

He focused, eyes searching the shadows. His defenses couldn’t last much longer under this pressure. He needed—

“Rargh!” A roar tore through the air, deep and guttural. Vrakrith barreled forward, all muscle and fury, slamming into Katheran. The professor met the trollkin’s charge with a braced stance, but even he staggered slightly from the impact, pushed back by Vrakrith’s sheer weight. Then, Vrakrith’s massive hand swatted him like a fly, sending him into some other block of the town.

“Atta boy,” Zelyr exhaled, catching his breath as he clutched his injured shoulder. That man wouldn’t be injured by that, but by the time he’d return, the two of them would be long gone. Relief washed over him as he called out, “What about the other one, Vrakrith?”

The trollkin gave a guttural chuckle, pride thick in his voice. “Took care of him. He’s done.” He too was injured, although on his body, it’d make him weaker for a while. It’d be unwise to waste any time here.

Zelyr let himself relax, a smile creeping across his face. “Perfect.” This was their chance. “Grab me and get us out of here.”

Vrakrith didn’t waste a moment, grabbing hold of Zelyr and leaping high into the night, the wind cutting sharply against them. Zelyr looked down, catching one last look at Katheran, who had already returned, his gaze darting between them and his downed colleague.

A rare look of frustration crossed Katheran. He could either chase the two of them or save his colleague’s life, who was probably gravely injured. In the end, he clicked his tongue and knelt by Valmyre. Zelyr felt a stab of satisfaction, the kind he’d savor later.

The wind embraced the two of them as they vanished into the night sky, leaving that part of the city and leaping into another. Zelyr decided where they should land and told Vrakrith about it. The trollkin nodded, and their direction changed.

****

The jump landed them on the outskirts, at the quiet abandoned garden beside the Fenixia mansion that cast a hollow shadow across the cobbled road.

Zelyr wrenched himself free, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his shoulder, the gash pulsing, but he managed to stay upright. The trollkin loomed at his side, keeping an eye on him, concern flickering briefly across his usually blank expression.

“Ya don’t look so good,” Vrakrith muttered. “Should we find’ya something for that arm?”

Zelyr grunted, brushing him off. “I’ll be fine… But we need cover. The professors are bad enough, but it’ll be really bad if those Church of Light bastards find us. Let’s head into the castle—this is the Fenixia property, and no one’s been here in years.” That was why he told Vrakrith to land here.

Vrakrith nodded and moved through the bushes they had landed behind. A minute of walking later, he pushed open the mansion’s front doors, their weight creaking as he shoved and it parted just slightly.

“Huh, I see faint light from inside,” he said, barely having a moment to register as the doors swung open of their own accord, pushing them backward and sending them falling on their back. A figure in a deep crimson cloak stepped out. Both of the demonkin went alert, crouching in their position.

Shit, who’s that? Zelyr scowled at the figure whose presence was chilling to his senses. Is this… is he the guy? The one stealing our name? Energy radiated from them, thick, dark, and potent enough to make Zelyr’s stomach drop.

Such a thick demonic presence. It had to be someone he knew! Who was it?! Vrakrith had tensed beside him as Zelyr tightened his grip on his injured arm, calling out with an uneasy scowl, “You-! Who are you? Did the Demon King send you?”

The figure’s head tilted slightly, a movement that seemed almost curious. Then, he raised his arm. It appeared from under the hood, and seeing that Zelyr blinked. Until now he hadn’t realized that this person missed an arm, cut off from down the elbow. But why…?

Was he showing that he too had an injured arm, and therefore they weren’t enemies? Or what was going on?

Before Zelyr could register the intention behind the action, the end of his stump glowed faintly, dark energy spilling off it like smoke. He narrowed his eyes, wary, and he opened his mouth to shout. But too late, as a thin beam of blackness shot forward from the figure’s stump, silent and deadly.

Zelyr saw darkness as the beam fell into his face

There was a single flash of pain, then nothing.

The dark elf’s head had vaporized instantly.

…..

“...?”

Vrakrith blinked as he looked down on his arms. His breathing started to tumble. They came in short, heavy bursts as he remained crouched in his position, muscles tensing up beneath his thick skin.

Pain radiated from his severed left arm, the limb had been sliced clean off by the black energy that had killed Zelyr and pushed further back, severing his arm. His limb began to regenerate, somewhat slower than usual, as he looked at the shadowy, scrawny human in the cloak. The pain wasn’t his concern right now.

He looked down at his partner’s body another time. The headless corpse. He tilted his head, confused at the sight. “...No.”

Then with a low, guttural growl, he leaped forward, uncaring of the thin beams that shot out again, the strikes blinding fast and deadly. “Roargh!” He snarled as another beam sliced clean through his shoulder, shearing it off with a precision that left him lopsided for a moment before his flesh began to twitch, regenerating itself almost immediately.

His arm took shape again, his fingers reformed, and even as his left leg buckled from a beam that cut through his thigh, his body refused to relent, the bones knitting themselves back together. The trollkin was seeing red.

The hooded figure’s voice echoed through the abandoned garden, his tone eerily calm. “I have to admit. I’m a bit jealous of that regeneration,” he remarked.

Vrakrith let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Wishing for your useless arm back, little human? I’ll fuck you up, and then y’ll wish for death!” He rushed forward like an elephant.

He closed the distance, swinging his massive muscular arm at the fool, and hoped to see his head crushed. Instead, the robed figure vanished. He teleported away, appearing where the body of Zelyr was.

“You're slow,” he said, kicking the dead body of Zelyr. It was a pointless taunt, Vrakrith should have known, and yet, it worked. He roared in rage and kicked the ground, blurring toward the robed bastard.

His punch only passed through empty air, however. He had once again teleported.

Vrakrith didn't understand spells and stuff, but could people really teleport so easily?

From his new position, he shot his black beam again. It slammed into Vrakrith’s head, but it didn't explode. He wasn't as weak as his deceased poor partner, and coating his body part with mana seemed enough to block that black beam.

It wasn't invincible.

But Vrakrith was.

He was unkillable.

That bastard is a small and weak bastard!! Vrakrith thought. That is why he's running away. He can't survive one hit from me! I just need to hit him once.

Vrakrith was Level 101. 7th Ascension. He was feeling weaker than usual since he had a serious fight with a professor earlier, so he wasn't at his full power. Still, he was strong enough to burst that bastard’s head like a bubble.

“Your beams not working anymore,” he turned to the robed bastard. “Your arm is useless.”

“I wouldn’t call it useless,” he said, standing at the doorstep like before. “Allow me to show you.”

He raised his stump again like a magic wand, a faint shimmer beginning to form. Vrakrith prepared himself for the black beam again.

He wasn’t scared. Even if the beams were to grow stronger and penetrate his mana costing, even if it cut him off easily, he could heal off just as easily. He rushed forward again.

And then Vrakrith’s eyes widened.

The air crackled with heat and a golden blade of pure energy extended from the weird robed demon-like human’s stump this time, humming with holy power.

He froze mid-stride, his eyes narrowing at the sight. He didn’t understand much of human magic or magic for the batter, nor did he care for the distinctions between affinities. But even he, in his simple, brutal instincts, understood the danger of that golden glow.

It was Holy Light—an affinity that had nearly killed him once before.

The memory sparked something primal in him, a survival instinct that warred with his drive for revenge.

The figure raised the blade higher, its light casting an ominous glow across the garden. Vrakrith grunted, clenching his fists.

His partner was dead, their plans were scattered, and strong professors were trying to find him. He wasn’t going to die, the demon king wouldn't want that.

But at the very least, he wanted to confirm something.

He slammed his hands together, and a deafening shockwave tore through the narrow alleyway, splintering stone and rattling the very ground beneath them.

The shockwave hit the cloaked figure, forcing him to brace himself, his stance slipping for a moment. The hood was blown back, exposing a young, intense face framed by long dark hair and cold, calculating golden eyes.

Vrakrith gawked, his breath hitching as he took in the sight. This was a kid. “A kid?!” he bellowed, fists tightening, rage simmering over. He was even madder now—his partner, killed by a child? It was humiliating.

He was planning to run away- no, a tactical retreat as Zelyr liked to call it, and then come back for revenge. For holy light was troublesome, and then those troublesome professors might find him soon too. But now? He couldn’t contain himself.

Snarling, he surged forward again, blind to anything but the need to crush this brat’s skull himself. But as he barreled closer, a flash of white shot out from within the mansion. “Stay back, musclehead!”

Vrakrith only caught it in the corner of his eye before a fist, drawn with deadly intent, collided with his face.

The impact hit like a thunderclap, sending him hurtling backward. He skidded across the ground, teeth bared as he managed to right himself, blinking the stars out of his vision. Standing between him and the cloaked figure now was another human—no, a demi. It was a girl with a fierce expression, her gaze unyielding, her body taut like a drawn bow.

He could feel her power crackling in the air. This one wasn’t a small fry. From the strength behind her punch, she had the strength of a Sixth Ascension.

He grumbled, nostrils flaring as he forced himself upright, driven to continue the fight even as every instinct screamed at him to leave. His fury bubbled over, but then, something stopped him cold.

A faint smell, familiar and ominous, crept into his senses.

The smell of a Dragon.

There was also the scent of that professor guy from earlier. No sense in throwing away his life when he’d have another shot later. He scowled, his face twisting in frustration as he backed away, eyes darting between the two humans. “I’ll remember your faces,” he growled, his voice thick with a promise of vengeance. Then, with a thunderous leap, he kicked off the ground and disappeared into the night sky, vanishing beyond the rooftops.

The kid who must be barely 20 years old by human standards watched him go, his eyes narrowing as if he considered following.

The kid, Iskandaar Romani, decided to follow the trollkin in the end, taking a step ahead. But before he could take another, a telltale rush of air around him halted his step. Amelia Duskleaf landed beside him, her eyes sweeping the scene, taking in the dark elf’s lifeless body, then the holy blade humming at Iskandaar’s side.

“You fool.” She growled at him, quickly looking around. Her eyes fell on the headless body of the dark elf. “What’s that Destruction Affinity? Did the demons have an infighting? …Never mind. It’s unimportant,” Amelia said, turning to him.

“Hello, Chancellor.”

“Uh, hey, Baroness?” Lilian said.

“You have that Star Affinity Mana Blade coming on your hand. Smart. The others will not suspect you,” she ignored both their greetings and said. She looked like she was on edge.

Of course, the Qi Blade wasn’t a Holy Blade, it wasn’t made from the Holy Affinity. It was a result of his Star Affinity. There were some differences. It’d hurt demons, sure, but not as much as the Holy Affinity for them to fear it that much.

The dumb trollkin hadn’t recognized the difference.

I have an idea, Iskandaar thought and absorbed his robe inside his Soul Storage.

More importantly than that, since he was using his Star Affinity from his lower core right now, the Destruction Affinity that he had pulled from his higher core didn’t seem like it was from him. It didn’t register with his signature because the ‘trace’ didn’t lead anywhere since he was using a different core.

It was a complicated process, but since Amelia couldn’t detect the Destruction Affinity to be a part of him, it was working. That’s all that mattered.

Katheran joined them moments later, his eyes dark with restrained energy as he too looked around, assessing the aftermath. His gaze stayed on the dead body of the dark elf for a moment. He turned to Iskandaar, an eyebrow raised. “...What are you doing here late at night? No, you killed him?”

Iskandaar thought for a moment and inclined his head, the golden blade still bright and steady. “No. There was an odd, robed figure here. He was wielding the Destruction Affinity in a skillful way.”

Amelia looked at him, narrowing her eyes at his missing robes, while Katheran fell into thought.

If they didn’t believe it? Well, then they could search around the place.

The professors exchanged a glance, their attention shifting between the lifeless body at their feet and the student and his maid before them. In the cool night air, the glow of Iskandaar’s starlight blade remained unwavering.