"King Martin... I've never met him, though I've thought about it," I muttered, glancing at Vincent. "Is he coming for you?"
Vincent nodded, but his eyes remained distant, fixed on the thickening fog ahead. The storm raged around us, heavy rain slashing the ground, the howling winds making it difficult to think clearly.
"Should we run?" I asked, feeling an uneasy tension settle in my chest. "I mean, I can't fight—or assist you—like you know. And since a wielder of Riptide has already defeated you once, I don't think fighting the king is a good idea, either." I paused, waiting for him to respond. "You're mentally exhausted, the storm's severe, and with all this rain, it might work to his advantage."
Vincent didn't reply. He stood still, his eyes searching the fog, as if waiting for King Martin to appear at any moment. I hadn't noticed how thick the fog had grown until now. It wrapped around us, suffocating the air, making the world feel smaller, more dangerous. His silence hung in the cold wind, leaving me torn.
I couldn't leave him here. Not like this.
"Can you proceed to the next level?" Vincent asked suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
"I don't think so—" I started, but my mind was reeling.
1. Obtain the Rune – Completed
2. Cover a distance of 20 miles – Completed
3. Live 3 days in Level 0 – Completed
4. Kill a beast from the game – Completed
5. Perform an attack using the Rune – Completed
I stared at the list in disbelief. The third and fourth tasks, I remembered doing. But the fifth? I didn't recall using the Rune in any attack.
"Hey, Messenger, is this some kind of glitch?" I asked, confusion settling deeper in my mind.
"No, you are currently eligible to advance to the next level. Do you wish to proceed?" the Messenger replied, his voice cold, indifferent.
I hesitated. Advance? Now? I didn't even know what awaited me on the next level. I turned to Vincent, feeling the weight of the decision pulling at me. He looked at me as if he didn't want to ask the question again.
"Yes, I think I can," I replied, my words uncertain.
"Good, then proceed," Vincent said flatly.
"What? How? What are you even saying—" I stammered, confusion and anxiety swirling inside me. "If you want me to escape from the king, why don't you come with me?"
Vincent turned to me then, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. The rain clung to his hair, dripping down his face, but he didn't seem to notice. "I'm not running away from a pathetic fool who's afraid of others wielding power on equal footing," he said, his voice steady, calm. "I will face him here."
There was a finality in his words that made my chest tighten. He had already made up his mind. His determination was like a wall I couldn't break through.
"If I die, then so be it. But if I win..." A brief smile flickered on his face, sharp and knowing. "I'll consider entering Level 1. But don't wait for me. I'll catch up to you on my own. I'm strong."
I stood there, rain soaking through my clothes, wind howling around us, and I felt torn. Part of me wanted to argue, to convince him to come with me. But I knew. This was his fight, his choice. And there was no changing his mind.
Suddenly, it felt as though the world had gone silent. The howling wind ceased, the pounding rain stopped, hanging in the air as if frozen in time. Yet, the storm was still there—churning, violent, pressing down on us with its weight. I didn't need Vincent to confirm it. I knew what was happening.
"He is here," Vincent muttered, his voice low but tense.
In the thick fog, two figures slowly emerged, looming high in the air. Shiny blue stones were pierced into their alternate ears, glowing faintly through the darkness, casting an eerie light in the foggy atmosphere. Their presence was otherworldly, hovering with an unnatural grace. Beneath them, shadows rippled like waves until the faint outline of an army began to take shape—a large, ominous force that seemed to spread endlessly across the landscape.
Vincent's face darkened. His expression was serious, his jaw clenched tightly. He was drenched, his skin glistening, but I couldn't tell if it was sweat or rain. Either way, the tension was palpable, clinging to him like the storm itself. If a real battle broke out—if these monsters clashed—it would be devastating. I knew Vincent was at a disadvantage. He would suffer. His body and mind were already worn down, and facing this army would push him to the brink.
The option to proceed to the next level flickered in my mind like a phantom. The thought lingered, tempting me—a virtual reality hovering just out of reach. If I willed it, I could be sucked up into the next level, escaping this chaos. Or... perhaps it would be my first true step into Level 1. My body hesitated, indecisive, torn between running and staying.
The shadowy figures in the fog disappeared, fading back into the mist as if they were mere illusions. And then, suddenly, the army appeared, emerging from the veil of fog. There they were—His Majesty's forces, led by the king himself. The soldiers stood in disciplined rows, their armor dull but formidable, and in the center of it all, King Martin II.
I scanned the army, searching for any sign of a Rune among the soldiers or even the king himself. But nothing stood out. There were no visible marks of power, no glowing stones like the ones worn by the figures I had seen earlier.
"Where is the Riptide?" I asked, my voice a hushed whisper, more to myself than to anyone.
Vincent nodded toward the king. "His finger."
I squinted, focusing on the king's hand. And there it was—small but unmistakable—a shimmering blue Rune, shaped like a droplet of water. It was embedded in the ring he wore on his finger, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
"Isn't it supposed to be around his neck?" I asked, confused.
"No," the Messenger replied, his voice calm but authoritative. "Runes that do not belong to their rightful masters do not form their own vessels. The entity wielding the Rune must create a suitable vessel themselves to house the Rune they command."
"I see..." I muttered. The significance of that small blue stone now weighed heavily on my mind. It wasn't just any Rune—it was Riptide, a symbol of immense power, controlled by a man I had never seen but already feared.
The storm roared around us again, as if time had caught up with itself. And there we stood—on the edge of something far greater than any of us could fully grasp.
A soldier stepped forward, his armor clinking as he moved with rigid precision. The fog parted slightly to reveal his face—a grim, sharp expression, clearly hardened by years of service. His voice rang out over the wind, carrying a tone of authority and cold indifference as he addressed Vincent.
"Charles Vincent," the soldier began, standing tall as if embodying the will of the king himself. "You have committed an act of treason against the kingdom by stealing the Rune from His Majesty's treasury. If you return it now, you will be granted mercy, or—"
But Vincent cut him off before he could finish, his voice low and brimming with anger. "Stole?" He spat the word out like poison, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You call it stealing?"
The soldier paused, clearly taken aback by Vincent's interruption, but stood his ground. Vincent's hand moved ever so slightly, fingers twitching toward the Rune hidden beneath his cloak. His posture shifted—subtle, but enough to show he had no intention of surrendering.
"I didn't steal anything," Vincent continued, his voice rising with a venomous edge. "That Rune belongs to no one, least of all your king. It never did. It was never his to claim."
The soldier's face remained impassive, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as Vincent stepped forward, defiance radiating from him.
"Tell your king," Vincent growled, "that mercy is not something I need."
The storm roared louder as if in response to the tension, rain hammering down on the ground between them. The air felt charged, thick with the promise of violence.
"The Rune belongs to me," Vincent said calmly, his voice cutting through the storm. "I'll show mercy by letting you go if you return to your kingdom now. If not..." He yanked off his cloak and threw it aside, revealing the gleam of his Rune beneath. The Thornveil Rune pulsed with a soft green light in the mist, casting an eerie glow around him. I hadn't noticed it before, but as I focused, I could see its shape more clearly now—an intricate imprint resembling a leaf, much like the lightning bolt on my own Rune.
"You dare disrespect the king!" the soldier barked, his voice rising with fury.
"That's enough!" A deep, commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife. It was the king. His presence silenced the chaos as he stepped forward, his figure imposing against the backdrop of fog and rain. King Martin II—tall, regal, with an air of authority that sent a chill through the air. His gaze fixed on Vincent. "Vincent, although we've never met, I've heard much about you—and about your Rune. One that, they say, can rival even Riptide."
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He raised his hand, and there, glittering faintly on his finger, was the blue droplet-shaped Rune embedded in his ring. Riptide. The power it held was palpable, and as he spoke, his tone shifted to something resembling a negotiation.
"So how about this," the king said, his voice dripping with false generosity. "You become my soldier, and you get to keep your Rune. I can overlook the... 'theft' from the treasury." He gestured casually toward me, his gaze cold and calculating. "And we can blame the theft on this young boy. Don't worry—since he's just a player, I'll give him a maximum of ten years in prison. What do you say? We can end this peacefully."
He grinned, clearly believing he had the upper hand. Vincent remained silent, his expression unreadable, but I trusted him. He wouldn't agree to this. He couldn't. I felt my chest tighten, knowing that whatever decision came next would decide our fate.
The king's grin faded as his impatience grew. "If you're this skeptical," he said, his voice sharp, "why don't we kill the boy now and call it off? You can live peacefully in my kingdom, with your Rune, under my army."
Without waiting for a reply, he made a small hand gesture. In an instant, the rain changed its course, no longer falling but hurling itself toward me—each droplet like a tiny bullet, moving with blinding speed. I froze. The force of the storm was too great, the attack too sudden. I was going to die.
I shut my eyes, bracing for the inevitable, expecting to feel the cold sting of death wash over me again.
But nothing came.
I opened my eyes slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. The rain hadn't touched me. Not a single droplet had landed. Confused, I glanced around, seeing the same bewilderment mirrored on the king's face. His eyes narrowed in disbelief, his smug expression faltering.
Vincent stood, unwavering, his Rune glowing brighter than before, Thornveil's green aura pulsing in the mist. He had done something—something I couldn't yet comprehend. But whatever it was, it had stopped the king's attack.
For the first time, doubt flickered in King Martin's eyes.
"You disgust me," Vincent spat, his voice laced with hatred. "Not just you, but your entire bloodline. What has the first king done to deserve successors like you?" He took a step forward, his gaze unwavering, burning with disdain. "Kill the boy? I'll say this clearly, in front of your whole army. I, Charles Den Vincent, will protect this boy with my life. And if any of you wonder what death feels like—step forward."
The king's face twisted in fury. He rose from his throne, lifted by the men beneath him, and despite the storm raging around us, he looked unnaturally untouched—unbothered by the wind or rain. His eyes burned with wrath as he screamed, "You insolent creature, die!"
His voice rang out, seething with rage, but Vincent didn't flinch. He simply raised his head, meeting the king's gaze head-on. "Do you know the real reason I lost that first battle?" Vincent asked, his tone eerily calm. "It was raining."
The king's eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Riptide has the ability to summon rain," Vincent continued, his voice almost mocking.
"So what?" the king barked, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Knowing that changes nothing! You're going to die a slow, agonizing death just like before." With a flick of his wrist, the king sent another barrage of rain bullets toward us, each droplet sharp as a blade, moving faster than the eye could see.
But before they could reach us, time seemed to freeze again. The storm around us held its breath. Vincent smiled—a cold, confident smile.
"Same as before?" Vincent scoffed. "Are you blind as well as foolish? Look around you."
The king's gaze flickered in confusion as Vincent gestured to the surroundings. The dense forest around us, the towering trees, their thick branches and endless leaves, suddenly seemed more alive, more menacing. The air itself shifted, the leaves beginning to rustle, moving in the wind that Vincent now commanded. His Rune—Thornveil—glowed brighter, its deep green aura spreading through the forest.
"You may have summoned the rain," Vincent said, his voice rising in power, "but you're standing in the heart of the forest. This is my domain."
With those words, the forest responded. Leaves came swirling from every direction, twisting and dancing in the air, creating a living barrier between us and the king's attack. The raindrops, once deadly and precise, collided with the cyclone of leaves and disintegrated. The bullets of water were helpless, breaking apart upon impact, unable to pierce the storm of foliage Vincent had summoned. The wind howled, but it carried the scent of earth and life now, not death.
The king's expression shifted from arrogance to shock as he watched his power rendered useless.
"You can control the rain, King Martin," Vincent said, his voice low and dangerous. "But here, in this forest, the trees answer to me. You've already lost."
The king, who moments ago seemed invincible, faltered for the first time. His smug grin disappeared, replaced with disbelief as the swirling leaves grew thicker, their edges sharp as knives, now turning towards him and his men.
The forest roared to life around Vincent, as if the very land itself had chosen to fight beside him. He stood tall amidst the chaos, unshaken, while the king realized, too late, that he had underestimated his enemy.
This was no ordinary battle. Vincent wasn't fighting for victory. He was fighting for survival—his and mine. And as the trees bowed to his will, the storm that once belonged to the king was no longer in his favor.
"Begin!" the king shouted, his voice cutting through the storm. The two rune holders in the sky began to move, their figures barely visible in the swirling mist. But before they could even launch their attack, Vincent acted.
With a swift motion of his hand, razor-sharp leaves shot through the air, brushing past their necks with deadly precision. Blood sprayed as the two fell to the ground, their throats cut clean by the leaves' edges. They hit the earth hard, gasping for breath, but before they could recover, thick vines erupted from the soil, coiling around their bodies like snakes. The vines tightened, pinning them to the ground, preventing them from healing or retaliating.
The king's face twisted with fury as he realized the futility of his earlier arrogance. "Attack!" he screamed, commanding his army to charge.
But against a rune holder like Vincent, a human army was nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.
Vincent raised his arms, and the forest obeyed. The trees shuddered, their branches extending unnaturally, bending towards the soldiers as though eager to join the battle. Leaves, sharp as daggers, flew through the air in every direction, slicing through armor, flesh, and bone with ease. The soldiers barely had time to react. Screams echoed as men fell, clutching at wounds that appeared before they even understood what had happened.
Vines slithered across the ground, wrapping around the legs of those attempting to flee. They pulled the soldiers down, dragging them into the dirt as the earth itself seemed to swallow them whole. Thorned roots erupted from the soil, impaling anyone who dared come too close to Vincent. The forest, once peaceful and serene, had become a living weapon, an extension of his will.
Blood sprayed in the air, mixing with the rain, painting the land red. Bodies fell one after another, lifeless, as Vincent orchestrated the massacre with an eerie calm. The soldiers' swords and spears were useless. The forest was relentless. Each swipe of Vincent's hand sent waves of leaves and thorns cutting through the masses, leaving no survivors in their wake.
Soon, the battlefield was covered in corpses. Blood pooled in the mud, soaking into the earth, staining it crimson. The once-proud army of the king was nothing more than a sea of fallen bodies. Vincent stood atop the mound of death, his figure drenched in both rain and the blood of his enemies. His earlier anxiety and sweat had vanished, replaced by an air of unwavering confidence.
In the distance, the man holding Riptide shook as he watched the devastation unfold. His face paled, and his hands trembled as he realized the power Vincent wielded was beyond anything they had imagined. With a flick of Vincent's hand, a sharp leaf darted through the air and sliced clean across the man's throat.
He fell to his knees, his hand clutching at the wound as blood poured from his neck. He collapsed into a growing puddle of rainwater and blood, the light fading from his eyes as he crumpled to the ground.
The battlefield was silent, save for the rain falling softly upon the lifeless bodies. The ground had become a gruesome canvas, painted in red, the air thick with the scent of death. Vincent stood in the center of it all, his face grim and his gaze fixed on the fallen man with Riptide.
"Damn," I muttered, still stunned by the sheer brutality of the massacre. "That was easy. Why were you so nervous if you were this strong?"
Vincent didn't answer right away. His eyes, cold and distant, remained locked on the corpse of the man he had just killed. Something was wrong. His expression darkened, a shadow of doubt crossing his face.
"It isn't him," he said quietly, almost to himself.
I blinked, confused. "Huh?"
Vincent turned to face me, his voice low and filled with dread. "That isn't King Martin II."
My heart skipped a beat. "What... what do you mean?"
The sound of clapping echoed through the forest, sharp and deliberate. It sent a chill down my spine as if the storm itself had fallen silent to give way to this new, ominous presence. Emerging from the mist was a man—a figure strikingly similar to the fake king who lay dead at Vincent's feet. But this man was taller, more handsome, and far more imposing. His features were sharper, his frame more muscular, and the air around him seemed to pulse with raw, suffocating power.
He bent down beside the corpse of the false king, his movements calm and methodical. Without a word, he snatched the ring from the dead man's hand and slipped it onto his left thumb. The simple gesture felt like a declaration, a silent reminder of who truly held power here.
Vincent's voice trembled as he spoke, his body visibly shaking despite his earlier show of strength. "Are you the king?"
The man didn't answer. He only stared at us, his gaze cold and distant, yet the pressure in the air intensified. It was as if the very forest was bending under his presence, the weight of it crushing down on us. I could feel it in my chest, the oppressive force making it hard to breathe.
Vincent turned to me, his face pale. His hands gripped my shoulders tightly, desperation flashing in his eyes. "You've seen enough, boy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Advance to the next level."
"What?" I stammered, confusion swirling in my mind. "What do you mean? Why are you—"
Vincent's grip tightened. "If you wish not to ruin everything I've done for you until now, please… ascend to the next level. Don't make me say it again. Please." His voice cracked, and I could see it—his fear. The old man, who had stood so confident and strong before, now looked as if he was barely holding it together.
I was shaken to my core. Was the man with the ring really that powerful? Powerful enough to make Vincent, who had just massacred an army, beg?
"You're being here will only cause me trouble," Vincent finally admitted, his voice harsh but pained. "I can't fight while protecting you. If I'm to survive this, I need to give it everything I've got. Please, go."
I had no choice. My heart pounded in my chest as I nodded. "Promise me… promise me you won't die. You'll find me after this, right? I'll be waiting for you, old man. Don't you dare die on me."
Vincent didn't reply immediately. Instead, he smiled—a sad, tired smile. "Our opponent is merciful enough to let us have this small talk. Now go, before he loses his patience."
I wanted to stay. I wanted to fight by his side, to protect him as he had protected me. But I knew… deep down, I knew I'd only be a burden. So, I nodded once more, my throat tight with emotion.
Vincent turned away from me, his focus now fully on the man with the ring. As he prepared for the inevitable battle, something strange began to happen. The Thornveil—the green glow that had enveloped Vincent and filled the air with swirling leaves—began to disintegrate. The leaves slowly faded into fine particles, dissolving into the mist.
"What's happening?" I asked the messenger beside me, panic rising.
"It's the dispersing of the essence of the rune," the messenger explained. "As you use your powers—attacking, defending, recovering—the essence within the rune depletes. When a rune fully disintegrates, the user loses consciousness."
I stared in shock, watching the Thornveil crumble away. "But… Riptide isn't fading at all," I murmured, my voice shaky. "Does that mean—"
"Go!" Vincent's shout broke through my thoughts, his voice full of urgency.
Tears welled in my eyes for the first time in what felt like years. I couldn't hold them back. "Proceed," I whispered, my heart breaking. And just like that, my mind went blank.
The last thing I saw before everything turned to darkness was Vincent charging at the true king, his face set in grim determination, while the king stood there, laughing mockingly.