Dead? No, not yet. He doesn't even know. Breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his temple to his nape, he's dying. He knows it, but... it's not over.

  Standing up in an excruciatingly slow movement, muscles tensing and bones on the brink of shattering, he clings to life. Not yet, not until he accomplishes his newly formed goal: to find a power capable of opposing the gifted.

  "It's not over yet," he muttered, looking upward to see a bright light. "Heaven?" he wondered before momentarily losing consciousness.

  When Charles regained awareness, he found himself in an unfamiliar environment. His memory was fuzzy from the recent battle, fragments of fire and destruction flickering through his mind like a broken picture show.

  As he surveyed his surroundings, he noticed his body was covered in bandages, stark white against his bruised skin. Each step sent a shocking sensation rippling through him, a painful reminder of his narrow escape from death.

  "I should be dead," he muttered to himself, walking over to a closet in the right corner of his 3x3 bedroom. It was a decent size for someone of Charles's height, though the ceiling felt uncomfortably close.

  He had never been particularly adept at fighting, instead serving as the "wizard" of his village. His muscles still ached from his injuries, a dull throb that seemed to pulse with each heartbeat.

  The room was sparsely furnished, with only a small bed, the closet, and a rickety wooden chair. The walls were bare, save for a single window that let in a sliver of pale light. Charles couldn't help but wonder how he had ended up here, in this strange place so far from the chaos he last remembered.

  "Hello!" a particularly cheery voice called out, practically beaming—shining, in fact. Wait, she was actually shining.

  A Lux, a different species from humans. She must have been the one who saved me, Charles thought, his eyes widening in surprise.

  The Lux stood in the doorway, her form emanating a soft, warm glow that seemed to push back the shadows in the small room.

  Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, with eyes that sparkled like stars and hair that shimmered like spun moonlight.

  "Oh, you're awake! Thank goodness! I was already thinking about giving you to Jarob," she said, her voice tinkling like wind chimes. Jarob? Who's Jarob? Charles wondered, a hint of unease creeping into his thoughts.

  *pause*

  *Lux*

  Characteristics-

  A different species from humans only difference is they shine brightly and use humans to increase their light, like succubus they infuse sexual hormones and eat while fooling said human

  Features-

  Women are naturally taller than the men

  Can only reproduce under a specific set of rules

  Practically immortal till the light dims out.

  *continue*

  "Anyway, you should still rest. Your body was... you know, 'bad'." Charles knew all too well, the marks of hundreds of burns etched into his skin like a grim tapestry of his recent ordeal.

  "Where is this place? The last thing I remember, I was heading to..." Charles trailed off, the memory slipping away like sand through his fingers. "Before being attacked by bandits," he finished, walking over to his equipment and gathering his belongings. His hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over where his mind faltered.

  As Charles continued packing, he turned to find the Lux attempting to seduce him. Her movements were graceful, almost hypnotic, as she swayed closer to him. The air seemed to shimmer around her, filled with an intoxicating scent that threatened to cloud his judgment.

  "It won't work," Charles said flatly, his voice cutting through the haze like a knife.

  The Lux's expression shifted, her seductive smile morphing into something more predatory. "Oh, I know you want it. Just admit it—all men do," she purred, barely holding back her jaws from sinking into Charles's neck. Her true nature revealed itself in that moment, the beautiful facade cracking to show the dangerous creature beneath.

  Charles's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, his body tensing for a potential fight. "I won't kill you because you helped me, but if you dare cross my path again, the same rules won't apply," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. He turned to leave, fixing her with a look of disgust that spoke volumes.

  The Lux's eyes flashed with anger, her gentle glow intensifying to a harsh glare. "Do you think I'm going to allow you to go?" she snarled, all pretense of kindness evaporating.

  "You will, or you will die," Charles said sternly, his hand tightening on his sword. In truth, he was bluffing, unsure if he had the strength to back up his threat. But he held his ground, meeting her gaze with unwavering determination.

  For a tense moment, they stood locked in a silent battle of wills. Then, surprisingly, the Lux stepped aside, her light dimming to a sullen glow. "Go then," she spat, "but don't expect any more kindness from my kind."

  Charles didn't wait for her to change her mind. He strode past her, his steps quickening as he made his way out of the strange dwelling and into the open air.

  As Charles stepped outside, he found himself in the kingdom of Estia, a realm as diverse as it was vast. Home to a multitude of different races who lived "peacefully" most of the time, Estia was a melting pot of cultures, magic, and intrigue. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow-capped mountains.

  In the center of this sprawling kingdom lay the capital of Estia, a glittering jewel of civilization where trade and many other important activities took place. Its towering spires and bustling markets were legendary, drawing people from all corners of the world. Charles was heading to the capital for trading and other reasons, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities.

  There were multiple routes to reach the capital, each with its own perils and advantages. But the shortcut that caught Charles's eye was through Snowsfoot, a quaint town nestled at the base of a snow-covered mountain. Its name conjured images of cozy hearths and warm drinks, a welcome respite from the harsh journey ahead.

  "I could gather some ingredients there," Charles mused, studying his well-worn map. His fingers traced the path, lingering on the illustrated mountains that marked Snowsfoot's location. As a "wizard," he was always on the lookout for rare herbs and magical components that could be found in such remote locations.

  The wind was cool, almost cold, carrying a bite that hinted at the approaching winter. Charles walked on ground that would soon be blanketed in snow, his boots leaving temporary imprints in the soft earth. The landscape around him was a tapestry of autumn colors – rich golds, deep reds, and fading greens – a last burst of life before the world turned white.

  "Estia's a shit country," he grumbled as he trudged along, his mood as gray as the overcast sky above. He had left the Lux's house a few hours ago and was still nowhere near the next town, but it was preferable to being used for sexual pleasure. The encounter had left a bitter taste in his mouth, a reminder of the dangers that lurked behind beautiful facades in this world.

  Next on his list was the snow mountain and the town at its foot. It would take a few days on foot, a journey that promised to be grueling and cold. But at best, it would only be a few hours on horseback – if he could acquire a mount. As he walked, Charles continued his internal monologue about why he despised Estia, his thoughts a jumble of political dissatisfaction and personal grievances.

  "The king is insane, I say. How can he accept a treaty from those blasted Ocean Mongers?" he muttered, kicking a stone out of his path. The Ocean Mongers, a faction of sea-dwelling creatures with a reputation for cunning and duplicity, had long been a thorn in Estia's side. Their recent treaty had been the subject of much controversy and debate throughout the kingdom.

  But Charles's rant took a more somber turn when he mentioned his village. His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with a mix of pain and anger. "And what of us? What of the small villages that suffer while the capital grows fat on foreign gold?" The memory of flames and screams threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the path ahead.

  As the day wore on, Charles's feet grew heavy, and his spirits sank lower with each step. Just as he was considering finding a sheltered spot to make camp for the night, he spotted a welcome sight in the distance – an inn. "At last," he sighed, relief washing over him. He quickened his pace, eager for a warm meal and a soft bed.

  The inn was a sturdy two-story building, its weathered wooden exterior speaking of years withstanding the harsh mountain climate. Smoke curled invitingly from the chimney, promising warmth and comfort within. Charles paused at the entrance, dusting off his feet and straightening his travel-worn clothes as best he could.

  Before entering, he performed the traditional Estian greeting, the Nom. It was a series of hand movements that spoke volumes in this land of diverse cultures: two fingers touched to the cheeks, then moving down to become one – a symbol of unity and respect. Charles had always found the gesture a bit pretentious, but customs were customs, and he wasn't about to invite trouble over something so trivial.

  As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the warmth and noise of the inn's common room washed over him like a wave. The place was a mess, likely from countless bar fights that were as much a part of inn life as ale and gossip. Chairs and tables were scattered about haphazardly, some bearing the scars of past brawls. The floor was sticky in places, a testament to spilled drinks and lax cleaning.

  Patrons of various races engaged in animated conversations, their voices creating a cacophony that filled the room. Charles's eyes swept across the crowd, taking in the diverse gathering.

  He noticed a few Lux, their soft glow somewhat dimmed in the smoky atmosphere. Several dwarves sat hunched over their drinks, their booming laughs cutting through the general din.

  In one corner, a solitary elf sat nursing a delicate glass of what looked like moonshine, their ethereal features a stark contrast to the rugged surroundings. But what caught Charles's attention most was the Draconian – a powerful dragon-like being that stood at least a head or three taller no five heads than anyone else in the room. Its scales glinted in the firelight, and wisps of smoke curled from its nostrils with each breath.

  Approaching the counter, Charles had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. "A night's stay and a horse," he called out, leaning on the worn wooden surface.

  The innkeeper, a female dwarf with arms like tree trunks and a beard that would make most men jealous, looked him up and down with a critical eye. "That'll cost ya 4 bloins, mate," she replied, her accent clashing with Estia's many languages like steel on stone.

  Charles winced internally as he glanced at his coin purse. 56 bloins remained – a sum that had seemed substantial when he set out, but was dwindling faster than he'd like. "That's unreasonably expensive," he snorted, trying to mask his concern with indignation. "4 bloins could get me a whole night at Cape Deval."

  The dwarf, still scrubbing a cup with a cloth that had seen better days, retorted, "Sorry to break it to ya, mate, but this ain't Deval. You want cheap, you can try sleepin' with the goats out back."

  Charles weighed his options. The thought of another night under the stars, with winter's chill creeping in, was less than appealing. "Fine," he conceded, trying not to let his reluctance show as he counted out the coins. As he packed his bags, the dwarf added, "Someone will retrieve the horse at Snowsfoot, seein' as you're headin' that way. Cheers, doin' business with ya."

  Estia has a currency with different types

  Main- bloins

  1 blion = 10 Arnis

  1 Arnis = 20 silver.

  Without turning back, Charles made his way up the creaky stairs to his room. The floorboards groaned under his weight, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they might give way at any moment. The room itself was tiny, barely large enough for the bed and a small table. A single window looked out over the inn's stableyard, its glass cloudy with age and grime.

  The bed, when Charles tested it, seemed even older than he was, despite him being only in his early thirties.

  It sagged in the middle and smelled faintly of mildew, but after days of hard travel, it felt like luxury itself. Charles set his pack down and stretched, his joints popping in protest.

  As he prepared for sleep, Charles couldn't help but dwell on the events that had led him to this point. He hated dreaming, dreaded the nightmares that plagued him nightly. Yet as he lay down on the lumpy mattress, he knew that dream he would.

  In his dream, fire raged as far as the eye could see, a blazing inferno that consumed everything in its path. This was Earth's boon, the terrible gift given to humans – the power to destroy as well as create.

  In the heart of the flames stood a man, wielding fire that sprang from his arms as naturally as breathing. A boon user. A gifted.

  "A gifted," Charles muttered in his dream, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He had to escape, had to run, but his legs felt leaden, refusing to obey his desperate commands.

  Charles stumbled towards the nearest building, trying to evade the encroaching flames.

  The heat was oppressive, searing his lungs with each ragged breath. He had never been skilled in combat, instead focusing on the pursuit of knowledge and teaching. But all his learning, all his wisdom, seemed pitifully inadequate in the face of such raw, destructive power.

  He knew, with a certainty that chilled him despite the inferno, that he would perish if he faced a gifted head-on.

  The gifted, a fellow human corrupted by the intoxicating allure of power, cackled maniacally. His voice carried over the roar of the flames, filled with a twisted joy. "Come out, ya blokes! I'll give you a quick end, trust me!" The words were almost lost in the crackling of burning wood and the distant screams of the villagers.

  As the gifted spawned more fire from his arms, the flames taking on grotesque, almost living shapes, Charles thought desperately, "His source should be depleted by now!" But the onslaught continued, unabated, defying all logic and reason.

  Am I going to die? The thought echoed in Charles's mind, a mantra of despair. One by one, the screams around him were cut short, snuffed out like candles in a gale. Charles realized, with a horror that threatened to overwhelm him, that he might be the only one left.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  His family, his friends, the people he had sworn to protect and guide – all likely dead, given how close the gifted was to his house.

  "Wait, they're dead?" Charles's voice shook, the reality of his loss hitting him like a physical blow.

  He tried to run, his legs finally responding to his frantic commands. But each step was agony, his lungs burning as he gasped for air in the smoke-filled night.

  He was certain his end was near, that any moment would bring the searing touch of flames or the crushing force of falling debris.

  Then, through the haze of smoke and despair, he saw it – a figure that seemed to glow with its own inner light.

  It was the same being he had glimpsed before passing out days ago, now revealed in all its otherworldly glory. An elf, tall and lithe, wielding a sword that shone with a bright, warm, inviting light.

  It was a beacon of hope in the midst of chaos, a promise of salvation that seemed too good to be true.

  Without hesitation, the elf dashed forward, moving with a grace and speed that seemed impossible in the turbulent air. Charles, still dazed by the sudden appearance of this potential savior, struggled to stand. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give way at any moment.

  The elf moved with inhuman speed, the wind rippling in his wake like the surface of a disturbed pond.

  There was purpose in every movement, a deadly intent that left no doubt about his mission. He was going for the kill, not to subdue or capture, but to end the threat permanently.

  In a move that defied Charles's understanding of physics, the elf hurled his sword through the air. The blade spun, catching the firelight and leaving a trail of radiance in its wake. But the elf didn't wait to see if his throw would find its mark. Instead, he used the moment of distraction to maneuver, approaching the gifted from an entirely different angle.

  Strike! The sword, guided by some unseen force, hit the gifted in the torso. But the wound, while significant, was not deep enough to be immediately fatal.

  "It teleport—?!" The gifted's exclamation of disbelief was cut short as the elf struck again. This time, the blow came from the elf himself, a devastating hit that struck the gifted square in the chest.

  The impact was tremendous, defying the elf's slight build. It sent the gifted flying backward, blood spraying from the wound in a crimson arc that seemed to hang in the air, illuminated by the surrounding flames.

  The elf sighed as he retrieved his sword, the blade sliding free with a sound like silk over steel. His expression was one of weariness rather than triumph. "You're weak," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite the crackling flames and groans of collapsing structures. "You could fight in the dungeons, yet you choose to raid villages. Sometimes I wonder why she gives people like you powers."

  He approached the fallen gifted slowly, each step deliberate and heavy with purpose. The gifted, once so powerful and arrogant, now lay broken on the ground. Fear replaced the malice in his eyes as he realized the tables had turned.

  Stricken with terror, the gifted pleaded, his voice a pitiful whimper, "No, no, NO! I'm sorry! I won't do it again! Please, have mercy!"

  The elf's face remained impassive, unmoved by the desperate pleas. "You won't. Don't worry," he replied coldly.

  He gripped the gifted's hair, bringing their faces close. His eyes, ancient and filled with an otherworldly light, were mere inches from the gifted's. In one swift, almost gentle motion, he drove his sword through the man's heart.

  "That's another one," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

  As the gifted's life ebbed away, the fires around them began to dim, as if tied to his fading life force. The elf turned, his gaze falling on Charles, who had witnessed the entire exchange with a mixture of awe and horror. "Sleep," the elf commanded, his voice carrying an irresistible power.

  And Charles did, darkness claiming him even as questions swirled in his mind.

  The next morning, Charles awoke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. The bandages given to him by the Lux were already tearing, unable to contain the violent tremors that wracked his frame.

  "Why did I have to remember that now, of all times?" he groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes as if to physically push the memories away.

  He approached the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall, noting his scruffy appearance.

  The beginnings of a beard shadowed his jaw, which was soft yet held a hint of the fierceness he'd need in the days to come. His eyes, a warm green that once sparkled with curiosity and wonder, now held a haunted look, having seen too much in too short a time.

  After splashing his face with cold water from a basin and taking a quick, wincing bath that revealed the extent of his injuries, Charles donned his cloak.

  The burns were still visible on his body, a roadmap of pain and survival etched into his skin. Each movement was a reminder of how close he'd come to death, and how much he still had to do.

  Steeling himself for the day ahead, Charles made his way to the stable outside the inn. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. But as he approached the stalls, he stopped short, his eyes widening in disbelief. Instead of the sturdy, unremarkable horse he'd expected, he found himself face to face with a Pegasus—a mount typically reserved for the extremely wealthy or those of significant political power.

  The creature was magnificent, its coat a gleaming white that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. Wings folded neatly against its sides rustled slightly in the morning breeze, hinting at the power and grace they could display in flight. Charles couldn't help but wonder if he was still dreaming.

  His awe was short-lived, however, as a snarky voice cut through his reverie. "Off my creature, human," it demanded. Charles turned to see a wood elf, his features sharp and disdainful. The elf's presence was unexpected; while elves occasionally came to Estia for trade, they typically kept to themselves.

  "An elf..." Charles began, but was quickly cut off.

  "High elf to you, filthy human!" the elf snapped, his voice dripping with contempt. The correction stung, reminding Charles of the deep-seated tensions between their races.

  *Wood elf*

  Elf's that mainly live in the woods

  Loathes human

  Extremely adept

  Has no sexual desires only on specific conditions

  Longest living wood elf was :36478 years old died a few centuries ago

  *End*

  Deciding that diplomacy might be the wisest course, Charles tried to defuse the situation. "Look, I don't want any trouble. Just my horse. If you insist... we can take this outside," he said, gripping his sword and assuming a stance. Though he was bluffing, drawing on the fake aura he'd cultivated for precisely these situations, he hoped it would be enough to deter the elf.

  The elf's eyes narrowed, assessing Charles with a piercing gaze that seemed to see right through him. For a moment, Charles feared his bluff would be called. But then, surprisingly, the elf's posture relaxed slightly. "Ugh... You'll regret this," he muttered before turning and striding away, his movements fluid and graceful even in retreat.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Charles turned his attention back to the horses. The Pegasus was gone—whether it had ever truly been there or was a product of his still-tired mind, he couldn't say. Instead, he focused on selecting a mount for his journey. "This one looks nice," he said, eyeing a young female horse.

  She was taller than Charles, with a coat of rich brown marked with hints of white, like fresh snow on fertile earth. "I'll call you Leaf for now," he decided, taking hold of her reins and leading her outside.

  Once in the open, Charles paused to consult his map. The parchment was worn, its edges frayed from frequent handling, but the markings were still clear.

  He realized he was at an inn opposite a forest—a detail he'd missed in his exhaustion the night before.

  Two routes lay before him: the forest path, a shortcut to Snowsfoot that promised danger and uncertainty, or the longer road, which would add considerable time to his journey but offered relative safety.

  After a moment's consideration, Charles made his decision. "Let's take the forest route, shall we?" he said to Leaf, who nickered softly in response. As he prepared to mount, a voice called out, freezing him in his tracks.

  "You faked that."

  Turning, Charles saw another elf speaking. Unlike the haughty high elf from before, this one's demeanor was calmer, almost curious.

  "Oh, you speak Estian well for an elf," Charles remarked, buying time as he assessed this new potential threat. "But what exactly did I fake?"

  The elf's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "Everything," she replied simply.

  Charles pondered for a moment, weighing his options. Honesty, he decided, might be the best policy—or at least a version of it. "Oh... the fake aura? Trust me, it's real. Are you with that other elf?"

  "No, we came for different reasons," the female elf answered. Now that Charles looked more closely, he could see the subtle differences in her appearance—her features were softer, her eyes holding a wisdom that spoke of centuries of life. "It seems we're heading in the same direction. Mind if I join?"

  The offer took Charles by surprise. Elves rarely sought the company of humans, especially on long journeys. But something in her manner, a hint of shared purpose perhaps, made him nod in agreement. "Sure," he said, curiosity overcoming caution.

  As they set out, the forest looming before them like a wall of green and shadow, the elf broke the silence. "How does it work? That... aura?"

  Charles considered his response carefully. This was dangerous territory, but also an opportunity. "Oh, just the crushing of any living thing," he said, his tone deliberately casual. "The tales say everything has aura. I want... I want to expand on that."

  "Blasphemy," she retorted instantly, but there was no heat in her voice. If anything, she sounded intrigued.

  "Only by the gifted's standards," Charles replied, meeting her gaze steadily. He felt emboldened, the words flowing more freely now. "Every creature has aura that they use to exercise Earth's will. I will break Earth's will."

  The elf raised an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and skepticism crossing her features. "Bold talk for a man who can't hold a sword," she scoffed.

  Charles felt a flicker of irritation. "Who says I can't hold a sword?"

  "Your stance," she explained. "It's wobbly, as if you're a drunkard trying to dance at a feast."

  The critique stung, but Charles couldn't deny its accuracy. "I'll have to work on that, then," he conceded. Changing the subject, he added, "I didn't catch your name."

  "Sayr," she offered, her tone softening slightly.

  "Charles," he responded in kind.

  The forest enveloped them, the sounds of the wider world fading away as they traveled deeper into its green embrace. Hours passed, marked by the shifting patterns of light filtering through the canopy above.

  They made camp as evening approached, the lengthening shadows a reminder of the dangers that lurked in the wilderness.

  As they sat around a small campfire, its flames casting flickering shadows on the surrounding trees, Sayr spoke. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, as she shared a piece of elven wisdom.

  "The fire is hungry, eating at every stick they throw at it, but it still protects them from the darkness. It's an adage from the kingdom."

  "Meaning?" Charles inquired, intrigued by this glimpse into elven philosophy.

  "Even an enemy can be a friend under the right Circumstance," Sayr explained, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "In the right circumstances, that which seeks to consume us can also be our salvation."

  Charles nodded slowly, turning the concept over in his mind. It resonated with him, echoing his own experiences and ambitions. After a moment, he asked, "How much longer until we reach Snowsfoot?"

  But Sayr's attention had shifted, her body suddenly tense. "Enemies," she warned, her voice low and urgent.

  "What?" Charles whispered, hand moving to his sword.

  "Enemies. Northeast, four miles from here," Sayr elaborated, her eyes scanning the darkness beyond their small circle of light.

  "And how do you—" Charles began, but Sayr cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  "Never doubt an elf's ears," she said, a hint of pride coloring her tone.

  They fell silent, staring into the fire as if it might offer answers to unasked questions. The crackling of burning wood seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of the forest night. After what felt like an eternity, Charles ventured another question, one that had been burning in his mind since they'd set out.

  "Are you gifted?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Sayr's eyes met his, unreadable in the flickering light. "Yes," she answered simply.

  The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Charles's heart raced, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through him. Here, perhaps, was the key to understanding the power he sought to challenge.

  "Can... can you explain to me how it works?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

  "Explain what?"

  "The feeling. What it's like to wield such power."

  Sayr was quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant as if looking into a world Charles couldn't see. When she spoke, her voice was soft but intense. "It feels powerful. Like holding the essence of creation in your hands. That's why some get drunk on it, lose themselves in the intoxication of near-godhood."

  Another cold silence fell between them. Charles pondered his next move, acutely aware of the delicate balance of their conversation. Looking in Sayr's direction, he noticed her pointing a stick toward the flame, her expression contemplative.

  "Can you explain how you do it?" Charles finally asked, his curiosity overcoming his caution. "How you channel that power?"

  Sayr's eyes snapped to his, a spark of something—warning? excitement?—flashing in their depths. "When I start, I don't stop, you know," she said, her tone carrying a hint of challenge.

  Charles met her gaze steadily. "Don't worry. I'm a good listener," he assured her, his voice filled with a confidence he didn't entirely feel.

  A laugh escaped Sayr, short and sharp like the crack of a whip. "How about a demonstration?" As she spoke, she turned her gaze away from the fire, focusing on the dark forest beyond.

  Suddenly, from the countless trees surrounding them, a figure leaped forth—a beastman, its form a nightmarish blend of human and animal. Its eyes glowed with feral hunger, claws extended as it lunged toward them.

  But before the creature could get within a meter of Sayr, the night sky split open. A bolt of lightning, blindingly bright and deafeningly loud, struck from the heavens. It hit the beastman with unerring accuracy, the smell of ozone and burning flesh filling the air as the creature was instantly fried.

  *Beastman"

  Human with the characteristics of animals

  Said to be cursed by a god thousands of years ago

  Extremely tall, (7'0) figure varies from wolf to lion depending on environment

  moves in packs

  Hates everything.

  *End*

  Charles stared in shock, his ears ringing from the thunderclap. But there was no time to recover. More beastmen began to appear, emerging from the shadows like nightmares given flesh.

  Sayr stood, her form suddenly radiant with an inner light. "The 'aura,' as you call it, is a force Earth used to create 'us,'" she explained, her voice calm despite the chaos unfolding around them. She paused, summoning another lightning bolt from the clear sky, hurling it at an approaching beastman with casual ease.

  "Are... are you okay?" Charles asked, his voice shaky as he struggled to process what he was witnessing.

  Sayr continued her explanation, her voice steady as she conjured lightning in her palm. The bluish glow illuminated her face, casting eerie shadows that made her seem both beautiful and terrifying.

  "Earth is more than a deity in the traditional sense. It's a source of life, a force that binds all creatures, and the well from which the gifted draw their strength." She hurled the lightning at another beastman, the creature's howl of pain cut short as it was reduced to ash.

  "You said... well?" Charles's voice cracked, his throat dry from the acrid smell of ozone and fear.

  Turning back to tend the fire, which seemed pitifully small and insignificant now, Sayr muttered, "A monster very far of, but i could come herein a second.."

  Confusion warred with fear in Charles's mind. "Weren't those already monsters?" he asked, gesturing to the smoldering remains of the beastmen.

  "No..." Sayr replied, her figure trembling slightly. There was fear in her voice now, something Charles hadn't thought possible. "That is from the dungeons." She whirled suddenly, her eyes wide. "Move!"

  "Okay, okay," Charles complied, scrambling to his feet and backing away from the campfire.

  As he retreated, the forest around them seemed to darken, the shadows deepening into an unnatural blackness. A chill ran down Charles's spine as he realized that this darkness was alive, pulsing with a malevolent will of its own.

  From the depths of this living shadow, a form began to take shape. It was massive, dwarfing even the largest of the beastmen. As it solidified, Charles felt his breath catch in his throat. This was no ordinary monster. This was something ancient, something that should not be.

  *Unknown location* approximately 65 miles from there.

  the elf from earlier stood, observing. "Oh... you can teleport? That's a first," he remarked, looking in the direction where Charles and Sayr had been. "Seems like the people there left. And aren't you far from your dungeon?" He turned to face a grotesque "monster," its face contorted.

  Back at the camp, Sayr explained, "A monster is classified as a species because of how grotesque it looks. Some are dispositional, incredibly small or huge. It's a blessing they live in dungeons."

  The monster before the elf struggled to speak. "Gurrrrhhhh.... The...."

  "You... can talk? That's another first, even if it's barely audible," the elf mused, looking up at the creature. The height difference was about five heads, with the monster towering over him. Its face was covered with bones protruding upward and downward.

  The elf's face tightened as the monster raised both arms, rushing at high speed to grab him. A quarter of the way there, the elf struck the monster's arms, successfully altering its trajectory.

  "You're going to hate this, and I would love to test you, but it seems I'll have to find another," the elf said, unsheathing his sword. He assumed a fixed position, breathing slowly. "Let's try this... the last thing you'll see."

  The monster, confused, tried to speak again. "Hrghhhhh," it grunted, retreating with each mumbled word.

  "Don't," the elf warned. He executed a slash that didn't hit the target directly, not even its soul, but its very composition—its atoms. "You are not a living thing, so I thank you for being able to do this."

  Time seemed to slow as the sword moved in a languid arc, passing through the target as if it weren't there. "Criticality blade," the elf intoned in a slow, chilling voice.

  Back at the camp, Sayr continued her explanation to Charles. "Seven god weapons. Some say gods reside in those weapons for unknown reasons, granting power to seven chosen ones."

  "Where are they now?" Charles asked. "How powerful do you think they are?"

  "Their power comes from different origins, or so the tale goes. They do not draw from Earth's pool," Sayr paused before adding, "I have lived a long time, Charles. It's safe to say one is not far from here." She pointed in the direction where the elf had been.

  The area, dark due to the lack of sunlight, was suddenly illuminated by a light not of solar origin. It grew brighter and brighter, clearly the result of a massive explosion.

  "Which one is there?" Charles asked, gulping.

  "Seems strong," he added with a nervous laugh.

  "It is strong," Sayr replied seriously. "They are Chosen, and judging by that explosion, he is my brethren. We should move on."

  "Wait, brethren?! You know him?" Charles sputtered.

  "Enough, faker," she said with a smile.

  "You're calling me fake?!"

  *Former location*

  "It seems it didn't survive" the elf says looking at the monsters Carcases

  Picking It's head which is deformed because of the last explosion ??, "I'll have to do with this".