In the heart of a vast, snow-covered mountain range, three figures emerged from the howling blizzard, their dark silhouettes cutting through the endless white. The wind screamed around them, but they moved with an eerie stillness, untouched by the biting cold.

  The tallest among them strode forward, his long cloak billowing behind him like a shadow against the snow. His presence alone seemed to make the storm hesitate, the flakes swirling unnaturally around his form. His face, pale and sharp, held no emotion—only cold calculation.

  Behind him, a second figure trudged forward, hunched yet powerful. Thick fur draped over his shoulders, but it wasn’t the cold he sought protection from. His breath came in slow, measured huffs, his clawed fingers twitching as if aching for violence.

  The last of them was smaller, barely more than a wisp of a person wrapped in layers of dark fabric. But her eyes, gleaming like molten gold beneath her hood, betrayed something far more dangerous than her size suggested.

  The tallest one came to a stop at the mountain’s edge, looking down at the kingdom sprawled far below. Lights flickered in the distance—villages, towns, lives unaware of the storm brewing above them.

  “It’s almost time,” he murmured, his voice smooth yet devoid of warmth.

  The hunched figure behind him scoffed, exhaling a puff of mist into the frozen air. “You keep saying that. I’m starting to think you enjoy making us wait.” His voice was rough, guttural, like a beast barely restrained.

  The smaller figure chuckled softly. “Patience, Garm. You’ll get your fun soon enough.”

  Garm growled low in his throat but said nothing more.

  The leader extended a hand, fingers outstretched as if grasping something unseen. The wind shrieked in response, the storm raging harder, bending to his will.

  “This kingdom has grown complacent,” he said, almost to himself. “They’ve forgotten what true power looks like.” His lips curled into something that might have been a smile. “It’s time we remind them.”

  The golden-eyed girl tilted her head, a slow grin spreading across her face. “And what of the one who’s been meddling? The adventurer… Kelvin, was it?”

  The leader’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air did—an invisible weight pressing down, thick with unspoken intent.

  “He’s insignificant,” he replied. “For now.”

  Garm’s grin was all teeth. “Then let’s make him regret ever stepping into our path.”

  The storm roared, swallowing their laughter, and the mountain trembled beneath their feet.

  The wind howled like a wounded beast as the three figures stood at the mountain’s edge, gazing down at the kingdom below. The storm swirled around them, a living thing bending to their presence.

  "Our master should be ready anytime soon," the leader said, his voice calm yet absolute.

  Garm rolled his shoulders, the thick fur on his back shifting with the motion. "About time. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten about us." His clawed hands flexed, itching for something to tear apart.

  The golden-eyed girl let out a soft hum. "You know he moves at his own pace. What’s a little more waiting?"

  Garm shot her a glare. "Easy for you to say. I need action. Blood. Not more standing around in the cold."

  The leader ignored their exchange, his pale fingers tightening at his side. The air around them vibrated with unseen power.

  "The world has grown weak in his absence," he murmured. "They celebrate peace, believing it to be permanent. Soon, they’ll learn how fragile their illusions truly are."

  His golden-eyed companion smirked. "And when he awakens?"

  A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of the leader’s lips.

  "Then," he said, "we burn it all."

  The trio pressed onward, their dark figures weaving through the blizzard as they ascended the treacherous slopes. Each step brought them closer to their destination, the howling winds growing more restless as if sensing what lay ahead.

  The mountain had once been a place of quiet desolation, a tomb of ice and stone where few dared to tread. But as they neared their master’s resting place, the land itself told a different story—one of destruction.

  Garm was the first to notice, his pace slowing as he took in the sight before them. "This… wasn’t here before."

  The cavern they sought had once been a sealed tomb with a single entrance, buried beneath centuries of frost and rock. Now, it was ripped open, the mountainside marred with massive gaping holes—each one large enough to swallow a house. The jagged edges of the openings looked as if they had been torn apart from the inside, raw and unnatural.

  The golden-eyed girl let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Looks like someone didn’t wait for us."

  The leader said nothing, his gaze sweeping over the ruined landscape. Snow swirled into the cavernous wounds in the mountain, disappearing into a darkness that seemed to pulse with unseen movement.

  Garm stepped forward, his claws scraping against the ice-covered rock. "If he’s already awake, why hasn’t he called for us?" His voice, usually filled with barely contained hunger, held a rare note of unease.

  The leader’s eyes narrowed. "Because something is different."

  The wind howled through the open wounds in the mountain, a hollow, eerie sound that almost resembled breathing. Whatever had happened here, it had not been quiet. It had not been gentle.

  Their master had stirred.

  The trio stepped forward, moving past the gaping wounds in the mountainside and into the darkness beyond. The air inside the cavern was thick—heavy, not with cold, but with something far more oppressive. It felt like the mountain itself was holding its breath, waiting.

  Garm let out a slow exhale, his clawed fingers twitching at his sides. The golden-eyed girl merely smiled, unfazed by the suffocating atmosphere. The leader, as always, remained unreadable, his gaze sweeping across the cavern’s walls.

  What was once a narrow, frozen tomb had been transformed into something vast and monstrous. The stone under their feet was cracked and uneven, broken apart as if something had forced its way through. Jagged stalactites loomed above, some snapped clean in half.

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  Then, further in, the flicker of movement caught their eyes.

  A massive figure stood at the center of the cavern, his back turned to them. His body was thick with muscle, each movement deliberate, controlled. He was shirtless despite the cold, his scarred torso shifting as he moved through a series of intricate strikes. His hands blurred, fists cutting through the air with such force that the wind itself howled in response.

  Every motion was precise—like a beast that had learned to chain its raw strength into something disciplined, something deadly.

  The leader came to a stop, watching in silence. The golden-eyed girl smirked, folding her arms. Garm, for once, didn’t speak.

  Then, the figure suddenly stopped.

  Silence.

  Without turning, their master’s deep, rumbling voice filled the cavern.

  “You took your time.”

  The leader’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. "We had to be sure the world was ready for your return."

  The massive man finally turned, his piercing gaze falling upon them. His presence alone was suffocating, as if the very weight of his existence could crush lesser beings. His hair was wild, jet-black streaked with gray, and his eyes burned with an intensity that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or furious.

  He cracked his neck, the sound like shifting stone. "And?"

  The golden-eyed girl grinned. "Oh, they’re not ready."

  Garm let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, his fingers twitching ever so slightly.

  The leader simply nodded. "Then it’s time to begin."

  The master exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off centuries of stillness. Then, his gaze settled on each of them in turn, measuring, weighing.

  "You’ve grown," he said, his voice like distant thunder. "But strength alone is meaningless without purpose. Show me what you have learned."

  The golden-eyed girl’s grin widened. "I thought you'd never ask."

  She took a step forward, rolling up her sleeves, revealing thin, intricate crimson tattoos running along her arms. Her movements were lazy, almost playful—until she snapped her fingers.

  The air shuddered.

  A single drop of blood slid from her fingertip, then split into hundreds, swirling into jagged crimson tendrils that coiled around her like living chains.

  Her name was Veyla, the Scarlet Jackal, and she was an artist of carnage.

  Blood Arts was her domain, and she wielded it with terrifying precision. She could harden it into blades, form it into whips, even turn her own spilled blood into deadly projectiles. The more she bled, the more dangerous she became.

  She flicked her wrist, and the blood in the air snapped into shape—razor-thin needles hovering inches from her palm. "Shall we dance, Master?"

  The master didn’t react, only turning his gaze to the next.

  Garm, the hunched figure, let out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulders as if stretching after a long nap. "Tch. You act like this is a game, Veyla."

  He stepped forward, his thick fur cloak shifting with the motion. Unlike the others, he didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t need one.

  At first, nothing seemed to happen.

  Then, the air around him rippled.

  An unseen force pressed outward, shifting the dust on the ground, distorting the very space around him. His fingers twitched, and the rock beside him cracked—not from touch, but from something invisible, something unseen.

  His name was Garmundh, the Hollow Fang, and he wielded hands that did not exist.

  He had no limit to them—no defined shape. They could be as soft as a whisper or as crushing as a mountain. Some brushed against the cavern floor like phantoms, others cracked the stone underfoot without ever making a sound.

  He cracked his knuckles, though the real sound came from the dozens of unseen fingers flexing around him. "Let’s see if you’re still as terrifying as the stories say, old man."

  The master remained unshaken. His gaze finally settled on the last of them.

  Unlike the others, the leader didn’t move, didn’t summon power. He simply stood, watching, calculating.

  His name was Theron, the Black Fox, and he had no magic, no bloodline ability.

  All he had was his mind.

  But in the hands of a man like him, that was more dangerous than any spell.

  He had survived wars without ever lifting a blade. He had orchestrated victories against impossible odds. He had stood before men and women who could tear mountains asunder—and walked away alive.

  He exhaled, rolling his neck. "I'll pass."

  Veyla snorted. "Coward."

  Theron smirked. "Strategist."

  Their master exhaled, stepping forward at last. The mountain itself seemed to react, as if the weight of his presence was sinking into the stone.

  "You are all skilled," he admitted, rolling his shoulders. Then, a slow grin crept across his scarred face. "But you are not strong."

  Without warning, he moved.

  One step.

  And the ground shattered.

  In an instant, he was upon them, his massive fist cutting through the air. It wasn’t brute force—it was calculated destruction, raw power refined through centuries of martial mastery.

  He was Hadeon, the Mountain Breaker, master of the Demon Arts—a martial style honed through relentless combat. Every strike carried enough force to break the land itself.

  This was not a test.

  This was a lesson.

  And they were about to learn it the hard way.

  The air cracked as Hadeon’s fist carved through the space between them, a force so immense it seemed to drag the wind with it.

  But it never landed.

  Instead, his strike missed—by design.

  A heartbeat later, the ceiling above them exploded.

  Stone shattered like brittle glass, chunks of mountain rock launching skyward as an unstoppable shockwave tore through the cavern. The sheer force of it didn’t just destroy the top of the cave—it carved through the storm itself.

  Above, the swirling blizzard split apart, leaving a perfectly circular gap in the raging clouds. The sky beyond was a deep, endless void, stars flickering within the temporary stillness.

  For the first time since they had arrived, silence reigned.

  Garm took a slow step back, eyes narrowing as the dust settled around them. His unseen hands—those phantom-like extensions of his will—hovered close, gripping nothing, yet ready to crush anything. His usual smirk was gone.

  Veyla, for all her bloodthirst, whistled low. "You really don’t hold back, do you?"

  Theron simply adjusted his collar, eyes gleaming with understanding. "That wasn’t just power," he muttered. "That was control."

  Hadeon rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly. His body remained relaxed, but the crater beneath his feet told another story. He didn’t need weapons. Didn’t need magic.

  His Demon Arts were enough.

  "You lot are too confident in what you think you know," he said, stepping over the rubble. "You’ve slain warriors, crushed kingdoms, and now you call yourselves GOD."

  The way he said the name—calm, unimpressed—sent a strange chill through the air.

  "Tell me," Hadeon continued, looking at them each in turn, "have you ever stood before something truly unkillable?"

  Veyla smirked. "Not yet."

  Hadeon’s grin widened, but his eyes remained unreadable. "Then maybe it’s time you learn the difference between power and absolute strength."

  The moment Hadeon spoke, the mountain itself seemed to shudder. The weight of his words pressed against them, as if something unseen had shifted—a force beyond raw strength, beyond mere battle instincts.

  Garm’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. His unseen hands flexed around him, subtle distortions in the air cracking the loose debris underfoot. "Unkillable, huh?" His voice was a low rasp. "That just means we have to find the right way to break it."

  Veyla let out a soft chuckle, rolling up her sleeves. Thin red lines formed along her skin, blood rising to the surface unnaturally, coiling around her fingers like hungry serpents. "Sounds fun."

  Theron, as always, said nothing at first. He simply studied Hadeon, his expression carefully neutral. Then, after a moment, he let out a quiet breath. "You're not just talking about some thing." His gaze flickered toward the shattered cavern ceiling. "You're talking about what comes next."

  Hadeon met his eyes, and for the first time, there was something in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. Not challenge. Not amusement.

  Something darker.

  "The world has forgotten what it means to fear," he said. "They believe in limits. In strength that has a ceiling. In victories that are final." He stepped forward, towering over them, his presence suffocating in the enclosed space. "But we—we—do not live in that world. We are something beyond it."

  His fist clenched, and the air around it distorted. The very space twisted, as if the laws of nature were bending in protest to contain him.

  Theron exhaled. He understood now.

  This wasn’t about some enemy they had yet to face.

  This was about what they would become.

  Garm’s grin widened, teeth sharp in the dim light. "So, what’s the plan?"

  Veyla spun a thin spear of hardened blood between her fingers, golden eyes gleaming. "Yeah, boss. What’s next?"

  Hadeon looked past them, through the broken ceiling, into the night sky beyond.

  Then, in a voice like rolling thunder, he answered.

  "We remind the world why it fears the dark."

  The mountain trembled beneath their feet, and the storm began to close in once more.