Inside a multi-storied building in the heart of Blace City, young Eroan staggered forward, his legs barely supporting him. His entire body trembled, each step heavier than the last. His vision blurred—like the world itself was slipping through smoke.

  He placed a shaky hand on his head, whispering under his breath, “What are these... Children of the Sky supposed to be? And who even am I?”

  The words barely escaped his dry lips, heavy with confusion and weight.

  Reaching the window with effort, he gripped the frame and steadied himself, trying to calm the storm inside. He stared out at the city below—its lights flickering, people moving, unaware of the chaos brewing inside him.

  “What’s all this about?” he muttered, breath uneven, as if haunted by a vision no one else could see.

  The silence was suddenly broken.

  He flinched—distant noises echoed through the building. Faint... but getting closer. Sharp footsteps. A clang. Then quiet again.

  His eyes narrowed. Whatever this was—it wasn’t normal.

  Without hesitation, he turned toward his closet. His fingers moved fast, despite the trembling. He threw on a fresh outfit—tight, easy to move in—and pulled out a sleek black one-time-use mask, fitting it across his face up to his nose. The air around him felt colder now, sharper.

  Tightening his gloves and checking his footing, Eroan took a breath, opened the door quietly, and stepped out.

  Then, without looking back, he headed upstairs—into the unknown.

  In a bustling city plagued by a corrupted syndicate of stealers, young Eroan stood on the roof of a three-story building. In a calm, mysterious tone, he said, "I guess now I have to do it again."

  Below, a group of teenagers strolled, unaware, until several figures emerged from the shadows—men clad in blue hoods, black half-masks, and gray trousers. Their heavy boots echoed with metallic clangs as they advanced.

  Initially, the teens paid them no mind, but tension snapped when one of the hooded figures hurled a baseball bat at a streetlamp, shattering it with a crash. Startled, the teens froze.

  "Turn around. Don’t even think about running," barked a gravelly voice.

  The teenagers stood trembling—like leaves in a storm. Helpless, they obeyed.

  "You don’t have many choices," one of the hooded men sneered. "Hand over everything you’ve got, or die pathetic deaths."

  One brave teen shouted, "Run! I’ll buy you some time!" Hesitant at first, the others recognized the urgency and fled.

  The hooded attacker scoffed. "How naive, Did you really think escape was possible? Go get them."

  A man armed with a knife lunged forward. The teen who had stayed tried to intercept him, hands trembling, but was swiftly kicked to the ground.

  "Now watch your friend die for your stupidity," the assailant hissed.

  Just as the blade descended—

  Eroan descended faster.

  He leapt from the rooftop, a black one-time-use mask covering his face. Landing with a thud, he smirked. "Wait—it’s time for the climax."

  Catching the attacker’s wrist mid-strike, Eroan hurled him with a single punch that launched the man into a wall.

  "You reap what you sow," he said calmly.

  Stunned, the leader demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

  "You'll know soon enough," Eroan replied, helping the fallen teen to his feet. "Go now. You’ve done enough."

  "Thank you," the teen whispered before retreating.

  "Who gave you permission to leave? Guess you’ll pay for them now, nobody," the hooded man growled.

  "Bring it on," Eroan said, unshaken.

  The man turned to his group. "Go chase them. I’ll deal with this fool."

  Before the others could move, Eroan dispatched them with ease—a spinning back kick, an elbow hook, precision strikes.

  The leader lunged, silent and swift. Eroan met his strike head-on, their blows colliding in a clash of power.

  A kick to Eroan’s gut was intercepted by his elbow. He retaliated with a sharp forward kick to the chest, forcing his opponent back.

  "Not bad for a nobody," the man muttered. "Hate fighting someone worthy without knowing their name. What’s yours?"

  Eroan smirked. "Good for you. I don’t have the luxury to care about your preferences."

  "Still acting tough, huh? Fine. You can have my name—Aster."

  Above, a man in a black suit and cowboy hat smirked as he watched from a rooftop, unseen. The storm brewed.

  Rain began to fall.

  Eroan looked skyward. Drops trickled down his face. A flash of memory: him, younger, playing in the rain with a blonde-haired girl at a riverside.

  A gust nearly tore off his mask.

  Seeing an opening, Aster lunged. Eroan blocked with ease.

  Aster’s eyes widened. "What?!"

  Eroan twisted Aster’s arm, drove a knee into his gut, and landed two crushing punches—face, then chest. A strike to the neck ended it. Aster collapsed.

  Eroan gently laid him aside. "If asked who did this, tell them the king of this world did."

  "You gave a good fight, Aster. Rest well."

  As he walked away, Eroan whispered, “I felt an uncanny presence… Maybe I’m hallucinating again.”

  He sighed. “Ahh. It’s getting late. Time for sleep.”

  Later, the teens returned with police. However, they found nothing, except for footsteps and broken street lamp. One boy spoke: “A man in a black mask saved us.”

  Respecting Eroan's identity as they thought ,he must had a reason to hide his Identity . They were grateful for being saved and before giving any more details.

  His friends stopped him. “Sir, we couldn’t see him clearly. It was dark out.”

  The officers exchanged glances, then let them go.

  ---

  At around 3 a.m., Eroan twisted and sweated in his sleep. A dream gripped him—a vision far too vivid to ignore.

  He stood inside a colossal chamber, It's walls shimmering with embedded gold, silver, and diamonds. Symbols—ancient and alien—coiled like serpents across every surface. A round table sat at the center, surrounded by shadowy figures. They murmured in hushed tones, yet their presence radiated power.

  One figure, a silver-haired man with a white tattooed robe, stood out. Strange curved markings etched like blades spiraled across his arms and chest. He smirked while others looked to him in reverence—or fear.

  Sketches and distorted images covered the walls: grotesque creatures, eldritch shapes, unfamiliar weapons. Among them, one drawing stood out—a hybrid beast between gorilla and man, enthroned in bone and flame. Women knelt beside it, and charred corpses hung behind like decorations. Blood pooled in surreal rivers.

  All bowed before the beast—except one lone figure, defiant.

  Suddenly, a voice broke the silence.

  “Are you ready?” one of the figures asked the silver-haired man. “Do you know what to do after... that?”

  Eroan couldn't hear the final word. It faded like smoke.

  The silver-haired figure smiled. "Everything's going according to plan. Just have patience."

  Then—his gaze snapped toward Eroan.

  Eroan froze. His heart hammered. *He can’t see me... this is just a dream... right?*

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an unusual one. You don’t get to see that often.”

  Eroan stepped back instinctively.

  Then came the voice—low, calm, and horrifying:

  “You do not belong here, mortal.”

  Eroan bolted upright, drenched in sweat. Breathing hard, he stared into the darkness of his room.

  “That... wasn’t just a dream.”

  He staggered to the sink, splashed water on his face, and steadied his breath. Still rattled, he glanced at the wardrobe.

  Unnoticed by him, a **faint silver glow pulsed from a ring** resting atop the wardrobe shelf. The ring shimmered briefly—like it sensed something awakening. Its surface bore ancient markings similar to those from the dream. It vibrated once, silently.

  Then, stillness.

  Eroan walked away, unaware.

  ---

  He sat down and began his daily routine, breathing slowly as he dropped for a clean set of push-ups. His arms flexed with precision—controlled, practiced. The air in the room was cool, still, and the only sound was the light creak of wood beneath his palms. Beads of sweat formed quickly, but he didn’t stop.

  Next came pull-ups—his fingers gripping the iron bar above the doorway. His shoulder blades drew together with each rise, breath sharp but steady.

  Then jump rope—timed, crisp. The sound of rope slapping against the tile floor echoed like a rhythm matching his pulse.

  Still, his thoughts lingered.

  *Why did that man see me? That smile… That throne of corpses…*

  He exhaled slowly and sat back on his heels.

  “I’m not losing my mind… right?”

  The room remained quiet, but the silence felt heavier now. Then came his odd habit of lapping around the room again and again as he imagines what he'll do the whole day. His routine, anything new etc. it lasted for 7 minutes.

  ---

  By 7:30 a.m., Eroan was out the door, stepping into the cold grip of a winter morning. The air held a bite, crisp and silent, except for the distant rumble of traffic. His footsteps echoed down the damp pavement as clouds floated overhead like ghosts without purpose.

  His breath formed soft clouds in front of his face, vanishing as quickly as his thoughts. He boarded a bus that rumbled to a halt with a wheeze. Inside, warm breath fogged the windows. Workers, sleepy students, and strangers filled the space, most of them wired into their headphones, nodding off or lost in their own mental fog.

  Eroan sat beside a guy wearing a hoodie and wired buds. The guy stared blankly out the window, not blinking. Eroan glanced around. The crowd shifted gently with the motion of the bus, but in his mind, everything was still.

  *What’s the point of learning if I forget most of it next year?* he thought. *Why must people betray their own will just to adapt to society?

  Midway, the bus became so crowded it was hard to move.

  Eroan watched as a girl from his school—someone he’d never spoken to—gave her seat to an elderly man. “Here, uncle,” she said warmly. “Take my seat. My stop isn’t far.”

  Eroan narrowed his eyes, muttering in his head, People are all acts… Trying to look good in front of others when their hearts are empty.

  His tone was bitter, annoyed.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut it all out.

  When he reached school, the gates loomed with an almost indifferent familiarity. Students streamed in—some chatting, some yawning, some running late. Eroan's eyes lingered on the building as he whispered to himself, “Looks like a lot’s changed this year.”

  January 13th marked his first day back.

  He checked the notice board. A dull sigh escaped his lips. “Ugh, what a hassle...”

  Classroom 203 sat on the third floor. As he entered, the classroom buzzed with a light tension, like static before a storm. He chose the fourth bench in the middle row. Not too far back, not too close to the front. Not enough to be seen. Not enough to be ignored.

  Inside, the class was a mosaic of subtle motion. A group in the back debated a recent anime finale. A few kids scribbled notes or reviewed assignments. Others just stared into space or whispered among themselves. Some ate from lunchboxes already, one hand holding a spoon while the other hovered over their phones.

  And yet—eyes flicked toward Eroan. Not overtly. Just a glance, a nudge, a shared whisper.

  His posture, his silence, his isolation—it drew attention.

  A few noticed Shina too. And of course, Crest.

  The subtle energy of interest wasn’t obsession. It was human curiosity.

  Suddenly—

  “Where’s your mind?” came a voice from behind.

  “Ouch! Shina, that hurt,” Eroan winced as a light smack landed on the back of his head.

  “Well, I couldn’t help it,” she said, her voice light but firm. “Don’t sit there like a depressed zombie. It’s the first day of school!”

  Eroan gave a lazy nod. “Yes, ma’am. As you command." While patting his head like he got hurt .

  Frustrated, Shina slammed her notebook against his head with a soft thump. “Quit acting and wake up, idiot!”

  He touched his head and smirked faintly. "Well, it didn’t hurt at all."

  Shina had almond-colored hair tied in a looped ponytail, and her black eyes held a strange mix of annoyance and concern. Her voice always rang clear, as if refusing to be drowned by the noise around her.

  Then it happened.

  A subtle shift in atmosphere.

  The door creaked.

  Almost the entire class looked.

  A tall figure stepped in—Crest of the Kleth family. Brown hair, light blue eyes like morning sky, and a presence that silenced the room without trying.

  Shina muttered, “Now here comes the star.”

  Eroan sighed. “Hmm. Nothing's new. He’s always been like that.”

  Crest walked forward without acknowledging anyone. His eyes briefly locked with Eroan’s before he took the front row seat. The classroom resumed its rhythm, but something had changed in the undercurrent.

  The teacher arrived, did roll call, and class continued as usual.

  But during break, rumors swept through the halls like wildfire.

  Whispers bounced from one corner to another.

  “They found another body... blood everywhere... no signs of the killer.”

  Eroan caught fragments of conversation. The deaths weren’t just rumors—they were unsettling realities.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “So it’s not just me. Weird things are happening everywhere. This world really is messed up.”

  He stayed in class for lunch. Some students gathered near windows, others still at their desks. Eyes darted toward Crest’s table more than once—he was eating silently, but even that felt theatrical.

  Eroan noticed it. So did Shina.

  She sat beside him, voice lower now. “Things aren’t going well. You need to be careful.”

  A few students began to whisper.

  “Why is she talking to that guy?”

  “Does she like him or something?”

  “He doesn’t even deserve to be in the same class as Crest.”

  Then, without a word, Crest stood.

  Everyone froze.

  He walked toward Eroan—slowly, steadily.

  Whispers turned into murmurs. Movement quieted. Even spoons halted midair.

  Crest leaned down.

  Tapped Eroan’s desk with calculated rhythm. Morse code.

  "4 PM. Favorite place."

  Then walked away without a glance back.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Shina blinked. “What did he just say?”

  Eroan glanced up, voice relaxed. “Oh? Curious now?”

  He leaned in close to her, whispering in her ear, “I’ll tell you... if you give me a kiss.”

  She turned bright red and shoved him away. “Now I... I don’t wanna know anything! Eroan, you idiot!”

  The tension cracked, and the noise resumed. But the attention lingered.

  Even those who tried to mind their own business were now aware: something was happening between the boy who avoided everyone, and the one who stood above them all.

  Shina rushed out of the classroom, brushing off all the questions hurled at her. The hallway lights flickered faintly above as her shoes tapped briskly on the cold tile floor. She didn’t turn back, her mind a storm of confusion and something else she refused to name.

  Outside, the sun glared against the cloud-swept sky. A winter breeze brushed across her cheeks as she leaned against the balcony railing. The sky was a canvas of shifting white and fading blue. She stared up at it, searching for clarity.

  “What’s with him? Why would he say something like that?” she whispered, hugging her books to her chest. “That’s... not like him. Wait... does that mean he actually likes me?”

  A soft laugh escaped her lips, and a blush crept across her face.

  She didn’t notice the girl standing beside her until a hand casually poked her side.

  “Enjoying your soap opera alone?”

  Shina jolted. “Maya! You scared me!”

  Maya smirked, arms crossed. Her long black hair fluttered lightly in the wind, and her violet eyes had a way of cutting through excuses.

  “I was looking for you,” Shina said.

  “Yeah, I could tell. You were definitely not busy falling for anyone or blushing like a tomato or anything.”

  Shina frowned. “It wasn’t like that!”

  Without another word, Maya grabbed her hand and dragged her down the corridor, past empty rooms and locked labs, until they reached the vacant computer lab behind the school. Dust floated lazily in the golden shafts of sunlight pouring through the window blinds.

  Shina looked around. “What’s with the sudden movement?!”

  Maya closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

  “You know what the whole school’s saying, right?” she said flatly. “No one else is gonna tell you this, so listen closely.”

  Shina crossed her arms. “Let me guess. This is about me being around Eroan?”

  “Exactly,” Maya replied. “You should be careful. He’s the most infamous guy in school. Being around him is gonna damage your rep faster than a leaked exam paper.”

  Shina didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze wandered to the dusty computers.

  “Okay... I’ll be more cautious,” she said finally.

  “You better be,” Maya said, voice softening slightly. “I’m only saying this ‘cause you’re my best friend.”

  When they returned to class, a few students threw them curious looks. A whisper here. A nod there. Advice, warnings, gossip disguised as concern.

  Shina ignored them all.

  Class ended. Bags were packed. The room emptied slowly.

  Eroan stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Shina approached him, tapping his shoulder twice—playful, deliberate.

  She walked ahead a few meters, turned back, smiled, and winked. “See ya again.”

  Eroan blinked. He wasn’t expecting that.

  His lips curved into a small smile. “Okay... see ya soon.”

  ---

  The air near the riverside was sharp with the scent of wet stone and wind-whipped leaves. A wide grassy slope led to the riverbank, where water shimmered under the golden light of late afternoon.

  Eroan stood still, watching the flow.

  A sudden instinct tugged at his chest. His eyes closed. He focused.

  He heard distant horns. Chattering voices. Birds rustling in branches.

  Then—*whizz!*—a wooden sword flew toward his head.

  His hand moved before thought. The blade stopped midair, caught.

  “Yo! Loser,” came a familiar voice.

  Crest stood at the top of the slope, sunlight behind him, jacket billowing in the breeze. He slid down the grass effortlessly, landing near Eroan.

  “So, you came,” Eroan said, genuine satisfaction slipping into his voice.

  Crest smirked. “Yeah. I want to see if you’re still the same Eroan from back then.”

  “You’re free to check. But I’m not the same. I’ve changed—for the better.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “No friendly spar,” Crest said. “A real fight. One falls, one wins.”

  “I was born ready,” Eroan replied. “Bring it on.”

  Crest kicked grip of the sword into the air, caught it, and pointed it forward.

  “Then let it begin.”

  The wind quieted.

  Eroan lunged first. A swift upward slash aimed for Crest’s chest.

  Crest stepped aside, elegant. He countered with a downward slash. Eroan deflected—but Crest dropped his sword mid-motion and swept Eroan’s legs.

  Off-balance. Eroan recovered fast. But Crest had already retrieved his sword.

  *It was intentional. That drop. He baited me.*

  Eroan pivoted, dodging a strike to the stomach. He slammed his foot down, dragging a small rock forward and spinning into a kick that Crest blocked with his elbow. The impact sent him back a step.

  “Not bad,” Eroan muttered.

  Crest smiled. “You’ll know.”

  Rain began—just a whisper at first. The river shimmered with ripples. Blades clashed.

  Grass scattered. Mud kicked.

  Then: “Xcel Art... 3,” Crest whispered.

  His form blurred—one clean, deadly slash toward Eroan’s neck.

  Eroan raised his blade, gripping with both hands. The impact slammed into him. His left knee hit the ground.

  Crack.

  His wooden blade splintered.

  Crest raised his sword for the finish. “Guess I’ve won.”

  But Eroan's eyes weren’t defeated.

  He remembered.

  ---

  A flashback: a field, long ago. A wooden house nearby. A white-bearded man stood watching like a coach. Eroan faced Crest. They fought with real swords.

  Eroan shouted, “Xcel Art of IRA: Offense!” and knocked Crest’s weapon aside. As he went for the final blow, Crest tripped. Eroan yelled, “The end for you!”

  And then—struck the ground beside Crest’s head.

  Crest had flinched, certain of his end.

  ---

  Back in the present—

  Eroan rose.

  “I’m not done yet.”

  He switched the broken blade to his left, dodged the next strike, and delivered a brutal uppercut to Crest’s jaw.

  Blood at the lip.

  Both stepped back, panting. The world seemed to pause around them.

  Then—again.

  Crest struck at Eroan’s injured arm. Eroan countered, reversed grip, used the hilt like a dagger. Crest responded with a sweeping kick.

  It connected.

  Eroan grabbed Crest’s tie, yanked him close, and slammed the hilt into his chest.

  Both staggered. Both struck again. The duel blurred.

  Then, a missed step.

  A stone.

  Eroan slipped.

  Fell into the river.

  Splash.

  Time stood still.

  Crest lowered his blade.

  Not in triumph—but in respect.

  “You’ve grown.”

  He reached out. Helped Eroan from the water.

  Their eyes met.

  “Remember,” Crest said. “You’re my rival. Live up to the title you gave yourself... ‘King of Worlds.’”

  Eroan smiled. “Yeah.”

  Crest turned.

  “Next time—a better duel.”

  They spoke the final words together, like old times.

  “Until then... peace.”

  And Crest disappeared into the fading light.

  After they parted ways, Crest walked alone through the silent, shadow-laden darkness. The cold wind whispered across the empty streets, rustling dead leaves in its path. All was quiet—until he noticed something strange. A faint light flickered far down the train tracks, followed by brief flashes and distant echoes of screams, gunshots, and the clashing of metal.

  Crest narrowed his eyes, curiosity and unease rising. As he stepped closer to investigate, a sharp buzzing whirled past his ear—something was approaching from behind.

  Suddenly, a car came drifting around the corner, tires screeching as it sped toward him. Crest instinctively raised his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding headlights. The vehicle came to a screeching halt right beside him.

  A familiar voice called from the driver’s seat. “You shouldn’t go there right now.”

  Blinking against the light, Crest leaned forward, confused. The driver wore a sleek purple coat over a light indigo tie. His tan-colored hair was tousled, and his cyan eyes sparkled with confidence.

  Crest's eyes widened. “Is that you, Set?”

  Set glanced toward him with a lazy smile and a wink. “Yes. As you said, my master.”

  The passenger door clicked open automatically.

  “Come in. Have your seat,” Set offered casually.

  Crest slid into the car, still baffled. He turned to Set and asked, “Why the disguise? Since when did you start wearing a uniform?”

  Set smirked. “As usual, too many questions. You’ll have your answers soon enough.”

  Crest frowned. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Set ignored him, smoothly shifting gears and accelerating forward. After a moment of silence, he muttered, “You know I hate uniforms. But I had a task, and this... this getup was necessary. In my case, a uniform is a disguise.”

  Before Crest could respond, bullets whizzed past the car. Oddly, none of them hit or even scratched the vehicle. It was as though an invisible barrier deflected them.

  Crest leaned back, unfazed. “You do realize you’re driving the opposite way from home, right?”

  They both ignored the gunfire as if it were background noise.

  Glancing behind them, Crest saw only empty darkness. He felt something—an unnatural shift in the air. Reaching behind the seats, he grabbed a canister from a bag. Then, he peeled off a strange yellow sticker with four horizontal lines and stepped on a specific floor panel. The panel shimmered and disappeared, revealing a small chute.

  He tossed the canister through it.

  The blue liquid inside spilled mid-air, mixing with grains of enchanted sand. As the sticker rubbed against the car’s interior, it activated the ignition lines. Flames erupted instantly, intensified by some unknown magical accelerant. A colossal blaze roared to life.

  From within the inferno, several dark silhouettes emerged—cars.

  Crest narrowed his eyes. “Here we go.”

  Set glanced in the rearview mirror. “They really thought they could hide from us.”

  Crest scoffed. “Yeah. And with such a cheap spell.”

  As they hit the main road, a barrage of vehicles and motorcycles closed in from all sides. The chase had begun.

  “Now will you tell me?” Crest asked.

  Set sighed. “Impatient as ever.” He nodded toward the silver X-marked white cars. “Those belong to the Extangles clan. The ‘X’ has a plus in the middle—see it on the bonnet?”

  One of the Extangles’ cars swerved to their flank, launching an ice spell at their tires to freeze them.

  Set flicked his wrist. A curved, glowing blade emerged mid-air and slashed clean through the approaching vehicle. The car exploded moments later, but the attackers escaped just in time.

  Flames danced around their car as it powered through both fire and ice.

  Set pointed at dark blue cars marked with a circle and several horizontal commas. “That’s the Imsanel bloodline.” He snapped his fingers, and one of their vehicles burst into flames.

  “As for the black ones with the grey clover... I don’t know who they are.”

  Two of those unknown cars fired explosives, while a cluster of motorcycles closed in.

  Crest thought, *It’s been raining all day—Set’s flames must be weakening.*

  Set winked at him. “That’s on you.”

  Crest reached into the back and drew a playing card—seven of spades. He tossed it into the gear panel. Instantly, the car blinked out of sight and reappeared seven meters ahead. Behind them, explosions erupted, taking out several pursuing motorcycles and black-clover vehicles.

  “The bikers?” Set asked.

  “Extras. Hired mercenaries,” Crest replied.

  They high-fived mid-motion.

  Set grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  The pursuit intensified. Cars screeched, spells exploded, and bullets whistled past. Set drifted between lanes, dodging magical blasts and enemy projectiles.

  Eventually, they were surrounded.

  Set drifted hard—the tires igniting in blue fire, flames engulfing the car. Ice spikes, wind spheres, and even magical detonations hurled their way—but none broke through the protective inferno.

  Then the flames flickered. The barrier dropped.

  Three enemies managed to jump onto the roof.

  “Now that’s gonna be trouble,” Set muttered.

  Crest donned his metal gloves. “Leave it to me.”

  Set smirked. “As you please, Master.” He handed Crest a remote.

  With a click, a circular panel atop the car slid open. Crest launched himself up and stood on the roof.

  One attacker had already fainted from the heat. Four remained.

  *If Set fights, the car will be at risk,* Crest thought. *I have to handle this.*

  An enemy launched a back kick. Crest deflected with his elbow.

  He retaliated with a forward kick, but the opponent ducked and countered with a punch. Crest caught the fist, twisted the arm, and slammed the guy down.

  Two more attacked from either side. Crest blocked both, but his left knee buckled slightly.

  He delivered a hook punch, blocked. The other enemy struck his calf—blocked. Crest seized the leg, but the guy launched a spinning kick mid-air. At the same time, the first opponent threw a punch toward Crest’s face.

  Crest deflected both, pulled them in, and delivered a powerful double uppercut followed by a chest strike. Their defenses broke at the neck strike. Both collapsed.

  He gently laid them on the roof.

  Then, he noticed someone standing still.

  A black hoodie. A silver mask with a laughing design. Only the lower half of the face was covered—black hair and sharp orange eyes exposed.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” Crest asked.

  *Everyone else wore white. He doesn’t.*

  “Are they your comrades?” Crest questioned.

  “You talk too much,” the masked man replied. “Relax. I’m on my own.”

  “That clears it,” Crest nodded.

  The man revealed a compact blade.

  Crest shifted into a stance—but the enemy closed the gap instantly, slashing upward.

  Crest barely dodged. Blood trickled from just beneath his eyebrow.

  *He’s fast...*

  The masked man’s white aura shimmered.

  “You’re too slow. This won’t be fun if it ends so early.”

  Crest aimed a side kick at the shoulder.

  The enemy caught his leg and slammed him down. Then pressed a foot on Crest’s arm.

  Crest gritted his teeth.

  The man fell on him while slashing the blade—but missed intentionally, stabbing near Crest’s head.

  “What a shame you are,” he muttered. “You can call me ML.”

  Crest kicked—but ML evaded.

  Crest stood and threw a power punch. ML moved to dodge—but Crest stomped his foot and landed a solid left straight to the face.

  As Crest followed up, ML countered with a roundhouse to the stomach. Crest blocked with both arms.

  ML grinned. “Finally!”

  Crest, surprised, also smiled.

  ML launched a cross punch. Crest blocked and countered with a jab, but ML dodged easily. He countered with a jab to the face, a cross to the chest, then a hook to the ribs.

  Crest staggered but stayed standing.

  *He’s beating me for half an hour… I’ve only landed once. Should I give up?*

  ML spun into a crescent kick. Crest nearly fell.

  Then came a brutal overhand.

  Crest caught the arm. Rose-colored aura surged around him.

  He headbutted ML, then delivered a spinning backfist, followed by a devastating shovel hook to the throat.

  ML staggered, blood trailing from his nose.

  “Now it’s getting fun,” he whispered.

  Crest raised his right hand, fingers curling.

  ML lunged with the blade.

  Crest blocked with his arm. ML spun the weapon for a curved slash—Crest parried.

  He delivered a liver shot. ML returned a body strike.

  Crest threw a knuckle punch at ML’s solar plexus—direct hit. ML faltered.

  Crest went for a sweeping kick. ML dodged, retaliating with a hook kick to Crest’s jaw, knocking him down.

  Crest sprang up and kicked ML’s knees, weakening him.

  Just as Crest aimed a knee strike, ML struck both his legs multiple times.

  Crest, desperate, drew a two of spades card and tossed it.

  He vanished—teleported two meters away—and struck ML’s neck with a palm.

  ML, confused, turned just as Crest’s axe kick smashed down onto his shoulder.

  Meanwhile, Set weaved through traffic, keeping civilians safe, dodging spells, bullets, and bats lit with fire. He triggered planted traps: spikes, fire needles, barriers.

  “Damn! That’s why I hate duty,” he muttered.

  On the rooftop, ML laid down, then sprang up and hurled sharpened stones. Crest blocked each one with rapid hand movements.

  *Close range is better for me,* Crest thought.

  He moved forward—only to be struck by a spinning back kick, followed by a tornado kick. Crest dropped to one knee.

  Panting, bruised, bloodied.

  “Why fight evil,” he asked, “when you can fight for the light? Only cowards shelter in darkness.”

  ML retrieved his blade—he had tied it with rope earlier.

  As he raised it over the near-unconscious Crest, he whispered, “Farewell. You fought well… against The Man Lancer.”

  Flames erupted in a circle around them.

  ML froze. “I was so close.”

  He leapt back and sliced through the flames with a water spell.

  Then he saw him—Set Louie, standing in the blaze.

  “The Flame Sparrow,” ML whispered. “Guess it’s time. See you later.”

  He jumped off the car onto a motorcycle ridden by a fallen mercenary.

  As he sped off, Set snapped his fingers twice. The bike exploded in a ten-meter radius.

  “You were never allowed to leave,” he said coldly.

  Set then picked up the weakened Crest, and drove to home.

  The battle was over—for now.

  Set quickly reached into the glove compartment, pulling out an emergency healing potion—one laced with luminous gold sparkles swirling inside the thick glass vial. Without wasting a second, he opened the bottle and gently poured its contents onto Crest’s wounds. A soft hum escaped the liquid as it made contact with his skin, absorbed almost instantly.

  Then, with practiced precision, Set extended both hands, conjuring soft green flames from his fingertips—calm and nurturing, unlike his usual ferocious infernos. He spread the flames along the areas where Crest had been slashed and battered. The fire shimmered lightly, then gradually began knitting torn skin, soothing bruises, and mending torn flesh. A faint sigh of relief escaped Crest’s lips, still unconscious but no longer in pain.

  Set took a sharp breath and leaned back in his seat. He stopped the car beside a local roadside shop, still open under the dim flickering neon sign. He stepped out, grabbed three soda cans from a vending rack, left a few coins on the counter, and casually got back into the car. He placed one of the cold soda cans beside Crest before opening another for himself. The familiar *hiss* of the can echoed faintly in the silence.

  As he took a slow sip, letting the cool sweetness soothe his throat, Set muttered to himself, "Being on duty is a real trouble."

  The car then entered a hidden tunnel nestled between two forested hills. It led to a concealed underground chamber lined with mechanical tools, glowing panels, and repair drones. This was where Set’s vehicle underwent full maintenance, repairs, and even personalized upgrades. Smooth platforms and arms scanned the entire car, diagnosing, fixing, and enhancing its systems. New features began installing, and broken panels were replaced seamlessly.

  Set, now done with basic care, turned to Crest again. With care and reverence, he gently lifted him, carrying Crest effortlessly over his shoulder. He also tucked the remaining two soda cans under his arm. As he stood still for a moment, everything around him was dead quiet—silent as stone. The only thing he could hear was the wind softly breezing through distant cracks in the chamber’s structure.

  His boots echoed lightly as he walked across the chamber floor. The lighting above was dim—barely flickering. He reached the central exit platform and paused. There, in the quiet void, he looked up.

  The ceiling was transparent at the top, giving a perfect view of the full moon. It gleamed bright in the dark sky. As the soft wind brushed against his cheek, Set muttered with a weary voice, "Despite the world reaching light, some places are meant to be dark."

  He held out his right hand, conjuring his signature flame—his blue fire flickered alive in his palm. With two fingers, he wrote his name, **Set**, midair using the fire. The letters glowed brightly before shrinking down into a tiny symbol. That glowing emblem floated upward and embedded itself into a suspended square-shaped crystal above.

  Moments later, a massive gate emerged before him. It was half-black, half-white, etched with intricate designs. At the center was a grey circle, and within that circle rested a star, one of its tips cut clean through by a sharp horizontal line. The gate let out a soft, heavy creak as it parted open.

  Before him unfolded the full majesty of the **Kleth Mansion**. It stretched wide, tall, regal in architecture. Dozens of guards patrolled the perimeter, armored and alert. The garden nearby blossomed with rare magical flowers, glimmering under the moonlight. A marble fountain stood beside the garden, its water glowing faintly with enchantment. Lamps flickered to life along the cobbled path, lining the walk toward the mansion’s arched entrance.

  Set walked forward, unfazed by the grandeur. As soon as he stepped onto the central pathway, a group of uniformed servants began to gather around him. They were all dressed in the royal Kleth colors—white, dark green, and trimmed gold.

  Among them approached a tall man with slicked-back blonde hair and deep emerald eyes, wearing a well-pressed brown suit with a magenta tie. His expression was neutral but respectful.

  "Welcome back, Set," he said calmly, bowing his head slightly.

  He turned to the gathered servants and gestured. They immediately understood. A few of them stepped forward, taking Crest gently from Set’s arms. One of the maids—a young woman with short brown hair, cyan eyes, and wearing a white uniform marked with the Kleth family insignia on her shoulder—nodded as she received Crest.

  "Hmm," she acknowledged softly, holding Crest with surprising strength and grace.

  Set gave a final glance at Crest, then nodded to them, saying, "Take care of him."

  The blonde man stepped closer, folding his arms as he walked beside Set. "You do realize, Your Majesty is going to be *very* angry at you."

  Set gave a faint, sly smile and replied dryly, "I know that very well, Claey."

  And with that, the heavy doors of the Kleth mansion began to open, welcoming them inside a night that was far from over.

  Claey said in a teasing tone, "Ooh! Then you may have your way." Set gave him a knowing look, then marched forward to enter the house. As he stepped in, a few guards saluted him with firm precision. One stood out—clad in a silver uniform that gleamed under the dim lights, distinct from the others who wore charcoal uniforms bearing the Kleth insignia on their shoulders. This man had black hair, black eyes, and an insignia embedded on his right arm like a tattoo.

  He stepped forward, raising a hand for a handshake. "You doing well?" he asked casually. Set returned the gesture, shaking his hand as he replied with a tired smile, "Probably not. Everything good with you, Kause?" His tone carried subtle concern.

  Kause grinned. "Yeah, I’m doing fine like a wine. No need to worry about me."

  Set nodded, relieved. "Keep up the good work, Kause."

  Just as he turned to leave, Kause touched his shoulder. With a serious yet caring tone, he said, "Don’t lose your patience in there."

  Set offered a faint nod as the heavy gate creaked open. Inside lay a grand hall, colored in tan and white-tiled floors that sparkled under the chandeliers. Pearls, diamonds, gold, and silver glittered in every corner. Several people moved within the room—some near the entrance, others lounging on plush sofas, while others tended to tasks.

  As Set approached the room, he bowed slightly and said, "Beg your pardon," before entering. A soft flicker of light and sound echoed as he passed, almost like an alert announcing his return.

  A beautiful woman approached—adorned in accessories that shimmered under the lights. She wore a red silk sari that hugged her figure like moonlight, her elegance radiating like armor. Gold earrings swayed gently, a silver necklace rested just above a teasing neckline. Her crimson lips, reddish-blonde hair, and icy blue eyes captivated the room.

  Set kept his composure, bowing with respect. "Pleasure to meet you again, my lady Amire."

  Amire smiled gracefully. "Good to see you again, Set. Things are getting out of hand these days, isn’t that quite right?"

  Set understood instantly and replied, "Sure is. Right as usual, my lady."

  She stepped closer. "Your master is quite frustrated with you. We saw the footage you sent us. I know you tried hard."

  Set bowed his head, shame coloring his expression. He remained silent.

  From the stairs above, a powerful presence began descending—step by step, the weight of command with each footfall. It was Drevan Kleth, the head of the Kleth family.

  Set lowered his head out of respect. Amire instinctively stepped away.

  Two or three secretaries followed Drevan closely as he walked up to Set.

  "Good to see you again, Your Majesty," Set greeted humbly.

  Drevan’s tone was sharp. "Keep your head up."

  As Set obeyed and stood upright, Drevan slapped him across the cheek. The sound echoed in the hall.

  "You couldn’t even carry out a simple task without making a mess. What’s your duty supposed to be? Isn’t it to protect? Then tell me—what did you protect? Tell me, Set!" he shouted, his voice thunderous and terrifying.

  Set stood silently, absorbing the pain and humiliation.

  "Get away from my sight this instant," Drevan barked. As he turned toward Crest’s chamber, he muttered, "You’re a disgrace to this family… and to your father."

  Set, his heart heavy, walked out of the hall and into the forest. Clenching his fists in anger, flames began to flicker around him—but he paused, remembering.

  He was seven years old again, standing before his father—John Louie, a tall, dignified man with ash-colored eyes and cream-colored hair.

  Set rushed to hug him. "Guess what’s tomorrow, Father?" he asked cheerfully.

  John smiled. "It’s my son’s first day on duty. My little boy is all grown up now."

  Set hugged him tighter, smiling brightly. "Are you getting ready for duty, Father?"

  "Yeah," John replied warmly, patting Set’s head. "See you tonight. From tomorrow, we’ll do duty together."

  John left wearing a gray suit, black hat, and carrying a stick. Set waved him off.

  Later, Set took a remote from behind his closet—a space he had cleverly cut in a way no one would notice. He knocked three times on the wall, threw a ball at three specific points to form a triangle, then activated the remote. A laser connected the triangle with a glowing circle. The wall opened.

  Inside was darkness—his secret training room. He practiced spells, techniques, and studied.

  He paused on a single word—"duty." What did it mean to protect? What was his true purpose?

  While pondering, he fell asleep from exhaustion.

  When he awoke, dusk had passed. He quickly sealed the chamber and returned to find John sitting in the dining room, sipping coffee.

  Set froze. Did he know?

  "How was your day, Set?" John asked.

  "Good. Nothing special, as usual."

  "Oh really? Then I’ll make it special," John said with a small smile. He looked at the clock, then nodded. "Come to the balcony."

  In their wooden house, "balcony" meant stepping outside.

  Set brought two cups of coffee. They sat together, watching the starlit sky. Cold wind breezed past them. The moon lit up the garden.

  John swung his legs off the edge, sipping. "Have any questions about tomorrow?"

  Set nodded. "Just one."

  "Go ahead. I’m listening."

  "What is duty really about? What’s my purpose? What do I protect?"

  John smiled. "Good question. Let me answer it properly."

  He told a story—about duty, purpose, protection.

  John Louie’s Story: “The Lantern and the Flame”

  "Sit close, Set. This is a tale older than both you and me. A story not just to hear… but to carry.”

  Once upon a time, in a land where the night sky wept stardust and the winds carried whispers of forgotten names, there lived a boy born without a name. He was neither strong nor clever. He had no family, no riches, no grand destiny. But he had something far rarer: a small lantern that never went out.

  This lantern had no wick, no oil, and no glass—only a soft flame that pulsed like a heartbeat. Every night, the boy walked the world with this lantern in hand. Villages feared the dark, cities fell into silence when the sun left—but wherever the boy walked, the night seemed gentler. It wasn’t that he fought monsters or chased away shadows… it was simply that his presence reminded people that the darkness wasn’t all there was.

  One day, the boy came across a burning field—smoke curling, flames dancing violently. A girl stood in the middle, protecting a seedling with her body, coughing and trembling. “Why don’t you run?” the boy asked.

  She said, “Because this seedling is the last tree my mother planted. I can’t let it die.”

  The boy stepped into the fire without fear. He didn’t say he would help. He didn’t ask permission. He simply placed his lantern on the ground beside the seedling. And for a moment, the flame from his lantern burned brighter than the wildfire. It calmed the wind. It split the smoke. The fire bent… and the seedling lived.

  When the girl looked up, the boy was gone. So was his lantern.

  Years passed.

  People spoke of a flame that saved a forest, a spark that halted death. Some said it was magic, others called it a miracle. But those who knew better—those who had seen him before—knew the truth: the boy had given away his only light so someone else’s world could keep burning.

  And that was when they realized something: the boy didn’t carry the lantern.

  He was the lantern.

  His duty wasn’t to fight the darkness.

  His purpose wasn’t to shine the brightest.

  His job wasn’t to be seen.

  It was to protect the light in others—even if it meant letting go of his own.

  John paused. The wind brushed softly against their cheeks. Above them, stars blinked like they were listening too.

  Then he said, “You asked me what duty is, what your purpose is, and what you need to protect.”

  He looked at Set with eyes as calm as oceans, yet deep as time itself.

  “Set… duty isn’t something you do because you’re told. It’s something you do even when no one’s looking.

  Purpose isn’t found in medals or missions. It’s found in why you keep going.

  And protection? It’s not always about saving someone from death. Sometimes, it’s about saving their hope, their spirit… their reason to live.”

  He leaned closer, resting a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “One day, you’ll walk through fire too. You’ll lose things you love. You’ll face moments where no one stands beside you. But when that time comes—remember this story.

  You were never meant to be the sword. You were meant to be the lantern.

  You may not always win the fight, but if you protect even one life… one dream… one smile—then you've done your duty.”

  Set sat in silence, not from confusion, but from understanding. For the first time, the word “duty” didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a calling.

  Then he said, "Duty isn’t just work. It’s the responsibility to protect everything within your grasp. It’s what you were born to do."

  Set asked, "So… what exactly am I supposed to protect?"

  John sighed deeply. "The Kleth family is expecting a new child—possibly the next ruler. That child… he will be your everything. Your duty."

  He added with a grin, "And don’t worry. You’re more than ready."

  As they returned inside, John said, "You did a good job crafting that secret space."

  Set’s eyes widened. "He knew?" he whispered to himself.

  Surprised—but proud.

  Back in the present, Set sat on a mountain cliff, staring into the beautiful sky, calm once more.

  Meanwhile, Crest woke up patched but sore. He jumped from bed, immediately wondering where Set was. A note lay on a small wardrobe.

  He opened it. Set’s handwriting: “Come to the cliff when you wake up.”

  Crest looked out the window. "Incise," he whispered.

  The window opened. He leapt out silently and ran through the forest.

  After a while, he found Set.

  Breathing heavily, Crest asked, "How long have you been here?"

  Set replied, "Not long enough. Just a few hours."

  He handed Crest the soda can he had been holding. "Have a seat."

  Crest took it, surprised, but didn’t question it. He sat beside Set. They clinked cans and drank.

  "So, how did things go?" Crest asked.

  Set didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed to the sky. "Look how pretty it is. Even in the vast sky filled with stars, it’s the little ones that shine the brightest."

  He turned to Crest. "Are you healed now?"

  Crest replied, "Yeah. I’m doing fine as ever."

  Set said,"Glad to hear that."

  Then, Crest glanced over at Set, the moonlight still reflecting off his tired eyes. "Now you tell me," he said with a calm seriousness, "What was that task about?"

  Set looked at him, slightly surprised but composed. His tone was smooth, as if he had expected this moment all along. "Well," he began, "that question had to come sooner or later. Hold your questions for now—this one’s going to be a long story."

  He leaned back slightly, exhaled, and started. "You know things have been getting really messed up recently, right? There’s a reason behind that—something that’s not from our world. A power, mysterious and dangerous, has been bestowed upon this world. No one knows who or what brought it, but traces of its destruction have already started showing."

  Set paused, his eyes narrowing. “It all began about a week ago, far out east—in the city of Tiel. That’s where the first signs appeared. A massive wildfire erupted from nowhere, ripping through the forest and scorching the land. But it wasn’t just fire… huge holes appeared too—as if small asteroids had slammed into the ground, leaving behind deep craters.”

  Crest leaned forward slightly, his curiosity growing. Set continued, “Eyewitnesses—those who survived long enough to report—said they saw people dressed strangely. It wasn’t just odd clothing. It was like they were cosplaying something... or more accurately, like they weren’t from this world at all.”

  Crest’s eyes widened. “From a different world… like the Children of Sky?”

  Set nodded. “Yeah. Something like that. Except this time, they’re not here to help. They’re evil—ruthless. Now listen, it gets worse.”

  He took a breath. “Some of the locals called the nearby police. But by the time the officers arrived, everyone was dead. Everyone. Not a single soul remained alive. Some were hanging from trees—beheaded. Others burned to ashes. Some had their bodies split clean in half. Organs scattered, wounds too precise and strange to be made by any weapon we know. And the most terrifying part—every one of those wounds had weird symbols and markings etched into the flesh.”

  Crest stiffened, his expression darkening. “And there was no sign of the attackers?”

  Set shook his head. “None. They vanished. Left behind nothing but the destruction... and a recording of what the police heard over the phone. That's the only lead we have.”

  Crest, lost in thought, imagined the horrific scene. The silence stretched before he finally asked, “So… what does that have to do with your task?”

  Set gave a faint smile. “Now comes the important part. That wasn’t the only place. Similar incidents began occurring all over—people seeing strange, otherworldly figures. Places left in ruin. But in each case, something else was discovered: strange objects—crystals, weapons, and... rings.”

  He turned serious again. “You’re from the Kleth family. You already know how powerful a ring can be. There are only three known families that possess a true Ring. And each Ring is a force of nature.”

  He lowered his voice. “A Ring is an otherworldly core. It grants immense power—each with its own ability: enhancing strength, stealing abilities, even creating new ones. Only a handful of people can even withstand a Ring’s force.”

  Crest nodded. “We have the Ring of Craft. It gives us the ability to forge abilities from nothing... like the poker cards.”

  Set gave a short grin. “Exactly. Those cards aren’t toys. Each one’s deadly. Heart can freeze or stun. A heart of 10 can freeze someone for 10 seconds. Spades teleport you as far as the card’s number in meters. Diamonds harden your body—or whatever you touch. And Clovers… they’re the worst. Copying abilities, enhancing them… even disabling a person’s senses.”

  Crest nodded, following. “Each card can only be used once, and then you wait two hours to use another, unless it’s a Spade. That one’s immediate.”

  Set’s eyes lit with purpose. “Well... another Ring just appeared. Right here, in this city.”

  Crest's expression changed. “Wait—what?”

  Set smirked. “That was my task—to bring that Ring to you. And guess what? I did it.”

  “You already brought it here?” Crest asked, stunned.

  “Yep. Few people even knew it existed. That’s the only reason I was able to pull it off.”

  “What Ring is it?”

  Set reached into his coat. “I believe…” he said slowly, “It’s the Ring of Ashes.”

  Crest immediately leaned forward. “Let me see it!”

  Set tried to pull the ring from his pocket, but something went wrong. As he touched it, it slipped onto his ring finger—and refused to come off.

  "Agh!" he winced in pain, suddenly clenching his fist.

  Crest stepped back, concerned. “What happened?!”

  Set slowly pulled his hand into the light. Around his ring finger, the skin had turned pitch black near the Ring. Not bruised—almost burned by something ancient.

  Set hissed, “Damn it… it got stuck.”

  Crest moved forward. “Let me try. You’re probably exhausted.”

  He reached for the Ring—but as soon as his fingers neared it, a wave of force shoved his hand back.

  Both of them froze.

  “What… was that?” Crest whispered. “It... repelled me. Maybe... the Ring has chosen you.”

  Set stared at the Ring, still stuck on his finger. “It’ll wear off soon,” he muttered, half to himself.

  He raised his hand. The Ring shimmered faintly. In the center, the word ASHES appeared, etched in glowing text along with strange, swirling patterns like scorched flames.

  The room fell silent.

  Whatever this Ring was… it wasn’t done with Set.

  Crest laid down, hands behind his head, and stared at the sky. The two sat there talking through the night, admiring the stars.

  Eventually, Crest drifted off to sleep. Set remained awake, smiling softly.

  "Now it’s exactly like babysitting a kid," he said gently.

  Then, almost to himself, he whispered, "Sleep well. You need it."

  This chapter followed Eroan as he returned home after the Riverside duel, mentally replaying the pain and flashes of that intense battle. Though he tried to relax and distract himself, exhaustion caught up to him, leading to an unexpected nap. But peace doesn’t last long for him—what starts as a simple trip outside to grab food and drinks turns chaotic when he stumbles upon a strange fight. With his usual dry humor, Eroan interrupts them mid-battle, thinking it’s cosplay… only to end up entangled in something much more dangerous. Caught and wounded, he joins the fight against Lumero. They win—but barely. Eroan nearly dies and collapses from the damage, only to wake up in his bed, questioning whether everything he just experienced was real or just a terrible dream.

  Eroan’s world is clearly shifting, and this chapter marks the start of that descent into chaos, even if he’s not ready to admit it yet.