"Oh yeah," another said slowly, his voice cautious, his eyes wide as he scanned the treeline. "Where is he?"
The Graduate Novens spread out, their Axiom Rigs humming softly as they adjusted their stance—the mechanical arms extending and retracting, the cables gleaming with residual mana. Their hands moved to their weapons, fingers resting on triggers, ready for anything. The snow crunched beneath their boots as they turned in slow circles, scanning the clearing, the trees, the shadows, their breath forming clouds in the cold air.
That was when the snowball hit.
It came from behind a thick pine, a small white projectile packed with child-sized hands, aimed with a four-year-old's desperate precision. It struck the woman who had been holding Sophia directly in the face, exploding into powder and ice crystals that clung to her goggles and hair. She stumbled backward, her arms flailing, and fell hard onto the snow, her grip on Sophia's body lost.
"Ouch!" she shouted, her voice muffled by the snow that clung to her goggles and cheeks. She pushed herself up, sputtering, and glared in the direction the snowball had come from. "Who did that?"
She saw him.
A small figure, barely visible behind the trunk of an ancient pine. Black hair. Red eyes. Tiny hands raised to throw another snowball. His face was pale, his lips pressed together in determination, and his whole body trembled—not from cold, but from fear.
"There he is," she said, pointing. "Behind the tree!"
The others raised their weapons, Axiom Rigs hissing as they aimed at the child. They were not going to kill him—the orders were to capture, to retrieve, to bring back alive. But a tranquilizer dart would knock him out, make him easy to carry, quiet his screams. The darts glowed faintly in the gray light, their tips glistening with sedative.
Yuuta threw another snowball.
It was a pathetic throw—the arm of a four-year-old, weak and uncoordinated, lacking any real force. The snowball flew through the air, arced too high, and landed harmlessly in the snow a few feet in front of the Novens. They barely flinched. One of them even chuckled.
But they did not see the one who had circled around behind him.
A man emerged from the shadows, his Axiom Rig silent, his footsteps muffled by the snow. He moved with the practiced grace of a hunter, his body low, his breathing controlled. His face was hidden behind a mask, but his eyes were cold and focused.
He reached Yuuta before the child could turn.
His boot connected with the small of the child's back—not a kick meant to kill, but one meant to hurt, to incapacitate, to remind the little subject who was in charge.
Yuuta flew.
His small body sailed through the air, arms and legs flailing, and crashed into the snow a few yards away. He landed hard, the breath knocked out of him, and for a moment he did not move. His face was pressed into the white powder, and his small hands were splayed out at his sides, and his whole body was still.
The sound of his impact woke Sophia.
Her eyes snapped open—green, wild, unfocused. The tranquilizer dart in her back should have kept her unconscious for hours; it was designed to bring down massive beasts, monsters that could crush buildings with a single blow, creatures that had terrorized villages for generations. But she was an elf, and her body was not like other bodies. Her blood burned with ancient magic, and her will was stronger than any sedative, stronger than any drug, stronger than any force the scientists had concocted.
She growled.
"Waa... Waaa..." she moaned, her voice weak, her body trembling. She tried to move, but her limbs would not respond. The drugs were still in her system, numbing her muscles, dulling her senses, making every movement a battle. But her eyes—her green eyes—were fixed on Yuuta.
The child was on the ground, not moving.
She growled again, louder this time, and dragged herself a few inches across the snow.
Yuuta lay in the snow, his body aching, his head spinning, his back throbbing from where the boot had connected. The kick had been brutal—stronger than anything he had ever felt, stronger than the doctors' fists, stronger than the guards' boots, stronger than any pain he had known in the lab.
But he was Yuuta. He was brave.
He pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet, swaying unsteadily like a sapling in a storm. His red eyes were wet with tears, but he did not cry. He would not cry. He raised his small fists and glared at the hunters, his body trembling with cold and fear and rage.
One of them grabbed him.
A hand closed around the back of his neck, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. The man grunted, surprised by the weight.
"Fuck," he said, shifting his grip. "What is wrong with these subjects? They are heavier than they should be. It's like lifting iron."
The woman who had been hit by the snowball wiped her goggles and stared at the struggling child, her eyes narrowing behind the lenses.
"Wait," she said. "He is human. A human child."
The others paused. They looked at him—at his black hair, his red eyes, his small, fragile body that should have been crushed by the mana density, should have been flattened by the gravity, should have been dead the moment he left Eden.
"You are right," another said, his voice low, thoughtful. "He is human. How can he survive outside Eden? The crushing gravity, the mana density—it should kill a human in minutes. Especially a child. Especially one so young."
They looked at each other, their eyes wide behind their goggles, their minds racing.
"Scanner," one of them said. "Now."
They raised the scanning device, and the pale blue light passed over Yuuta's struggling form. He kicked and squirmed, but the man holding him had a grip like iron, and his little feet found no purchase.
"Leave Yuuta alone!" the child screamed, his voice raw, desperate, tearing through the cold air. "Yuuta will beat you! Leave Yuuta alone!"
The data appeared on the screen.
Subject Name: Zero Karma
Age: 4
Purpose: Dragon Killing Weapon
Disposal: 1 week ago
Reason: Failed to awaken
Blood used to revive: Blood Supplier
Disposal Site: Death Well
"Oh," one of the Novens said slowly, his voice heavy with understanding. "Zero Karma."
"My name is Yuuta Konuari!" the child screamed, his voice breaking. "Yuuta Konuari!"
The man holding him grunted. "No wonder he can walk around in the dragon continent without feeling the gravitational pressure. He was born to adapt. Engineered to survive. His body was designed for this."
They spoke into their communicators, their voices calm, professional, as if they were discussing a shipment of supplies rather than a child.
"We have captured all test subjects. Ready for extraction."
Yuuta heard the words, and something inside him broke.
"No!" he screamed, thrashing in the man's grip, his small body writhing like a fish on a hook. "Yuuta will not go back! Yuuta will not go back!"
The woman who had been hit by the snowball stepped forward. Her face was red with frustration, her jaw tight, her hand clenched into a fist.
"Shut up," she said.
She slapped him.
The sound was loud, sharp, echoing through the clearing like a gunshot. It was the sound of flesh striking flesh, of adult violence meeting childish defiance. Yuuta's head snapped to the side, and his cheek burned with pain, and his ears rang, and his vision blurred.
He tried to be brave. He tried not to cry. He tried to remember that his name was Yuuta and that meant he was brave.
But it hurt. It hurt so much.
"Sophia," he whimpered, his voice small and broken, barely audible above the wind. "Sophia, it hurts. Sophia, please."
Sophia heard him.
She had been crawling across the snow, dragging her paralyzed body inch by inch, her fingers digging into the white powder, her nails breaking, her hands bleeding. Her arms shook with exhaustion, and her breath came in ragged gasps, and her vision blurred with tears.
But she heard his cry, and something inside her roared.
"Wahhhhhh!" she screamed, thrashing against the snow, trying to reach him. "Wahhh... rahhh...!"
Her voice was raw, animalistic, filled with a mother's fury and a sister's love. It echoed through the forest, shaking snow from the branches, rattling the leaves, making the very air tremble.
The woman who had slapped Yuuta shook her hand, wincing.
"Damn it," she said. "What is his skin made of? It felt like hitting stone."
Yuuta was crying now, his sobs loud and helpless, his tears freezing on his cheeks. He could not stop. He had tried to be brave, but the pain was too much, and the fear was too much, and he was only four years old.
One of the men punched him in the head.
"Quiet," he said.
The blow was not hard enough to knock him unconscious—they needed him alive, after all—but it was hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make his head ring, hard enough to make his tears flow faster.
Yuuta did not stop crying.
Sophia saw them hitting him. She saw his tears. She saw his blood. She saw the red stain spreading across his cheek, the bruise forming on his temple, the light fading from his eyes.
And she screamed.
"Wahahhhhahah... whahahmmm..."
Her voice rose, higher and higher, until it seemed to pierce the very sky. It was not a scream of pain or fear. It was a scream of rage, of grief, of a love so fierce that it could not be contained by a broken mind or a paralyzed body.
And then she collapsed.
Her body fell into the snow, and she lay still. Her eyes were closed, and her breath was shallow, and her blood seeped into the white powder, spreading outward like dark wings. Her hands were still outstretched toward Yuuta, her fingers still reaching, as if even in unconsciousness she was trying to save him.
The forest fell silent.
The Novens looked at each other, their hearts pounding in their chests. For a moment, they thought she had awakened—that something inside her had finally snapped, that she had become the monster the doctors had always feared, that she would rise from the snow and tear them apart with her bare hands, LIttle bit they knew that Sophia was not subject.
But she was still. She was quiet. She was defeated.
They exhaled.
Then they heard the beating of wings.
It started as a distant sound, like the rushing of wind through the mountains, like the echo of thunder from a storm far away. Then it grew louder, closer, until it seemed to come from everywhere at once, filling the air with a sound like drums, like war cries, like the heartbeat of the world itself.
The Novens looked up.
Their breath caught in their throats.
They saw them.
Creatures descended from the clouds, their massive bodies blocking out what little light remained. They were monstrous—each one the size of a small house, with the body of a lion, thick and muscular, covered in fur the color of burnished gold. Their eyes glowed with ancient intelligence, and their jaws were filled with teeth that could tear through steel. But it was their wings that drew the eye—massive, white, feathered wings that stretched wide, each one large enough to blot out the sun.
Wingroars.
The legendary mounts of the Sylvan Elves, creatures that were said to be the offspring of griffins and something older, something wilder. Even fighting a single Wingroar was considered a death sentence by most warriors. They were faster than wyverns, stronger than dragons, more loyal than any beast in Nova. They were the elite of the elven cavalry, the terror of the skies, the reason no enemy had breached the Sylvaris border in a thousand years.
And there were hundreds of them.
No—thousands.
They filled the sky, their wings beating in unison, their roars echoing through the forest. On their backs rode elves in silver armor, their faces hidden behind ornate masks, their weapons gleaming with enchanted light. They descended like a storm, like judgment, like the end of the world.
The Novens were surrounded.
The woman who had slapped Yuuta looked up, her face pale, her mouth open. The man who had been holding him loosened his grip, his hands shaking. The others dropped their weapons, their Axiom Rigs falling silent.
"What—" one of them began.
A Wingroar landed in front of them, its massive body crushing the snow, its wings folding against its sides. The elf on its back dismounted in a single, fluid motion, her silver armor gleaming, her mask hiding her face.
She walked toward the Novens, her boots crunching in the snow.
She drew her sword. The blade was silver, ancient, etched with runes that glowed faintly in the gray light, pulsing with a warmth that seemed out of place in the frozen forest. The Noven Graduates stared at it, their faces pale, their eyes wide behind their goggles.
They had faced monsters and beasts, had hunted creatures that would drive ordinary men mad, had survived the destruction of their laboratory and the nightmare creatures that had torn through it. But they had never faced an elven blade in the hands of an elven warrior.
They had never felt the weight of that ancient steel pressing against their souls.
They raised their weapons—six of them, forming a circle, their backs pressed together. Their Axiom Rigs hummed, and their hands trembled, and their breath came in short, sharp gasps. Snow clung to their boots, and the cold bit at their exposed skin, but they did not feel it.
They felt only fear. It was a cold fear, deeper than the winter, older than the forest, the kind of fear that came from standing before something that had been killing since before their ancestors learned to walk.
Seeing this opportunity, Yuuta ran.
His small legs carried him across the snow, his bare feet sinking into the white powder, his arms pumping at his sides.
He ran toward Sophia, who was lying on the ground, her body broken, her mind shattered, her eyes still reaching for him. He did not look at the elves.
He did not look at the Novens. He did not look at anything except his sister. The snow was deep, and his legs were short, and his body was weak, but he did not stop. He could not stop.
He reached her and threw himself against her chest, wrapping his small arms around her neck, burying his face in her tangled hair. She was cold—colder than the snow, colder than the wind, colder than anything he had ever touched—but he held on.
"Sophia," he whispered. "Sophia, Yuuta is scared. Yuuta is not going anywhere...Yuuta is Scared."
The woman in silver armor watched him. Her mask hid her face, but her eyes were visible—cold, calculating, curious. She tilted her head, studying the small creature clinging to the princess.
"A human," she said, her voice dripping with disgust. "What is a human doing here?"
The Noven Graduates exchanged glances. Their hands were still on their weapons, but they did not fire. They knew better. They could feel the power radiating from the elves, could feel the weight of their gazes, could feel the death that awaited them if they made one wrong move.
"Fuck," one of them muttered, his voice barely audible. "We are doomed. We need to send word to the doctor."
He raised his hand to his ear, reaching for the communicator hidden beneath his hood. His fingers were trembling, and his heart was pounding, and he knew that this was their only chance. The device was small, barely larger than a coin, but it could reach the laboratory, could call for reinforcements, could summon help that would never arrive in time.
Before he could touch it, a golden light shot through the air.
It was fast—faster than sound, faster than thought, faster than anything he had ever seen. It was not an arrow, not a bolt, not anything he could name. It was light given form, magic given purpose, death given wings. It struck his hand, severing his fingers, destroying his ear, burning through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter.
The shock was so immense that for a moment he felt nothing—only the warmth of his own blood spraying across his face, only the strange sensation of watching his own fingers fall into the snow.
Then the pain hit.
Blood poured from the wound, a fountain of crimson that splashed across the face of the woman beside him. She screamed, stumbling back, her hands flying to her eyes, trying to wipe away the red. The blood was warm, almost hot, and it steamed in the cold air, and it mixed with her tears, and it blinded her.
The elf warrior who had fired stood on a branch high above them, his bow still raised, his eyes cold. His golden hair stirred in the wind, and his silver armor gleamed, and his face was hidden behind a mask that showed nothing.
"Who gave you permission to fire?" the Underwarden said, her voice cold, commanding. She did not look up at the archer. She did not need to.
The young elf on the branch shifted, his bow lowering. His face was young—barely more than a boy—but his eyes were old, older than the trees, older than the mountains, older than the snow that covered the ground.
"But Underwarden," he said, his voice uncertain, "I saw that human was touching his ear. He was doing something funny. I thought he was trying to call for reinforcements."
The Underwarden sighed, long and heavy. Her breath formed a cloud in the cold air, and the cloud lingered, and the cloud seemed to carry her exhaustion.
"We do not have time for this," she said. "We are here to find the princess. Nothing else matters."
The young elf's eyes scanned the clearing. They passed over the Novens, over the snow, over the trees. Then they stopped.
"Underwarden," he said, pointing. "There is an elf lying in the snow. Right next to them."
The Underwarden turned.
She saw Sophia—a crumpled figure in rags, her Pink hair spread around her like a frozen halo, her body trembling, her lips moving soundlessly. She was growling, a low, animal sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest, somewhere that had forgotten language, forgotten words, forgotten how to be anything other than a creature of pain and rage.
"What a pity," the Underwarden said softly. "An elf, lost to madness."
She walked toward Sophia. As she passed the Noven Graduates, they fell to their knees, their bodies bowing as if pushed by an invisible force. The weight of her presence was crushing, suffocating, absolute. They could not breathe. They could not think. They could only kneel. Their weapons slipped from their fingers and fell into the snow, and they did not pick them up.
The Underwarden reached Sophia. She looked down at the broken figure, at the wild eyes, at the bloody hands, at the child clinging to her chest.
Then she saw Sophia's face.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her hand flew to her sword, but not to strike—to steady herself. Her knees buckled, and she swayed, and for a moment she looked like she might fall.
"Princess," she whispered.
She fell to her knees, throwing aside her weapon, reaching for the broken woman in the snow.
"Princess Sophia!"
The young elf on the branch heard her. He turned to the sky and screamed, his voice carrying across the clearing, across the forest, across the mountains. It was a voice that had been trained to carry, a voice that had been used to announce the arrival of kings and the fall of enemies.
"Princess Sophia has been found!" he shouted. "Princess Sophia has been found!"
The army descended.
Thousands of elves landed in the snow, their silver armor gleaming, their weapons raised, their Wingroars roaring. The ground shook with the force of their landing, and the air filled with the beating of wings, and the sky darkened with their numbers. The snow exploded upward, thrown into the air by the downdraft, and for a moment the clearing was lost in a white cloud.
They were tall—every one of them over six feet—and their presence was overwhelming, suffocating, absolute. Their armor was etched with runes that glowed with their own light, and their weapons were ancient, and their eyes were cold.
The Underwarden grabbed Yuuta. Her hand closed around the back of his neck, and she threw him like a sack of grain. He flew through the air, hit the snow, and rolled. He lay there, stunned, gasping for breath, his small body trembling.
Sophia saw him fall. She screamed.
"Khhh... ann.... waaa..."
Her voice was raw, animalistic, filled with rage and grief. It was not the scream of an elf. It was the scream of a mother who had seen her child hurt, the scream of a wolf who had seen her cub threatened, the scream of something that had forgotten how to be anything other than fury.
The Underwarden's face twisted with horror.
"Healing magic!" she shouted. "Healing magic division, quickly!"
One of the elves rushed forward, her hands glowing with golden light. She knelt beside Sophia and began to cast, her magic flowing into the broken body, mending wounds, closing cuts, soothing pain. The light spread across Sophia's body, and the bleeding slowed, and the swelling faded, and the color returned to her cheeks.
The army watched. Their auras leaked from their bodies—cold, terrible, absolute. The Wingroars growled, their feathers ruffling, their claws digging into the snow. The Noven Graduates huddled together, their weapons useless, their courage gone.
They were like captured rebels caught by an imperial army. They knew they were dead. One of them wet himself. The warmth spread down his leg, freezing in the cold air, and he did not even notice. His eyes were fixed on the elves, on the Wingroars, on the death that surrounded them.
The young elf on the branch looked down at them, his lip curling in disgust.
"Disgusting humans, They pissed themsleve" he said.
Then the sky darkened further.
A shadow fell over the clearing—not the shadow of a cloud, but the shadow of something vast, something ancient, something that made the very air tremble. The Wingroars lowered their heads, their growls fading into whimpers. The elves fell to their knees, their silver armor clinking.
He descended from the heavens.
His mount was white—pure white, its feathers gleaming like fresh snow, its eyes burning with golden light. It was larger than the other Wingroars, older, more terrible. Its wings beat once, twice, and then it landed, crushing the snow beneath its massive claws. The impact shook the ground, and the snow exploded outward, and the trees swayed.
He dismounted.
He was tall—over six feet—and his armor was heavy, etched with runes that glowed with their own light. His axe was massive, its blade as wide as a man's chest, its weight enough to crush stone. He carried it as if it weighed nothing. His face was hidden behind a mask, but his eyes were visible—old, cold, terrible.
He was Rovareth, Skywarden of Sylvaris. Commander of the Sylvan Elf army. The most powerful warrior in the kingdom.
His eyes scanned the clearing. They passed over the Noven Graduates, over the kneeling elves, over the snow and the trees and the blood.
Then they stopped.
He saw Sophia—the princess of the elves, lying in the snow in rags, her feet bleeding, her body broken, her mind shattered. He saw the child clinging to her, the human boy with black hair and red eyes. He saw the fear in the boy's face, the love in Sophia's eyes.
His grip on his axe tightened.
To be continued...