The last of the mutated beasts collapsed behind him, its corrupted flesh hissing as it steamed in the cold air.
Akin stood at the border of Elarian, the once-dreaded cursed land behind him. His cloak flapped lightly in the wind, soaked in the scent of blood and ash. Lightning still crackled faintly along the edge of his blade, flickering like veins of living electricity. But now, the storm within him calmed.
Silence returned.
Only the crows in the sky dared make a sound—circling, cawing, watching the warrior who had done what no ordinary soul could.
Akin raised his blade, gave it a quick, practiced flick. Blackened blood sprayed from its edge and vanished into the wind. Then, with a single motion of his hand, he summoned a glowing sigil midair—an arcane vault portal—and sheathed his sword into the pocket dimension, where his gear rested beyond space and time.
No words.
Just motion.
His eyes closed.
He activated his Nexis Sight, a spiritual radar of the world's energies. The ancient power surged through him, connecting his soul to the vibrations of life and motion. He reached out, past the decay and the rot, past the cursed energies of Elarian—until…
There. A pulse. Several pulses. Voices. Heartbeats.
A village.
He dashed forward.
With each step away from the cursed land, the heavy, ancient energy behind him faded—but something else stirred ahead. Life. Voices. People.
After hours of travel—his feet barely touching the earth—he spotted it: a human settlement.
Modest buildings with stone bases and wooden walls, guarded by a perimeter of watchtowers and faint magical wards. Nestled between Elarian and beastkin territory, this village had grown used to chaos. Attacks from monsters were frequent, but the village endured—thanks to a resilient guard of monster slayers and mages who protected the people with unmatched vigilance.
The scent of roasted meat drifted into the wind.
Akin's stomach growled. It had been a long day.
As he crossed into the village, curious stares met him from every direction. His skin, though not foreign to these lands, shimmered under the sun. He wasn't glowing, but he was… striking. His features were sharp, almost unreal—honed by pain, power, and purpose. The transformation from the cursed land had sculpted him into something regal… something dangerous.
Whispers fluttered among the villagers like leaves in the wind.
He approached a standby vendor and asked for directions to the nearest inn. The man pointed him toward a large building at the heart of the village—a tavern that doubled as a resting place for mercenaries, monster slayers, and wanderers.
He was hungry. That was all that mattered.
He made his way to the inn, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Warmth. Fire. The thick scent of sweat, ale, and roasting meat. Laughter and bravado echoed like music in the background.
Until he entered.
Dozens of warriors halted mid-sentence. Tankards froze mid-air. All eyes locked onto the cloaked stranger.
He scanned the tavern with quiet indifference and walked slowly toward an empty table at the center. Chairs scraped against wood. Conversations died out. He sat down and rested an arm on the table.
"Can someone attend to me, please?" he said—not loud enough to shout, but with a weight that demanded obedience.
The murmurs returned instantly.
"Who is he?"
"Looks like a noble."
"Definitely not from here."
"Soft-looking. Might not last the night."
Laughter. Mockery.
A few drunken slayers snickered, leaning closer to each other as they whispered threats and wagers.
Akin heard them all. Every syllable. Every mocking breath.
He exhaled… and felt disgusted.
His eyes began to glow—a deep, ominous blue that shimmered like lightning trapped in a storm cloud.
Then, his gaze swept across the tavern.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't pride.
It was a warning.
"Ahh… I think I need to put you all in your place," he said calmly, his voice like silk stretched over steel.
Then—he released it.
Boom.
His intimidating aura erupted like a pressure wave, invisible yet crushing. The very walls of the inn groaned. Cups and plates flew from tables. The fireplace flared wildly.
Several mercenaries collapsed instantly, eyes rolled back, foam on their lips. Others clutched their heads, falling to their knees as if something had driven spikes into their skulls. Even the strongest among them struggled to breathe.
The pressure thickened like molten iron—suffocating, immense.
It wasn't magic.
It was domination.
Every living soul in that tavern felt it. An ancient fear. A primal instinct. Their minds screamed that they stood before a predator far beyond their understanding.
Then came the voice in his mind:
"Calm down, Akin. Your murderous intent is too strong."
It was the deity again. The guardian of Elarian.
Akin blinked.
He inhaled.
And the pressure vanished like mist.
Silence.
The air returned. Men gasped. Women trembled. Sweat drenched the floor. Several still knelt, their bodies shaking uncontrollably.
He rose from his seat and walked to the counter.
The innkeeper—a seasoned woman hardened by war and years of handling violent drunks—was frozen in place, pale as snow.
"I need a room," Akin said plainly, "and food. Something warm."
Her mouth moved, but no sound came.
He waited.
She swallowed hard. "O-one silver a night… t-two copper for food…"
Akin pulled a leather pouch from beneath his cloak and dropped a gold coin onto the counter.
Clink.
"Keep the change," he said. "And be quick."
He turned and walked back to his table as if nothing had happened. Chairs were slowly dragged away from him. No one dared sit nearby.
A new rumor was born that night—of a man with glowing blue eyes and a deathly aura who crushed warriors with a look.
Some said he was cursed.
Others whispered he was a god.
And far away…
Meanwhile…
Annabel and Jendol walked the dirt path back toward the capital, their armor scratched, clothes torn, and bodies aching.
The mission had been a success—a farming village was saved—but barely. The beasts had been vicious, stronger than expected. Even with their skills, it had taken everything they had.
Annabel winced, holding her side. The claw mark was shallow, but it burned like fire.
Jendol remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
Neither spoke.
But the silence between them was heavy with absence.
Akin.
They had been told he was gone. That he had perished the moment he fell into the cursed land.
They'd accepted it. Or tried to.
The capital was just days away now. And still… the past lingered.
Annabel's grip tightened on her staff.
"I hope he didn't suffer," she whispered.
Jendol said nothing.
End of Chapter 13
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