The hunters had whittled down to five, but they moved like a single organism—closing every gap, cutting off every escape. Vael's lungs burned. His muscles had gone numb long ago. Now he ran on something deeper than instinct—primal survival wiring that bypassed thought entirely.
Sight was useless. One eye against five attackers? Suicide.
So he stopped seeing.
Instead, he felt—
the ripple of air displaced by a lunging body, the minute tremors of boots on packed earth
Like the cockroach's antennae reading vibrations, his core mapped the battlefield through ambient mana fluctuations. The examiners had sealed his pathways, not the core itself—a critical oversight. He couldn't use mana, but he could still sense it.
Which made Alina's presence in the cave even more disturbing.
She'd stood right in front of him. Breathed the same air. And yet—
No mana ripple. No displacement. Nothing.
As if winter itself had learned to walk without disturbing the world.
A sword grazed Vael's back—it would have cut deep if not for the coat clinging to him like a second skin. No time for mysteries.
Only survival.
20:00 on the clock.
Vael's back hit stone. Five weapons glinted in the sunlight, their wielders breathing harder from anticipation than exertion.
The archer—brown hair, annoyingly symmetrical features—nocked an arrow. "Bernard. Who gets the kill?"
Bernard stepped forward, twin axes dangling like pendulums. Compact. Mid–second-stage. Strong. The kind of fighter who'd rather poison your drink than meet you blade-to-blade.
"Just wound him," Bernard said, though his grip on the axes tightened. "But gods, I want to split his skull."
No anger. Just fact.
Then—
"Pathetic."
The word rolled through the clearing like thunder.
Vael didn't turn. Didn't need to. That voice—deep, effortless, the vocal equivalent of a shrug—could only belong to one man.
Arconis Von Dratona stepped into the sunlight, scythe balanced on his shoulder. "My runner-up, bested by buffoons?"
The hunters froze.
Vael grinned.
"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour," Bernard drawled, cocky.
"You guys think we'll get double rewards if we take him too?" asked a swordsman in simple clothing, voice lazy.
Collective laughter echoed through the group. After two days of constant vigilance, it seemed Goddess Natela was smiling upon them.
Even if the rewards weren't doubled, their status as the team who felled two titans would skyrocket.
The hunters tightened their circle, weapons raised—but Bernard lifted a fist.
Arconis was manaless. Exhausted. Yet his point counter hadn't stopped climbing even after the lockdown.
That scythe.
"Special weapon?" Bernard called out, though he already knew the answer. "Has to be, for you to stroll in here like this."
Arconis tilted his head. Light glinted off the blade's cruel curve.
"Divine Relic Yirda." His fingers trailed along the haft like a lover's touch. "Beautiful, isn't she?"
Another step forward. The hunters shuffled back in unison.
"Out of mana now, sadly." A shark's smile. "You'll live… another minute, maybe."
Bernard's throat went dry.
A Divine Relic.
Blank stares met Bernard's horrified expression. His team—commoners all—had no idea why their leader's knuckles had gone white around his axes.
But Bernard knew.
Divine Relic.
The words tasted like heresy. Every noble child memorized the stories during history lessons:
A warrior-king's rusted dagger that never dulled. A saint's withered apple that healed any wound. A mad prophet's journal that wrote future truths in blood.
Objects touched by higher beings. Holy… or worse.
The Transcontinental Committee of Holy Protection kept meticulous records of every known Relic—most locked in sanctified vaults, a few loaned to kingslayer knights. None should ever be in the hands of an exam candidate.
Yet the proof stood before them, its curved, onyx blade drinking in light.
Bernard's mind raced. How? Relics didn't choose bearers lightly. To wield one, there had to be a bargain—a price worth the power.
"Well then, ladies," Arconis crooned, spinning the scythe in one hand like it weighed nothing, "let's not waste daylight."
The taunt hit its mark. After forty-six hours of nonstop combat, their nerves were frayed to breaking.
The archer snapped first.
Her arrow screamed through the air, a perfect kill shot aimed between Arconis' eyes.
He leaned aside casually, letting it thunk into a tree.
Bernard was already moving. Twin axes whirled as he closed the distance, edges singing through the humid night air.
First, a horizontal slash meant to gut him. Arconis pivoted, letting the blade whisper past his stomach.
Then, an overhead chop to split his collarbone. The scythe's haft intercepted with a metallic clang.
Bernard barely registered the counterattack—
—until the scythe's blunt end slammed into his ribs.
Air burst from his lungs as he skidded back, tasting copper.
Arconis hadn't even bothered with the blade.
Bernard had coated his body in mana; he wasn't reckless enough to underestimate this monster.
But this went beyond expectation.
It was as if Arconis knew his moves before he made them. Dodging. Countering. Flowing through the fight as if he'd already seen it play out.
Manaless. Yet unstoppable.
**"Attack him, you fools!"** Bernard roared, spitting blood.
The team snapped into formation—archer drawing back her bow, twin swordsmen flanking left and right, buffer channeling a shimmering haste aura. Bernard lunged low, axes aimed to cripple.
A perfect trap.
Bernard feinted high—
—then dropped, blades screaming toward Arconis' knees.
The twins closed from both sides, steel walls closing in.
Arconis didn't flinch.
**THUNK.**
Yirda slammed into the earth, the ground cracking under its sudden weight. Early Dawn's amber glow bathed the clearing as the scythe became an immovable pillar.
Bernard's axes **SHRIEKED** against it, recoiling so hard his wrists snapped.
The twins struck—
—and Arconis smiled. **"Apologies. It seems my beauty regenerated some mana while we chatted."**
Arconis' scythe whistled through empty air—a seemingly wild, wasted swing that left him wide open.
The first twin saw his chance. He lunged, blade aimed for Arconis' ribs—
—only for Arconis to drop into a crouch, his boot hooking the attacker's ankle.
A sharp tug. The twin stumbled forward, balance gone—
—directly into the path of Yirda's returning arc.
**SCHLICK.**
The blade passed through his neck without resistance. No crunch. No tear. Just a clean, horrifying separation.
The head hit the grass before the body did.
Hot knife through butter.
It was the only way for him to match their speed: predictions.
Arconis didn't even glance back. His eyes were already on the next twin.