One year later, in the training realm.
The breeze moved across the field, carrying the scent of grass.
The morning sun shined over the river behind the house, its surface glittering with light.
In the kitchen, Sihara was making a Golden Melt Bread. His movements were sharp, almost like training. The dough spun in his hands, stretched, folded, then pressed down with perfect rhythm. The air cracked with the sound of palms hitting the surface.
He slipped hot cheese inside, then brushed it with sweetened condensed milk. A quick twist of his wrist sealed the bread shut, not a single drop leaking out. The oven's fire glowed, and with one motion he slid the tray inside.
The smell of milk and rising dough spread through the house.
Galia stepped in, following the scent. She sat at the dinner table and tilted her head with a smile.
"The smell is good…" she said softly.
"What is it this time?" her voice curious and light.
Sihara didn't answer right away. He watched the bread rise, golden skin forming like armor, heavy with heat. When he pulled it out, steam burst from the crust with a hiss, the melted cheese locked firmly within.
He placed it on the table in front of her.
"Golden Melt Bread," he said simply, setting down two cups filled with sweet orange juice beside it.
"Ahh~" Galia clapped her hands.
"Itadakimasu~"
She bit in.
"Ham~… hmm~ Delicious~ Ham~ ham~"
Her cheeks lit up with a happy smile as she kept eating, one bite after another, until she grabbed two breads at once and munched both together.
Sihara leaned back slightly, watching her with quiet eyes.
It's been a year since I came here. A lot of things happened in this realm… but I never had a relaxing day like this in my past life. Back then, I was just a kid forced to do things for other people's private benefit.
He walked toward the window, the light cutting against his sharp face.
And now… I'm in a realm where I can finally breathe. But—
His gaze shifted back to Galia, still drinking juice and chewing with full cheeks. His brows knitted tightly as his thoughts deepened.
My purpose here is training. I've learned more about this place than I expected. In one year, I've slain monsters—slime, goblins, hobgoblins, orcs, ogres, wild beasts, and many more. I even sought out stronger enemies like the undead… but further out, instead of danger, I found something strange.
His voice dropped low.
"An abandoned village… built near the cliff."
The memory played sharp in his mind: stone walls cracked with age, empty houses leaning under the weight of time. He remembered turning his head—behind it, nothing but a sheer drop. The sea below roared with waves, and the cold breeze carried salt against his skin.
I went back home and told Galia about the village I saw to the north, straight ahead from our house. But when I asked her about it, she only shook her head. She didn't know. Or maybe… she really couldn't know.
The thought wouldn't leave me. So I crossed the river behind our house, heading south. That's when I found it—
a wall.
It circled something vast, its stones tall and ancient, glowing faintly as mist clung to the surface. I stopped before the massive gate. For a moment, I thought about climbing it… even leaping over. But the hum of magic struck me like a warning—an unseen barrier, untouchable. Every attempt would be useless.
With a quiet breath, I walked along the edge. On the right, the wall rose higher, climbing a slope swallowed in gray fog. Nothing beyond it, only shadows hidden in the haze. I turned the other way. Another wall, just as steep, just as endless, stretching upward until it vanished in the clouds.
No matter which way I looked, the answer was the same—impenetrable, silent, and full of secrets.
And it left me with one question that burned in my chest:
What is this place, really? Is it really only for training… or something else hiding?
I clenched my fist, gathering my thoughts. North held ruins, and south was sealed away. Then maybe… the west, where the army of undead had once come from, would give me answers.
That was where I would go next.
After breakfast, I sat on the terrace and pulled up my status.
📊 Status – Shinya Sihara (After Chapter 3 – Fixed Version)
Level: 100
Remaining Stat Points: 156 → 0
🧩 Attributes
Strength (STR): 890 → 1350
Agility (AGI): 950 → 1000
Intelligence (INT): 840 → 1040
Endurance (END): 1270
Vitality (VIT): 1010
Luck (LCK): 1250
🛡️ Resistances
Magic Resistance — Lv100
Physical Resistance — Lv138
🔹 Blessing Skills (Buffs)
Knight Bless — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Decoy — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Blessing of Valor — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Iron Resolve — Lv10 (MAX)Mageman Bless — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Arcane Affinity — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Spellweaver's Focus — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Element Boost — Lv10 (MAX)Assassin Bless — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Umbral Reflex — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Shadow Infusion — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Silent Step — Lv10 (MAX)Monk Bless — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Chi Stream — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Iron Feet — Lv10 (MAX)
▸ Serene Fist — Lv10 (MAX)
Remaining Blessing Points: 0
🔹 Battle Skills (Mastery System)
Martial Arts (Rank 15 Mastery) — Lv100 (Master)
▸ Points Remaining: 150
Polearm (Rank 15 Mastery) — Lv100 (Master)
▸ Points Remaining: 150
Blade (Rank 15 Mastery) — Lv100 (Master)
▸ Points Remaining: 150
Bow (Rank 15 Mastery) — Lv100 (Master)
▸ Points Remaining: 150
Dagger (Rank 15 Mastery) — Lv100 (Master)
▸ Points Remaining: 150
Magic (Rank 15 Mastery) — Lv100 (Master)
▸ Branch Chosen: Flame Magic — Lv6
▸ Sub-branch: Combustion — Lv5
▸ Points Remaining: 289
🔹 Monster Skills
Javelin Missile — Lv37 (Mastery)
Hrafnfang — Lv11 (Mastery)
🔹 Survival Skills
Hunting — Lv10 (Mastery)
▸ Points Remaining: 5
Cooking — Lv20
▸ Points Remaining: 10
Crafting — Lv10
Remaining Survival Points: 5
I stared at the screen. Weapon Mastery… still at Rank 15. Even though it was already maxed out.
"Hmm… why can't I raise it to Rank 14?" I muttered, holding my chin. "Heh… maybe a rank-up requirement?"
I focused and tapped on the word [Requirement]. The text unfolded in front of me—
Quest Unlocked: Defeat Agnar, the Broken One
Reward: Weapon Mastery Rank 14
"…Kill Agnar, the Lost One? Prize… Weapon Mastery RANK UP to 14?!" I blurted out, louder than I meant to.
"Yup. You must finish this mission."
Her voice came from right beside me.
I jolted. "Woahh—!" My eyes darted to the side. Galia was there, standing so close I hadn't even noticed when she arrived. Her expression was calm—too calm—as if she had been waiting for me to say those exact words.
I swallowed hard and forced a crooked smile. "Galia… hey, but… who the hell is Agnar?"
Galia rested her paw under her chin, her eyes distant as if pulling the story from some ancient memory.
"Agnar… the Firstborne," she began softly.
Sihara leaned closer, his brow furrowed.
"He was the eldest son of King Aldrich. A genius of the sword, a master of tactics, and a commander who never lost on the battlefield. But…" her tone sharpened, "…he was a man who loved bloodshed and women more than life itself. He craved the chaos of war, and when he wasn't fighting, he drowned himself in pleasure."
Sihara frowned, but she continued.
"People adored him, Sihara. He gave them victory. He showered them with riches, with feasts, with endless parties. They praised him as a hero. But that love was poison. Even children grew corrupted by the life he encouraged."
Her gaze darkened. "King Aldrich saw it. His son was not a savior, but a tyrant in the making—one who would burn the world if left unchecked. So the king chose Agnar's younger brother as his successor instead."
Sihara's grip on his knee tightened. "…And Agnar didn't take it well."
Galia nodded. "He rallied the people. With his silver tongue and their blind devotion, he raised a rebellion. They turned against the rightful heir, cast out the brother, banished him to another world." She paused, her claws curling faintly against her chin. "And when Aldrich stood before his people to stop him… his own son drove a blade through his heart."
Sihara's breath caught. "He killed his father…?"
"Yes." Her voice was flat now, almost chilling. "And the crowd cheered for him. They celebrated their new king, their champion, their warlord. But King Aldrich, with his dying breath, cursed Agnar. Cursed his bloodline, his kingdom, and every soul who followed him. He swore that only one of his true descendants could end the evil Agnar had unleashed."
She fell silent.
"I can't even find words for that… so what happened after, Galia?" Sihara asked quietly, unable to stop himself.
Her eyes lowered, her voice softer, as though she were mourning something long gone.
"One month after King Aldrich's death, Agnar threw the grandest feast the kingdom had ever seen. The revelry stretched for days, drowning the land in wine and song. But…" she paused, her ears flattening, "…he never knew of the sacred duty his father and younger brother had upheld."
Sihara's eyes narrowed. "Sacred duty?"
"The tomb of the Lich King," Galia said, shaking her head—not with anger, but with a soft, pitying sadness. "Every month, the king and his brother prayed there, sealing its curse. But with them gone… the seal weakened."
Sihara's hand instinctively clenched tighter against his arm.
"And then," she whispered, "the tomb broke."
A chill seemed to sweep the air around them.
"The Lich King rose, and with him came legions of the dead—souls twisted by vengeance against the kingdom. And on the very night of Agnar's great feast, while music and laughter filled the streets… the dead fell upon them."
Sihara's breath caught, his mind painting the scene even as she spoke.
"Men, women, children—they were slaughtered where they stood. Screams tore through the night, houses burned, the city became a pit of despair. And Agnar?" Galia's voice sharpened. "He ran. He fled to his castle, clutching treasures in his arms, even as his people cried out for salvation."
Her gaze hardened like steel. "But the undead were already inside. Ghosts filled the halls, corpses walked the corridors. In the throne room, he found the Lich King himself waiting on his father's seat."
Sihara swallowed. "…And then?"
"He fought," she said simply. "With all the skill and might he was praised for. But dark magic swallowed his blade, his body, his soul. Agnar fell that night, and with him, his kingdom burned to ash. The people's cheers turned to eternal screams."
The room fell into silence.
Only the faint sound of the wind brushing past the house remained—gentle, but heavy, as though even the air carried sorrow for the lost kingdom.
"Rumor says he became the Lich King's subordinate. And the worst part…" Galia's voice sank, "…he's still conscious of who he is. But the body—that's no longer his own, it's—"
"OOOIIIIIIIII, WHAT—YOU'RE RUNNING ALREADY?!"
She spun around just in time to see Sihara bolting straight toward the west.
"I'M STILL NEED TO CHECK THE WEST SIDE! TILL THEN—LET'S CONTINUE THE STORY!"
"What are you—huh?! WAIT—this idiot really left me just like that?! Ughhh, wait for me… wait!"
With a flash, Galia lifted off the ground, her small form floating as she chased after him.
After hours of walking through the thickening mist, the two finally came upon a massive structure.
It looked like a mansion at first glance, but its roof was crowned with crenellations, like a fortress. On its right, an ancient wall stretched northward, disappearing into the fog as if it had no end. Below that wall, a river flowed in silence, its dark waters carrying whispers with the current. To the left of the building, a waterfall thundered down the rocks, mist rising like a veil.
Sihara stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes.
"…What building is this?" His voice carried low against the roar of the falls. He glanced at the wall, frowning. "Hey, Galia… this wall—it looks just like the one I found on the southern side."
Galia hovered closer, her ears twitching as she studied the stone.
"Hmm… do you think there's a connection between them?"
Sihara tightened his grip on his spear, lips pressing into a thin line.
"There's only one way to know."
He looked up at the looming structure, its shadowed entrance yawning like a maw.
"Let's get in."
And together, the two stepped toward the building.
The heavy wooden doors groaned as Sihara pushed them open, the sound echoing like a warning through the mist. Inside, the air was colder—unnaturally so, as if the walls themselves had been drained of warmth.
Their footsteps echoed across the stone floor. The grand hall stretched long and dark, its ceiling lost in shadow. Tattered banners hung from the rafters, colors faded beyond recognition, their emblems half-eaten by time. Dust drifted lazily in the shafts of pale light that leaked through the cracked windows.
Sihara lifted his spear, every nerve on edge.
"…It's empty."
"Empty," Galia echoed softly, her tail flicking as she floated beside him. "But not abandoned. Look."
Her paw pointed toward the walls. Deep claw marks scarred the stone, and scorch marks blackened the floor as if battles had raged here long ago. A shattered chandelier lay twisted in the corner, half-buried under rubble.
Sihara exhaled, a thin mist escaping his lips in the frigid air.
"This place… it's not just a house. It's a fortress."
The silence pressed in again, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deeper inside.
"Do you hear that?" Galia whispered.
Sihara froze. The sound wasn't just dripping water. It was… heavier. A dragging noise. Metal scraping stone. Slow. Deliberate.
His grip on the spear tightened.
"…We're not alone."
With a snap of his fingers, Sihara summoned flame. Tiny sparks flared to life, racing along the walls, igniting the forgotten candles and shattered chandeliers overhead. In an instant, the grand hall blazed with trembling light—revealing what lurked in the shadows.
A hiss.
A groan.
Then a hundred more.
From every corner, from behind broken pillars and cracks in the walls, pale figures shambled forth. Hollow eyes gleamed in the firelight, and the stench of decay rushed in like a wave.
"Undead…" Galia muttered, her ears folding back.
They swarmed, claws scratching stone, jaws snapping with hunger.
Sihara gritted his teeth, twirling his spear until sparks trailed from its blazing tip.
"Then let's clear the nest."
He hurled the weapon.
"SWHOOSH—TSKH!"
The spear drilled through a corpse's skull, pinning it to the stone with a sickening crack. In the same breath, Sihara launched forward, boots cracking against the floor as he vaulted straight toward his weapon.
He caught the haft mid-air, body twisting.
"AAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!"
His form snapped into a horizontal spin. His leg shot out, a blazing kick that crushed through ribs and jaws alike, sending the undead scattering like dolls.
"Hup!"
He ripped the spear free in a spray of ash and rot, spinning with brutal momentum. The weapon became an extension of his body, slicing arcs of fire that carved a circle around him. Bones shattered. Skulls burst like rotten fruit. Each motion flowed into the next—spin, strike, sweep, thrust—an endless dance of death.
Finally, he slammed the spearhead into the stone floor with a thunderous BOOM. Cracks shot outward like lightning, fire searing along them as the undead staggered back under the shockwave.
And still, they came.
Dozens. No—hundreds. A tide of bones and rotting flesh, eyes blazing with unholy light.
Sihara dropped into a low stance, spear leveled, flames dancing across the steel. His chest rose and fell, breath ragged but his grin sharp, his shadow stretching long in the candlelight.
"Come and get it."
The horde roared, charging as one.
And Sihara moved.
The hall burned bright with firelight, shadows writhing across the cracked stone.
Then came the sound—
SKRRRHHHHH!!!
Dozens of undead shrieked and ran. Their bones clattered, their rotting flesh slapping against the ground as they sprinted toward Sihara like starving wolves.
"...Finally," he muttered, smirking.
The first corpse lunged for his throat.
Sihara slid back, dagger flashing free. One clean slash across the neck, another stab upward—
SSHHK! The body crumpled.
Two more closed in.
He ducked between them, their claws swiping at empty air.
Steel gleamed—his dagger punched into the gut of one, then in the same motion he twisted, bracing against its shoulder to flip himself over its back.
Crack! His heel smashed the other's skull mid-flip. Both dropped like sacks of rot.
"Next."
He sheathed the blade in a blur and pulled his bow.
Five runners charged together.
THWIP! The first arrow split a skull.
THWIP-THWIP! Two more fell, arrows buried deep in their faces.
The last two reached him.
He ducked, bow vanishing, dagger back in hand. One swung wide—he caught the wrist, parried low, then carved up its torso with three lightning strikes before kicking it into the wall.
The other tackled him full force.
Sihara slammed his bracer up, blocking its snapping jaws inches from his face.
"Ugly bastard…" He shoved his dagger under its chin, straight into the skull.
Its body sagged, collapsing in a wet heap.
And suddenly—
FWSSHHH!
An arrow whistled past, grazing his cheek as he tilted his head just in time. The shaft exploded against the wall behind him, spraying embers.
Sihara's eyes narrowed. "…Tch." He turned, annoyed.
At the far end of the hall, three undead warriors staggered forward—shields rusted, blades still sharp. Behind them, a line of archers hissed, their hollow sockets glowing faintly as they drew.
The air filled with the creak of old bows.
"...Heh." His smirk curved wider. "This just got interesting."
FWOOOOOSH!
A rain of arrows screamed through the air, their tips burning faintly with cursed flame.
Sihara sprinted straight into them. His body bent and twisted, dodging by inches, sparks scraping off his bracers as he deflected what he couldn't evade. Then—he kicked off the stone floor, launching himself skyward, sword flashing in his grip.
"Time to cut the air itself—"
His blade erupted with a luminous green aura, sharp winds swirling around the steel.
"ICARUS—BREAKER!!"
He swung in a wide arc. The slash didn't stop at steel—blades of compressed wind ripped outward, slicing through the line of undead archers.
KRSSHHHH!!
Rotten bodies split apart, crumbling before they even had time to scream.
But Sihara wasn't finished. Still in midair, he twisted his body toward the three charging undead knights below. His sword shifted again, glowing with violent red sparks.
"Let's make it flashy—" His voice dropped low.
"CRIMSON… DIVIDER!!!"
He plummeted down like a meteor, blade first. A shockwave of burning crimson energy burst outward on impact, tearing through the three knights in an explosion of fire and steel. Their bodies shattered into ash, the stone floor beneath them cracking from the force.
Sihara rose from the crouch of his landing, sword resting across his shoulder. The hall around him smoldered, ash drifting in the air like snow.
From behind him, Galia whistled.
"Hoooohhh… a new skill, huh? That wasn't just your usual swing. Is this that monster skill you mentioned before?"
Sihara exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"...Huh. Yeah. Icarus Breaker. I've mastered it to level 40 already. As you saw—" he tilted his blade, green wisps of wind still curling around the edge— "I can use it to slice ranged enemies without even touching them."
Galia's ears twitched. "And that other one…?"
Sihara smirked, opening his status window with a flick. The glowing text reflected off the crimson haze still burning at the tip of his sword.
Monster Skill
Icarus Breaker — Lv.10 (Max)
[Blade Techniques]
Crimson Divider — Lv.10 (MAX) mastery level 20Blade Points Remaining: 140
"Crimson Divider, huh…" Galia muttered, narrowing her eyes.
"Yeah," Sihara nodded. "This was my first blade mastery skill. But…" His sword flickered, glowing faintly before vanishing into motes of light. He flexed his hand, as if it had grown heavier. "Even as the first skill, it feels like I already wield rank 7 power with it. …Is this also part of the cheat?"
"Hmmm." Galia floated closer, paws resting on her hips. "Don't compare yourself with others, idiot. You're not just jack of all trades—you're master of all. Every stat of yours outclasses anyone alive. Which means…" She leaned in, grinning slyly. "You're stronger than anyone else. Period."
"Eeeehhh…?" Sihara blinked, genuinely surprised, though the thought made sense. "…Ah."
His gaze drifted to the ruined hall. Scattered across the broken stone lay the corpses of the undead he had just slain. Their twisted forms, lit by dying embers, no longer looked like monsters in his eyes. Their faces… distorted, rotten, yet faintly human. Men. Women. Children.
"…So they were villagers once." His voice dropped low, heavy. He crouched beside one of the bodies—small, frail, with a cracked wooden toy still clutched in its skeletal hand. His jaw tightened. "They tried to run… but ended up like this."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Sihara closed his eyes, standing again.
"We'll burn them all after we finish exploring this place. At least… let's not leave them rotting as puppets of someone else's will."
He rested a hand on his vanished sword hilt, his expression unreadable.
"Death should be the end. Not this."
Galia glanced at Sihara, who was still crouched by the small body, and for once she smiled faintly.
"Uhm… you're right," she murmured.
After laying the remains respectfully aside, Sihara pushed open another door. The hinges groaned, revealing a passage choked with collapsed stone. The far wall had caved in, sealing the way.
"Looks like it's impossible to get through," he muttered.
"You're right," Galia floated forward, paw under her chin. "Hmm… what about climbing over, Sihara?"
"Tried that already." He tapped the rubble with his boot. "There's a ward up there. Every time you try to climb, you slip. When I jumped, a barrier threw me back. Whatever spell it is—it's not breaking anytime soon. And with that much rock… we'd be here for days."
They turned back and climbed the stairwell, dust sifting down from every step. The second floor opened into a wide office room, rows of shelves still standing. Dozens of books lined the walls, their leather bindings cracked with age.
Sihara ran his hand along one spine, pulling it free.
"…These books are ancient. Year 670…" He whistled low. "This place must have been abandoned for centuries."
Meanwhile, Galia floated lazily around, yanking books one by one. Each time she found one useless, she tossed it over her shoulder.
Thud.
Thud-thud.
The pile grew.
Then—
CRRRREEEEKKK!
The bookshelf she tugged lurched forward, tilting dangerously.
"Ehh—wait, wait, wait!!" Galia yelped, bracing both hands against the wood. The weight pressed her down, her little legs kicking in midair as she struggled.
Sihara didn't even notice. He was still seated in the dust-covered office chair, flipping through brittle pages.
"…Tch. Letters are too faded. I can't read most of this. Maybe…" He glanced toward the desk. "Yeah. Let's check there instead."
Meanwhile—
"U-uuughhhhh!! Siharaaaa! A little help here?!" Galia squeaked, sweat beading as she fought to keep the shelf upright.
But the boy was already rifling through drawers at the desk, utterly absorbed.
"Hmm. Maybe some notes survived in here…" he muttered to himself, ignoring her plight.
The shelf groaned louder, tilting further as dust rained down from the ceiling.
"Y-you rotten idiot!!" Galia hissed, her voice strained, teeth clenched as her tiny arms trembled under the weight.
At that exact moment, Sihara perked up.
"Ahh—here we go. A note."
He unfolded a piece of yellowed parchment, eyes narrowing at the faded ink. Behind him, Galia gave a final grunt and managed to shove the shelf back into place with one last push.
BANG!
The wood slammed against the wall, rattling the whole office.
She floated back, panting, ears drooping.
"Huff… huff… you… you absolute asshole—why didn't you help me?!" she muttered under her breath, glaring daggers at the boy's back.
But of course, Sihara didn't hear a word. He was already mumbling to himself, turning the paper over in his hands.
"Uhh… I can't read this. The script's too warped… hmm…" He tapped his chin, then looked up. "Ah! Galia!"
She jolted, ears twitching. "W-what?" she snapped, floating closer.
"Can you read this?" Sihara asked innocently, holding out the note.
Her eye twitched. "…You… unbelievable—" She snatched the parchment from his hand, glaring at him the entire time. "Fine. Let me see, let me see…"
Galia hovered beside him, holding the parchment. Her earlier annoyance faded as her eyes scanned the cramped, shaky handwriting.
"…It's a confession," she whispered.
Sihara leaned closer. "Read it aloud."
Her voice softened, carrying the words of a man long gone:
"I have run and hidden in every building. I have served a man I should never have trusted. My brother and my wife were right—I should have supported the second prince. But what can I do now? My liege, Agnar, has become something else. At midnight, there are screams in the castle… screams I cannot hear anymore. And at daylight, he hunts. Our lord comes, dragging out anyone who dares hide. I once saw him… taking them. Kidnapping them. Day by day… month by month… this place grows emptier. Lonelier. I survived because I held the key to the gate. But the longer I hide, the heavier my guilt. I was a coward, not a knight. I abandoned my brother, my wife, and my two daughters—sacrificed them so I could run. It is only a matter of time before he finds me here."
"If anyone finds this note… and if by chance you can, please—end our misery. End his reign. The key lies behind the picture near the door. As for me… I carry the second key. I will lock down the passage and fight until my last breath, so that I may meet my family again. If the gods and goddesses have mercy… perhaps I can stand before them as a knight, one last time."
—Signed, Talion
The room fell silent when Galia's voice faded. Dust drifted in the candlelight.
Sihara's brows furrowed. "…A knight who turned coward, huh." He crossed his arms. "Can't say I blame him. But leaving his family behind like that…"
Galia hugged the parchment close for a moment, her ears lowering. "…It's cruel. But… it also means the key should still be here."
Sihara stepped to the doorframe, eyes narrowing at the dusty portrait hanging there. "Behind the picture, huh?" His hand reached out, fingers brushing the old wood.
Sihara tugged the portrait aside. Dust puffed out as the frame scraped against the wall—revealing a small recess carved into the stone. Inside, an iron key lay waiting, its surface dulled with rust but intact.
"Found it." He held it up between two fingers, the metal glinting faintly.
Minutes later, they stood outside in the cold air. The bodies of the fallen villagers and children had been gathered into a pyre. Flames roared high, devouring bone and rot alike.
Sihara stood with his sword planted in the ground, one hand resting on the hilt as he watched the fire consume everything. "Burn clean," he muttered, gaze hard. "No chance for them to rise again."
Beside him, Galia closed her eyes, paws pressed together in a gesture of prayer. "May the goddess guide them… and forgive the sins that weren't their own."
The crackle of fire filled the silence. For a moment, even Sihara bowed his head.
Only when the flames reduced the last body to drifting ash did he move again. He pulled his blade free, sheathing it with a sharp click.
"…It's done."
Together, they walked toward the gate. The ruined path stretched before them, lit by the faint orange glow still burning behind.
At the front, the gate loomed tall and silent—iron bars warped, its massive lock waiting.
Sihara stepped forward, holding up the key Talion had left behind. His voice was low, steady.
"…Alright. Let's see if your last wish wasn't in vain, knight."
Sihara raised the key toward the lock. The metal was cold, heavy in his grip.
But his hand stopped midway. His fingers clenched tight, refusing to turn it.
He lowered his head.
"…No."
"Huh?" Galia blinked, tilting her head. "Sihara-kun?"
His voice came low, almost a growl.
"I said—I'm going back."
"HHHHAAA?!?!" Galia shot up in the air, tail puffing. "W-what are you even saying?! The quest—our goal—it's inside! Why the hell would you turn around now—?!"
"I'm not strong enough." His words cut through hers like steel.
Galia froze, ears twitching. "…What?"
He opened his status window in front of her, the glowing pane spilling light over his face.
"Look. I've unlocked a lot of skills, sure. I've even mastered some rare ones… but the truth is—" He jabbed a finger at the list. "The mastery. That's where I'm weak. Too many weapons, too many styles. My basics are spread thin."
Galia scanned the glowing runes, her eyes widening. His skill list stretched endlessly, but the mastery levels… most were barely above beginner rank.
"…You're right," she whispered.
Sihara gave a bitter smile. "And that's not all." He held up his arm. The steel vambrace was cracked, dented nearly beyond use. His blade shimmered faintly, but the edge was chipped, stained. "My equipment's falling apart. Every battle eats away at it more. If I keep going like this, I'll die before I ever reach the truth."
Galia floated back, tail lowering, her expression dimming. For once, she didn't have a comeback.
But Sihara's voice hardened. His eyes lifted to the looming gate, its black shadow stretching tall before him.
"…But Galia—I will finish this. I swore it. I'll become stronger. Strong enough to save them. Strong enough to end this nightmare."
He turned, and his sharp gaze met hers.
"I'll end their misery. But first—" His fist tightened, trembling not with fear, but with conviction.
His voice roared.
"I NEED… TO BE… STRONGER!"
Galia met his gaze. For a fleeting moment, her chest tightened.
That look… that fire burning in his eyes…
I've seen this before… but… where? The memory slipped away like smoke between her paws.
"Galia?" Sihara's voice pulled her back.
"Eh—aaahhh… ah—um… okay then." She forced a little huff, masking her unease. "Well then… let's go home." Her stomach growled loudly. "…Ughhh, what do we even have for dinner?"
Sihara finally let a small smile crack his stern face. "Hmm… how about strawberry pie… with a jumbo milkshake… and orange pudding?"
Her ears perked instantly. "Ah! I want that! Hurry, hurry—I need it now!" She zoomed ahead, tail wagging, as if the heavy talk never happened.
Their footsteps echoed softly through the ruined corridors as they made their way back, the orange glow of firelight fading behind them.
—
But in the heart of the castle…The throne room loomed in dreadful silence. Dust drifted in the air, banners hung in tatters, and the once-proud hall reeked of cold stone and decay.
At the far end, seated upon the throne, was a knight's armor.
Golden plates gleamed faintly even in the gloom, traced with faint cracks of black corruption. A crimson feather crowned the helm, swaying slightly though no wind stirred the room.
It did not move.
It did not breathe.
Yet…
"...p-please…"
A voice seeped out from within the hollow visor, weak and trembling.
"Someone… help me…"
The empty helm tilted just enough that the shadows inside deepened, and with them, the sound of sobbing echoed.
"I… I cannot control… my body… please… anyone… I beg you…"
The golden armor trembled, gauntleted fists digging into the throne's arms with a sharp metallic screech.
And then, without warning, a scream tore from within, raw and agonized—
"UUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
The walls shuddered with the force of it. The crimson plume whipped violently as if in a storm. From every joint of the armor, faint trails of black mist hissed outward, writhing like serpents trying to burst free.
The prince's weeping voice cracked between sobs and screams, trapped inside that gilded cage.
A monarch, enthroned—yet nothing more than a puppet drowning in his own curse.
The next morning, the routine of adventure began anew. Sihara woke with the sun filtering through the mist, brushing the dirt from his hair and adjusting the straps of his battered armor. His spear rested against his shoulder, gleaming faintly where he had polished it the night before. Galia, floating beside him with half-lidded eyes and her usual grumpy morning face, yawned so loudly it sounded like a squeaky whistle.
"Don't stare at me like that, Sihara-kun," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with tiny paws.
"I wasn't staring," he said flatly. "I was making sure you didn't fall asleep midair again."
"Rude," she huffed, puffing her cheeks, but kept floating beside him anyway.
Their walk soon turned bloody, as was becoming normal. Monsters prowled the path—ogres with bone clubs, packs of kobolds gnashing their sharp teeth, goblins screeching curses, and even the occasional lone orc wandering too far from its tribe. Each encounter was another chance for Sihara to practice. He spun his spear with precision, parrying crude weapons, sidestepping with sudden bursts of agility, and finishing fights with devastating thrusts. Sometimes he switched to his short dagger, weaving in close to slice tendons or counterstrike with quick jabs. Other times, he loosed arrows, dropping enemies before they could even close the distance. Every fight honed him further, the low growl of monsters becoming nothing more than background noise to the rhythm of his training.
"Not bad, not bad!" Galia clapped after one particularly clean battle where Sihara skewered three kobolds in a single motion. "Still a little stiff in the shoulders, though."
He grunted. "I'll loosen up once you carry your weight."
"Hah?! I'm the brains and the charm of this party, thank you very much!" she barked, crossing her arms. "Try surviving without me—see how far you get!"
Sihara ignored her, stripping a usable pelt from the last kobold and storing it.
By midday, they reached the river. The water was cool and clear, flowing lazily through the valley. Sihara crouched by the bank, splashing his face and letting the cold soak into his skin. He took a moment to wash his weapon too, watching the blood swirl downstream. Galia, meanwhile, hovered nearby, her reflection rippling in the current.
"I'll prove I can catch a fish," she declared, puffing out her chest.
"Don't fall in," he muttered, already predicting the outcome.
She zoomed down, paws spread wide, aiming for a fat silver flash under the surface. For one glorious moment, it seemed like she had it. Then the fish whipped its tail—SMACK!—right across her face. With a squeal, she tumbled headfirst into the water, sending up a spray.
When she surfaced, her eyes spun like pinwheels, her fur plastered flat. She floated in circles, mumbling nonsense.
"…Told you," Sihara said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
"D-don't… say… anything…" she groaned, shaking herself like a wet cat before floating back to shore.
Later that afternoon, they fished properly near the ruins of a southern village. Sihara crafted simple rods from branches, tying line and hooks. He taught Galia how to sit still, how to watch the ripples. She lasted approximately two minutes before shouting, "Why isn't it biting yet?!" and nearly scaring the fish away. Eventually, though, they managed to pull in a decent catch. Sihara cleaned the fish, his knife working with practiced efficiency, while Galia made a face at the smell.
"This is gross," she muttered.
"You wanted dinner," he replied, dropping another fillet into the basket.
Their journey then led them into the dark mouth of a cave. Inside, the walls glittered faintly with streaks of iron ore and even veins of mithril that shimmered pale blue in the lantern light. Sihara swung a pickaxe, chipping away stone by stone, collecting what he could for future forging. The metallic clang echoed in the hollow tunnels.
Galia floated behind him, nose wrinkled. "This place is creepy. Smells weird. Are you sure nothing lives in here?"
Before Sihara could answer, a wet, gelatinous plop echoed. A translucent slime oozed into view, wobbling with every squelch.
"KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!" Galia's scream nearly shook the cave. She zipped behind Sihara, clinging to his shoulder like a terrified child.
"…It's just a slime." He stabbed once, the creature bursting into harmless goop.
"I HATE SLIMES," Galia declared, her voice trembling. "They're sticky and gross and—and—what if it tried to eat me?!"
"It wouldn't fit." He kept mining, deadpan.
Her shrieks continued to echo in the cave until Sihara finally dragged her out by the paw, shaking his head.
By nightfall, they set camp in the wide grassfield. The tall blades swayed in the evening breeze, fireflies blinking faintly as twilight descended. Sihara struck a spark, building a small fire that crackled and cast warm light across their camp. He skewered fish over the flames, turning them slowly. The smell of cooking flesh filled the air, mingling with the sound of crickets.
Galia sat cross-legged by the fire, arms folded. "You should let me cook."
"…No," he replied instantly.
"Why not?!"
"Because last time you tried, the pot exploded."
"That was ONE TIME! And the stew was only a little burnt!"
"It melted the pot."
Her cheeks puffed up, glowing red. "Uuuugh! You're impossible! Fine, you cook, but I'm the taste-tester!"
When the fish was finally ready, Sihara handed her the first skewer. She took one bite, her eyes going wide before she devoured the rest in seconds. "Mmmm! Okay, fine, you're forgiven. This is delicious!"
He shook his head, biting into his own share more slowly.
Afterward, they lay back in the grass, the fire crackling low, the stars stretching endless above them. For a while, silence reigned, broken only by Galia's occasional mumble about "slime nightmares" and Sihara's quiet chuckle. In that moment, with the sky endless and the grass soft, the world almost felt peaceful.
Ten years had passed like the turning of pages in a forgotten book. The boy who once stumbled with rusted armor and shaky footing was no longer the same. Sihara, now twenty-six, stood tall and unyielding, his frame hardened by endless battles. The jagged scars across his arms and chest told more stories than words ever could. His eyes were sharper, calmer, carrying the quiet weight of a man who had walked through fire and blood and come out stronger. His level had long surpassed what most adventurers even dreamed of reaching.
[Status — Level 150]
Strength, Agility, Endurance—each pushed near perfection. His skill list stretched longer than parchment, dozens of weapons and arts mastered to their peak. Crimson Divider, once his desperate trump card, now burned with divine intensity, capable of cleaving mountains if unleashed at full strength. Around his waist hung a belt lined with forged weapons—mithril daggers, an obsidian steel shortsword, and a pair of enchanted throwing axes he had crafted with his own hands. His once fragile spear had been reforged countless times, reborn in dragonfire and tempered with mithril veins until it gleamed with silver-gold brilliance. He had given it a name worthy of its legacy—Everbane, a weapon that carried both his blood and his will.
"You've grown a lot, huh," Galia remarked as she floated lazily by his side, spinning in the air with her usual smug grin.
"Yeah," Sihara replied without looking at her, his voice steady. "But you haven't. Is it because you're just the system?"
"Fuufufuu," she chuckled, twirling midair. "For me, there's no concept of time. But you—you've really developed a lot of skills, haven't you? By the way… we've already hunted every monster in this region."
"Not all," he muttered, his steps carrying him to a wide grassfield at the foot of the mountains. His eyes narrowed as they fell on a massive lump of stone half-buried in the earth. It looked almost ordinary to anyone else, but to Sihara, it was a reminder—an unfinished hunt that had haunted him for years. "Only one monster is left."
His grip on Everbane tightened. Memories flickered in his mind—memories of when he had first encountered that thing near the cliffs. Back then, he had been too weak, forced to flee with his life while the forest swallowed the beast's dormant form. When he returned later, the thing had vanished. For ten years, he had waited. For ten years, he had hunted. Now, at last, the moment had come.
"That… thing?" Galia tilted her head, confused by the sudden shift in his tone.
Without answering, Sihara pulled a small dynamite charge from his belt. The faint crackle of mana sparked across his fingertips as he ignited it with explosive energy. "Galia, get back."
"Huh? Oh!" she yelped and darted behind him as he hurled the charge at the stone mound. A sharp whistle pierced the air before his arrow followed, wrapped in mana. The explosion that followed shook the field, flames engulfing the rock in a roaring detonation.
"Now wake up," Sihara growled, his voice carrying years of bottled resolve. "I've been searching for ten years. This time… hurry up and show yourself!"
At first, nothing. Then, the ground trembled. The great lump of stone shuddered, groaning as cracks split its surface. Dust and rubble fell away as the creature beneath began to stir. A heavy, grinding sound filled the air, followed by a low rumble that made the earth quake beneath their feet. The stone shifted, twisted, then rose.
From the shattered mound, a giant emerged—its form a towering colossus of jagged rock, etched with glowing lines of molten energy. The air buzzed with static as arcs of lightning flickered across its body, gathering in its massive fists. The golem had awakened.
For a long, heavy moment, Sihara and the golem stood facing each other, silence pressing down like the stillness before a storm. The wind howled across the grassfield, scattering dust and ash into the sky. Galia clutched her tiny hands together, her usual playful expression replaced by tension.
Then, with a metallic screech, the golem moved.
"CRZZZT… BRZZT…" Sparks danced as its colossal arm swung forward, electricity surging down its length. With a sound like thunder tearing the heavens apart, its fist came crashing down toward Sihara.
The impact was cataclysmic.
"BOOOOM!"
The explosion of raw force tore across the land, blasting soil and grass high into the air, shockwaves flattening the field for hundreds of meters. The ground split open in jagged cracks, smoke and dust spiraling into the sky like a stormcloud.
"Uuuuaaaaaghhh!! Ughhh!!" Galia screamed, squinting her eyes against the fierce wind, her small body struggling not to be hurled away. "Sihara! You idiot! What are you—!?" Her voice cracked as she caught sight of the impossible.
Through the dust and roar, Sihara stood firm. His feet dug into the earth, one hand gripping Everbane, the other—raised high—holding the golem's colossal punch at bay. His expression was calm, his lips twisting into a smirk as the ground quaked beneath them.
"Hah… I win."
And with that, his free hand snapped forward. His fist crashed into the golem's chest with bone-shattering force, the sound echoing like a hammer striking an iron bell.
"BAAAMMM!"
The colossus staggered, its massive body pushed back a step, shockwaves rippling outward as the grassfield split beneath its weight. The golem's glowing eyes flickered with rage as it steadied itself, then lurched forward again, raising both arms for another crushing blow
The golem's body began to glow with a deep, menacing purple. Energy crackled across its jagged frame, and the sky above darkened as if answering its call. Thunder roared, lightning arcing in jagged lines until one bolt split the heavens and came crashing down toward the earth where Sihara stood.
"Barrier!" Sihara roared, his hand raised. A shimmering wall of light flared into existence just as the thunderbolt struck, the impact exploding with deafening force. Sparks danced around him, tearing at the soil, but the barrier held firm. With a grunt, he pushed the storm back, dispelling the energy in a blinding flash.
Without hesitation, he surged forward.
"Clangk!… Krkshhh!… Krkshhh!… Clangk!… Clangk!…" The rhythm of steel against stone echoed across the battlefield as Everbane met the golem's body in a relentless flurry. From the right, the left, above, below—Sihara struck from every angle, his movements a blur of speed and precision. Sparks and fragments of rock scattered with every hit, the giant staggering slightly under the endless barrage.
But the monster was not idle. Its massive left hand swung down from above, aiming to crush him into the earth. Sihara twisted, his body moving with almost inhuman grace, slipping past the crushing force. As he spun, he drove his spear upward, the tip slamming into the golem's face with a thunderous impact.
The colossus reeled, staggering back as Sihara flipped away, his boots skidding across the torn grass before he pushed off the ground and vaulted into another aerial dodge. The golem's fist swept across where he had just stood, shattering the earth with its sheer force.
"Cih," Sihara hissed, landing in a crouch, sweat dripping down his chin. His eyes narrowed. "This guy's tougher than I thought."
He lowered his spear and with a swift motion summoned his bow. The weapon shimmered with silver light, already humming with stored energy. He pulled the string back, his voice steady and sharp. "Shining Blast!"
The arrow of light shot forward like a blazing comet, crashing against the golem's chest. The impact boomed—but when the light cleared, the creature stood unfazed, its stone armor unmarred.
"Tch… damn it."
The golem roared and swung again. Sihara rolled to the side, sliding across the dirt before darting behind a shattered tree. He pressed his back against the bark, his breathing heavy as he steadied himself.
"Huff… huff… how the hell am I supposed to beat this thing?"
"You should ask me before you go flailing around, you dumb-dumb."
Sihara blinked, his eyes darting around the chaos. "Huh…? Galia? Where are you?"
"I'm telepathing to you right now…" Galia's voice hummed in his mind, a little muffled by static. "Haaaahhh~… listen. Golems all have a core, like a heart. But this one—you're fighting a Thunder Golem. If you touch it directly, you'll get electrocuted to ash."
"Huh… then how should I—" Sihara froze mid-sentence. His eyes sharpened. Something in his expression shifted from frustration to clarity.
"Eh? Ah? …Sihara?"
The golem lumbered through the battlefield, its massive stone body sparking with violet arcs, tearing trees apart with every step. Its molten eyes scanned the terrain like hunting lamps.
And then Sihara… stepped out.
He exposed himself deliberately, standing tall on the open field. Dust swirled around his boots, his silver-gold spear gleaming faintly in the lightning storm.
He exposed himself deliberately, planting his boots in the open field. The storm raged above, dust spiraled around him, and his silver-gold spear shimmered faintly against the crackling skies.
The golem reacted instantly, hurling a jagged boulder from its palm. Sihara sprinted forward, twisting his body as the projectile thundered past. Another blast of electric force streaked from the monster's chest, tearing the ground along his path. He ducked, slid beneath the beam—only for a second rock to smash against him, knocking him off balance.
But instead of falling, Sihara vaulted upward, arms crossed tightly around his spear.
"Let's end this—"
Mana exploded from his body, surging into his legs. His form blurred, and with lightning speed he thrust straight through the golem's chest.
KRSHHHHHH!!!
The spear slammed deep, forcing the massive creature to stumble and drop to its knees. Sparks and shards of stone scattered across the battlefield.
Sihara didn't stop. He twisted in midair, flipping above the monster's shoulder. His hand carved a seal, channeling more mana into his feet.
"AIR BOOST!"
Wind erupted, propelling him higher—then he dove. His leg blazed, flames coiling around it until his entire body glowed like a falling star.
"COMET FLARE—OOOOOOOOOORRRRRAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
With a roaring battle cry, Sihara's flaming kick smashed into the spear's hilt, driving it clean through the Thunder Golem's core. The weapon burst from its back, piercing stone and shattering lightning veins in a single strike.
The monster convulsed violently. Purple light ruptured from its body, its roar cut short by the surge of fire erupting from within. Then—
BAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOM!!!
The golem exploded in a thunderous storm of fire and lightning, rubble raining down in every direction. Shockwaves tore through the field, scattering smoke and dust across the mountain plain.
And when the light faded, Sihara stood amidst the wreckage, cloak fluttering in the wind, his spear still embedded in the earth behind him.
The golem exploded in a thunderous storm of fire and lightning, rubble raining down in every direction. Shockwaves rolled across the mountain plain, scattering dust and smoke until the world fell quiet again.
Through the haze, Sihara descended. His boots struck the cracked earth, and the silver-gold spear fell beside him with a dull clang. Without hurry, he reached down, lifted it, and spun it once before resting it on his right shoulder. His stance shifted, right foot sliding back behind the left—settling into the forefoot strike posture. A gesture not of aggression, but of completion.
The battlefield was silent save for the faint crackle of fading thunder. Ash drifted like snow around him.
From above, Galia hovered closer, her glow dim in the smoky air. She watched him for a long moment before speaking softly.
"…You did it."
Sihara didn't look at her. His eyes lingered on the crater where the golem had fallen, his expression calm, unreadable. Only after a breath did he answer.
"…Yeah."
The wind carried away the last traces of dust. Sihara straightened, lowering the spear to his side. His gaze softened, but his presence remained unshaken—like a lone pillar standing after a storm had passed.
The wind died down. The last echoes of thunder bled into silence, leaving only the drifting haze of dust and stone.
Then—
DING!
A clear chime resonated in Sihara's mind. His vision shimmered with golden script only he could see.
[Achievement Complete]
"Exterminator of the Wilds"
Objective: Eliminate every monster within Area 1 Training Grounds
Reward: 150,000,000,000 Gold
The glowing letters lingered longer than usual, as if acknowledging the weight of the years he had given. Slowly, they unraveled into motes of gold, scattering like fireflies into the twilight. A pouch of unimaginable wealth slipped into his inventory—more gold than nations possessed, yet it felt almost light compared to the silence around him.
Hovering just above his shoulder, Galia let out a long whistle.
"Fufufuu~… Eleven years. You actually hunted down every single monster. Even the legends never came close. You're insane, you know that?"
Sihara rested his spear against the ground, rolling his shoulder with quiet finality. His eyes traced the horizon, calm yet heavy.
"…Eleven years. It was bound to end sometime."
Sihara's gaze shifted. Beyond the broken field, the fog that had long veiled the distance was gone. The jagged silhouette of a castle emerged on the horizon, its towering walls cutting against the evening light. For the first time in eleven years, the path ahead was clear.
"Now…" Sihara exhaled, tightening his grip on his spear as he turned his back to the ruined battlefield. His voice carried quiet resolve.
"…let's get going. To the castle."
Galia floated beside him, blinking at the sight. For a heartbeat, she seemed almost nervous, then gave a small, resolute nod.
"Uhm… yeah. Let's go."
The wind carried their words forward, toward the looming fortress that waited—unchanging, patient, as if it had been expecting them all along.
The following morning, after a long and silent march, they stood before the castle gates. The towering doors loomed above them like the mouth of some ancient beast, waiting to devour those foolish enough to step inside.
Sihara held the key tightly in his hand, the faint gleam of its carved runes reflecting in his eyes.
"You ready?" Galia asked, her voice quieter than usual, almost hesitant.
Sihara glanced at her, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk.
"Yeah. I am."
With steady hands, he slid the key into the lock beside the gate. A heavy clank echoed, and a small, weathered box on their left side creaked open, releasing a choking burst of ancient dust.
"UHUUKK… UHUKK… UHUUKKK!" both of them coughed, waving away the haze with their hands. When the air finally cleared, they saw it—an old iron mechanism, gears interlocked, and in the center, a single red button.
Galia tilted her head. "Seriously…? That looks way too typical."
Sihara exhaled through his nose, shrugged, then pressed it. Above, they heard the rumble of ancient machinery grinding to life. Chains rattled, stone scraped against stone, and the colossal gates groaned like something awakening from a thousand-year slumber.
Dust and pebbles rained down as the doors cracked apart, just enough for Sihara to step forward. He planted his spear into the ground, braced himself, and with every ounce of his strength—
RRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMM!
The gates gave way with a final groan, and beyond them stretched not a thriving kingdom, but a graveyard of civilization.
The city lay in ruin. The trees, once lining the cobbled streets, were nothing more than blackened husks. Houses stood like broken teeth, some burned hollow, others collapsed into rubble. The air smelled of ash and rot, heavy with a silence that clung to the skin.
Sihara and Galia stepped cautiously into the middle of the cracked plaza. Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loud, as if the city itself was listening.
Then—shuffling.
From alleys, doorways, and beneath the shadows of collapsed roofs, the first shapes emerged. Eyes hollow, skin gray and torn, organs dangling, yet still they moved. Undead civilians, drawn by the sound of life. Even children—small frames limping forward, faces slack but eyes dripping despair—joined the crowd.
Dozens. Then hundreds. Encircling them in silence.
Galia's breath hitched. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "Sihara-kun…"
"I know." His voice was low, calm, but his hand clenched tightly. With a shimmer of light, his spear appeared in his grip, golden-silver edges humming with restrained power.
He lowered his stance, right foot sliding back, body twisting just enough for the forefoot strike. His eyes sharpened as the weight of the horde pressed closer.
The children stared. The mothers without faces moaned. The fathers dragged broken limbs like chains.
And all at once, they moved.
And then the undead approached them.
Sihara swung his spear in a wide, merciless arc, the steel singing as it cut clean through rotten necks. Heads rolled across the broken stones, mouths still twitching in hollow moans. Black blood sprayed like rain, staining his armor, the ground, even the air. He did not flinch. He did not hesitate. Each strike was precise, a death sentence written in motion.
Above him, Galia floated effortlessly, her small body shimmering with energy as she rolled and darted through the air. She was like a ghostly flame against the dark tide below. Her golden eyes blazed as her paws glowed with searing magic. Fire coiled around her body, bursts of flame exploding wherever she pointed, roasting clusters of undead into ash.
The horde grew thicker, a wall of corpses pressing forward. Men with jaws unhinged, women with half their torsos missing, children dragging broken toys or clutching dolls with worms spilling from them. Their voices were shrill and inhuman, groaning as they lurched forward, arms outstretched.
Sihara met them head-on.
His spear split skulls and shattered spines. Each thrust was like lightning—straight through an eye socket, bursting out the back of a head. He pivoted, twisted, slashed in wide arcs, cutting down five, ten, fifteen at a time. His boots crushed bone and flesh beneath him as he advanced without slowing, without remorse.
"Burn!" Galia's voice rang out. A wave of fire roared down, engulfing dozens. They screamed as their skin bubbled and melted, their tiny skeletal hands clawing desperately even as they turned to blackened husks.
But still more came.
From alleys. From broken houses. From beneath the cracked stone. The square filled with them, hundreds upon hundreds. Their pale eyes glowed in the dark, their moans weaving together into a single, dreadful chorus.
Sihara's body moved faster, sharper. His spear whirled in deadly circles, a silver blur slicing through the horde. Every child, every elder, every twisted mockery of life that rushed him was met with cold steel and torn apart without mercy. Blood pooled around his boots, but not a single blade, claw, or tooth touched him.
And above, Galia was wrath incarnate. She spun and rolled through the air, paws shining as she unleashed lightning that speared through groups of undead, frost that froze them solid, flames that consumed them whole. Her small figure darted like a comet, weaving between blasts of her own magic as the ruined city burned with unnatural light.
The clash was endless, horrific, unrelenting. The streets shook with the roar of spells, the crash of bodies, the screams of the dead being slain again.
But Sihara and Galia never slowed. Never faltered. Never bled.
They cut the tide of death apart. They butchered every last one.
Until, at last, silence returned—broken only by the drip of black blood seeping into the cobblestones.
Galia launched her magic in every direction, her small paws glowing as spheres of flame, shards of ice, and bolts of lightning burst outward all at once. The air crackled with heat and frost as the ruined streets lit up like a battlefield of the heavens. Explosions of fire roared through the horde, freezing gusts swept over scorched corpses, and streaks of lightning pierced the sky before slamming down into clusters of undead.
Sihara moved in tandem. His spear tore through the first wave, but as the swarm thickened he discarded it for a sword, carving wide arcs that severed heads from shoulders and split bodies clean in two. A bow appeared in his grasp—his arrows whistling through the air, punching holes through skulls and pinning corpses to the ground like insects.
Yet the horde did not falter. From the alleyways and shattered homes they poured, endless, ceaseless, gnashing their rotted teeth as they stumbled forward. Children with hollow eyes and dolls clutched in skeletal fingers crawled toward him on broken legs. Mothers with split torsos and gaping maws wailed like banshees. A tide of horror that no sane man would face.
Sihara exhaled sharply. The air around him trembled as he dismissed his weapons one by one—until only the massive claymore remained in his grasp. Its steel was thick as a door, heavy enough to crush stone. He planted his foot forward and swung.
The blade screamed through the air, tearing a path so wide it split the crowd in half. Dozens of undead were flung aside like broken dolls, their limbs severed, their bodies cleaved apart.
Still, they came.
"Galia, hide," Sihara commanded, his voice calm, unshaken.
"Eh…?" She blinked at him, floating uncertainly. But then, seeing the glint in his eyes, she only muttered a sharp "Heh…" and darted away without further question. Her small body disappeared into the broken chimney of a crumbling house, vanishing from sight.
The square trembled. Sihara shifted his stance, lowering the claymore until the tip scraped against the stones. His muscles coiled like a spring, veins pulsing with raw power. The ground beneath him cracked as he drew in a breath and shouted:
"SKILL—TORNADO SLASHER!"
He spun.
The claymore became a storm. His body blurred, a cyclone of steel and fury that tore through everything around him. Undead were shredded into ribbons, torsos and limbs flung skyward in a rain of gore. The wind howled, pulling bodies into the vortex, their screams lost in the roar of the storm. Flesh, bone, and black blood swirled in the deadly gale, a macabre hurricane of death.
From her hiding place, Galia's eyes widened. She clutched the rim of the chimney, her fur standing on end as the storm tore through the city square.
"SIHARA! You'll level the whole district!" she screamed, her voice drowned by the ear-splitting shriek of spinning steel and roaring wind.
But Sihara did not falter. His eyes burned with ruthless focus, his claymore dragging a trail of sparks through the stone as he carved the horde into nothing.
The undead were obliterated. Their numbers, once endless, were reduced to dust and torn flesh spiraling through the howling storm.
And through it all—Sihara stood unscathed, his breath steady, his hands gripping the hilt of his claymore as the winds finally died down.
From the shadow of the castle's towering staircase, a new sound thundered—the heavy march of armored boots.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
An entire battalion of undead soldiers descended, their rusted armor rattling, helmets cracked, eyes glowing faintly red like embers in a dying fire. Shields bore the faded insignia of the fallen kingdom, and rust-eaten swords gleamed under the gray light. They marched as one, their hollow gazes fixed on the intruders who had slaughtered their kin.
Sihara and Galia stood unmoving, side by side, watching the tide approach. The air grew tense, the silence before the storm.
Then—
One undead soldier suddenly lunged forward, raising his blade in a stiff, jerking motion. He swung downward with all his rotten might.
Sihara shifted half a step.
CLANG!
The strike missed, steel carving deep into the stone path instead. Sparks exploded. Before the soldier could recover, Sihara's boot slammed down on the weapon.
CRACK!
The sword shattered like brittle glass.
Too fast—too merciless. The undead couldn't even react before Sihara's hand shot forward, clamping onto its helmeted skull.
"COMBUSTION—"
A pulse of energy surged through his arm, flooding into the corpse.
"—VRAAAMMM!"
The soldier convulsed, shrieking in a guttural wail as flames burst from its eyes and mouth, its armor glowing red-hot. The body twitched violently before Sihara flung it aside, smoldering like discarded firewood.
For a moment, the entire undead legion hesitated. Their hollow gazes flickered—not with hunger, but something older. Something they should not have felt anymore.
Fear.
Sihara turned his head toward Galia. The flying cat hovered a few feet off the ground, her small body glowing with mana, her pupils narrowed into slits as she stared at him.
Their eyes met.
"Huh…" Sihara's lips curved into a dangerous grin.
"Hehehe~," Galia purred, her fangs peeking as her whiskers twitched.
That single exchange was enough.
The undead horde moved as one, weapons raised, shields braced. The ground shook under the march of hundreds.
And in answer—Sihara lifted his claymore, Galia's aura blazed, and together they roared.
"UUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!"
Their battle cry tore through the ruined city, a sound so primal it made even the undead falter.
Then, like unleashed demons, they surged forward—steel and sorcery tearing into the armored dead.