The world was a smear of pain and fading sound. Cold earth pressed against my cheek. A deep, burning cold was spreading from my chest, a numbness that fought with the sharp, screaming agony of the slash. I could feel the warm seep of my own blood soaking into my tunic, forming a small, sticky pool beneath me.
My mind, hazy with shock, replayed the last second. The blur of white. The silent, impossible speed. I'd thrown myself backward, a frantic, instinctual dodge. The scythe's tip had grazed me instead of cleaving me in two. One step slower. One instant of hesitation. That was the difference between a mortal wound and this… this bleeding agony. It was still bad. Very bad.
I heard Krinish shout my name—or maybe just a wordless cry of panic. I'd thrown my cloak toward him earlier, the fabric getting in the way of the dual blades. Now, through blurred vision, I saw his blurry form charging. He held his own sword in one hand and my crumpled cloak in the other. He was too far. Too slow.
My arms trembled, muscles screaming in protest as I tried to push myself up. Every movement sent a fresh wave of fire through my chest. My vision swam, the edges turning dark. I couldn't get up. The strength was draining out of me along with my blood.
A deeper cold washed over me, a chill that had nothing to do with my injury. The Wraith. It was right in front of me. I could feel its empty presence, a void in the world. I forced my head up, my neck muscles straining.
It floated there, tattered white cloth rustling in a wind I couldn't feel. Its faceless hood was pointed down at me. It raised the dark steel scythe high above its head, the blade seeming to drink the remaining light from the clearing. This was it. The downward swing would finish what the first strike began.
Get up. MOVE! My body refused to obey. I was pinned by pain and weakness.
"Hey! Over here!" Krinish's voice was raw with desperation.
I saw him, arm drawn back, and then he threw his own sword. It spun end over end, a final, hopeless act of defiance. It flew straight, aimed true for the center of the Wraith's spectral form.
And it passed right through.
The blade didn't slow, didn't deflect, didn't even seem to be noticed. It simply vanished into the darkness beneath the tattered robes and emerged from the other side, clattering uselessly against a tree trunk behind it. It had done nothing. Less than nothing. The Wraith didn't even flinch.
The scythe reached its apex. There was a moment of terrible, suspended silence. Krinish was frozen, his face a mask of horrified understanding. His weapon was gone. He was utterly powerless.
The scythe began its descent. A silent, graceful arc aimed directly at my prone body. I could only watch it fall, the world narrowing to that descending blade of darkness. This was the end. My promise to Seres… the children… I'd broken it.
The world had narrowed to the descending arc of the dark scythe. I was ready for the impact, for the cold finality of it. My muscles had locked, bracing for a blow that would never truly be felt.
But it never landed.
Instead of the bite of spectral steel, a sharp,metallic CLANK shattered the tense silence. The sound was so jarringly physical, so ordinary, that it seemed to shock the very air.
A new voice, laced with a lazy, almost amused drawl, cut through the clearing. "Hey there. Damn, aren't you a trouble magnet? Or are you a damn Skirg with a death wish?"
My blurred vision struggled to focus. The Wraith was still there, its form wavering like a heat haze. But now, perched casually atop what would be its shoulder, was a man. He was sitting on the spectral entity as if it were a bench, both arms resting comfortably on his thighs. Between his legs, held firmly in place by the sheer strength of his posture, was a long, polished metal staff. It was this staff that had intercepted the scythe's deadly swing, blocking it mere inches from my chest.
He shifted, planting one elbow on the top of the Wraith's head as if it were an armrest, and leaned forward to get a better look at me. The casual disrespect for the monstrous entity was staggering.
I could only stare, my mind sluggishly trying to process the impossibility of it. The man looked down at me, and though his face was mostly shadowed by a deep hood, I could see the clear outline of a smirk. His hood was… unusual. It wasn't just cloth; two distinct, pointed tips rose from its top, like the ears of a fox or a wolf.
"Anyways, sorry it took so long," he continued, his tone conversational, as if we were meeting in a tavern and not on a blood-soaked battlefield with a monstrous wraith frozen beneath him. "I didn't expect you to invite another round of trouble before I even returned. Thank goodness I happened to meet Sister Seres right away. She looked about ready to skin someone alive. Sent me rushing right over here."
His gaze flicked down to my chest, and his smirk faded into a slight wince. "Oof. That wound doesn't look too good, does it? You better get that patched up before you paint the whole forest red."
He shifted his weight slightly, and the Wraith beneath him seemed to shudder, a low, silent groan vibrating through the air. The man seemed utterly unconcerned by the terrifying entity serving as his stool. He tapped the metal staff against the still-held scythe, producing another soft clink.
"Just give me a sec to clean up this nuisance," he said, his voice dropping from its playful tone into something colder, more efficient. "Then we'll get you sorted."
My arms gave out then, the last of my strength finally deserting me. My head thumped back against the cold ground, but the paralyzing fear was gone. In its place was a throbbing pain and a dazed, overwhelming confusion. Who was this? How did he know Seres? And why was he treating a creature of nightmare like a mildly inconvenient insect?
The last of my strength was gone. My head thumped back against the cold ground, but my eyes refused to close. I was trapped in a hazy state of agony, unable to move, forced to simply watch.
"He has medicine in that pouch of his," the man on the Wraith's shoulder said, his voice cutting through the low, spectral groan of the trapped entity. He didn't even look at Krinish, his attention seemingly on the energy gathering around his free hand. "Use it. Do the basic medication first. Stop him from leaking all over the place."
I saw Krinish flinch, his eyes wide with terror as they flickered between me and the nightmareish monster that was being used as a footstool and an armrest. For a moment, he was frozen, a statue of pure fear. The Wraith's form seemed to pulse with a silent, hateful energy.
"Now, kid," the man's voice sharpened, a note of command that brooked no argument.
The order broke Krinish's paralysis. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, his movements jerky with fear. He kept one eye on the terrifying tableau as he fumbled for the herb pouch at my belt. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely open it.
He found the green paste Seres had mentioned. With a trembling hand, he smeared it thickly over the gash on my chest. The initial contact was a fresh burst of fire, but it was quickly followed by the paste's numbing, coagulating effect. The bleeding began to slow from a seep to an ooze.
"D-Drag him… over there," Krinish muttered to himself, his voice a terrified whisper. "B-by the tree."
He hooked his hands under my shoulders. I gritted my teeth against the white-hot pain that flared through my torso as he began to pull. It was an awkward, clumsy effort, my dead weight and his terror making it a struggle. Every inch was a new wave of agony, my vision swimming with black spots. But he did it, dragging me across the bloody ground until my back was propped against the rough bark of a tree.
I slumped against it, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps. I was utterly helpless, a spectator to my own rescue. My gaze, blurry but unblinking, remained fixed on the scene.
The man remained perched on the Wraith's shoulder, his posture the very picture of mocking indifference. He even shifted his weight, as if getting more comfortable, a blatant taunt to the monstrous entity beneath him.
The Wraith, however, had finally had enough. A soundless, furious shiver ran through its spectral form. In one violent, unexpected motion, it let go of the scythe with one hand. The dark weapon hung impossibly in the air for a fraction of a second as the creature's newly freed hand, cold and clawed, shot up and clamped around the ankle of the man sitting on it.
With a terrifying, effortless strength, it ripped him from his perch and hurled him sideways into the dense treeline.
The man became a blur, crashing through branches and smashing into a thick trunk with a sickening thud that echoed through the clearing. I winced, the sound alone speaking of shattered bone. Just how powerful was that throw?
But not even a second later, the Wraith did something worse. It didn't chase him. It simply… vanished.
It reappeared in the same instant right where the man had landed, its form coalescing from the shadows between the trees. The scythe was back in its grasp, already raised high for a killing blow on its now-grounded opponent.
The downward swing was a blur of darkness.
But the hooded figure was already moving. As the scythe descended, he rolled, the blade embedding itself deep into the earth where his head had been. In the same fluid motion, he was on his feet, his metal staff spinning in a wide, defensive circle. When the Wraith wrenched its scythe free and lunged again, the staff met it with another sharp CLANG, deflecting the blow to the side.
The hooded man didn't pause. He used the momentum of the deflection, twisting his body to bring the staff around in a powerful, two-handed swing aimed directly at the center of the Wraith's faceless hood.
The staff passed through nothing but empty, cold air.
The man stumbled forward a step, the force of his missed swing meeting no resistance. He caught his balance instantly and just… shrugged.
"A naturally occurring one, huh?" he muttered, his voice laced with a mix of annoyance and professional interest. "It's gonna get a lot more annoying."
Then the real dance began.
The Wraith became a phantom of death, disappearing and reappearing in a flicker of shadows, its scythe cutting the air from every impossible angle. It would vanish from in front of the man only to materialize behind him, the scythe already mid-swing. It would drop from the branches above or slash up from the ground below.
And the hooded man matched it, move for move.
He was a whirlwind of controlled motion. His staff was never still, spinning, blocking, parrying. He didn't try to attack again, understanding the futility. This was pure defense, a breathtaking display of speed and anticipation. He'd duck under a horizontal sweep that would have decapitated him, the scythe severing a tree branch behind him. He'd leap back as a downward strike split the ground at his feet. He'd pivot on one foot, his staff held vertically to block a thrust aimed at his heart, the impact sending sparks flying from the metal.
He wasn't just keeping pace; he was reading the Wraith's movements, predicting its teleports by the slightest shift in the air, the minute drop in temperature before it reappeared. He moved through the ravaged woods like a ghost himself, a solid, tangible force against an untouchable nightmare. The fight was a terrifying symphony of crashing trees, screeching metal, and the silent, relentless fury of a monster being held at bay by a man with nothing but a stick and impossible skill.
Krinish finished slathering the green paste on my chest, the numbing effect a small mercy against the burning pain. Beside me, Liam was gritting his teeth as Joron, their leader, did the same for the deep gash on his arm. Joron's face was pale, his mana still depleted, but his mind was sharp with panic.
"We need to run," Joron hissed, his voice tight. "Now. While that guy is distracting it." He glanced toward the frantic battle, his eyes wide with a scholar's understanding of their doom. "All he's done is physical attacks. They don't work on a Wraith. You need holy magic. Specific enchantments. Something that can hurt its spirit. That thing is a Rank B threat. We're only alive because that hooded man is… unbelievably fast. But he can't win. He's just buying us time. I think he's with you?" He looked at me, a desperate question in his eyes. "Regardless, we're a distraction. We need to go."
We were trying to stand, our bodies screaming in protest, leaning on each other for support. The plan was to stumble back into the forest, to abandon our mysterious savior to a fight he couldn't possibly win.
Then the man's voice cut through the chaos of clashing weapons, laced with profound annoyance. "Man, this is such a pain."
We all froze, our heads snapping in his direction.
He disengaged from a flurry of blows, leaping back a few paces. In a fluid motion, he twisted the long metal staff in his hands. There was a series of sharp clicks, and it separated into four segments, connected by short chains—a four-section staff. He held the new, flexible weapon in one hand as his other began to move through a series of intricate gestures.
"True Magic: [Bounded Veil]."
The air hummed with power. From the sky above, pure white silk curtains seemed to unfurl from nothingness, dropping down around the entire clearing to form a perfect, cylindrical wall. They hung from the empty air itself, their tops connected to an invisible, circular ring high above. The fabric glowed with a soft, internal light, sealing us inside with the two combatants.
The hooded figure vanished from his spot.
He reappeared directly in front of the Wraith, already inside its guard. The transformation was instant and absolute. Before, it was a defensive dance. Now, it was a brutal, one-sided dismantling.
The four-section staff became a blur of whirling steel. I could only stare, my pain forgotten, my mind completely unable to process what I was witnessing. It was a physical weapon, just metal and chain. It shouldn't have been able to touch the Wraith, let alone harm it. Yet every strike landed with a terrible, solid impact, each hit producing a sound like frozen glass cracking under a hammer.
The hooded man moved with a fluid, almost lazy grace that was more terrifying than any display of brute force. The Wraith, a creature of nightmare and legend, was being systematically dismantled. It teleported away from a vicious swing, reappearing near the glowing white silk of the Veil. But the man was already there, not because he was faster, but because he had anticipated the move. He didn't chase; he herded. The third segment of his staff lashed out, not at the Wraith, but at the space beside it, forcing it to recoil right into the path of the whirling first segment, which connected with its shoulder. The entity shuddered, a ripple of agony passing through its spectral form.
It tried a new tactic, dissolving into a mist to seep into the ground. The man simply stamped his foot, and the earth where the mist pooled flashed with a faint golden light. The Wraith recoiled, solidifying instantly, and the four-section staff was waiting, the segments spinning in a complex pattern that ended with a simultaneous strike from two directions—one across its back, the other smashing against the arm that held the scythe. The dark weapon fell from its grasp, clattering on the ground before dissolving into shadows.
Disarmed and desperate, the Wraith lunged, its form elongating into a spear of pure shadow aimed at the man's heart. He didn't even block. He sidestepped with an infinitesimal shift of his weight, the attack missing him by a hair's breadth. As the Wraith's momentum carried it past him, the end of his staff, moving faster than my eyes could follow, hooked underneath its floating form. With a deft flick of his wrist, he used its own speed to send it crashing into the dirt.
He stood over the fallen monster, the four segments of his staff retracting and locking back into a single, solid rod with a series of sharp clicks. He held it pointed down at the Wraith like a teacher reprimanding a failed student.
The magnificence of it wasn't in power—it was in utter, total mastery. He hadn't overpowered the B-Rank threat; he had outthought it, outmaneuvered it, and humiliated it with a weapon it should have been immune to. He had turned its every advantage into a weakness and had done so within a bounded field that defied all the magical laws Joron had just explained to me. I didn't understand how any of it was possible. I only knew that I was watching an artist paint a masterpiece of violence, and it was the most terrifying and awe-inspiring thing I had ever seen.
The relentless beating reached its climax. The hooded figure didn't chant a spell or summon holy light. He simply brought all four segments of his staff down in a final, crushing blow onto the Wraith.
The entity didn't scream. It imploded, its form collapsing inward into a cloud of dissipating black smoke, leaving behind only a single, pulsating black crystal orb that hovered where its heart would have been.
The man caught it casually. "Neat," he remarked, examining the prize. "This ought to fetch a lot, kon." He flicked his wrist, and as the orb touched a simple, silver ring on his finger, it vanished into thin air.
He then glanced up at the glowing white curtains surrounding us. "I better cancel this out as well." With a snap of his fingers, the [Bounded Veil] dissolved into motes of light, fading into nothingness.
As he began walking toward us, the atmosphere grew tense again. Joron, Krinish, and Liam stared, their faces a mixture of awe and pure terror. Joron was practically vibrating with disbelief.
"That's impossible!" he blurted out, his voice cracking. "You can't kill a Wraith with physical attacks! It's a spiritual entity!"
Liam, wincing from his injury, countered weakly, "Didn't you hear him? He said 'True Magic'..."
Unable to resolve the argument, all three of them turned to look at me. Krinish, his voice a nervous whisper, asked, "What... what is your relation to him? Who is he?"
"I don't know him," I breathed out, the pain in my chest making it hard to speak. "All I know is that he knows Seres. Nothing more."
A sudden, dreadful realization dawned on Joron's face. If this unbelievably powerful stranger wasn't a friend... then he was a cataclysm-level enemy. As one, the three rookies raised their weapons—Krinish with his fists, Joron with a flicker of weak magic, Liam with a shaky dagger.
The hooded man stopped a few paces away. He didn't seem offended. Instead, he tilted his head, the animal-like tips of his hood twitching. "Whoa there, pups. Put those away before you hurt yourselves." His tone was light, almost amused.
Joron, ever the by-the-book leader, found his courage. "State your name, rank, and show your Adventurer's ID! Now!"
The man sighed, as if this were a tedious formality. He reached into his cloak and flashed a small, metal plate. My eyes, still blurry, couldn't make out the details, but I saw the color—a brilliant, shimmering gold.
"Rank A," the man said with a casual shrug.
Liam's jaw dropped. "A Numbered A-ranker?" he gasped, referring to the elite few within the A-rank who were assigned individual numbers based on their power and achievements.
The man gave a smug, slow nod. "Yep."
Still not satisfied, Joron pressed, "Guildcard. Verification."
With another theatrical sigh, the man produced a guildcard. It wasn't the standard issue. It was a stunning gold card edged with intricate silver trimming, a mark of immense prestige and authority.
I couldn't read the text, my literacy still basic. But Liam could. His eyes scanned the card, his face pale. He read the name aloud, his voice filled with a reverence usually reserved for legends.
"Finel..."
I finally recognized that name but the way Liam said it, the way Joron and Krinish immediately lowered their weapons in stunned silence, told me everything. This wasn't just some adventurer. This was someone famous. And he was here because of Seres.