The crushing spirit pressure rolled over Rathmur, shaking the ground and bending the air. Though it didn't weigh on him the way it did on the villagers gasping from afar, he still felt a faint knot of unease coil in his chest.
This was his first time standing before true Spirit Refiners—men who could wield power beyond ordinary humans. A sliver of nervousness crept into his veins, cold and sharp.
Then Aemilia's voice cut through his mind, smooth and commanding. "Calm yourself. They're nothing but puny Fifth-Stage Warriors. And those guards? Barely at the Third Stage. Against you, they're gnats. Don't let their bluster shake you."
Her tone was unwavering, filled with certainty that steadied him. "Do exactly as I tell you, and you'll crush them with ease. Their strength is nothing compared to what already beats inside your chest."
Albert lunged with a roar, his fist crackling with spirit energy as it cut through the air toward Rathmur's chest. The ground split beneath his feet from the sheer force of his charge, his bulk moving with frightening speed.
In Rathmur's mind, Aemilia's voice rang out, calm and commanding. "Clench your fist and meet him head-on. But listen—use only half your strength. No more."
"What? But—" Rathmur's hesitation flickered.
"Just do it." Her tone left no room for argument.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Rathmur obeyed. His fist tightened, veins surging with unfamiliar power as he thrust forward, meeting Albert's strike head-on.
The collision rang out like a thunderclap. The impact exploded between them, sending rippling shockwaves that cracked the earth and rattled the walls of nearby houses. The air itself seemed to shatter, the sound echoing across the village like a war drum.
Albert's eyes went wide. The confident snarl froze on his face as an overwhelming force surged through his arm and into his body. His bulk was lifted from the ground and hurled backward like a rag doll, his frame smashing into the dirt road beyond the boundary of Rathmur's home. He rolled violently, coughing out two thick mouthfuls of blood as he skidded to a halt in a heap.
Gasps erupted from the villagers watching nearby. A silence heavier than stone fell over the scene—broken only by Albert's ragged coughing and the faint crackle of dust settling.
Rathmur lowered his fist, his expression calm, though inside his chest his heart hammered like a drum. He had only used half his strength—yet the man who once terrified the village lay broken on the ground.
Rathmur and his mother lived in a small settlement known as Stoneford Village, tucked away in the far north. It was a humble place, isolated by its distance and the harshness of the land. The village had never been large—its population wavering between two hundred and at most four hundred and fifty souls. Life there was simple, quiet, and for most, hard.
Among the villagers, only a handful had managed to step onto the path of cultivation or spirit refiners. The most notable was the village chief himself, along with his brother. Both were Spirit Refiners, men whose strength set them far above ordinary folk. The chief, in his arrogance, had even begun training his son, hoping to extend that power to the next generation.
Aside from them, a few of the guards had reached minor cultivation levels, trained enough to keep beasts and trouble at bay. The most respected of them was the guards' commander—a man said to stand on equal footing with Albert, Patrick's uncle, and Roman, the blacksmith. To the common people, these few Spirit Refiners were like towering mountains—figures both feared and obeyed.
Yet.. Albert lay sprawled across the dirt road, blood dripping from his lips as his consciousness began to fade. The four guards and Roman froze in place, their eyes widening in disbelief. None of them had expected Albert—a Spirit Refiner at the Fifth Stage—to be sent flying with a single punch.
Even Rathmur himself stood stunned. He had obeyed Aemilia's command and held back, using what he thought was only half of his strength. Yet in truth, he had unleashed even less than that, unable to properly gauge the well of power inside him. The result was far beyond anything either he or Aemilia had anticipated.
'What the fuck is going on? 'Rathmur thought, his mind reeling as his gaze flicked to his still-clenched fist. 'I didn't even use half my strength… and yet… this? ' His eyes gleamed with confusion and shock, but outwardly his face remained calm, unreadable. He turned slowly, his gaze settling on Albert's crumpled body before shifting toward the others.
In the silence, Aemilia's voice stirred in his mind, low and thoughtful for once. "Even I underestimated your transformation."
Roman snapped out of his shock, his fury boiling over. His voice cracked like a whip across the street. "You little bastard! First you beat down my sons, then the chief's son—and now you dare to raise your hand against the chief's brother?! No one will save you now!" His face twisted, veins bulging as he roared. "Guards—seize him! Tear him apart!"
It was already evening, and the last traces of daylight bled into the horizon. One by one, torches along the street were being lit, their flames flickering against the darkening sky. Shadows stretched long across the ground, dancing wildly as the guards surged forward, their spears gleaming in the orange glow.
The four guards jolted as though waking from a trance, their fear replaced by blind obedience. With a collective shout, they lunged at Rathmur, spirit energy flaring around their weapons. The torchlight caught every movement, sparks of steel flashing like fireflies in the dim glow. To the villagers watching from afar, it looked like an unstoppable tide of steel closing in.
But to Rathmur, it was nothing more than a slow dance. His feet slid across the ground with uncanny speed, his body weaving between spearpoints with fluid grace. The jagged tips scraped past his chest and arms, always missing by a hair's breadth. His movements were too sharp, too refined—like shadows slipping through cracks of light.
One guard overextended, his spear thrusting wildly. Rathmur's hand snapped out, seizing the shaft mid-thrust. With a twist, the weapon cracked, splintering into useless fragments. A sharp kick followed, slamming into the man's shin. CRACK! The guard screamed as his leg bent at an unnatural angle, his body collapsing to the ground.
Another came at him from the side, fury blazing in his eyes. Rathmur pivoted, his elbow smashing into the man's ribs. THUD! The crack of bone echoed, and the guard doubled over, choking on blood as Rathmur spun and drove a fist into his jaw. The man was lifted from his feet, crumpling onto the dirt.
The last two tried to flank him together, spears darting from both sides. Rathmur ducked low, his movements a blur. He surged upward with a brutal uppercut into one guard's stomach—WHUMP!—lifting him into the air before he collapsed in a heap.
Without pausing, Rathmur grabbed the final guard's spear, yanked him forward, and drove his knee straight into the man's chest. CRUNCH! The guard howled, coughing blood as he fell backward, his weapon clattering uselessly on the ground.
In the span of breaths, four trained guards lay broken on the dirt, their limbs twisted, their groans filling the torchlit street. Shadows wavered across their ruined forms, the evening air thick with dust, blood, and disbelief.
Rathmur stood untouched, his chest rising and falling steadily, his black eyes glinting like cold steel as he turned his gaze back toward Roman.
Roman stood rooted to the spot, his breath caught in his throat as the last guard crumpled onto the dirt. His legs trembled despite himself, the strength in them faltering. He was stronger than those men—far stronger—but even he knew he could never have broken them so effortlessly, so brutally, and all at once.
What he had just witnessed left his stomach hollow. Rathmur hadn't even looked strained; he had shattered bones and crushed bodies as though he were snapping dry twigs beneath his boots. There was no hesitation in his movements, no mercy, no sweat on his brow.
And then there was that surge. Roman had felt it—like a wave rolling off Rathmur's body. It wasn't human. It was heavy, primal, radiating like the presence of some ferocious beast that belonged to the wild, not to a boy who had once been weaker than dust.
His mind screamed to deny it, to write it off as fear twisting his senses—but his body knew the truth. His heart thudded faster, his hands clenched with sweat, and for the first time in years, Roman felt the unmistakable sting of dread.
Rathmur began to move, one step at a time, his shadow stretching long in the flickering torchlight. Each stride was unhurried, deliberate—yet it carried a crushing weight that pressed down on Roman's chest like a boulder.
Roman's legs, already trembling, finally gave way. He stumbled back and crashed onto the dirt with a thud, scrambling with his hands as though distance alone could save him. His eyes widened in terror, sweat dripping down his temples.
"Stay… stay there!" he stammered, his voice breaking. "Don't come near me! If you're already dead, you don't even know what you've done! The chief will return soon—with the guards' commander at his side. When they arrive, you'll be finished! You'll be dead!"
His words tumbled out in a frantic rush, more desperation than threat. The once-proud Spirit Refiner sat on his backside, shaking before the boy he had thought beneath him only hours ago.
Step by step, Rathmur closed the distance until he towered over Roman. The blacksmith's body shuddered as if every stride carried the weight of a predator approaching its prey. When Rathmur finally stopped, he crouched low, his shadow swallowing Roman in the flickering torchlight.
Their eyes locked. Rathmur's hands, still slick with the blood of broken guards, dripped crimson onto the dirt. A terrifying surge of aura radiated from him—thick, oppressive, laced with a darkness that felt alive. It pressed down on Roman's chest until he could barely breathe.
Rathmur's voice came low and heavy, like stone grinding against stone. "Listen, you bulky piece of trash. Pick up these broken dogs and crawl back to your chief. Tell him this: if he even thinks of stepping toward my mother or my house, I'll tear him apart—piece by piece. And I'll do the same to every last one of you… and your families."
His words struck like hammers, carried by that dreadful, dark aura that clung to the air. The dragonic surge within him coiled and pulsed, making the torch flames flicker and the villagers shiver as though a beast of nightmare had stepped into their midst.
Roman's body betrayed him. His breath hitched, his jaw quivered, and the warm wetness spreading across his pants left no doubt of his terror. Even without striking, Rathmur had shattered him. No one could stand before that aura and remain unshaken.
Roman didn't argue. He didn't even try. The instant Rathmur's words left the air, he scrambled to his feet, his hands trembling as he hefted Albert's unconscious body onto his back. Without daring to meet Rathmur's eyes again, he turned and bolted, running down the dirt road as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn't look back—not once.
The guards followed in pitiful fashion. Those whose legs had been broken dragged themselves across the ground, their groans echoing in the torchlit street. The less injured stumbled limply after Roman, clutching their ribs and arms, each step a staggered retreat. The once-proud enforcers of the village now looked like crawling insects fleeing a flame.
From a distance, villagers had gathered, their faces pale in the dim light. Not a single word left their lips as they watched the humiliating retreat. Then, one by one, they slipped back into their homes, shutting doors and barring windows. The crackle of torches remained the only sound in the street, the night air thick with silence and fear.
Rathmur stood alone in the quiet, his dark aura still lingering like smoke in the air, his gaze steady. The message had been delivered—louder than words ever could.