Aeriswen's sword glimmered with silver light, its edge humming with mana as it pointed straight toward Haru's neck.
The air between them was tense, the elven soldiers holding their breath.
But Haru didn't move.
He didn't flinch.
He simply stared at her — calm, steady, unshaken.
Then, slowly, he raised his eyes and spoke in a low voice,
"Do you even see what I'm wearing?"
The princess blinked, confused for a moment.
Haru stepped forward, brushing the dust from his robe — the one woven with gold and silver thread, marked with the crest of the royal family. The robe that King Illendir Velyrion himself had granted him.
"Or are you just blind?"
His tone wasn't arrogant — it was cold, filled with pride that came from surviving countless battles.
There was no fear in his eyes.
No hesitation.
He had transcended pain, surpassed fear. Every day he fought, every night he bled — and what stood before her now was not a mere human. It was a Gladiator, forged through death itself.
"With all due respect, Princess," he continued, his dull, emotionless eyes piercing through hers.
"Are those eyes of yours just for display?"
Aeriswen's temper flared instantly.
"I dare you—!" she hissed, mana surging around her like a crimson storm.
But before she could strike again, a voice rang out from behind her — calm yet amused.
"Easy there, Princess. Don't go picking fights you can't finish."
A tall elf walked toward them, his golden hair tied back, his smile relaxed but his eyes sharp with experience. His presence carried weight — not of authority, but of familiarity.
"Princess, calm down," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "This guy isn't ordinary. Even the king respects him."
Aeriswen frowned, lowering her sword slightly.
"Respects him? My father?"
The elf chuckled softly. "Oh, right. You weren't around when it happened."
He turned toward Haru, grinning. "You've gotten stronger since the last report. I almost didn't recognize you."
Then, glancing back at Aeriswen, he said,
"Let me introduce him properly — this is the human your father rewarded himself. The one who defended the Northern line for months alone."
Aeriswen's expression stiffened in disbelief.
"And as for me," the elf said, placing his hand over his chest with a small bow,
"I'm Faenor Arven, eldest brother of Lynelle. She's talked about you quite a bit, so… I already know who you are."
Haru gave a small nod, relaxing his stance.
"I see," he said quietly. "So you're Lynelle's brother."
Faenor smiled.
Aeriswen clicked her tongue, glaring at Haru one last time.
"Tch. Let's move out. We're wasting our time with that human," she said sharply, turning away with a swirl of red hair.
Her guards quickly followed, forming ranks around her. Haru didn't argue — he simply exhaled, adjusted his robe, and walked silently behind them.
He wasn't offended. He had no energy left for pride or insults.
He had long passed the point of proving himself.
---
The next battlefield was worse than before — a field of ash and blood, where the stench of rot hung heavy in the air.
Hundreds of undead poured from the northern ridge — skeleton knights, ghoul mages, wraith archers — their glowing eyes flickering like dying lanterns.
Aeriswen raised her bow, her mana flaring crimson. "Formation! Hold the line!"
Arrows of light tore through the darkness, piercing undead skulls — yet for every one that fell, two more rose. The ground cracked open, birthing new horrors.
And then—
a shadow loomed.
A hulking Death Knight emerged, wielding a massive cleaver dripping with black ichor. Its level flickered above its head — 74.
The elven soldiers hesitated.
But Haru… smiled faintly.
He stepped forward, loosening his neck with a crack.
"Stay back," he murmured. "I'll handle this."
The elves turned in confusion — and then he was gone.
A blur.
BANG!
The Death Knight's body twisted violently, its blade shattering mid-swing as Haru's wooden sword—still the same gift from Lynelle—glowed crimson. One strike. One kill.
The undead around him rushed forward, shrieking — but to Haru, it was like swatting flies. His movements were fluid, precise, effortless.
He wasn't fighting anymore.
He was dancing through death.
Each step shattered skulls, each motion tore through armor.
It wasn't strength — it was understanding.
He had finally reached the point where even monsters of legend couldn't keep up.
The elves stared in silence, awe creeping across their faces.
Within minutes, the battlefield fell quiet again — only the sound of the wind brushing against corpses remained.
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the elven camp settled.
Wounded soldiers bandaged each other in silence; the smell of burned mana hung in the air.
Haru sat by a tree, away from the others. His robe was torn, his hands covered in dried black blood.
He didn't speak. Didn't brag. Didn't smile.
Faenor approached, handing him a small loaf of bread.
"Here," he said simply.
Haru nodded, taking it.
As he ate quietly, he could feel eyes on him — whispers from the soldiers who had once doubted him.
"That human… he wiped them out alone."
"His movements... I couldn't even see them."
Haru ignored it all. He just sat there, the firelight reflecting in his dull, tired eyes.
He wasn't fighting for glory anymore.
He was fighting because there was no one else left who could.