While Yi Kang-mu and Laurel had been fighting to the death, in another part of the forest, Marvel walked with unhurried confidence.
He'd changed back into his signature black suit, immaculate despite the forest environment. His black leather bag was draped over his left shoulder in a casual manner—his left arm bent upward and resting across the top of his shoulder, the bag hanging loosely behind his back, supported only by the crook of his elbow. It was a relaxed, almost lazy posture, as if he'd simply swung the bag there without effort.
He walked like a man attending a business meeting, not traversing a deadly magical forest.
Ahead, he heard screams.
Marvel approached to find a group of adventurers being slaughtered. But their attackers weren't human—they were drawings come to life. Knights and soldiers that looked like they'd stepped out of a sketchbook, their forms slightly flat and stylized despite being three-dimensional.
A man stood behind them, dressed in traditional Korean scholar's robes. He held a notebook and pen, drawing with incredible speed. Everything he drew came to life, stepping off the page fully formed and aggressive.
The Guardian of the sword.
As Marvel watched, the Guardian drew a swarm of creatures—wild, white, aggressive zombies that moved with terrifying speed. They charged at the surviving adventurers, who screamed and tried to fight back but were clearly outmatched.
The zombies noticed Marvel and changed direction, rushing toward him instead.
Marvel didn't move until they were almost upon him.
Then he eliminated all of them in seconds.
His movements were so fast, so efficient, that the zombies simply stopped existing. No dramatic techniques, no flashy displays—just clinical, professional execution.
The Guardian's eyes widened. He'd been toying with the other adventurers, making them struggle against even his weakest creations. This man was different.
The Guardian tore two pages from his notebook and drew frantically. Two master swordsmen materialized, wielding katanas, their forms more detailed and solid than the previous creations.
Marvel looked at them, then sighed.
He set down his leather bag carefully. Removed his suit jacket and draped it over the bag. Loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar to feel more comfortable.
Then he reached into the bag and withdrew a single dagger.
The two drawn swordsmen attacked in perfect sync, their blades moving in complex patterns that suggested genuine skill rather than simple animation.
Marvel fought them with the dagger, his movements economical and precise. He was clearly holding back, testing them, learning the extent of the Guardian's power.
As the fight continued, Marvel maneuvered himself toward a large tree, its shadow stretching across the clearing.
He stepped into the shadow.
And vanished.
Projection—fourth stage of Vitra mastery. The ability to separate one's vital energy from the physical body and reform elsewhere.
Marvel reappeared directly behind the Guardian, his dagger raised for a killing strike.
Then Laurel's scream echoed through the forest.
That scream—primal, desperate, filled with rage and determination—carried for miles through the Forest of Ten Thousand Shadows.
The Guardian heard it. His head turned reflexively toward the source of the sound.
That fraction of a second of distraction was all Marvel needed to adjust his attack.
Instead of killing the Guardian, he stepped back into shadow-travel mode as the Guardian spun around, swinging his traditional Korean hand fan like a weapon. The fan, enhanced with the Guardian's own Vitra, cut through the space where Marvel had been.
But Marvel was already gone, reforming behind the Guardian again—this time emerging from the man's own shadow.
A precise strike to the back of the head. The Guardian collapsed, unconscious but alive.
Marvel stood over the fallen man, studying him with professional interest. The Guardian was powerful, creative with his abilities, and clearly had been testing adventurers for some time. Killing him seemed wasteful.
Besides, Marvel's mission had never been about the sword or the competition.
He picked up his suit jacket, dusted it off meticulously, and put it back on. Straightened his tie. Shouldered his leather bag in that same casual posture.
Then he heard the fireworks.
Blue light exploded in the sky—Yi Seong-ryu's signal.
The competition was over. Time to leave.
Marvel walked away from the unconscious Guardian, leaving him for someone else to deal with. He had other priorities now.
When the King heard the fireworks, he emerged from his inner chamber where he'd been waiting for the result. He saw the blue light in the sky and smiled—his youngest son had survived and claimed victory.
He turned to return to his chamber, already composing the announcement he would make to the court.
But when he stepped inside, he stopped.
A figure sat in his private study.
She sat low on the floor, one knee pressed to the ground, the other bent upright at a clean right angle—a stance that balanced discipline with quiet dominance. Her right elbow rested atop that raised knee, relaxed but precise, while her left arm reached down to the earth, palm open for balance.
Beneath that hand lay a plain black katana, its lacquered sheath unadorned, humble in appearance yet humming with restrained danger.
In her right hand, she held a long Joseon tobacco pipe, the metal stem glinting faintly as smoke drifted from her lips in slow, confident spirals. The calm in her expression wasn't softness—it was the stillness of someone who'd already measured the room and found no threat worth rising for.
She was dressed in a full black Onna-Bugeisha Shōzoku—a woman warrior's garb from Japan: a fitted kimono bound neatly beneath wide, pleated hakama trousers. No armor. No ornamentation. The fabric moved with her like a shadow, made for speed, silence, and precision.
Her long black hair fell freely to her waist.
She didn't look like she was preparing for battle—she looked like the battle had already accepted its outcome.
"Hello, Father," Ji-won said, taking another slow draw from her pipe.
The King stared at his eldest child, the Crown Prince he'd raised, and saw the truth he'd been blind to for seventeen years.
"You're—" he began.
"A woman," Ji-won finished calmly. "Yes. I always have been. Mother knew. She raised me for the throne anyway. And now, I've eliminated the competition and ensured my brother's survival. The court will accept Yi Seong-ryu as the new crown prince."
"And if I refuse?" the king asked quietly.
Ji-won took another puff from her pipe, smoke curling in the air between them.
"You think I'm asking for your permission," she said simply. "In case you didn't know, today is your last "
The king looked at his daughter—at the weapon at her side, at the absolute certainty in her eyes, at the smoke rising from her pipe like an offering to spirits already at peace with violence.
He instantly knew that he was looking at a monster.