Dra'thiel was burning.
Not the clean kind of burning that followed a single spell or siege engine—but the ugly kind. The kind that lingered. Smoke clung to shattered rooftops, drifting low through streets choked with rubble and blood. Entire rows of homes had collapsed inward, doors torn from hinges, walls crushed as if something enormous had passed through without slowing.
Villagers ran.
Some screamed.
Some didn't make a sound at all.
A mother dragged her son by the arm, sobbing as they stumbled over broken stone. A wounded adventurer lay against a wall, eyes open, unmoving, while another pressed shaking hands against a wound that refused to close. The smell of iron mixed with ash and scorched mana, thick enough to taste.
This wasn't a battlefield.
It was what happened when a battlefield was forced onto civilians.
And far above it all, the sky trembled faintly—as if something massive were breathing.
Miles away, the ground shook for an entirely different reason.
A formation of armored figures surged forward across blackened plains, banners snapping violently in the wind. War-horns echoed in disciplined rhythm as heavy boots struck the earth in unison—thousands of them, moving with practiced precision.
At their head walked a giant.
Glalvrad Trail did not wear armor.
He didn't need to.
He stood nearly eight feet tall, broad as a fortress gate, his dark green skin marred by old scars that told stories no bard would dare embellish. One jagged line cut across his right eye, pale against darker flesh, while others crisscrossed his arms and torso—each one earned, none hidden.
His short black hair was tied back simply. His yellow eyes were sharp, steady, and utterly unafraid.
He wore expensive clothes—tailored perfectly, durable fabric reinforced with subtle enchantments only a master tailor would bother weaving. Clothes made by his wife, whose hands were famed across multiple kingdoms of the Demon Realm.
Glalvrad trusted those clothes more than any armor.
Because armor broke.
He didn't.
He raised one massive fist.
The entire formation halted instantly.
No shouted command.
No magical amplification.
Just the fist.
Glalvrad turned, voice deep and carrying effortlessly over the ranks.
"Listen carefully," he said. "You are not marching into a border skirmish."
The knights straightened.
"You are not fighting beasts that flee when wounded."
He paced slowly before them, hands clasped behind his back.
"Reports confirm Abyssal monsters—organized, adaptive, and reinforced by a lieutenant-class entity. Expect regeneration. Expect resistance to standard elements. Expect casualties."
A murmur rippled through the lines—quickly silenced by a glance from him.
Glalvrad stopped.
"And understand this," he continued calmly. "Princess Elzra of Groblinheim is inside Dra'thiel."
That landed harder than any spell.
"You will not panic. You will not chase glory. You will not break formation."
He clenched his fist once.
"If you see something you cannot handle," he said, "you fall back and you signal."
His gaze hardened.
"If I see someone disobey because they wanted to be a hero—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
"Knights," Glalvrad said, turning toward the distant smoke rising on the horizon, "we move to contain, evacuate, and hold."
His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"And if something too big shows its face…"
He rolled his shoulders, knuckles cracking softly.
"…I'll handle it."
War-horns sounded again.
The army advanced.
And somewhere ahead, Dra'thiel burned—unaware that the fist of Groblinheim was already on its way.
✦ Raised Voices, Lowered Masks
"HEY!"
The shout cut through the ruined street like a thrown brick.
The smallest cloaked figure froze mid-step.
Not because of fear.
Because the noise was annoying.
Ash drifted through the air as the figure slowly turned around. The cloak was too large for his frame, sleeves hanging loose as if borrowed. Beneath the hood, nothing was visible—just shadow.
Behind him, the other two cloaked figures halted.
One of them—taller, broad-shouldered—let out an amused snort.
"Oh wow," he said lazily. "He's loud."
He froze mid-step.
Slowly, he turned.
Kael Valcryst stood a few meters away, chest heaving, sword raised halfway as if he hadn't decided whether he was threatening or posturing. His face was flushed—anger, humiliation, adrenaline all tangled together.
"You three!" Kael barked. "Stop right there! Take those cloaks off—now!"
The smallest cloaked figure stared at him.
Then sighed.
An exaggerated, deeply annoyed sigh.
"…You're loud," the small one muttered. "You know that?"
Kael bristled instantly. "What did you say—?!"
Behind the small figure, one of the taller cloaked ones laughed. Not nervously. Not politely.
Genuinely amused.
"Heh," the taller one said lazily. "Kid, you're really full of yourself for someone who was about to get flattened."
Kael spun on him. "I didn't need saving!"
The smallest cloaked figure immediately pointed at Kael.
"See? He's fine. Totally fine. I was definitely saving him."
There was a beat.
Then the third cloaked figure—standing slightly behind the others—tilted her head and spoke calmly.
"…You're a terrible liar."
The smallest figure stiffened. "Hey."
"You didn't even look at him before you punched the monster," she continued evenly.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword.
"You're all just standing there talking like I'm not even here!" he snapped. "You barge into my village, hide your faces, and act like you own the streets—!"
The taller cloaked figure chuckled again.
"Oh wow. He's serious."
That laugh did it.
Kael raised his sword fully, aura flaring around the blade in a rough, unstable shimmer.
"I said—take off your cloaks!"
The taller cloaked figure leaned forward slightly, clearly entertained.
"…Are you threatening us?"
Kael's voice cracked with fury. "I'm telling you to—"
"STOP."
Lina Valcryst stepped between them.
Her hands were shaking—but her voice wasn't.
Kael blinked. "Lina—get back!"
"No," she said firmly. "You stop. Right now."
She turned on him, eyes sharp despite the fear written all over her face.
"There are three of them," Lina said. "You're injured, exhausted, and you almost died. And instead of thanking them, you're shouting and waving a sword like a child!"
"That monster—"
"—would have killed you," Lina cut in softly. "You know it. I know it."
Kael hesitated.
Just for a second.
"That doesn't matter," he muttered. "They could be working with the monsters."
The taller cloaked figure snorted.
"Yeah. Definitely. That's why he punched it to death."
Lina bowed her head slightly toward them.
"…Please," she said. "Forgive my brother. He's frightened. And he doesn't think before he speaks."
Kael's jaw dropped. "Lina!"
She didn't look at him.
She looked at the cloaked figures.
"Thank you," she added quietly. "For helping us."
The smallest cloaked figure stared at her for a moment.
Then looked away.
"…Tch."
Kael clenched his fists.
"And who are you?" he demanded. "Hiding your faces like criminals—"
The calm cloaked figure raised a hand.
"That's enough," she said gently. "We're not your enemies."
✦The Ones Being Sought
The street trembled faintly in the distance—another explosion, another life lost somewhere Kael couldn't see.
The calm cloaked figure stepped forward.
"We're here to help," she said. "At least… for now."
Kael scoffed. "Then why hide your faces?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she glanced sideways at the taller cloaked figure.
He met her gaze.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then he shrugged.
"…Guess it doesn't matter anymore."
He reached up and pulled back his hood.
Kael froze.
The man beneath was tall, sharp-featured, with an easy, lazy confidence that didn't belong on a battlefield like this. His eyes were relaxed. Too relaxed.
Lina inhaled sharply.
Before Kael could speak, the calm cloaked figure removed her hood as well.
Her expression was composed, mature, eyes alert and assessing everything at once. She looked like someone used to command, not follow.
Kael staggered back half a step.
"…Who are you people?"
The smallest cloaked figure still hadn't moved.
His hood stayed firmly in place.
The tall man smiled and clapped a hand on the small one's shoulder.
"We're looking for someone," he said casually. "Someone who looks like this."
He gestured at the smallest figure.
Kael frowned. "Then why is he—"
The man paused.
Looked down.
"…Huh."
The smallest cloaked figure froze.
"Oh no."
The tall man reached out.
"Wait—don't—"
Too late.
The cloak was yanked back.
Fabric fluttered to the ground.
And standing there—wide-eyed, annoyed, and unmistakably familiar—
Was the face Lina Valcryst recognized instantly.
Her breath caught.
Lina's eyes went wide.
"…That's—"
The smallest figure stared back at them.
"…Hi."
The street fell silent.
And somewhere far away, something ancient smiled.
✦ When the Watcher Stops Watching
Far above the Mortal Layer—
far beyond clouds, flame, and fear—
The Abyssal Behemoth Dragon exhaled slowly.
The air around its massive form trembled as if reality itself were bracing.
"…So," the dragon rumbled, golden pupils narrowing.
"They move."
Its awareness stretched outward—not through sight, but through pressure. Through instinct. Through the deep, ancient language of monsters that understood when prey stopped panicking and started organizing.
Steel on stone.
Aura alignment.
Command structures locking into place.
Reinforcements.
From the west.
From Groblinheim.
The dragon's lips curled—not into a snarl, but into something colder.
"Knights," it murmured. "Generals. Order."
Around it, the Rift churned.
Its lieutenants felt the shift immediately.
One straightened.
Another cracked knuckles the size of boulders.
A third grinned, tusks gleaming.
"The show was amusing," the dragon continued.
"Watching the village struggle. Watching my emissary be… challenged."
It flexed one wing.
Magma rivers below surged.
"But now the stage changes."
The dragon's gaze sharpened.
"Mobilize," it commanded.
The word carried weight.
Not a roar.
Not rage.
A decision.
"Bring the strong ones. Not the hordes. I want pressure—not noise."
The lieutenants bowed.
Their forces stirred—Abyssal monsters that did not scream, did not charge blindly. Creatures born for war, not terror.
As they began to move, the dragon's attention drifted once more—briefly—toward the village.
Toward the anomaly.
Toward the axolotl.
Toward the other presence it still hadn't fully named.
"…Interesting," it mused.
"But playtime is over."
Back in Dra'thiel
The cloak hit the ground.
Clone Asura stared at it.
Then at the hand that had ripped it off him.
Then slowly—very slowly—looked up.
"…Wow," he said. "We're just doing that now?"
Selene turned on the taller man instantly.
"Keith," she snapped. "You do not rip clothes off children."
Keith waved it off lazily.
"It's not like he was naked under there."
"That's not the point!" Selene shot back. "The point is—this is still Asura in a way!"
Keith snorted.
"Yeah. A discount Asura."
Clone Asura gasped dramatically, clutching his chest.
"Ouch."
He paused.
"…I mean, yeah. Fair. But still."
Kael Valcryst had gone completely rigid.
His eyes flicked between the three of them—
the relaxed swordsman,
the composed woman,
and the child standing in the street with Asura's face.
"…Who the hell are you people supposed to be?" Kael demanded.
Keith blinked.
Then laughed.
"Oh wow," he said. "You really don't know?"
Clone Asura's eyes lit up.
He stepped forward, straightened his posture, and inhaled deeply like an actor stepping onto a stage.
"Oh! Oh! I got this!"
Selene groaned.
"Please don't—"
Too late.
Clone Asura spread his arms.
"Allow me to introduce us!"
He pointed at himself first.
"I am Clone Asura—temporary duplicate, emergency stand-in, and overall lesser but still impressive version of—"
Kael scoffed loudly.
"Yeah, okay."
Clone Asura ignored him.
He pointed next to the calm woman.
"This is Selene—Royal Shadow, bloodline wielder, and the reason most people don't finish their sentences."
Selene pinched the bridge of her nose.
"And this," Clone Asura said grandly, gesturing at the tall man,
"is Keith Von Talon—Demon Knight, professional slacker, and personal knight to Prince Asura."
Silence.
Lina Valcryst's face drained of color.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
"…P-Prince… Asura?" she whispered.
Kael barked a laugh.
"Oh come on," he snapped. "You expect me to believe that? The Demon King's grandson doesn't look like a—"
Clone Asura leaned in.
"Like me?"
Kael faltered.
"…No," he muttered. "You're lying."
Keith tilted his head.
"Kid," he said casually, "if we were lying, you'd already be unconscious."
Lina stepped forward slowly, eyes shining—not with fear, but awe.
"…The Demon King's grandson," she breathed. "The one from the stories…"
Her gaze flicked to Clone Asura.
Then to Keith.
Then to Selene.
"…You're really here."
Kael stared at her.
"Lina?"
She swallowed.
"…Brother," she said softly. "They're not lying."
Kael's world tilted.
Clone Asura smiled brightly.
"Hi," he said. "Nice village. Sorry about the monsters."
And above them—
Far beyond sight—
Something ancient began to move faster.