"The commander extends an invitation. Join the Skyrend Legion."
Veron's posture remained relaxed. "I don't follow anyone."
"Oh, but you might have to," Kyle said, his voice smooth, almost playful. "You're wanted now. Without our help—and without a legion to shield you—you won't even reach the Wall alive."
Veron jerked a thumb toward Dren. "I already have a legion. This is my right hand."
Kyle's gaze slid over Dren, measuring. "Name?"
"Dren A'Fall," he answered calmly, though adrenaline prickled beneath his skin.
Kyle chuckled. "A noble clan, perhaps… though I've never heard of an A clan before." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Still, I have heard rumors of a fighter with that name."
Veron's voice sharpened. "Are you laughing at my friend?"
Kyle's smile stiffened. "…Consider it a compliment."
Veron raised a single finger, eyes never leaving him. "Not interested."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then Kyle vanished.
One moment he stood still—then he was already upon them, his speed slicing the air like a blade. Dren reacted on instinct, stepping in and intercepting the strike with a precise block. The impact rattled his bones; pain shot through his forearms as his chest heaved.
People screamed and scattered in every direction.
Kyle grinned wider. "Strong. Excellent." His gaze locked onto Dren. "—You'll join us too."
The ground exploded.
A massive fist slammed into the ground between them—the hulking second man descending like a falling boulder. Stone shattered. Dust and debris filled the air. People stumbled away, coughing, shielding their heads. Dren barely managed to brace himself, muscles coiling like steel springs.
This… is no ordinary strength…
His heart thundered.
The third man began walking calmly toward Veron.
But Veron had already moved.
His hand slid to his waist, peeling away the black bands bound tightly around the hilt of his sword. Faint veins of gold traced the metal beneath. He pressed his thumb—only a few millimeters.
The blade rose.
Black as space itself
The world responded.
A crushing pressure slammed into the alley, forcing air and stone downward. Cobblestones groaned. People collapsed to their knees, gasping. Even distant soldiers froze, eyes wide with instinctive terror.
Kyle staggered, teeth grinding as he fought to stay upright. "T-that blade… that's a Retsu blade, like th—!"
Dren stared, awe and disbelief colliding. His knees buckled under the sheer weight of the pressure.
Veron's eyes were steel—cold, merciless.
He sheathed the sword.
"A word of advice for your legion," he said evenly. "If you intend to reach the Second World… do not stand in my way."
Kyle clenched his fists, fury and fear twisting together. He understood now—this wasn't power they could take lightly. Not here. Not yet.
"We will return," he snarled. "And when we do… we will kill you."
Then, like predators, the three leapt away—vanishing across rooftops until shadows swallowed them whole.
Silence descended.
Dren's gaze lingered on the sword. Memories surfaced—earlier, when Veron freed his hands, he had stolen a blade from a soldier.
And what he had just witnessed was something beyond reason.
"They'll be trouble later," Dren murmured, voice tight with awe.
Veron nodded once. "Then we remove them."
They slipped through narrow alleys drowned in shadow before the soldiers arrived, black robes stolen from the market absorbing the fading light. Patrols passed nearby, but never noticed them.
Minutes later, they reached safety.
Warm lamps glowed from a small roadside hotel, drawing them in.
From a distance, Lara watched them enter, worry darkening her expression.
Inside, Dren collapsed onto the bed, chest pounding, muscles trembling. Veron emptied his bag onto the mattress—a neat stack of coins.
"Forty thousand Rizo," Veron said. "Enough to leave the city."
"I'm broke," Dren muttered.
Veron shrugged. "My money is your money."
The evening sun bled across the sky. Dren unwrapped the bandages on his arms, revealing intricate clan tattoos etched into his skin. His hands trembled—not from pain, but from lingering shock.
"So you really are from a noble clan," Veron said quietly.
"Yes. A forgotten one."
A flicker of curiosity crossed Veron's eyes. "My mother had noble blood too. The U clan."
Dren nodded toward the sword. "The blade… is it hers?"
Veron shook his head. "My father's. It's infused with Retsu—so I can't wield it fully yet."
Dren leaned closer. "What is that?…are he truly that rare?"
"Rare enough to dominate this world if your weapon can contain it," Veron replied. "That's why I never reveal it unless I must."
"So your father is an asc—?"
A sharp knock cut him off.
Veron opened the door.
Lara burst in, face pale, eyes wide. "You're both wanted! Veron, don't tell me you took my words seriously yesterday?!"
"Yes, absolutely" he said calmly.
"Don't joke now! I know your reason, What will you do now?" she demanded.
"I'll leave."
Her gaze snapped to Dren. "Did he drag you into this madness?"
Veron answered first. "He chose it." His eyes were steady. "I will become Wallstride… and he will become the strongest fighter across the worlds."
Lara trembled. Memories flashed—quiet smiles, fleeting moments—before reality crushed them.
"I admired you…" she whispered. "…and now you're leaving."
"Both of you are fools," she said weakly. "Soldiers are already searching for you."
Dren rewrapped his bandages, nodded to Veron, and leapt through the window.
"You should take care," Veron said softly.
Her shoulders slumped. "I'll never see you again."
The wind howled.
Dren stood at the rooftop's edge, the city sprawling beneath him, the ocean gleaming beyond. Another continent loomed on the horizon—calling.
Veron joined him.
Together, they faced the unknown.
As the last ray of sun sank beneath the waves, a faint cough echoed from an alley below.
In a narrow passage, leaning against a cracked wall, stood a man wearing a crow mask. A lantern burned at his feet beside a worn bag and an old radio.
"You walk just like your father did… Veron."
The masked man chuckled.
"Soon, our paths will cross—whether you like it or not."