Raydon Kergastel was beyond impressed. If not for the inherited dungeon relic on his hand, he would have already fallen to Kana’s last feint. Her precision, her speed—it was like fighting a phantom with steel.

  Kana steadied her breathing, chest rising and falling in rhythm. Then she darted forward again. This time her strikes came faster, sharper—like rain hammering a shield. Raydon barely kept pace, his arm snapping in small, efficient motions to parry each blow. Not a wasted gesture, not an inch given.

  In a moment of desperation, he stooped, scooping a handful of snow with his sword hand and flinging it into her path. A dirty trick—but even that failed. Kana twisted aside, her blade still angling toward him, eyes glinting red in the firelight.

  Time to end this, Raydon thought.

  “[Knight Roar]!”

  The skill ripped through the night, a surge of force and presence that locked Kana in its pull. Her eyes widened, and her body betrayed her—her next strike drove straight into his front.

  “[Full Counter]!”

  Steel and shield met her attack, the recoil jarring up her arm. In the same heartbeat, Raydon’s sword shifted, darting for the blindspot every duelist dreaded. The copper-class adventurers gasped, already imagining Kana sprawled in the snow.

  But Kana moved. Her body bent in impossible ways, twisting in midair as though she’d practiced the evasion a hundred times. Raydon’s blunt sword slashed empty air.

  He exhaled heavily, lowering his shield. “This will never end.”

  Kana landed light on her feet, breathing hard, her crimson eyes calm once more. She bowed her head. “This is my defeat. You’d win if we dragged this out. Your stamina outlasts mine… and your efficiency is flawless.”

  Raydon scratched at the back of his neck, oddly sheepish at her words. “Right…” Why did it feel like he was speaking to one of his old instructors instead of a young student?

  The crowd broke into applause, some still stunned, others exhilarated by the duel they’d witnessed. When Raydon and Kana clasped hands in mutual respect, the campfire flared brighter, as though acknowledging their display of unique raw and system skills.

  Later, the camp fell into silence. Exhaustion claimed them one by one. Laughter quieted, the crackle of embers softened. Everyone slept deeply—except Kana, whose crimson eyes lingered awake in the dark.

  ..

  Kana let out a long sigh, her breath misting faintly in the cold tent. Her body felt sluggish, uncooperative—nothing like when she had fought the shadow man. Back then her strikes had flowed with sharp instinct: seamless counters, unexpected footwork, creativity sparking in every motion. Tonight… she had been clumsy by comparison.

  How did I do that?

  The memory pressed on her. Against the shadow man, she had been exhilarated—heart hammering not from fatigue, but from the thrill of a fight where every mistake meant death. That edge of danger had pulled something out of her, a clarity that no sparring match could reproduce. Facing Raydon had been different. Safer. Almost academic. It hadn’t been a battle to survive—it had been a lesson.

  And she had learned something. That was all that mattered. For now.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden warmth. Rin shifted in her sleep and draped herself around Kana from behind, her small arms locking instinctively. “Cold… so cold…” she murmured, her breath soft against Kana’s shoulder.

  Kana froze for a moment, then allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. She adjusted her blanket, making sure Rin was covered, and let her crimson eyes soften in the dark.

  ….

  The journey back to the capital was uneventful—at least on the surface. The only difference was the extra wagon space allotted for Roy’s newest summon, its skeletal frame swaying with every bump of the road like a grim reminder of their venture. Mica and her family stayed close to the eggs, their skills focused on tending and incubating them as if they were priceless treasures.

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  Time blurred after that. Weeks slipped by like pages turning too quickly, each day echoing the last. The trio sank into routine—training at the academy, raiding dungeons with Leo, and taking their quiet refuge at the orphanage on weekends.

  Kana, however, felt the restless edge of frustration carving into her calm. Her [Bolt Dagger Style] grew sharper, her movements cleaner, her rhythm more precise. Progress was undeniable. And yet… the skill she had unleashed in that desperate struggle against the shadow man refused to return. No matter how many times she tried—no matter how many scenarios she recreated—it remained out of reach.

  Each failure left her baffled. Was that strength only born because death had been staring at her? Must she always stand on the cliff’s edge, with her life on the line, to get the sensation back again?

  The thought lingered with her daily, a shadow at the back of every swing of her dagger.

  ….

  It was one week before their journey to the northern fortress. The academy grounds still carried the bite of winter; students shivered in their cloaks, their breath rising like pale mist in the cold morning air. Most were still half-asleep—yawning, rubbing their eyes, dragging their boots across the frozen dirt.

  Suri had already given up the fight, her head slumped onto Rin’s shoulder, dozing while somehow still standing. Boris, meanwhile, had joined the knot of boys from the other classes. Their talk was a mix of laughter and hushed tones, and Kana caught the word gambling more than once. Copper-class students were being drawn in, promised easy coins by those who thought they were clever.

  Kana frowned. Boris will not fall for that… will he?

  Her thoughts broke when Principal Light appeared at the edge of the training field, a small procession following him. Professors in academy robes. Adventurers clad in steel and leather. Even the tired students straightened.

  Principal Light’s voice cut through the murmurs as he went group by group, introducing the assigned escort and overseers for the coming expedition. Then at last he stood before them.

  “This is first-year group nine, consisting of two gold-class and eight copper-class students,” he announced. The line stiffened under his gaze.

  “You are already familiar with your professor, Wor-en, who will accompany you,” he continued. Then his eyes shifted. “And since you lack a healer, we have assigned a silver-rank adventurer known for her versatility. Meet Zia.”

  The hooded figure stepped forward. With one smooth motion, she lowered her cowl.

  Braided hair spilled free, catching the weak sunlight. Her long ears were sharp, unmistakable. She was tall—taller than Principal Light himself—and her eyes carried the weight of centuries, steady and unblinking.

  “I am Celiaranatazia of House Abuelo,” she said, her voice calm and resonant. “Humans shorten it to Cel or Zia, as my full name tends to break your tongues. My class is now a [Battle Mage].”

  Kana froze. The word Battle Mage felt… wrong. No, not wrong—impossible. Classes were always one word. Yet this woman bore two. It seemed there were more to the classes. She clearly told them now, what was her class before then? Is changing class even possible?

  And then there was the other thing. The shape of those ears, the aura around her, the way her very presence seemed to stretch time thin. Tales had whispered of such beings, ageless and beautiful, more legend than flesh. The ageless, had the looks of a human yet not human at all.

  A word stirred in Kana’s mind.

  Elf.

  She had no idea where it came from. But as she stared at Zia, the word echoed, filling her chest with an odd weight.

  They are not supposedly real.

  …

  Flowel never expected to receive a personal summons after reporting the theft of the vault of coin. Yet here he was—descending into the underground district’s temple, a place so secretive only whispers hinted at its existence.

  The air was thick with wax and old marrow; candles guttered in sconces of bone, casting the basement corridors in a pale, skeletal glow.

  So this is where the head of the organization hides… or perhaps only where he chooses to meet, Flowel thought, tightening his grip on his staff. Not truly a staff—its polished wood was only a shell for the dungeon item embedded within.

  At the end of the passage, a hunched figure opened a stone door for him. “Inside. The master awaits.”

  Flowel stepped into the chamber. The darkness pressed close, but one detail seared through it: a glowing scar slashing across the man’s face. The scar seemed alive, faintly luminescent, marking him unmistakably. Scar.

  “The coin,” Scar rumbled. His deep voice filled the room, vibrating through Flowel’s bones. “I hear you’ve found the culprit. And you require help? Unacceptable… from one of my top executives.”

  The weight of his words was suffocating, as if he could crush Flowel simply by speaking louder.

  “Indeed,” Flowel answered, his tone measured. He bowed slightly, then raised his staff. “But before that… I bring you a gift, master.”

  The chamber was silent. No guards. No witnesses. Scar’s eyes narrowed.

  [Orb of Imprisonment]

  The crystal buried in Flowel’s staff blazed gray. A surge of light burst forth and wrapped around Scar like shackles. The man’s massive frame jerked, ready to strike him down—then froze mid-motion, body locked by invisible chains.

  Scar’s teeth bared. His fury filled the air like fire, but he could not move.

  Flowel’s smile was cold, trembling with years of hidden hatred. “You wouldn’t want to know how long I’ve waited for this moment.”

  [Living Puppet]

  Scar’s body shuddered. His limbs loosened—then moved, not by his will, but by Flowel’s. The towering figure stepped forward, bent the knee, and bowed low before him.

  Flowel’s grip on his staff tightened, drunk on the impossible sight. The master of shadows, the feared Scar, kneeling like a puppet on strings.

  Finally.