The invincible Nian beast was said to tremble at the crackling boom of firecrackers, just as the fierce beasts feared the blazing glare of fire. Perhaps every creature, no matter how powerful, harbors some primal fear etched into its being; an unshakable vulnerability that only deepens with exposure.
Oliver stood at the center of chaos, the remnants of a once-formidable magic circle now utterly obliterated. Not a trace of its intricate patterns remained; it was as though it had never existed. Whether this was his first time performing such destruction or his last, the aftermath felt momentous, even if Oliver's expression betrayed no such sentiment.
Meanwhile, a young man stood frozen nearby, his terror paralyzing him. He shrieked, his voice high-pitched and grating, unable to summon the courage to move even a step. His eyes darted to the debris raining from the sky, his trembling body betraying his deepest fear; that even the smallest fragment of stone might strike him down. It was a fear so palpable it could almost be felt by those around him.
Such was the depth of his terror.
---
"It's not bad," the little girl said at last, her tone nonchalant, as if she were accustomed to such displays. Her words carried no trace of awe or critique, merely quiet acceptance. Yet, the faint curve at the corners of her lips betrayed her satisfaction.
This was no admiration for beauty or skill; it was something else entirely. Nostalgia, perhaps.
Rosa, however, was less composed. Her brow furrowed as the uncanny feeling of prophecy nudged at her consciousness. *How?* She thought in irritation. *How is he still alive?*
Stone after stone had rained down with crushing force, each strike deliberate, relentless. And yet, the target remained intact. The threads of fate felt distant and distorted, clear when far away but maddeningly blurred up close. The ambiguity gnawed at her. Could there be more to this than she foresaw? It seemed implausible, yet here it was; a maddening twist.
She clenched her fists. First, she had struck with all her might. Then came the barrage, a sheer overwhelming force that should have guaranteed annihilation. And yet, the result defied her expectations.
---
Oliver staggered slightly, his breath unsteady, his body reeling from the assault. Though the attack had lacked finesse, it had exacted a toll. He felt unmoored, as if he were suspended between earth and sky. The world shimmered with light, disorienting and alien. It was an illusion, but it seeped into his mind like a sickness. His strength was drained, and his consciousness felt split, as though his body and soul belonged to different realms.
The sacred water he had carried for so long had turned into ordinary liquid, swallowed without effect. His defenses were in tatters. He needed only one more decisive strike to be finished, reduced to nothing more than a memory or a monster.
Yet hope lingered faintly, however absurd it seemed.
The young man, his shrill cries now silenced, slowly turned his gaze toward Oliver. His disbelief was evident, his expression shifting rapidly as realization dawned. Oliver had not retaliated. He hadn't even moved. The young man's confusion shifted to certainty, then to something else entirely; triumph.
A grin broke across his face, wide and mocking. His earlier fear melted away, replaced with a brazen confidence. With a sharp stomp of his left foot, he propelled himself forward, closing the distance in a blur. His body twisted midair, and his calf came crashing down on Oliver's head.
The impact was brutal. Oliver, defenseless and spent, was sent hurtling backward, slamming into a large tree. His body sagged against the trunk, his strength all but gone. He tried to raise his hand, but his limbs felt like lead.
Before he could even consider a counterattack, another strike landed squarely on his chest. This time, the young man had tempered his force, just enough to avoid piercing Oliver's body; but it was enough to send blood spraying from his mouth in a vivid arc.
Oliver crumpled further, a grim realization dawning. He had no strength left to fight back. And his opponent, no longer bound by fear, showed no signs of stopping.
The next punch struck with such force that the massive tree behind Oliver groaned and splintered. Blow after relentless blow landed until, with a deafening crack, the tree snapped in two. Oliver collapsed onto the ground, his body battered and barely responsive. He struggled to rise, each movement a monumental effort, but his opponent gave him no chance. A firm grip closed around his ankle, and in one swift motion, he was flung like a rag doll. His flight ended with a sickening thud as his head collided with another tree.
Warm liquid trickled down his forehead, sticky and unmistakably blood. For a moment, his vision blurred, the world spinning chaotically. Yet, somewhere in the haze, a sliver of gratitude flickered, he was still alive. And with that, something began to shift. The attacks, brutal as they were, seemed to jolt his fragmented body and consciousness back into alignment. The nausea that had plagued him dissipated. He could feel his feet firmly planted on the ground once more.
---
An had instructed the bystanders to retreat, warning them to keep their distance. Oliver was supposed to have been incapacitated long ago, yet he remained stubbornly mobile, defying expectations. Still, the intensity of the current situation left An uneasy. The prudent course was to ensure the crowd stayed far away, but it was as though some invisible force held them in place, compelling them to linger.
Only when the magic circle was obliterated did some begin to stir, their trance broken. Yet it wasn't fear or self-preservation that filled them; it was something else entirely. A sense of vitality hung in the air, intoxicating, almost divine. Even someone as hardened as Oliver couldn't resist its allure, let alone the elves among the crowd, who were far more sensitive to such energy. It was a pull stronger than a cat's obsession with catnip, impossible to ignore.
Gradually, panic began to ripple through the throng. Some bolted, scattering like leaves in the wind, while others stood frozen, caught between instincts to flee and an inexplicable desire to stay.
---
Aegnor had no time for hesitation. Hoisting two unconscious figures onto his back, he weaved his way through the chaos, blending into the panicked crowd. One of them was completely insensate, the other barely clinging to consciousness; both dead weight in this perilous situation. "Don't die on me," he muttered under his breath, his frustration barely masking the concern in his voice. "If you do, I won't get the chance to apologize."
---
Enola and her group weren't faring much better. By the time they regained their senses, the sun had dipped below the horizon, cloaking the battlefield in an eerie twilight. What they saw when they finally looked around was enough to turn their blood cold.
The ground was shattered and uneven, branches lay broken like discarded bones, and blood was splattered in dark, macabre patterns. The scene was more nightmare than reality, and the sheer brutality of it paralyzed them. They wanted to act, to help Oliver or simply escape, but indecision and fear rooted them in place.
Their hesitation was fatal. A single blow from the enemy rendered them unconscious, their bodies crumpling to the ground like dolls with their strings cut.
Plamon, standing nearby, assessed the situation with a grim expression. "Take these people and get them out of here," he commanded sharply. "They're just in the way." His tone brooked no argument, even as his body, still recovering from earlier injuries, protested every movement.
It didn't take much effort to incapacitate the group; they were mere children in the face of true power. But Plamon couldn't bring himself to blame them. They were young, with lives still full of potential. To let them die here, amidst such carnage, would be an unforgivable waste.
"Confusion and doubt will pass," Plamon murmured to himself, watching as the unconscious were carried away. "But death is final. There's no coming back from that."
---
Just as the next devastating strike was about to land on Oliver, a sudden gust of wind swept through the battlefield, forcing the young man to stagger back. The intervention was unexpected.
"Sorry," came a quiet voice. Lucy stepped forward, her body battered but upright. It was a miracle she was even standing; healing wasn't her specialty, and her recovery defied explanation. The young man's gaze flicked from her to the two figures approaching behind her. He said nothing, but his expression grew wary.
Three against one. On the surface, it seemed an uneven fight, but the trio was far from their peak. Their exhaustion was evident in every step, their weapons and equipment in disarray. Lucy's quiver had been torn, its arrows scattered across the ground like fallen leaves.
---
Far away, under the bright rays of a sunny day, a young elf sat reading a book, as he did every day. His people lived for centuries, their lifespans stretching across epochs. Even in death, their bodies resisted decay, their legacy as enduring as their presence.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted his reading. He rose, curious, and opened it to find a familiar figure; a black-haired human, smiling warmly.
"Today's the festival," the man said. "Don't forget to join us tonight."
The elf blinked, realization dawning. "Oh! I nearly forgot. I'll be there," he said, nodding eagerly. His mind wandered briefly to the elf accompanying the man, famous for crafting exceptional juice. The festival would be worth attending for that alone.
"You haven't changed a bit," the elf's grandfather remarked, joining them at the door. His voice carried a hint of wistfulness. "You're as you were when we last met. It's... enviable."
The human chuckled awkwardly, scratching his head. "What's there to envy? Anyway, I'll see you tonight."
As the man departed, the grandson turned to his grandfather, frowning slightly. "Grandpa, who is he?"
"You've seen him many times before," the elder replied with a shrug.
"But he looks exactly the same every time. Don't humans only live a hundred years? Even the one in that famous statue only lived a hundred years."
The grandfather paused, his gaze distant. "He's immortal," he said simply. Then, without further explanation, he returned to preparing for the evening, leaving his grandson in puzzled silence.