Boom.
The earth shook.
A crack split through the air, just a few paces away from Groon's wooden house—a black line, jagged and unnatural, tearing through space itself. Dark, swirling wisps of mana poured from it like steam from a boiling pot, though only Icariel's eyes could see the black mana dripping from the air.
"Fronta! Call Groon! Leave the house—now!" Icariel screamed.
"What? Why?!" the red-haired girl asked, confused and frozen. But when she turned her head, her breath caught in her throat. A line—no, a crack in reality—was now visible to her too. Something was coming through it.
"Grandpa, come! Come quick!" she cried as they both ran toward Icariel.
Groon emerged from the house with a heavy axe clenched in his hand, his face dark with recognition.
From within the tear in space, a large, ugly green hand clawed outward, pulling the rift wider. A horrid screech followed, and the monster began to step through.
"What is that?!" Fronta shouted.
Groon's voice was grim. "No way... What's a dungeon doing here?!"
"Dungeon?" Icariel muttered, his body stiff with terror. He had seen pictures in books—drawings of monsters that didn't belong to this world. Never had he imagined he would see one in front of him, because in Mjull, none had ever appeared.
"What's a dungeon, Grandpa?!" Fronta yelled, panicked.
"A dungeon—" Groon said without removing his eyes from the tear, "—is a space from another world. It's where monsters, ancient races, or twisted beings dwell. Sometimes they stay in. Sometimes they come out, and when they do..."
"Terrible things happen," Icariel finished grimly. "Just like the books..."
Icariel's thoughts were spinning. This couldn't be happening. It was too soon. Too cruel. "Why is it getting so hard just to survive…?!" he muttered.
Another crack—BOOM.
This time, behind them, across the river.
They were trapped.
Icariel turned to the voice in his head. "What now?! What should I do?!"
"Run," it answered immediately. "Run now. The tear hasn't fully opened. You can still pass below it."
Without hesitation, Icariel grabbed Fronta's arm and pulled. "Groon—run with us! Hurry!"
They sprinted past the house, ducking under the still-forming tear, wind screaming around them. Just as they made it through, Icariel turned his head.
And saw it.
A monstrous, grotesque hand punched through Groon's chest.
He froze—but didn't fall.
His axe stayed clenched in one hand, blood soaking his beard.
Groon let out a wet, rattling breath and managed a grin. "Run… now…" he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips. A moment later, the creature tore its hand free. Groon's body collapsed to the ground like a broken doll—lifeless.
The monster fully emerged. Towering. Massive. Covered in green skin like rotting moss. Its red eyes glowed with hunger. Rows of sharp teeth glistened as it let out a low, rumbling growl.
Icariel pulled Fronta harder. She didn't scream. She couldn't. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling.
She had just watched her grandfather die.
"Come on!" Icariel insisted, fingers digging into Fronta's wrist as he tried to drag her away. But the red-haired girl didn't budge. Her wide, glassy eyes remained locked on Groon's broken body, her breath coming in ragged hitches. Tears carved glistening trails through the dirt on her cheeks.
"I can't leave him!" Her voice cracked, raw with grief. "He's all I have... I—" she choked, her voice breaking. "I can't… I can't do this—not without him..."
"What?!" Icariel's face went slack, any trace of sympathy vanishing under the weight of disbelief. "You're going to die for a corpse?! That's not bravery—it's stupidity!"
She didn't even look at him. Her fingers twitched toward Groon's outstretched hand, as if she could still reach him. "He raised me… fed me… kept me alive when the world wanted me dead. What's the point of running if he's not—" Her voice shattered. "If he's not here too?"
The voice in Icariel's mind snarled, "The monster is ten paces behind. MOVE."
Icariel's grip tightened until her skin whitened under his fingers. "Fronta—"
"Let me go." She wrenched her arm free with surprising strength, stumbling backward. "I won't leave him. I won't."
The voice snapped like a whip.
"You cannot save one who does not wish to be saved. Save yourself—for you are not yet ready to carry the weight of another soul."
For a heartbeat, Icariel hesitated. Then his expression hardened. "Fine. Die then." His voice was ice. "But don't pretend Groon would want this. He'd curse you for throwing your life away."
The words struck like a blade between her ribs. She flinched—but didn't run.
Instead, she turned back to Groon, collapsing to her knees beside him. Her trembling fingers brushed his weathered face, smearing blood across his cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know how to do this without you."
Icariel couldn't understand why Fronta would do it—why she'd risk her life, claiming she couldn't go on if he died. It felt irrational. They had only lived together for two weeks, and she had never spoken of her past. He didn't know what kind of life had shaped her, what kind of grief had carved out such fierce loyalty.
But in time, he would understand.And when he did… everything would change.
Behind her, the monster loomed.
Its shadow swallowed her whole.
The fist came down—
—not in a single, crushing blow, but slow. Deliberate.
First, the impact snapped her spine with a wet crack. She gasped, eyes flying wide as agony ripped through her. Then the pressure came again, grinding her into the dirt, ribs splintering one by one. Blood bubbled past her lips.
Her hand, still clutching Groon's sleeve, twitched weakly.
"Gra… nd… pa…"
The monster's fist lifted—
—and fell a final time.
What remained wasn't a girl anymore. Just red.
Icariel didn't look back. He couldn't. His lungs burned as he sprinted up the hill, each breath a knife in his chest. Not from exhaustion.From the sound.
The voice spoke once more. "Climb. Hide."
Behind a boulder, he pressed himself into the shadows, nails biting into his palms. His heartbeat was a drum of war in his ears.
Monsters spawned from the rift—seventeen in total. All green, massive, twisted creatures, their red eyes scanning the area. They didn't move far—just circled and searched, as if looking for something.
Their red eyes scanning the area… searching.A sudden pressure filled the air, thick and suffocating. Even the monsters froze, their red eyes narrowing. Then—two glowing yellow lights cut through the trees like twin stars streaking through dusk.
Icariel's entire focus was locked on them. Then, in a blink, two of the seventeen green monsters were instantly defeated. Then another two. And again. The yellow light never faded. Again—two, then two, then two. He couldn't count them—his mind was fractured. But he didn't need to. Only three were left.
The three remaining monsters backed away slowly, retreating near Groon's house—where his body now lay cold. The yellow lights finally vanished… and two figures took shape.
One was tall, with black eyes, short black hair, and a long sword with a green handle. He looked to be in his thirties. The other was much shorter, with long, straight green hair, black eyes, and a short sword with a black handle. Icariel's heart jumped.
The shorter one looked at the scene—the house, the blood, Groon's lifeless body, and Fronta's crushed form. His expression darkened.
"Master, may I handle the remaining three myself?" the green-haired youth asked.
The older man gave a single nod. "Show me an impressive result."
"You're dead," the boy said, pointing his black-handled short sword at the monsters. A wave of bloodlust pulsed from him, and the creatures flinched.
He darted forward, a blur of motion. One monster tried to crush him with a raised arm, but he spun mid-air, slicing the limb clean off. Landing between the remaining two monsters, he turned toward the first, raised his blade, and whispered, "Eliz, release."
The sword shimmered, extending far beyond its original length. With a fluid strike, he sliced through the neck of the first monster. Purple blood exploded.
The other two lunged, but he spun in a perfect 360, cutting both of them clean in half. The bodies collapsed, twitching. Purple blood drenched the grass.
"Disgusting pieces of shit," he muttered as the blade retracted to its short form.
"Splendid, Kledio," said the tall man, a small smirk on his face.
"Thanks, Master. Sorry for rushing in alone… I couldn't help it. After seeing what they did to those humans..."
The older man gave a calm nod. "I understand. But remember—anger can dull your senses. Never let it consume you."
"Yes, Master."
Icariel, hiding behind the hill, whispered with wide eyes, "Incredible..."
They took the monsters down so easily.
His breath caught. This wasn't just strength. It was art. Precision. Ferocity. Grace. He felt small—insignificant—and alive.
"Who are they…?"
No answer.
Then—
"Swordmasters."
"Swordmasters?" Icariel whispered again, awestruck.
[End of Chapter 8]