They began walking together, Icariel flanked by Elena and Elif, with the three royal guards surrounding them as protection. Princess Virethiel had ordered a regrouping at the castle—what was left of it—until they could assess the situation more clearly.
Icariel chatted casually with Elena, his voice light despite the chaos they'd just emerged from.
"I'm dying to eat some jeprak," he said, rubbing his stomach as if it might appear at any moment.
Elena smiled gently. "I'll prepare some as soon as things calm down. You've more than earned it."
"Tch. Jerk's always thinking about food," Elif muttered with mock irritation.
Behind them, the royal guard Calven—his arms once broken by Icariel, then healed moments later—watched the boy with quiet awe.
"This human… no," he corrected himself, "Icariel."
He wasn't even an adult by human standards. And yet, it was undeniable: his arrival had turned the tide of battle. That raw strength, the power he displayed against the Yetis, and then—healing magic?
"Healing magic."
The elf's brow furrowed.
Rumors had spread in the training halls barely a month ago: that Warleader Aelar had taken in a human apprentice. Few believed it—until today. To learn healing magic this quickly? That wasn't normal. Nor was the durability of his body. His very presence didn't align with what they understood of humans.
And yet…
The elf found himself smiling. A sincere, quiet smile.
Because he couldn't deny it.
"The moment he descended from the sky and joined the battle… hope began to shine again."
Beside him, another royal guard glanced sideways, expression unreadable.
They walked for quite some time through the damaged inner city. Shattered stone houses lined the streets, smoke still rising in curling ribbons. Soldiers worked tirelessly to help the freed elf civilians, now slowly emerging from their ruined homes. Some coughed and stumbled. Others clung to family, their eyes wide with disbelief.
But they were alive.
And slowly, they approached the castle yard.
Towering beyond it—like a god's own monument—stood the Tree of Life Fragment, sacred and eternal, born from the World Tree when it was torn into three.
Princess Virethiel stood in the castle yard with a group of soldiers, organizing the final sweeps. Her long, dark ponytail shimmered in the late afternoon light.
"We need to check the inner halls," Virethiel said to her officers. "Make sure the Adviser's body is accounted for. There's a chance monsters are still lurking inside the castle walls."
The soldiers nodded in acknowledgment, ready to act.
Just then, Icariel and the others reached the edge of the gathering.
"Here they are," Virethiel muttered as her gaze found them. "Only Master Aelar, Lonor, and Tessara are absent now. But we'll have word soon—Floon and the soldiers are already on their way."
Icariel, standing just behind Elena, exhaled softly.
It was over. At last.
Ash settled on his tongue—bitter and dry. The scent of burnt bark and blood lingered in the breeze. His boots crunched softly over shattered stone, each step breaking the silence that now felt sacred.
The Tree's mana shimmered in his vision—wild, ancient, whispering. For the first time since the battle began, he allowed himself to believe they had won.
But then… he stopped.
His dark eyes narrowed.
"...What is that?" he whispered, frozen in place.
She turned to him, her brow creasing. "Icariel?"
Virethiel also noticed. He'd stopped abruptly, and his expression…
It unsettled her.
His eyes—usually so sharp—had turned eerily focused, narrowed like a hawk hunting prey.
But he wasn't looking at her.
He was staring just behind her… no—above her.
"Behind you…" he muttered. His pupils constricted as his White Sense sharpened.
His vision, forever changed, saw mana itself—the orbs floating, drifting, pulsing through the air.
A dance of colors: red, yellow, blue, silver, and light blue. But more than anything, green. So much green it shimmered like sunlight through a canopy.
The Tree of Life itself was brimming with it—dense, wild, limitless mana swirling both within and around it.
But that wasn't what caught his eye. Not at all.
Above the tree.
Up in the sky—just above the glowing crown of the tree—two figures were moving.
No.
Fighting.
He couldn't see them clearly, but he could feel the distortion of mana, the clash of pressure. They were airborne, their motions fast, fluid, violent.
Then, suddenly—one of the figures disengaged and plummeted.
Straight toward them.
Icariel's eyes went wide.
"Everyone, get back! NOW!"
FWOOOM!
Between Icariel's group and Virethiel—
The figure slammed into the earth with a force that buckled the stones, the shockwave rippling through the ground like thunder in bone. Dust and wind exploded outward—sharp, blinding. The air itself seemed to scream. A crater formed instantly.
The soldiers raised their weapons, surrounding the figure with sharp eyes and tense muscles.
Virethiel stepped forward, her voice rising. "What was that?!"
The guards instantly unsheathed their weapons, surrounding the group in a protective formation. Tension crackled through the air.
The figure in the crater wasn't moving.
Silence.
Then… a single name passed Icariel's trembling lips.
"Why… why is Teacher Aelar in that state…?"
He stepped forward, his whole body shaking—not from fear, but from the shock of what he was seeing.
That wasn't a landing.
That was a fall.
Aelar—the strongest elf he had ever met—the man who moved like thunder and light… was lying there, unmoving.
"Father?!" Elif's voice cracked as tears spilled from her eyes. "F-Father?!" she repeated, as if saying it twice would change the sight in front of her.
Elena stood frozen, her hand clutching her chest. "No… That can't be…"
Virethiel's expression twisted with disbelief, her breath catching in her throat. One of the strongest elves alive—Warleader Aelar—her teacher was lying unconscious, his silver armor cracked, blood streaking his face, legs, and arms.
It was impossible.
The battlefield had already been won. The monsters were gone. Hope had just begun to breathe in their hearts. And then—this.
Icariel ran to him without hesitation. Dust swirled in his wake as he dropped to his knees beside his master. The closer he got, the worse it looked—Aelar's chest barely rose with breath, a faint, broken wheeze escaping his throat, barely louder than the wind. The blood soaking through the cracks of his armor was real.
"Why?" Icariel growled through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse.
His fists trembled—clenched so hard the bones ached beneath his skin. "Why does something always go wrong just when things are going well?!"
He slammed his fist on the ground. "Damn this cursed world!"
It wasn't like him to crash emotionally like this. Maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe it was the chaos catching up with him. Or maybe, just maybe, the sight of the man who gave him a home lying broken in the dirt had shattered something inside.
But then—
The voice.
That deep, ancient voice within him—always calm, always watching.
"Stop cursing the world. He's alive. But he's fading. You must calm down—and heal him."
Icariel's eyes widened, breath catching in his throat.
Yes. The voice was right.
He forced himself to breathe. Once. Twice. Then, his hand moved swiftly.
"Healing Spell."
FWOOM. A radiant green light erupted from his palm—brighter and more potent than anything he had ever produced since he mastered healing magic. The air pulsed with raw life energy as the healing magic surged over Aelar's body.
The blood evaporated. His expression—pained and pale—returned to one of strength and peace.
Then—BAM.
Aelar's eyes snapped open, and he leapt to his feet into a defensive stance.
"What—? What happened?" he barked, scanning the area. "Elif?"
Elif, sobbing with joy, launched herself into his chest. Her small frame crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck.
"Father!" she cried, laughing now through her tears. "You're okay… you're really okay!"
Aelar caught her instinctively, his expression still dazed. He looked down at her, then at Icariel, then around at the others. "What happened? Virethiel—where is that monster?! Where is—"
A voice—slick with venom and mockery—cut through the air like poison.
"Ah… a happy reunion? Let's crush it."
They all froze.
The laughter that followed was cruel and twisted, echoing unnaturally across the sky.
Their heads snapped upward.
Nothing.
The sky was empty.
Then—
A presence.
Virethiel's pupils dilated in terror. "No…"
Aelar froze—not for himself, but for what he was holding.
Elif.
She was right there.
His expression twisted—not in anger, but fear. Raw, unfiltered fear.
Elena gasped, stepping forward. "No!"
Even the royal guards faltered. Their weapons lowered in disbelief, their training failing them in the face of such darkness.
They had been so focused on the aftermath—on survival, on healing—that they forgot the most important thing.
The one who caused it all—was never taken care of.
Even Icariel, who had always been vigilant—always attuned to danger—had let his guard drop, if only for a moment.
But the White Sense hadn't.
Nor had the one who taught him it—the voice that never left, whispering in his head since the day he was born.
"MOVE."
Danger surged through his body like lightning.
A step filled with purpose—earth shattering beneath Icariel as the world seemed to make way.
Time slowed.
From the wound in the earth—black and steaming like the breath of a forge—he rose. His bare chest gleamed with sweat and blood, and his eyes, molten orange, cut through the air like blades. The tattoo on his shoulder pulsed with light—alive, predatory. Jagged black veins crawled up his neck like cracks in glass.
The Godless Abyss Invader.
He didn't speak again.
He simply pulled back his fist—aimed directly at Elif. The strike was so fast, so final, it would've gone through her—and then maybe through Aelar—without resistance.
But—
Icariel was already there.
No thought. No hesitation. Just the voice, the training, the terror—and Elif's face.
He threw his body forward, between the fist and its victims—an action unbefitting of him.
CRACK.
The punch landed—it definitely landed on someone, but that someone wasn't Elif.
It was Icariel's chest.