"So, is that thing dead?"

Oren popped his dislocated shoulder back into place—Havill’s strike had nearly torn it off—while scanning the tavern, now reduced to shapeless rubble. Beside him, Dysaia was healing Lontan’s arm, shattered by Havill’s Stone Hammer.

"No," Dysaia replied. "I told you earlier: in human form, I can’t cast large-scale magic."

*Is that so…*

Oren’s lips twitched slightly as he stared at the bottomless black hole in the ground. Just then, Dysaia finished healing Lontan’s arm. She brushed dust off her clothes with a smile and slowly stood up.

"I merely trapped that knight and the surrounding land in another dimension. We should prepare—he’ll likely break the seal and reappear soon."

As she spoke, Dysaia raised her hand. Oren clearly saw space crackling and popping where her fingers swept. From his knowledge, he guessed Havill was trying to shatter the dimensional wall from within.

Silver Dragons specialized in spatial magic.

Ancient dragons mastered common basic spells but also delved into unique, forbidden arts—secrets ordinary beings like Elvenfolk or humans couldn’t learn. Gold Dragons excelled in blessings, Bronze Dragons in prophecy, and Silver Dragons in manipulating space.

That’s why Havill recognized Dysaia as a Silver Dragon the moment she cast her spell.

Oren shuddered, recalling Havill’s twisted face and the stench of rotting flesh. He turned to Dysaia and whispered, "But why does Havill’s face look like that? It’s completely—"

"Pacts with Demons always demand a price," Dysaia cut in softly before he could finish.

"Knights of the Hammer of Humanity drink Demon Blood. It makes them kin to the demon who provided it, granting immortality, enhanced strength, and other boons."

Dysaia spread her hand again. Space crackled like lightning around her palm.

"But the cost is immense. They gain undying souls, yet their bodies can’t keep up with time. As years pass, their flesh rots—becoming what you saw."

She lowered her hand, lifting her head with a wistful expression.

"Their souls also rot under demonic corruption. Over centuries, most can’t resist the Demon’s temptation. Their decayed bodies then twist into new, monstrous forms under its curse."

"Demonic temptation?" Oren frowned.

"What kind?"

Dysaia smiled faintly. "Death."

……

Oren stood frozen, speechless. Then a voice sounded behind him.

"Those who drink Demon Blood suffer differently. They endure rotting flesh, the helplessness of losing loved ones—all while demons offer death when their souls near breaking."

Yamwen emerged slowly from the ruins, facing Oren.

"Accepting death shatters a human soul, turning them into a demon’s slave. In a way, they die—they feel nothing after. I’ve seen many crumble under time’s weight, becoming grotesque beasts."

"So that knight…" Oren pressed urgently. He needed to know. Yamwen seemed to read his mind, sighing with a bitter smile.

"Knights of the Hammer of Humanity are the most stubborn creatures I’ve met. I doubt their souls are even human."

She crossed her arms, exasperated.

"In all my years, not one has fallen. They live on faith, hatred, and racial pride. I’ve seen ancient knights—faces rotted away, deaf, mute, blind without magic—still swinging their hammers on the front lines."

*That’s why Havill sounded so frantic seeing Yamwen and Lontan.*

Oren sighed, recalling Havill’s hysterical cries. Then he snapped his head up.

"What about Prince Hilwen?"

"Should still be upstairs," Dysaia said, pointing to the second floor. "I finished healing him before coming down. Oren, go fetch her. We must leave—now."

She glanced at the ruined inn. Oren nodded sharply and sprinted up the collapsed stairs, quickly finding their rented room.

Pushing the door open, he found it empty.

*You’ve got to be kidding me.*

Muttering under his breath, Oren rushed to the bed. The window nearby stood open. Peering out, he spotted the Elvenfolk Hilwen sprinting wildly down the street.

"Hey! Wait just—"

**BOOM!**

Before Oren could finish, the elf hurled a fireball at him, ignoring onlookers. Oren dove below the windowsill, barely dodging the blast.

"Seriously?!"

Cursing, Oren flipped out the window. He landed smoothly, hand on his Longsword’s hilt, and charged after the elf.

Spotting Oren closing in, Hilwen hissed a curse in High Elven. Then, brazenly, he launched multiple fireballs. They streaked like falling meteors, blazing trails aimed at Oren.

Oren dodged the fiery lines with swift movements. Accelerating, he channeled azure mana onto his Long Edge’s blade and slashed. A sword beam ripped toward Hilwen’s back.

The blast knocked the elf off balance, slamming him to the ground. Oren lunged forward, Longsword at Hilwen’s throat.

"Honestly, I thought Elvenfolk were polite."

Oren studied the elf: porcelain skin, dark cunning eyes, a sharp nose, and pink lips curled slightly. Pointed ears peeked through his hair. Truthfully, he was stunningly beautiful—for a woman.

But to Oren, male and female elves looked identical. He didn’t dwell on it. Pressing his hand against Hilwen’s chest, he leaned in threateningly.

"Still, you’ll answer for what you—"

Then Oren froze. The touch felt… soft.

*Not a man’s chest…*

Jerking his hand back like he’d been shocked, Oren stared down. "You’re a wo—"

Hilwen showed no shame. Seizing the moment, he sprang up and clamped a hand over Oren’s face.

"Gender means nothing, Oren of Nivea."

A dull thud echoed in Oren’s skull. Sleepiness flooded his body.

*Shit… sleep magic.*

Oren struggled to push the hand away, but his arm dropped halfway. Darkness swallowed him. **THUD.** He collapsed.