Oren slowly slid his sword back into its sheath before lifting his gaze to the sky.

Darkness had begun to blanket the heavens, countless stars piercing through the night’s veil. The damp night air seeped slowly around him. Oren tilted his head up—the starlight felt unusually pure, distant points of light shimmering like scattered tears.

*So it really ended up like this?*

He shifted his gaze toward the horizon, a silent complaint echoing in his heart. He stood atop a small hill, peering into the distance. Hazy mountains loomed beneath a gauzy veil, their silhouettes flickering in the mist—sometimes near, sometimes far, always elusive. Below the hill lay a modest villa.

It wasn’t lavish, nor was it dilapidated. For a villa outside Raging Tide City’s walls, it was remarkably well-kept. According to intel, this was where the delegation from the Alliance—escorting Princess Irina to the Duchy—had set up base. Rumor had it their leader, Aston, despised the air inside the Duchy so much he’d rather die than stay within its borders.

The place had once belonged to a Tadallas magnate who’d built it in his flush days. After his bankruptcy, it decayed into a crumbling shell, barely holding its shape.

Oren’s eyes swept past the open gates. The courtyard lay exposed.

Lush grass, heavy with dew, sprawled beneath wildflowers blooming in chaotic bursts.

The garden looked utterly untamed—clearly abandoned for years.

Such desolation made it hard to believe anyone still lived here.

Yet armored knights bearing the Elvis Family crest lounged lazily across the overgrown lawn. Some leaned against garden trees, chatting idly. At bursts of laughter, they’d grab wine bottles and pour generous drinks.

*No defenses at all.*

Oren muttered inwardly. Then again—why would they expect an attack? He hadn’t expected to be raiding the Alliance’s forward base either.

*Especially not with a lunatic who kicked me in the groin tagging along.*

His gaze drifted to Hilwen, silently crafting something nearby. She hadn’t spoken a word since they arrived. Not that Oren blamed her—he remembered their first meeting well enough.

*Still…*

He turned back to the heavily guarded villa below.

*Wasn’t I supposed to be a student here?*

*How did I end up like this?*

*Lia… Irina…*

A heavy sigh escaped him.

"Why does leaving the castle bring so much trouble?"

"You say something, Oren?"

A voice cut through his thoughts. Oren spun around to find Dysaia watching him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Ah, nothing. Just grumbling to myself."

Dysaia didn’t press further. She simply nodded, then stepped aside as Yamwen and Lontan approached. Yamwen gripped her bow; Lontan thwacked his axe against his palm.

*Ready to go.*

Oren brushed dust off his clothes and stood. Hilwen noticed the newcomers too. She tucked the object she’d been crafting under her arm and walked over.

*A crossbow bolt?*

Up close, Oren saw intricate runes carved along its shaft. *Elvenfolk using crossbows?* The thought startled him—weren’t they all archers?

Before he could ask, Hilwen loaded the bolt into a compact crossbow and slung it over her shoulder. She stopped before Dysaia and bowed slightly.

"I’m ready, Princess Silver Dragon."

"Good." Dysaia’s smile was faint. She pointed toward the villa. "Intel says Aston’s meeting Duchy officials in the city. We strike now to rescue Lacres." Her finger traced the building’s outline. "William’s files confirm they’re holding him in the basement. Hit fast, extract Lacres, avoid prolonged fights." She gestured to Yamwen and Lontan. "We’ll draw the knights’ attention from above. Oren—you retrieve Lacres."

"…Why me?" Oren frowned.

Dysaia’s grin widened. "Because only you can pull it off."

*Fine. Whatever you say.*

Oren sighed. Hilwen showed no reaction to the plan—odd, given how obviously Dysaia was keeping her away from Lacres. But before he could dwell on it, Dysaia raised her hand.

"Let’s begin."

She snapped her fingers.

A spatial rift tore open at the villa’s center. Before the knights could react, it imploded—then detonated.

BOOM!

Blinding light swallowed Oren’s view. The sky filled with the shriek of shrapnel. Massive chunks of earth ripped free, crashing down. The ground trembled like an ocean. Grass ripped apart, sinking, melting. Blood blossoms stained the endless night.

Knights froze mid-sip, wine bottles dangling from limp hands. They stared blankly at fallen comrades—some dead, others gasping in the rubble.

Dysaia raised her hand again.

"Go."

Yamwen yanked a mask over her chin and slid down the slope. Arrows flew—each one piercing a knight’s throat with lethal grace.

"AMBUSH! TO ARMS!"

A knight finally roared the alarm. Swords flashed as Elvis knights rallied. Lontan charged like a falling meteor, his axe scattering them like leaves.

Dysaia patted Oren’s shoulder. "We’ll hold them. After you, Lady Hilwen."

"I don’t need your permission."

Hilwen flicked her longsword free and joined the fray. Chaos erupted anew. Oren pinched the bridge of his nose, then tightened his grip on his blade.

*Work time.*

He spotted an opening and sprinted toward the villa. Knights surged to intercept him. Oren swept his sword sideways—a brilliant azure glow flared along the blade.

*Crack!*

His strike felled three attackers in one fluid arc. But as he pressed forward, a knight lunged from behind.

*Tch—!*

Oren twisted too late. His counter-swing fell short. Then—a knife thudded into the knight’s skull.

*What—?*

Oren whirled. Hilwen stood yards away, retracting her throwing hand. She met his gaze—just for a heartbeat—before turning back to the battle.

*Elvenfolk…*

Gritting his teeth, Oren charged inside. He cut down two more guards before reaching the basement. Luck favored him: few rooms, one faint gasp. Peering through a crack, he saw Lacres’ unmistakable face.

The elf was strapped to a cross-shaped frame, stitched wounds covering his body. A surgical table nearby explained their origin.

*Live dissection. Of course.*

Oren shattered the door with one swing. He severed Lacres’ restraints, hoisted the barely conscious elf, and carried him out.

Dysaia spotted them the moment they emerged. She flashed a faint smile and called to Yamwen and Lontan:

"Mission complete. Fall back!"

They regrouped instantly. Oren trudged toward them, Lacres slung over his shoulder.

But right after he cut down several knights attacking him with his sword, he spotted Hilwen still standing motionless.

What’s he doing?

As Oren puzzled over this, Hilwen suddenly whipped a crossbow from behind his back and drew the string.

After a stunned pause, Oren yelled toward Dysaia,

“Dysaia! Danger—”

Hilwen didn’t let him finish. He fired. The rune-carved bolt shot out like a black blur, piercing Dysaia’s right arm.

“What—”

Though the bolt couldn’t wound her deeply, as she reached to yank it free, its runes flared with multicolored light.

Boom!

At the light’s peak, a dazzling white pillar engulfed Dysaia—just like the spatial magic she’d used on Hawell. While the Elvis Family knights and even Yamwen gaped in shock, Oren understood.

“He actually…”

The pillar slowly faded.

Heavy footsteps thudded from the mist.

There stood the Knight of the Human Hammer—Hawell—his curse-rotted face drawing every gaze like a night beacon. Runes on his white Stone Hammer glowed with magma-hot light.

Oren finished his thought aloud.

“He actually reversed the Silver Dragon’s magic.”