Who am I?
The youth’s first thought plunged him into momentary confusion.
“Roland! Hey, Roland—wake up!”
Another boy’s voice snapped him back to reality.
Right…
His name was Roland.
He slowly opened his eyes, still drowsy. He’d meant to catch a few more winks, but the bumpy mountain road jolted him upright—*thud*—his head smacked the wooden frame beside him. Fully awake now.
Ah, right. He was on a mission.
He glanced at the little girl leaning against him, no older than ten.
Sasha.
The name Roland had given her—or rather, the name he’d chosen for his other self.
Exactly…
Sasha’s eyes fluttered open.
Through her vision, she saw the exact same scene as Roland. One soul. Two bodies.
Though Roland never saw it that way. In lonely moments, he’d talk to Sasha—and answer back *as* her. It felt like talking to himself, yet somehow, voicing buried doubts made them dissolve.
Sasha closed her eyes again. If one body slept, it eased the other’s mental fatigue—a trick he’d learned over the years.
“They… seem to be taking us to the peak of the Sacred Mountain,” the boy who’d woken him stammered.
“The Sacred Mountain?”
He vaguely recalled an Elf mentioning it yesterday.
“Ugh, Roland, please don’t be so forgetful. Explaining this daily is exhausting,” the boy groaned.
“One last time, Ryan, my good brother,” Roland said with easy familiarity, nudging his shoulder with a grin.
Ryan shot him a glare.
“As you see—we’re trapped in this cart. Everyone’s under sixteen. That Elf said we’re being taken as living sacrifices for the Spirit Mother. Seriously, where did these foreign Elves come from? How’d they infiltrate the Inner Circle?”
At “sacrifice,” the children shrank tighter together. Only Roland and Ryan were near sixteen; the youngest were five or six. These helpless little creatures huddled for warmth, pitifully small.
“Oh… right. I remember now,” Roland murmured. Beside him, Sasha let out a soft whimper—like trapped in a nightmare.
Roland gently patted her head, a doting smile on his face. *If we’re playing siblings, might as well commit.*
Ryan sighed. “Show some tension. You love your sister, don’t you? You wouldn’t want her hurt.”
“Pfft. As if I’d care about *you*?” Roland’s joke fell flat. Back in their town park, Ryan might’ve laughed and shot back, *“I wouldn’t mind being your brother-in-law, dear elder brother.”*
Unlike Roland’s short white hair, ten-year-old Sasha had waist-length crimson locks—a natural beauty. Both shared blood-red eyes. When they stared together, it felt like being hunted by a beast.
“Don’t worry, Ryan.”
The youth seated at the cart’s center smiled calmly, utterly unfazed.
Ryan leaned close. “Young Master, you’re awake!”
“Hmph. Time’s up. Father knows I’m missing. His men will intercept this cart soon. These Elves will die.”
Ryan exhaled in relief, flattering him: “Truly worthy of you, Young Master! You foresaw this all along?!”
“Naturally. With Father’s combat unit? These Elves will be torn apart in seconds.”
*Sigh…*
Sasha sighed softly, eyes still closed.
The Young Master’s brow twitched. “What was that sigh for?”
“Probably just a nightmare, Young Master. Not aimed at you,” Roland said with an apologetic smile. Ryan added quickly, “She’s too young to grasp your wisdom. Please don’t be angry.”
“Hmph. I don’t stoop to children. I *am* a martial artist.”
As he spoke, a faint white glow shimmered around his right fist—wisps of vapor rising.
Ryan feigned shock. “Young Master… are you already Grade D?”
“Grade D is just the start. Once I reach Grade C, B, even A—high-tier martial artist is inevitable.”
Roland yawned.
The Young Master’s eyes narrowed. “Sighing *and* yawning? Do you doubt my words?”
“R-Roland…” Ryan shot him a desperate look. *This Young Master never forgets a slight.*
Roland propped his cheek, weary. “Sorry. I’m just not interested in children’s dreams.”
“ROLAND!” Ryan gasped. The Young Master’s face flushed. “Say that again! Don’t think your pretty face makes you special!”
…
Roland ignored him, peering through a crack. A six-meter-wide path, three hundred meters high. Jumping meant shattered bones.
“I’M TALKING TO YOU!!”
“Y-Young Master, please—!”
Ryan stepped forward to shield them—but was slapped back.
The Young Master raised a fist—
*THUD!*
The cart lurched violently.
Stopped.
A deep voice boomed: “Only six Elves? Scram. I’ve no time to waste.”
“Father’s combat unit!” The Young Master pressed against the crack, joy wiping all anger away.
“Ten… twenty…” Roland murmured.
Sasha whispered beside him: “Eighty-three.”
Truly the wealthy man’s elite guard. Eighty-three disciplined martial artists—mostly Grade C, thirteen Grade B, their leader Grade A. Scars and sharp eyes marked them as battlefield veterans.
Their foes? Six transport Elves. Zero combat training. No elemental affinity. No independent thought. They obeyed orders—even to die.
Six versus eighty-three.
Inexperienced Elves.
Versus hardened veterans.
The outcome seemed obvious.
“Not leaving? Then…” The human leader raised his hand. “Kill them all!”
But Roland’s answer?
Naturally…
The Elves’ overwhelming victory.
…
*CRACK!*
The leader’s arm snapped backward—like a broken twig.
The Elf twisted it further, face blank.
“What?! This Elf—!” Pain jolted him. He drew his sword left-handed—but she dodged with pure reflex, leaping back.
Screams erupted. Five soldiers already dead.
…
The leader stared. Bodies torn in half. Skulls crushed by slender fists. Hearts ripped out, crushed.
Blood flooded the path. The stench of gore hung thick.
Even veterans froze for a heartbeat.
That hesitation was all it took.
The six Elves surged forward—meat grinders in human form. Blood sprayed. No soldier blocked a single strike.
Ed the lightning swordsman. Rucks the fire mage. Black Bear the powerhouse. Nimo the speed thief.
All experts.
Now? Blood-filled sacks. One puncture—blood gushed. Stones turned crimson.
“H-how…?!” The Young Master trembled, face pale. “Father’s unit… defeated four-meter monsters! How can these frail Elves…?”
“Normal for Inner Circle folks not to know,” Roland shrugged. Unmoved by the carnage, he stayed calm. Sasha beside him slept on, undisturbed.
“Not know *what*?!”
“These Elves—I read they’re just long-lived naturals.”
“Long-lived *naturals*? Don’t misunderstand, little master. They are…”
…
Half a day earlier.
“Captain Lorin.”
The wealthy man slammed gold coins—emptied from his safe—onto the desk.
Even Lorin, seasoned as he was, blinked in shock.
“Bring my son back unharmed. These coins are yours.”
“Whoa—ten thousand gold? Kidnapped by a black dragon?”
“No…” The man’s lips trembled. “Elves. Heard of them?”
“Outer Circle rumors say monsters. How many?”
“Six.”
“*Six*?” Lorin laughed. “My friend, your courage’s smaller than a mouse’s! Six Elves? A dozen men would’ve handled it. This is *human* territory!”
“NO! Bring *everyone*.” The man’s eyes burned. “Treat them as six black dragons.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll be back in a flash.” Lorin spread his hands. *Truly… this timid old man is impossible.*
…
…
Silence.
Comrades. Juniors.
All stuck to stone and wall—bloodstained trash.
Only Lorin—the team leader who had already lost an arm—remained, watching it all.
"So this is what you meant, my old friend."
He offered a relieved smile, but beneath it, his mind teetered on the edge of madness. *If only this were a dream… wake me up!*
But in that instant, the six Elves locked their gazes onto Lorin, their silence screaming: "You're next."
It wasn’t the look of a hunter chasing prey. No cold killing intent lingered there.
To them, Lorin was nothing.
Less than nothing…
…
The battle-hardened captain drew a deep breath and forcibly steeled his resolve.
*Old friend… this is the last commission I can fulfill for you.*
His eyes hardened. With his unaccustomed left hand, he tightened his grip on the straight sword.
"Haaah!!"
Roaring, Lorin shot toward the Elves like lightning. In the next heartbeat, his blade pierced an Elf’s shoulder—crimson blood splattered across his face.
Warm.
"Hmph. So your blood is red too."
*Rip!*
The next moment, Lorin’s body disintegrated—shredded to pieces by the six Elves in a single flash.
…
