The main reason he felt this allowance wasn’t easy to earn? These Elves were tough enough to give even Sasha a real challenge.

Even after taking one down instantly, the remaining twelve had already reacted—battle-ready. True, these beautiful “monsters” had zero combat experience, not even a proper stance. Yet treating each as a three-to-four-meter raging beast was no exaggeration.

Blank-faced. Unmoved by their fallen comrade. Not a flicker of emotion, not a shift in breath. Like that scrap-metal ornament sitting in his own home.

No—*that* junk probably had more “humanity.”

“Where’d this brat crawl from?”

Spirit Mother’s voice stayed flat, utterly unruffled by the ambush.

“A high-tier human warrior? At your age… a prodigy, no doubt.”

As she spoke, her features twisted. Drool seeped from the corner of her mouth.

“How delicious you must be… Your essence, your blood—both utterly exquisite!”

Roland let out a faint, wry smile.

“My apologies, lovely Lady Spirit Mother. This one performs for art… not for flesh.”

His words vanished with the *shing* of steel. He lunged at another Elf to his left. Fully alert, she dodged purely on reflex.

*Exactly* what he wanted.

His left hand flicked a dagger from his sleeve—aimed dead at her blind spot. No escape.

*Clang!*

Steel met steel. The cheap town-market dagger shattered against her throat.

“…”

Seriously unfair.

Roland had seen it before, yet the Elf race still sent a chill down his spine. Legends claimed newborn Elves could deflect iron blades with tender skin; an infant’s stray punch could cripple a grown man. And yes—it was true. These females, who’d be village cooks among humans, now stood as mighty as colossal beasts.

The dagger hadn’t pierced her throat, but the impact threw her off balance. A transport-type Elf with zero combat sense couldn’t recover her stance. As she stumbled, Roland drove his custom longsword through her throat—pinning her to the earth.

“Three down.”

But in that breath, five Elves swarmed Roland. Six others encircled Sasha.

No honor. No rules. Just reduce the humans to pulp.

“No choice…”

Roland slowly sheathed his sword.

Across the field, Sasha shrugged off her black cloak.

The five Elves lunged.

Ryan, peeking from hiding, squeezed his eyes shut. He’d seen the elite guard captain torn limb from limb. He couldn’t watch Roland suffer the same fate.

“Crescent Slash!”

A silver crescent erupted from the circle.

Silence.

Upper bodies slid free. Blood painted the dirt.

Roland knelt mid-pose, flicked his blade clean, and sheathed it with ease.

“Naturally… against Elves with zero combat sense,” he murmured.

Sasha had already finished the other six—one punch each, straight to the face. Futile as they were, the Elves couldn’t scratch her.

Because…

“An Elf?!” Spirit Mother’s eyes widened in shock. “You’re *actually* an Elf?!”

Sasha *was* an Elf.

Sharp, elongated ears like a hellish demon. Slit pupils glowing with hypnotic danger, sharper than a viper’s gaze. Porcelain skin. Fangs gleaming, perfect for drawing blood. A purebred Attributeless Elf.

“Ugh, why aim for chest and stomach first? My clothes are torn in three places!” Sasha sighed. Blows had shredded her outfit—but her skin? Not a single mark.

Simple reason: her body surpassed their arm strength.

Even though these same Elves had shredded humans barehanded moments ago.

“Unbelievable. I’ve heard of Elves betraying our kind for humans… but seeing it?” Spirit Mother’s shock melted into a smile—cold, furious.

“In this age where humans, gods, demons, and beastkin face extinction, your betrayal shames the Elves—who hold over ninety percent of this world’s fertile lands. You… should be torn apart *alive* by your own kin!”

She charged. Heavy steps, yet deceptively swift. For a bloated figure, her agility stunned—and the power in her fist…

*THUD!*

Sasha blocked head-on. Cracks spiderwebbed underfoot. The wooden shack groaned.

*That* power… no joke.

“Turn to pulp! Then become *mine*!!”

Spirit Mother roared, fists hammering down. Sasha parried, step by step forced backward.

Roland struck from behind—*exactly* as she’d baited him. The instant he closed in, she halted mid-swing, twisted her torso 180 degrees, and whipped her massive fist toward him with eerie precision.

Roland’s breath hitched. Absurd flexibility. Perfect control of rage and motion. A terrifying masterpiece.

Worse: this Elf fought with *strategy*.

“DIE!!”

Her fist fell—

—but no gore followed.

Instead, her forearm lay cleanly severed on the ground.

“What?!”

She stared at the smooth cut. Then froze. A killing gaze locked onto her.

From the human.

His right pupil now burned gold.

“Mind’s Eye.”

*Activate.*