Elf?!

Roland felt puzzled.

Why would such a thing appear on the train’s designated route?

After all, this was a major transportation artery. Every six months, the kingdom’s army swept the railway perimeter to clear beast packs—preventing rampaging magical beasts from crashing into the train. Though this Lis Empire–manufactured passenger train boasted exceptional impact resistance, a full beast pack could still risk derailment. And that would be tragedy for everyone aboard.

“A combat-type Elf…”

Roland murmured.

Watching the giant male Elf’s furious expression, he suddenly understood. A faint smirk curled his lips.

“So… you’ve come to avenge your master?”

ROAR!!!

The Elf roared like a madman—undeniably confirming Roland’s words.

But if anger had a scale, Roland’s burned far hotter.

“You killed an innocent person.”

The attendant had died right before his eyes. By the time Roland reacted, it was too late.

Ultimately, the fault lay with Roland himself. After slaying the Spirit Mother, he grew careless. Boarding the train, he assumed no Elf could possibly catch up. That negligence cost a life.

GRAAAH!!!

Veins bulged across the Elf’s body; muscles coiled like stone. He stomped forward and swung a heavy fist straight at Roland.

But the silver-haired youth sidestepped—barely grazing the blow.

One of Roland’s signature skills:

the footwork technique, *Drifting Cloud Step*.

Its essence? Harmonize with the opponent’s strike. In that single step, his form flowed like wind and cloud—shifting with every violent swing, clinging like shadow, impossible to shake.

And that was just *one* step. Two? Three? Far more terrifying.

The giant Elf spun wildly, fists flailing, chasing Roland who buzzed around him like a gnat.

With that bulk and mediocre speed? He wouldn’t land a single hit.

Time to end this.

Roland drew a crimson longsword from his waist. Sunlight flashed across the blade. In a blink—he slashed.

The Elf’s back split open. Blood sprayed.

Yet the wound only deepened his frenzy.

Pale skin flushed crimson. Roars turned hysterical.

“Berserk mode.”

Roland eased back.

A special trait of combat-type Elves. Per the Elf compendium, berserking drastically boosted strength and speed.

THUD!!

Before Roland’s thought settled, the Elf twisted and slammed a fist down.

Roland dodged back—surprised.

Heat radiating from the fist felt like standing before a volcano.

In berserk state, an Elf’s blood turned scalding. Only their monstrous frames could endure it—and weaponize it like a walking volcano.

Trouble.

Roland retreated again, leaping onto the next car.

The Elf followed, hammering both fists onto the roof. Roland kept a safe distance—no burns.

As noted earlier: this train’s hull could withstand massive beast impacts. But equally fortified windows? Too costly. Hence, ordinary glass. Which let Roland reach the roof fast. Otherwise… more deaths might’ve followed.

THUD!!

Another punch dodged. But this time—blood splattered toward Roland.

He jerked his head aside, expression grim.

This wasn’t boiling water. It was molten lava.

Low-tier fire magic? Useless. They weren’t even on the same battlefield.

Then—

Just as the Elf lunged to press his advantage, a colossal force slammed into his back.

His body hurtled toward Roland. But Roland was ready: grabbed a roof handrail, dropped down, pressed half his body against the car’s left side—evading the flying giant effortlessly.

The culprit? Sasha. Another Elf.

Earlier, one punch had sent him flying five cars back with the train’s momentum. Now Sasha rammed him six cars farther. The giant Elf skidded on landing, legs dangling near the tracks—grabbing a handrail just in time. At this speed, dragged legs meant broken bones. Passengers glimpsing his bare rear through windows? Probably screaming.

Roland leaped back onto the roof and strode toward him.

Legend said: one Spirit Mother could spawn countless transport Elves, many combat-types… but only a handful of scouts.

And among them? Only *one* combat-type Elf could surpass the Spirit Mother in power.

Within the Spirit Mother’s hierarchy, that Elf was named the Elf King.

Clearly, this one had surpassed the Holy Mountain’s Spirit Mother.

The Elf King.

Killing him outright wouldn’t be easy. But tossing him off the train? Simple.

Just sever his fingers. Goodbye, bastard.

Roland wanted to tear him apart—but passengers were aboard. He wouldn’t gamble their lives for vengeance. Another death? That would be on him.

Yet—

As Roland closed in, blade raised…

The Elf’s body began shrinking. Visibly. Rapidly.

Roland froze.

Eyes wide with disbelief.

The towering three-to-four-meter Elf had, in an instant, transformed into a naked middle-aged man in his early forties.

Clutching the handrail, straining, he rasped in a heavy voice:

“Don’t… kill me… We are… kin.”