Everything had already ended when they arrived.

  The wind carried the scent of ash and blood, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of burned mana. The once-flat clearing was unrecognizable—tents torn apart, scattered like the remains of a storm. The ground itself had been shattered, fissures splitting it open like the veins of a wounded earth. Some were deep enough to swallow a man whole.

  They didn’t need to be told what happened here. The landscape spoke for itself—this was the work of powerful skills unleashed without restraint, the kind that tore reality apart for just a heartbeat before fading into silence.

  At the center of it all stood a single man.

  Or rather, what was left of him.

  Lord Kavel’s grey hair fluttered weakly in the cold breeze. His body was unmoving, but his stance—his stance—remained unbroken. He still gripped his spear, its tip buried in the cracked ground. Even death hadn’t managed to pry it from his hands. His eyes, half-lidded, faced the horizon as though he’d died watching over his men.

  Wor-en approached first. He stopped a few paces away, his breath trembling, then lifted his hand in salute. One by one, the northern soldiers followed, their armor glinting faintly in the fractured light. Some knelt. Some bowed their heads.

  Even the students—late to understand the gravity of what they were seeing—raised their hands in respect. The sound of boots shifting on broken stone was the only thing that dared disturb the silence.

  Wor-en spoke quietly, almost to himself. “He gave everything.”

  And they all knew what he meant. Lord Kavel had burned the remainder of his life—his very essence—to annihilate the enemy force. The air itself still vibrated faintly with the remnants of that power, a hum that prickled against the skin.

  Boris stood at the edge of the battlefield, boots sinking slightly into the cracked, blackened earth. The wind carried a stench of ash and metal. He wasn’t just looking anymore—he was seeing.

  Boris stood still, staring blankly.

  No—not blankly.

  Every mark, every scar on the land spoke to him.

  The deep gouges carved in the ground, the melted fragments of weapons—he recognized them. Those were from a spear strike, not thrown, but swung with enough force to tear the air apart. The kind of swing that so powerful Boris might have doubted if not from the evidence he was seeing.

  Lord Kavel’s spear.

  Boris swallowed hard. His chest felt tight, his heartbeat matching the rhythm of phantom strikes.

  A sudden trance he never expected.

  In his mind, he could see it—the opening move.

  Lord Kavel descending from above, cloak shredded, his hair silver fluttering. The first thrust came like lightning—horizontal, clean, cutting through men, armor, even the tents behind them. The ground screamed as energy tore through it, leaving a burning trench that still smoked even now.

  The enemy had frozen. He could almost hear them shouting. Commands turned into panic. Some tried to cast powerful skills. Others—No, most of the men ran.

  But Lord Kavel didn’t stop.

  The next strike fell heavier, slower—meant to crush, not cut. Boris imagined the air collapsing inward, the spear trailing a blinding arc of mana that made shields like brittle glass. The wave of it must’ve thrown bodies skyward.

  He could almost hear it—the thunderclap, the ringing steel, the sharp cries that followed.

  And then, the counterattack.

  He saw the footprints—deeper, clustered. The enemy had gathered courage, a handful of elites pushing forward, their aura strong enough to leave black scorch marks behind them. One of them met Kavel’s charge head-on.

  The strike must’ve landed. The ground bore witness—splattered blood, the mark of a knee where Kavel might’ve staggered.

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  Boris held his breath.

  He didn’t avoid any of the attacks.

  Lord Kavel had taken it. Willingly.

  In Boris’s mind’s eye, he saw the old man grin through the blood, spear poised again, his eyes bright with something terrible and resolute. He struck back, faster this time—thrust, sweep, spin. The rhythm of death. Each motion cut the world a little thinner.

  When the light faded, only silence remained.

  The very few survivors must have scattered like leaves in a storm. They must have some kind of fleeing type of skills or a dungeon item. Then spear marks grew fewer, weaker—his strength ebbing with every heartbeat.

  And then, one final mark—straight down, clean, deep enough to pierce the earth’s bones.

  That was where Lord Kavel’s body still stood now, unmoving, spear grounded before him like a banner.

  Boris exhaled shakily. His throat felt dry. The image refused to leave him.

  He wanted to be like that. No… more than that.

  To wield such fear. Such respect. To stand in defiance even when the world itself demanded he fall.

  His vision trembled—part awe, part longing, part grief.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Are you going to puke like the others?” Adam’s voice rumbled behind him, half amused, half tired.

  Boris didn’t answer right away. He was still seeing the battlefield, still hearing the echoes of that impossible fight.

  …..

  After a long moment, the order came: Destroy the dungeon core.

  The [Mage] students and a few from northern soldiers worked in silence. When the final strike landed, a deep crack ran through the monstrous sphere—and then it shattered, bursting apart in a rain of blinding blue fragments.

  From the heart of that explosion, light unfurled—an oval shimmer, tall as a gate and glowing with the calm brilliance of a portal.

  For a heartbeat, everyone just stared. Then, the students began to cheer—relieved, exhausted, desperate to go home. Their voices echoed hollowly across the ruined field.

  The northern soldiers did not join them.

  They gathered around Lord Kavel’s still form, silent and unmoving. They didn’t feel they won at all.

  Suri had fainted long before the light appeared. Rin and Yuri carried her carefully over their shoulder, her red hair streaked with dust. Mana exhaustion had drained her completely—her breathing shallow, her face pale.

  Seeing Suri in her current state made their chest ache and worried for them. To Kana who was missing and Suri who probably did anything to search for her—even if it cost her life.

  Their bond was so deep that made Leo a bit jealous. He then turned his head towards Boris,”How about you? Are you not worried about Kana?”

  Boris, who was picking something in his teeth grinned,”Not at all.”

  “She’s different. She has ways to beat tough things. Tougher than her.” Boris paused, then looked at the horizon,”But she has no pride. She won’t hesitate to run if things don't go as she planned.”

  “I hope you're right.” Leo muttered.

  As they walked toward the northern fortress, the sound of cheers faded behind them, replaced by the crunch of boots on frost and the quiet murmur of mourning.

  A few soldiers and Kana’s friends split from the group, determination in their eyes.

  Even as they stepped through the portal, they began their search outside—for the student who had vanished.

  Kana.

  …..

  The twins took their time. They always did.

  They’d seen Kana running toward the border—toward the empire’s lands. She must have thought they were planning to retreat, that she could outsmart them by racing ahead and setting her snares.

  A clever plan. But again very predictable.

  Days passed with no confrontation. No arrows whistling through the air, no tripwires, no poisoned bait. Only the faint traces of her passage, left as though on purpose—a breadcrumb trail through the thinning snow and dead brush.

  “She’s toying with us,” one twin said.

  “Or she’s exhausted,” the other replied, scanning the horizon.

  A few days passed and now they were fully recovered. By the time they reached the gate of a minor imperial city, the sun had just begun to set. Golden light spilled across the pale walls, glinting off the runes etched into the stone. The guards at the gate straightened when they saw the twins approaching, their dark cloaks rippling behind them like ink in water.

  When the two men pulled down their hoods, the soldiers bowed immediately. Recognition flickered in their eyes—fear mixed with respect.

  “Did you see a young girl enter here?” one twin asked, his voice low, precise. “A few days ago, perhaps.”

  The guard hesitated. “There’s been many young girls, my lord. Traders, servants… slaves. Hard to tell.”

  “She has red eyes,” the second twin added.

  The guard blinked, then snapped his fingers. “Ah. The ghost girl!”

  The twins exchanged a glance.

  “Ghost?” one of them asked, frowning.

  “I—I saw her, my lord. Just for a moment. She passed under her hood, and I caught the reflection of her eyes. Crimson. Then—” he gestured vaguely toward the air, “—she was gone. Vanished. I thought I imagined it.”

  “She must be inside,” one twin murmured.

  “That’s impossible, my lord,” the guard said quickly, face lost its colours. “No one could have slipped through inspection without being noticed.”

  The twins looked past him, toward the lights of the city beyond the gate. Even from here, they could hear the faint sound of laughter, smell the faint sweetness of street food and smoke. A city alive, unaware of the quiet hunt creeping into its heart.

  “We can’t blame them,” said the first twin at last, tone almost amused. “We hate to admit but our target this time is… quite capable.”

  “Capable of running,” the other twin replied.

  They shared a brief, silent smile—something cold in the curve of their lips.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the first said. “We’ll find her soon.”

  The second adjusted his cloak, eyes glinting beneath his pale hair. “Though it may cost us a fortune in gold. This time.”

  “Is that kid even worth that amount of coin?” the first twin replied softly, gaze fixed on the flickering lamps of the city.