Fril immediately retreated into the darkness. From the shadows, he observed the stranger, his entire body tense.

  The man had appeared unexpectedly, even for Fril. He had not been careless—he had spent weeks gathering information, spying on the people, the cities, and this castle. Yet, not once had he seen this man, nor had anyone even mentioned him. It seemed the king had kept him a secret. Which made sense.

  The primary reason Fril had not anticipated the presence of a mage was that magic was strictly forbidden in these lands. Only followers of the Church of the Sun were permitted to learn and use magic—and even then, only one specific type.

  The very same magic that Xersies wielded: the Magic of Light. There were many in this world capable of using magic, yet they were only allowed to do so if they joined the church.

  The penalty for unauthorized use was death. Fril was unsure how they activated or strengthened their magic. He had heard rumors of a certain substance that one had to ingest to awaken their magical core, but any concrete information on the matter was locked away within the temples. And those temples were guarded by mages, some of whom were incredibly powerful. Fril was confident he could defeat the masters, but such an act would cause an uproar, and he would be discovered. His second most important priority was to remain undetected.

  If it were to come to light that this man was cultivating a form of magic other than what was permitted—especially under the private commission of the king—both his head and the king's would soon be rolling into baskets.

  "I can see you!" the man before Fril suddenly declared.

  He was enormous, his powerful muscles visible beneath his clothing. His eyes were a bright hazel, his hair jet black, and he had dark skin. Fril scrutinized him. He appeared unarmed, not even wearing armor. He stood there in cheap-looking garments that offered no protection—yet Fril was not foolish enough to believe he needed any.

  He could feel that this man possessed the same kind of magic as he did. Identifying someone's magic type through their aura alone was incredibly difficult—nearly impossible for beings like Xersies. But Fril lived by one principle: Knowledge is power. He had trained himself relentlessly to sense different forms of magic just by looking at a mage.

  Even so, it remained a challenge. The stronger someone was, the more chaotic their aura became, making it harder to decipher. But with this man, Fril had no doubt—he recognized the same energy he sensed in himself, in Shire, and in every other black Polykenas. This man wielded magic that enhanced his own body, strengthening him beyond normal limits!

  Still, Fril pulled out another of his small daggers, spat on the tip, and hurled it at the man. The stranger caught it effortlessly with his bare hand. Fril's tension grew.

  He was fast! But Fril was not ready to give up. He drew all his remaining daggers, throwing them in rapid succession—spitting on one before launching the next, never pausing. The daggers flew in a relentless barrage. Though the man managed to deflect several, three found their mark.

  As Fril emptied his supply of daggers, the man grunted and pulled them from his chest—but to Fril's surprise, he showed no sign of feeling the toxin. It had no effect.

  Fril did not allow him a moment to recover. He was already sprinting forward before the last dagger had even struck its target.

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  The man laughed. "Come on, little rat!"

  Fril said nothing. He charged directly at his opponent.

  The man raised his fists, preparing to strike, but Fril had never intended to engage him head-on. Just before entering the man's reach, Fril leaped to the side, kicking off the wall and propelling himself to the ceiling.

  Before the man could process what was happening, Fril had already vaulted to the other side. He dashed past his opponent in an instant. The man reacted with blinding speed, swinging at the spot where Fril had just been—but his strike hit only the stone wall.

  Fril had already launched himself back up to the ceiling.

  With a burst of force, he descended upon the man, claws extended for a lethal strike. But the man reacted just in time, raising his arms defensively. Fril shifted his trajectory at the last second, pushing off the man's powerful arms and landing behind him. Without hesitation, he slashed at the man's back.

  Fril felt the resistance of the man's skin—it was tougher than steel—yet his razor-sharp claws still tore through flesh. The man roared in pain, turning to retaliate, but Fril had already darted away. He struck again. And again. And again. He gave the man no chance to breathe.

  The narrow corridor worked to Fril's advantage, allowing him to constantly change positions while restricting the man's movements. Soon, dozens of deep wounds marred the stranger's body. His shirt had been reduced to shreds, hanging from his frame in tatters.

  But Fril's edge did not last long. The man quickly adapted. Instead of trying to hit Fril where he was, he targeted the walls around him. The stone crumbled, and the ceiling began to collapse.

  Fril hissed in frustration as he attempted to leap off a wall—only for it to give way beneath his weight. He lost his footing and plummeted. Instinctively, he prepared to jump back to the ceiling, but in that brief moment of imbalance, the man struck.

  A colossal fist crashed into Fril's skull. He was sent flying, tumbling dozens of meters before slamming into another wall. Though physically far stronger than an ordinary human, brute strength was never Fril's forte.

  He was small and had trained his body to be faster and faster—until he had surpassed even Shire in speed. But in return, he was far weaker than giants like the second in command.

  A single blow from him could shatter Fril's bones and incapacitate him for weeks. Whenever that happened, Fril always retreated.

  But this man was not as strong as Shire. He had wounded Fril, but the injuries were mostly superficial. He could still move.

  His mind told him to escape, but his heart—the heart of a Polykena—craved battle. Normally, he would listen to logic. But this time was different. He couldn't let this man leave. He had already seen Fril.

  Fril pulled himself free from the debris. He prepared to attack again, but to his shock, the man was gone. Fril had only been buried for a second—where had the mage vanished to?

  He couldn't have escaped through the main corridor, as it was already blocked by rubble. And there were no signs of movement in that direction.

  Fril hissed in anger. That left only one possible exit: the double doors.

  Fril sprinted toward them but hesitated. It could be a trap.

  Thinking quickly, he devised a plan. He began tearing down the remains of the walls. Within three minutes, the ceiling above him collapsed.

  Fril waited until the moment the rubble fell toward him—then he dashed forward, shattering the door and vanishing into the dust cloud.

  His enhanced senses scanned the room as he moved. The room was vast, with a ceiling towering at least six meters high. At its center stood a grand four-poster bed, draped in heavy curtains. On the far side, a large bookshelf stretched against the wall, accompanied by a sturdy wooden desk. The air was thick with the rich aroma of food, lingering as if a feast had only recently been enjoyed.

  He ran along the wall, staying in motion. Then, he spotted him.

  The man stood in the center of the chamber, grinning. Fril halted, locking eyes with him. The stranger's eyes burned with excitement.

  "I must admit," the man said, "I underestimated you, little rat. You're one of the strongest opponents I've faced in years. But this is the end for you. I was afraid you'd run away just when things were getting interesting—but you didn't disappoint."

  Fril didn't hiss in anger this time but in anticipation. The man was still bleeding from many wounds, but Fril's attention was drawn to the object in his opponent's hand.

  A massive sword. It was forged from some dark metal, but what truly unsettled Fril was the magical aura it emitted.

  It felt eerily similar to the blue stone that the Duce used to travel between worlds. There were no symbols on the blade. In this world, there were no symbolics—at least, none that Fril had even the faintest rumor about. So what was this sword?

  A movement in the darkness distracted him. At the back of the room, behind an overturned table, two figures peered at him—he recognized them instantly: the King and Queen.

  A plan formed in Fril's mind. He turned back to the man.

  "You're strong," he hissed. "Thank you for making things entertaining. Slaughtering ordinary humans was getting dull."

  The man's grin widened. "To a good fight, then! May the better warrior win!"

  Fril attacked. He sprinted up the ceiling, closing in on the man. The stranger swung his colossal sword—it reached all the way up to the ceiling. Fril leaped toward the blade, avoiding its lethal edge and using its side as a springboard.

  The man's eyes widened as Fril rocketed toward the far side of the chamber.

  "NOOOOOOOOOO!" the man roared.

  But it was too late.

  Fril's claws tore through flesh, then bone, then brain. The king and queen were dead before they even realized what had happened.