The crown's helpers moved quickly, collecting the giant’s corpse without hesitation. Its half-knit wounds still squirmed, muscles twitching in reflexive attempts at repair. Alex knew the giant, Rythe, wouldn’t come back. The system had confirmed his death—the soul was already gone, reincarnated. Even with necromancer skills like Phurafel’s corpse reanimation, revenant creation, or Thanatos Sovereign, they’d only recover fragments, nothing whole. So why take the body? His eyes lingered on the still-active regeneration. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe they didn’t need the soul—just the flesh.

  How high was his strength stat? Alex wondered. The giant berserker hero had almost outstripped Alex’s base strength by a few times, which wasn’t something most people could do. If it wasn’t for Thanatos’s sovereign boosting his defence and hardening his blade, the fight would have been far more annoying. But the giant had much also been slower than Alex— A lot slower, about half my speed, maybe less so… His level couldn’t have been that high, he thought. That suggested specialisation. The giant berserker hero, Rythe, had likely invested most of his stats into strength and strength alone. The helpers carried the corpse, scrambling to follow the campaign's two leaders.

  Vaylen and Faelir.

  The nobles approached ahead of the heroes with their retinue, moving as if their will alone shaped the world around them, their retinue following in lockstep. The summoned heroes followed behind them too, their presence carrying weight through the sheer force of their numbers, neither rushed nor hesitant.

  Vaylen Dreymoore and Faelir Arlen were inhuman in every detail. Both stood impossibly tall, their angular polished armour catching the light sharply. Their skin was unnaturally pale, and long, pointed, elf-like ears set them apart. Their eyes burned a bright red, almost glowing with inner light.

  They rode horses that were larger and more regal than any Alex had ever seen, their powerful frames matching the nobles' commanding presence.

  Alex remained still. He watched as Vaylen Dreymoore’s gaze settled on him.

  “Seize him.”

  Six heroes advanced at Vaylen’s words. Their movements were efficient, their intent unmistakable.

  Alex exhaled slowly. They think this will work.

  He moved.

  Mana Burn. Allocation.

  [Please select focus of Allocation]

  [Strength / Dexterity / Endurance / Intelligence

  Wisdom]

  He chose ‘Strength,’ and the shift was instant. His body surged with the force of redistributed stats, his strength surging beyond thirteen thousand points, every motion empowered beyond what their defences could withstand—a third of his total dexterity, endurance, wisdom, and intelligence flooded into his raw strength.

  Alex took a single step forward, a blur of motion. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade, and in the next instant, six bodies dropped. A precise thrust to a pressure point, a sweep to break balance, a pivot that sent one crashing into another. Swords flashed, striking exposed tendons and nerves, rendering limbs useless before the pain could register. One staggered, his breath caught in his throat—Alex struck his temple with the hilt, the impact dropping him instantly. Another raised a hand to cast, but Alex’s wrist was already behind him, a sharp twist of his wrist sending the blade across his back. None of them had time to react. Six down. Instant.

  Alex’s execution relied on precision and layered disruption, forcing six equally strong opponents into instant defeat before they could react. SwordSaint’s Domain and Adaptive Flow Engineering let him read their mana and intent far before movement began, allowing him to perfectly predict their skill activations and more importantly; their reactions. The moment they braced, he activated Pierce Reality, collapsing the space between them to land a strike from an impossible angle. Laceration Bloom repurposed the sinew and flesh of Rythe’s fallen corpse behind them, forging it into razor-sharp constructs that struck their unguarded backs, though half reacted in time. Sovereign Executioner manifested behind another mid-motion, forcing them into a reflexive dodge that exposed their back to a disabling strike. Blade Body extended from his arm in controlled bursts, swords erupting from his skin and severing tendons to render limbs useless before pain could even register. As one staggered from the shock, he redirected their collapse into another, throwing off their balance and breaking their formation. The last, caught between instinct and hesitation, received a single precise blow to the temple—ensuring none had time to recover before it was over.

  Alex exhaled before them, lowering his stance. Six bodies lay motionless around him, groaning, disarmed, or unconscious.

  He looked up at the nobles. His expression remained unchanged.

  “Well,” he said, voice calm. “That was a waste of time.”

  The rest stood frozen, surprised, each realising the scope of their adversary. Except for the two nobles. Faelir watched Alex with the calm indifference of a man who had seen ages pass, while Vaylen appeared to embody the rage and ignorance of youth, his face forming the beginnings of a scowl.

  A sharp whistle cut through the quiet.

  "Efficient," the student hero remarked, adjusting his glasses as he studied those who had fallen unconscious. "I’d give that an eight out of ten."

  Alex approached them without response, his steps unhurried and purposeful. He wasn’t concerned by the countdown ticking down on his skills, nor the two-hour cool-down that would leave him without access to mana or his usual abilities. The loss of those advantages would give him the opportunity to activate his Qi—its energy a tool he hadn’t been able to use in the field for some time. There were techniques he’d been aching to try, methods that didn't rely on the system's manipulation of mana and followed different rules entirely.

  Alex stepped forward and said, "I acted in self-defence outside of Crown jurisdiction, and they attempted to arrest me unjustly, with hundreds of witnesses present."

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  He wasn’t wrong, technically. Liora had hastily whispered the laws as they approached. Though Osric had insisted that the laws didn't apply to the people in charge.

  At Alex’s words, the younger noble’s pale face tightened. Vaylen’s brows furrowed in fury and he shifted in his saddle, as if preparing to spring from it, the anger in his bright red eyes flickering like flames threatening to spread.

  Before the Vaylen could move, the older one’s clawed gauntleted hand shot out to restrain him, his grip firm like a vice. Faelir’s wizened crimson eyes glinted with a cold, controlled fury, and his voice was a calm, lethal whisper. “He may be an asset.”

  Faelir leaned forward slightly, his posture like a predator poised to strike, but his words carried the weight of experience, the measured patience of someone who had seen too many battles. “But a wild horse that cannot be tamed can never be ridden into war.”

  Faelir’s experienced gaze hardened, the air around the older noble’s pale gaze shifting, as if the very atmosphere of mana reflected his thoughts. “And disrespect must be met with death—or something close to it, something worse. It is the only way to maintain order.”

  Alex watched them closely, noting the controlled cruelty in the older one’s timbre, the calculated distance in Faelir’s demeanour. It wasn’t the first time he had encountered this kind of cold logic—the kind that justified brutality with the sharpest of reasoning.

  It reminded him of his time at the sect.

  The world around them slowed.

  Not in truth, but in perception—Alex’s domain sharpened his awareness, stretching time to accommodate a movement that had just occurred. A moment ago, Faelir Arlen had been seated at the rear, watching. Now, he was in right front of him, standing so close that Alex could have counted the threads in the fabric of his dark, reinforced armour.

  Everything else remained frozen—dust suspended in midair, hunters mid-step, eyes still tracking where Faelir had been a blink ago. Yet there he stood, unmoved by time’s usual constraints.

  Alex looked up.

  Faelir was a towering presence, his height surpassing the tallest men by more than two heads, his frame long-limbed yet unnaturally solid. His shoulders were broad, his posture one of controlled ease, yet there was nothing relaxed about him. His ears stretched back into long, tapered Elvish points, his skin pale, not in the way of the sickly, but as though it had never known warmth, never been touched by the sun.

  His eyes—deep, bright red—held the glow of something unnatural, not quite light, not quite fire. They didn’t reflect the world, they consumed it to show only a bright sheen, like a tigers might in the dark.

  Faelir smiled for the briefest instant, and Alex thought he saw fangs. Not the teeth of men. Too sharp, too large—but the detail vanished in an instant.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Not a man, and not an elf. Something older.

  The noble extended a hand.

  Man.. that speed… and those teeth… he can’t be what I think he is, can he? He’s gotta be… And what is with this world and handshakes? Is it a cultural thing? His thoughts curious, Alex eyed the extended hand, then he met the noble’s gaze, then, deciding to follow suit, he clasped it.

  The moment their hands met, the ground cracked.

  A tremor ran through the earth, splitting the stone as Faelir’s grip tightened. The force behind it should have shattered bone, crushed muscle, and forced submission.

  Alex’s fingers did not break. His arm did not bend.

  Faelir squeezed harder. Stone buckled under their feet, fractures lancing outward.

  Alex barely noticed.

  Alex felt the force behind Faelir’s grip, the kind of strength that should have pulverized most present, but his own remained unshaken, his body entirely unaffected—his attention was elsewhere, calculating. Faelir’s strength was high, around 4000 by Alex’s guess, a fraction of his currently boosted stat. And judging by the slight resistance he felt, the man’s endurance matched it, an absurd threshold for any normal fighter in this world but not beyond Alex’s reach. If Faelir had a rare class, his level sat around 900, but if his class was common, it would be closer to 1300. He probably can’t even level up anymore, Alex surmised. The sheer experience required to reach such heights was staggering—levels were not given, they were earned, and the higher one climbed, the more impossible the next step became. For Faelir to have reached this point, he had fought through centuries, if not longer—battles against enemies strong enough to be worth the kill, wars that shaped empires, and confrontations against beings that should have long erased him. He had reached the point where natural progression had slowed to near nothing, where combat itself no longer served as a means of growth, only as a means of maintaining dominance. That explained everything. The Sanguine had no reason to involve themselves in battles against the weak; there was no benefit, no gain, no reward. That was why they remained at the back, watching, assessing, unmoving—why they left the hunters and summoned heroes to deal with lesser threats. Liora’s words lingered in his mind—"They don’t age like us." If Faelir and those like him had stopped growing stronger and had reached the very limits of what the system would allow them to become, then their only option was to look outward—toward the Frontier, toward Seratheis, toward whatever remained that could still offer them something. This was not a campaign for conquest. It was not a mission for glory. It was a hunt for something beyond what they already had. And as Alex held Faelir’s gaze, feeling the weight of that realization settle, another thought entered his mind. If I killed him, how much experience would I gain?

  Faelir’s grip remained firm, his crimson gaze holding Alex’s with unspoken weight, sharp features carved by something older than the kingdom itself. The brief amusement from earlier was gone, replaced by the cool certainty of a man who had dictated the fates of thousands. His voice carried the weight of centuries, absolute and unwavering.

  “They say killing an agent of the Crown is not something that can be forgiven under any circumstances,” Faelir said, his tone measured, each word pressing down like a law carved in stone. “Unless one is protected by a House.” His hand tightened slightly still fighting against Alex’s grip. “The Crown will hunt you to the ends of Serra. They do not forget their investments. Unless you become my dog, you are destined to die.”

  Alex rolled his wrist, unbothered, they had only clasped hands for a second, and he had several to spare. His helm tilted slightly as he regarded Faelir. “I’m nobody’s agent,” he said, his voice just as even. “But I’m already contracted with you, aren’t I? If you need something done, post a job with the Crown. I’m happy to work as a hunter.”

  Faelir’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked to his own hand for a brief moment, then back to Alex. He studied Alex as if weighing something unseen. When he spoke again, his words were deliberate, spoken like a truth as old as his bloodline. “Men break,” he said.

  "Steel bends and those outside our will are turned to dust. There’s no place in this world for those who do not kneel before House Dreymoore."

  It was not a threat. It was a fact, delivered without doubt or hesitation. Faelir had not built his House through compromise. Those who refused its dominion did not persist.

  Alex summoned Eclipse into his free hand and released Faelir’s. The blade pulsed with a crimson hue, a hunger Alex felt through their bond, pressing at the edge of his thoughts and driving his instincts forward.

  Faelir’s eyes settled on Alex, waiting.

  Alex’s response was cold, his sword unyielding. “Am I going to have to kill you too?”

  Faelir’s crimson eyes didn’t falter. He stared directly at Alex, his expression calm, yet with something old and dangerous just beneath the surface, holding a depth that suggested he had seen the fall of empires and the death of gods. “Do you think you can?”

  Alex prepared to move, but then the world ruptured.

  A sudden, violent bloom of mist erupted across the battlefield, sweeping over them like a collapsing wave, the sheer force of it pressing against every surface, sinking into every crevice. Alex’s awareness flared. The air thickened, drowning in mana so dense it coiled around his skin like unseen tendrils, clinging to his armour in gossamer threads of energy. The ground beneath his feet shifted, softened, changed, no longer the broken stone and dirt of the mountain path but something else—not grass, not earth, but something in between, something unstable, shifting with an unnatural weightlessness that made his footing feel just slightly off.

  His senses told him everything at once. Osric moved. His body shifted in a smooth, practised motion, faster than lower levelled eyes could track. He hoisted Liora in one motion, securing her weight as though she were no more than a weapon being repositioned, then turned toward Alex. Osric’s hand pressed against the back of Alex’s armour, firm but pointedly, the faintest shift of contact against the segmented plates.

  The presence of the others—the hunters, the nobles, the summoned heroes—faded. Not dispersed, not hidden. Faded, as if distance itself had stretched between them, as if the space they occupied no longer quite aligned with where Alex now stood. No heartbeat, no breath, no trace of life beyond the two familiar presences that clung to his side, palm still touching his back.

  As the mist thinned, its weight still clinging to their waists like a living thing, wrapping around their forms in strands finer than spider silk, the earth solidified beneath his feet. Alex turned his head, taking in the vast, unfamiliar landscape that stretched before them.

  Osric exhaled, shaking mist from his sleeves as he muttered, "Damn mist planes. Thought we’d have a little longer before we triggered it."

  ***

  Alex shielded his eyes, his fingers brushing against the cold edge of his helm as he extended his senses outward. The mist curled thick with mana, its density almost tangible, clinging to his armour in fine, invisible strands. He pushed his awareness outward, scanning for anything—movement, life, some trace of the expedition they had just been part of.

  Nothing.

  Just land, earth, mist. No bodies, no lingering heat from footsteps, no breath beyond his own and the two beside him. The world had shifted in an instant, leaving only the three of them standing in the thick haze, its edges drifting at their waists, tangling like spider silk against their forms.

  A sharp exhale from Liora broke the silence. Not fear—anger. Her knuckles flexed along the shaft of her halberd as she turned on her heel, eyes scanning the cloying fog, her breaths measured but tight.

  "The fucking mistplanes," she muttered, as if spitting the words from her mouth. "Damn fools. Wayfinder classes were supposed to handle this. They had countermeasures—where were they? Skills meant to trigger the second we got too close? To keep us connected to each other if it took us? Useless. Now we’re cut off. Now we’re lost forever."

  Osric made a sound low in his throat, something between a scoff and a chuckle though Alex caught an undercurrent of concern. "We’re not lost." Osric said, reaching out lazily to brush his fingers through the thickening mist as if feeling the weight of it. "We just follow the mana."

  Liora turned on him, eyes sharp. "That’s it? That’s your grand plan?"

  Osric let his arm drop back to his side. "That’s how the mistplanes work. The stronger the mana, the closer we are to somewhere useful. An exit. One of many."

  Liora’s grip on her weapon didn’t ease. "And the things inside it?"

  Osric adjusted the strap on his shoulder, rolling his shoulders like they weren’t discussing something people feared vanishing into. "Predators go where the hunting’s best, same as anywhere. Most of them avoid the apexes' zones. And those apexes?" He nodded at the thickening fog. "They don’t move around much. They stay where the mana’s strongest, feed on the concentration—near the exits."

  Alex exhaled slowly. It made sense. If this was a closed ecosystem, then apex creatures would naturally establish territory, keeping the weaker threats from getting too close. If the exits were their dens, that was the only path forward that didn’t involve wandering blindly until exhaustion or worse.

  Osric slung his bow higher along his back. "With our strength, we should reach an exit with minimal skirmishes. I’ll cover you both with my ballista and ranged skills. Shouldn’t be an issue unless you two decide to make it one." He shot them a sidelong glance, the barest smirk pulling at his lips.

  Alex observed the mist, the weight of its mana tugging at him, subtly pulling at his senses like a cool breeze. "And if we follow the thin mana?"

  Osric’s expression lost all humour. "Then we walk forever." His voice was dry, matter-of-fact. "The ones who try that route think they’re avoiding danger. The weak mana zones don’t end, they just stretch. No exits, no way forward. And they’re full of predators" He scoffed. "They don’t sit still. Follow the weak mana and you’ll be hunted until you collapse. No shelter, no rest. Just running until you drop."

  The choice was obvious.

  Alex nodded once. "We follow the mana."

  "Good choice. Even you would get tired here,” Osric nodded, slowly turning to regard them. “I would’ve left you both if you’d chosen anything else."

  Liora exhaled sharply but fell into step beside them, her eyes scanning the mist for movement. Together they began to walk, their eyes joining hers to scan every shifting shadow and subtle movement in the heavy, clinging mist.

  Osric let out a dry chuckle to himself as they walked, his boots crunching against the shifting earth beneath the mist. "Nice move there with House Dreymoore." His tone carried no judgment, only amusement at the sheer audacity of it.

  His eyes flicked to Alex, gauging his reaction before continuing. "The Houses hold more power than most realize. The Crown might keep order in the city, but above it all? It’s them that pull the strings. They fund the expeditions, maintain the private armies, and broker deals beyond Serra’s borders. Without them, the kingdom would collapse under its own weight."

  A pause.

  Then, with the same measured calm, he added, "You’ve made yourself quite the enemy."

  Liora shot Alex a look, but he said nothing, merely listening.

  Osric exhaled, running a gloved hand through his hair before adjusting the bow slung over his shoulder. "It’s probably safer in here than out there in the rest of the world. If you seize the campaign’s prize, you might be able to barter your freedom with it—through Hunter’s Rights."

  The mist thickened ahead, shifting like a living thing, but Osric didn’t seem concerned. "That is, if you get to it first."

  Alex kept walking, his pace steady, unbothered but curious. "What are they after in this campaign?"

  Osric let out a breath, eyes scanning the mist ahead. "No one knows for sure."

  Liora shifted her grip on her halberd. "But the Frontier is filled with temples. The gods of war, life, death, love—whatever ruled before they vanished left behind more than just ruins. Creatures. Guardians. Beings men have never seen."

  Osric nodded. "They littered the land with their creations before they disappeared—or died. Relics. Materials. Beasts. Guardians. Great weapons and artifacts of absurd rarity and power. Things that don’t just enhance strength, but twist what a person is."

  Liora’s voice was quieter, but no less certain. “Blood curses that turn men into gods. Divine legacies that give insight into the gods themselves. Class and race evolutions. Even the power to create life."

  The mist shifted around them, thick with mana, but none of them stopped walking.

  Alex let out a short laugh, the sound low but genuine. “If that’s the prize,” he said, shaking his head, “then I don’t think I’ll be bartering for anything at all.”

  The is up and running. So if you like, you can read ahead there!