John strode from the cave, gladius sheathed. Sunlight hit his face as he cleared the opening. The cavern was nestled in a mountain’s side, peaks jagged against the sky. Below stretched a forest, trees splintered from the wyrm’s rampage.
He scanned the treeline, hand on hilt. No sign of dark elves or Helena. A week lost cultivating his body left him far behind. Tracking them might be difficult.
He descended the slope, muscles coiled, steps light as forged iron. He approached the treeline and entered the forest.
It wasn’t long before a chill ran down his neck. He was being watched. Good.
He stopped and called out, “Show yourselves. I know you’re there.”
Branches rustled. Three dark elves stepped from the shadows, bows drawn, violet eyes glinting. John knew there were more hidden in the trees.
Their leather armor blended with the foliage, but their movements betrayed nervousness.
“I’ll come with you,” John said, raising his hands. “No trouble. I want to speak to your leader.”
The elves exchanged sharp glances. The lead elf, a woman with a scar across her cheek, spoke up. “We’ll take you to him, but lay down your blade and submit to binding.”
John barely hesitated, nodding. “Done.”
Surprised at how quickly he agreed, Scar-face studied him, eyes narrow. “You, who bloodied a wyrm, surrender so easily?” Her voice was low, laced with suspicion. “What scheme is this?”
John’s lips twitched. “No scheme. I’m here for Helena, the girl. I wish to speak with your leader.”
The elves hesitated, not trusting John. However, if he was chained, he could not use his mana. He would be as weak as a kitten, in their eyes.
John set his gladius on the ground, palms open. An elf tossed him iron manacles etched with runes.
He snapped them on, the weight settling on his wrists. The runes glowed, and his mana dimmed, his Darklight Mana Core stifled. He tried to rouse his mana into action and found it simply did not respond. John’s eyes widened slightly. What a nasty invention.
Another elf snatched his gladius, wrapping it like a cursed object.
The lead elf nodded and motioned her comrades forward. They approached cautiously, like he might attack at any moment.
Scar-face pointed a spear at his chest. “Move,” she commanded.
John flexed his wrists gently. The chains creaked, straining. The elves didn’t notice, but they hurried him forward, weapons pointed at him.
They marched through the forest, weaving past shattered trees. An hour later, a camp emerged—tents of dark hide stretched taut, smoldering fires casting long shadows, elves honing blades or fletching arrows.
Stares followed John, some wary, others cold. He walked tall, chains rattling with each step.
Scar-face stopped at a wide tent, its flaps tied back. She went in to make her report. A few moments later, she emerged, grabbing John and shoving him inside.
Inside, an elf with a silver braid and glittering scaled armor leaned over a map.
Dark Elf - Level ??
He straightened, green eyes cutting through John, a longsword gleaming at his hip.
“You’re the one who carved up my rangers,” Rendial said, voice sharp as flint. “And drove off a wyrm. Yet you surrender. Why?”
John held his gaze, unflinching. “The girl you have. I want her free.”
Rendial’s lips curled, a faint smirk. “You stand chained and mana-sealed, yet you make demands?” He stepped closer, his presence heavy. “You killed a son of the High Lord. Your fate will be decided by him.”
The elf turned away, his smirk widening. “As for that girl? She is the property of the Shadowspire Enclave. And the Enclave does not relinquish its property.”
John’s jaw clenched. His eyes locked onto the elf’s back.
“Velka! Take this creature and keep him confined. We break camp and head for Shadowspire in the morn—”
He never finished.
A metallic snap echoed as the chains around John’s wrists shattered.
Rendial sensed the oncoming danger. He spun, hand flashing up to intercept the blur rushing toward him.
John’s fist struck his palm. He put everything into it.
The impact sounded like wood exploding.
Rendial’s arm didn’t hold. His wrist buckled violently, bones fracturing with a sharp, crunching pop. The force slammed up his forearm like a hammer through timber—his elbow twisted at an unnatural angle, shoulder rocking back.
His eyes bulged, breath caught mid-word. He staggered, almost dropping to a knee, cradling his shattered arm.
John pressed his attack.
Rendial’s instincts screamed. He reached for his sword, but his right arm hung useless, trembling.
He cursed and snatched for the hilt with his off-hand, fingers fumbling. The sword caught on the scabbard’s lip.
John closed the distance in a heartbeat. He threw another punch. A gust of wind ripped through the tent from the force.
Rendial’s eyes widened—he was too slow.
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But a burst of ancient light flared across Rendial’s chest.
A sigil—etched into a silver pendant around his neck—blazed to life. The light swelled outward in a circular pulse, meeting John’s fist.
The impact was thunderous. The sigil’s magic formed a crackling barrier, just thick enough to blunt the force. The shield shattered like glass, fragments of energy scattering.
Captain Rendial was flung back, boots skidding across the ground, but still breathing.
The pendant hung blackened, its glow extinguished.
He coughed, spat blood, eyes locked on John in disbelief—and something close to fear.
In Rendial’s mind, a cold thought echoed: He shattered my defensive charm, a gift from the High Lord, in one blow. Impossible.
All this happened in the span of a moment. Velka, at the tent entrance, recovered from her shock. Hoisting her spear, she shouted for her comrades to raise the alarm, yet she hesitated to attack John—fear and confusion in her eyes.
In Velka’s mind, a frantic thought surged: How did he shatter the Nullifying Chains without mana? He is merely level sixteen—how could his body be so powerful!
Finally given a chance to breathe, mana flared to life within the elf captain. He retrieved a flask of shimmering red potion, gulping it down. His wounds began to heal visibly, bones realigning. His mana surged.
John knew time was short. Elves would swarm him soon, and he’d lose control. He spun, kicking the tent’s table, sending the map and candles crashing. The canvas caught fire, flames licking upward.
He burst through the flaps, fists clenched. “Helena!” he roared, voice cutting through the camp. No answer. He didn’t know where she was, but he’d tear this place apart to find her.
Elves scrambled, drawing bows and spears. An arrow whizzed past his ear. John charged forward, slamming into a warrior. The elf’s chest caved in under his shoulder, body flying into a tent, collapsing it. Chaos erupted—shouts, steel clashing, fires spreading.
John wove through the camp, eyes scanning every tent, every shadow. “Helena!” he called again, dodging a spear thrust. He grabbed the shaft, yanking the elf forward, and drove his knee into their gut. The elf’s body crumpled, eyes bulging.
Tents burned, smoke stinging his eyes. An elf lunged with a dagger. John caught their wrist, twisting until it snapped, and shoved them aside. His movements felt effortless and agile, strength surging even without using mana.
He kicked through a tent’s wreckage, searching. Nothing. “Helena, where are you?” he shouted, frustration rising. Elves closed in, arrows raining. He rolled behind a crate, wood splintering above him.
Then he saw it—a caged cart at the camp’s edge, guarded by two elves. A figure slumped inside, hair matted, wrists bound.
John’s heart pounded. He broke from cover, charging toward the cart, heedless of the arrows slicing the air.
The elves guarding the cart raised their spears, but John was too fast. He slammed into the first, shoulder driving through their chest, bones crunching. The second thrust their spear, but John sidestepped, grabbing the shaft and snapping it like a twig. A swift jab to the elf’s jaw sent them sprawling, blood spraying.
He reached the cart, gripping the iron bars. Inside, Helena lifted her head, eyes calm despite her bound wrists and tattered clothes. Her gaze met his, steady, almost knowing.
“You’re John,” she said, voice soft but sure. “I knew you’d come.”
John froze, startled. They’d never met, not properly. “How—”
“I saw it,” she cut in. She nodded toward the camp. “They’re coming.”
Her words stopped him cold. Saw it?
Elves shouted, footsteps closing in. John snapped out it, ripping the cage door off its hinges, metal groaning under his grip. He pulled Helena out, her wrists still chained, and scanned the chaos.
Three elves charged, weapons drawn. John shoved Helena behind him. The first swung, but John caught the blade in his palm—steel bit into him, but his flesh held, blood trickling. He twisted, snapping the sword, and drove his fist into the elf’s chest. Ribs caved, and the elf collapsed.
The second lunged, but John sidestepped, grabbing their arm and hurling them into the third. Both crashed into a burning tent, screams rising as flames engulfed them.
More dark elves gathered, but they parted suddenly. A towering elf strode forward, taller than the others, his presence heavy as a storm, muscles rippling, eyes cold. His fists clenched, mana swirling visibly around him, a faint azure glow amplifying his already massive frame.
Dark Elf - Level ??
The elves fell silent, giving way.
“Human,” the elf growled, voice like grinding stone. “You die here.”
John faced him, Helena at his back. The elf charged, fist arcing like a battering ram, mana surging to enhance its force. John met it head-on with his own fist, relying solely on the raw strength of his body, unyielding as forged adamant.
The impact roared like thunder. The ground shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing beneath them, dust billowing. Elves staggered, shielding their eyes. The elf’s arm trembled, his knuckles bruised and bloodied, a faint pop signaling a hairline fracture in his wrist. John’s hand held firm, a slight ache in his bones but no visible damage. The elf grimaced, stepping back, his cold eyes flickering with surprise.
Gasps rippled through the elves. Velka, spear still raised, froze, her face pale. “Impossible,” she whispered. This warrior, notorious in the Enclave, had poured nearly all his points into Strength, his body a fortress of mana-infused power.
John’s eyes narrowed. He could feel the elf’s strength—formidable, nearly his equal, but not quite. The mana gave the elf an edge, but John’s flesh was a wall even that couldn’t breach. Not yet.
The elf snarled, mana flaring brighter, and lunged again, both fists hammering down. John countered, their blows colliding in a flurry of sparks and shockwaves. Each clash shook the air, the elf’s strikes fueled by desperation and arcane might, John’s by sheer physical dominance. The elf’s bones ached from the impacts, his arms trembling as he struggled to keep pace.
Then John’s gaze sharpened. He reached inward, rousing the dormant mana within him. It surged through his veins like molten steel, igniting his muscles, amplifying his strength and agility beyond mortal limits. His movements quickened, his fists now glowing faintly with a silver light, each strike carrying the weight of a falling mountain.
The elf swung again, but John was a blur. He caught the elf’s fist in his palm, crushing it with a sickening crunch, bones splintering under the pressure. The elf screamed, stumbling back, but John advanced, relentless. A single punch to the elf’s chest sent him flying, ribs shattering as he crashed through a cluster of elves, landing in a broken heap. The glow of his mana flickered and died, his body unable to withstand the onslaught.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of flames. The elves stared, horror etched on their faces. Velka’s spear trembled in her grip.
John didn’t pause. He grabbed the chains around Helena’s wrists, snapping them with a flick of his wrist. “Accept the notification and get out of here,” he said.
Helena’s eyes flickered, as if seeing something beyond the chaos. She hesitated, lips parting, then nodded. Her form shimmered and vanished, whisked away by the System.
At that moment, the crowd of elves parted again. Captain Rendial emerged, longsword gleaming in his hand, no trace of his earlier wounds. His mana blazed, a searing heat rolling off him, like a dragon rousing from slumber. His green eyes locked on John, sharp and unyielding, not a hint of the shock he’d shown before.
John’s skin prickled. This wasn’t the elf caught off-guard in the tent. Rendial’s stance was steady, his blade angled for blood, mana surging like a storm ready to break. The camp’s fires cast shadows across his scaled armor, making him seem larger, more dangerous.
“You’ve caused enough havoc, human,” Rendial said, voice low and lethal. “No more games.”
John clenched his fists, body humming with strength. Elves circled, spears and bows raised, but none dared move while their captain advanced. John stood his ground. Helena was safe, but he was alone now.
Rendial lunged, longsword slashing in a silver arc. John ducked, the blade whistling past his ear, slicing a tent’s canvas behind him. He countered with a fist, aiming for Rendial’s chest, but the elf parried with the flat of his blade, mana flaring to absorb the blow. The impact rang like a forge hammer, pushing Rendial back a step.
The elves gasped, their fear palpable. Velka gripped her spear tighter, eyes darting between the fighters. Rendial’s lips twitched—not a smirk this time, but a grimace of respect. “Your fleshly body is unnaturally strong,” he growled, circling. “For a lower race... Stay, and we’ll find your limit.”
John straightened, fists loose at his sides. He could move on to Stage Two of the Tutorial—right now, with a single thought. But Rendial’s challenge sparked something in him, a flicker of defiance. He wasn’t running, not yet.
