Swordmasters—humans who had shattered their limits. Honorable, relentless, different. Unlike mages, who were blessed with mana from birth, or the Awakened—those rare individuals who gained strange powers at fourteen—Swordmasters carved their power into existence with nothing but sheer will. The books Icariel had read, torn and faded, described them as monsters forged from men. Not because they were geniuses. Not because they were blessed. But because they refused to stop.
Swordmasters were not chosen. They were forged.
They trained beyond exhaustion. They fought through failure. And those who endured the endless pain… gained something rare. A power.
"They achieve something called... ah, I can't remember," Icariel muttered to himself.
"Aura," the voice in his head said.
"Yes. Aura," Icariel whispered.
"That's why you can't feel it," the voice explained. "But try to focus. Use that trained vision of yours. You'll see something. Despite the distance."
Icariel narrowed his eyes, focusing on the green-haired boy. At first, there was nothing—just the bloody battlefield, the twisted corpses of monsters, and two figures standing tall. But then, near the boy's chest—inside, near his heart—he saw it.
A small green flame.
"Oh... I see it," Icariel muttered in awe.
"That's Aura," the voice said. "Unlike superhumans and mages, who radiate mana all over their bodies, Swordmasters condense their power into a single place. A core. And when they desire, they expand it however they wish."
"Incredible," Icariel said.
His eyes drifted back to the scene below.
Kledio and his master stood quietly near the remains of Groon's house. The blood had soaked into the earth. The wind carried the silence.
The master, the tall man with black hair and calm eyes, spoke in a hushed tone. "This area has never had dungeons. Not in decades. But now two opened here within minutes. That marks the fifth dungeon in this zone—just in a short time."
"It's accelerating way beyond what we predicted," he added.
Kledio nodded. "No worries, Master. As long as you're around, nothing will be a problem."
The older man chuckled. "You damn brat. You're too comfortable with me around."
His smile faded slightly as he looked around. "Still… we'll need to report this. We'll come back later. Identify the bodies. Give them a proper grave."
But then, Kledio froze.
He looked toward the hill.
Icariel stiffened.
"Someone's watching us," Kledio said quietly.
His master didn't turn. He didn't need to. He had already sensed it.
"I know. If they survived this… let them live. They've earned it."
And just like that, the two Swordmasters vanished into the trees.
Icariel remained hidden behind the rock, his breath trembling. His thoughts spiraled.
Swordmasters. Aura. Dungeons. This world… it was so much bigger than he had ever known, and still, he had seen only a small portion of it.
And now, he was alone in such a world.
The afternoon sun still hung over the land as the Swordmasters departed. Once the risk was gone, Icariel finally moved. He descended the hill toward Groon's body. Fronta… there were barely traces of her left.
All kinds of thoughts flooded his mind.
"They were just here… talking, laughing. Now there's nothing but blood."
He clenched his fists. "I should at least bury them."
"There's no time," the voice in his head warned. "The Swordmasters might return. Trouble may rise."
"You're right," Icariel said, his voice low. "If they come back and find me here, they'll ask unnecessary questions. I don't even know Elektra's origins. For all I know, they could be allied with her. I don't need the trouble."
"Exactly. You're not strong enough to do the noble things. Let's go."
Icariel stood still.
"Do you think I earned what they did for me?" he asked the voice.
Silence.
The voice didn't answer.
"No. I haven't." Icariel's voice was quiet. "Chopping wood or fixing things… that doesn't compare to being fed, sheltered, and saved."
His voice trembled.
"So... I should at least do this much to repay what I been given."
He waited. Still, silence.
"And if the Swordmasters return… after seeing that 'Aura' near their heart just once, I learned to see and feel it. It's not like mana, but they're related somehow—and it's not too difficult. Also, with you by my side, I'll manage. Like I always have."
No reply.
So Icariel moved.
With his bare hands, he dug two graves. The earth was hard, but his resolve didn't falter.
Lowering Groon into the grave, Icariel whispered,"I'm sorry for causing you trouble...Even though we didn't spend much time together, I'm truly thankful. I hope you go somewhere warm... like your heart was. Even though I don't believe in the afterlife, SteelHearted Groon."
He buried Groon and placed the man's axe above the grave.
Next was Fronta. He gathered what was left.
Oddly, he didn't feel the urge to vomit. Maybe he had adapted after what happened in his village. Or maybe… maybe something inside him had changed.
He placed her remains into the second grave. As he covered her with earth, he spoke softly.
"I don't understand how you could throw your life away like that. You only live once… and you gave it up not for someone living, but someone already dead. You said you couldn't live without him. I don't understand. I probably never will. Someone like me—someone who fears death so much—who only thinks about saving his own ass... I'll never understand you."
He paused, brushing the dirt with trembling fingers.
"Still… thank you. For everything."
With both graves side by side, he stood, staring in silence.
He had buried them.
He hadn't cried.
But he had done what was right.
Inside the ruined house, he grabbed what he could—some food, water, a black outfit. The pants were a bit loose, but the upper part fit perfectly. Clean, simple, tough.
He washed his face in the river, cold water numbing his cheeks. Then, with one last glance at the graves, he grabbed the same axe he used to chop wood for a week—and walked into the woods.
Two hours passed.
He didn't know where he was going. But he knew he couldn't stay there.
Eventually, he found a small cave. Shaded, cool, hidden.
"For the night… I'll stay here," he muttered, stepping inside.
He sat on a stone.
His hands trembled slightly.
"I've learned something clearly," he thought.
His thoughts raced. "I can't survive like this. Not anymore. I'm not in Mjull. This place… this world… it's brutal. The moment I left, dungeons appeared. If I hadn't run when I did—I'd be dead."
Then he remembered the Swordmasters. Their speed. Their power.
"If only I was a mage… or a superhuman… or even a Swordmaster. My chances to survive and live quietly… happily… they would increase tenfold."
His voice was low. Regretful.
"Damn… I never regretted being born normal. But now that I'm outside of Mjull… I really do."
And then it came.
A voice.
The voice in his head returned. And what it said made Icariel freeze.
"If you wish to become strong like a mage, superhuman, or Swordmaster… it's possible."
Silence.
Icariel trembled.
His breath caught in his throat.
"...What?"