Somewhere deep within Clanlyor, in a chamber draped with velvet curtains and glowing crystal orbs, Eliana sat silently before a massive Seer. Her gaze was calm but focused, watching the one-man storm called Balling dance and sing across the screen.
---
Elsewhere…
Beneath the scorching sun of No Man’s Land, where the wind howled like wolves and the sand burned like fire, a woman stood in silence.
She was ten feet tall, with silver hair that shimmered like blades, and eyes of liquid mercury. The heat didn’t touch her. Her cloak barely moved. She simply watched.
Her gaze was locked on the glowing Seer device embedded into a dune-pillar before her, where Balling’s voice echoed across the desolate wastes:
> “And for FIRST PLACE… we present: Hefestrik’s Armour!
Yes—you heard right! The living masterpiece!
Become a walking disaster with this beauty!
Oh—and that’s not all!
It fits any size, turns completely invisible, and adapts to the wielder’s aura like silk to skin!
Truly a marvel of ancient warcraft!”
The woman tilted her head slightly.
Balling grinned onscreen, pointing toward the heavens:
> “So! Want a chance at godhood?
Then meet me at Plunder Island!”
---
In another part of No Man’s Land…
Amid jagged cliffs and red winds, a lone figure stood atop a broken slab of ancient stone. He was human—5 foot 9, blond hair tousled by the wind, silver eyes glowing faintly against his tanned skin.
He wasn’t moving.
He wasn’t blinking.
He was watching.
Before him, embedded into the rock like a sacred relic, glowed a battered Seer device—its screen flickering with static and dust, but still strong enough to carry the image.
Balling danced onscreen—singing, laughing, twirling like a storm with a smile.
And the man watched him in silence.
Expression unreadable.
Breath steady.
Eyes fixed.
---
Meanwhile, in the Zitry Broadcast Station, chaos reigned.
Screens flashed. Signals distorted.
A technician slammed his hands on the console. “All channels—hijacked! We can’t override it!”
Another operator spun frantically in his chair. “We’ve lost every single line—the signal is overriding everything!”
Sirens wailed. Dozens of workers scrambled across the floors like ants. Every continent's network—Yardrad, Clanlyor, even the Outer Fractures—was now dominated by Balling’s broadcast.
Onscreen, Balling twirled and blew kisses to the camera.
> “For those of you who want in—
Book your two-way ticket to Plunder now!
Website’s on-screen!
Still living in a cave?
Go to your nearest Plunder Shop and claim your pass!”
He leaned in.
> “All necessary info will be provided there!
Event takes place in thirty days.
Get ready…
and THANK YOU!”
He blew a final kiss.
The broadcast ended.
---
Back in the Giant Village…
The bruised and swollen giant from before—Beverik—was now trailing behind Esky, limping slightly, a pleading look in his eyes.
“C’mon, Esky, it’s easy,” he begged, practically skipping to keep up. “We send him—he grabs my stuff and uses the Return Scroll to come right back. Quick trip!”
Esky kept walking. Her arms crossed. Her eyes hard.
“No.”
“But why not?” Beverik whined. “He’ll complete his training. That’s what the scroll’s for!”
Esky stopped.
She turned. Her stare was sharp as a blade. “Why should I let him go?”
Beverik raised his voice in frustration, pitch climbing like a panicked bird, “Because it’s MY STUFF! I can’t leave it there!”
Esky narrowed her eyes. “Then go get it yourself.”
“You know we can’t leave this place!” Beverik snapped. Then, quickly lowering his voice, “Please, Esky…”
Esky’s voice dropped cold. “We finally have someone with a real chance of completing Project Might, and you want to send him out unfinished? What if he dies?”
“He won’t die!” Beverik shouted. “He’s plenty strong already! It’ll be a piece of cake.”
Esky cocked her head.
“Funny… Just yesterday you called him a useless weakling. And now, suddenly, he’s plenty strong?”
Beverik scratched his head, sheepish. “Must’ve been drunk. I didn’t mean it.”
Esky turned again and walked on. “Yes, you did.”
“Pleaseeeee…” he begged behind her.
“I said no,” she said firmly.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
---
Later that day, Esky was speaking with Sikovik—a stoic elder giant who had trained with her during the early cycles.
He leaned over a wooden rail, arms like mountains crossed over his chest. “Did you hear about the competition?” he asked casually. “They’ve got some hefty prizes this time.”
Esky glanced at him. “Like what?”
Sikovik raised a brow. “You wouldn’t believe it… First prize is Hefestrik’s Armour.”
She froze.
Turned her head.
“What did you just say?”
Sikovik blinked. “…Hefestrik’s. Armour.”
Esky didn’t respond.
Her gaze dropped.
Then narrowed.
And somewhere in her chest, something long dormant stirred.
---
Ten minutes later, Esky stormed into a small, stone cottage tucked into the base of the northern cliffs. It was modest—tiny by giant standards—but crafted just for him.
Valerius.
His home.
The door creaked under her push, and her voice cut through the silence.
“Lerius.”
Valerius shot up from his bed, instantly alert. “Yes?”
Esky stared at him. “We have a mission for you.”
---
Hours Later…
He stood in the center of a gathering circle—surrounded by giants.
Esky.
Sikovik.
Alvatik.
And, of course, Beverik, who stood proudly in front of a massive board twice the size of a house. A large crystal pointer in his hand, he began his presentation like an excited professor.
“Alright, kid. These… are your targets.”
He tapped the first diagram with a dramatic thud.
“This—Heaven’s Eye. One of my best works.”
Valerius blinked. “You made that?”
“Damn right I did.”
He moved to the next.
“This here… is Juvia.”
Valerius frowned. “Juvia? Really?”
That was all it took.
The giants burst into laughter.
One clutched his side. “That sword was practically his wife!”
Another added, “He even slept with it! We heard the noises, Beverik!”
“Shut up!!” Beverik barked, red in the face.
Alvatik howled, “We begged him to change the name but he never did— thanks to Balling, it's now Land Breaker. Bless that man!”
The laughter continued. Even Valerius smirked.
Grumbling, Beverik stomped to the next drawing. “Anyway—this… is Hefestrik’s Armour.”
He tapped the sketch hard. “Even if a dying weakling put this on, he’d be strong enough to go toe-to-toe with any of us.”
Valerius raised a brow. “Seriously?”
Esky nodded. “That’s why it’s your top priority.”
Valerius folded his arms. “Why the hell would you make something like that?”
“I didn’t,” Beverik said, shrugging. “My father did—before I was even born. It’s ancient. I’ve only seen it once.”
He turned back to the board. “If you can grab the other two too, that’d be great.”
Valerius glanced at the board. “And how exactly am I supposed to carry all that?”
Beverik grinned.
Then—from behind the crowd—a childish voice chirped:
“With this!”
A youthful giant strode forward—barely in his teens by their standards, yet already towering at thirty feet tall. His skin shimmered faintly under the sun, his white hair spilling over his shoulders like silk, and his luminous blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
Slung over his back was a bag bigger than a barn, reinforced with glowing runes and heavy iron clasps.
He reached the circle and let it drop with a thunderous boom that shook the stone beneath them.
Valerius took a step back. “ What the hell is that? A house? You expect me to walk around with that? It’s bigger than me!”
The young giant beamed. “It’s a bag.”
Beverik waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. We thought of everything.”
The boy smirked and pressed a glowing button on the side of the bag.
Shrunk.
The bag instantly shrank down to the size of a small satchel.
“Go on,” Beverik gestured. “Pick it up.”
Valerius walked over and slung it over his shoulder. It was light. Flexible. Etched with glowing runes.
“Spatial bag,” Beverik explained proudly. “Holds anything. Doesn’t weigh a thing. You could shove a dragon in there and still do backflips.”
Valerius turned it over in his hand. “Why do you have so many artifacts?”
Beverik grinned wide. “Artifact maker, remember?”
Valerius raised a brow. “...Show off.”
He slung the bag’s strap across his chest. “So… where exactly am I going?”
Beverik leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Did a little voodoo magic stuff. Managed to pinpoint the island.”
Valerius narrowed his eyes. “I thought you guys couldn’t use magic.”
Beverik wiggled his finger. “Oh, kid—there’s so much you don’t know. Let me give you a short story.”
He leaned against the board.
“Long ago, there was a gifted man. Could use magic—real magic. But his wife wasn’t gifted. Couldn’t even cast a spark. So what did he do?”
Valerius shrugged. “...Left her?”
“No!” Beverik snapped. “He invented a way for non-gifted people to use magic. That’s how magical items were born. That’s the theory behind Runes, too.”
He nodded like a professor. “So technically—if you have the right item, anyone can use magic.”
Valerius muttered, “Huh.”
He looked down at the satchel. It pulsed faintly with runic light.
Then he looked up.
“So how am I getting to the island?”
Alvatik stepped forward, grinning like a child about to throw a firecracker. “Oh, that part’s simple…”
He gestured to the sky.
“We’re going to throw you.”
Valerius’s face dropped. “What?!”
Beverik chuckled. “You’re not taking a boat. You’re going direct. Right to the island.”
Esky added, “Fifteen days from now. Pack light, you're going to Plunder island.”
Alvatik laughed. “And eat heavy.”
Beverik smirked. “You’ve trained for two years straight. Survived more punishment than most of us ever did. And now—it’s time to see if you’re ready.”
Valerius stared at the giants.
At the board.
At the bag on his shoulder.
And slowly…
He smiled.
---
Zitry – Royal Training Grounds
The sky above Zitry was clear, but the battlefield below trembled.
Ziraiah stood tall—nearly thirteen feet of honed muscle, grace, and devastating power. At just sixteen, she had grown into a vision of towering beauty, her jet-black hair with green streaks cascading down her back, her emerald eyes calm and unreadable. Across from her stood Isabela—ten feet tall, eighteen years old, armed with a mana-imbued sword and years of rigorous training.
But it wasn’t enough.
The clash began with speed.
Isabela lunged, her blade slicing the air with a shimmering trail of mana. But Ziraiah was already gone, her bare feet gliding across the earth like a phantom. With a swift, fluid motion, she swept Isabela's leg out from under her. Before Isabela could hit the ground, Ziraiah’s foot struck her stomach with thunderous force.
The princess was sent flying, spinning midair. She crashed down and slammed her feet into the earth to brace, carving deep trenches with the shock of her landing.
"She's fast," Isabela muttered, pushing off with a burst of sonic force.
She darted forward, her blade flashing as she unleashed a flurry of strikes—blindingly quick, precise, deadly.
Ziraiah dodged them all without effort.
Then, with a smile, she caught the glowing blade mid-swing—with her bare hand.
Isabela growled and drove her free fist into Ziraiah’s face. A booming shockwave exploded from the contact, cracking the ground beneath them. Ziraiah’s head turned slightly from the blow.
Still smiling.
“Hmmm, you packed more power than last time,” she said casually.
They vanished. Blurs of motion. Lightning tore across the field as their duel intensified—each collision forming craters dozens of meters wide, each movement birthing hurricane winds. The sky trembled from the sheer pressure of their battle.
High on the viewing balcony, King Juval, Queen Zeliona, and several nobles observed.
A middle-aged noble with brown hair leaned forward. “She’s not even augmenting... Is she really not an Augmenter?”
Queen Zeliona replied, “She is. But she’s not using any magic. Even though she’s a Combat Mage.”
The noble blinked, dumbfounded. “She’sa Combat Mage?”
King Juval chuckled grimly. “What are these Elvheins made of?”
Beside them stood Sir Jeffery, a battle-hardened knight, 10 feet 5 inches tall. His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a duel. It’s a lesson. The princess’s attacks are completely ineffective.”
Below, Isabela roared and brought her sword down in a mighty arc aimed at Ziraiah’s shoulder. Mana surged through the blade.
The strike landed—and tore a trench four hundred meters long.
The resulting shockwave hurtled toward the royal spectators, but none of them flinched. Jeffery calmly raised his blade and deflected it with ease.
Ziraiah glanced at her shoulder. No blood. No wound. Not even a scratch on her skin.
“oh, I felt that,” she said with a teasing grin.
Isabela stood there, breathing heavily. Her sword still rested on Ziraiah’s shoulder—completely ineffective.
The truth hit her like a hammer.
She couldn’t win.
She couldn’t even harm her.
Her hand trembled as she released the sword. It fell to the ground with a dull thud. Her gaze dropped to the ground.
She stared at her sword, resting uselessly on Ziraiah’s skin. That was her best slash. That was everything she had. And it did nothing.
“I… give up,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Ziraiah tilted her head, disappointed. “Why? It was just getting good.”
Isabela turned and walked away, her head bowed in silent defeat.
King Juval sighed. “Poor girl. That must sting.”
Zeliona smacked the back of his head. “Go comfort your daughter, you fool.”
Juval scurried after her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
“Don’t let this get you down, sweetie. Those Elvheins are monsters. We shouldn’t compare ourselves to them.”
Zeliona turned to Andrea. “Are you sure… she doesn’t train physically?”
Andrea shrugged. “Nope. Her only sessions are with Isabela. If we can even call that ‘training.’”
Zeliona nodded grimly. “And Pungence? Any leads on their lost brother?”
Andrea’s expression darkened. “Nothing. He’s searched for three years. Still no sign of Valerius.”
Sir Jeffery stepped forward, his voice tinged with confusion. “Your Highness… that girl—Ziraiah. She’s an anomaly. How can she overpower an Augmenter without using mana? It doesn’t make sense. I’ve watched her train the princess for months. Even I can’t beat her.”
Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Did you fight her?”
Jeffery nodded. “I tried to teach her swordplay. Ended up going all out just to keep up. My blade couldn’t even cut her skin. I—a proud Knight—felt empty.”
Zeliona’s gaze sharpened. “Who gave you permission to train her?”
Jeffery froze. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”
“You’re lucky it was her,” she said coldly. “If you had hurt her, I’d have taken your head.”
Just then, Ziraiah approached, dusting her hands.
“What happened to Isabela?” she asked, puzzled. “She seems… sad.”
---
To Be Continued...
