The wind howled in their ears as Valerius carried Ziraiah through the clouds. His eyes scanned the horizon—then narrowed.

  A beam of red light flared ahead, stabbing down through the haze.

  Valerius’s gaze tracked it to the ground. “Someone down there… wearing a crown.” He tilted his head toward her. “I’m going to get it. Wait for me.”

  Before Ziraiah could answer, he tossed her upward like a spear into the sky.

  “VALERIUS, YOU ASSHOLE!” she shrieked as she spun through the air.

  He was already plummeting.

  The impact when he landed on the target was like a localized detonation—earth split and a crater fifty meters wide swallowed dust and debris. The crowned man was flattened beneath him, groaning.

  Valerius plucked the crown from his limp hand, held it up to inspect it, and muttered, “Thank you.”

  Then he bent his knees and launched himself back toward the heavens, catching Ziraiah mid-fall as if she weighed nothing.

  “You idiot,” she snapped, twisting in his grip. “Why would you—”

  “A fall like that wouldn’t have hurt you,” Valerius cut in lazily. “Relax.”

  Ziraiah scowled. “What do you mean, relax? How the hell would you even know that?”

  Valerius’s tone was maddeningly casual. “I can feel the density of your muscles and bones.”

  She blinked at him. “You’re joking… right?”

  “Nope.” He didn’t even look at her, as if the statement needed no further explanation.

  After a while she gave him a look. “You’ve gotten too short, Val.”

  He smirked. “You’re really letting that get to your head, huh? FYI—I grew three feet in three months. Pretty soon you’ll be the shortest one again.”

  “Three months? How?”

  Valerius only smiled and jerked his chin ahead. “Eryndor’s over there.”

  He landed lightly beside their older brother, setting Ziraiah down. She immediately hurried over to him.

  “My god, Eryndor—what happened to your hand?!”

  Valerius, still standing, answered for him. “Cut off. Isn’t it obvious?”

  A rock sailed through the air toward his head. He tilted his head just enough for it to whip past.

  "According to Valerius," Eryndor remarked with composed certainty, "it shall undergo complete regeneration."

  Ziraiah turned a doubtful glare on Valerius, but he only shrugged.

  “Flesh wounds heal in a few days,” he said evenly, “but bones? That takes weeks. I’m living proof.”

  “We’re Elvhein,” Valerius replied. “It should be the same for him. Does it make sense that I can regenerate and he can’t?”

  “You’ve got Bravo,” she shot back.

  “It doesn’t do that,” he said flatly.

  He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Guess you two are out for this phase, then. We’ll wait until it’s almost over—then I’ll grab the relics.”

  He sat down a few paces away from them, the tension rolling off his shoulders like he’d already made peace with the plan.

  Not far off, Juvian and Isabela approached through the dust.

  “We haven’t been able to get a single one,” Juvian muttered, voice tight with frustration. “And if we do get one, they’ll just gang up on us. This phase is impossible. I’m starting to think we shouldn’t have come. What were we even thinking? The Delindors are way above our level. This world’s so unfair. After all the destruction, it’s a miracle we’re still alive.”

  “Stop killing the mood,” Isabela said, not even glancing at him. “No one forced you to come.”

  They stopped dead when they spotted two relics lying in the dirt ahead.

  “No way,” Juvian breathed. “We can’t be that lucky…”

  They scanned the area. No one in sight.

  Isabela bent to grab them.

  “What are you doing?” Juvian hissed. “You’re putting a target on your back.”

  “Are you just going to give up?”

  “Yes,” he said bluntly. “I can’t compete with these people. We’re barely surviving as it is.”

  As soon as Isabela’s fingers closed around the relics, Juvian’s expression changed.

  “Search,” he commanded.

  A detection field pulsed outward in a nine-hundred-meter radius. His eyes lit up. “Eryndor and Ziraiah are close. Let’s go to them—they can protect us.”

  Isabela straightened and looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “Juvian… you have no pride, do you?”

  “What’s pride going to do for you if you’re dead?”

  Juvian crossed his arms. “Unlike you, I’m actually realistic.”

  Isabela shot him an incredulous look. “This is a competition, you idiot. What makes you think they won’t take them from us?”

  “Them? No, they won’t do that,” Juvian replied. Then his brow furrowed. “Come to think of it… Ziraiah would definitely take them from you. But Eryndor? He wouldn’t.”

  He extended his senses again, eyes narrowing. “Something’s off… Eryndor doesn’t have that same intimidating aura anymore. Something bad might’ve happened. Their mana levels are so… weak. Very weak. It’s like… mana depletion.”

  Isabela’s eyes widened. “They ran out of mana? Really? Let’s go see what happened—”

  Her words ended in a strangled gasp. Out of nowhere, two fingers burst clean through her back, crimson spraying the air. She coughed blood as her body was lifted effortlessly. Juvian froze in horror.

  The attacker stood over her—nineteen feet tall, brown-skinned, with two long, jet-black horns curling from his head. His eyes glowed a predatory red, long canines catching the light. And yet… there was no mana signature. Nothing.

  But Juvian’s instincts screamed. He was terrified.

  The Orken. One of the rarest races in all Yilheim.

  The giant held Isabela in his right hand, examining her as though she were nothing more than an object. With his left, he plucked the two relics from her grasp.

  “No… No, no, no! Isabela!” Juvian shouted, voice breaking.

  Far off, Eryndor and Ziraiah both turned sharply, their exceptional hearing catching his voice. Without a word, Eryndor bolted. In less than half a second, he arrived—his left hand slamming into the Orken's face in a devastating blow that made the air shudder.

  He wrenched Isabela free and hurled the man away, sending the giant hurtling several kilometres. The force of the strike blasted Juvian back and carved a crater nearly a kilometre wide.

  Eryndor, without looking, cast a silent spell—stopping Juvian midair, freezing him in place and shielding him from harm.

  The Orken landed on his feet, sliding backward and tearing trenches for kilometres before halting, spine straightening. Not a drop of blood stained his face.

  Eryndor lowered Juvian gently to the ground, then placed Isabela down with care.

  Valerius appeared beside him in a blur. “Weren’t you out of mana?”

  "Though my mana reserves are exhausted," Eryndor replied with unshaken composure, "my physical puissance remains undiminished."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Juvian ran to Isabela’s side. “Please… please, stay with me!”

  Ziraiah arrived a heartbeat later, falling into step beside her brothers, all three watching Isabela’s shallow breaths.

  “This is your friend?” Valerius asked.

  “Yes,” Eryndor said.

  Eryndor raised his hand. Between his fingers, three vials of healing elixir shimmered into existence. He poured them over Isabela’s wound. Flesh knitted. The bleeding slowed.

  The air changed.

  The Orken blurred toward them, the world seeming to freeze with his approach.

  Valerius stepped forward, his back still to the giant. After two steps, he turned, facing the man head-on. The behemoth halted instantly, wind gusting outward from his sudden stop. Time resumed its natural pace.

  “Put the relics down,” Valerius said, drawing his sheathed sword and pointing it lazily at the giant, “and leave. Or…” His tone dipped into something colder. “…I’ll beat the crap out of you.”

  The man's lip curled. “Are you threatening me?”

  Valerius walked forward, tapping the sword’s sheath against his shoulder. “I’ve heard most people can’t regrow their limbs.” He stopped directly beneath the giant’s shadow, looking up. “If you don’t drop the relics and leave, you’ll find out if you’re one of them.”

  They stared at each other—two predators measuring the other—until the Orken abruptly bolted away, vanishing into the distance.

  Valerius exhaled. Dang… he really didn’t drop them.

  When Isabela’s wound finally sealed, Juvian wrapped his arms around her, relief shaking his voice. “I’m so sorry… we should have never come to this place.”

  Isabela’s gaze drifted down. Three empty bottles of healing elixir lay on the ground, their glass still glistening with residue. Her eyes widened. “These… these are the highest-grade healing elixirs. How did you get them? They’re so rare—so expensive.”

  Juvian glanced toward Eryndor. “It was him.”

  Isabela looked up, meeting Eryndor’s calm eyes. “You… used all of these on me? Thank you.”

  "It was no encumbrance," Eryndor replied evenly. "I fashioned them with my own hands."

  Ziraiah’s head snapped toward him. “What? You told me you bought them all!”

  "I uttered no such claim," Eryndor corrected coolly. "You merely presumed I had procured them

  Her eyes narrowed. “And why didn’t you tell me you could make them?”

  "Because I was hitherto incapable—until most recently. I assimilated the requisite knowledge merely days prior… in meticulous anticipation of this forthcoming competition."

  Isabela blinked. He learned how to craft the highest-grade elixir in just a few days? She swallowed. At this point, I shouldn’t be surprised by them anymore.

  Valerius tilted his head. “Then why didn’t you use one on yourself?”

  "They cannot regenerate osseous structures," Eryndor stated with clinical precision. "That is the singular limitation I fully intend to rectify upon our return."

  Valerius’s gaze flicked down. “Then why didn’t you heal your belly? There’s still a hole in you.”

  Eryndor cast a measured glance at the wound, as though only now registering its existence. “I was… preoccupied with the amputation of my hand. The matter escaped my immediate recollection.”

  Another bottle of elixir appeared between his fingers, and he poured it over the injury. The flesh closed instantly, leaving no trace of the gash.

  Juvian stared. Who in the hell was Eryndor fighting for him to lose a hand? Is that why his mana is so drained? If there are people here who can push him this far—force him into mana depletion—then we really shouldn’t have come.

  Ziraiah knelt beside Isabela. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel… great. Sorry your brother had to use all his elixirs on me.”

  “Don’t worry—we have plenty.” Ziraiah opened her hand, and eight bottles shimmered into existence, hovering above her palm. “Take these.”

  Isabela hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” Ziraiah said with a shrug.

  Juvian’s eyes went wide. “If you sold these, you’d be rich forever.”

  “I am acutely aware,” Eryndor said with measured mildness. “However, Pungence is hardly deficient in financial resources… as you are well apprised.”

  Juvian glanced at him. “You’ll have to leave him one day, won’t you? You’re a grown man now. I’m just saying… for when the time comes.”

  ---

  They all sat together, speaking in low tones. Valerius leaned closer to Eryndor and nudged him with his elbow.

  “You ran pretty fast back there,” he murmured. “Not like you to care about other people. Is she your girlfriend?”

  Eryndor’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Ah, Valerius… it is entirely unsurprising that the contemplation of women should occupy a foremost place in your mind. Yes, we have shared… certain interludes. But no—she is not.”

  Valerius tilted his head. “What are you waiting for, man? She’s pretty. I get that you weren’t attracted to anyone on Earth, but this is Yilheim. I even saw this gorgeous silver-haired one yesterday—Eryndor, you should have seen her. Breathtaking.” He kissed his fingers theatrically. “And strong. Very strong.”

  Then his tone shifted, the humour fading. “She knows about us. Something no one else should know.”

  Eryndor’s brow knit in measured gravity. “Valerius… even we remained ignorant of our true nature until Kaelan imparted that revelation.”

  “It’s not that,” Valerius said, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

  Eryndor’s eyes widened, the composure in his face slipping for the first time. “Mother declared… that—”

  “Yes,” Valerius cut in.

  “That they were—”

  “Yes,” Valerius said again.

  He sat back. “The thing is… I felt no hostility from her. Yes, I can tell when someone is hostile toward me.”

  Eryndor’s expression steeled, his tone carrying a quiet finality.

  “It would appear I am compelled to make the acquaintance of this woman.”

  Valerius smirked. “Anyway—seriously, you need a woman.”

  Eryndor chuckled softly.

  “You ever fixate upon women, little brother. Very well—allow your elder and superior to enlighten you… in due course. I was fortunate to have an exemplary mentor, and I now possess a consummate understanding of the fairer sex.”

  Valerius arched a brow. “Oh?”

  Eryndor’s smile deepened.

  “Pungence did far more than merely instruct me. Though an incorrigible libertine, his comprehension of women was executed with such meticulous precision that it verged upon the scholarly—an art form in its own right. The manner in which he could anticipate their conduct, their inclinations, their every nuanced response… was nothing short of enthralling. I confess, my time in his company was most edifying—and, indeed, enjoyable.”

  To Be Continued...