As the last waves of heat finally settled into the frozen earth, the mountain reclaimed its breath. Steam curled faintly from patches of melted snow, only to be swallowed again by the biting wind that ruled these heights. The violent clash from moments ago left its mark, but like all things in this land, the scars would soon be buried beneath frost and silence.
The collectors returned to the fields without hesitation, their movements efficient and practiced, as though such overwhelming displays of power were simply another part of their routine. Whatever shock lingered in their eyes was quickly buried beneath discipline. Spirit flowers were delicate, and hesitation meant loss.
Above them, Ray sat atop the massive serpent's head, now reborn as something far greater.
Glaciron.
The name still seemed to echo through the air, settling into the creature's very existence like a command etched into its soul.
Ray's posture remained relaxed, yet his presence carried a quiet authority that none dared question. With a slight shift of his spear, he pointed toward the rocky ridges beyond the flower field.
"I will scout the surrounding area," his voice rang out, steady and commanding. "Focus on the harvest. We return before sunset."
A chorus of affirmations answered him. No hesitation. No doubt.
Even now, they were still adjusting to what they had just witnessed. A beast that should have spelled disaster… now moved under their command.
Glaciron obeyed with a low, rumbling hiss, its massive body gliding across the terrain with terrifying ease. Its newly formed obsidian scales caught fragments of sunlight, reflecting a muted, metallic sheen as it slithered toward higher ground. Each movement was heavy with power, yet unnaturally smooth, like a blade sliding through silk.
Within moments, both rider and beast disappeared into the jagged elevation beyond the field, seeking vantage over the mountains.
And just like that, the storm had passed.
The collectors resumed their work. Guards returned to their patrols. The rhythm of survival continued as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
All… except one.
---
Inside the main tent, Riven sat frozen, his breath uneven, his thoughts anything but.
What he had felt moments ago… that pressure… it still clung to his skin like invisible claws.
At first, he had assumed it was a clash. Perhaps the serpent had gone berserk, unleashing some hidden ability. That would have made sense. That would have been normal.
But what he saw instead shattered that assumption completely.
Unable to resist his curiosity as a mage, he had stepped outside, just enough to peer toward the source of the disturbance.
And what he witnessed… rewrote everything.
A towering inferno had swallowed the battlefield whole, flames twisting upward like a living entity, devouring the sky itself. At its center, the serpent roared—not in dominance, but in something far more primal.
Fear.
Then the flames collapsed.
And from within them, the creature emerged.
Not the same beast.
Not even close.
Its body had transformed into something darker, denser… its scales no longer resembling crude ice, but polished plates of obsidian steel. Light barely clung to its surface, as if even the sun hesitated to touch it. One eye burned with a cold, piercing blue. The other… glowed with a deep, smoldering crimson.
An evolved entity.
An Obsidian Black-scaled Python.
Riven's breath had caught in his throat the moment he recognized it.
A classification buried deep within guild records. A rare evolutionary branch among serpent-type magic beasts. Creatures that abandoned venom in exchange for raw, overwhelming physical dominance and condensed magical force. To reach such a stage required not only immense Astron accumulation, but intelligence far beyond typical beasts.
Even the weakest among them were classified as special C-rank threats.
At their peak… they brushed against B-rank.
A creature capable of dominating an entire ecosystem.
And yet…
That wasn't what terrified him the most.
What truly shattered him was the figure standing atop its head.
Ray.
A hobgoblin.
A being Riven had dismissed as little more than a background nuisance… now stood as the master of a creature that would require multiple seasoned adventurers to even challenge.
And the flames.
Those weren't crude tricks or unstable bursts of magic.
That was control.
Refined. Intentional. Efficient.
Intermediate-level fire manipulation—executed with a precision that even trained human mages struggled to maintain under pressure.
Riven knew exactly what that meant.
If he were to measure it in familiar terms… it would take at least two, maybe three mages of his own rank working in perfect coordination to replicate that level of output.
And even then… success wouldn't be guaranteed.
A cold sweat trickled down his spine.
Because for all his confidence in calling himself a C-rank mage… he understood the truth better than most.
Rank did not mean equality.
Not between species.
An F-rank monster required a full party of F-rank adventurers to safely subdue. As the scale rose, so did the disparity. By the time one reached A-rank territory, it wasn't a duel anymore.
It was a hunt.
And the hunters… often became prey.
Which meant something very simple.
If that creature was truly in the upper range of C-rank… or even brushing against B-rank…
Then he wouldn't last a single exchange.
Not one.
---
Riven steadied himself, forcing his breathing to slow. From the outside, he maintained a mask of concern, of cautious observation.
But inside?
His thoughts were unraveling.
How?
How does a goblin command that level of power?
How does something so insignificant become… that?
He searched his memory desperately, combing through every report, every rumor, every whispered warning about the Great Forest of Lunar.
Nothing.
No mention of a goblin faction rising to prominence. No reports of organized forces harvesting spirit resources at this scale.
Nothing that even came close to what he was witnessing now.
Which left him with only one conclusion.
And the moment it formed… his stomach dropped.
A demon lord.
Not a theory.
Not a possibility.
A certainty.
Only a demon lord would dare mobilize forces within this forest without fear. Only a demon lord could cultivate subordinates capable of bending such monsters to their will.
He had walked straight into the domain of something far beyond his comprehension.
Riven's hand rose to his face, fingers pressing hard against his temples as if he could crush the thoughts themselves.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was a death sentence.
If they discovered who he truly was… what he intended…
There would be no negotiation.
No escape.
No mercy.
His mind scrambled for options, each one collapsing under its own weight.
Fight? Impossible.
Deceive them? Temporary at best.
Stay? Suicide.
Which left only one path.
Run.
Abandon everything. Flee the forest. Reach Leonhart and report everything to the guild. Twist the story if necessary. Blame the disappearance of Duke Velnard on this so-called demon lord. Buy himself time. Create distance.
Survive.
Yes… that could work.
It had to work.
But as quickly as hope surfaced, reality crushed it.
He was weak.
Exhausted.
Drained.
In his current state, the forest itself would devour him before he ever reached civilization.
Unless…
His gaze shifted.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Toward the fields.
Toward the spirit flowers.
Clusters of condensed Astrons… raw, potent, and invaluable.
A resource capable of restoring mana.
Of rebuilding strength.
Of giving him just enough power to carve a path out of this nightmare.
His lips curled slightly.
There it was.
A chance.
Not a good one.
But the only one he had.
And in a place like this…
That was more than enough.
---
The camp, moments ago steady and disciplined, now breathed in a fragile calm—one that existed only because its strongest blade had stepped away.
Riven noticed.
His gaze moved like a knife slipping between ribs, quiet and deliberate as he scanned the perimeter. No sign of Ray. No towering serpent blotting out the sky. Only a handful of hobgoblin guards remained near the tents, their stone spears planted firmly, their posture relaxed—but not careless.
To him, it didn't matter.
They were still just goblins.
A slow, crooked smile crawled across his lips, the kind born from desperation dressed up as confidence. The weight of what he was about to do pressed against his chest, but fear had long since burned into something sharper, something colder.
Attacking them meant war.
Crossing a force tied to a demon lord meant death.
But staying?
That was a slower grave.
His fingers slipped into his robe, retrieving the small crystal core he had hidden so carefully—the last remnant of his staff, his final card. It pulsed faintly in his grasp, as if aware it was about to be spent.
Not wasted. Spent.
His eyes locked onto a small satchel of spirit flowers resting near a supply pile. Enough to restore him. Enough to run.
That was all he needed.
The moment stretched thin.
Then snapped.
Riven thrust the crystal upward, pouring everything he had left into it. Mana surged violently through his veins, reckless and uncontrolled, forcing its way into the core until it screamed with power. Above him, a magic circle burst into existence—deep violet, jagged, unstable. Its lines crackled like fractured glass held together by sheer will.
"Song of Paralysis!"
The spell detonated.
Not with sound—but with presence.
Purple lightning erupted from the circle in snapping arcs, alive in a way that felt almost predatory. It didn't simply strike—it hunted. Tendrils of electricity lashed outward, twisting midair before slamming into the two guards.
The moment it made contact, their bodies seized.
Muscles locked so violently it looked as though their skeletons had turned into iron rods forced through flesh. Fingers curled inward, joints snapping stiff as their weapons slipped uselessly from their grasp. Their jaws clenched, teeth grinding under the unbearable surge that tore through every nerve.
It wasn't just pain.
It was invasion.
The current crawled beneath their skin, racing along their nerves, forcing every fiber of their being to respond at once. Their vision fractured into blinding white flashes as their bodies betrayed them, twitching, convulsing, refusing to obey.
One of them collapsed almost instantly.
His body slammed into the ground, limbs still twitching violently as the current continued to crawl through him. His vision shattered into fragments of white, then dimmed, then blurred… until everything went dark.
The other tried to endure.
A strained, guttural sound clawed its way up his throat, his body trembling as he fought against the current tearing through him. For a moment—just a moment—it looked like he might resist.
But resistance meant nothing when the body itself became the enemy.
His strength gave out.
He dropped.
Vision blurring, breath ragged and shallow, he watched through half-lidded eyes as Riven moved.
That bastard didn't hesitate.
Riven rushed forward, snatching the prepared satchel of spirit flowers with greedy precision, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal already imagining its escape. Every motion was rushed, frantic beneath the thin mask of control.
The fallen guard tried to speak.
Tried to warn them.
But his body refused.
His lips parted, trembling… yet no sound came. Only a faint, broken breath escaped as darkness began to close in around him.
The last thing he saw—
Was Riven's back.
Running.
And then…
Nothing.
...