The sun rose blood red over the horizon, casting long shadows across the cracked stones of Gesir's walls. The once-lively city had transformed into a fortress. Merchants had abandoned their stalls. Windows were boarded. Children hidden. Every corner of the Adventurer's Guild had been repurposed—barricades at the gates, makeshift watchtowers, boiling oil prepared by the alchemists, and most of all—mercenaries lined up, weapons drawn.
Most of them weren't here for justice.
They were here for gold.
"Keep formation!" barked a veteran clad in patchwork armor. "You run, you die. You fight, you live—and get paid!"
Men and women, most in their late teens or early twenties, armed with chipped swords, cracked bows, and dented armor, gathered with nervous eyes. Some were laughing, false bravado masking fear. A few priests moved among them, blessing weapons and healing minor wounds from training accidents.
Adventurers. Mercenaries. Desperate fools.
All prepared to face Baron Kaurst's personal army.
From beyond the city gates, a noble voice thundered, carried by magic.
"Guillan! How dare you resist the will of House Kaurst? You shelter a murderer! You choose rebellion!"
There was no time for diplomacy. The enemy surged like a wave.
"MEN, ATTACK!"
The clash began.
Baron Kaurst's soldiers, armored in polished steel and bearing the sigils of the noble house, charged with precision. They were trained. Disciplined. Deadly.
The adventurers fought back, but their formation broke easily. Despite their numbers, they lacked coordination. Arrows flew from both sides. Some archers fell screaming with bolts embedded in their throats. Blades rang out. Blood sprayed the cobblestones.
A young adventurer screamed as a halberd cut his leg clean off. Another tried to run but was shot in the back with a crossbow bolt. A priest nearby collapsed after overusing her healing magic. She had healed ten people already, and her mana was gone.
Guillan stood at the front lines, calm despite the chaos. His armor was tarnished but well-kept, his longsword gripped in both hands. He cut down three soldiers in rapid succession, parrying another before kicking him aside.
Behind him, Len yelled orders, face flushed from panic. "Keep the wounded back! Don't let the left flank fall!"
But it was no use. The tide was pushing in.
Then, like a crack of thunder splitting the battlefield, a man stepped forward from the enemy ranks.
He was tall, covered in blackened plate armor with red trim, his visor lifted to reveal a pale, emotionless face. A massive one-handed sword rested lazily in his grip.
Mavlev.
A Rank 3 warrior from the continent's central military guild. An elite.
He pointed his blade toward Guillan without a word.
The adventurers around Guillan hesitated. The name Mavlev was well-known. He had slain ogres with his bare hands. Broken stone golems. Dueled an elder knight and won.
Guillan exhaled slowly and stepped forward.
"Mavlev," he said, eyes sharp. "I've heard of you. Mercenary turned noble dog. Why work for Baron Kaurst? Join me. I can offer you more than gold—women, riches, power. You don't have to dirty your blade for tyrants."
Mavlev said nothing. His eyes were devoid of emotion.
He simply attacked.
Their blades met with a clash that echoed across the field. Guillan grunted, parrying the first strike, then dodging the second. Mavlev's sword moved like a whip—fluid, deadly. Guillan struck back, slicing through air and grazing Mavlev's armor.
Blades sang.
Blood splashed.
Their duel was a blur of motion. Guillan blocked an overhead strike and countered with a thrust, cutting Mavlev's shoulder. Mavlev answered by slamming his pommel into Guillan's ribs, forcing him to stumble.
But Guillan didn't fall.
He roared, channeling mana into his limbs, and struck three times in quick succession. The last blow pierced through a gap in Mavlev's armor, cutting deep into his side. Mavlev's sword fell from his hand as Guillan's blade plunged through his chest.
The elite warrior coughed blood, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing.
The battlefield froze for a moment.
The enemy had lost one of their champions.
But Guillan dropped to one knee, exhausted and bleeding from multiple wounds. He looked up, his face pale.
That's when the real danger revealed itself.
"Mages! PREPARE THE SPELL!"
The enemy's rear lines lit up. Circles of power appeared beneath robed figures. Violet energy coalesced above them—a giant sphere crackling with destructive force.
Dozens of mages, their staffs raised, poured their mana into the forming spell. It hovered like a miniature sun, humming ominously.
Guillan stared, helpless to move. His body wouldn't respond. The energy was too much. He would die, and with him, the last hope for Gesir.
The mages chanted the final verse.
Then—
A man in a cloak stepped onto the battlefield.
Unarmed.
Unarmored.
Smiling.
Ivan.
He walked slowly, ignoring the chaos around him. As the sphere of violet death shot toward Guillan, he lifted a hand lazily.
"Repel."
A shimmering wave of force burst from Ivan's palm.
The violet sphere collided with the barrier—and vanished.
Smoke. Ash. Nothing more.
The mages froze, disoriented.
Gasps came from both sides.
Guillan looked up, sweat dripping from his brow. "who are y..ou?"