"Who are you…?" Guillan asked, his voice hoarse with disbelief.
Ivan, still cleaning a speck of blood off his tunic, looked over his shoulder with a smirk. "Me? Ivan. The one you banned from advancing, remember?" His tone was light, teasing.
Guillan's brows furrowed in embarrassment. Yes, he remembered. Ivan had always been… unpredictable. A rogue who provoke Vince and had no friends. When Ivan refused Vince order to be his guard, Guillan had frozen his rank at F-Class indefinitely.
And now, here he was. Saving his life.
"Ivan," Guillan muttered, swallowing his pride, "If you help me drive them back—I'll make you S-Class. Just… help me in this damned predicament."
Ivan chuckled. "Relax, boss. That's why I'm here. I was worried about you."
He turned to face the enemy lines once more, his demeanor shifting. From cheerful mischief to cold intent.
He drew his blade—a crescent-edged scimitar with a crimson tint that shimmered in the light of the battlefield. It looked ceremonial, delicate even. But as Ivan stepped forward, the air around him grew heavy. Men paused, noticing the shift.
And then he moved.
What followed was no battle.
It was a dance.
Ivan wove through the enemy like a phantom, his scimitar flashing like starlight. Every step was deliberate, every swing of his blade painted with precision. He did not charge recklessly. He glided—like a predator toying with prey. Each motion was graceful, elegant... deadly.
A soldier lifted his spear, only to find his wrist severed, and before the scream could escape his throat, his head followed.
Another raised a shield. Ivan didn't even strike it. He moved past it—then past the man. The enemy stumbled, eyes wide, and blood sprayed from a perfect slit across his neck.
The rhythm of battle changed.
To Ivan's rhythm.
Slash. Twist. Step. Pierce. Withdraw.
Each motion was fluid, almost mesmerizing. Onlookers from both sides stopped to watch in horrified fascination. It was like a festival dance—a ritual of death. But every flourish ended with a body hitting the ground.
Magic missiles and flame bolts surged toward him as the remaining enemy mages panicked. But Ivan didn't retreat.
He took the hit.
Fire exploded around him. Lightning arced into his chest. Stone bullets pelted his body and cracked his ribs.
He stumbled… just slightly.
But then, he rose again.
Wounds closed unnaturally fast. His scorched skin regenerated. Blood retreated into flesh. Muscles knotted back into place.
The mages gasped.
"He's still moving! How—how is he still alive!?"
No one knew of the artifact embedded in his chest—Heart of Tarasque—a legendary item that granted monstrous regeneration. As long as he lived, as long as his heart beat, no wound would keep him down.
To the enemy, he looked less like a man and more like a demon.
Arrows followed next, piercing his shoulder, his side, his leg.
He snarled.
Then disappeared into the mist of smoke and dust.
Moments later, screams erupted.
One mage—cut in half.
Another—beheaded.
The third—his own fireball reflected back into his chest.
Their coordinated spell formation fell apart. They ran.
They all ran.
And Ivan chased.
Like a beast unleashed, he hunted every retreating mage, every soldier who turned back in fear. His scimitar struck like thunder, swift and final. Even those who had surrendered or dropped their weapons were not spared.
"Mercy! Please!" cried one man, clutching his broken leg.
Ivan tilted his head… and buried his blade into the man's heart without hesitation.
The enemy began screaming his name—but not in reverence.
In terror.
"It's him! That monster! Ivan—stop him!"
"He's not human! Not human!"
They tried to regroup. They tried to form phalanxes, lines of defense.
Ivan danced through them all.
One soldier was impaled through the back and lifted into the air before being hurled into a group of archers. Another was split cleanly in half from shoulder to hip.
Even the Baron's own retinue, elite knights clad in silver, were slaughtered before they could react.
Their screams echoed through the fields.
From the safety of the walls, adventurers and civilians watched, frozen.
A young healer whispered, "That man… he's fighting alone. He's… winning."
One of the archers dropped his bow, his fingers trembling. "He's not like us. He's something else. I—I thought he was just some idiot."
A girl no older than sixteen, who had been tending the wounded, looked away in horror. "He's not even blinking… and he's smiling."
Indeed, Ivan was smiling.
Not cruelly. Not sadistically.
Just like someone dancing under the moonlight, reveling in freedom.
Guillan leaned on a broken spear, watching the slaughter with wide eyes. "What… what did I provoke…?"
Within minutes, Kaurst's forces began a full retreat.
The Baron, who had remained in a rear tent, barked desperate orders. "Form a line! Stop him! Where are my knights!?"
His commander came running, bloodied and pale. "Gone. All dead. It's that man!— wait he's not a man. He's a devil! We must flee!"
And flee they did.
The banner of Kaurst fell to the mud as soldiers dropped everything—armor, weapons, pride—and ran.
And as they did—
Cheers erupted from Gesir.
From behind the walls, from the barricades, from the rooftops where civilians hid and adventurers despaired—came the roar of victory.
"They're retreating!"
"He did it! That man—he drove them off!"
"Ivan! Ivan! Ivan!"
Children shouted his name with awe. Men thumped their chests in admiration. Even the wounded found strength to raise their arms.
But Ivan didn't respond.
He stood alone, scimitar at his side, surrounded by corpses.
He did not wave. He did not bow.
He simply turned his back to the field, walked through the ash, and vanished into the city smoke.
Not a hero.
Not a champion.
Just a man.
But to those who saw him—
He would always be a monster that danced with death.