“Mmmh… it’s back,” Du Shiye muttered inwardly, eyes narrowing at the beast that now stood before him.The mystic beast stood still, its hulking frame outlined by burning coals embedded in its fur, glowing with flickers of flame.Thick, acrid mist pulsed off its body, tainted with fiery poison. Its breath came in heavy bursts, its chest rising and falling like a volcano threatening to erupt.Its eyes locked on Shiye’s—unblinking, unwavering, filled with primal intelligence. It wasn’t attacking yet. It was daring him to.“So it was avoiding unnecessary fights… but now that it’s cornered, it knows—the only path left is battle.”Shiye’s thoughts sharpened like a blade as the ape huffed heavily, nostrils flaring, steam escaping with each breath.Behind him, Vesta, the cyan phoenix in eagle form, hovered silently, the last traces of fire flickering beneath her wings.“Vesta… she keeps morphing again and again. I’ll never understand how sacred beasts work,” he thought, glancing briefly at he

And from the west, just near the borderlands between Elderrest and Ignis Vale, four figures weaved between tall flame trees and jagged mossy ridges.They moved with silent coordination, each cloaked in olive-green robes, the fabric weathered and speckled with dirt and soot from days of pursuit.On their backs, their cloaks bore a crest—a twisted root coiling around a spearhead.It was unmistakable: The Ginsenbark Guild, infamous across Verdantia for their ruthless pursuit of debtors, deserters, and bounties.The sky above them rumbled low with distant magical turbulence, casting pale orange pulses across their faces.It came from the east—where the battle between Oasis and the Solarclaw Tiger raged.“What’s going on here… what magical pressure is that?” one of them muttered, his arms folded, expression tight.His eyes, unusually wide, scanned the glowing horizon. “And who’s fighting such a beast? The aura coming from it—at least A-Rank, no question.”Another stepped forward, holding a

“What is this magical pressure…?” Talo's voice trembled slightly as the air around them surged, wind roaring in unnatural currents.He stood just behind Sir Ivory, eyes wide as he squinted toward the glowing epicenter of the battle, now crackling with emerald lightning and howling winds.The oppressive magical force bore down on the land like a tempest’s fist.“No doubt… this is coming from a wind mage,” Talo concluded, wind flaring his black-crimson robes as he steadied himself with mana.Sir Ivory’s long white beard fluttered in the chaotic breeze, yet his expression remained unreadable—calm, calculating, and unimpressed.“You're right,” he said, eyes locked on the swirling dome of pressure several kilometers ahead.“Whoever he is, he's preparing to end that beast with that attack. And if I were naïve, I’d pretend not to notice—” his lips curled slightly, “—that this display is also meant for us.”A gust hit them hard, but Ivory didn’t even blink.“A message.” He narrowed his eyes.

Venak’s blade was so fast that no blood dared cling to its edge.His movement—swift in, swift out—left nothing but silence and a rolling head.The rogue’s body stood for a heartbeat before crumpling, lifeless, beside the still-bouncing skull.Murmurs erupted instantly:“He didn’t even move—was that teleportation?”“That wasn’t swordplay… that was a ghost’s strike…”“Who the hell is that kid?!”“One strike… just one…”“And no one even saw it happen…”Oasis didn’t blink.His gaze trailed lazily over the headless corpse, then to the stunned crowd.“Mmmh… That’s the fate that befalls those who can’t keep their hands to themselves.” His voice was calm, but cold—cutting through the tension like a blade of wind.He turned his eyes to the severed head.“Indeed, cultivators die for greed as birds die for food.”He smiled faintly—then turned to Sir Ivory.“As I was saying…” he began, voice gathering weight.“If that had been a B-rank or C-rank beast, elder would not have appeared here. Nor woul

The dry thorns started absorbing the blood and essence of the jagged bandit, and the moment they did, the air in the clearing grew thick—oppressive.A sound unlike anything human echoed through the grove: thump… THUMP… THUMP…A great heartbeat, disturbing and grotesque, pulsed from the ground beneath, resonating through the ribcages of all who stood nearby.The dirt trembled faintly as if the clearing itself was breathing—no, feeding.The dry thorns darkened with each pulse, soaking in the crimson essence with a leech-like hunger. Slowly, they began to change.Once dull and brittle like aged bark, the thorns pulsed faintly and then turned green—sickly at first, like rot on fruit, but then growing more vibrant, more alive.Leaves unfurled like awakening serpents, coiling gently as vitality seeped into the very bones of the roots.The thorns looked rejuvenated, as if centuries of life had been poured into their husks in mere seconds.The crowd—bandits, rogues, and unaffiliated travelers