Boom.
The earth shuddered like a beast waking from centuries of sleep.
A fracture split the air just paces from Groon's wooden house—a black wound, jagged and unnatural, tearing through the very fabric of reality. Dark, swirling wisps of mana oozed from it like steam from a dying volcano, though only Icariel could see the black mana dripping from the rent, thick and vile, like oil bleeding from a slit throat.
"Fronta! Call Groon! Leave the house—now!" Icariel's voice cracked the air like a whip.
"What? Why?!" the red-haired girl stammered, frozen. But when she turned her head, her breath caught. A line—no, a wound in the world—had split open. Something unspeakable was clawing its way through.
"Grandpa, come! Come quick!" she screamed, and both of them bolted toward Icariel.
Groon emerged with a heavy axe clenched in his calloused hand, his face dark with recognition, as if a buried nightmare had stepped into the waking world.
From the gash in space, a monstrous green hand reached outward—bloated, veined, grotesque—its claws raking the tear wider. A horrid screech scraped the air, not a sound of pain, but hunger. And then... it stepped through.
"What is that?!" Fronta gasped, her voice shrill and shaking.
Groon's voice was stone. "No way… What's a dungeon doing here?"
"Dungeon?" Icariel muttered, stiff with a terror that rooted itself in his bones. He had seen illustrations in half-burnt books—monsters that didn't belong to this world. But never had he imagined one stepping into his.
Not here. Not in Mjull. Not where the world was supposed to be safe.
"What's a dungeon, Grandpa?!" Fronta cried, panicked, on the edge of breaking.
"A dungeon—" Groon said, his gaze locked on the black gash in the air, "—is a space from another world. A hell where monsters, ancient races, or twisted beings dwell. Sometimes, they stay inside. But sometimes... they come out. And when they do…"
"Terrible things happen," Icariel whispered. "Just like the books…"
His thoughts whirled. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not yet. Not here.It was too soon. Too cruel.
"Why is it getting so hard… just to survive?!" he muttered, his hands trembling.
Another crack—BOOM.
This time, across the river.
They were trapped.
He turned inward, to the only thing that had ever answered him.
What now?! What should I do?!
"Run," the voice in his head commanded. Cold. Absolute. "Run now. The tear hasn't fully opened. You can still pass beneath it."
Without hesitation, Icariel grabbed Fronta's arm and yanked. "Groon—run with us! Hurry!"
They tore past the house, ducking under the half-formed rift, the air slicing around them like screaming blades. As they cleared the space, Icariel turned back—
—and saw it.
A monstrous hand drove through Groon's chest like a spear.
The old man didn't fall. He stood, trembling, axe still clenched, beard soaked crimson.
He exhaled a wet, rattling breath—and smiled.
"Run… now…" he whispered, voice barely dust in the wind. The next moment, the creature tore its hand free. Groon collapsed, boneless. Dead.
The monster stepped through completely. Towering. Hulking. Its skin a grotesque green, like rotting moss, its red eyes aglow with mindless hunger. Rows of jagged teeth caught the light.
Fronta didn't scream. She couldn't.
She stared at her grandfather's body, lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.
"Come on!" Icariel urged, dragging her by the wrist. But she didn't move.
Her gaze was nailed to Groon's lifeless form. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Tears carved trenches through the dirt on her cheeks.
"I can't leave him," she whispered, voice shattered. "He's all I had… I—" she choked. "I can't do this without him…"
"What?!" Icariel's face twisted in disbelief. Sympathy was eaten alive by cold fury. "You're going to die for a corpse?! That's not loyalty—it's suicide!"
She didn't answer. Her fingers reached toward Groon's limp hand, as if she could still pull him back. "He raised me… fed me… kept me alive when the world didn't want me." Her voice was smoke and ash. "What's the point of running, if he's not—"
"—if he's not here too?"
The voice snarled in Icariel's mind: "The monster is ten paces behind. MOVE."
Icariel's grip crushed her wrist. "Fronta—"
"Let me go!" she snapped, wrenching free with desperate strength. "I won't leave him. I can't."
The voice cracked like a lash."You cannot save one who refuses to be saved. Save yourself—for you are not yet ready to carry the weight of another soul."
For a moment, Icariel stood frozen.
Then his jaw clenched. His voice turned to ice.
"Fine. Die, then. But don't pretend Groon would want this. He'd curse you for throwing your life away."
The words struck like a dagger between her ribs. She flinched—but didn't run.
She stumbled back to Groon's side and dropped to her knees. Her trembling hands brushed blood from his face.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know how to do this without you…"
Icariel didn't understand.
Couldn't.
How could someone cling to a corpse?
How could grief outweigh survival?
They had known each other for only two weeks. She had never spoken of her past. He didn't know what kind of graveyard she carried inside, what kind of pain had shaped her into someone who'd choose death beside a body.
But one day, he would understand.And when he did…Everything would change.
Behind her, the monster loomed.
Its shadow swallowed her whole.
Its fist came down—
—not in one crushing blow, but slow. Deliberate.
First, the strike snapped her spine like a brittle branch. She gasped. Her eyes flew open as white-hot agony split her in two. Then the pressure—grinding her into the soil. Her ribs cracked. One by one.
Blood frothed from her mouth.
Her hand, still clutching Groon's sleeve, twitched feebly.
"Gra… nd… pa…"
The monster's fist lifted—
—and came down one final time.
What remained wasn't a girl.
Just red.
Icariel didn't look back.
He couldn't.
His lungs tore at the air as he sprinted up the hill. Every breath burned. Not from exertion.
From the sound.
The voice spoke again, low and sharp. "Climb. Hide."
He ducked behind a boulder, pressing into the cold stone. His nails bit into his palms. His heartbeat thundered in his ears—a war drum echoing death.
From the rift, monsters spilled out like infection.
Seventeen.
All green. All massive. Their twisted forms hunched like malformed titans. Red eyes scanning. Searching.
They didn't move far—just circled, prowling. Looking for something.
The air shifted. Heavy. Suffocating. Even the beasts froze, eyes narrowing.
Then—two lights. Yellow. Blazing like twin suns through the treeline.
Icariel's breath caught.
The lights streaked forward.
And then—two of the monsters died.
He didn't see how.
They just fell. Then another two. Then another two. The lights never faded. Death moved like rhythm. Two. Two. Two. Again and again.
He couldn't count anymore. He didn't need to.
Only three remained.
The last monsters backed toward Groon's house, retreating in fear.
The yellow lights dimmed… and two figures took form.
One tall. Short black hair. Cold black eyes. A long sword with a green handle at his back. Perhaps in his thirties.
The other—a boy. Shorter. Long green hair. Eyes just as black. A short sword with a dark hilt at his hip.
Icariel's heart lurched.
The green-haired youth surveyed the carnage—the house, the bodies, the blood.
His gaze turned to Fronta's crushed form.
His expression soured.
"Master, may I handle the remaining three myself?" he asked, voice low, sharp with barely suppressed rage.
The older man nodded once. "Show me an impressive result."
"You're dead," the youth said, drawing his sword. His voice was a promise.
Bloodlust exploded outward. The monsters flinched.
He blurred forward—speed without warning. One monster raised its arm to crush him, but he spun mid-air, blade flashing—
—and cleaved the limb clean off.
He landed between the final two, pivoted, raised his sword—
"Eliz, release."
The blade shimmered—elongated. Almost serpentine.
A single fluid strike.
One monster's neck split open. Purple blood sprayed like ink.
The others lunged. He spun in a perfect circle, steel carving silence from the air.
Both fell in halves.
Their twitching remains soaked the earth.
"Disgusting pieces of shit," he muttered, the sword shrinking to its original form.
"Splendid, Kledio," the tall man said, a smirk touching his lips.
"Thanks, Master. Sorry for rushing in… I couldn't help it. After what they did to those humans…"
"I understand," the older man said. "But remember—anger dulls the senses. Don't let it blind you."
"Yes, Master."
Icariel, hidden in the shadows of the hill, whispered, "Incredible…"
They hadn't just fought.
They had danced.
His breath trembled. This wasn't strength. It was art. It was death, sculpted.
He felt small. Insignificant. Alive.
"Who… are they?" he asked the voice.
Silence.
Then—one word.
"Swordmasters."
Icariel whispered it back, the name catching on his breath like prayer.
"Swordmasters…"
—
[End of Chapter 8]