CRACK.

The entrance burst inward, the door splintering off its hinges and slamming against the stone wall inside.

Steel boots stomped forward.

Runes flared faintly under mage cloaks as spells were readied.

The hunt had begun.

…

Inside the warehouse, the mood shifted in an instant.

Half a dozen men sat around a makeshift table, throwing dice and sipping from tarnished tin cups. A single lantern burned low in the corner, casting long, flickering shadows across the cracked stone walls. Behind them, a clutter of maps, smuggling manifests, and coded letters hung on a board nailed to old wooden beams. One man cleaned a dagger. Another calmly sharpened an axe, sparks dancing across the blade.

The atmosphere had been relaxed. Loose. Careless.

Until now.

"Hey… what was that noise?" Tannus muttered, straightening in his seat. He frowned toward the corridor, eyes narrowing.

One of the younger lackeys—a scrawny, pale man barely out of boyhood—stopped mid-drink. His hands trembled as he turned toward the door.

"I-I don't know. Could've been the wind. Or—"

BOOM.

The second door—one that led to the storage hall—slammed open with a jarring crash.

Then came the unmistakable sounds of boots on stone, metal dragging across the ground, and the low, rhythmic hum of spellcasting. The air itself shifted, as if something unseen had entered the building.

Tannus shot to his feet, chair toppling behind him.

"Shit."

From the outer corridor, a voice rang out—panicked, frantic, distant.

"We're under attack! We're under attack!"

The room exploded into motion.

Cups spilled. Dice clattered. Steel rasped from sheaths.

"Positions!" Kaelen barked, voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Hold this room. Don't let a single bastard through that door!"

The men obeyed at once, all panic hardening into grim resolve.

People in the room grabbed their weapons. The room pulsed with tension as some of the people who can cultivate aura stood infront.

The mages, cloaked in loose robes and armed with ornate staffs, spread out behind the front line, hands already glowing with runes of fire and defense. Each man knew this might be their final stand. This version is sourced from MV3L3MPYR.

Then came Borik.

Massive. Scowling. A brute of a man clad in darkened mail, eyes full of fury.

"I'll take the front," he growled. "Anyone who dares cross that door dies by my blade."

Unlike the more tactically-minded Tannus, Borik was a hammer—blunt and deadly. A 4-star aura knight with strength that had crushed bones and shattered shields in past skirmishes. But with that power came a temper—and little patience.

[Note: Temper and aura knight are not related. Some aura knight are smart this is just Borik]

Without waiting for further instruction, Borik shoved two of the lackeys aside, storming toward the door like a bull ready to charge.

But as he reached it—

The door creaked.

Then suddenly—

It opened—

—just wide enough for two small, metal cylinders to be tossed into the room.

And just as quickly—

SLAM.

The door shut again.

Borik froze mid-step. The others, caught between confusion and instinct, stared at the strange objects now rolling to a stop near the center of the room.

"What the hell are those?" Tannus said, his voice tense.

One of the mages squinted. "Wait… that's—"

PSSSHHHHHHH—!!

Both cylinders erupted with a violent hiss, spewing a thick white powder into the air. It hit the lungs first—sharp, searing, burning like fire. Then the eyes. Men doubled over, coughing, screaming, clutching their faces as the quicklime smoke spread like poison.

"It's lime!" one of the gang member shouted through a choking gasp. "Get back—cover your mouths!"

Too late.

Several had already collapsed, writhing, their skin blistering where the powder touched sweat. The mages faltered, unable to chant through the searing pain in their throats. Weapons dropped. The tight formation crumbled.

Borik roared, trying to muscle through the fog—but even he stumbled, hacking violently.

Then—through the chaos—the door burst open again.

"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" a voice bellowed, cutting through the chaos like a war horn.

A knight burst through the now shattered door, sword raised high, gleaming in the dim lantern light. His armor bore the insignia of the royal army—unmistakable, unrelenting.

Behind him, several mages stepped inside the room. One of them raised his staff and chanted a sharp syllable under his breath. With a sudden whoosh, a gust of enchanted wind ripped through the room, scattering the lingering quicklime fog.

What lay beneath the haze was a scene of horror.

Half the room was on the floor—men clutching their faces, their eyes red and swollen, skin blotched and blistering from contact with the quicklime. Several screamed, their voices hoarse and broken. Some thrashed blindly, trying to crawl toward the walls, weapons forgotten. A few lay motionless, unconscious from the pain or the choking fumes.

The smell of burning skin and vomit hung heavy in the air.

One mage stepped over a collapsed body and grimaced. "They took the full blast. Bare skin. No wards. Damn fools."

However, before the knights could advance any further, a low growl cut through the air.

Borik was still standing.

Barely.

His entire body trembled, his legs unsteady, but the fire in his eyes had not yet gone out—though those same eyes were bloodshot, blistered, and nearly swollen shut. His skin was raw and patchy, large welts forming across his face and arms where the quicklime had seared flesh. Every breath sounded like a blade scraping across stone.

Yet even in that broken state, he raised his sword.

With a hoarse, enraged snarl, Borik lunged forward, swinging wildly at the nearest knight.

But he was too slow.

Far too slow.

The royal knight he targeted—clad in polished plate, an insignia of the crown etched into his pauldron—didn't even flinch. This was no common soldier. Like many in this raid, he was a 4-star aura knight, possibly stronger, trained for years in elite battlefield combat.

He sidestepped the swing with fluid ease.

Clang!

His sword came up, effortlessly deflecting Borik's blade.

And in the same motion—

With a clean, practiced arc, he sliced through Borik's neck.

There was a brief moment—one heartbeat—where Borik's body stood frozen, like it hadn't yet realized it was dead.

Then—

Thud.

His head hit the ground.

The body collapsed half a second later, blood pouring onto the cracked stone floor.

A grim silence followed.