CHAPTER 85: TROUBLES KNOCKING

A battlefield was one thing, but this place- this was tradition. The crucible where centuries of elven warriors had not only sharpened their blades but also forged the spirit of their people.

And now, somehow with fate’s cunning move, Auren stood here.

He’d been granted special permission to train in Kadena.

More than that- Queen Elarya herself seems to had encouraged it.

After the battle with Vulkris, she had decreed that Auren, human or not, had earned the right to stand among them.

And for Auren, it still felt surreal.

Two Goldhair warriors guarded the outer archway, clad in ceremonial Runesteel armor that shimmered faintly with woven enchantments. Their spears gleamed with a faint magical aura, humming with readiness. Their expressions were silent, watchful, and gave nothing away. Stoic and firm like statues.

As Auren and Jaira approached, the guards’ piercing eyes locked on him. The tension in the air crackled for a moment. Like a string drawn between stranger and sword.

Then, without a word, the guards exchanged a glance. A silent signal passed between them, an unspoken acknowledgement, and in one graceful motion, they stepped aside.

The archway, a majestic curve of whitewood and living stone laced with silver etchings, slowly creaked open. Its surface pulsed with ancient mana, a soft glow trailing along its vines as it welcomed them inside.

"Thank you, sirs," Auren said with a respectful nod, pressing a hand over his heart.

Jaira mirrored the gesture with a proud little smirk.

"Come on," she said, leading the way with an excited trail.

The moment they stepped into the village, the world changed.

Kadena pulsed with vibrant energy, every inch of it alive with the hum of training, nature, and raw purpose.

Young warriors moved in tight formations. Spears slicing through the air with mechanical precision. Elevated sparring rings floated above the mossy grounds, encircled by shimmering runes.

From a distance, Auren could tell these weren’t just decorative, they actively changed the training environment!

Some glowed blue, simulating thin, high-altitude air. Others flickered with red-orange light, likely pushing elemental stress, wind resistance, or even fluctuating gravity to test the fighters’ limits.

Across one clearing, spellcasters knelt before levitating totems, channeling surges of elemental energy into them. Their faces were drenched in sweat, brows furrowed as they held focus against intense mana strain.

After the near-catastrophic battle that nearly cost them Runewood- first to the fury of two rampaging King Beasts and then to the schemes of the cunning Dark Fate. It was then that they had decided that things had to change.

There was a new edge in the air now, a quiet urgency beneath the surface. No longer was training reserved solely for warriors and spellcasters. This time, the tribes weren’t taking chances.

Every tribe had tightened its drills and sharpened its readiness. Even those without combat classes-artisans, healers, spirit weavers, and farmers- were now encouraged, even expected, to learn basic forms of self-defense.

It wasn’t about turning everyone into soldiers, but about survival.

They were being taught how to hold a spear, how to sense danger through mana, how to fight together, how to communicate effectively, how to escape, or how to buy time until help arrived.

They are making sure that Runewood would never again be caught off guard.

The message was clear: the forest would stand united the next time calamity struck, blade in hand or not.

Elder instructors, robed in deep greens and earthen tones, sat surrounded by attentive trainees. Lessons in spirit harmonies, battlefield intuition, and ancestral combat tactics drifted on the breeze like quiet hymns.

The lodges around the village were just as enchanting.

Some looked as if they’d simply grown out of the forest- teardrop-shaped structures of living wood and leaf-canopy roofs that rustled softly in the wind. Others bore graceful curves and polished moonstone walls, with etched vines crawling over their surfaces like ancient scripture.

It wasn’t just a village. This was a sacred sanctuary. A place where magic, martial tradition, and the soul of the forest flowed as one.

Auren’s eyes scanned it all, his steps slowing. Wonder welled in his chest, tinged with a nervous buzz that curled in his gut.

"This place is insane..." he whispered.

Jaira laughed and spun to face him, walking backward with her hands on her hips. "I know, right? Welcome to Kadena, Auren."

Yet even with her teasing grin, Auren couldn’t brush off the weight settling in his chest.

Something wasn’t right.

It didn’t feel dangerous- at least not directly. But there was a sharpness in the air, like the forest itself was watching. Like trouble was pacing in the distance, waiting for the right moment to strike.

’Maybe it’s just me overthinking...’

He drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the churn in his gut.

The mana in the air hummed faintly, just beneath the sounds of practice chants and clashing weapons. But between those rhythms, there was a strain- quiet, taut.

Everywhere he looked, eyes were on him.

Elves stared as if he were some oddity pulled from the mud. Some glared outright, their hostility worn like armor.

Others watched with open curiosity, heads tilted as if trying to decide whether he was a threat or a walking joke. But most carried that same condescending expression- a quiet scoff, a subtle smirk, like they were sizing up a stray dog that somehow wandered into a sacred temple.

’Darn it. Can’t they at least tone down the glaring?’

His gaze hardened. No, this wasn’t just tension hanging in the air. It was something else.

Anticipation.

A sudden gust tore through the high canopy, rustling leaves in a sharp whip. A heartbeat later- it landed right before Auren.

THUD.

"What the?!"

A body crashed down onto the courtyard stone in front of them, sending moss and dust flying.

Auren flinched back on instinct.

The figure groaned.

It was a young dark elf, likely around Auren’s age.

He lay crumpled on the moss-covered stone, one hand still gripping a cracked spear as if the fight hadn’t ended. His tunic was torn at the shoulder, and deep bruises bloomed along his cheek and collarbone. A thin stream of blood traced the corner of his mouth- a clear sign of internal injury.

Fortunately, he was alive.

Two elven healers rushed over without hesitation and panic. Their palms glowing with steady green light. In practiced motion, they lifted him onto a floating stretcher woven from mana-infused bark and vines, then guided it toward a nearby recovery hut nestled beneath the trees.

"That was quick?" Auren began, stunned at the scene as if it has been expected at the first place.

Then a voice cut through the courtyard—loud, smug, and soaked in mockery.

"Well, well, well! Look what the forest dragged in!"

Auren turned instantly, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the speaker.

"The human hero himself... in the flesh! Welcome to Kadena, my friend."

Perched atop one of the sparring platforms stood a tall, broad-shouldered Goldhair elf with his arms casually crossed and a smirk stretched across his face like it belonged there permanently.

Everyone knew him as Micha’el. The Sword Prodigy.

And to Auren, that name translated to one thing: trouble.