It was a crisp morning. The newborn sun had just burned off the woodland mist, gilding the little town called “Adelock” in pale gold.

The air was cool, scented with damp earth and rot-leaf. At the town gate beneath a crude wooden watchtower, the flow of people had begun: burly men with greatswords on their backs, mages wrapped in dark cloaks, and a great many other adventurers in mismatched gear.

At the door of an inn called the “Old Oak,” Moga Smollett—bundled in a travel cloak—had barely stepped out when someone beside her called, “Hey! Elf lady, wait a moment!”

Moga sighed inwardly and tugged her hood lower, leaving only the taut line of her jaw and a pair of sharp-tipped ears. “What is it?” she asked coolly.

The speaker was a broad-shouldered middle-aged man—clearly a seasoned adventurer. He introduced himself with warmth: “We’re the adventuring party ‘Steelblade’! I’m the captain, Breton! Miss Elf, you’re here for the ‘Adelock Great Labyrinth’ too, right? Interested in teaming up?”

The Adelock Great Labyrinth was a newly discovered ultra-ancient ruin deep in the forest. And ultra-ancient ruins always came twined with legends—wealth, power, lost arcana—the ultimate stage of every adventurer’s tale.

So once the labyrinth was found, the news spread like wildfire, turning a once-ordinary town into heaven-and-hell for adventurers, mercenaries, scholars, and opportunists of every stripe.

As one of the first adventurers to arrive, Moga’s aim was no different from the rest: the treasures in the ruin.

But after Breton’s pitch, she flicked a glance at the friendly-looking young mage behind him, the dwarven youth, and several human warriors, then shook her head coldly. “No. I’m used to working alone.”

“Really won’t reconsider? More hands, more strength!” Breton persisted. “We’re experienced and solid—warriors, mage, cleric, dwarven fighter, all in one! Miss Elf, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a more reliable team!”

He had no small confidence in his crew. As a veteran, steady-earning party, they could have tackled the labyrinth alone without help.

Elves, however, were different.

Among the pan-human races, elves were the most exceptional and the strongest. They bore supreme talent for magic and a native command of nature. Even an inexperienced elven girl could raise a party’s power dramatically.

“No need.” Moga still shook her head. Her fine features showed no extra emotion, holding everyone at a distance.

“I can offer you a bigger cut! How about it?” Breton kept at it. As an old hand, he prized survival over top-heavy profits. If he could come back alive, he didn’t mind earning less—that was exactly why he was so set on this elven girl.

So clingy… A flare of irritation—and a familiar sting—rose in Moga’s chest. She drew a long breath, then snapped around and threw back her hood in one swift motion—so quick it caught Breton and his companions off guard.

There was no question: the face beneath fit everyone’s idea of an elf—golden hair, pointed ears, fair skin, elegant lines, and those pretty, emerald-like eyes—wait, what?

Breton finally noticed that the “elf lady’s” pupils weren’t the hallmark bright green of elves, but a dusky amber. And her gold hair wasn’t pure: the tips faded to a sunset orange like firelit clouds.

“Sorry, I’m a half-elf. You’ve got the wrong person,” Moga said, her cool tone unable to quite conceal her weariness.

“Ah—so that’s it…” The warmth on Breton’s face froze into awkwardness, then confusion. He mumbled, “My apologies for the bother.”

Moga was unsurprised by the turn. She pulled up her hood again at once, shutting out those unpleasant stares.

On the Radiant Continent, elves were beyond doubt the noblest and strongest among the pan-human races. Striking of face and long of life, they possessed top-tier magical aptitude and an innate knack for shaping nature. In the mortal realm, only dragons and abyssal demons could rival them in endowment.

Their drawback was the same as dragons and abyssals: few in number, with poor fertility—highborn, in a sense, because of it.

Half-elves were another matter. Perhaps due to some limit in their blood, any mixed child born of an elf and another could not inherit the elves’ potent magic or command of nature—only a similar visage and a drawn-out lifespan.

This left half-elves in pain. To the pureblood elves—zealots for unsullied lineage and arrogant beyond measure—they were taints on the blood, unworthy of the name “elf.” And once beyond the Elven Kingdom’s protection, their middling magic made them struggle in human lands. Worse, their looks made them prime prey for slavers.

Compared with slavers who constantly coveted her beauty, this sort of embarrassment—born of mistaken identity—was nothing to Moga. She was used to it.

Soon, with bow and quiver on her back, Moga left the Old Oak Inn alone and headed for the forest.

It was still early, not the peak hours for adventurers. She planned to scout deeper into the woods to fix the ruin’s location, rather than tangle with the town’s mix of dubious intel and hidden threats.

Risky, yes—but she was used to that. As a half-elf who’d left the Elven Kingdom’s aegis and scraped by in human society for years, she’d grown a bone-deep wariness and doubt. Rather than trust others, she trusted her bow and knife.

By dusk, after long hours of woodscraft, Moga finally spied, far off, the hilly tract in the center of a vast basin. Caves honeycombing the hills concealed multiple entrances to the ultra-ancient ruin.

Other parties had gathered near the entrances by then. Cautious like her, they had not rushed in but were gathering intel to prepare for the push.

Moga climbed a tall tree, hid in the thick crown, and quietly watched the teams probing the mouths.

Sudden change came quickly. Someone uncovered a new entrance, but it was like kicking a wasp’s nest: monsters poured from caves all over the hills, howling as they swarmed the adventurers outside.

Moga’s heart lurched. She was about to fall back when she noticed many flying monsters in the sky. If she left the canopy hastily, she’d only expose herself.

She stayed put in the tree, watching with open eyes as some adventurers died and others broke through and fled this killing ground with precious information.

The nerve-wracking suspense stretched on for tens of minutes. Most who failed to break out were dead. Moga had no idea how things stood; she kept still in the crown and decided that if it came to it, she’d hunker down till morning—reinforcements would arrive by then.

Just then, she felt something cold and slick brush her ankle—and jolted in alarm!

She looked down at once. Her first thought was a snake—but she wasn’t too afraid of snakes. As long as it wasn’t a monster, she could deal with it.

To her puzzlement, the slick thing coiled around her ankle boot wasn’t a snake at all but a gray, slender flesh-worm. What was this? It didn’t look like a monster—she’d never seen one before—

Frowning, she assumed it was some kind of giant bristleworm and instinctively lifted her foot to flick the nasty thing off.

The next second, an eyeball sprouted at the “bristleworm’s” tip and fixed her with a stare—then it shot forward, streaked up her pale thigh, and darted under her clothes!

“Aaaaaaah—!!!”

Moga screamed—and toppled headfirst out of the tree.