CHAPTER 43: CHAPTER 43

The forest had grown darker, even though the sun still hovered in the sky. Eitan trudged through thick roots and overgrown ferns, his hand clutched tightly around Elia’s wrist, helping her walk. Her steps were uneven, her silver-white hair matted with blood, and her robes were torn across the back where Halden’s spell had burned through the fabric—and her skin.

They were far from the battlefield now. Hours had passed since the teleportation scroll had pulled them from the brink of death and dropped them deep into the Blackridge wilderness. But peace had not followed them. Only pain. Silence. And exhaustion.

Elia stumbled, a choked gasp escaping her lips.

"Hey—careful," Eitan murmured, catching her before she hit the ground.

He helped her lean against a thick tree, then knelt beside her. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. A healing potion bottle lay empty in her hand, but its effects had already faded. The magic had closed her external wounds, but her internal mana channels were damaged. Severely. Even lifting her arm was an effort now.

"I’m fine..." she whispered.

"No, you’re not," Eitan replied. His voice trembled with fatigue, with restrained fury. "Damn it... I swear I’ll kill you, Halden. I’ll fucking kill you."

The name alone tasted like poison.

Elia opened her eyes weakly. "We should go back... tell the Magistrate. Ask for help."

"I know," Eitan said, his jaw clenched. "But we’re in no condition to use teleportation magic. Our circuits are too strained."

[Author’s Note: Teleportation is a Rank 6 spell. Even a fully-trained magician risks death if used while physically or magically unstable.]

Elia nodded faintly. Neither of them had any mana left to spare. Just one wrong spell now, and they’d rupture from the inside.

So, they rested—shoulder to shoulder beneath the dark canopy, breathing in the humid silence of the jungle, their minds haunted by what they had just escaped.

⸻

Elsewhere, within Blackridge City’s Central Medical Pavilion...

A large private ward had been prepared for the students involved in the failed mission. White curtains swayed with the breeze from a magic fan. Healing sigils pulsed faintly across the ceiling, offering comfort to the weary and the shaken.

Marcus lay back against a soft pillow, his hands behind his head, trying to calm the storm in his thoughts. Lyria sat beside him, silently watching the glow of her enchanted pendant—now dim. Dravis leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, while Daelen occupied a bed near the corner, legs swinging idly as if unsure how to feel.

None of them were injured. Not physically.

And yet none of them spoke. Not at first.

It was Marcus who finally broke the silence. "What... what do you guys think happened to Ezra?"

The name hung in the air like a curse.

"He looked half-dead," Marcus continued. "When the medics carried him in... he wasn’t even breathing. Just—still."

Dravis frowned. "He must’ve fought someone strong. A Rank 6, maybe... alone."

"That can’t be right," Daelen said uncertainly. "Ezra’s strong, yeah. But Rank 6?"

"Maybe he had help?" Lyria offered, though she didn’t sound convinced herself.

Before anyone could add more, the door creaked open—and every cadet in the room straightened at once.

The air changed.

A pressure filled the space—not heavy, not suffocating, but vast. Ancient. Like standing beneath a mountain or before the tide. A man entered, cloaked in black and gold. His steps were calm, measured. His eyes glinted like forged steel.

Marcus was the first to speak. "Your Majesty... Sword Emperor."

The others followed swiftly. Even Dravis, usually dismissive of titles, stood at attention.

Ren Kurogane offered a single nod. "At ease. How are you feeling?"

Lyria answered first. "We’re fine, sir... Thank you. For saving us."

Ren simply nodded.

But Evelyne—quiet, thoughtful Evelyne—asked the question none of them dared voice aloud. "Sir... Is it true? Ezra... is he really your disciple?"

Ren turned toward her. His answer came without hesitation. "Yes. I accepted him six months ago."

Daelen blinked. "But how...?"

"Why did he end up like that?" Lyria asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ren’s eyes sharpened. "He was injured after killing an early-stage Rank 6."

Time stopped.

Dravis dropped the crystal he’d been idly turning in his fingers. It shattered on the ground, unnoticed.

Daelen’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to scream impossible—but the words simply refused to come.

Marcus stared at Ren as if the man had announced the death of a god. "Killed... a Rank 6...?"

"He’s in a coma," Ren added. "Mana burnout. His circuits nearly ruptured. He’ll wake up... eventually."

"But that’s..." Evelyne’s voice cracked. "That’s insane. Ezra’s barely... he’s one of us. Our batchmate. We trained together. Ate together. How can someone like him kill someone so far above us?"

Dravis finally found his voice. "Rank 6... that’s not just power. That’s a different realm. They can fly. Use pure mana to warp space. Control battlefield environments. One of them could raze Blackridge if left unchecked. Even the strongest Rank 5s wouldn’t last long against them. And Ezra..."

"He fought with nothing but his sword and his instincts," Ren said quietly. "And he won."

Lyria’s voice trembled. "Then why is he lying half-dead in the next room?"

"Because killing a Rank 6 costs more than just strength," Ren replied. "It takes high level techniques and lots of mana. He pushed himself past the limit—because he had no choice."

A long silence followed. Each student processed the truth in their own way.

Dravis looked away, guilt forming a knot in his chest.

Daelen kept replaying the mission in his head—wondering when Ezra had slipped away, when he had faced his opponent, when he had almost died alone.

Marcus... felt something entirely different.

Fear.

If Ezra could kill a Rank 6... then how much had he been hiding from them? Who was he, really?

Ren turned toward the door again. "That’s not all. Your professor, Kael Arkzen, was engaged in battle as well. He fought two Rank 7s simultaneously. He’s injured, but alive."

"What the hell?!" Dravis stepped forward. "Professor Kael—?"

"He’ll recover," Ren said. "But it’s clear now that this was never a simple retrieval mission."

Dravis grit his teeth. "Sir, the Crimson Guild ambushed us. We were sent to retrieve Miss Elia Seraphine, but they were waiting. Maybe she was the target from the start—"

"She was," Ren interrupted.

He turned, his gaze sharp.

"You were attacked because Halden Kairen wanted to extract Elia’s divine essence. He’s been preparing for years—gathering the souls of hundreds of thousands, human and demi-human alike. To push himself to the next realm."

Marcus stood up, fists clenched. "Then we have to stop him. Now."

Ren’s expression didn’t change. "You won’t. I will."

His voice left no room for argument. The weight of centuries backed his words.

"Rest. Heal. That’s your only duty for now."

He turned and left the room, cloak sweeping behind him.

⸻

Outside the Pavilion

Evening had fallen. Clouds gathered over the horizon. Ren stood beneath the stone archway overlooking the garden courtyard.

A shadow flickered beside him. One of his elite subordinates, clad in dark armor, knelt beside him.

"Master," the soldier said. "Halden Kairen may have crossed the southern border."

Ren didn’t look surprised. "He sensed me. He ran. Like a coward."

The subordinate hesitated. "Orders?"

Ren’s voice turned to ice.

"Make everything the Crimson Guild has ever done public. Drag every name, every hideout, into the light. If they’re guilty, execute them."

The soldier’s eyes widened slightly. "Public executions, sir?"

"Yes. On the authority of the Human High Council Elder," Ren said flatly. "Let the world know what they’ve done."

The soldier bowed. "Yes, Master."

As the footsteps vanished into the dark, Ren gazed toward the mountains far beyond the city.

"I gave you a chance, Halden," he murmured. "You chose damnation."

His hand flexed slightly—his aura pulsing, just once, enough to make the night shiver.

—————

As the footsteps vanished into the dark, Ren gazed toward the mountains far beyond the city.

"I gave you a chance, Halden," he murmured. "You chose damnation."

His hand flexed slightly—his aura pulsing, just once, enough to make the night shiver.

A storm brewed in the northern sky as a sleek, rune-etched aircraft tore through the clouds, its magic thrusters pulsing with stolen aether.

Behind him, seated calmly with arms crossed, was a tall, beast-like figure. Long grey hair flowed over a cloak stitched from shadowsteel. His yellow eyes gleamed in the darkened cabin. His jawline was lupine, with scars lining his throat like claw marks from a god.

"You messed up."

The words were low, guttural, and laced with contempt.

"Why is that monster here?" the Fernarth asked, growling the last word.

Halden turned sharply. "How the fuck should I know?"

He ran a hand through his blood-matted hair. "If I had known Ren Kurogane would show up personally, I wouldn’t have even thought about extracting the divine essence. Not even in my nine lives."

The Fernarth didn’t blink. "You’d better complete this plan, Halden. Do you understand? A lot has been invested in you—souls, resources, forbidden rituals. You fail, and you know exactly what comes next."

Halden’s shoulders stiffened. He turned away, eyes dark with frustration. "I know. You don’t need to remind me every damn hour."

He collapsed into the command seat, exhaling slowly, fists clenched.

Everything had been perfect. The Crimson Guild had planned for months. Elia Seraphine’s they have their eyes on her for years. Her extraction was supposed to be the final catalyst. He’d gathered over a hundred thousand souls across the continent—human, elf, Dwarfs , beast kin.

But none of it had mattered. Because Ren Kurogane had walked into the equation.

Halden stared out the windshield at the endless mountain range stretching ahead—the edge of the Sanguine Frontier, home to the ancient werewolf dominions. He could already feel the forbidden energy pulsing across the border, like a curse that never fully lifted.

"Damn it," he muttered. "Teleportation scrolls I could have handled. Even Eitan... I had him pinned. But Ren—no. That bastard ruined everything."

He pounded his fist on the console.

Elia would now fall under the protection of the High Council—likely hidden, guarded, sanctified. The chance to extract her divine essence was lost. For now.

But something else kept gnawing at his mind. Something deeper.

Ryun.

Ryun died.

Ryun, his most trusted subordinate . A Rank 6 Sword man raised with pure skill and talent.

And he had been killed by a student.

The rage returned, hotter this time. It filled his lungs like fire.

Fernarth leaned forward slightly, sensing it. "That student... Ezra Celestrian. He’s not normal."

Halden didn’t reply.

"We’ll investigate him," the Fernarth continued. "Anyone who can kill Ryun... can kill others like us. And that means he must be eliminated."

There was no hate in his voice. Only logic. Cold and exact.

"We can’t afford threats like him to exist."

Halden’s eyes narrowed. "Then send someone. I want everything on him. His family. His bloodline. Where he was born. Who trained him. If he even breathes in a direction I don’t like—I want to know."

His aura flared, faint runes along his skin pulsing with demonic energy. Blood magic flickered around his fingers—violent, unstable.

"I’ll carve his name into the altar myself," he muttered. "And when I ascend... he’ll be the first soul I sacrifice."

Outside, the clouds parted just enough for the werewolf to glance toward the horizon.

The Sanguine Frontier loomed ahead—vast, untamed, ruled by ancient war packs and shadowbound princes.

And somewhere far behind, in the safety of a hospital room in Blackridge, Ezra Celestrian lay unconscious... while death hunted his name.