An early morning, mist coiled low in Adafio woods, the kind that clung to the roots and drifted around the trunks like smoke from some unseen fire. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional crack of a branch deep in the distance.
There, between the tall, twisted trees, a man stood. He was tall himself, dressed immaculately in a dark blue suit that seemed almost out of place in the wilderness. His pale skin caught the faint light of dawn, and his yellow eyes glowed faintly, sharp as a predator's gaze.
His black hair, slick and deliberate, shimmered where the dim glow touched it. One hand rested inside his pocket with casual control, while the other was stretched forward, palm slightly open, as though waiting, expecting to be given something.
And opposite him loomed a figure.
It was humanoid, yes, but no one alive would mistake it for a human. It towered even higher than the suited man, it had a skin that carried a faint purple hue, like bruises spread across a corpse. Its hair, dark and coarse, was tied lazily at the back, stray strands spilling forward to frame long, pointed ears.
Black robes draped across its form, the fabric hanging heavy, concealing everything but its face.
And that face unnerving in its closeness to the man's own was pale, its eyes glowing with the same unnatural yellow light. But unlike the man, its gaze seemed hollow, as if no pupils existed at all, just a light burning in darkness.
Seen together, the similarities between them struck sharper than the differences. It was like staring at a distorted reflection, one refined and human, the other ancient, monstrous, and yet bound by some eerie connection neither spoke of aloud.
"Why are you wearing a human form in front of me, Sealrix?" the towering figure in the dark robes asked, its voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across stone. The fabric around it swayed faintly, though no wind stirred.
Sealrix's yellow eyes narrowed. His hand, still stretched forward unwavering. "Do you have it or not?" His tone was flat, and clipped, offering no room for banter.
The figure chuckled, the sound hollow, and humorless. Its dark lips curled into a grin that revealed long teeth, sharp and unnatural, and its angular jaw dipped slightly as though amused. "Seriously, Sealrix… after four years, this is how you greet me? No questions, no warmth. Didn't you miss me?"
The woods seemed to hold its breath. A crow cawed faintly in the distance, then silence again.
Sealrix's expression didn't change. The glow of his eyes only sharpened, cold and unblinking. "Quit messing around and just tell me already. Do you have it, or not?"
"I see…" The figure's smile softened into something more dangerous and less playful. It leaned slightly forward, its yellow-lit eyes boring into Sealrix's own. The air between them seemed to ripple, heavy with an unseen force. "You're still mad at me, aren't you?"
A long pause stretched between them before it spoke again, quieter this time, but heavier.
"How has Father been?"
That question forced Sealrix to snap. His composure, the carefully carved mask of calm he had been wearing, cracked under the weight of the figure's feigned indifference. His voice thundered through the mist-soaked woods, sharp enough to make the crows scatter from the branches above.
"If you care that much for him, then why did you leave?" His yellow eyes flared as his hand clenched into a fist. "Why did you drop all your responsibilities as the elder son of a minor king and abandon your throne?"
The words hung heavy between them, raw and accusing.
This was no stranger before him. This was Clam, Sealrix's own brother, the one who bore the title of firstborn son to the minor King – Qobhem of Ozeftier of the west. Elder son and heir to the throne. The one who was supposed to carry the burden of rule.
Sealrix's tone made it clear: this wasn't just about duty. His anger wasn't only for Clam's throne left empty. It was for every year he had been forced to stand in the shadow of that decision, shouldering the weight his brother had abandoned. The fury was personal, born of betrayal not just to their father, but to him.
And still Clam stood there, towering, calm, as if the storm in Sealrix's chest was nothing more than wind rattling the trees.
Many years before the great invasion of the Malgeds, the cracks had already begun. Whispers of it spread across every realm; how dungeon creatures were slipping through secret fissures, finding hidden paths into our world long before the full storm came.
They were everywhere, scattered across the lands: some confused, some terrified, and some desperate simply to find shelter from whatever chased them through the void.
But the day I was born, everything changed. The natural barriers – the ancient walls that had separated worlds for generations shattered.
In a single breath, the floodgates opened and countless beings surged through, some clawing with hunger, others stumbling with fear. It was chaos without reason, an exodus no one could explain.
And in that chaos… Clam too crossed over into Aderfel.
Not by accident, not entirely. Ozeftier, their realm, had already begun to crumble, eaten alive by its own fractures. The weight of ruin had been pressing down for years, and by then it was already on the verge of collapse.
It has been five years since Clam last set foot in that broken land, five years since he abandoned the throne meant for him.
Perhaps he fled because of Ozeftier's decay. Or perhaps he feared being swallowed along with it. Or perhaps his reasons ran deeper, and darker. Whatever they were, they led him here, to this forest, to this confrontation.
Clam chuckled softly, the sound low and dismissive. "You're too young to understand my reasons, Sealrix."
Sealrix's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "Oh, please… Don't give me that crap. We both know I'm old enough to understand." His voice carried venom, each word spat like a blade. He raised his hand again, palm open, demanding. "Just tell me you don't have it and I'll leave. It's not like I want to look at your face the whole day."
The air behind them shifted, faint but unmistakable. Something shuffled in the underbrush, the sound too deliberate to be the mere stirring of forest life.
Sealrix's eyes narrowed instantly, his body snapping into motion before thought could catch up. He tilted his head just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder, and in the same breath his right arm moved to his side.
A shimmer broke the stillness, the air bending and rippling like water under heat, then condensed in his grip. Glowing faintly purple. Metal formed where there had been nothing, folding into shape with sharp, deliberate precision.
The weapon materialized fully, its long rod gleaming as if freshly forged, the air around it humming with a low resonance.
At the far end, the metal curved into a perfect semicircle, and within that arc stretched a blade, its inner edge honed to a vicious glisten. The circular side caught what little light filtered through the woods, flashing sharp and cold. It was no ordinary weapon, it was a scythe meant not just to cut, but to reap.
The forest itself seemed to flinch at its appearance.
When Sealrix turned fully, one arm instinctively angled across Clam as if to shield him, he froze at the sight that emerged from between the trees.
A bull… no, something more than a bull strode forward on two massive legs. Its body was a tower of muscle, broad shoulders straining beneath coarse, and bristling fur. Steam rose from its nostrils in violent bursts, each exhale fogging the morning air.
When its eyes found Sealrix, they narrowed, glowing faintly with an intelligence that made it clear this was no mindless beast. It didn't mistake Sealrix for a human.
Sealrix's voice cut low and sharp, his weapon glinting in his grip. "What is a beastkin doing here?"
He swung without hesitation. From his right side, the scythe-like blade sliced through the air, its purple shimmer leaving an arc of light in its path.
The beastkin reacted instantly. With surprising agility for its massive frame, it launched upward, flipping into the air. It rose so high it seemed to defy weight itself – nearly three times Sealrix's height. Its legs spread wide for balance, hooves cutting through the mist. A green energy flared around its form, trailing behind like smoke, twisting with each movement, feeding momentum into the descent.
It twisted its massive torso mid-air, channeling its strength into a single motion. Muscles bunched, veins surged, and it clenched its colossal fist.
Sealrix's eyes widened, he barely had time to brace.
The bull-like creature came crashing down, fist first. The blow met the metal rod of Sealrix's weapon with an impact that split the silence like thunder. Sparks flew, purple and green energies colliding, the force quaking through the forest floor. A heartbeat later, the beastkin's hooves slammed into the ground, the impact sending a tremor rippling through the soil. The trees shuddered, and leaves fell like rain.
Sealrix's brows lifted, surprise flickering across his otherwise stern face.
"You've got skills… and I see you can use Aether, too."
Aether was the pure energy current that flowed through most Malgeds, it was a power no spirit-born energy could easily erase. It was the reason spiritual force failed against them, the reason they endured when they should have been destroyed.
Sealrix shifted his stance, his grip tightening on the weapon. Then he moved, fast and decisive, his blade flashing in a sudden arc. The sharp curve sliced across the beastkin's left ear, drawing a thin streak of blood.
But Sealrix had no interest in the wound. He released the weapon the moment it connected, hands snapping free. His left fist folded tight, knuckles angled for the creature's jaw. His real strike.
But the beastkin was no brute. It read him in an instant, calculating with frightening precision, its eyes moving faster than they should have.
Its hooves shifted ever so slightly, grounding it with balance. As Sealrix's fist cut through the air, the beastkin's left paw slapped lightly against the shaft of the abandoned weapon, turning the force into a pivot. With fluid grace, it curved its massive frame, spinning momentum into a sudden counter.
A fist, thick as stone and fast as lightning, whipped past Sealrix's own accelerating strike, missing his knuckles by a hair. The wind of it burned against his skin, grazing his forearm as though a warning of what would have happened if it had landed true.
The air snapped with the clash of intention, the scout's trick against the beastkin's instinct