The smoke slowly cleared, curling in thick, hazy coils before dispersing, revealing a scene etched into the memory of everyone present.
George still held his fist extended, teeth clenched as if one more ounce of strength would crush the enemy before him. But his breath froze in his chest, his heart pounded violently, and an unnatural chill surged through his mind.
Because the one who should have fallen… was still standing.
Towering amidst the smoke, back straight, head lowered slightly, he resembled an unmoving statue weathering the storm. The chest plate where George's punch had landed was shattered, scorched fragments twisted and blackened like iron pulled fresh from the forge. Beneath the ruined armor, his skin was bruised and raw, wisps of smoke still rising from the burns. Such a wound would have destroyed any ordinary warrior—yet Gen stood there as if nothing had happened.
The once deafening space, full of falling rubble and echoing crashes, fell into a suffocating silence. The guards, who had been panicked and struggling for breath, suddenly felt as though invisible hands were clutching their hearts. It was like drowning corpses being dragged ashore, faces pale, eyes wide in terror, while a ghostly cold pierced straight through their flesh, making their bones shudder.
George's eyes widened. His gaze was sharp enough to carve into the black helmet before him, as though trying to pierce through and see the face hidden inside. With his age and countless years of experience, George had thought himself beyond petty provocations. Yet now, those words and that indifferent demeanor felt like a blade stabbing into the pride he had forged over a lifetime.
His chest grew unbearably heavy.
A gust of wind swept in from the town square, slipping through the shattered front doors, feeding his unease. The silence was so deep that each sigh of the wind sounded like whispers of ghosts from the past, reminding George of the years gone by—of those who once dared mock him, only to rot in cold graves.
But today, he was forced to ask himself: just what was he standing against?
Mo Hamus, keeping his distance behind Gen, could clearly see George's expression. The smoke dispersed slowly, but to him, each fading wisp was like the toll of a funeral bell.
He swallowed hard, trying to soothe a throat as dry as desert sand. The short blade in his grip trembled, the steel vibrating faintly with a sound so thin that only Mo Hamus himself could hear it—like the dying groan of a man on his last breath. He had murdered countless victims, seen the mighty fall with blood splashing red across the cobblestones. Yet now, he realized he was trembling like a recruit on his first battlefield.
"You… what are you?" His voice cracked. "A Spellblade—someone like you—how could you be unknown? Why have I never once seen a single report, a single record mentioning your name?"
It slipped from his lips, but the words carried the same bitter question burning inside George.
Gen did not answer. He simply lifted the Drywood Fang. A small motion—but the air grew so taut that George instantly recoiled, his powerful frame tensing like a beast tasting fear for the first time before its predator's blade.
Gen slowly turned his head. Not toward the one who questioned him, but beyond them all—his gaze reaching outside.
The catastrophic noise had drawn townsfolk and others to the scene.
The square of Venezia unfolded beyond the shattered doors.
Hundreds of eyes fell upon them—commoners, merchants, adventurers in battered armor, gathering in murmuring clusters.
A squad of town guards had arrived as well. They spread out along the edges, long spears quivering in their hands with each gust of wind. Not one dared step forward. Duty had brought them here, but survival instincts screamed at them to retreat. These were men accustomed to dispersing petty thieves or brawlers, yet now they felt utterly insignificant beneath the suffocating presence bearing down on the square.
Some swallowed nervously. Others gripped their spear shafts to hide the trembling in their fingers. But all shared the same truth—none dared interfere. They could only stand like wooden statues, unwilling witnesses to a confrontation that had already surpassed the authority of this small town.
"Interesting," Gen said at last. "If I kill you both here… what would your town's ruler do?"
His voice dropped like a stone into a still pond, rippling through George and Mo Hamus alike.
"Avenge you? Or would he turn a blind eye, clinging to his seat in silence?"
Each word was measured, deliberately spoken so both would hear.
"You…" George's breath came sharp and fast, an icy realization flashing through him. "You mean to turn my death… into a public execution…"
This nameless Spellblade—he didn't just want George's life. He wanted to deliver a slap across the mayor's face for all of Venezia to see.
While George was driven into a corner by Gen's words, Mo Hamus cared little for the verbal sparring. His ears heard, but his mind had gone cold.
He had noticed it: the shattered breastplate, scorched steel exposing raw, burning flesh.
A weakness.
The thought lit up in his mind, his assassin's eyes sharpening dangerously. He knew well—when opportunity struck, one precise thrust was enough to topple even giants.
Mo Hamus tightened his grip on the dagger, inhaling deeply to steady his pounding heart. He had killed too many, watched towering men collapse from a single cut in the right spot. No matter how terrifying this opponent was, he was still flesh and blood.
Gen turned his head once more—not toward him, but toward Dolly.
At some point, the doll had appeared at the doorway. Perhaps the shockwave of the explosion had flung it there. Or perhaps some hidden defense mechanism had sensed danger and moved it on its own. No one could tell.
Gen leveled his blade directly at Mo Hamus and gave his order.
"Kill."
Dolly moved.
Her tiny steps tapped rhythmically against the stone floor, yet her speed was frightening. The coiled whip in her hand lashed out like a serpent's tongue, striking with a sharp, ear-splitting crack.
The blow snapped toward Mo Hamus—swift, merciless, and without the slightest hesitation.
With a guttural snarl, he lunged forward. He knew that if he let himself be suppressed by such a long-reaching weapon, the fight would be lost. His dagger slashed in rapid arcs, his body pressed low like a predator in pursuit.
But Dolly did not falter. Each strike of her whip was cold, mechanical, precise beyond human instinct. The whip lashed out in flawless sequences, not like the attacks of a person, but like preordained calculations. Before Mo Hamus stretched a net of purple-lit lashes, a storm of strikes nearly impossible to pierce through.
"Damn it!"
"[Blood Lotus]!"
Mo Hamus clenched his teeth, his left hand twisting ever so slightly. In the blink of an eye, five throwing knives shot out, whistling through the air, tearing apart the distance in erratic, unpredictable trajectories.
Dolly did not flinch. Its wrist gave a faint jerk, and the whip snapped up, weaving two crossing arcs. Clang! Clang! The first two blades were struck aside, spinning wildly before embedding themselves in the wall. But the remaining three, taking advantage of twisted angles, still drove straight toward it.
And yet, Dolly simply turned its body. The harsh, screeching sound of grinding metal echoed as a thick steel shield burst forth, covering its entire frame. Clang! Clang! Clang! Three knives buried themselves deep into the surface, leaving dents but failing to pierce through.
The sounds of battle thundered out of the hall, echoing straight into Venezia Square. The crack of the whip, the metallic ping of blades deflecting off steel, and the ear-splitting collisions rang on and on. The crowd was spellbound by the duel between Mo Hamus and Dolly. Adventurers nearby wore shifting expressions with each exchange. They could not tear their eyes away, their gazes glittering with excitement, as if witnessing a flawless performance on stage.
"Good gods… that speed…" muttered a grizzled adventurer in worn leather armor. He had roamed countless cities and watched high-ranked fighters clash, yet even he shuddered at the assault he was seeing now. "That reflex… it's almost like predicting the opponent's movement before it even happens…"
A younger mage, eyes wide behind thin spectacles, shook his head. "No—no, it's not prediction. It's absolute precision! As if every lash of the whip was already calculated, with zero delay…"
Murmurs spread, growing louder, more feverish.
"Did you see its build? Small, yet faster than even those with the Thief class."
"A dwarf! It must be a dwarf! I heard there are clans in the North—not only master smiths but also fearsome warriors."
"A dwarf? Since when do dwarves wield whips?!"
"Perhaps an obscure lineage. Dwarves are famed for their craftsmanship—who's to say they didn't forge unique styles of combat as well?"
The common folk trembled, but the adventurers exchanged looks, eyes flickering with both fear and exhilaration. In a world where strength defined everything, any race possessing such rare skills would inevitably be hailed as living legends.
On the other side, George pulled out two low-grade MP potions, hastily downing them in one go. The bland liquid slid down his throat, barely in time to stoke the dwindling mana draining from his veins. His skill, Muscle Berserk, had swelled every muscle on his body, surging his strength to its peak—but it devoured mana at a terrifying rate.
He knew all too well—once his MP hit zero, his body would collapse under the backlash instantly.
George's eyes slowly shifted toward Gen, his gaze heavy, weighed down with suspicion.
"You… there's something very strange about you." His voice carried a heavy tone. "Your level can't be low. In fact, it far exceeds what any ordinary Spellblade could ever reach. But your magic…"
He paused, his breathing ragged, eyes still locked on Gen.
"…It's all basic. The elements you wield are nothing but the lowest tier. If not for my Iron Fist Guard, honed over years, I doubt I could have blocked that wind strike."
George shook his head, unable to reconcile the contradiction before him. His face was grim, laced with unease—for what truly unnerved him was not Gen's tangible strength, but the obscurity of his origins.
In this world, the ranking of skills was absolute, divided clearly into four stages:
Levels 1 to 3 — Basic, ordinary in power.
Levels 4 to 6 — Intermediate, where skills began to show true combat effectiveness, enough to distinguish the average from the talented.
Levels 7 to 9 — Advanced, the domain of veterans, wielding abilities far beyond the common standard.
And finally, Level 10 — Superlative, the threshold of evolution, where a skill ceased being merely a skill and became something more: a force unto itself. Each step here, each fraction of improvement, was a brutal ordeal, often unattainable within a single lifetime.
Yet Gen himself wasn't even certain if he truly counted as a Spellblade. The archetype was meant to be the perfect fusion of two paths: the refined swordsmanship of a Warrior and the intricate casting of a Mage.
Hybrid Paths were rare and revered—hailed as dual geniuses for their ability to harmonize two systems at once.
Gen met George's doubtful gaze and smirked faintly. "Does it matter? What you should be worrying about is surviving… though that will be pointless anyway."
He dropped to one knee, palm pressing firmly against the stone floor.
[Walls Land]
Boom!
The ground quivered, then cracked wide open. In an instant, a crude wall of earth surged upward, completely blocking George's line of sight.
George flinched, instincts honed from countless battles forcing him to retreat, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the barrier.
But before he could regain his footing—
A flash of light streaked across the air like a shooting star.
Gen had invoked Light Flash, leaping over the newly raised wall.
In that fleeting moment, George caught only a shadow falling upon him, like an omen of doom—the black armor glinting faintly, as if the abyss itself was descending to devour the sky.
George growled, body curling into a guarded stance. His fists clenched tight, arm raised for a lethal counterstrike.
"This fight…" Gen's voice cut through the air, cold, steady, bearing the weight of a hammer striking the soul. "…ends here."
[Stop Time].
George froze mid-motion, locked in place with fists raised, eyes wide as though the entire world had been shackled.
Only a heartbeat passed.
When the hold dissolved, time surged forward once more.
Before George could even comprehend the void of silence he'd just been trapped in, the grotesque blade had already pierced through his chest in an unstoppable thrust.
"Wha… what the hell?!"
George staggered, eyes wide, filled with disbelief. He glanced down at the sword buried in his chest, breath ragged, blood spilling crimson from his lips.
"No… it can't be… that skill… could it be…?"
He whispered, gaze clouded by delirium as his last thoughts churned.
Fire. Wind. Water. Wood. Earth. Time. Darkness. Light.
Origin. Colorless. Dream.
If the first seven Spirits were the "Pillars of the World," then the latter three transcended mere battle—they embodied primal concepts, truths beyond the material plane, secrets veiled behind reality's curtain.
But that did not mean the other Spirits were lesser. Take the Spirit of Time, for example.
Stop Time—to freeze the flow of a single being for one second—was merely its raw, embryonic seed, the crudest glimpse of the Time Spirit's domain.
For the Spirit of Time also held a unique gift: Tears of Time.
A mythical skill, once bestowed only upon one of the two Heroes summoned in the chaotic age. That chosen warrior, blessed by the Time Spirit, became the sole being to bend a moment—rewriting the fate of countless lives within the span of a single heartbeat.
George shuddered. He had always believed Tears of Time to be myth, a memory inflated into legend over centuries. Yet now…
Blood dripping from his lips, his thoughts trembled.
Even Stop Time alone—against ordinary foes—was enough to turn the tide in an instant, deciding life and death.
So this… this was the trump card of this Spellblade…?
Gen coldly pulled the Drywood Fang free from George's chest, flinging a scarlet arc of blood into the air.
Still refusing to fall, George forced his body upright, straining his last breath for one final stand.
But—
The blade came down.
"—Ghhhaahhh!" George's hoarse scream tore out.
Slash!
The sword cleaved from shoulder to stomach in a merciless stroke. The grotesque sound of bone and flesh tearing filled the hall. His massive frame toppled backward, blood fountaining onto the stone floor, painting it a dark red.
Gen did not look back. He merely flicked his wrist, letting crimson droplets drip from his sword like cold, black rain.
The entire hall fell into dead silence.
Only the ragged gasps of the guards remained, mingling with the steady drip of blood and the chilling ring of the Drywood Fang.