Side Story: A Rotten Seed in the Wind
Malfor Hayde's Hunt Begins
The vast Hayde training chamber smelled like polished marble, burning incense, and frustration.
Malfor Hayde was in the middle of the area, making violent gusts to calm his fury.
His robes and the flashes of lightning outside matched the storm within. He wasn't looking for peace; he was fighting the need to let his anger out. He wanted to be in charge of his feelings and his life, not peace.
He was at Foundation Realm Rank 9, but it felt like another cage—his father's way of forcing him to grow stronger and prove himself. Advancement wasn't his choice; it was a demand to finally earn the freedom and respect he desperately sought.
It echoed the days in the family hall, on display and lectured for his old mistake with the heirloom sword.
He couldn't afford another failure, not with his pride already battered in arenas where he expected strength. Every setback cost him valuable time and diminished his self-worth.
Tre Sorelle.
A name that now made his eye twitch.
The public humiliation. The stunned silence. The jail cell.
Duranth City Jail.
Malfor's pride took a new hit when he was handled like a common criminal despite his noble blood—a Count's son, brought low before all.
He blamed Charlemagne Ziglar, who orchestrated his public defeat and relished Malfor's disgrace. Every memory stoked his need to reclaim his dignity, no matter the cost.
He could still hear Ziglar's laughter, cold and happy, cutting through the quiet of the jail cell.
The sound stayed with him, as did the smell of Ziglar's leather gloves. Each punch felt personal.
The cyclone screamed.
Then a cough broke the silence.
Then came a careful, "My Lord, please don't stab me again."
Braylen stood at the edge of the room, half-hidden by a pillar. His cloak was dirty with soot, and he looked tired. You had to learn how to avoid sudden storms and rude tantrums if you worked for Malfor Hayde for this long.
Malfor came down, and the wind knocked over a few perfectly innocent training dummies as his boots hit the marble.
Braylen gave him a scroll that glowed.
"We received reports. Ziglar appeared. Registered at Velmora Adventurer's Guild. Timbermaw Thickets. Solo."
A twitch. Then there was silence.
Then he laughed in a low, dangerous way that made the sound seem out of control.
"Adventurer, is he? How utterly adorable," Malfor sneered, eyes flashing cold.
"What now? Slaying dragons? Saving orphans? Soup champion? Has he lost his mind?"
He stepped forward, the air shifting with his mood.
"You're Core Realm 3," Malfor said, tone edged like frost.
"Go kill him. Take your men. Clean, messy—I just want blood."
Braylen didn't flinch. He'd long accepted his role as the resident cleaner of noble messes.
"Understood. I'll take ten. Mixed combat types. No loose ends."
Malfor nodded with approval.
"And Braylen—bring me his mask. I'll wear it to my next masquerade."
Braylen didn't reply. He turned and left, already thinking about how many bodies this job would leave behind.
Three Days Later aboard the Windpiercer
The Windpiercer, a top-tier Hayde airship, sped through the sky, turning a twenty-five-day trip to the Davona Royal Capital into just three. Braylen stood at the front deck, arms crossed as the wind tugged at his cloak.
Behind him, ten chosen mercenaries and loyalists relaxed in the ship's luxury hold. These weren't ordinary fighters. They were experts—silent killers, formation breakers, and specialists trained to defeat Foundation Realm cultivators in an instant.
Braylen exhaled through his nose as the golden-tiled rooftops of the capital came into view below.
"Halfway there."
The Gravemaw Equinox Steeds waited for them in the capital stables. These huge, armored animals were bred for the best cavalry. With their speed and stamina, the last three days to Velmora would pass quickly.
And then came Timbermw Thickets.
And then—Ziglar.
Sovereign of the Swarm
The forest smelled of ash and cold dew.
Charles awoke with the same feeling one might have after surviving a war: sore, bruised, and vaguely triumphant.
His breath turned to mist in the morning air. The ground around his camp was burned and pitted from the spider fight the night before. A few twitching legs lay nearby, and burned silk stuck to the trees.
The protective arrays shimmered once, then dissolved into the dirt with a whisper of spent qi.
Nimbus, now small again, slept inside the ring. He was full from eating Venomhorn meat and seemed proud after resting by the fire where the spiders had burned.
Charles stretched until his shoulders popped, and rolled his neck like a man preparing for a duel with the gods.
He turned southeast where the Mossshell Scarabs waited.
He cracked his neck once more and walked into the hum.
[Mission Initiated: Mossshell Scarab Nest Purge
Objective: Retrieve 3× Hardened Mossshell Carapaces
Power Level: Foundation Realm Rank 10 – Core Realm Rank 2
Hazards: Sonic Coordination, Resin Traps, Swarm Intelligence
Reward: 130 Gold Coins + Alchemist's Flask
Status: Active]
The moment he entered the quarry zone, the air changed.
Not colder—denser.
The quiet wasn't really quiet anymore. It felt like a steady vibration, almost like a heartbeat. It was soft at first, but grew stronger as he walked.
Below him was the Mossshell Hive, an old quarry turned into a deadly maze. Large resin domes stood among broken stone trenches. Tunnels twisted through shiny green passages, making the place feel alive.
Charles crouched behind a moss-covered boulder and began prepping.
"Resonance Anchor. Left."
A spike of blacksteel embedded into the soil and sank silently, rune-lines blinking awake.
"Sound Suppression Web. Right."
Fine-threaded glyphs expanded like a net, pulsing with ambient qi as it cloaked his movement.
He tapped Raijin's Emberfang against a nearby slab of rock.
Clang.
The sound was swallowed instantly.
And the hive responded.
Scarabs crawled out from every crack. They looked like armored tanks with six legs, glowing antennae, and shiny green shells. They moved together in a wave, not rushing, but acting as one—a careful, deadly advance.
As the swarm got closer, Charles paused when he saw someone in the chaos—a traveler trapped in resin webs, eyes wide with fear.
His objective was the carapace, but he couldn't ignore his values. Could he let a helpless traveler perish for the sake of victory, or risk his prize to save an innocent?
Charles clenched his jaw, making the split-second choice. "Oh, good. You brought friends."
He drew Emberfang in one smooth motion and spun forward.
"Raijin Style Thunderbreak Waltz!"
Lightning burst from his blade as he dove into the swarm. Every strike was timed with a pivot or twist, each movement fusing into the next like a martial sonata.
One scarab lunged—he sidestepped, dragging his blade across its underbelly in a sizzling arc.
"Five."
Another came from behind—he flipped backward and drove his gauntlet down like a warhammer.
"Nine."
A dozen tried to encircle him. He let them. He embedded a magnetic rune pouch mid-dash and snapped his fingers.
Zzzt—CLANG!
Polarity traps fused them together in a screeching cluster.
"Ever seen beetles kiss?" Charles muttered, then set off the trap with a quick sweep of his blade.
"Thirty-one."
"Fifty-eight."
"Eighty-six."
They came faster now. Their bodies collided with rhythmic chirps and clicks. Their resin spit began forming barricades. Some burrowed and popped up beneath him, mandibles wide.
One sliced across his side.
He winced, rolled, and hit the emergency voice line.
"SIGMA. Flask. Now."
"Administering: Crimson Root Elixir. Side warning: tastes like burnt regret."
Warmth rushed through him, mending his bones. He twisted, blocked with his gauntlet, and spun as lightning sparked around his legs.
"Mindsteel Draught. Mid-fight."
"That's not recommended—oh, you already drank it. Preparing for possible side effects."
"Save the sarcasm," Charles said, eyes glinting. "I'm still pretty."
Another wave crashed toward him.
And he danced through them.
One hundred.
One-fifty.
Two hundred and ten.
His footwork blurred into instinct—Phantom Veil Steps scattered afterimages like shadows sprinting between blinks. His fists pulsed with Titanheart reinforcement, striking with enough impact to send enemies skipping like stones across the quarry walls.
Blood poured from his nose. From his lip. His ears rang with sonic overpressure.
Still, he moved.
Still, he laughed.
"Pain's just my body screaming it's alive!"
Another hit struck his ribs and cracked them. Resin splashed across his face. His cloak was torn, and one boot was half-melted from acid.
He wrapped his ribs mid-fight with a qi-infused bandage strip, tied the cloak tighter around his neck, and kicked through another wall of chitin.
"Two-forty-seven."
"Two-eighty-one."
He spun—kicked a scarab off a ledge—backhanded another with a lightning-augmented gauntlet smash.
And when he couldn't stand anymore, he drank one more elixir:
"Moonpetal Vitalis – Tier III."
The bottle hit the ground and shattered behind him.
His heartbeat steadied. His eyes snapped back into focus.
And then it happened.
The quarry quaked.
And the Hive Sovereign rose from the depths.
It was massive. Armored in jagged obsidian-green plates. Its resonance core glowed on its underbelly—pulsing like a subwoofer powered by nightmares.
Its screech shattered birds from the sky. The air wavered. Charles dropped to one knee.
"Warning: Inner ear trauma. Auditory equilibrium destabilized. Deploying counter-frequency dampener."
His vision blurred. His blood hummed with reverb. But he laughed through the nosebleed.
"Finally. The band's conductor shows."
As he ran toward the edge of the quarry, a sudden memory from his training came to him—a lesson from a respected master.
"Strike at the heart," the voice whispered, carrying wisdom sharpened by years of experience.
Charles leapt and planted a charge behind him, using the explosive burst to launch himself into a reverse aerial spiral. He slammed his gauntlet into the cliff wall mid-spin.
A shockwave cracked the stone like lightning on bone. The entire wall exploded upward—sending shrapnel into the Sovereign's armored thorax.
It reared back, stunned.
Charles didn't stop.
He spun under it, swept a qi line with Emberfang, and roared:
"Raijin Art Final Surge!"
The blade cleaved upward.
Straight through the Sovereign's resonance core.
The light died instantly.
And so did the hive.
The quarry fell still.
The swarm went silent.
[SYSTEM REWARDS – Trialmind Interface
Kill Count: 309 Scarabs + 1 Hive Sovereign
Elapsed Time: 9 hours, 17 minutes
Recovery Elixirs Used:
– Crimson Root Elixir ×2
– Mindsteel Draught ×1
– Moonpetal Vitalis (Tier III) ×1
Technique Advancement:
– Raijin Style +7%
– Titanheart Fist +5%
– Resonance Suppression Array +12%
Gold Bonus: 332,000
New Title Earned: Hivebreaker
Trait Upgrade: Echo Pulse Immunity (Passive) – Reduces sonic damage by 30%]
Now the pit looked like a graveyard.
Cracked carapaces. Smoking resin. Ruined tunnels. The stench of acid and blood.
Charles stood at the center, gauntlet cracked, cloak shredded, breathing hard—but unbowed.
"No tricks," he muttered, flicking acidic blood off Emberfang. "No SIGMA gimmicks. No divine weapons. Just sweat, steel, and sarcasm."
He tore the last fragment of the Sovereign's carapace from its body and slid it into his spatial ring.
Then he raised his blade overhead.
Lightning coiled around him like a dragon.
"And that... is how you teach a hive to shut up."
He spat on the broken resonance core, turned, and walked away into the green mist of the ravine. His footsteps faded, leaving only the memory of thunder behind.
Shadows That Slither
The forest held its breath.
There was no birdsong and no wind. The only thing left was the feeling of a storm, not from weather, but from battle and determination.
Charles Ziglar took shelter in a shallow cave between mossy cliffs, just past the burned remains of the Mossshell Hive. The air was cool and still, carrying the smell of burned resin, wet stone, and iron—a reminder of what he'd survived.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
From his spatial pouch, he retrieved a sealed pouch of mana crystals and scattered them with practiced precision into a crude circle carved barehanded into the cavern floor. As his finger traced the last rune, cobalt and violet arcs ignited across the stone in radiant spirals.
[Efficient Recovery Array: Tier II]
The array pulsed. A low hum. A breath from the divine.
Charles sat cross-legged in the center and opened three rare elixirs, each glowing with power. These weren't just potions—they were the best work of alchemists, made with great care.
Vitalforge Draught. It tasted harsh, like iron, and burned as it went down, making his whole body ache as it worked to heal him.
Tranquil Bloom Elixir. Cool and fragrant, it calmed his mind and helped him recover from the hive's lingering effects.
Qiweaver Essence. It felt sharp and electric, sending energy through his body and making his core feel alive.
He downed them all without pause. No hesitation. No flinch.
His body convulsed once, then froze.
Nimbus, his dragon companion, now the size of a coiled ribbon, curled beside him with a soft exhale. A living storm is contained.
Charles collapsed backward into the heart of the glowing array, arms splayed. The world faded.
Three hours passed. The array dimmed. The crystals turned to ash.
When his eyes opened again, they didn't just shimmer...they burned.
"Simulated seven days' recovery in four hours," he muttered hoarsely. "Acceptable ROI."
His body? Bruised, but whole.
His spirit? Clear.
His qi?
Predatory