"I'm dead—I'm so dead—I'm *so* dead!"
In the dense forest, a white-haired boy in tattered linen bolted through the undergrowth at a speed no human could ever reach, legs flailing as he fled without direction.
Then the light around him dimmed.
He looked up—and his face fell into a funeral grimace.
A massive boulder blotted out the blue sky above, filling his entire field of view.
Faced with that "meteor," white frost spilled from his body.
With Cryo surging through him, he barely managed to dash out of range before it landed—but the shockwave still caught him, hurling him through the air.
He rolled across the ground several times, came up without pausing, and kept running.
If you pulled the view upward, looking down from high above, you'd see the trail he'd carved through the forest—colossal stones jutting from the earth at irregular intervals like some lunatic had been dropping mountains for fun.
And the culprit behind it all was a dragon-beast circling the skies.
Half-dragon, half-qilin, it bore a pair of golden eyes split by orange vertical pupils. Those eyes were sharp and lively, gleaming with reason—proof that their owner wasn't some mindless beast driven by slaughter.
All the while, that gaze tracked the small boy below. The dragon's face even carried an oddly human look of contemplation.
Its name was Morax.
A god.
What's a god? Think of it as a species born strong—existences that stand above ordinary life from the moment they come into being.
And Morax—one of the strongest on this land—had just gotten smacked in the face.
To be precise, a newly-born yaksha had thrown an ice spear straight at him.
That sort of provocation wasn't something even hilichurls on a hillside would swallow without fury. Only because Morax's control over elemental power was immaculate did he avoid carrying a bright Cryo imprint on his face.
How did it feel?
Like stepping out the door in a great mood, on your way to meet the girl of your dreams, only for some little brat to leap out with a water gun and blast you in the head—
And then you realize the "water" is black ink.
Morax couldn't stand it.
He swung three bricks—no, three enormous boulders formed from Geo—and hurled them down as payback.
And then he discovered something that genuinely surprised him.
Heh. The brat could *run*.
With his keen sight, Morax immediately spotted the white-haired kid crawling out from between the three stones, filthy and disheveled but still alive.
Once that reflexive burst of anger passed and reason reclaimed the high ground, Morax's interest in the little wretch flared up.
It had been an offhand strike—yet to dodge it right after being born?
This yaksha had something to him.
Curiosity piqued, Morax followed.
If the boy below knew what the dragon was thinking, he'd have stopped running on the spot and taken the boulders to the face out of sheer pride.
But Morax only grew more astonished with every passing moment.
How many days had it been?
How was the kid still bouncing around like this?
Could it be…
Had he misjudged?
Was this not a yaksha at all, but a newborn god?
The thought flickered through Morax's mind for no more than an instant.
No god was *that* weak.
Still—whether god or not, this was enough to make Morax pleased.
He needed allies.
Badly.
As more and more humans came seeking his protection, the carefree lone dragon of old had become an overworked guardian, constantly worrying about security.
Don't ask why. The answer was simple: too many settlements under his wing, and he didn't know any cloning arts. He couldn't be everywhere at once.
So he recruited.
He gathered warriors.
All so he could keep his people safe.
So, little yaksha—why aren't you surrendering already?
I've got plenty of your kind. Surely you'll have plenty to talk about.
And Morax's method of recruitment was as simple as it was brutal.
Yaksha were born fighters.
So first, you beat them.
Beat them until they accepted you—then they followed.
Morax had experience. Every yaksha under his banner had started that way.
Nowadays, with a proper territory established, plenty of yaksha came to him of their own will.
Hmph. Took all the fun out of it.
Then, below, the little yaksha suddenly stopped.
Morax's spirits rose.
Could it be—
"Damn you, you overgrown worm! If you're going to kill me, then kill me! Why chase me for three days and nights? Is humiliating me that satisfying? If you've got guts, come down here and fight me properly!"
…So he hadn't had enough.
Boulders rained down again.
The white-haired yaksha ducked with a shiver.
Fine, fine. Dying in battle was one thing.
But getting smashed to death under falling rocks? What kind of death was *that*?
Morax didn't understand.
How did a newborn yaksha have this much stamina?
Judging by how often the kid had to use elemental power to dodge, he should've run dry by now.
At this rate, it would never end.
Morax made up his mind and finally got a little serious.
Down below, the yaksha heard the whistle of something slicing the air and frowned.
That sound… wasn't like before.
He looked up—just in time to see four stone pillars, carved with square, precise patterns, slam into the ground around him, boxing him in.
Instinct screamed danger.
He poured elemental power into his legs and sprinted for the gap—
Too late.
A golden barrier rose into the sky, forming a perfect square. The yaksha knew at once: he wasn't getting out.
He approached it, curious, and tapped it with his hand.
The sound was like jade being struck.
After a moment's thought, the yaksha planted his feet, set his stance, and threw a punch that cut the wind—
"OWOWOW—WAAAHHH!"
He immediately clutched his fist and hopped around in agony.
Outside the barrier, Morax had already landed. Watching the kid's reaction, he wore a grin of pure schadenfreude.
He wasn't a vengeful god.
But seeing a brat receive proper punishment? It was hard not to laugh.
Oh?
What now?
Morax widened his eyes as the yaksha raised both hands before him—
And an ice spear formed in his grip.
Morax lifted a brow.
Right. He'd nearly forgotten the kid could shape elemental power into weapons.
Strange. Who taught him that?
Elemental shaping could be chalked up to talent.
But why think to use a weapon at all?
Powerful races usually fought with their bodies and innate gifts. Weapon techniques were learned. Even gods could not skip the stage of learning how to wield arms.
No matter how fast you learned, that stage still existed.
So… could this little thing actually use a spear?
Morax was genuinely curious.