Listen closely to my words.
This is not one of those tales you've heard sung in taverns, where heroes are praised, and victories poured like fine wine.
The story I speak reflects the world as it truly is — whether in our realm, or in the realm of the so‑called 'Players,' those supreme beings who shape our fate without ever living in it. I tell of the tale of our world and how "They" shaped it into what it became.
Allow me to begin with… well, I suppose I should start somewhere.
I don't have a name — I was never given one.
(chuckles softly)
So let me start with the day MY village met its calamity.
We lived deep in the woods, as most elves do. A quiet place, with a stream running close enough that children and elders never had to wander far for water. It was peaceful. Safe.
At least, it was… until the monster known as the Thorn Dragoon settled near our home.
Thorn Dragoons are reptilian beasts, their hides bristling with thorns that jut out like jagged armor. Their bodies are so tough that blades barely cut them, and arrows snap uselessly against their skin. My people's power was not even enough to faze them.
Our Elder sent request after request for adventurers to slay the creature, and many answered the call… but none returned victorious. It all felt hopeless. We had already lost our father, and my sister and I only had our mother left — working herself ragged just to keep us fed. Adventurers came and fell, and each failure brought more destruction than salvation.
Then the guild sent them… the three adventurers known as Team Omega.
I remember our elder speaking with their leader, warning him that countless others had tried and died. The leader simply promised they would return unscathed. The Elder only chuckled, saying we would sing of their honorable deeds if they succeeded — though even he didn't believe such a song would ever be sung.
But fate intervened, granting the salvation we desperately desired, only to inflict a crueler joke than life had bestowed on us.
That very evening, the Thorn Dragoon descended upon our village. Flames swallowed our homes, the square collapsed under its fury, and it slaughtered anyone it pleased.
I saw it raise its arm to strike down our Elder — and then something flashed. A blade intercepted the blow, locking the monster in place.
The figure who had blocked it threw back his cloak, revealing the leader of Team Omega.
He didn't boast. He didn't shout.
He simply told our Elder to evacuate the villagers and head toward where his teammate, 'Noobie,' was waiting.
As the leader clashed with the Dragoon, another of his teammates rushed in to support him — a man named Kit, at least according to the name floating above his health bar.
My sister, my mother, and I fled toward the outskirts of the village, where we found a plain‑looking adventurer standing firm with his shield raised toward the chaos. He assured us the Dragoon would not pass him.
This had to be the 'Noobie' their leader mentioned — the same name glowing above his health bar.
All we could do was pray that these three heroes would finally end our suffering.
After several minutes of fierce fighting, the plain adventurer — Noobie — suddenly rushed forward. A misty haze swirled around him as he charged, shouting spells I had never heard before.
'Shield of Requiem!'
A shimmering barrier formed around him.
'Heal!'
A green light washed over us, mending wounds we hadn't even realized we carried.
'Fated Unwavering Will!'
Warm light wrapped around his arms, his legs… and even around us. Strength, we didn't have moments before filling our bodies.
Then he charged fearlessly into the fray. From the outskirts, all we could see were bursts of light and hear the thunder of battle echoing through the burning village.
After what felt like an eternity, the Thorn Dragoon roared — that same triumphant cry it always gave after slaughtering the adventurers who failed before. We thought this time was no different. Our village was already burning, already lost, and there was nowhere left for us to run.
But then… silence.
Moments later, three figures emerged from the smoke at the outskirts of the village. Battered, bruised, barely standing — yet alive. And in their hands, they carried the severed head of the Dragoon.
I remember our elder shouting in disbelief before breaking into cheers, and soon the entire village joined him. We welcomed the three adventurers with what little strength we had left, celebrating even as we began rebuilding our shattered homes.
That night, we lit a campfire in the ruins of our village square. We danced around it, and my mother, my sister, and I bowed and performed the traditional elven dance of gratitude — singing in our tongue the song of the three heroes whose deeds would keep our village safe for years to come.
The adventurers thanked our Elder for the hospitality but refused any payment. They had eaten and drunk, and they would not accept the coins meant for rebuilding our home. They insisted the bounty be used to hire carpenters and fortify the village.
Our Elder bowed to them — fully, on all fours — something I had never seen him do in my life.
That was many moons ago… back when I still remembered what it meant to live by tradition, to live in peace. But the world is cruel, and it does not forgive — nor does it forget our missteps.
After the three heroes departed, we began rebuilding. We barely laid the first stones when dawn brought a new calamity. Not monsters this time… but people.
Strangers with strange names floating above their health bars — names like XxHentaixX and X3XXX. They stormed our village, capturing our people as if we were livestock. They cut down our Elder, and my mother threw herself between them and us so my sister and I could flee.
My sister pushed me into the stream to hide, sacrificing herself as they seized her. I held my breath beneath the water as I heard them complain about the low pay they received for capturing elven women.
How far has the world fallen?
When the invaders finally left, I crawled out from the far side of the stream and wailed. I was alone. No one from my village remained — not my mother, not my sister, not even our Elder.
In the dirt, I found a dagger. One of the adventurers must have dropped it when they fell to the Thorn Dragoon. Nearby lay scraps of armor and whatever the Dragoon hadn't devoured.
I put on the ragged armor, the cracked leather boots, and gathered the dull knives. I sharpened them the way my mother used to sharpen our kitchen blades for cutting vegetables.
Then, with shaking hands, I buried my neighbors. My people. My Elder — bowing to him on all fours as I laid him to rest.
And in that silence, surrounded by graves and ashes, I felt only one thing.
Vengeance.
For my family.
For my village.
In the moons that followed, I survived the only way I could. I ambushed lone travelers or pairs who wandered too close to the ruins of my home. I avoided larger groups. Sometimes I pretended to be helpless, luring adventurers deeper into the forest so the monsters would finish them — and I would take whatever gear they left behind.
One day, while searching the roads for another target, I came across a bulletin board near the castle town. Merchants and traders were gathered around it, talking loudly.
From a distance, I saw a sketch of a girl in a window frame.
Me.
Below are the words:
'BOUNTY: 200 gold coins.
WANTED by the GUILD: Slaughter of more than 30 party members ranked lower than Copper.'
I stared at it in disbelief.
This was what the world thought of me now.
I hissed under my breath in disgust. Let them come. I would kill any adventurer who dared step foot near my home — good or bad, it no longer mattered.
I ran back to the ruins of my village and found an entire squad of adventurers who had taken the bounty. They attacked on sight, blasting me with spells, but I pushed through the pain. I turned their own tactics against them — cutting tendons so they couldn't flee, silencing their mages before they could cast their healing or buffs.
They came to hunt a monster.
And I became exactly what they feared.
A Monster.
After I cut them down, I stripped their bodies of anything useful. I swapped into their gear — sturdier armor, better boots — making sure I hadn't damaged the equipment too badly while killing them.
But staying in the ruins of my village was too dangerous. If a larger party came, I would be forced to fight on their terms. I needed a place where I could control the battlefield.
So, I left the ashes of my home behind and made my way to the old cavern — the one that had once belonged to the Thorn Dragoon.
If the world wanted a monster, then I would live where monsters lived. I would show the world what a real monster was like.
And that cavern became my new lair.
The adventurers kept coming. And the more they came, the more I learned.
I became precise — striking the gaps in their armor, cutting tendons so they couldn't flee, silencing the mages before they could cast their healing or buffs. I learned which ones were Tanks, which were Damage dealers, and which were spellcasters.
Even the Rogues, who thought themselves hidden, were easy to detect. Their whispers echoed through the cavern long before their blades reached me.
Every party that entered my lair died.
And with each death, I grew sharper, faster, more certain.
They came to hunt a monster.
And I gave them what they wanted.
My cavern soon became littered with blood, broken blades jutting from the ground, and the decaying remains of those who came to claim my bounty. I didn't mind. These were the same kind of people who raided my village and destroyed everything I loved.
Here, in this darkness, I could finally avenge my home — no matter who the guild sent.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between battles, I wondered if I would ever see my mother or sister again. But the world had already answered that question.
Still… something felt wrong.
It had been days since the last adventurers came—too many days.
My lair was silent.
Unnaturally silent.
The kind of quiet that settles before a storm.
Then something caught my eye — a glint of metal behind one of the blades propped in the ground. Instinct took over. I hurled every dagger and projectile I had in that direction.
But whoever was there moved with impossible precision. Every blade I threw struck only stone, embedding deep into the cavern walls.
The figure slipped out of the way of each attack, step after step, until finally he realized he had been discovered. His cloak shimmered and fell away, revealing him before he could get any closer.
He looked familiar, but I didn't care. Instinct took over.
I lunged at him with all the speed I had honed in the darkness, my blade meeting his twin daggers in a burst of sparks.
And in that instant — in the way he braced, the way his arms crossed, the way steel met steel — a memory struck me.
The leader of Team Omega.
The man who had clashed blades with the Thorn Dragoon to save our Elder.
The same stance.
The same precision.
The same rhythm.
But this wasn't him.
This was someone else.
Someone who moved just like him.
Before I could strike his exposed weak point, another presence burst into the cavern. A longsword slammed into my side, knocking me out of the deadlock and stunning me.
For a heartbeat, the world blurred.
Two figures.
Twin daggers.
A longsword.
Perfect timing.
Perfect coordination.
And suddenly, a memory hit me — the way the leader of Team Omega had clashed with the Thorn Dragoon, the way his teammate had rushed in to support him, the rhythm of their blades moving as one.
These two fought the same way.
The same precision.
The same unity.
The same terrifying familiarity.
I wailed again, tearing away the last doubts inside me. Hero or not, I would kill them here — for my people, my village, my family.
I moved faster than either of them could track. Too fast for the first to keep up, too fast for the second to do anything but interrupt my strikes. I cut their tendons just as I had done to every adventurer before them. They wouldn't be running anywhere.
Or so I thought.
A sudden blow crashed against my skull — the longsword wielder — and pain ripped down my shoulder into my torso as his blade carved a deep gash. Blood poured freely. Before I could recover, the dual‑dagger fighter pressed me relentlessly, clashing repeatedly, never giving me a moment to heal or breathe.
Desperate, I grabbed a great sword from the ground. It was slow… but heavy. I swung with everything I had. The impact sent a shockwave through the cavern, staggering both and giving me a heartbeat of space.
I snapped a chunk off the great sword's blade to make it lighter, then lunged at them again. None of us could afford to heal — I made sure of that. Every time they tried to reach for a potion, I was already there, cutting, striking, forcing them back. They were just as battered and bruised as I was.
Then a third figure appeared.
Simple leather gear.
A plain shield held in both hands like a frightened novice.
But when he raised it toward his teammates, he shouted, HEAL!!'
Green light washed over them, mending wounds I had fought so hard to inflict.
My heart lurched.
A healer.
I have to kill him first.
I had to.
I feinted toward the two frontliners, then redirected all my momentum toward the caster with the shield. My piercing strike hit dead‑center — and did nothing. Not a dent. Not even a scratch.
Before I could recover, the other two forced me back, their timing was perfect, their coordination was flawless. The shield‑bearer raised his buckler high again and shouted, 'Golden Castle in the Sky!'
A golden fortress erupted around all three of them, shattering the debuffs I'd inflicted and restoring their speed.
My heart pounded.
I have to kill the shield‑bearer first.
I had to.
As the fight dragged on, my strength waned while theirs returned; all thanks to their third teammate keeping them alive. I needed a new plan. I couldn't kill all three… but I could take the healer.
If I dragged him into the forest, the monsters would finish what I couldn't.
I abandoned the broken great sword and launched myself off the cavern walls, moving faster than any of them could react. I seized the shield‑bearer and tore him away from the others. He struggled, but he had no speed, no evasion — just weight.
I carried him through the trees, one, two, maybe more, before dropping him beside me. I collapsed to catch my breath.
He didn't scream.
He didn't beg.
He didn't even look afraid.
He simply sat there… quietly meditating, as if none of this mattered.
The other two chased me relentlessly, screaming, GIVE HIM BACK!! GIVE HIM BACK!!' Their voices cracked with panic, and then their auras changed. They unleashed everything they had.
One stunned me repeatedly so many times I lost count. The other slashed me with brutal precision, his clones swarming me, distracting me, cutting off every escape.
Then the healer opened his eyes.
He whispered a spell I had never heard before.
'Command of the Unfallen King.'
Golden phantoms soldiers erupted around them, diamond‑bright light swirling like a storm. I struck them, cut, pierced, sliced, but nothing left a wound. Nothing even slowed them.
I turned on the healer, desperate to kill him before the spell could finish.
But then something hit me, a misty haze.
I looked up.
He had put away his shield.
He stood before me in a sword stance, calm and unshaken, the mist curling between us like a veil.
I had never seen anything like him.
Before I even realized what had happened, the mist had already pierced me. Warm blood poured down my side, and my legs gave out beneath me.
I collapsed on the far bank of the stream; the same stream my sister once pushed me into to save my life. I reached out toward the ruins of my village, fingers trembling, as if I could touch home one last time. Then there it was, their spirit, or what remained as a phantom in my memories, flashing before my eyes: my people, smiling and walking away from me.
Then the world dimmed.
The sound of the stream faded.