NOVPUBThe commander scowls, impatience edging his voice.
"You still can't open that thing? You've been at it for thirty minutes now," he says, glaring at the mage crouched by the tomb's seal. "Are you sure you can even open it?"
The mage flinches slightly but doesn't stop working. His hands continue moving—etching glowing lines along the carved runes with practiced precision.
"I'm sorry, sir," the mage says quickly, voice tight with pressure. "I'm close. Just… a bit more."
Alix watches from less than five meters away, perfectly invisible, not even the commander's sharp eyes catching a flicker of his presence.
'Careful,' Alix thinks, silent amusement touching his lips. 'You're sweating mana.'
The seal begins to pulse. A low tremor hums through the ground, faint but growing stronger. Then—
Thunk.
With a deep groan, the massive stone doors shudder and part down the middle, ancient gears grinding as they pull open just enough to reveal a narrow stairway plunging into darkness.
The soldiers tense. Weapons rise. The commander raises a hand—silent signal.
"Form up," he orders quietly. "Two lines. Shields front. Mage support behind."
Alix drifts in with them as they move. The soldiers enter cautiously, boots echoing on the stairs. None of them feel the slight ripple in the air as he passes through—silent as shadow.
They descend slowly. The stairway goes deep—far deeper than expected. The air grows colder, denser. Magic coils through the stone like veins—old, heavy, dormant.
Then the stairs end.
They step into a vast underground chamber.
The air shifts.
It's cold, unnaturally so. The walls are smooth black stone, etched with faded sigils that faintly glow as the soldiers pass. The ceiling arches high above, and at the center of it all…
A clearing. Perfectly circular. Unblemished.
And in the middle of that clearing lies a single, massive coffin, obsidian and gold, embedded into the floor like it was grown there rather than placed. Dust doesn't touch it. The air around it feels thick, like it's pressing against time itself.
Next to the coffin are items arranged in a ceremonial pattern. Artifacts, weapons, jewels, tomes… each one humming faintly with power. Their colors shimmer under the dim magical glow of the chamber's sconces.
The soldiers' breath catches.
"By the heavens…" one whispers. "Is that… a Tier 4 sword? There are so many of them!"
The mage steps forward, his eyes wide. "That staff… it's still charged. And that ring—look at the enchantment lines. That's ancient craftsmanship."
Their gazes lock onto the treasures like moths to flame. Greed begins to bloom in their eyes—subtle at first, then more visible as they step closer, instinctively reaching for favored pieces.
Even the commander's expression shifts slightly, one brow twitching upward at the sheer rarity displayed.
"Do not touch anything until I say so," he warns, his voice like iron. "We don't know what kind of bindings or wards are still active."
The soldiers halt, but reluctantly. Their eyes don't leave the relics.
Alix stands just behind them, unseen, unmoving.
To them, it's a vault of priceless treasures and lost power.
To him?
Trash.
Then he tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing on the coffin.
That… is different.
A quiet pulse of mana hums from beneath it. Deep. Subtle. Not like the scattered relics tossed around it.
This, whatever it is, was built to last. And guarded. Wards wrap around the edges, barely visible unless you know what to look for—woven like vines, but alive, reacting to presence, breath, movement.
The commander gestures with two fingers, sharp and deliberate.
"Advance. Form a perimeter around the coffin. Mages—start analysis on the containment runes. Don't waste time."
The soldiers start moving, splitting off into groups, boots echoing against the cold floor as they spread out. Weapons drawn, eyes flicking between the relics and the coffin.
The commander, meanwhile, stays near the rear, arms crossed behind his back.
Alix watches him with a faint smirk.
'Of course. Send the grunts ahead, stay behind where it's safe. Sly bastard.'
Then—
Click.
A low, mechanical shift echoes through the chamber.
Everyone freezes.
Then comes the rumble.
The stone floor trembles beneath their feet. Dust trickles down from the ceiling. With a loud grind, the wall on the far side of the chamber slides open—ancient stone splitting like the lid of a maw.
From the shadows beyond, something moves.
Heavy. Slow. Massive.
Then it steps into the light.
A beast, towering and twisted—horned and plated in chitinous armor the color of dried blood. Its eyes glow a deep, steady crimson. Its breath steams in the cold air. Clawed hands drag along the stone, and its presence crashes through the chamber like a wave.
Tier 5. And not just any Tier 5.
A peak.
Every soldier tenses, magic crackling to life, weapons shifting in sweaty hands.
One of them stammers, "W-weapons up! That thing—what is that?!"
Another backs up a step. "We are gonna die here!"
"Shut up!" the commander snaps, stepping forward now, eyes locked on the creature. His aura flares slightly, a burning red that pushes back the cold.
"Get a grip, you idiots! It's just a peak Tier 5. I'm also almost at peak Tier 5. We can kill it."
The soldiers still look nervous, but his voice cuts through the panic like steel.
"Formations! Shields front! Casters, prep your buffs! Melee, don't engage until I say!"
The soldiers snap to motion, trained reflexes overriding fear. Circles form, runes activate, and mana surges into the air.
The beast lowers its head, growling deep—its breath shaking the walls.
Alix doesn't move.
He watches from the side, still cloaked in true invisibility, arms casually folded.
'Let's see if your "almost peak" means anything,' he thinks, eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.
The beast roars.
And the real fight begins.
The clash is instant and brutal.
The beast moves like a storm—too fast for its size, smashing into the front lines with terrifying weight. Shields splinter. Screams erupt. Spells lash the air, slamming into its armor, but most fizzle or deflect, scattering against its hide like sparks on stone.
Alix watches like watching a movie.
Two soldiers are torn apart in seconds—one crushed beneath a clawed foot, the other hurled across the chamber, bones cracking against the wall.
The commander shouts orders, blade drawn, golden aura flaring brighter now, illuminating the dark.
"Focus fire! Keep formation! Don't scatter—damn it!"
Three mages try to trap the beast in a slowing hex, their incantations overlapping—but it breaks the spell with a roar and a stomp, disrupting the circle and incinerating one of them in a burst of raw mana backlash.
The gap between them is too wide.
Alix can see it—obvious. The commander fights well, better than most. But he's not at the peak. Not truly. His strikes are sharp but not enough to seriously injured a tier 5 beast. His movements—efficient, but still reactive.
And worse, the soldiers can't keep up. They die fast, one after another.
After some time, there are none left.
Only the commander remains—armor dented, one arm hanging useless, blood soaking his left side. He pants heavily, chest heaving with each breath, blade tip trembling as it stays raised.
The beast lies dead.
Its body slumps to the side, the last of its breath escaping in a long, rattling exhale. But even in death, it looks undefeated.
The commander sways, drops to one knee, gritting his teeth as he plants the sword into the ground to stay upright. His aura flickers—barely holding. Cuts line his face. One eye swollen shut.
Then—
A soft clap.
Slow. Measured. Coming from the shadows behind him.
The commander's head jerks up, wild eyes searching. "Who's there?!"
Alix lets the invisibility drop.
He stands just beyond the dying torchlight, arms folded, eyes cool. No blood. No dust. Not even sweat.
"Well fought," Alix says, stepping forward, his voice calm and almost bored. "Though… not impressive."
The commander's gaze locks on him, disbelief and fury mixing in his expression. "You… Who are you?"
The commander's eye twitches. Then his gaze drops—locks onto the badge clipped to Alix's belt.
His face twists into a sneer.
"Ember Claw," he spits, half a laugh slipping from his bloodied lips. "Of course. Should've known."
He coughs hard, blood spattering onto the stone.
"And is this how the commanders of Ember Claw operate now? Hiding in the shadows while others die doing your work? What a cowardly move."
Alix raises a brow. A faint smirk plays at the corner of his lips.
"Cowardly?" he echoes, voice smooth. "Please. Don't pretend you wouldn't have done the same if the roles were reversed."
He steps closer, slow and deliberate. His boots make no sound on the cold stone.
"There's no such thing as cowardice in war. Only survival. Victory. Efficiency. I don't see 'honor' on the battlefield. Just results."
The commander grits his teeth, trying to rise, but his knee buckles. His sword clatters to the ground.
"Damn you…" he snarls. "You think you're above us? You think—"
Before he finishes, Alix is already there.
One fluid motion—silent, fast.
His blade flashes out from under his cloak. A clean, silver arc. No wasted movement.
Steel bites through the commander's neck with a quiet shhhk—too fast for pain, too precise for resistance.
The man's words die in his throat.
His body drops in a graceless heap, blood spreading quickly over the black stone floor.
Alix exhales, as if brushing off dust.
"No," he says softly, to no one in particular. "I don't think I'm above you."
He turns, slipping the blade back into its sheath.
"I know I am."
