The air hung heavy and lifeless as Lucy rose from his seated position on the blood-slick obsidian ground. The acrid stench of scorched flesh and burning magic clung to his nose. Behind him, the savage orchestra of war raged on—shouts of fury, the clash of steel, and the tremor of raw elemental forces filled the battlefield like an unholy symphony.
And in front of him stood Vorn Cain—the strongest elf in existence, and the strongest warrior among all the armies of the gods.
No longer the calm older man who had once shared idle words beneath the open sky, Vorn now stood in a poised battle stance, his presence radiating focused lethality. His left arm extended forward, right arm drawn back, fist clenched with a stillness that spoke of decades of mastery. His legs mirrored his arms—one foot forward, the other bracing behind, squatted low and ready. He held no weapon, and he needed none. The aura rolling off him was suffocating, ancient, and absolute.
Lucy swallowed hard, the dryness in his mouth stinging his throat like grit. He raised his sword with his right hand, leveling it beside his face, while his left arm crossed defensively before him. His feet shifted—left foot forward, right bracing behind.
'He wants me to prove I'm worthy of slaying the gods…? I might be scared, and he's far stronger than me, but I won't back down. I have a new goal now, and no one, not even Vorn Cain, will keep me from it.'
Lucy braced himself to strike, but every nerve in his body screamed against it. His instincts warned of pain, of ruin, of hopelessness.
Then, Vorn's sharp gaze softened slightly, releasing just enough pressure from the air around them to allow Lucy to breathe.
"I will give you the first strike," the elf said calmly, voice like calm wind brushing over embers. "And you have my word—I will not strike back."
'He's not even going to defend himself?'
Lucy hesitated. He considered pouring all of his divine mana into a single fire cylinder. With his vast reserves, the blast would be enormous, unpredictable even to himself. But no too risky. He'd be left exposed if it failed, and raw power without precision was reckless. He needed control, not chaos.
Without another word, Lucy surged forward, his figure becoming a blur to anyone not on the level of a general.
To Vorn Cain, however, he may as well have been drifting in slow motion. The elf's expression didn't shift. His eyes followed Lucy without urgency, as if silently declaring: I see you. But you're no threat.
Rage flickered in Lucy's chest. He tightened his grip and lunged, pushing more mana into his strike than planned. His sword gleamed in the sun, catching streaks of gold as it shot toward Vorn's chest.
Then—impact.
A thunderous thud cracked through the wasteland. It silenced the distant roars of giants, the clatter of weapons, even the screaming magic tearing across the battlefield.
Lucy expected resistance—flesh, bone, something. But the strike halted with a jarring dullness, like steel meeting stone. The impact vibrated up his arm, numbing his wrist. His sword rebounded violently, flinging backward over his head and pulling his arm with it, wrenching his shoulder and drawing a grimace from his lips.
'Was that a defensive ability? Or just pure mana control?'
Lucy backed off instantly, muscles tense for a counterattack. But none came.
Vorn was still in his stance, motionless. Yet his expression had shifted. His eyes were wide with surprise.
Lucy's gaze narrowed.
Then, the old elf did something unexpected. He reached up with both hands and tugged apart the lapels of his icy blue robe, revealing the spot where Lucy's blade had struck.
An old, dry laugh escaped him.
Confused, Lucy watched him closely—nothing unusual—just a weathered chest. No wound. No blood. Just—
'Wait.'
His eyes caught it.
'No way…'
A tiny mark—so small it could be missed with a glance—rested just above Vorn's heart. A slight indentation. Barely visible. An ant might struggle to fit inside it.
And yet Vorn Cain, the undefeated sword-saint of the elves, was smiling like a man who had just found purpose again.
"Well done, Lucy," he said, his voice touched with something almost like pride. "This is the first mark of battle I have received in over a thousand years. Show me more of your resolve, young man."
'He… can't be serious.That tiny scratch? That's what he's impressed by?'
But as Vorn calmly closed his robe and gestured for Lucy to come again, there was no doubt—he was serious.
And Lucy now understood just how far he still had to go.
Their battle unfolded into a one-sided dance of deadly grace.
Lucy advanced again and again, his sword carving elegant arcs through the air. He employed the footwork he'd absorbed from fighting Ayas—fluid, refined, and controlled. Each step glided seamlessly into the next, a dance more befitting a seasoned swordsman than a boy who had only picked up a blade days ago.
Yet for all his newfound finesse, his efforts were fruitless.
Vorn Cain didn't counter. He didn't even flinch. He weaved through Lucy's strikes with unsettling ease, barely moving more than necessary. A tilt of the head, a pivot on the heel, a slip just past the blade's edge, his movements were minimal, precise, masterful. He wasn't just dodging; he was observing, analyzing, dissecting every technique Lucy had to offer.
The elf's expression remained neutral, unreadable. But behind his silence, his thoughts churned.
'Why did my God make such a fuss over this human? What makes him so special?'
Vorn had lived through ages—so long, in fact, that he was the only elf still alive who remembered when humans once roamed the stars freely. Back then, they were nothing exceptional. Not as strong as the Giants or Ogres, not better warriors than the Dragonkin and beastkins, nor as attuned to mana as the Elves. They were ordinary, almost forgettable.
'But then Seraphine chose him. Chose Lucian Gray.'
Ithriel had been so incensed by the choice that he'd sparked an entire war just to eliminate the boy.
"He can rival the Gods, can he?" Vorn mused, ducking under a decapitating slice that whistled inches above his silver hair.
There was something there—something raw and real. Potential.
'I see what Seraphine and that brat meant. Lucy came into this war with bare fists, and now he's imitating Ayas' techniques near perfectly. Even I couldn't do that when I was his age.'
Vorn chuckled, stepping smoothly away from a spinning slash that might have carved through stone.
'His mana control after only two weeks is already on par with the weaker generals. Under proper guidance, he could probably rival the Gods. But first, let's see how he handles this.'
Lucy, meanwhile, was growing frustrated.
'Why is he just dodging?'
'This is Vorn Cain—he could've struck back by now. So why isn't he?'
Almost as if in response, Vorn's lips curved into a wide, knowing smile.
Lucy leapt forward, sword raised high for a crushing overhead blow. The air whistled around the blade as it came down with vicious force.
Vorn stepped to the side—no rush, no panic—and drove his fist into Lucy's gut.
It was like being hit by a mountain falling from the sky.
The breath in Lucy's lungs vanished instantly. His body folded around Vorn's knuckles as a geyser of spit burst from his mouth. His eyes bulged, the world tilting sideways from the force. It wasn't just pain—it was obliteration. His ribs felt like they'd caved in around the impact.
Time stretched. Sounds blurred.
He flew backward, body ragdolling through the air. Every fiber of his being screamed.
But instinct kicked in.
With what little control he had, Lucy summoned a current of wind and forced it through his nose and into his crushed lungs. Air returned—scalding, metallic, desperate. Still falling, he guided the wind again, commanding it to catch his body. The gust shifted beneath him, slowing his descent and easing him gently onto the obsidian.
He landed with elegance but felt anything but.
He was sure something had cracked—maybe everything. He dropped to one knee and jammed his left hand under the armor at his ribs, fingers trembling. A green glow bloomed from his palm, and pain unlike anything he'd known surged through him.
Bones grated and reknit beneath his skin. He bit back a scream, but a ragged yelp escaped anyway. His vision blurred.
Then—crack.
A blur to his right.
Before he could react, a foot slammed into his ribs from the opposite side, the force catapulting him across the blackened field like a kicked doll.
He twisted midair, wind whipping through his hair as he sailed, limbs flailing with no control. The battlefield below spun in a chaotic whirl—flashes of elemental magic, roaring flames, and rivers of blood crisscrossing the black obsidian like violent brushstrokes on a hellish canvas.
Then, before Lucy could even form a thought, another strike came.
This time it descended from above, a crushing blow that slammed into his upper back with the force of a thunderclap. It felt like a divine hammer had fallen from the sky, driving him downward with merciless speed.
He plummeted like a stone cast from the heavens, spinning uncontrollably, pain ricocheting through every joint.
Then—impact.
He smashed into the blood-soaked obsidian with an ear-splitting boom, the ground cracking beneath him. A small crater erupted around his body, smoke and dust lifting in a ring. The air burst from his lungs again, vision flashing white.
His limbs lay sprawled, his body groaning in protest.
And still, he could hear Vorn Cain's footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, echoing over the battlefield's chaos like the ticking of an executioner's clock.