Cassian felt powerful.
No.
Not just powerful.
Invincible.
It was the first time—the very first time since she had become an elf—that she had this much mana.
Usually, when she absorbed ambient mana from the air, the changes happened slowly. Gradually. Like filling a bucket drop by drop.
But now?
After completely draining the Dungeon Core—absorbing every single fragment down to the last grain of crystalline dust—she could truly feel the before-and-after.
It was like comparing a candle to a bonfire.
She hadn’t even touched the mana stones embedded in the dungeon walls yet. The ones she planned to collect tomorrow.
If I gained this much from a dungeon less than a week old…
She tried to imagine.
How much would I gain from an older dungeon? A month? A year? A decade?
Her mind refused to process the scale.
Hundreds of times more? Thousands?
Currently, she felt like she could unleash her magic without draining herself prematurely.
I could fight without holding back now.
She smiled into the darkness, standing in the night sky.
Let’s test it.
She raised her hand.
A multitude of ice lances appeared behind her.
They floated in the air like a deadly constellation, each as long as her arm, razor-sharp, perfectly balanced.
Cassian froze mentally.
I created a hundred.
And I’ve barely… barely touched my mana.
Barely.
“Incredible,” she murmured.
The mosquito—still hovering about ten meters away, watching—seemed to sense the danger.
It began to move, dodging even before Cassian attacked.
Cassian smiled cruelly.
“Too late to run.”
The lances launched.
Not all at once.
In waves. Irregular. Unpredictable.
One lance. Then three. Then a single one. Then seven at once.
No rhythm. No pattern.
The mosquito flew at full speed, its wings blurring from the sheer velocity.
The lances grazed it with terrifying precision—a few centimeters. Sometimes mere millimeters.
But it dodged.
Every. Single. Fucking. Lance.
Cassian’s smile slowly faded.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
It was supposed to be impaled in the first few seconds.
With no chance to react.
How…?
She observed more closely, analyzing every movement.
Its trajectories. Its reactions. Its timing.
My aim is perfect. I’m making no mistakes.
The lances were going exactly where she wanted.
So why isn’t it dying?
Below, the ground was gradually being covered in planted lances.
They embedded themselves in the grass, in the earth, creating a forest of ice that gleamed under the starlight.
Cassian hadn’t moved from her initial position.
She maintained an enigmatic, almost statuesque pose, the wind blowing through her long blonde hair that floated behind her like a banner.
Her eyes never left the mosquito.
It was flying at full speed now, tracing spirals, zigzags, impossible loops amid the projectiles.
It’s really fast.
Faster than she had anticipated.
But the constant buzzing of its wings—that deep, vibrating sound—and the clarity of the night allowed Cassian to track it perfectly with her eyes.
The mosquito was getting closer.
Slowly. Very slowly.
Maintaining a safe distance—never closer than seven meters.
But advancing nonetheless.
The closer it got to Cassian, the more lances it had to dodge simultaneously.
Cassian narrowed her eyes, focused.
That was when she noticed.
A faint vapor trail escaping from the mosquito’s body.
Almost invisible. Like transparent smoke.
What is that?
She looked around.
Her eyes widened.
It’s everywhere.
The vapor—or mist, or whatever it was—floated in the air around her.
Spreading slowly. Silently.
Since when…?
She tried to remember.
Since the beginning of the fight? Or just now?
Her head felt… strange.
Not painful. Not uncomfortable.
Just… heavy.
---
Dawn was breaking on the horizon, painting the sky in pale roses and golds.
The delivery man approached the manor on horseback, nervously tugging at his collar.
He was wearing his best clothes today.
A freshly washed white shirt—he’d had his sister wash it specially last night.
A burgundy vest he normally saved for festivals.
Dark trousers without a single stain.
And his cleanest boots, polished until they shone.
“Okay,” he murmured out loud, repeating the lines he had prepared all night. “Good morning, beautiful lady. I thought about you all night and… no, too direct.”
He shook his head.
“Your smile lights up my days like… shit, that sounds stupid.”
He tried again.
“I was wondering if you might like to… NO. Too hesitant. Be confident.”
He straightened in the saddle.
“Beautiful lady, would you accept… fuck, I sound like a stuck-up person.”
His horse snorted, as if expressing disagreement with all these options.
“Shut up, you. You’re not helping.”
He was approaching the barrier now.
Then he stopped dead, pulling on the reins.
“What the hell is all this…?”
Ice lances.
Everywhere.
Planted in the ground like a deadly forest.
Some as tall as he was. Others smaller. But all perfectly formed, gleaming faintly in the dawn light.
“What happened here?!”
His gaze frantically swept the terrain.
Then he saw her.
Cassian.
Lying motionless on the grass, between the lances.
His heart stopped.
He dismounted so quickly he nearly fell.
He ran through the gate, dodging the ice lances.
“MADEMOISELLE!”
He knelt beside her, shaking her gently.
“Mademoiselle, wake up! Please!”
No response.
He shook harder.
“MADEMOISELLE!”
Cassian felt someone shaking her.
Annoying.
Let me sleep.
The shaking continued.
What the fuck is…
She snapped her eyes open.
Daylight blinded her momentarily.
She blinked several times, disoriented.
It’s not night anymore.
She looked around frantically.
The sky. The grass. The ice lances planted everywhere.
No mosquito.
Where…?
Her last memories surfaced.
The mosquito approaching. The vapor. Her head growing heavy.
Then… nothing.
I fell asleep.
The mosquito forced me to sleep.
The realization hit her like a slap.
She would never—never—have thought it would happen this way.
“Mademoiselle!” The delivery man was leaning over her, panicked. “Are you okay?! What happened here?!”
Cassian sat up abruptly, pushing him away.
“Nothing happened.”
“But…”
“NOTHING.”
She stood, swaying slightly.
Her body was numb. Her limbs heavy.
How long was I out?
Cassian walked stiffly toward the manor.
Her clenched fists trembled.
Not from fatigue.
From rage.
She reached the door. Opened it.
Turned one last time toward the delivery man.
“And stop coming here every day. It’s annoying.”
SLAM.
She slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.
Inside, in the darkness of the hall, she leaned against the wood.
Breathing heavily.
That mosquito.
It’s too vicious.
---
County of Torbernus.
The private audience chamber of Count Fergus was plunged into semi-darkness, thick curtains blocking the daylight.
Only a few candles burned weakly.
The count was slumped in a wide carved armchair—solid oak with lion-head armrests.
Two courtesans sat elegantly on his thighs.
Glenna on the left—black hair, green eyes, red silk dress that generously revealed her cleavage.
Edna on the right—auburn hair, brown eyes, equally provocative green silk dress.
Glenna poured wine into a goblet the count held loosely.
The liquid overflowed slightly, staining his fingers.
He didn’t seem to notice.
The count’s clothes were rumpled—his shirt untucked, collar open revealing a hairy chest and the beginning of a belly.
His graying hair was disheveled.
He was motionless. Silent.
Staring at his sons as one might stare at two dirty dogs that had dared enter the house.
The sons were kneeling on the other side of a wide oak table.
The table was covered in empty, overturned bottles. Dried wine stained the precious wood.
The silence stretched.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Finally, Glenna spoke, her voice soft but sharp as broken glass.
“You must surely know why you were summoned.”
No response.
Edna took over, idly stroking the count.
“Our dear count is very disappointed to learn that you lost to a stranger.”
She let the word disappointed linger, laden with contempt.
“A simple stranger,” Glenna added. “No title. No name. No known family.”
“And yet…” Edna smiled cruelly. “You lost. Both of you.”
She leaned slightly forward, staring at the elder.
“Willas, my dear. One defeat was already serious. Embarrassing, even.”
“But two?” Glenna laughed softly. “Two defeats against the same opponent?”
“That’s beyond embarrassing,” Edna continued.
Willas clenched his teeth but didn’t raise his eyes.
Glenna patted the count’s chin as if he were a child.
“Your role, Willas, was to fix your younger brother’s mistake. To erase the shame Hector had brought upon the family.”
“Instead,” Edna sighed theatrically, “you lost. And brought even more dishonor.”
The count took a sip of wine. Slowly. Without expression.
“It’s currently the biggest laughingstock in the entire county,” Glenna said. “Did you know that, Willas?”
“The merchants talk about it,” Edna added. “The peasants laugh. Even our rival nobles mock openly.”
“And do you know what’s even worse?” Glenna tilted her head. “You dared to lose in public.”
“In the public square,” Edna spat with disgust. “In front of everyone. Hundreds of witnesses.”
“Apparently,” Glenna smiled, “you didn’t even manage to land a single blow on your opponent. Not one.”
“He dominated you from start to finish like a master reprimands a disobedient dog.”
Willas was trembling now. From rage or shame, hard to tell.
The count set his goblet on the armrest.
Still silent.
Edna stroked his hair.
“Fergus,” she used his first name directly, without title, “wishes to find this stranger.”
“To understand,” Glenna continued, “who dares humiliate his family without consequences.”
They both turned toward the sons.
Their gazes were cold.
“So,” Edna said simply. “What is this stranger’s name?”
Hector’s hands were clammy.
“We…” His voice was weak. Hesitant. “We don’t know.”
