Three days remained until the capital. We entered a major trading city that was crawling with guards. The atmosphere was tense—patrols on every corner, suspicious eyes everywhere.

  A luxurious gilded carriage tore down the main street, scattering the crowd. We stepped aside just in time so the hooves of the purebred horses wouldn’t trample us.

  “What’s that huge chest on wheels?” Riza whispered, peeking out from under the cloak.

  “Royal persons,” Elvindor said with reverence, straightening his collar. “The very ones who rule these lands by right of blood.”

  I snorted, watching the carriage with bored eyes. “Oh, come on, Elvindor. Royals are no different from ordinary people. They eat the same, sleep the same, and fear death the same. The fact that you raise them to the level of gods is your personal problem.”

  “Can we meet them?” Riza looked at me hopefully.

  “For kings to talk to wandering nobodies?” I smirked. “That’s rare, Riza. Very rare. Usually they prefer to look down on us from the window of their golden cage.”

  We went into the Adventurers’ Guild. I couldn’t draw attention—too many awkward questions for a child with the aura of an ancient god.

  “Elvindor, what rank are you here?” I asked, eyeing the quest board.

  “Almost the highest,” the elf answered modestly, though pride shone in his eyes.

  I scanned the board—ranks from E to S—and my gaze stopped on one sheet:

  “Eliminate a werewolf in the western forest. Rank: C. Reward: 1 gold.”

  “Whoa! A whole gold coin for one mutt?” I jabbed the notice. “We’re taking it. Elvindor, put it under your name.”

  The elf stepped closer, read it, and frowned. “Fine. I’ll take the job. But before we kill it, we should talk. Werewolves are a tragedy—not just monsters.”

  “We’ll talk if it doesn’t bite your head off first,” I agreed.

  We went deeper into the woods. The silence was unnatural—no birds, no rustle of small animals. Riza walked with her spear clenched tight.

  “What’s a werewolf?” she asked.

  “Legends say it’s a cursed human,” I replied. “When the moon rises—or when rage takes over—they turn into huge wolves. In that state they lose their minds and kill everything alive.”

  “But that doesn’t give us the right to slaughter them blindly,” Elvindor cut in. “In human form they’re still разумны—often suffering under their burden.”

  Suddenly I stopped. The air changed. Mana around us trembled, but it wasn’t demonic or human energy.

  “Elvindor—stay sharp,” I said quietly. “We’re not alone. And it’s not a wolf.”

  It wasn’t a human, not a dwarf, and definitely not a demon.

  A girl stepped out of the dense brush. She looked like an ordinary human girl—but I could feel a strange power radiating from her, something чуждое to this world.

  “Uh… hello?” I said, squinting.

  She stopped and studied us. A strange smirk played on her lips.

  “Oh… hi, Arkgrim.”

  I froze. “Do we know each other?”

  “Yes.” She stepped closer. “We met in the forest near the Academy. Forgot? Your name back then was so made-up, completely unoriginal… Oh, and you got really angry when I tried to cut you down with a sword.”

  A flash of memory sparked—that fight, that impossible speed…

  “I remember. Beatrice.”

  She smirked as she approached. Riza lifted her spear, sensing danger.

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  And then, behind me, something thudded. Elvindor dropped his wand straight into the mud. His face went deathly pale; his lips trembled.

  “Impossible…” he whispered, staring at the girl with wide eyes. “You… you’re alive?”

  The girl turned to him with a cold, questioning look.

  “Lucida…” Elvindor breathed, almost dropping to his knees.

  “Lucida?” I thought, shifting my gaze between the elf and “Beatrice.” “So this doll has more names than I have incarnations. And judging by our grandpa’s reaction… we just stepped into a story worse than any werewolf.”

  Elvindor’s voice shook as if he’d become that frightened child in the forest again.

  “Lucida… you’re alive. We heard you were окружили… your army was almost wiped out. After we defeated the Demon King, Merlin, Arthur, and I returned to the cave where you were sealed… but you weren’t there. For centuries we thought you were dead.”

  The girl went still. Her cold gaze softened for a moment. She looked at the elf more closely.

  “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.

  “Elvindor,” he answered, bowing deeply.

  “Hm. Elvindor…” She bit her lip, sorting through names in her memory. “I don’t remember you. Sorry. In those days, there were thousands behind me.”

  “When you spoke to me, I was a small child,” the elf added quickly, lifting his eyes. “I saw you on the battlefield, but I was only an ordinary soldier in the line. You gave me advice I carried for centuries.”

  “So someone still remembers me,” Lucida said with a crooked smile—one that held more bitterness than joy.

  I crossed my arms. “Okay—hold on.” I stretched the words out. “You’re not human, not demon, definitely not elf or dwarf… but you’re older than this century-old grandpa? Who are you?”

  Lucida turned to me, eyes narrowing. “And how did you know I’m not human?”

  “I can just feel it,” I shrugged. “Your mana… it smells like the sky—burnt. Old. Cold.”

  “Interesting,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze fell on Riza, who still held her spear. “And that… she’s a demon. Do you even realize what evil is walking beside you? That creature was born to destroy.”

  “We know,” I snapped, stepping in front of Riza. “She’s with me. That’s all you need to know.”

  My eyes flicked to her belt. “Your weapon…”

  She spoke, almost casually. “I can feel strength in it. And my Ice Blade… is a gift from someone dear to me. A very ancient gift.”

  I squinted. Her sword really did radiate power—like that cursed spear I’d buried.

  Then Lucida suddenly relaxed.

  “Listen, Arkgrim. There’s some stupid tension between us. Let’s just… greet each other like old acquaintances, since fate brought us together.”

  She offered her hand. For a second—forgetting every warning from the etiquette book—I reached out and took it.

  “Got you,” she exhaled the instant our palms met.

  Her grip clamped down like steel. Her other hand snatched the Ice Blade with impossible speed. Transparent steel whistled through the air, aimed straight at my neck—she meant to take my head in one strike.

  BOOOOM!

  I didn’t draw a sword. I simply released a мощный wind impulse straight from my aura. The air blast hurled Lucida ten meters back. She flipped through the air and landed gracefully, stabbing her blade into the ground to brake.

  She straightened, dusting off her shoulder. A triumphant, crazed smile blossomed across her face.

  “I knew something was wrong with you,” she said, her voice now ringing like clashing swords. “A normal child couldn’t have deflected my strike. But now I’m sure. You’re not just human.”

  She raised the Ice Blade and pointed it at my heart.

  “You’re him. The very King we tried to bury three hundred years ago. Zenhald.”

  “Well,” I muttered. “It was going so nicely. Culture, manners, flowers… and then you had to ruin it, Lucida.”

  Lucida didn’t listen. She moved like a lightning flash, leaving only a trail of freezing air behind her. Every thrust came with a deafening burst of ice—she wasn’t just fencing, she was freezing the space itself. I barely managed to dodge, feeling frost settle on my hair. She wasn’t here to negotiate. She’d come for my head.

  “You’re so damn annoying…” I hissed.

  I flicked my hand, and dozens of mana-forged spears shot toward her legs. One drove deep into her thigh. Lucida staggered—then I watched the wound close instantly, flesh regenerating in seconds. The terrifying beauty of an Archangel’s immortality.

  She lunged back in, eyes blazing with fanatic light.

  “Enough!” I barked, losing patience.

  I thrust my palm at her chest. Not fire. Not wind.

  Vibration.

  The air between us began to oscillate at a frequency that made my ears ache. I intensified the resonance, aiming it straight into her ribcage to disrupt the rhythm of her heart. Lucida swayed, her face went pale—and she dropped to her knees, clutching her chest.

  I stood over her, breathing hard.

  And then something inside me went click.

  Mira’s seal—holding back my true essence—couldn’t withstand that colossal strain.

  It simply cracked.

  The world around me instantly bled into crimson tones. My eyes, human just a second ago, flooded with red and black. Rage that had been building for centuries burst out like poison. I wasn’t controlling myself anymore—I was hatred itself.

  With a short motion of my hand, I sent Lucida flying. She slammed into a massive boulder so hard the stone spiderwebbed with cracks.

  “Destroy… destroy everything…” I growled, dropping to my knees.

  I clutched my head, feeling my skull split under the monstrous pressure of my own mana. A vortex of chaos spun around me—a black wind that stripped bark from trees and turned grass to ash. My thoughts were on fire: every sound, every rustle felt like a deadly threat.

  Elvindor tried to rush to me in horror. “Zenhald! Stop! You—”

  “Back!” Riza shouted, throwing herself in front of him. “Don’t go near him, idiot! If you touch that wind, there won’t even be dust left of you!”

  Riza understood what was happening. Right now I wasn’t her teacher.

  Right now I was the Demon King—the one who three hundred years ago nearly turned this world into a scorched пустыня.

  I sat at the center of that black tornado, nails dug into the earth. My consciousness was drowning in an ocean of fury. Any living thing nearby looked like a target to erase from existence.

  The darkness inside me demanded an exit