The moment Sarusos vanished in a blur of smoke and lethal intent, Narsiz grimaced as he assessed the tactical nightmare unfolding before him. ‘Such circumstances demand creative solutions.’ While his companions charged toward the colossal divine beast with characteristic recklessness, he deliberately chose the opposite direction, moving with calculated precision away from the main confrontation. ‘Though I don’t particularly favor my odds against these things either.’

  Arrayed before him in a predatory half-circle, dozens of smaller monstrosities prowled with restless hunger. Each creature stood roughly two meters (6.5 ft) but possessed the unsettling quality of living stone—their skin appeared to be carved from granite and obsidian, with veins of tarnished metal.

  “How delightful,” Narsiz murmured, voice laced with dry sarcasm as he watched the creatures halt their advance. Razor claws froze mid-scrape against the cavern floor, a grating sound that echoed into silence. Dozens of eyeless heads turned toward him in eerie unison, as if responding to a single thought. The air pulsed with a familiar, unwelcome [Aura]—holy, righteous, soothing. It made his skin crawl. A deep, primal hatred surged in his gut, unbidden and instinctive. He didn’t know whether it was personal or inherited, only that every part of him wanted to tear them apart.

  The monsters circled him in a loose crescent, their bodies looming two meters tall on average—some larger, others smaller. They looked like statues brought to life: flesh that mimicked granite and obsidian, with veins of dull metal running beneath the surface. Crystalline fangs lined their jagged maws, glinting under the faint light as they clicked together in a rhythmic, percussive warning.

  Narsiz’s senses categorized them quickly—Tier 2 to 3, judging by the pressure of their [Energy]. They radiated the same counterfeit sanctity he’d imagined while reading historical records. Righteous monsters. False emissaries. He cracked his knuckles. That made it easier.

  Narsiz flinched as a hand touched his shoulder—light, but unexpected. He turned to see Mathilda already striding past him, casual as ever, as if the encircling monstrosities were little more than a training drill.

  “Time to slice some monsters up, eh?” she said with a grin, drawing her bastard sword in one smooth motion. The blade sang as it left the scabbard, catching the cold gleam of Narsiz’s floating orbs. Without fanfare, she drove the tip into the cracked stone floor. “But first, I can’t have anything restricting me.”

  Mathilda placed one hand over her chest, fingers brushing the edge of something hidden beneath her half-plate. A faint crackle of lightning-like energy pulsed under her armor—brief, sharp, then gone. Narsiz’s eyes narrowed slightly. He recognized that reaction.

  Modified limiter seals.

  Unlike the original slave tattoos their Guard Households used, these weren’t meant for control. They suppressed growth—blocking [Experience] gain and [Level] increases—forcing to sharpen skills without relying on progression. Efficiency over power. Brutality through refinement. And judging by the ripple in her [Aura], hers had just lifted.

  The moment the seal released, Mathilda’s entire presence shifted—like a dam breaking under pressure. Power surged through her body, rippling beneath her uniform as her frame expanded subtly, muscle and tension coiling in perfect sync. Her exhale came out like a hiss of steam, thick with concentrated miasma—as if years of suppressed strength and brutal training were bleeding out all at once.

  Scarlet-red ears twitched, flaring slightly, while her long tail snapped upward like a whip, the fur bristling with raw, coiled tension. Her emerald green eyes lit up with unnatural clarity—still bright, still playful, but now carrying the edge of something feral. Not madness, but the joy of violence refined into instinct. Her grin widened—not gone, just transformed—cheerful in the way a predator might smile before the first strike.

  “Handle the back lines.” Mathilda hefted the bastard sword with newfound ease, slowly coating the blade with an [Energy] that writhed and twisted like plates being welded into position. This was no refined technique—the Cold-Snout household’s [Wild Demonic Energy] was raw, vicious, and utterly destructive in its simplicity.

  Narsiz reached into the folds of his coat, retrieving a fan of slender throwing knives in one smooth, practiced motion. As they left his grip, tendrils of black ink surged from his fingertips, coiling around each blade like living threads. The ink shimmered with latent mana, bonding to the metal and triggering complex enchantments etched beneath the surface—burst, piercers, breakers—all whispering to life.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Understood,” he murmured.

  The knives rose into the air, orbiting him like silent, eager sentinels. No wasted movement, no theatrics—just tools, honed and lethal. The surrounding air began to hum, vibrating faintly with the weight of compressed spells. Narsiz’s gaze swept the enemy line, calm and analytical, already marking trajectories, weak points, and priorities.

  A shadow moved beside him.

  “Heave,” Mathilda dropped into her combat stance, the massive blade gleaming with condensed scarlet [Energy] that seemed to devour the little surrounding light. “Ho!”

  With explosive force, she activated the same propulsion spell Alexander had perfected—mana wrapping around her feet in tight spirals before detonating. The blast whirled dirt and debris in all directions as she vanished in a streak of motion, hurtling toward the nearest cluster of enemies with obvious glee.

  “Muhahaha!” Her ‘battle cry’ echoed through the chamber as Narsiz watched her glide across the battlefield, employing a grease spell to eliminate all friction beneath her feet. She carved through the first monsters with devastating efficiency, their stone bodies offering no meaningful resistance to her enhanced blade. Each creature fell before the previous one had time to collapse, creating a cascade of destruction that left obsidian shards scattered across the chamber floor.

  Narsiz had almost forgotten how impressive Mathilda really was. The Cold-Snout sword style wasn’t elegant—no flourishes, no flair. Just clean, overwhelming intent in every motion.

  Each swing of her blade cut not just through enemies, but through the air itself. Delayed shockwaves followed behind—like second blades, precise and unrelenting, finishing what the first had started. Trails of [Wild Demonic Energy] danced in her wake, snapping and flickering like dark fire, devouring everything they brushed.

  Before Narsiz could even step forward, Mathilda unleashed a wide horizontal sweep. The arc of her oversized blade cleaved clean through a dozen enemies—stone bodies splitting in perfect silence before erupting into shards. A wave of raw [Energy] followed behind the strike, racing outward in a crimson ripple, vaporizing stragglers without hesitation.

  “Careful,” Narsiz muttered, ducking beneath the wave as it screamed past overhead. His tone was dry, unconcerned—but his eyes lingered on the damage.

  Had he really been concerned before? In hindsight, Narsiz wasn’t sure why. Even the so-called average ones of their generation had a way of casually bending the rules of battle, as if that was simply how things worked.

  And he—someone who always considered himself behind—could feel the truth circling him in the form of his knives. Each one pulsed with restrained power, vibrating like coiled tension just waiting to be unleashed. Maybe he wasn’t ready. But he wasn’t out of place either.

  Just ahead, Mathilda was already deep in her chaos and very much ready.

  With a grunt of amusement, Mathilda hurled her massive sword across the field in a wide, spiraling arc. The blade spun end over end, a blur of steel and [Wild Demonic Energy], slicing clean through the enemy back-line like a scythe through wheat. Limbs, heads, and stone flesh fell in its wake as it carved its way through the air, never slowing.

  While it flew, she got to work.

  She stomped—small stone pillars erupted beneath two nearby creatures, launching them upward like startled prey. She followed instantly, leaping high, grabbing both mid-air by their skulls, then slammed them together with a burst of propulsion spells from her palms.

  CRACK

  The impact rang through the cavern like a drumbeat of finality as the two monsters crumpled midair, stone skulls shattered. Mathilda landed between their broken forms in a low crouch, then rose in one fluid motion—chest out, shoulders back, every inch of her radiating smug satisfaction.

  She winked at Narsiz, arms spread wide like a performer soaking in applause.

  With exaggerated flair, she turned slightly and extended one hand behind her, palm open.

  Her sword came screaming back through the air.

  It did not arrive as planned.

  The sword came whistling in from the wrong direction—blade spinning tight and fast—missing her by a wide margin and heading straight for Narsiz’s face.

  He caught it with a grunt, the flat of the oversized weapon slapping into his palm with enough force to make his bones protest.

  “So much for being ready,” he muttered, flexing his hand with a pained wince. A faint glow of [Energy] pulsed along his fingers as he healed the worst of it. Then, without ceremony, he hurled the weapon back toward Mathilda.

  It landed point-down at her feet with a solid thunk.

  Mathilda blinked. Her ears twitched. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she glanced at Narsiz with a sheepish smile. “Oops.”

  She gave a half-bow, one hand rubbing the back of her neck, clearly apologetic—but only for a moment. Then, grinning again, she snatched up her sword and charged back into the fray with a gleeful howl, only now more careful.

  Narsiz activated his [Mana Sense], scanning for targets deeper in the crowd. He stood ready to support—less out of necessity and more out of the growing concern that Mathilda might actually get herself killed through sheer enthusiasm before the monsters ever got the chance.

  Then something tugged at the edge of his senses.

  He frowned. Beneath the layered energy signatures and echoing spells, there was a distinct flicker just underfoot—something solid, structured. Curious, he scraped aside the rubble with his boot, revealing the splintered edge of a wooden crate half-buried in the stone. One sharp kick shattered the already weakened frame.

  Inside was treasure—of the sort that made his expression shift from mild interest to genuine, focused satisfaction.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a proper treasure.’ Without hesitation, he reached into the broken crate and began extracting its contents, his gaze already scanning the chamber for additional hidden caches. ‘I wonder, I wonder…’