The sea had been calm for most of the journey, which suited Justus fine.
He sat alone at the bow of his small ship, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword as he watched the coastline draw near.
Three months had passed since he left Dragon Island.
In that short time, he had seen more of the world than he had in eighteen years under Dragon’s protection.
He had seen sprawling kingdoms where Guardians were revered as gods, and others where they were utterly despised.
And then there were places like this—where the Guardians never set foot at all.
Eldermere.
Even from a distance, dark plumes of heavy smoke were visible rising above the shoreline.
“Well,” Justus muttered, narrowing his eyes at the hazy coast.
“This place is a dump.”
As his ship pulled into the quiet harbor, he noticed the total absence of life.
There were no merchants shouting prices, no fishermen mending nets, and no children playing along the piers.
Stepping off onto the wooden dock, the first thing that hit him was the heavy smell of burning wood.
The second was the layer of dark ash coating the cobblestones.
Justus kneeled down, rubbing the fine gray ash between his fingers.
“What the hell happened here?
An attack?”
He walked toward the village entrance.
Several buildings were reduced to blackened cinders, while others sat completely abandoned.
Hanging crookedly above the entrance arch was a scorched wooden sign: ELDERMERE.
Beneath the name, a crude symbol had been freshly carved into the wood—a jagged flame encircled by a ring.
Justus paused, staring at the mark.
“That’s new.”
“You should leave.”
The raspy voice came from behind him.
Justus turned to see an old man standing a few meters away.
His clothes were ragged and torn, and a deep, dark bruise covered one side of his face.
“Why?” Justus asked.
The old man cast a fearful glance toward the ruined village.
“Outsiders aren’t welcome here.”
Justus glanced around at the smashed windows and burned beams.
“Looks like nobody is welcome here.”
“Not anymore,” the old man murmured, lowering his eyes.
He hesitated before adding in a whisper, “His men will come soon.”
“Whose men?”
The old man stared at Justus as if he were looking at a ghost.
“Ragnar.”
Justus recognized the name instantly.
Ragnar Veil—a ruthless Elemental tyrant with a massive bounty of one hundred million Gold Crowns, famous for conquering and pillaging smaller settlements across the western territories.
“Ragnar Veil?” Justus clarified.
The old man nodded gravely.
“He’s taken everything.”
“Why don’t the Guardians step in and stop him?”
The old man let out a bitter, dry laugh.
“You think they care about us?
They don’t waste their time on small villages like Eldermere.”
“Isn’t it their job to keep the peace?”
“You talk like a naive child!” the old man snapped softly.
“They only protect towns that line their pockets with taxes.
Small-folk like us are left to rot.”
Justus’ face remained utterly calm.
“How did it all begin?”
“It doesn’t matter, kid.
Just turn around and leave if you want to keep breathing.”
“Interesting,” Justus murmured.
He stepped past the old man, walking straight toward the heart of the village.
“Where is he?”
The old man panicked, grabbing Justus’ arm.
“You don’t understand!”
Justus stopped and looked down at the old man’s hand.
The sheer weight of his cold crimson gaze made the old man instantly release his grip, stumbling back in surprise.
“Ragnar isn’t the only monster here…” the old man stammered, his voice trembling.
“His right hand is here too…
Daemon Ironside.”
CLANG!
CLANG!
The sharp, echoing ring of steel striking stone vibrated through the narrow alleyways.
Following the sound, Justus emerged into a large open courtyard surrounded by broken, crumbling houses.
At the far end stood a pristine, fancy establishment—the only structure in the entire village that hadn’t been torched.
Standing in the middle of the courtyard was a giant of a man.
He was enormous, built like a brick fortress rather than a human being.
He had spiky, messy hair, and dark scars covered his thick forearms.
He wore a sleeveless coat over heavy trousers, exposing broad shoulders that looked dense as iron.
Surrounding him were six armed men.
Simultaneously, they lunged at the giant, swinging their blades with full force.
The giant didn’t even bother to dodge.
CLANG!
The first blade struck his bare chest—and shattered into pieces.
CLANG!
The second blade struck his shoulder—and snapped clean at the hilt.
“Why are you idiots so weak?” Daemon sighed in disappointment.
“Again!”
The remaining attackers exchanged terrified glances, but charged anyway.
Daemon raised a single hand.
A transparent, shimmering barrier materialized around his body, deflecting their strikes effortlessly.
Grabbing one attacker by the collar, Daemon swung him like a ragdoll and hurled him into the other five, sending them crashing into a heap against the stone wall.
“You’re all just a waste of time,” Daemon grunted, turning to walk away.
His eyes met Justus standing at the edge of the square.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them.
Daemon’s eyes drifted down to the sword strapped at Justus’ hip.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Daemon asked.
“No.
Is that a problem?” Justus replied evenly.
“Yes.
You should leave.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that.”
Daemon began walking slowly toward him.
“Because everyone here knows what’s good for them.
You should listen.”
“Why?”
“Because this village belongs to Ragnar.”
Justus looked around at the burning ruins.
“Does it?”
Daemon’s expression hardened into stone.
“Careful, kid.”
“Are you Ragnar?” Justus asked.
“No.”
“Then why are you speaking for him?”
“I’m his subordinate,” Daemon said coldly.
“He’s my Captain.”
Justus studied the big man carefully.
“You don’t look like someone who enjoys doing this.”
A subtle flicker passed through Daemon’s eyes—a momentary shadow of regret—before it vanished behind a cold wall of indifference.
“You don’t know me, kid.”
“No,” Justus said, walking past him toward the village center.
“But I’m beginning to.”
Daemon’s hands clenched into massive fists.
“Don’t involve yourself.”
“I think it’s a little too late for that,” Justus smirked over his shoulder.
“Besides, I already beat up four of your guys on my way through the docks.
So I’m already his enemy.”
That Night.
Justus sat soaking in a secluded natural hot spring up in the mountains, a short distance from the village.
His steel sword rested nearby against a rock as he leaned back, enjoying the warmth.
Ahhh, now this is living, Justus thought blissfully.
Nothing beats a hot bath—
SWOOSH!
A thrown dagger sliced through the air straight for his forehead.
Without opening his eyes, Justus casually tilted his head to the side, letting the blade embed itself deep into the wooden post behind him.
Justus opened one eye, looking thoroughly annoyed.
“Seriously, guys?
Do you really like trying to kill people while they’re naked?”
He stood up, grabbing his sword.
From the dark treeline, a masked assassin draped in black burst forward, swinging a sharp curved blade toward his throat!
Justus casually stepped to the side, drew his sword in one fluid motion, and sliced the assassin clean in two.
Thud.
Before the body hit the ground, three more knives zipped through the dark air.
Justus parried them away with lightning-fast flicks of his wrist.
Hearing rustling behind him, he spun around—another assassin had dropped from the canopy, lunging low to gut him.
Justus jumped backward, evading the blade, caught one of the thrown daggers out of mid-air, and drove it straight into the assassin’s skull.
Justus landed lightly on his feet, gazing into the shadowy forest.
Two down.
One to go.
“It seems we underestimated you,” a disembodied voice echoed from the trees.
Justus rested his sword over his shoulder.
“Why?
Did you think I wouldn’t kill you?
Sorry, but when people try to murder me, I prefer not dying in my birthday suit.”
“You’re strong,” the voice hissed from the dark.
“But you will die all the same.”
“Did that Ragnar guy send you?” Justus asked with a smirk.
“Why do you care?!”
The voice shifted rapidly from left to right as the hidden assassin showered the clearing with daggers to create a visual distraction.
Suddenly, the assassin burst out from the shadow directly beneath Justus’ feet.
“Got you now!”
His blade cut clean through Justus’ body—but there was no blood.
Justus’ image shattered like a displaced shadow.
“What?!”
“If I lost to idiots like you, I’d kill myself,” Justus’ voice echoed from directly above.
The assassin looked up in terror just as Justus plunged his sword straight down through his spine, piercing his heart and bursting out the front of his chest.
The assassin coughed up a mouthful of blood, his eyes wide.
“How…
did you…
do that…?
I thought…
I got you…”
“You thought wrong,” Justus said coldly, ripping his blade free and decapitating the assassin in a single swift motion.
The Next Evening.
Justus walked into the village square to find dozens of terrified villagers gathered under armed guard.
At the center of the square sat a massive wooden table piled high with fresh meat, bread, and crops.
“What’s happening?” Justus asked a young woman standing near the edge of the crowd.
“Ragnar’s men…” she whispered, trembling.
“They take food from every single house.”
“For what?”
“For themselves,” she sobbed.
Justus’ face went entirely flat.
“Then take it back.”
The woman stared at him as if he were insane.
“Are you out of your mind?!”
“No,” Justus said simply.
“Just practical.”
He stepped out of the crowd and walked straight toward the wooden table.
One of Ragnar’s bandits spotted him instantly.
“Hey!” the bandit barked, stepping into his path.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Justus.”
“Justus what?”
“Justus Xavier Tempest.”
The bandit’s sneer froze.
He looked closer at Justus’ face, then burst into boisterous, howling laughter.
“Tempest?!
You mean that stupid newbie with the eighty-million bounty that everyone’s talking about?”
The rest of the bandits joined in, laughing hysterically.
Justus watched them quietly for a moment—and then suddenly started laughing right along with them.
The bandits’ laughter abruptly died down.
They stared at him, confused and irritated.
“Are you trying to mock us, kid?”
They drew their swords and axes.
Justus’ laughter vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, deadly glare.
“So, you’ve pulled out your weapons.”
“Yeah!
And you’re gonna die for making a fool out of me!” Bandit 1 roared, lunging forward with a downward slash.
Justus didn’t even draw his sword.
He ducked under the blade and delivered a brutal punch straight to the bandit’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.
A second bandit tried to sneak up from behind with a dagger, but Justus grabbed him by the throat and swung him around, using his body as a human shield to block a flying knife from a third attacker.
Driving his heel into the second bandit’s chest, Justus sent him flying into a wooden stall.
A third bandit pulled a flintlock pistol and fired—
BANG!
The lead bullet grazed Justus’ shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.
Without breaking stride, Justus scooped a fallen sword off the ground and hurled it like a spear.
The blade impaled the gunman through the chest, pinning him tightly against a wooden post.
Seeing three of their men wiped out in seconds, the remaining bandits backed away in sheer terror.
“What the hell is wrong with this guy?!”
“He’s crazy!”
“I’m getting out of here, man!”
Before they could turn and flee, a violent, deep rumble shook the earth beneath their feet.
CRACK!
The cobblestones split open.
Fissures of glowing, molten lava swallowed the fleeing bandits whole as their screams were silenced by intense heat.
Daemon, standing near the fancy building, looked toward the eastern road, his expression darkening.
“He’s here.”
A single figure strode casually through the billowing clouds of smoke.
Ragnar Veil.
He wore a long, flowing coat that billowed in the intense heat radiating from his skin.
Bright, glowing orange veins of magma pulsed beneath the skin of his arms.
His piercing eyes locked straight onto Justus.
“So,” Ragnar chuckled darkly.
“You’re the little Tempest causing trouble in my territory.”
Justus turned to face him.
“Your territory?”
“Yes,” Ragnar smirked, spreading his arms.
“Everything you see.”
He raised his hand—and the ground behind him violently erupted.
BOOM!
A towering pillar of molten rock tore through the earth, spraying sparks across the sky.
The villagers screamed in horror, covering their heads.
Justus didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even step back.
Ragnar’s smile widened sadistically.
He took a heavy step forward.
“Now tell me, kid…
Why shouldn’t I kill you right where you stand?”
Justus placed his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.
“Because I’m not planning to die here.”
Ragnar threw his head back and laughed.
“You think that matters?!”
The air around them began to shimmer with suffocating heat.
Before the tension could snap, Daemon suddenly stepped into the space between them.
“Ragnar,” Daemon said quietly.
Ragnar glanced sideways at his second-in-command.
“What?”
“He’s still a kid.”
“Then it should be quick,” Ragnar replied callously.
Daemon turned to Justus, his gaze heavy.
“Leave.
You will die here.”
“No,” Justus answered without hesitation.
“You don’t understand what you’re standing against,” Daemon pressed, his voice strained.
Justus looked past Daemon’s massive shoulder, locking eyes directly with Ragnar.
“Then I’ll find out.”
Ragnar’s grin twitched with annoyance.
“Daemon.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Break him.”
Daemon closed his eyes for a quiet moment.
When he opened them, his spiritual pressure exploded outward with terrifying force.
The ground cracked beneath his boots.
His muscles bulged and tightened, expanding his frame as his skin transformed into a dense, dark metallic hue, taking on the literal properties of solid iron.
The surrounding villagers scrambled back in absolute horror.
“Mystic Art: Iron Body,” Daemon announced softly.