IRE 65

Sir Zeros Althuras.
Barbarian Bellic.
Werewolf Pruk Mart.
Dwarf Thorf Allen.
Orc Karach Kergas.

They were all the names of the characters he had played — the five who had reached the game’s ending.

Names that had been recorded in the Hall of Fame, glorious names that had repeatedly illuminated his achievements.

Those names spread out before him now.

Without knowing what it meant, Eldmir reached a finger toward the werewolf’s name: Pruk Mart.

The instant his finger reached the name.

[You have selected Werewolf (Pruk Mart).]
[The selected avatar’s power will temporarily become your power and assist you.]
[Enjoy the moment of reveling in the glory of the achievement you have taken on. Though temporary, Pruk Mart’s power will be yours, and the feats he accomplished will lie at your feet to illuminate you.]

As the alert vanished, the pressure that had been crushing the ground around them instantly ebbed away.

The oppressive presence that had been unconstrainedly radiating from him a moment earlier disappeared as if washed clean.

With the subsiding tremor came sudden stillness.

In that quiet, Erkes — his face still twisted with the shudder of fear — looked at Eldmir as if he were a monster.

The overwhelming surge that had seemed to embody raw power had abruptly gone.

Did that mean the power itself was gone? Erkes would shake his head.

‘He contained the force. The one who had been only erupting it without knowing how to control it just now has now made that power completely his own.’

His vigilance shot to its limit.

Though he wished he could pierce that being’s heart again with his utmost secret technique—the Flying Arrow—he could not use such power casually.

His hand trembled from the skill’s recoil, so he had to take hold of his arrow carefully.

‘What on earth is happening…? A guy whose heart was pierced — what power could he still have…? Wait—’

His eyes widened like lamps.

Until a moment ago the heart had been dying; flames had been burning it like a final convulsive roar, an act of desperately gathering waning life.

In that state one could perhaps delay death but could never be revived. And yet, how?

‘The heart is recovering.’

Impossible.

Even trolls, famed for their regenerative ability, would not escape death if their heart was pierced — they might last days, but would still die. Even great dragons, even a high bloodline like himself: a pierced heart meant death.

And yet, how? By what arrangement—

“Is the heart being kept alive?”

Fenrir’s blessing.

The werewolf deity Fenrir had once personally bestowed a blessing on him. He had fought alone against the allied forces of two races that invaded his forest, survived despite having his heart pierced, and in that state had continued to fight and eventually wiped out an army of a thousand. The legion of one.

Fenrir, captivated by that courage, had granted him a blessing that could miraculously restore a damaged heart.

“…….”

Eldmir lifted his hand and looked.

It did not have the fearsome sharp claws one might expect of a werewolf.

Still, there was an unprecedented power different from before — a searing, overwhelming presence he could feel.

He gripped his hands as if they would burst from containing the force.

A wolf of legend.

A lone wolf who walked the forest with an aloof dignity, who considered the continent’s finest hunters mere prey and ruled all wolves under his command.

He had once fought and defeated a thousand soldiers single-handedly, summoned terror in demons’ hearts, and made his name a synonym for fear across the continent.

But the most dominant feat and name that came to the continent’s mind when they thought of him was:

Dragon Slayer.
Moon Wolf.

If there were a being who peered down upon the world beneath moonlight, it could only be him.

There had been a creature in this world that made men fear even to speak a wolf’s name.

Do not make a sound under moonlight.
Do not walk under moonlight.
If you wish to remain alive under the moonlight,
hold your breath, shut your ears, avert your eyes, and turn your back on the world.
If you do not, you will meet the Moon Wolf.

Beast of the Moon.

The secret art of the Flying Transmission.
War Cry.

Kwaaaauuuuuu!

The wolf’s rage rang through the heart of the elves’ forest.

The howl of a wounded beast—the Moon Wolf—shook the area.

A moonlit wolf whose fangs had ended the life of the continent’s last dragon now let out a fierce cry.

The terror that had once conquered the continent and ended the era with its own hands manifested here.

“…….”

Erkes trembled in fear.

This was no longer a mere forest’s trial.

By instinct he realized the monster before him was not something he could beat.

“What in the world are you!!”

He had lived twelve hundred years.

As a high bloodline, he had been stronger than most, honing his strength through outstanding talent.

Even among the elves, this forest, and their people, few matched his power — he had trained himself relentlessly.

Yet facing a single being now he felt his life threatened.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Twelve hundred years.

A lifetime he had lived, training more than enough that he thought it left him no lack.

“You brat! Barely out of youth!”

All that time, the meaning of those long years, crumbled before someone barely in his twenties.

As if he could not accept that, he burst out.

He drew his bowstring, launched an arrow with a violent motion.

High Sentinel.
Skill.
Fierce Arrow.

An arrow imbued with terrifying power tore the air and flew toward Eldmir.

“…Is that it?”

The arrow was caught, absurdly, in his hand.

The tremendous power kept rotating and flaring even while trapped in his grip, but that was all.

The arrow, which spun so fast it caused friction that steamed from his palm, soon stopped moving completely.

Still, the power within Fierce Arrow had been enormous. Though it could not break his hand, the astonishing regenerative power that had even restored a heart quickly mended his damaged grip.

“Well, just one arrow and only one hand. That’s reasonable enough.”

He watched his hands recover.

The wrecked form soon returned almost to normal.

He knew the folly of what he had just done, but if he had been able to fully use the Moon Wolf’s power that he remembered in his mind, he would have captured Erkes without a single wound.

‘So this is what it means to be unable to use the ability fully?’

Erkes, whose skill had been so futilely blocked, began to tremble all over.

“You, you monster!”

At that shout Eldmir’s gaze shifted to Erkes.

His look toward Erkes was stained a bloody red.

Erkes stiffened beneath the Moon Wolf’s stare.

Eldmir snickered, then lightly stamped the ground.

Moon Wolf.
Unique Art.
Ambush.

At the instant the skill manifested, Eldmir vanished from view.

Not only Erkes but all who had been observing the duel lost sight of his figure.

When he reappeared….

Wham!

“Kraak!”

Like being struck by a blunt instrument’s blow, Erkes was sent flying.

He, one of the three elders of El Rel and one of the more powerful high bloodlines, let out a disgraceful scream as he flew.

He hit a tree and collapsed to the ground.

Eldmir, who had punched him, remained standing where he had extended his fist from where Erkes had flown.

After catching his breath for a moment, he wiped the blood streaming from his mouth with his hand.

“…Is that the recoil of power?”

Eldmir’s frail body could not fully contain the power of Pruk Mart, the Moon Wolf — a manifestation of Fenrir — so he felt the backlash.

Even though he had only used one skill and a single punch, his joints ached and protested.

It seemed like a warning not to overuse overwhelming power.

“Right. After all, I’m not a werewolf. I’m an elf.”

At that moment a crooked smile twisted Eldmir’s mouth.

It wasn’t his own will’s smile, but the sarcasm colored by Pruk Mart the werewolf.

Realizing that, he sterned his expression.

Memory returned piece by piece.

Pruk Mart’s experiences, his battle memories, stacked neatly in Eldmir’s mind as if teaching him how to handle such fierce power.

But…

‘I am not Pruk Mart. I am Eldmir Arhiteaj.’

Feeling the vicious energy warm around his fist, Eldmir spread his palms and shook them free.

He clenched his teeth against an impulse to sink his fangs into the elf before him.

He violently shook his head as if to overturn the flood of the enormous memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘These memories are not mine. They might be suitable as tools for battle, but if I wield them blindly they’ll mean nothing.’

A surging exhilaration throbbed through his body.

Images of tearing the elf’s heart out with his fists flashed through his mind — a lust for blood and rage gathering in his head.

‘That’s not necessary.’

Even while that rose within him, Eldmir started to separate what was his and what belonged to Pruk Mart.

He carefully chose his own feelings, making sure he would not be swept away by those memories and experiences and put them into his heart.

And included in what he chose was the exhilaration he had felt through the fight and still felt now.

Eldmir took slow steps.

He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fist and advanced toward Erkes.

Bracing his mind against being engulfed by the Moon Wolf’s spirit, he spoke to Erkes.

“Surrender.”

Erkes lay collapsed, coughing blood.

He tried to get up, pressing his hand to the ground, but every time he put weight on it sharp pain shot up.

Seeing Eldmir shadowing him, Erkes gave up trying to stand.

He sat down, leaning against a tree, breathing roughly as if summoning his last strength, his face the expression of someone dying — too weak even to wipe the blood from his mouth — and looked up at Eldmir.

Eldmir’s eyes were still red.

Not with the flame-red of some inferno, but the blood-red of the Moon Wolf.

“What… exactly… are you?”

“Nothing to know.”

Eldmir answered curtly. Erkes laughed as if insane.

Kuk-kuh, khh-khkh.

Short bursts of laughter left his mouth.

“Kill him.”

After the laughter stopped he spoke in a low voice.

At that quiet word Eldmir crouched to meet his eye level.

“That can’t happen.”

His eyes shone red.

Werewolf blood-red eyes.

“How much pain have you caused me?”

The wolf’s eyes fixed on him.

Like a tongue licking, the red irises examined Erkes thoroughly, as if they could feel him physically.

“I can’t let you die easily.”

“…Monster.”

Eldmir — or rather “he” — grinned.

“You only realized that now?”

Smiling with his fangs revealed, he grinned widely.

“So please, elder.”

He chuckled.

The wolf laughed.

“Please, I beg you, don’t die easily.”

The betrayer of the forest and its avenging forest hero.

But the scene between them was not that simple.

It was merely…

“I’ve never tasted elf meat properly before.”

His mouth slowly approached Erkes.

“Maybe I’ll taste it now, for a change.”

It was simply predator and prey.

“…Ah.”

At that moment the red in Eldmir’s eyes faded.

Like a blood droplet diluted by water, the color slowly paled and then entirely vanished.

Back to his true eye color, Eldmir’s gaze lost its vigor quickly, like the flame of a candle whose wick had burned away. His pupils dimmed like a lamp that had gone out.

Erkes looked at him with a face full of questions.

That was the last scene Eldmir could remember.

“Truly, an extraordinary fellow.”

Eldmir lay unconscious, and Erkes stared at him with an expression of disbelief.

Igras watched them, burdened.

“Both participants in the trial are now combat-ineffective. How am I supposed to judge this?”

“Is now really the time to be saying that?”

Agarat ground his teeth at Igras’s casual tone and hastily gathered the fallen Eldmir in his arms.

He checked his pulse, felt some strength left, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized he was not in mortal danger.

—What on earth is the identity of that monster brat?

His spirit, Isra, peeked over his shoulder and revealed itself.

Usually it hid its presence but liked to show up like this when it wanted to.

Agarat asked at the sight of Isra cast over his shoulder.

“Don’t you know?”

—I don’t know. I only acted in the middle plane with you. The kid’s knowledge is something even other spirits wouldn’t know. It’s ironic that our spirit would be ignorant of matters related to spirits.

Isra clicked its tongue.

—I have some guesses about how this kid uses spirit power, but… the secrets this kid has are more than that.

“…….”

Agarat fell silent.

Then he shot Igras a glare.

“…If you call this a draw, it will overturn the guardians of El Rel and everything.”

“Well now.”

Igras let out a short laugh.

“Old man, will you be saved by being afraid of the young? Still, I remember you used to be my idol; time sure is merciless.”

Merciless, my foot.

From the moment he confirmed Eldmir’s heart had been pierced, Agarat had been ready to barge into the duel and end it then and there. Only Igras’ desperate restraint had prevented him, and that is why the situation had come to this.

In hindsight, Igras had been right, but that reasoning would not soothe Agarat’s fury.

He had stayed his hand less because he was cold-headed than because he had to save Eldmir — and because Igras’ words had nagged at him.

But regardless, his heart burned with the desire to thrust his arrow into the traitor before him at once.

The only thing keeping him from losing his reason was the desperate need to save Eldmir — not any calmness.

He wanted to seize Igras by the throat, demand what he had meant by proclaiming Eldmir would be safe, question his later words, tear Erkes’ throat out — impulses that made him murmur El Lederal’s name over and over to restrain himself.

Swearing to settle it later, he bit his teeth and said:

“Stop the nonsense, Igras. The reason I am not challenging you to the forest’s trial right now is that you were once my idol. Now what matters is how to deal with this bastard.”

“Kuk-kuk, look how ridiculous this is.”

Erkes sneered at Agarat.

“After scheming for hundreds of years, your plan undone all because of some brat? Hahahaha! Has the forest ever seen such a delightful event in its history?”

“Are you still babbling on in this situation? You fool.”

Agarat clicked his tongue and showed murderous intent.

“Igras, we can’t wait. End this filthy traitor’s life at once—!”

At that moment.

Thud.

“…….”

Agarat suddenly fell silent.

With wide eyes he stared at Igras.

Igras withdrew the hand he had raised to shoot an arrow and spoke.

“What are you doing?”

Then he nodded and turned away.

“Hurry and bring the boy here. He needs treatment.”

“Ah… yes.”

Hastily lifting Eldmir in his arms, Agarat rose and glanced at Erkes.

An arrow was embedded in his brow, blood dripping down it.

Agarat then followed Igras without hesitation.