The wheat no longer rustled. No wind whispered through the stalks.
The chaos, the violence, the screams—all had vanished, swallowed by the vastness of the dark.
Above, the stars blinked in quiet disbelief—cold, ancient witnesses to the carnage below.
A full moon hung like a silver coin in the sky, pale light washing over the field of flattened grain and broken bodies.
Not a bird stirred. Not a wolf howled. Even the insects had fled.
Only the scent of blood remained—thick, metallic, clinging to the air like invisible smoke.
Freya stood at the center of it all, still as a statue.
Her eyes, once glowing with unspeakable power, now shimmered with something else. Satisfaction. Weariness. A strange, distant calm.
Behind her, Grant had just completed the infusion—the bones of the fallen elves pulsed faintly with necrotic power.
Bits of marrow and splinters of pale white still clung to his gauntlets, dripping with a ghostly shimmer as the necrotic energy settled.
His jawbone had regrown—sleek and seamless now, less bestial—but the orcish tusks were gone.
So too were the crude bone blades that once jutted from his elbows like brutish tools of war.
He looked smaller now, leaner—just a little over six feet tall—but no less imposing.
In fact, he seemed more terrifying in his stillness.
Where once he had been hulking, savage, and primal, now he stood with the quiet precision of a duelist.
Every motion was measured, deliberate, like a sword hidden in a scabbard of flesh and bone.
His armor had reshaped with the new infusion—smooth, dark, and form-fitting, like an exoskeleton of polished onyx.
But it was his aura that had truly changed.
It wasn't wild anymore. It didn't scream violence—it whispered it.
Menacing. Patient. Predatory.
Like a blade pressed to your neck, cool and steady, held by a hand that knew exactly how deep it needed to go.
Even Freya, drenched in blood and high on the thrill of leveling up, could feel the shift.
She glanced back at him, studying the curve of his shoulders, the coiled stillness in his stance.
"You've changed a lot, Sir Bonehead," she murmured. "I guess Freddy Krueger won't be wetting his pants at the sight of you anymore."
Grant didn't speak. He simply nodded once, affirming her thoughts without words.
"Let's check our status." Freya opened her status panel.
Name: Freya Constantin
Race: Highborn Demon
Level: 13
Racial Trait: [Blood Drain – Lv.4], [Sylphid's Blessing– Lv.1]
Bound Weapon: [Reaper's Scythe – Lv.5]
Strength: 80
Agility: 85
Intelligence: 96
Skills: [Fangs – Lv.4], [Bat Swarm – Lv.2], [Dark Magic – Lv.3], [Haste – Lv.4], [Intimidation – Lv.2]
"Wow, level 13? I knew I'd leveled up, but I didn't expect this."
"And this new racial trait, [Sylphid's Blessing], I must've gotten it from them. I wonder what it does."
"What about you, Grant?"
The skeleton knight rumbled low, and his panel appeared.
Name: Grant
Race: Undead
Level: 31
Racial Trait: [Undying – Lv.5]
Bound Weapons: [Bone Blade – Lv.9], [Bone Shield – Lv.8]
Strength: 87
Agility: 83
Intelligence: 78
Skills: [Tenacity – Lv.6], [Harden – Lv.9], [Regeneration – Lv.7], [Piercing– Lv.1], [Acceleration– Lv.1]
Combat Skill: [Sword & Shield Mastery – Lv.5]
"...Holy crap, you're level 31? "
"And with 2 new skills? Seriously?"
"I guess those elves were really something, huh?"
Then Grant's eyes pulsed, and a voice echoed in Freya's mind.
"Indeed, milady. They likely hailed from an ancient lineage."
She blinked, stunned. "Did you just... speak?"
"Yes, milady. I've been trying to communicate for some time, but my soul lacked the strength until now," the voice echoed again—firm, deep, oddly refined. It didn't ring in her ears but stirred directly in her thoughts, like a memory being recalled.
Freya narrowed her eyes. "So... you've been silently judging me this whole time?"
"Never judging, milady. Merely... observing."
"Oh, well that's not creepy at all," she muttered, "You've got a voice like a bored butler. Did you sound like that when you were alive, or did death make you classy?"
"I'm sorry, milady... I...I don't remember." His voice softened, almost sorrowful.
And then, from the far edge of the battlefield, a faint rustle stirred in the wheat.
Not wind.
Something moving.
Freya smirked, "Right, I almost forgot about you."
In the blink of an eye, she was in the field—and in her hand, a boy. Gale.
"I'm sorry! I didn't see anything! Didn't hear anything! Please don't eat me!" His voice quivered with fear. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if that would save him.
Freya raised a brow as she dangled the trembling boy by the collar like a wet kitten.
His arms flailed uselessly, his boots kicking softly against the trampled stalks.
She studied him, her crimson eyes glinting in the moonlight. He smelled like fear, sweat, and wheat husks.
"And here I thought, you were smart enough to run the other way when you woke up," she said, voice dripping with amusement. "But nooo, little Gale likes to play hide and seek."
"I-I wasn't sneaking! I just—"
"Shhh." She pressed a blood-streaked finger to his lips. "Don't lie to me. You were sneaking. And spying. And eavesdropping."
"I swear, I didn't mean to see anything! I-I just—"
"Didn't mean to see me drain the life from those elves?" Freya tilted her head. "Or didn't mean to see him—" she gestured behind her, "—grow a new jaw out of liquefied bone?"
Gale whimpered.
Freya's tone dropped an octave, low and dangerous. "Listen carefully, Gale. You're going to forget what you saw tonight."
"Every scream. Every shadow. Every drop of blood. Everything."
Gale nodded rapidly, his eyes still clamped shut. "Yes! Yes, I'd forget! I already forgot! I don't even remember what I'm forgetting!"
"Good," Freya smiled sweetly—too sweetly. "Because if you don't forget..."
She let the words trail off. Behind her, Grant stepped out of the shadows, silent as death.
His onyx-black armor gleamed faintly, his eyeless sockets burning with cold blue flame. He didn't move. He didn't need to.
Gale felt him even with his eyes closed—an oppressive chill crawling up his spine like a spider made of ice.
"If you tell anyone what happened here," Freya whispered, "Grant will come for you in your sleep. He doesn't knock. He doesn't ask questions. He just appears—right—next—to—your—bed."
Grant tilted his skull ever so slightly.
Gale squeaked like a kicked mouse. "I-I'll forget! I'll take it to my grave! I won't even tell my own bones!"
"Smart boy." Freya patted his cheek. "Now, let's get you home."
The night remained restless in Krasvale, where Mayor Aldrich was buried underground following the tavern collapsed.
At the edge of the yawning chasm—once the tavern—Rusted Sigil, scores of men pressed close, lanterns in hand, their faces pale with urgency as the rescue dragged on beneath the shroud of darkness.
But high above the chaos and shuttered homes, a soft glow spilled from the balcony of the mayor's manor.
His wife, Lady Seraphine stood beneath the pale light of the moon, her silken nightgown rippling gently in the cool breeze.
Her long, silver-blonde hair was unbound, cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight.
One slender hand clutched the balcony railing, knuckles white, while the other twisted a gold ring round and round her finger.
Staring into the open sky, she felt it.
Something had happened.
Something terrible.
Her heart hadn't stopped fluttering since the moment her son was taken from her.
A gnawing dread clung to her chest. She'd instinctively gone to the balcony, hoping—just hoping—her son might return through the gate.
But the stars held their silence, and the moon offered no comfort.
Behind her, the doors creaked faintly.
She turned.
A maid appeared in the doorway, pale and breathless.
"My lady," the girl whispered, "There's movement at the edge of the manor gates."
Lady Seraphine's breath caught. "Who is it?"
The maid's words lingered in the air, fragile and trembling.
She asked again. "Who is it?"
The maid hesitated, her hands clutching the folds of her apron. "M… It was Master Gale, my lady. Carried by a girl."
Lady Seraphine swept past the maid and down the spiral staircase, her bare feet whispering against the marble like the hush of ghosts.
When she reached the front foyer, the guards were already parting the doors with visible caution.
Moonlight spilled in.
There, framed by the dark of the trees and haloed by moonlight, stood a girl—no older than twelve. Or so she seemed.
She was spattered with drying blood. Her silken black dress clung like smoke. Crimson eyes burned beneath tangled bangs.
Beside her—Gale.
Lady Seraphine's heart twisted as she rushed forward. "Gale!"
The boy, still too scared to open his eyes, stirred at her voice, "M-Mother?"
She swept him into her arms with a strangled gasp, pulling him close, burying her face in his hair. "Oh, my baby. My precious boy. You're safe. You're—" Her voice broke. She clung tighter.
Freya stepped back, silent, watching. Her face unreadable. But something in the embrace stirred memories of another life—of her parents long gone.
Lady Seraphine slowly turned to her.
Her gaze lingered on the girl's face, then dipped lower, to her hands, still glistening faintly with blood, and the scent of death clung to her like a veil.
And yet she did not flinch.
Instead, she lowered herself into a deep, graceful curtsy, the hem of her nightgown brushing the ground. "You saved my son," she said, voice soft but steady. "I owe you a debt I cannot hope to repay."
Freya tilted her head, slightly amused. "A little dramatic, aren't we?"
A faint smile touched Lady Seraphine's lips. "Even so... please. Won't you stay the night? My husband—the mayor—is still out there with the search party. When he returns, we'd like to thank you properly."
Freya raised an eyebrow. "You're inviting a blood-soaked stranger into your home?"
"I'm inviting the girl who returned my son without harm," Lady Seraphine said firmly. "when she could have simply vanished into the night."
Behind her, the guards tensed—but at a glance from the lady, they stepped aside.
Freya looked up toward the manor, then back at Lady Seraphine.
"…Fine. Let's hope you don't regret it in the morning."
Lady Seraphine exhaled a breath that was almost laughter. "I won't."