As the sun dipped below the horizon on that particular Thursday, in the seventh month of the Calendar, the Orion Woods shimmered with a strange, expectant stillness. The forest—vast, ancient, and untamed—rose like a green fortress beside the towering Wall of Orion. Within its bounds stood trees older than memory, their bark scarred by past duels and ancient rites, their canopies sheltering beasts that only the bravest dared challenge.
This was no mere forest. It was a crucible, a sacred domain carved out for Letheon's most elite. Only those whose names shimmered on the uppermost tiers of the ranking board—those who had bled, conquered, and ascended—could walk its shadowed trails.
And yet, even in this hallowed ground, something unusual stirred.
High above, nestled in the gnarled limbs of a colossal obsidian-barked tree, a cloaked figure crouched like a phantom of the woods. His presence was ghostly, his stillness uncanny. Eyes the color of molten silver pierced the thick foliage below, unblinking, sharp with intent. The name whispered from some invisible script—"Cziell."
The moniker did not merely float on the air; it pulsed with weight, like a spell woven into the atmosphere. A name that was once a whisper in private forums, now materializing on the radar of those who watched Letheon's evolving narrative with keen interest.
Beneath the tree, amidst the tall grass and slanting gold of dying sunlight, stood Nemean—a player forged of spontaneous flame and iron resolve. His gear bore the wear of constant battle, his stance relaxed but never unready. A subtle tension flickered in his posture—he felt the gaze, that unmistakable pressure one develops a sixth sense for after too many ambushes and PvP standoffs.
His head tilted ever so slightly.
He didn't look up, not directly.
But his left hand brushed his blade's hilt—just once. A silent signal. An acknowledgment.
Up above, the watcher said nothing. Moved not a muscle. But behind the mask, a smirk formed.
A conversation had begun, wordless and potent. One forged not in speech, but in instinct—the language of those who had killed and died too many times to pretend otherwise.
The forest breathed around them.
A stag with silver antlers passed like a ghost between the trees.
And between hunter and hunted—or perhaps between two hunters—a question formed in the stillness.
Nemean, sixth among Letheon's elite, was no mere player—he was a symbol. His every movement, every command in battle, resonated through his guild, Guise, like a drumbeat that rallied hearts and forged resolve. His mantle was not just one of power, but of responsibility—of eyes that watched and followed, believing in his indomitable will.
Now, high within the whispering limbs of the Orion Woods, that same will rested—if only for a moment.
His breath slowed as he leaned back against the cool bark of the tree, mana flickering faintly around him in replenishing wisps. The aftermath of the battle still lingered in his limbs: the rhythmic pulse of used energy, the distant echo of roars and steel. The World Boss had fallen, but it had taken much from him.
And then—he knew he wasn't alone.
"Just chilling."
The voice drifted down with casual irreverence, a breeze in the otherwise charged atmosphere.
Nemean's lips quirked into a lopsided grin, and he let out a low, incredulous laugh that echoed between the trees—short, dry, and edged with something unreadable.
"Of course you are," he replied, eyes still fixed ahead, though the glint in them sharpened like drawn steel. "You always show up when the blood's still warm."
Cziell. A name spoken in whispers, rumors, and contradictions. To some, a myth—an anomaly with no guild, no affiliations, and no patterns. To others, a known threat, a shadow that appeared where top players gathered, always observing. Always calculating.
And here he was, again. Not attacking. Not interfering. Just watching.
A hunter with no need to strike immediately.
The tension between them was like the string of a bow pulled taut. Not yet loosed—but primed.
Nemean rose from his seated position slowly, not in aggression, but in caution. His fingers no longer rested on the branch—they hovered near his sheath.
"You come for something, or just practicing your creeper routine?"
A beat passed. Then two.
From above, Cziell shifted—just slightly, letting a single boot dangle over the branch's edge, as if daring gravity to test him. The sun caught the glint of something beneath his cloak—not a weapon, but a pendant. A guildless insignia. A blank medallion. A reminder that he belonged to no one but himself.
"Saw the fight," Cziell said at last, voice devoid of mockery now. "Thought you were gonna drop. Almost wanted to see it."
Another pause. No apology followed.
Nemean's jaw flexed.
"You're always waiting for a king to fall so you can crown yourself, huh?"
Cziell tilted his head, smirking faintly. "No kings in Letheon. Just… openings."
Silence descended again—thick, meaningful, unbroken by wind or birds.
They were both predators, different in nature but alike in instinct. And for all the words exchanged, it was what remained unsaid that screamed the loudest.
Not today.
Not yet.
But soon.
Cziell's sharp tongue-click sliced through the tension like a blade, betraying a flicker of impatience beneath his composed facade. The dense canopy of Orion Woods seemed to hold its breath, the very air charged with the silent war brewing between two titans of Letheon—each word, each glance a strategic move in a duel fought not with weapons, but with razor-sharp minds.
"You got me," Cziell finally admitted, a hint of reluctant respect threading through his voice as he vaulted down from the branches with feline grace. The suddenness of his descent shattered the precarious calm, plunging the clearing into immediate chaos.
Nemean's guildmates snapped to alert, weapons drawn in a heartbeat—swords unsheathed, bows raised, and staffs crackling with arcane energy. Their collective breath caught, the cold forest air thickening with the electric pulse of imminent conflict. A thousand unspoken commands rippled through Guise like a storm warning—defend your leader, prepare for the unexpected.
The soloist, Cziell, stood now face-to-face with Nemean, an unyielding challenger whose presence alone threatened to ignite the powder keg. The guild's ranks stiffened, tension coiling like a serpent ready to strike, as every eye tracked the lone figure who dared to walk among the wolves without a pack.
The silence shattered with a palpable intensity—not yet a battle cry, but a silent promise that the duel was far from over. In this virtual wilderness, where skill met strategy and reputation was forged in the crucible of conflict, the stage was set.
Two warriors, two philosophies—one bound by the strength of comradeship, the other wielding solitary prowess—stood poised on the knife's edge of destiny beneath the eternal gaze of the Wall of Orion.
And the world watched.
But against all expectations, Cziell shifted the rhythm of the encounter. With deliberate, measured steps, he closed the distance until he stood mere inches from Nemean, then lightly tapped his shoulder—a touch both casual and oddly intimate amid the charged atmosphere. The tension that had been coiled like a spring, ready to snap into violence, faltered, caught in the fragile pause of uncertainty.
"I find myself in a quandary," Cziell admitted, his voice low but urgent, cutting through the silence. "I'm lost and need to get back to Orion quickly. Tomorrow at 17:00, I have a scheduled fight. In a hurry, no time to play. Goodbye."
Without waiting for a response, he pivoted sharply, his cloak swirling as he melted back into the shadows of the woods. Nemean's lips twitched into a quiet chuckle as he watched the lone figure fade away, disappearing toward the wrong path with an almost mischievous air.
The bone-chilling aura that had gripped the clearing unraveled instantly, replaced by a curious warmth—the kind that only comes from an unexpected encounter that defies expectation. In that fleeting moment, rivalry gave way to a shared, unspoken amusement—a reminder that even amidst the fiercest competition, there were moments where the game itself felt delightfully unpredictable.
Yet, beneath the lingering amusement, Nemean's mind sharpened with a cold clarity. He was keenly aware of the storm that had nearly broken loose—a tempest embodied in Cziell, a player whose reputation was whispered in reverent fear. This was no ordinary rival; Cziell carried an aura heavy with lethal precision and ruthless efficiency, the kind that could dismantle even the strongest defenses without hesitation.
The mere thought of a "Dirt Nap"—a player's final, irrevocable defeat, their digital corpse left haunting the world as a grim testament—sent a shiver coursing down Nemean's spine. In Letheon, death wasn't just a respawn; it was a haunting reminder of the stakes, a penalty carved in pixelated permanence.
As the woods settled into silence once more, Nemean's perspective deepened. The encounter had been a razor's edge, a brush with chaos barely held at bay. Cziell's presence lingered like a shadow—both a symbol of awe and a stark warning etched into the very fabric of their virtual reality.
In that fleeting moment, Nemean understood: in a world where skill and willpower defined survival, even a single misstep could unleash devastation. The line between hunter and hunted was thinner than ever, and the ferocity of their realm remained an unyielding force—reminding him that, here in Letheon, legends were born not just of victory, but of the narrow escapes from the abyss.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───