The descent was swift and silent.
Virgil and his teammates slid down the frozen slope, boots striking sparks of frost before they reached level ground.
The final cavern opened before them like the hollow heart of the mountain.
Its far wall was not stone — but a pair of massive doors, each the height of a fortress tower, bound shut with thick black chains.
They loomed in the dim light, ancient and unyielding.
And standing between those doors and the intruders… were six humans.
All of them bore the same mark — hair the pale green of spring leaves after frost.
Virgil's group froze in momentary shock.
Humans.
Down here.
It shouldn't have been possible.
Swan alone remained unmoved, her dark‑fae eyes narrowing in recognition, not surprise.
Virgil's gaze swept over the strangers.
Knight's bearing in every stance.
He knew the bloodlines of this world — most humans on this plane bore black or golden hair, with colour only shifting under the influence of extraordinary blood.
And this shade of soft green… was rare.
Rare enough to mean a high concentration of something far above ordinary in their veins.
One of the men stepped forward in easy arrogance.
"Thank you for bringing us the finger bone," he called.
"Now, please… throw them to us."
His tone made it clear — it was not a request.
Swan leaned toward her own group, her voice a whisper meant only for them.
"They didn't damage the seal."
Marcus's jaw tightened.
"They look like they've just been waiting for us to bring the last one."
Cynthia's eyes narrowed.
"They're arrogant."
Swan's voice rose, loud and sharp.
"Why don't you give us the Nine Finger Bones, so we can all leave here? Are you not feeling the cold?"
Her words rang against the cavern walls.
Across the icy floor, the green‑haired man smirked.
"Looks like nice talk doesn't work on you people."
With deliberate slowness, he drew a longsword, its polished blade catching the meagre light.
Step by step, he began closing the distance.
Virgil spoke quietly.
"I'll take care of him."
His spear slid into his hand, the iron tip glinting faintly.
With a swift rotation, he brought it to a ready stance and started forward.
He hadn't wanted to fight before.
Not because of fear — but because battle would have torn him away from the delicate threads of comprehension he'd been weaving around the Water Yin power.
But now?
Now he chose to meet this challenge head‑on.
Because every difficult fight stoked the furnace of blood chakra within him.
And right now… that furnace was ready to break into Rank Three.
Besides, there was no time left to wrestle with the elusive Water Yin.
Not here.
Not when even a fraction of understanding would take days, even months, he didn't have… but a fight might advance his Blood Warrior rank in moments.
A few meters separated them.
Both men moved at once.
Boots struck the ice with thunder, and in the space between breaths, the gap vanished.
Sword met spear, and sparks erupted in the cold air.
Virgil's grip was firm at the midpoint of his weapon, his movements sharp and precise.
The spear's tip cut forward like lightning — then the butt swept back, turning defence into counter in a single smooth motion.
Steel rang against steel in quick, harsh collisions.
Then Virgil shifted.
Deliberately, he left a sliver of space — an opening in his guard.
The green‑haired swordsman saw it, eyes snapping wide.
He lunged, slicing his blade toward Virgil's exposed side.
At the last instant, Virgil pivoted.
The sword cut nothing but cold air as its wielder stumbled past him.
In the same motion, Virgil's backhand brought the butt of his spear crashing into the man's spine.
The impact sent the swordsman lurching forward, struggling to keep his footing.
Colour rose hot in the man's cheeks — humiliation burning brighter than pain.
Because he knew.
If Virgil had chosen to strike with the spear's tip instead of the shaft…
The duel would have ended then and there.
And it was no accident — not when the swordsman's eyes caught the faint, knowing smirk tugging at Virgil's lips.
He felt mocked.
He felt that smirk was laughter aimed at him.
And in that instant, every arrogant word he had spoken before the fight came rushing back to him.
But instead of questioning his own pride, he shifted all the blame onto the man in front of him — the quiet "native" who had hidden his aura and looked so unremarkable.
Shame burned through him, hotter than anger.
And in his mind, there was only one way to erase that shame.
Defeat him.
His mana surged, flooding the cavern in a sharp, electric pulse.
Purple light crackled around his sword, the edges humming with destructive power.
With a shout, he stepped in and swung at Virgil in a blow meant to cleave him in two.
Virgil slipped aside like a shadow on ice.
The charged blade cut nothing but air, sending sparks into the frost‑slick floor.
He didn't counter.
He only looked at his opponent — the barest arch of a brow, the faintest tilt of his head — an unspoken statement that the attack had been wasteful.
Wasteful of mana.
Wasteful of effort.
Wasteful when there had never been a guarantee it would hit.
The swordsman's face twisted, the shame growing sharper.
He attacked again, faster, harder, yet with no thought behind the strikes — only the blind need to silence that look.
Virgil flowed around the blows, his movements precise, his eyes cool.
High above, far from the battlefield, the water screen rippled with their images.
The human with pale green hair watched in silence, arms folded.
Then he sighed.
"The elven blood," he said softly.
"It gives us exceptional talent with mana… but also the worst flaw of elves."
His gaze lingered on the swordsman locked in futile swings.
"Their arrogance."
Virgil sighed as he slipped past yet another wild slash.
He had thought that, after the humiliation, the man would settle down and give him a serious fight.
Instead, the swordsman moved like a clown — all rage, no discipline.
Let's end this.
Another reckless swing came.
Virgil stepped aside, pivoting on his heel, and his leg snapped around in a brutal roundhouse.
Blood chakra flared along the sole of his boot, the glow a vivid, burning red.
His foot struck the man's stomach with a solid, echoing thud.
The impact ripped the air from the man's lungs and lifted him off the ground.
A heartbeat later, the blood chakra detonated in a red flash, launching him even higher into the air.
He tumbled, limp, flipping through the air before crashing to the icy floor.
Snow and frost burst outward from the point of impact as he rolled across the ground.
His sword slipped from his grasp, skittering away with a faint metallic chime.
Groaning, he pushed himself up slowly, one hand braced on the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his lip.
There were no words — just silence as he retrieved his sword and walked back toward his team.
Virgil slammed the butt of his spear into the ground, the sound cracking through the cavern.
"Next."
His eyes swept across the remaining opponents, meeting each gaze in turn.
"Please," he said, voice edged with challenge, "send someone decent."
The defeated man reached his group.
"Sorry, guys," he muttered.
A tall man beside him shook his head.
"Rickle… you're the weakest among us, and the most arrogant."
Another voice — a female, her tone light but amused.
"So… who's going to go teach him a lesson?"
One of the women turned, her gaze lingering on a man with peculiar silver eyes.
"Claude should go," she said, her eyes almost shining. "End this quickly."
A different male interjected.
"Claude, let's just get the finger bone and open the seal."
Claude shook his head slowly, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his weapon but making no move to step forward.
"Sieena, Darian… I don't fight without sufficient information on my opponent." His voice was calm, even. "And right now, I don't have enough information."
Darian snorted.
"Claude doesn't want to tarnish his undefeated record."
The second female stepped forward, her expression cool, her decision already made.
"Fine. I'll go."
She lifted her weapon — a long, polished staff — and began walking toward Virgil.
Outside, in the flickering image of the water mirror, Maurice's lips curved faintly.
"Your leader is smart," she said, "bleeding Virgil's energy."
The pale‑haired human shook his head slowly.
"Claude," he murmured, "is the most arrogant of them all."
The woman stood before Virgil, her staff resting lightly in her hands, a smile curving her lips.
"Hello," she said, her tone polite but edged, "I am Roselyn of House Accord… from the Veridian Empire."
For Virgil, the name was the only familiar thing in that sentence.
Veridian Empire? House Accord?
These were places and terms foreign to him.
Another continent, perhaps.
But according to the Human Council, their race was the sole human race in the world.
Could they have lied?
Or perhaps these people only resembled humans but were something else entirely.
Questions for later.
"I am Virgil," he said simply, "from the Human Supreme Republic."
No more words were needed.
Both shifted into guard stance, weapons levelled.
Then they charged.
Roselyn met him with speed, her staff spinning into a blur.
Flame burned bright at both ends, each strike meant to sear as well as bruise.
For a time, she gave him true competition — her weapon sweeping in deadly arcs, her footwork sharp and sure.
But as the minutes passed, Virgil read her rhythm.
Patterns emerged.
Her skill, though fierce, was repetitive — the same sequences, the same counters.
And to a duelist like Virgil, repetition was slow death.
With a sudden burst of red aura, his spear slipped past her guard.
The wooden haft clattered from her hands as her body staggered back, the match decided.
Next came Sieena.
Her weapon was a whip, long and vicious, moving like a striking serpent.
Metal barbs lined its length, each coated in a faint sheen of poison.
The air cracked with every lash, the barbs cutting shallow grooves into the frozen floor.
But speed alone was not enough.
A well‑timed sidestep, a burst of blood chakra, and Virgil's spear caught the whip mid‑snap, twisting it out of line before sliding toward her unguarded side.
The match ended quickly.
Then came Darian.
Mana gloves encased his fists in solid force.
He was a wall — his body layered in stone armour, his steps heavy enough to shake frost from the cavern ceiling.
The earth element wrapped around him in slabs of moving rock, his strikes like falling boulders.
Against him, Virgil moved with absolute focus.
In that moment, he fused his understanding of Spear Qi into his Blood Chakra — red energy sharpening to an edge no mundane weapon could match.
His spear tip flared like molten silver, sharp enough to slice a single floating hair in two.
He lunged, the crimson point tearing straight through the stone plate and biting into Darian's chest.
The cut was shallow — only because Virgil had pulled the strike at the last instant.
Had he followed through, Darian's chest would have been split open entirely.
Silence fell for a heartbeat as Darian stepped back, the first drop of blood sliding down his armour.
Virgil turned his gaze toward the final opponent.
And in that single exchange of stares, Virgil felt it — the subtle, heavy pressure of danger.
Not arrogance.
Not posturing.
Real, instinct‑deep danger.