The last of the flames tore away, dragged apart by the wind and the vacuum they had created.
Heat faded.
Smoke thinned.
Adlet's charge carried him forward one final step—
then stopped.
His strike had not reached its target.
The Scarab horn met something impossibly dense.
Not flesh.
Not bone.
The Manticore's tail.
Black rock, ridged and serrated, had snapped into place at the last instant, intercepting the blow with brutal precision. The impact rang through Adlet's arm, violent enough to rattle his teeth, the recoil sending agony screaming through his shoulder.
The horn shattered apart into dispersing Aura.
Adlet stumbled backward, breath torn from his lungs.
No blood.
No collapse.
The Manticore remained standing.
Unmoved.
The flames fully died.
And what stood before him was not a wounded beast—but a towering executioner.
The Manticore turned its head slowly.
Its single unburnt eye locked onto Adlet with dreadful clarity.
Not anger.
Not pain.
Assessment.
Adlet's chest tightened.
The realization hit him all at once.
That wasn't a counter.
That was a dismissal.
His legs moved before his mind caught up.
One step back.
Then another.
Sand shifted beneath his heel.
He tried to steady himself—
failed.
His foot slid, balance broke, and Adlet fell hard onto his back, the breath knocked clean out of him as sand rushed into his mouth and lungs.
The stone ceiling—the Stars—spun above him.
The Manticore advanced.
Each step was deliberate.
Heavy.
Final.
Adlet forced himself to roll aside as a massive claw struck where his head had been a moment before, the impact tearing a crater into the sand. He raised his arm instinctively—
Red Aura surged.
One layer.
Then another.
Then a third.
Three overlapping shells of hardened Aura formed in front of him as the Manticore swiped again.
The first layer shattered instantly.
The second cracked, splintering under the sheer force.
The third held for half a heartbeat—
then exploded inward.
Adlet screamed as fragments of his own defensive Aura tore into his side, blood spilling freely as the shockwave sent him tumbling.
He hit the ground again, gasping.
Pain burned white-hot along his ribs.
The Manticore loomed closer.
Too close.
Its massive head lowered, jaws parting as foul, heated breath washed over him—rotting meat, scorched fur, something ancient and predatory that made his stomach twist.
Adlet clawed weakly at the sand, dragging himself backward.
There was nowhere to go.
No cover.
No escape.
Only dunes.
Only death.
His mind went strangely quiet.
No strategies.
No calculations.
Just clarity.
So this is it.
A faint laugh escaped his throat—raw, breathless.
Of course it would end here.
In the farthest place he had ever reached.
But regret did not come.
He thought of Eos.
Of the forests he had crossed.
Of seas he had stood before.
Of battles that had pushed him beyond who he was supposed to be.
If this was where his path ended…
Then so be it.
A smile curved weakly across his bloodied face.
He forced himself upright, swaying as he stood, sand sliding from his clothes.
He looked the Manticore in the eye.
Not as prey.
As a Protector.
"If I'm dying here…" he rasped, voice barely carrying, "…I won't do it on my knees."
The Manticore reacted.
Its patience snapped.
It lunged.
Jaws opening wide enough to swallow him whole.
And then—
Something cut through the space between them.
A blur of pale fabric and focused intent.
The world exploded sideways.
Steel flashed.
A strike—precise, impossibly fast—slammed into the Manticore's face.
The creature roared.
Not in anger.
In pain.
Its head recoiled violently as blood sprayed from a shattered eye, black ichor splattering the sand.
Before Adlet could even process what had happened, strong arms wrapped around him.
The ground vanished beneath his feet.
Wind screamed past his ears.
They were moving—fast.
Too fast.
The dunes blurred into streaks of gold and shadow as the unknown figure sprinted across the Sand Graveyard with inhuman speed, the Manticore's furious roar fading behind them.
Adlet lost track of time.
Of direction.
Of pain.
Only motion remained.
Finally—after what felt like an eternity—the figure slowed.
Then stopped.
Adlet was set down gently onto the sand.
He collapsed to one knee, breathing hard, vision swimming.
The man stepped back and pulled down his hood.
He was young—no older than his early twenties.
Dark skin, smooth and unmarked, as if the Sand Graveyard's harshness simply failed to leave a trace on him. Black hair was pulled back tightly, neat despite the grit and wind. His eyes were so dark they seemed to drink in the faint glow of the Stars rather than reflect it.
Then Adlet noticed the rest.
His outfit wasn't the patchwork of a desperate survivor, nor the heavy gear of someone expecting to be dragged into a brawl. It was desertwear—but refined. A long, pale cloak layered over fitted fabric that wrapped close to the body, built for movement without wasting energy. The sleeves were reinforced at the forearms, the seams clean, deliberate—crafted, not repaired.
Steel caught the light when he shifted.
Not bulky armor—strategic pieces. A narrow shoulder plate on one side. A fitted bracer. Thin metal segments along the ribs, hidden beneath cloth until the angle revealed them. Protection where it mattered, weight spared everywhere else. Even the boots looked custom: high, tight, meant to keep sand out and footing stable.
A noble's design, adapted by someone who actually lived in the desert.
Calm.
Unshaken.
Experienced in a way Adlet had never seen before.
"We've put enough distance between us," the man said evenly. "You alright?"
Adlet blinked, steadying himself.
"I… yeah," he managed. "I think so."
Then realization struck.
"You saved my life," Adlet said, bowing his head despite the pain.
The man nodded once, as if acknowledging a fact rather than accepting praise.
"I was tracking the Fortress Elephant," he said. "Your fight drew a lot of attention. Hard to miss that kind of disturbance out here."
Adlet looked up sharply.
"You were here for it too?"
"Yes."
"…Are you part of the top ten?" Adlet asked.
The man paused.
Then answered simply, "I am."
Adlet's eyes widened.
"…Soren Horus."
The man inclined his head.
"You're first," Adlet said quietly.
Soren didn't deny it.
Adlet straightened slightly. "I'm Adlet. I just entered the top ten. That was… my first mission."
Soren studied him for a moment longer.
Then exhaled softly.
"Running into a young Manticore on your first outing," he said. "You're anything but lucky."
Adlet let out a dry chuckle. "At least you were nearby."
"That part," Soren admitted, "was fortunate."
Adlet hesitated.
"…That thing," he asked. "The Manticore. What exactly was it?"
"One of the two Rank 5 Apex species native to the Horus Desert," Soren replied. "They dominate the entire region. Overwhelmingly."
Adlet swallowed.
"…And it wasn't even an adult."
Soren shook his head. "No. The fully grown ones don't leave the farthest reaches of the Sand Graveyard."
He pointed toward the horizon.
"The Blood Oases."
Adlet felt cold.
"You think you can make it back to Savar on your own?" Soren asked.
Adlet nodded. "Yeah."
"Good." Soren turned away.
He didn't linger. Didn't ask for details. Didn't offer advice wrapped in comfort. He simply looked back toward the dunes—as if the desert itself was tugging on an invisible thread tied to his spine.
He's like Gillan, Adlet realized.
That same relentless focus. That same way of existing as if everything outside the mission was noise. Gillan had carried that seriousness like discipline—sharp, contained.
Soren carried it like inevitability.
Yet—
He had still stepped in.
He saw a situation that required action… and he acted.
Like it was nothing. Like saving someone caught in the wrong place at the wrong time was just another line in a list of tasks, another movement performed without hesitation.
That's what people at the top are like, Adlet thought.
They don't waste time wondering.
They decide—and the world follows.
Soren adjusted the strap across his shoulder, cloak shifting in the dry air.
"I've got another mission waiting," he said, tone unchanged.
Adlet watched him take a step… then another—light, effortless—each movement measured, as if the sand offered no resistance at all.
"Wait," Adlet blurted before he could stop himself.
Soren paused, only slightly, not turning all the way back.
Adlet opened his mouth—then realized he didn't know what he even wanted to ask. How?Why?What are you really?
None of it would come out right.
So he settled for the only thing that mattered.
"…Thanks."
For a heartbeat, Soren was still. Then he gave the faintest nod—so small it could've been mistaken for nothing.
"Good luck," he said, already moving again. "Maybe we'll meet again. Under better circumstances."
And then he was gone—vanishing over the dunes with the same abruptness he'd appeared, as if the desert had swallowed him whole.
Adlet remained where he stood, staring after him.
Not in awe.
Not in despair.
Just… measuring.
The gap wasn't only strength. It was experience. Calm. The ability to enter a nightmare, cut it open, and leave without carrying a single tremor with you.
This was the gap.
Between him…
and the top.
Adlet clenched his fists.
Today, Adlet had faced the greatest threat of his life.
The desert felt quieter now.
Heavier.
The weight of what he had just witnessed settled slowly into his chest.
One day—
he would stand there too.