Somewhere else in Gaia Mountain, George was running for his life. Branches snapped beneath his feet as he crashed through the undergrowth, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs. Behind him, the terrified footsteps of the other escaped prisoners followed in a ragged rhythm. And farther behind them, nearly silent but unmistakable were the pursuers.
Sparrow's group.
A pack of divine-knight-class assassins, trained to kill without hesitation and without mercy. George didn't need Muliad or Harian to explain how dangerous they were; he could feel it in the air, like invisible blades grazing the back of his neck.
"Shit… shit, shit, shit!" George hissed under his breath as he sprinted between trees. Every curse felt like it might be his last. His massive frame crashed through foliage easily, but he knew better than anyone that when it came to essence users, raw strength meant nothing. One tiny man with the right technique could tear him apart faster than he could blink.
And George? He could barely summon a spark of essence on a good day. Hell, he was practically running on instinct alone.
The others behind him Luvak and the rest were already staggering. Barefoot, starving, covered in bruises, their steps were uneven and desperate. George wanted to yell at them to hurry, but his throat was too dry and fear too thick for words to come out. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement shadows slipping between the trees.
His blood ran cold. The assassins.
Their silhouettes glided across the forest like phantoms, barely making a sound. Cloaks swallowed them whole, masks covering their faces except for the cold glint in their eyes. A few seconds later, George spotted the faint shimmer of essence arrows being drawn.
"MOVE!" he bellowed, grabbing Luvak by the collar and dragging him forward as the air behind them whistled.
Arrows of compressed wind essence pierced the trunks where their heads had been just a moment ago. The trees exploded into splinters, raining debris across the fleeing group.
"Damn it! They're too close!" George spat, breath heaving.
He wasn't a strategist like Harian. He wasn't calm like Muliad. He was just a guy with strong arms and a thicker skull than most. But he knew one thing clearly:
If they slowed down, even for a heartbeat… they'd be dead. Another arrow flew. George barely managed to shove two prisoners aside before it tore through the ground where they would have been standing. The assassins didn't speak. They didn't taunt. They didn't even breathe loudly.
They just hunted.
George felt panic clawing at his throat. He had escaped death once with Harian, once. Now he had to do it again, without Harian, without Muliad, with a group of half-dead prisoners behind him. "Shit…" he muttered again, wiping the sweat burning his eyes. "If you idiots die on me after I dragged you this far, I swear I'll..."
Another sharp whistle cut through the forest. George ran until his legs felt like they were made of molten iron. His breath tore through his lungs, his throat dry and burning. But even while running for his own life, he kept glancing back he couldn't stop himself. The others were barely holding on.
One prisoner in particular the weakest of them, a skinny brown-haired man was falling farther and farther behind. His steps were uneven, his body swaying, but he still forced himself forward with everything he had. It looked like he could collapse at any moment.
George's heart clenched.
"Damn it…" he muttered.
"BOY! DON'T LOOK BACK!" the old man shouted from ahead. His voice was hoarse and trembling. "IF YOU STOP, YOU'LL DIE!"
George shouted back, "I CAN'T LEAVE HIM!"
"You fool! KEEP RUNNING! YOU'RE CRAZY!"
But George skidded to a stop anyway, boots digging into the dirt. His whole body was screaming lungs, legs, instincts, but he couldn't turn away. He might be reckless, but he wasn't heartless.
"Being crazy is fine," he gritted out, staring back into the trees, "but being heartless isn't."
"BOY! YOU'RE GOING TO GET US BOTH KILLED!"
George ignored him. He stretched out his hand toward the stumbling prisoner.
"COME ON! JUST A LITTLE MORE! GRAB MY HAND!"
The skinny man looked up. For a moment, his expression softened with relief… then twisted into something else entirely. A smile. A strange, eerie smile.
George's heart skipped a beat. "Hey don't smile like that. Just RUN!"
But the prisoner didn't run instead he stopped. George blinked. Confused. "What are you doing!? MOVE!" The man's smile only grew sharper. Then....he coughed. No, not coughed. He spat blood. A dark splash of red hit the ground at his feet. And before George could even process the sight
SHRRRKK—
The prisoner's body split in half at the waist. Just like that. No scream. No warning not even a hint of movement from the attacker. One moment he was standing. The next, the top half of his body slid off the bottom half and hit the ground with a sickening thud. George froze. Entirely. His mind went white. His stomach churned. His breath stopped in his chest.
It didn't feel real. It couldn't be real. The man he had tried desperately to save was gone. Not just dead. Slaughtered. Erased in a single instant by something so fast he couldn't even see it.
The old man whispered shakily, "By the gods…" And George… He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He could not understand. All he could do was stare at the corpse of a man who was alive seconds ago. A man who had reached out for help...only to be cut down before the hand could be taken.
The old man shouted George's name, voice cracking with urgency, but the boy didn't hear a thing. Sound had stopped for him. The world had stopped. George stood frozen, eyes wide and empty.
It's always like this, he thought numbly. Every time he tried to save someone …they died.
People always called him strong. But his strength… had never saved anyone. The old man screamed again, "GEORGE! MOVE!" But his voice never reached him.
The assassins stepped past the bisected corpse without a shred of hesitation. Their boots splashed through blood as if walking through puddles. They locked onto the boy who stood dazed in the open.
To them, he looked like an idiot asking to die. One of the assassins lifted his hand and gathered world essence. A blade of wind formed instantly sharp, compressed, deadly. The air crackled around it.
Unlike most divine knights who focused on augmenting their physical bodies, these assassins bent world essence into raw elemental attacks. Wind, flame, force anything they desired. Not as potent as core essence, but still lethal. They were spell caster class divine knights.
The assassin grinned behind his mask. A short, satisfied exhale followed. Then he threw the blade. It sliced through the air like a guillotine.
George didn't flinch, blink or even breathe. His mind was drowning in static. All he could feel was that crushing, familiar emptiness. And beneath it something boiling, rising, choking him. Anger. It surged until it became all he could see, all he could taste. Blood-red fury painted the world around him.
His thoughts spiraled back to another memory the slums, when he was small, helpless, a beaten kid curled up in a corner. The world had been cruel to him then too And yet…Harian had stood in front of him.
That skinny, starving boy had fought off the bullies without hesitation. George still remembered the sickening sound of fists hitting bone. Harian had been beaten to a pulp for defending a stranger.
But Harian had turned to him afterward… smiled through the blood… and said he was glad George was okay. A stranger. Harian still smiled for him. Even back then, George thought as tears burned his eyes through the rage, I was useless. He protected me.
His fist trembled.
"I'll protect you, Harian…" he whispered under his breath, voice cracking. "This time… I'll protect you."
The wind blade was seconds from tearing through him. Then George's eyes flicked sideways and his heart shattered.
The old man lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. His breaths were shallow. He had taken a blow meant for George.
Even dying, the old man looked up at him....smiled weakly...and whispered, "Run…"
George's vision blurred. His chest clenched.
Something inside him broke and then ignited.
The assassins closed in, ready to finish him. But in the next heartbeat the world turned scarlet and as if painted in blood. The wind stilled.
A cold, pressure fell over the forest.
A voice, not a sound, but a proclamation through existence itself echoed around him:
You are worthy.
George felt something rupture open inside his soul
like a door that had been waiting his whole life to unlock. The assassins froze. The old man's eyes widened and even the wind seemed to kneel.
Because in that moment...
George was chosen.