The Ashfall Mountains answered.
The ground trembled.
Dust lifted from the road in thin veils. Pebbles bounced and skittered as the earth vibrated beneath the weight of wings and roars.
Inside the carriage—
The old woman gasped and grabbed the seat as the carriage rocked violently.
The old man's hand slammed against the wooden wall, steadying himself as his eyes locked onto the sky beyond the open window.
Above them, the wyverns descended.
Closer.
Lower.
They weren't hunting.
They were claiming.
One by one, their massive bodies became clear—wet slate scales layered thick like natural armor, wings stretched wide enough to blot out the sky. Their tails swayed behind them, heavy and deliberate, each ending in a swollen, chitinous stinger that glistened faintly in the dying light.
Venom.
Lethal.
The Gravehorns screamed.
Not a warning cry.
A panic scream.
Their six legs buckled as instinct overwhelmed training. One reared violently, ember-colored mane flaring bright as it stomped and thrashed against its harness. The other slammed sideways, hooves scraping against stone, eyes wide and white-rimmed.
The carriage lurched.
Hard.
"Easy! Easy—!" the coachman shouted, hauling the reins with both hands, teeth clenched as he fought to keep control.
The beasts resisted, muscles locked, every fiber of their bodies screaming to flee.
Above them—
The wyverns dove.
All at once.
They descended in a tightening arc, wings folding slightly as they dropped altitude, roars stacking atop one another until the sound became a physical force.
The road shook.
The cliffs groaned.
The air felt thick—heavy with heat, pressure, and something primal.
Death.
Altair stood on the road.
Alone.
Hands at his sides.
Coat fluttering lazily in the violent wind.
He looked up.
And smiled.
The roar closest to him crashed down like a wave.
The ground cracked beneath the wyvern's passing, dust exploding upward as its wings slammed the air, shockwaves rolling outward and smashing into the carriage.
The Gravehorns shrieked again.
The old woman screamed.
The old man couldn't breathe.
Altair didn't blink.
The first change was subtle.
A thin crimson glow seeped from his eyes—not flaring, not bursting—just existing, steady and absolute. It spilled outward like light bleeding through cracks in reality, staining the air around him with a muted red hue.
Then his aura followed.
It didn't erupt.
It unfolded.
Like a presence stretching its limbs after being restrained.
The ground beneath Altair's boots darkened slightly, fine dust lifting from the road and hovering in place instead of falling. Pebbles trembled, rattling softly before freezing mid-shift.
"…Annoying," he said.
The word carried no force.
No anger.
Yet the moment it left his mouth—
the mountains responded.
Not with sound.
With resistance.
The air around Altair thickened, pressing outward in slow waves. It wasn't heat. It wasn't wind. It felt like depth—like suddenly standing at the bottom of a vast ocean.
Above—
the wyverns reacted.
One was mid-dive when its wings locked.
The membranes snapped taut, veins bulging as the creature jerked violently in the air. Its roar cut off mid-scream, jaw hanging open as only a strangled hiss escaped.
Another wyvern's wings twitched—once, twice—before refusing to move at all. Its massive body lurched forward, momentum tearing against something unseen. The resistance pulled back harder.
The sound came then.
Not a roar.
Not a cry.
A wet, panicked rasp as the wyvern tried to inhale and failed.
Its chest expanded.
Didn't fill.
Claws flailed uselessly, slashing at empty air as if trying to grab hold of something—anything—to stop the crushing pressure forcing its body downward.
A third wyvern spasmed.
Its tail lashed wildly, stinger carving a gouge through the air before freezing halfway through the motion. Venom dripped from the tip, falling straight down in thick strands that splattered uselessly against the road below.
The pressure deepened.
Wings began to shake.
Not from exhaustion—
from strain.
Muscle fibers stood out beneath scales as the wyverns pushed, instincts screaming for flight while their bodies refused to obey. Joints creaked audibly, the sound sharp and wrong, like bones bending too close to breaking.
One wyvern dropped.
Just a little.
Its wings hadn't folded.
They simply… failed to lift.
It sank a few feet, claws scraping at the air as if the sky itself had turned solid beneath it. Its eyes rolled wildly, pupils blown wide, tongue lolling from its mouth as it struggled to breathe.
Another followed.
Then another.
They were no longer descending by choice.
They were being held.
Pinned in place by something that did not touch them.
Then—
one of them moved.
Not by instinct.
By decision.
A larger wyvern forced itself forward, shoving past the others with a low, grinding growl that vibrated through its chest. Its scales were darker—thicker—etched with scars that had long since faded from red to dull gray. One wing bore a jagged tear where membrane had healed crookedly, pulling tight when it flared.
An old wound.
An old survivor.
Its eyes burned hotter than the rest—focused, furious, unwilling.
It beat its wings wide and roared.
The sound tore free despite the pressure, cracking through the mountain pass like thunder splitting stone. The force of it rippled outward, a violent gust exploding downward.
The carriage rocked hard.
The Gravehorns screamed as they were shoved back a full step, hooves skidding, iron-shod feet gouging sparks from the road. Dust and loose gravel erupted outward in a choking wave.
The leader wyvern roared again—longer this time—teeth grinding as its neck muscles bulged, every inch of its body straining forward against the invisible weight pressing down on it.
Defiance.
Altair tilted his head.
The pressure didn't ease.
His smile widened.
"…So you're the leader."
He lifted one hand.
Not his sword.
Not a sigil.
Just his hand.
His index finger rose—slow, deliberate—and aligned with the wyvern's head like a child mimicking a game.
Crimson light gathered.
Not in a flare.
Not in a burst.
It condensed.
A pinpoint of red formed at his fingertip, glowing faintly at first. Then it deepened, thickened, drawing in light around it. The air warped subtly as the glow sharpened, stretching into a narrow, needle-like shape—longer, denser, more focused with every breath.
It wasn't an orb anymore.
It was a shot.
A compressed spear of crimson energy, no wider than a finger, its edges impossibly clean. Veins of darker red spiraled along its length, rotating slowly as if drilling through the space it occupied.
The pressure jumped.
The leader wyvern felt it.
Its eyes widened violently.
Its wings faltered.
It tried to pull back—muscles screaming as it twisted its body, claws scrabbling uselessly in the air. Its jaws opened, a roar tearing up from its chest—
Altair spoke.
"Death Shot."
The crimson spear fired.
No recoil.
No explosion.
Just release.
The shot tore through the air in a straight line, space screaming as it passed. The sound came after—a sharp, tearing whistle—as the projectile punched through atmosphere like it wasn't there.
It crossed the distance instantly.
The wyvern didn't have time to blink.
The impact hit.
BOOM.
The wyvern's head ceased to exist.
Not split.
Not crushed.
Gone.
A shockwave erupted outward from the point of contact, snapping the neck backward as blood, scale fragments, and bone vaporized into a crimson mist. The body followed a heartbeat later, momentum carrying it forward before gravity reclaimed it.
The headless corpse dropped.
It slammed into the road with a thunderous crash, stone fracturing beneath its weight. Blood splashed outward in thick arcs, steaming as it hit the ground.
Silence followed.
The remaining wyverns stared.
Wings trembling.
Eyes wide.
Tails stiff.
Altair lowered his hand.
"…Tch," he sighed lightly.
The crimson glow around him faded just enough to breathe again.
He glanced up at the frozen wyverns.
"Get lost."
The pressure exploded outward.
Not in a blast—
but as an overwhelming command.
The wyverns screamed.
High. Broken. Panicked.
Formation shattered.
Wings collided.
One nearly slammed into the cliff before veering wildly away. Another twisted mid-air, fleeing so fast its tail clipped stone, venom spraying uselessly into the void.
They ran.
Not back to the nest.
Not to regroup.
They fled the territory entirely, vanishing into the distant sky in scattered directions, screeches fading into nothing.
The mountains fell silent.
Altair exhaled.
"…Bunch of cowards," he muttered.
He turned.
And walked back toward the carriage.
Inside—
No one spoke.
The coachman stared, mouth open, hands locked rigid around the reins.
The old woman's hands trembled uncontrollably in her lap.
The old man couldn't tear his eyes away from the corpse on the road.
Altair stepped back toward the carriage.
Stone crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the short distance, the heat still lingering in the air behind him. He reached the door, pulled it open, and climbed inside as if he were returning from a short walk rather than standing beneath a sky that had just been emptied of wyverns.
He didn't sit immediately.
Instead, he leaned back out through the open window, one arm resting against the frame, posture loose.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked, tone light, almost bored.
"Let's go."
The coachman flinched.
His hands tightened around the reins, knuckles whitening as his breath hitched in his throat. For half a heartbeat, he simply stared—at the road ahead, at the mountains, at the empty sky where monsters had circled moments ago.
"Y–Yes, sir!" he stammered.
His voice cracked as he snapped the reins forward with far more force than necessary.
The Gravehorns screamed.
Not in panic this time—but sharp, rattled cries, their massive bodies shuddering as they surged into motion. Hooves struck stone hard, too hard, as the beasts obeyed, muscles bunching and releasing with raw power.
The carriage lurched.
Then rolled forward.
Behind them, the mountains stood silent.
Inside the carriage, no one spoke.
The old woman sat rigid, fingers clenched tightly in her lap. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she stared at the open window—then slowly turned her gaze toward Altair.
Her lips trembled before sound finally escaped.
"That…" she whispered, voice barely holding together,
"that copper-ranked boy…"
Her words faltered.
"…He killed a wyvern," she finished weakly, "…like it was nothing."
The old man nodded beside her.
Slowly.
He hadn't taken his eyes off Altair since the moment the carriage began moving again.
"And now," he said hoarsely, swallowing hard,
"he's sleeping."
Altair lay stretched across the seat, coat bunched beneath his shoulders. One arm rested behind his head, the other draped loosely at his side. His breathing was steady. Deep. Untroubled.
As if nothing worth remembering had just happened.
"…Just a lone wanderer," he murmured softly, half-asleep.
His eyes never opened.
The carriage continued on.
And the mountains watched them leave.
Far away—
Light did not exist.
Not truly.
The chamber was vast, yet impossible to measure. Darkness swallowed distance, leaving only the faint outline of stone beneath one's feet. The air was still—so still it felt preserved, like a place where sound had learned to hold its breath.
At the center of the chamber stood a circular table carved from black stone.
Not assembled.
Not placed.
Carved directly from the floor itself.
Ancient runes traced its surface in slow, deliberate spirals, etched deep and worn smooth by time. They pulsed faintly, one after another, lines of dim light converging toward the table's heart.
There—
a blue orb hovered just above the stone.
Its glow was soft. Cold. Steady.
Inside it, faint shapes shifted—blurred silhouettes, fractured scenes, moments stitched together imperfectly, as though the orb struggled to decide which truth to show.
Four figures stood around the table.
They did not sit.
They did not move.
Their forms were obscured by layered shadows, faces hidden beneath hoods and darkness alike. Only their presence was certain—heavy, deliberate, absolute.
One of them raised a hand.
Long fingers closed around the hovering orb.
The blue light dimmed slightly beneath his grip.
"The wyverns we stationed there…" he said at last, voice low and even,
"…have fled."
The orb pulsed once.
"…One is dead."
Silence followed.
Not shock.
Not alarm.
Just consideration.
Another figure shifted, the faint scrape of cloth against stone echoing softly through the chamber.
"The Adventurer Guild," a second voice said, measured and calm,
"did they dispatch someone?"
The first figure did not answer immediately.
The orb brightened, images inside it distorting—sky torn by motion, crimson light, a shape falling too fast.
Before any conclusion could form—
a third voice cut in.
"Do not assume."
The words were sharp—not loud, but precise.
"Guild movements are recorded," the voice continued. "This was not an authorized response."
A pause.
The fourth figure inclined his head slightly.
"Then we proceed properly," he said. "Gather intelligence."
His gaze—unseen but felt—rested on the orb.
"Confirm the variable."
The first figure released his grip.
The orb brightened again, resuming its steady glow.
"…Then inform the boss," the fourth added.
No one argued.
The runes along the table flared briefly—then dimmed.
The chamber returned to stillness.
To Be Continued.....