Ren was hurled several feet away, his body reeling, knees buckling. His breath came in ragged gasps, pulse wild and uneven. He stared at his trembling hands—dazed, disoriented.

  GRAAAAAAGH!

  Through the haze, he saw the Eret’s jaws snap shut—on nothing. It stumbled, screeching, claws slashing through empty space. Ren had vanished.

  And the man that thrown him like a sack of grain is now holding a glowing brilliant blue light—his weapon no longer that flimsy branch, but a water sword.

  Al skidded to a stop, golden eyes narrowing. A flicker. He couldn't believe that the curse of that brat could be used like this.

  He shot a glance at the bird, giving it a quick thumbs-up.

  Ybon, perched smugly nearby, puffed out its chest, feathers ruffling as if basking in well-earned praise.

  Al snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky.”

  Ybon let out a sharp, self-satisfied chirp—clearly ignoring him.

  Ren, still catching his breath, felt the bird settle on his head once more. Its warmth seeped through his frozen scalp, grounding him. Anchoring him.

  For a moment, he wasn’t flickering, wasn’t slipping in and out of existence. He was just there. Solid. Present.

  And it was all because of Ybon.

  No time to question it.

  The creature had already recovered.

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  And now—it was furious.

  ....

  Al was unharmed.

  His greenhouse, however, was suffering.

  Crack. A shattered pot.

  Rip. A rare vine torn apart.

  Smash. His precious, thriving garden—destroyed.

  The man froze.

  Then, slowly—his face darkened.

  "I’m going to kill something."

  The boy swallowed. That sounded personal.

  The old man raised his branch—yes, a literal tree branch—and ran his fingers along the wood.

  Something shifted.

  The moment his fingers brushed the bark, water surged forth, forming a sleek, razor-sharp blade.

  Ren’s breath hitched.

  “No way…” He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Fire. Now water.

  Two elements. In less than five minutes.

  He stared.

  That was rare. Exceptionally rare.

  Most mages were lucky to master one element. Two? That was something only highborn battle mages or monsters on the battlefield could achieve.

  And this guy?

  Some grumpy old man living alone in a greenhouse?

  Who the hell was he?

  Maybe… Maybe he was that mage. The one from the rumors. The one from the neighboring kingdom.

  But there was no time to dwell on that—because the undead had already begun its attack.

  Before, it had moved mindlessly, driven only by its hunger for warmth.

  Now, its movements were sharp. Deliberate.

  Al fought like a veteran, dodging with practiced ease, his water blade carving through rotting limbs.

  Ren watched, barely breathing.

  The man wasn’t just fighting.

  He was testing the creature.

  Observing it.

  Studying it with unsettling precision.

  Ren hugged his stolen potato tighter.

  "This guy…" he muttered, heart pounding.

  Al twisted, dodged, pivoted—moving like a trained fighter, wielding magic as naturally as breathing.

  The Eret’s head snapped unnaturally in Ren’s direction.

  Empty sockets locked onto his warmth.

  It lunged.

  The old man cursed, spun on his heel—

  And threw his sword into the air.

  Ren gawked.

  WHAT WAS HE DOING?!

  The Eret swiped at him.

  He jumped—barely escaping its grasp—and reached for the falling weapon.

  His fingers closed around the hilt.

  The water blade froze over.

  A spear of pure ice.

  The man twisted mid-air, momentum carrying him forward—

  And drove the spear downward through the Eret’s skull with crushing force.

  The glowing nucleus inside its head froze.

  Crack.

  It shattered.

  Followed by the body that turned to dust.