The evening air was cool, heavy with the damp scent of stone and iron. Torches flickered along the tunnel walls, their light casting elongated shadows as twenty soldiers marched in tight formation. At their head strode Prince Pronto, his crimson hair catching the glow, the faint heat it emitted distorting the air just enough to make it ripple like a mirage.

  Beside him, Rachad walked with a measured pace, his posture composed, his expression respectful. He offered a mild salute before speaking. “It’s an honor to guide you through the Elven Prison, Your Highness.”

  Without waiting for a response, he reached into his belt pouch and produced a cylindrical glass container—conical at the base, corked at the top. “Please take this.” His voice was even, almost cordial. “I noticed your injuries are still severe.”

  “I don't need it.” Pronto didn’t even glance at the potion, his voice as firm as steel. “Save it for someone desperate.”

  Rachad pressed the bottle forward, but Pronto merely lifted his injured arm, eyes cold. “This? Hardly a concern. I’ve survived worse.”

  “The Warden insists.” Rachad extended the potion again, this time without elaboration.

  Pronto exhaled through his nose—barely a sigh, more like a restrained irritation. “Fine.” He took the bottle and tipped it back, drinking the barest amount needed.

  As his wounds sealed, he flicked a glance at Rachad. “There. Your duty to the Warden is fulfilled.” The way he said it made it clear—this was an obligation, not gratitude.

  A familiar warmth spread through his wounds as they began to knit together. He pocketed the rest, intending to pass it on to his soldiers.

  ‘Another favor owed to the Warden… I wanted to avoid this.’

  As a prince, Pronto had no shortage of wealth. Healing potions were hardly beyond his means. But the Warden wasn’t after wealth—he was after leverage. A small debt here, another there, until eventually, it became an obligation. With Pronto’s father being a Level 3 Human, equal in rank to the Warden, this was a calculated maneuver.

  And Pronto understood it all too well.

  For now, though, he had no choice but to play along. His mission was complete, but his carriage was in ruins. The Elven Prison’s Dwarf was his only hope for repairs, and only the Warden had the authority to grant access tohim.

  So, for now, he had to dance to the Warden’s tune.

  “Now, I must ask Your Highness to refrain from… unnecessary displays.” Rachad’s tone remained formal, yet carefully neutral. “Please show no reaction to the Elves. We don’t want them reading into anything they shouldn’t.”

  If Pronto caught the edge beneath those words, he didn’t let it show.

  Rachad, however, was bristling on the inside.

  ‘If you weren’t a prince, I wouldn’t have even let you set foot in the Elven Prison, much less be your guide.’

  He stole a glance at Pronto, irritation simmering beneath the surface.

  Pronto stood tall at 185 centimeters, his body well-built from countless battles. Even among Level 2 Humans, his stats were impressive for someone his age. But what annoyed Rachad the most was Pronto’s crimson hair—it wasn’t just red, it gave off a soft warmth, heating the air just enough to make his strands lift slightly.

  As he walked, his hair moved like waves in the wind, trailing behind him, almost like a lion’s mane mid-sprint. It made him look noble, effortlessly commanding attention. Even if he wore nothing but rags, people would still be drawn to him—his looks, his presence, the way he carried himself.

  Pronto was everything Rachad wished he could be but never could. And the more he thought about it, the more irritated he became—so much so that he felt the urge to take it out on a group of Elves.

  Rachad kept his composure, but his fingers curled ever so slightly. A part of him itched to lash out, to vent his frustration on the Elves.

  Pronto, of course, noticed.

  “Thank you for the reminder.” His words were smooth, his nod subtle. “I have no intention of overstaying my welcome. You can relax.”

  Rachad’s jaw tightened.

  ‘This smug bastard…’

  It wasn’t just acknowledgement. It was a warning. A silent message, laced with a quiet authority that grated against Rachad’s pride.

  ‘I won’t interfere with your work, so you’d best stay in line.’

  Both were Level 2 Humans, but their standings were vastly different. Rachad was nobility; Pronto was royalty. And if Pronto continued proving himself—if he reached Level 3—he would one day become King.

  Apart from the duo, the twenty soldiers marched in silence. They eventually arrived at a prison cell where the Elves, forced to farm cereal crops, were held.

  By evening, the Elves returned from the fields, their movements sluggish from exhaustion. But as soon as they spotted Rachad, their tiredness melted into tense wariness. Their eyes darted toward the scroll he held—a scroll with Elf skulls affixed to its ends.

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  Pronto remained behind the line of soldiers, keeping to the shadows, observing. His frown deepened.

  ‘Are these… Elves?’

  They were nothing like what his father had described. There was no arrogance, no defiance, none of the mystical presence he had grown up believing in.

  All he saw were hunched figures, their postures stripped of dignity. Their fear clung to the air like a damp fog, thick and suffocating.

  ‘These are just cattle, nothing more.’ The thought settled in his mind like cold iron.

  Rachad’s voice cut through the tense silence.

  “Now!” He unfurled the scroll, lifting it for all to see. An image had been drawn onto the parchment—a face. “The one whose face is painted here, come out.”

  A heavy pause.

  “You’re graduating from slavery today.”

  Murmurs broke out among the Elves.

  “That is…?”

  “My goodness…”

  “I’m glad it’s not me.”

  But the one singled out looked stricken with terror.

  “No… T-this cannot be true,” Nunaka stammered, falling to his knees. “I… My Lord, I’ve completed all my tasks… Please, spare me…”

  “Are you questioning me, slave?” Rachad’s Fire Whip cracked against the floor, leaving a scorched mark. The heat it radiated was enough to melt through bone.

  “I’m not!” Nunaka cried. “My Lord, I’ll accept any punishment. But please… I beg you—”

  “Allow me to live!”

  Rachad smirked, his gaze sweeping across the other Elves. He chuckled when they flinched. “Does it feel unfair?”

  “I didn’t want to do this either,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. He looked down at Nunaka, still trembling on the ground. “But your beloved World Tree gave birth to six new Elves yesterday. And since His Majesty is so compassionate, the babies are allowed to live.”

  “Unfortunately, that means six of you must graduate.”

  He stepped closer to Nunaka, enjoying the way he shuddered. His voice turned mocking. “If you want to blame someone, blame the World Tree.”

  “Please… spare me,” Nunaka sobbed, lifting his tear-streaked face. His eyes were desperate as he met Rachad’s gaze. “I’ll do anything… anything! Just let me live.”

  “The rules are the same as always,” Rachad said, pointing at the gathered Elves. “Pick one of them to fight. If you win, you’re pardoned. If they lose… they take your place.”

  Nunaka’s eyes darted wildly across the crowd of Elves, scanning them like a starving beast, desperate to find someone he could kill.

  Rachad could have simply executed him once his stats increased past the limit, but that wasn’t the point. The real goal was to keep the Elves divided, to stop them from ever banding together against their oppressors.

  Every time an Elf graduated, Rachad made sure to remind everyone why it was happening—because the World Tree had spawned another Elf. If not for that, the victim could have kept living.

  Over time, this idea took root. A small but growing resentment towards the World Tree had begun to fester among the Elves. And as their connection to the tree weakened, it would become harder for them to improve their strength and reach higher levels.

  Step by step, their potential to reach Level 2 was being crushed. If things kept going this way, a day would come when Elves would completely lose the instinct to evolve, all because of the hate planted inside them.

  The second part of the plan was even simpler—break their unity.

  By forcing Elves to fight each other to survive, distrust had spread. It had gone on for so long that some groups had even started keeping a few of their own weak on purpose—easy sacrifices for moments like this.

  Twenty years of this system had already done its damage. The cracks ran deep.

  ‘Yup, this is fun!’ Rachad thought, breathing in the moment with satisfaction. Watching Nunaka’s face twist as he scanned the crowd filled him with delight, ‘Their unity has long since been shattered.’

  “Not me…”

  “I don’t want to fight…”

  The older Elves shuddered upon meeting Nunaka’s gaze. The longer they had lived under these conditions—malnourished, sleepless—the weaker they had become. To Nunaka, they were easy prey.

  Nunaka wasn’t in much better condition himself. Fifteen years old, worn down by hardship, but still desperate. Just as he was about to pick one of the weakest among them—one who had clearly been bullied into staying weak—he suddenly stopped.

  His gaze landed on Pinaka.

  Nunaka’s lips curled into a sick smile. ‘He’s injured. Badly.’

  ‘When I dragged him earlier, I could feel how damaged his body was. If it’s him…’

  ‘I’m guaranteed to win.’

  “Him.” Nunaka pointed at Pinaka. “I’ll fight him.”

  Rachad raised an eyebrow. “The baby Elf?” He seemed mildly surprised but shrugged. “Well, His Majesty’s orders only apply to Humans. If you want to kill each other, that’s none of our business.”

  He grinned and cracked his Fire Whip against the ground. “Alright, everyone, clear the area!”

  The Fire Whip lashed out, its searing heat forcing the Elves back to the prison’s edges. The twenty soldiers spread out, taking their positions, ensuring no one would interfere.

  Rachad, meanwhile, leaned lazily against a central pillar. His whip extended, its burning length coiling into a perfect circle—four meters across.

  His grin widened.

  “Now, Pinaka and Nunaka.” His voice held a touch of mockery. “Step into the circle.”

  A heavy silence fell.

  “I’m sorry, Pinaka.”

  Mahnaka rested a hand on Pinaka’s back, his voice thick with quiet grief. “There’s nothing you can do at this point.”

  He knew. They all knew.

  Pinaka was in no condition to fight. His injuries alone would seal his fate.

  Mahnaka exhaled. “I can only hope—”

  “Save your breath,” Pinaka interrupted, his tone drained of emotion.

  Dragging himself forward, he met Nunaka’s gaze, his own expression unreadable. ‘I have to apologize for what happens next, my brother in this hellscape world.’

  ‘But I can’t afford kindness.’

  He stepped into the fire-ringed circle.

  Inhaled once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  And then, he was ready.

  …