A loud scream sliced through the forest like torn sinew.
"What was that sound?" Icariel muttered, muscles tensing. It came from far—yet clear enough to shiver down his spine. That alone was wrong. Sounds that loud didn't carry unless they wanted to be heard.
"Yeah… not my job," he added dryly, shaking it off as he trudged toward the cave, rabbit carcass hanging from one hand, blood still dripping warm.
Inside, he sparked a flame spell. Orange light crawled over the walls like a living thing, clawing at the darkness. Still… that scream stuck to his ribs. "Too loud to come from a normal human," he whispered, eyes narrowing.
And then—his White Sense pulsed.
"Someone's here." His mind snapped tight. The calm bled out of him.
"Voice," he whispered inwardly. "Something just entered my range—close. And their mana's dense. Heavier than average. I can feel it crawling up my spine."
After a month of brutal training, White Sense had evolved too. Its reach now swept a 17-meter radius, automatic and unblinking.
"What should I do?" Icariel asked, unmoving. "Do I stay hidden or—?"
"No use," the voice cut in. "If they saw the flame light, they know someone's here. Don't hide. Go. Outside."
Icariel didn't argue. He killed the flame with a flick and turned toward the mouth of the cave. But just as he took a step—
White Sense screamed again. "It's here," he muttered. A chill dragged down his spine. "It's at the entrance. It's already here."
And then he saw it—in the soft breath of moonlight, a hand curled around the stone wall like a dying spider.
No hesitation.
Flame Spears. One. Two. Three. Four.
Each burst into being with a pop and a low, hungry hiss—flames unraveling into existence like fire being born backwards. Heat warped the air, distorting the cave like a desert dream. Sweat prickled across his skin.
His wounded hand rose. Trembled. He gritted his teeth and grabbed one of the spears—
—Pain exploded. Flesh met raw magic. It seared like molten iron—but he held on. Barely.
His heart pounded. The spears pulsed with it—alive, tied to him like blood vessels outside the skin.
"If it moves—I attack it," he thought, cold and clean.
Then the figure slumped forward. Collapsed.
The spear dissolved in smoke and dying light.
"…Huh?" Icariel whispered, lowering his hand.
He couldn't hold it much longer anyway. The burn throbbed in his palm. He stepped closer, slow, ready to cast again if needed.
As the flickering firelight reached her face, he froze.
A young girl. A child. Maybe ten, no older.
Blood stained her like spilled paint. Long silver hair clung to her skin in wet knots. And what stood out most—ears. Long. Pointed. Her skin shimmered faintly under the firelight, almost translucent. Beneath it, glowing veins pulsed with rhythmic light—like stars flickering underwater.
She wore strange grey clothing, elegant but torn, etched with symbols that made no sense—like swords without edges, words without voices.
"A child…?" Icariel muttered.
The voice spoke, calm and certain.
"An Elf."
"An… Elf?" he echoed. "Never heard of them."
"Take her inside," the voice instructed. "She's barely alive."
He hesitated. He didn't take risks. Ever.
"Elves aren't hostile to humans. And she's a child. There's no danger here."
Still reluctant, Icariel knelt and lifted her. She was too light—like bones wrapped in frost. Her skin was cold. He carried her in, reignited the flame spell, and laid her down on the smooth stone where he normally slept. The Flame Spears vanished. The fire crackled softly.
He examined the wound. A deep tear in her right shoulder.
"Shit… I don't have the right tools," he muttered, biting his lip. Still, he cleaned the wound gently and bound it tight with torn cloth from his own gear.
"That'll slow the bleeding…" he breathed.
He sat beside her, silent. The fire painted flickering shadows across her face.
"So… what are Elves?" he asked aloud.
"They are wise beings," the voice replied, "deeply connected to mana—more than almost any race. They live for centuries."
"Immortal?"
"No. But they age like glaciers. Their bond with nature and healing magic is unmatched. Most stay hidden—forests, ancient cities, far from human reach. Peaceful. Reclusive. Their mastery of the arcane dwarfs what you've seen."
"Hah. I wish I was born an Elf," Icariel muttered.
"They're graceful. Ethereal. But proud. Cold to outsiders."
Icariel studied her—silver hair gleaming, features already unreal.
"I never read anything about them…"
"Your books were broken. Incomplete. You lived locked away in Mjull. It's no wonder."
Silence.
"And don't worry," the voice added. "Elves don't harm children. Especially not humans. But… what happened to her? That, I don't know."
Icariel stared at the wound. "Then tell me. About this healing magic… You never mentioned—"
She stirred.
A twitch. A flutter of eyelids.
Then she bolted upright. Silver eyes wide, scanning. Panic. Until they landed on him.
She froze.
"MANIAC!"
The word hit like a slap across the soul.
Icariel didn't move. The fire's embers flickered in his eyes.
He slowly stood, flames hissing out at his fingertips.
"…Maniac?" he echoed, voice low. Too calm.
She was trembling, hands curled against her chest, wide-eyed with raw, bottomless fear.
"Voice," he whispered inside. "What does she mean?"
No reply.
"Voice?"
Still nothing.
His expression shifted—subtly. Something darker stirred behind his eyes.
"How dare you carve my body!" she cried, arms crossed over herself, though nothing was exposed.
"Carve?" Icariel blinked. Then it hit. His eyes narrowed.
"Ah… oh."
She thought… he'd done something while she was unconscious.
His face darkened. "Give me the bandages. You don't deserve them," he said coldly, stepping forward.
"Wha—No! Please! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!" she panicked, scrambling backward.
"Shut up," Icariel snapped. "That's how you thank someone for saving your life?"
"I just saw someone shirtless—I panicked, okay?!"
He paused.
It… made sense. She was a child. Scared. Alone. Probably traumatized.
His posture loosened. "Fine," he muttered, stepping back. "I get it."
She clutched the bandage and looked away, ashamed.
"So…" he began, quieter now. "What's a child like you doing out here? Bleeding like that?"
She hesitated. Her fingers dug into the bandage. "A monster," she whispered. "It chased me. Separated me from my family. I don't know if they're okay. I don't even know if they're alive…"
Icariel watched her. Face unreadable.
"I see," he said. "You can stay. Until you recover."
She wiped her face. Nodded. "Thank you…"
A pause.
"You don't talk like a kid," he noted.
She frowned. "Why should I? Just because I look like one doesn't mean I am one. I'm older than you. Probably."
She winced, hand brushing her wound. "If you'd studied basic elven physiology, you'd know appearances lie."
The voice echoed inside his head. "I told you. Elves age slowly."
Icariel kept staring at her. "Yeah, but… she looks ten."
"That's how unique they are," the voice said. "Their bodies don't age like humans. Not in any way that makes sense."
"How old are you?" Icariel asked directly.
She glanced at him. Silver hair brushed her shoulder. "Twenty," she said flatly.
"Huh? For real?"
"For real."
She tilted her head. Studying him. "You really don't know anything about us, do you?"
"Just met your kind today," he said bluntly.
"What… how… are you serious?" she muttered.
Before she could go on—her stomach growled. Loud. Hungry.
Icariel blinked. Then smirked. "Oh. You're starving."
He grabbed a roasted rabbit leg. Held it out. "Here. Eat this."
"NO—!" the voice screamed, too late.
Her eyes locked on the food. And for a breathless moment—panic overtook her.
Not hunger. Horror.
"NO! GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!"
She scrambled backward, nearly falling. Her hands shot up like shields, breath slicing in and out, wild and sharp.
Icariel stood, frozen.
"What the hell's wrong with it?" Icariel barked. "Is it poisoned?"
[End of chapter 20]