The morning mist still hung over the quiet forest clearing near Aelar's home, coiling like the breath of sleeping beasts.
A figure stepped into view—slow, certain, silent.
Icariel's dark eyes narrowed, White Sense flaring with clarity—and what he saw made his chest seize like a trap.
An overwhelming presence. The mana surrounding them was denser, purer than anything he had ever encountered. The very air shimmered, as if space itself recoiled from their existence. Within their stomach, a brilliant core pulsed — a green flame of mana that lit her entire being from within.
His voice came calm, but his blood ran ice.
"Voice… what is that?"
"Call the elf," the Voice answered, sharp as cracked bone."If this one means harm, you're finished."
Icariel stepped back, a flicker of wind pooling in his palm. "What do you want?"
The figure tilted their head—mechanical, measuring.
"Answer me," came the reply. Low. Sharp. Undeniable. "How did you know I was there?"
Wind gathered tighter in Icariel's hand, veins prickling with pressure. "Back off. I won't warn you twice."
The figure stepped forward. "Then don't."
Mana surged through him—pure voltage beneath the skin. His instincts howled like starving wolves, every muscle begging him to run. But turning his back meant death.
He raised his hand—Wind Slash bleeding into the air.
The forest shifted. Leaves tore loose. Branches trembled. Tension clung to the clearing like the breath before a scream.
"Oh?" the cloaked figure mused, head cocking. "Finally done trembling?"
Icariel's teeth ground against each other. But instead of striking, he drew breath—deeper than any spell required. A breath for survival. For surrender. For war.
Then he roared—
"TEACHER!!! HELP!!"
His voice cracked like thunder across the canopy.
Birds detonated from the trees. Even the forest flinched.
The figure recoiled, cloak twitching. "What—?!"
For a heartbeat, the shroud flickered.
A long curtain of dark hair spilled free. The silhouette sharpened—no longer formless shadow, but lethal shape.
Icariel didn't wait.
Both palms rose—wind screaming around him.
Twin Wind Slashes tore through the mist like twin guillotines, fast enough to slice sound, sharp enough to butcher trees.
The woman dodged with ease—but not before spitting, "Impudent little—"
Behind her, an ancient tree groaned—its trunk torn clean through.
With a thunderous crack, it toppled. Branches exploded. Earth shook. The impact echoed like a funeral drum through the woods.
Icariel turned and ran—heart slamming his ribs, legs eating distance like fire eats oil.
The figure gave chase.
But then—something shifted.
Another mana presence. Closer. Brighter. Familiar.
Aelar.
He burst into the clearing like a silver blade—hair trailing behind him like a comet, eyes already locked, breath sharp with urgency.
"What's happening?!" he called, his black clothes sharper than midnight.
Icariel sprinted to him, then spun, finger stabbing behind. "Teacher! She's chasing me—she's insanely strong! She has more mana than you!"
Aelar froze.
His gaze fell on the mist now thinning—revealing the stranger.
And then… he went still.
Icariel summoned a flaming spear—floating beside him, hot and silent. "If we fight together, we can win, right?"
But Aelar didn't answer.
"Teacher?" Icariel pressed, the silence jagged.
From the house, the door creaked open. Elif and Elena stood there—eyes wide, breaths caught.
Aelar's brow arched—sharp, slow, near disbelief.
"…Truly?"
He stepped forward, lowering his stance.
"What are you doing here, my Highness… without your guards?"
"...Highness?" Icariel blinked.
The woman drew back her hood.
Hair spilled down—dark as midnight oil, tied in a high, practical ponytail. Her face—gods above—was carved from elegance and flame. Sharp green eyes, gleaming with thought and command. Lips soft, pink, curled faintly in annoyance. Her skin gleamed like moonstone under armor.
Her ears—short, tipped—betrayed elven blood. Not pure. Not human. Something in between.
She stood tall—every line of her body radiating control. Combat attire clung like a second skin: sleek black, arcane patterns threading across it like veins. Her boots rose high, etched with runes that pulsed faintly. A translucent cape shimmered behind her like evaporating starlight.
Even her stillness was dangerous.
She crossed her arms and fixed Icariel with a gaze that pinned his lungs shut.
"Aelar," she said, voice calm but forged in command, "perhaps teach your student not to scream obscenities at strangers."
Icariel stiffened.
Aelar bowed his head. "Forgive me, but… what brings our Highness here alone?"
Her lips curved—faintly. Mischief flickered in her gaze like candlelight on oil.
"What are you implying, Aelar? Am I forbidden to walk through my own lands?"
"Of course not, Highness. But it's… unwise to travel unguarded."
She waved the words away. "You know I'm strong enough."
"I do," he admitted. "Still—"
She turned slightly, eyes drifting toward the forest path. "I was out for a walk," she said, voice now softer, "You know I love the mornings."
Her gaze slid back to Icariel, narrowing.
"I was passing your home when I spotted him—sprawled in the grass like a fallen creature. I wasn't planning to interrupt. But the moment he woke… he saw right through my stealth. Effortlessly." She tilted her head. "I found that… intriguing."
Elena's jaw fell. "He saw through Princess Virethiel's stealth…?"
Elif's eyes widened. "No way…"
Aelar's expression turned grim. "That strange awareness of his… it must've sensed her mana."
"I didn't know who you were!" Icariel snapped. "What would you do if someone was lurking over you in the woods like a damn forest wraith?!"
"Icariel," Aelar hissed under breath.
But the princess laughed. A low, bright sound—strangely human.
"Hah… how amusing," she said. "You really are a mountain boy."
She turned to Aelar. "Since I'm here already, I'll stay for morning tea. Wouldn't you agree?"
"It would be an honor, Highness," Aelar said. Then, to Elif: "Stay with Icariel."
The princess, Aelar, and Elena turned toward the house. Before vanishing inside, Virethiel glanced back.
She smiled—just slightly.
And then she was gone.
"…She's really annoying," Icariel muttered.
"Shhh!" Elif hissed. "Don't say that about our princess."
"Princess?" he echoed.
Elif nodded solemnly. "She's one of the three daughters of the Elf Queen. Ruler of all tribes. Each daughter guards a section of the Life Tree."
"Really?" he asked, eyes still watching the doorway.
"Really," Elif said firmly. "Want to walk while they drink?"
"Sure."
They strolled into the mist. The village emerged—dreamlike. Trees stretched high, homes built into bark and branch. Root bridges connected homes like veins. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and rising bread.
"There are three princesses total," Elif explained. "Children of the Elf Queen. Each guards a branch of the Life Tree."
"So the others are…?"
"Somewhere far from here."
"…Are they all as weird as her?"
"I said stop talking like that!" Elif snapped. "They're a blessing. And yes—they're all incredibly strong."
"I could tell. She had more mana than your dad."
"She does," Elif said proudly. "She's unmatched in raw mana—even among the royal line. That's why they're called the Fruits of the Life Tree."
"Fruits?" Icariel frowned. "Weird name."
"Long story. Anyway, even though she has more mana, in terms of technique?" She raised her chin. "My father's still stronger."
"Really?" he asked. "Compared to the others here, how strong is he?"
"Only the other warleaders match him," she said without pause. "No one else—not even nobles—can challenge him. Except the Elf Queen."
"My teacher really is awesome, huh?"
"Of course," Elif huffed, puffing her cheeks.
They turned onto a wide stone path. Light filtered through the trees, casting gold on dew-slick roots.
"...How did you see through her stealth?" Elif asked. "Princess Virethiel's the best at it."
Icariel paused.
His expression went still.
"...I just did."
"Ugh. Jerk," she muttered. "Always keeping secrets."
Just then, two elves stepped into view—moving like ghosts in fog.
The mist curled around them.
[End of Chapter 37]