Once more, Icariel and Princess Virethiel raced toward danger—One driven by a duty carved in blood,The other chasing a promise that glittered like gold amid the smoke.
Different reasons.Same goal.Slay the monsters.
On the far edge of the ruined capital square, Elena and Elif stood flanked by two royal guards. They hadn't moved since the clash began—watching, hearts pounding like wardrums, as the snow-drenched beasts fell one after another.
Elif clutched her mother's sleeve. "Mom… I think this nightmare is almost over."
There was a hopeful lilt in her voice—thin, trembling, desperate.
Elena nodded, eyes glassy and shining. "Yes, dear. It's almost over… finally."
From the dozens that had erupted like a plague at the start, only five yetis remained. And two of them now stood in the crosshairs of Icariel and Virethiel.
The rhythm of death hadn't changed—it was still a dance.A grotesque choreography where blood marked the tempo.
"Spell: Wind Slash."
A razor gale tore through the air, slicing the nearest yeti's legs clean at the knees. Bone split like rotted branches. Flesh parted with a sickening hiss. The monster shrieked, toppling to the ground in a lurch of fury and pain.
Before it could roar again—Virethiel blurred behind it in a ripple of black.
Her obsidian dagger flashed. A clean arc of steel, and the beast's head severed from its shoulders.
Its lifeless body crumpled, smearing blood across shattered stone.
Another yeti howled, enraged, and lunged for them—
THWACK!
An arrow slammed into its chest—its shaft alight with fire. The beast writhed, shrieked, and buckled as flames engulfed it. Smoke rose like a funeral shroud as the monster collapsed into a flaming heap of ash and fur.
Virethiel landed hard, breath ragged. Her sweat-slicked hair clung to her brow, shimmering faintly with residual mana.
"They live in the frozen mountains of the North," she muttered. "Of course fire is their weakness. It works perfectly in our favor."
Her gaze swept across the battlefield like a blade.
"Three left. Let's end this."
Icariel stood beside her, panting. His shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat. Each breath felt like it dragged fire into his lungs.
"Even if my mana regenerates... even if it never truly runs out... this is the first time I've cast so many spells... so fast... for so long."
His body—enhanced and awakened—was strong. But this was more than physical. This was a war.
"Yeah," he exhaled. "Let's finish this quickly."
Time blurred. And then only one yeti remained.
It stood amidst the broken bodies of wounded elven soldiers—riddled with spears, staggering, roaring in blind agony as blood dripped down its fur in steaming rivulets.
Then—from the sky—Virethiel descended like a vengeful phantom. Her blade whispered once. The beast's neck split clean through.
Its head hit the stone a breath before its body did.
Silence.
Then—
"HURAAAH!"
A cry of triumph thundered from the surviving elves. Shouts of joy, disbelief, and exhaustion rose like a chorus from the damned.
Vice Leader Floon was the first to approach. His chest heaved with every breath, armor streaked with blood and smoke.
He dropped to one knee before Virethiel.
"We are ashamed," he said, voice hoarse. "That you had to enter the battlefield yourself, Highness. And… thank you."
Virethiel nodded. "You did enough, Vice-Leader. We cleared the square without major casualties. That's what matters."
"Thanks to you—and him," Floon added, turning to the boy approaching slowly through the wreckage.
Icariel's footsteps echoed softly. The wind kissed the edges of his torn clothes.
He stopped beside Virethiel. "Our deal's done," he said simply. "I'm going to check on Elif and Elena. We'll meet again later."
Virethiel gave a small nod. "Thank you. I won't forget this."
"You better not." His smirk flickered with a shadow of weariness—and he turned to leave.
But—
Floon stepped forward again, respectful. "If you'll excuse me… you're Warleader's disciple, aren't you?"
Icariel paused mid-step. His head tilted slightly, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
"Yes. I am."
Floon's battle-worn face softened. "As expected of one trained by him. I'm Vice Leader Floon, of the Elven Battalion. May I ask your name?"
The square hushed. Even the wounded seemed to freeze mid-breath.
Virethiel's gaze sharpened, surprised. "He recognized him that easily?" No. He didn't need to. Icariel had done more than most soldiers today. His deeds spoke louder than titles.
Even the elves behind Floon stopped moving. Their eyes locked on the human boy standing among them—singed, bloodied, calm.
Icariel turned to face them fully.
His black hair tousled, his garments torn—but his voice, when it came, was unwavering.
"My name is Icariel."
Floon nodded, smiling. "Icariel who?"
A pause.
Then—Icariel shrugged faintly. A ghost of a smile curled his lips.
"Just Icariel."
"That was the name given to me. And I'm grateful for it."
Virethiel smiled. Not the cold curve of formality, but something softer—real. It made her look almost ethereal.
Floon bowed his head. "Then, Icariel… it's an honor. I won't forget you. Ever."
Icariel turned and walked toward Elena and Elif, who stood waiting with the royal guards. But before he could reach them, a soldier behind Floon stepped forward.
His voice was low, but filled with unshakable conviction.
"No name can carry what his deeds have earned."
The silence shattered as more voices joined in:
"For honor!"
"For Icariel!"
"For Icariel!"
One by one, every soldier in the square repeated the chant, their voices growing louder, stronger, rising like a wave.
"For Icariel!"
Icariel stopped. His heart raced. For a moment, he thought it would burst.
He turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder.
And for the first time—He smiled.
A real smile
The kind that came not from victory or reward…But from something far more fragile.
Acceptance.
The weight of his first kill. The burden of this bloody battle. The loneliness he carried.
It all felt… just a little lighter.
Thanks to them.
The boy stood there, facing the soldiers, his body now fully turned toward them.
Then—he lowered his head.
Not out of shame. But because he genuinely didn't know how to respond.
Since the tragedy in Mjull, Icariel had been suffering in silence. If it weren't for the voice with him… he might've lost his mind entirely.
He had seen the villagers he was raised with—burned alive, torn apart, devoured. He had watched helplessly as Groon and Fronta, the ones who had saved him from the Zogonio River,
died before his eyes.
No one knew.
And he had never said it aloud.
He didn't show it.
Maybe he couldn't.
But he was still carrying it all.
Now, after taking a life—after so much bloodshed and exhaustion—these chants of honor from strangers felt like something else entirely.
Like a hand.
A hand reaching into the dark pit he'd been trapped in.
He raised his head and nodded, not just to the soldiers, but to everything they'd given him in that moment. Then, still smiling faintly, he turned and began to run toward the two who had waited for him—Elena and Elif.
They were standing near the royal guards, their eyes lighting up the moment they saw him.
"Voice,"Icariel whispered, breathless, as he ran.
He was smiling. Genuinely smiling.
"For the first time… even though I risked my life… I'm glad I fought. I protected them."
The voice answered, quiet and steady.
"I know… I can feel your heart racing. After all, I reside inside you."
A short pause.
Then, the faintest smirk, woven into sound:
"Stand proud. You earned it."
As Icariel ran across the field, PrincessVirethiel turned to Floon, her voice sharp and commanding.
"Send soldiers to check how the Pillars are holding up. They're facing the main forces of the Godless Abyss—we need to know how they're faring."
Floon nodded. "At once, Your Highness." He began issuing orders immediately.
"But where is Aelar?" she muttered to herself. "He should've finished and joined us by now."
Meanwhile, Icariel reached Elena and Elif.
Elena rushed forward and embraced him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as she laughed and wept softly into his hair.
"Thank you… thank you," she whispered, ruffling his messy locks. "You were amazing, Icariel. Aelar is going to be so proud of you."
He smiled gently. "Thank you, Elena. Really… thank you."
Elif stood behind her, arms crossed—but even she was smiling now.
"Look at this jerk. Hogging all the hugs from Mom like that," she muttered. "But I guess you earned them… you helped a little, I guess."
Icariel glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Huh? 'Helped a little'?"
He pulled away from Elena, turning to Elif with a teasing smirk.
"Well, If we're measuring 'little' by size, then your whole body counts."
Elena burst into laughter.
Elif's face turned crimson. "You violent little mountain troll!"
Icariel laughed, and for once—it didn't feel forced.
Then, a royal guard approached—not the one who had been standing beside them, but a different one. His arm was in heavy bandages.
"Excuse me," the elf said respectfully. "The Highness has ordered us to regroup at the castle. Until the overall situation is under control, we can't afford to take any risks."
Icariel blinked. It was the same guard who had caught him during the fall—the one whose arm had broken from the impact.
"Monsters did you dirty, huh?" Icariel said, glancing at the wrapped limb.
"That wasn't the monsters," Elif chimed in from behind. "That was you. I don't know what you did to your body, but when he caught you, you broke his arm."
"…What?" Icariel blinked. "That's why you dropped me like a sack of potatoes?"
The royal guard gave a small nod of embarrassed confirmation.
"Wait, why didn't anyone heal you?" Icariel asked.
Elif frowned. Elena stepped in gently. "Royal guards are trained for battle, not for healing. Even those who can heal need to conserve their mana. And…"
She looked down.
"…the first condition for healing magic is calmness. In that chaos, none of us could stay calm enough to cast it."
"I see…" Icariel nodded slowly. "Sorry. That was a dumb question."
Then, he stepped forward, facing the guard with the bandaged arm.
"Hey. Come closer."
The elf obeyed, curious.
Icariel raised a hand and whispered, "Healing Spell."
Green light surged from his palm, soft and radiant. It laced around the guard's arm as ambient and internal mana gently fused and flowed. A warm hum filled the air. The bone re-aligned, the tissue restored, the pain erased.
The royal guards gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.
"He's mastered healing magic…?"
When the glow faded, the elf flexed his fingers—then his wrist—and finally his full arm.
It was fully healed.
"How do you feel?" Icariel asked.
The elf looked at him, stunned.
Then slowly—he bowed his head.
"…Thank you, Icariel."
Icariel shook his head. "Don't mention it. It was my fault, after all."
He cracked a small grin.
"I wanted to hit you on the head for dropping me like that… but I guess it doesn't matter now."
He turned to the others.
"Let's go."
Elena chuckled. Elif rolled her eyes, still blushing. And Icariel, walking beside them under the gray-blue sky, smiled once more—lighter than before.
For the first time since the nightmare began… something inside him felt warm again.
[End of Chapter 60]