The silence after the explosion of Neil's attack lingered like an aftershock.
Ash drifted through the air where the black wolf had stood only moments before. Four of its packmates lay motionless behind it, their bodies shattered or burned away by the residual burst of power. The clearing was still, but the tension hadn't released. The other wolves—five in total—hesitated for only a breath before growling and baring their fangs.
Neil took one step forward.
The wolves lunged.
But Neil was faster.
The world slowed around him as he activated his Core again, the energy surging into his limbs like a tidal wave of strength and precision. The first wolf came in low, teeth bared, but Neil twisted aside, ducking beneath the lunge and driving his fist into its ribs. The beast folded in on itself with a wheeze, then crumpled.
Another wolf leapt from his left. He stepped toward it, caught its head mid-air with both hands, and slammed it into the ground. Bone cracked. The aura flickered and turned gray.
Three more.
They tried to flank him.
Neil dropped to one knee and spun in a tight arc, sweeping his leg low. One wolf was caught cleanly, sent flying sideways into a tree. Before the next could recover, Neil surged forward and delivered a precise strike to its skull. It collapsed without a sound.
The last one froze.
Neil met its eyes. There was hesitation. Fear.
But it was too late.
He closed the distance and, with a clean upward punch, crushed its jaw and sent it flipping backward. It didn't rise again.
All of them were dead.
The entire pack.
The battlefield, once filled with snarls and howls, had gone eerily quiet. Blood soaked the earth. A few birds, long silent, cautiously chirped from the trees.
Neil turned back to the injured elf.
The man had collapsed onto his side during the fight. Blood still ran down his arm from multiple wounds. Neil rushed over and knelt beside him.
The elf's eyes were wide. Not with pain—but with disbelief.
Neil took his hand slowly and helped him sit up. The elf groaned but didn't resist.
"It's over," Neil said quietly, though he knew the words wouldn't be understood.
The elf looked at him, blinking.
Neil gestured to the clearing, now still, and then mimed sleep with his hands. He pointed to a patch of tall grass near the cliff wall—sheltered, hidden.
The elf gave a slow nod, understanding the meaning, if not the words.
Together, with Neil supporting the majority of the weight, they moved to the shelter of the cliff. There, Neil helped the elf sit and rest. He began tending to the wounds with what little cloth he had left from his ruined shirt.
The elf winced as Neil tightened the makeshift bandages.
"Sorry," Neil muttered.
The elf's golden eyes watched him in silence. There was pain there—but also something else.
Respect.
Neil handed the elf a piece of roasted meat from his pack and took one for himself. They ate in silence as the last light of day faded and the stars appeared.
That night, Neil dreamed.
It was a gentle dream—one that wrapped around his mind like a blanket. He was back on Earth, in the living room of their small home. The window was open, letting in warm summer air. Emma and Anna were laughing in the next room. His mother was humming while folding laundry.
Neil sat on the couch, stretching his legs, wearing a stupid grin as he watched some old fantasy movie with the volume low.
He hadn't changed.
Even now, after everything—after death, awakening, survival, killing—some part of him was still the same boy who promised to take care of his family. Who found joy in lazy afternoons and laughter.
That part still lived inside him.
He woke before dawn, the fire now reduced to ash. Mist clung to the ground in thin tendrils. Beside him, the elf stirred.
Neil stood and stretched, flexing his fingers.
The elf's wounds had stopped bleeding, though he still looked pale. Neil offered him water, which the elf took gratefully.
Then, without a word, Neil turned toward the direction the elf's companions had fled. He didn't know the language. Didn't know the customs. But he could still feel them—faint pulses of energy, distant but real.
He began walking.
The elf hesitated.
Then followed.
An hour passed. Then another.
The sun rose above the trees, casting golden light through the canopy. Neil maintained a steady jogging pace, keeping a close eye on the pulses. The closer he got, the clearer they became. Dozens of them.
He didn't understand how, but his Core resonated with their presence. It was like following echoes through a tunnel—quiet, but unmistakable.
The elf occasionally glanced at Neil with surprise. At first it was disbelief. Then curiosity. And finally… trust.
He knew Neil was guiding them. And Neil knew exactly where to go.
By midday, they climbed a gentle hill, covered in thick moss and twisted roots. At the top, the trees parted slightly, revealing a hidden valley below.
Nestled in the clearing was a camp.
Tents made of woven leaves and cloth, pitched in careful rows. Cooking fires smoking. Children running between the shelters. A large open space where a group practiced with spears under the watchful eyes of an older elf.
There were at least fifty of them.
Elves.
Just like the one beside Neil. Lean, tall, graceful. Every one of them had long blond or silver hair. Their skin was flawless. Their movements fluid. Young. Healthy. Beautiful.
They looked like they belonged to another world.
And now, Neil had found them.
The elf beside him took a shaky step forward, eyes filled with emotion.
Neil rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Let's go."