King stood alone in the abyss of darkness, a single beam of light illuminating his figure. His golden eyes, void of emotion, rose to meet the man sitting high upon a pedestal.


    The man''s voice was soft, yet it carried an undeniable menace.


    "King, you deserve to know the truth," he murmured. "You are the prince who never became king—your birthright stolen by the hands of New Pegasus. I was the closest to your family, yet I was too late to save them. I still remember how they lay dying, their bodies broken… but even in their final moments, they shielded you—a mere child of three—in their arms."


    The memory hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.


    "If New Pegasus ever resurfaces," the man continued, "you will be ready."


    King''s response was devoid of warmth, his voice flat and unwavering.


    "Yes, sir."


    That day, he had been given one of the two legendary Elfin treasures—the Elfin King Insignia. A relic passed down through generations of Elfin rulers, its existence was a secret to most, but to those who knew of its might, it signified one thing: the bearer was of royal Elfin blood.


    Now, standing before August Magnus, King knew one thing with absolute certainty—if he fought at full strength, he would win.


    His partner was unharmed. August was wounded. The advantage was his.


    With a flick of his wrist, King shifted the Elfin King Insignia back into its longsword form. The shield that once protected him dissolved, replaced by a blade gleaming with deadly intent. He needed to be close—he could not allow August to manipulate the battlefield with his ability.


    Their weapons clashed, steel against steel, raw strength against raw strength. It was a mirror image of their battle within the cavern. Blow for blow, neither yielded.


    Then, King changed the tide.


    Elfin King—Form 3.


    The air trembled as the small floating blades orbiting King began to spin, their edges whirring like saws thirsting for blood. With a flick of his fingers, he sent them hurtling toward August, the deadly discs slashing through the air.


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    But he did not rely on them alone.


    Darting forward with lethal precision, he struck alongside his projectiles, his fingers curling into a claw as he aimed directly for August’s wounded abdomen.


    His voice, colder than ice, rang through the battlefield.


    "Even if I have to kill you—I will."


    His palm ignited with a surge of power.


    "Elfin Combat Art—Dragon Palm!"


    The impact was devastating.


    August staggered as the attack found its mark. The stitches barely holding his wound together unraveled, and a fresh wave of crimson spilled forth. He choked as blood dripped from his lips, his vision blurring.


    "August!"


    Erica''s voice was sharp with panic as she unleashed her webs, latching onto King and yanking him backward. He slammed against a nearby wall, momentarily immobilized. Without hesitation, she rushed to August’s side, her hands trembling as she tried to steady him.


    King exhaled through his nose, a smirk creeping onto his lips.


    "There''s no saving him," he murmured. "Even the great August Magnus cannot survive that much blood loss."


    Meanwhile, at the docks of Prosperum, Adrian, Emily, and Bernard boarded the ship. The cold sea breeze filled Adrian’s lungs, yet an unshakable feeling gnawed at him.


    Something was wrong.


    As he stepped onto the top deck, he hesitated. His gaze drifted back toward the city, toward the underground battlefield he had left behind. His instincts screamed at him—August was in danger.


    Bernard watched him closely.


    "You''re just like him," he said suddenly.


    Adrian turned, frowning. "What?"


    "August," Bernard clarified. "He’s the type to fight until someone drags him away. And in that way… you two are the same."


    The words struck Adrian deep, stirring two emotions within him.


    One was fear—fear of what August would do if he didn’t stop himself.


    The other was pride—pride in being compared to a man he deeply respected.


    And Bernard was right.


    Because back in the underground, even with blood pooling beneath his feet, August refused to fall.


    "You’re going to have to do a lot more than that to kill me," he muttered, flashing a bloodstained smirk.


    King''s golden eyes widened in disbelief.


    August should be on the ground, unconscious. He should be dying.


    Yet, somehow, the man still stood.


    Teeth gritted, King activated Elfin King—Form 3 once more, the spinning blades cutting through the webs binding him. As they shredded apart, he landed on his feet, his body still upright despite the force of his fall.


    But he did not attack immediately.


    Instead, he bowed his head, silent.


    August narrowed his eyes, wary. He readied himself, knowing full well that King could strike at any moment.


    Then, King spoke.


    His voice started as a whisper, barely audible.


    "Die."


    Then it grew louder.


    "Die. Die. Die, die, die. Die! Die! DIE!"


    A roar of pure rage erupted from his throat as he launched himself forward like a beast unleashed. His movements were wild yet precise, his intent murderous.


    August sighed—a deep, weary breath.


    It was time to end this.


    Lifting his axe toward the sky, he whispered the words that would change everything.


    "Trinket Metamorphosis."