The first light of dawn slipped through the trees like the breath of a sleeping beast. The mist was thick, unnaturally so, draping over the narrow pass like a shroud. Every step the caravan took echoed too loudly, every crunch of wheel on gravel a signal in a silent world that no longer felt safe. Riven walked near the front, his eyes on the shadows between trunks, his senses tuned to something he could not yet name.
Geller rode nearby, stiff and pale, his recent wound still fresh beneath layers of protective salve and bandage. The other guards were quiet, eyes darting left and right, fingers never far from hilts or bowstrings. The Emerald Veil had become less a sanctuary and more a mouth—waiting to swallow them whole.
"Too quiet," Riven muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Even the birds had stopped singing.
The moment broke with a sudden scream—then three more, overlapping. The world exploded.
From both flanks, beastkin poured out of the forest. Not in chaos, but in formation. Their fur was painted with strange markings, their claws gleaming with alchemical oils. And from among them, magical runes exploded in bursts of flame and silence, knocking the enchanted wards the elves had gifted them into useless cinders.
The caravan dissolved into panic. Horses shrieked. Men shouted, arrows flew. Geller toppled from his mount, a spear nearly impaling his chest. He gasped, reaching for his sword—
—but a flicker of silver mist blurred through the air, and Riven was suddenly there.
In one fluid motion, he parried the incoming blade with his gauntlet, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and used Ssireum footwork to rotate his hips and slam the beastkin into the earth with spine-breaking force. The ground cracked. Blood misted.
Geller blinked up at him. "You moved like—like you weren't even there."
Riven didn't answer. His eyes were on the treeline.
A shape moved through it. Large. Impossibly so. Leaves bent in its wake. Then it stepped into view.
Krogmar.
Nine feet tall, his body was built like a nightmare—bulging with muscle, covered in layered fur and bone armor. Claws as long as swords jutted from each hand, etched with golden runes. His eyes… they were the worst part. Intelligent. Cold. Calculating. This wasn't a beast. This was a tactician. A general.
He raised a hand.
Three elite beastkin stepped forward. One howled—and a sonic wave rippled through the air, disorienting the guards. Another melted into shadows, appearing behind a panicked soldier and slitting his throat before anyone could react. The third let its blood spill across its claws—and it detonated in a fiery burst, taking two horses with it.
Riven moved.
He didn't have time to think. Instinct, honed by battle and something deeper, older, took over. The Spiritthread Cloak shimmered as he activated his Crown Synchronization—only 2%, but enough. His body responded faster, sharper. He could see every twitch before it happened.
He ducked beneath a sonic wave, rolled through the dust, and came up behind the screecher. One elbow shattered its throat. The next shattered its spine.
The shadowmancer came at him with speed, flickering between light and darkness, blades lashing out from every angle. Riven let them cut him.
Just a little.
The moment the beastkin overextended, Riven grabbed its wrist, reversed the grip, and slammed it into the burning corpse of its ally. It screamed as fire consumed it.
The third, the blood mage, lunged. Riven met him head-on, catching the claw in his palm and twisting. He didn't throw this one. He crushed its chest with a rising knee, then decapitated it with one precise strike.
The battlefield pulsed with chaos—but around Riven, there was a sphere of control. He didn't command it. He was it.
That was when the cloak changed.
Blood, his own, seeped into the Spiritthread. Mana rushed in from all sides. And in the middle of it—something ancient awoke. Threads flared outward like wings. A pulse of light knocked back three incoming attackers. His form blurred—not teleporting, but phasing. Mist cloaked him like armor.
"...This is what you are?" he heard himself whisper. "This... is what I've been holding back."
From the ridge above, Krogmar leapt.
He landed like a meteor. The ground shattered. Trees bent away. He charged.
Riven didn't run.
Claws met gauntlets. Sparks flew. Flesh tore.
Krogmar was fast—far faster than something his size should be. Each strike was aimed to maim, to disarm, to kill with purpose. He wasn't testing. He was dismantling. But Riven met him step for step.
He ducked under one slash, spun low, and drove a heel into Krogmar's shin. The giant didn't stumble—but he growled. Another exchange. Riven's cloak deflected a blow that would have gutted him. He capitalized, jumped, twisted, and his elbow raked across Krogmar's chest, leaving a glowing gash.
It was the first time the beastkin had been hurt. He stepped back. And smiled.
"One claw," he said in a deep, rumbling voice. "Just one. Today, I only need one."
Then he turned and leapt into the forest.
The others followed.
Silence fell.
Where there had been over a hundred guards, less than fifty stood now. Many were wounded. Some beyond saving. The forest burned in scattered patches. The caravan wagons were wrecked.
Riven stood in the middle of it, covered in blood, not all of it his own. His eyes glowed faintly—mana residue from the cloak still echoing through him.
"Is it over?" one soldier asked, voice shaking.
"No," Riven said. "This was a test."
He looked at the trees.
"They'll be back."
[Level Up!]
Riven has reached Level 20.
Points Earned: +27 Attribute Points, +9 Skill Points
Class Upgrade: Crownbearer (Evolving)
New Skill: Crown Synchronization – 2% Temporarily accesses ancient battle instincts; grants passive resistance to mental manipulation.
New Passive: Crown Instinct Sense killing intent and concealed enemies more easily.
New Ability: Spiritthread Form (Awakened) Cloak now auto-deflects one spell or projectile per combat and adapts to environment.
Later That Night
Smoke drifted into the air, dancing among the stars. The survivors had built a new camp near the ruins of the old one, using what little remained. No one celebrated. No one laughed. They only worked. Quiet. Efficient. Grief disguised as focus.
Riven sat away from the fire, watching the dark horizon. His arms rested on his knees, bandages soaked with crimson. The Spiritthread Cloak rested lightly around his shoulders, whispering against the wind.
"Why didn't he kill me?" Riven asked aloud.
No one answered. Not the trees. Not the fire. Not even the voice in his head.
He stared at his hands.
"They said the Crown chooses those with resolve," he muttered. "But what happens when you don't feel anything?"
Behind him, someone approached.
Geller, limping but alive, sat down beside him.
"You saved me. Again," he said quietly. "I owe you my life."
"You don't," Riven replied. "We're not done yet."
Geller sighed. "I used to think I was the strongest man in the estate."
"You were," Riven said. "In peacetime."
The silence stretched.
Then Geller whispered, "They called him Krogmar. The Hundred-Clawed. Said he only comes to slaughter kings."
Riven looked at the stars. "Then he's in the wrong place."
The wind stirred. In the shadows beyond, something unseen stirred the leaves—but did not cross the wards.
And far away, beneath the deepest roots of the Veil… something darker laughed.