The journey from Ironseat to the South was ceaseless torment.

  Ellios’ body, already battered and bruised from the "storm" in room 402, was forced to endure the jolts of a carriage driven madly for hours. Every time the carriage wheels hit a pothole, Ellios winced, gripping the edge of the seat until his knuckles turned white.

  However, when the carriage finally slowed and passed the stone gates of Sunfire Fortress, the air changed.

  No more bone-piercing cold wind like in Ironseat. Here, in the South, the air was warm, smelling of dry earth, spices, and abundant sun.

  The carriage stopped in the main courtyard.

  The carriage door was opened by a servant. Ellios took a deep breath, trying to gather the strength just to stand upright. He didn't want to look weak before the Lion of the South.

  He stepped down slowly. His legs still trembled violently, forcing him to lean on the walking stick he bought at the border. His face was deathly pale, dark circles hung beneath his languid eyes, and his clothes looked rumpled despite his efforts to tidy them.

  "HAHAHAHA! By the beards of the gods!"

  A booming laugh, louder than a cannon blast, shattered the silence of the fortress courtyard.

  From the massive main doors, an old man strode out with wide steps. His body was still upright and muscular despite his twilight years, clad in a blazing red robe open at the chest, revealing sun-baked brown skin full of scars. His long white hair was left flowing wild like a lion's mane.

  Duke Renville.

  "Look who the wind blew all the way to my porch!" Gauss exclaimed loudly, spreading his arms wide as if wanting to embrace the whole world. "The Little Fox of Mount Rhagas!"

  Ellios tried to smile politely, about to bow in respect. "Duke Renville, I..."

  However, before Ellios could finish his formal sentence, Gauss was already in front of him. The old man cared nothing for etiquette. He instantly snatched Ellios’ shoulders with both his large, rough hands.

  It wasn't a painful grip, but a solid and warm hold. Very warm.

  Gauss stared at Ellios’ face intently, his wide smile slowly morphing into a look of genuine concern. He saw Ellios’ chapped lips, his paper-white skin, and the faint tremor in the youth's legs.

  "Goodness, Boy..." Gauss’ voice softened, contrasting with his earlier shout. "You look like a corpse fresh out of the grave. Did the ghosts in Ironseat suck you dry of blood?"

  Ellios chuckled weakly. "Something worse than ghosts, Duke. Politics."

  Gauss snorted, then laughed shortly. He didn't ask further. He didn't demand news, didn't ask why Ellios arrived suddenly. He only patted Ellios’ back softly—very softly, as if realizing one hard pat could shatter the youth’s bones.

  "Forget politics for a moment," Gauss asserted.

  The old Duke wrapped an arm around Ellios’ shoulders, supporting him as they walked into the fortress as if Ellios were his favorite nephew just returned from war.

  "You are in the South now, Ellios. Here the sun shines to warm you, not to burn you."

  Gauss turned to his lined-up servants.

  "HEY! Are you statues or humans? Prepare the guest room in the east tower! The one with the most sun!" he roared his command. "Prepare hot water, aromatic oil for a massage, and bring my best Golden Harvest wine from the cellar! My guest needs to come back to life!"

  Gauss looked back at Ellios while guiding him up the stairs.

  "Come in, Son. Rest. Eat until your stomach is full and sleep until you forget the names of your enemies."

  Ellios felt the heavy burden on his shoulders lift slightly. Under the embrace of this eccentric Duke's large arm, he didn't feel the threat of manipulation like Reine, or savage dominance like Louis.

  All he felt was the pure and rough protection of an old knight.

  "Thank you, Uncle Gauss," Ellios whispered sincerely, his eyes feeling hot.

  "Don't thank me," Gauss replied, grinning wide, baring his white teeth. "Just don't die on my porch. It would ruin the view."

  Ellios looked at the sky, fireworks beginning to explode sparsely up there.

  Huh, like my welcome party.

  At the southernmost edge of the Kingdom of Carta, where the land surrendered and fell sheer into the embrace of the dark ocean, nature wasn't merely angry; nature was rampaging in primal hysteria.

  That night, the sky above the South Coast had no stars. The sky was dead, replaced by rolling, low-hanging cumulonimbus clouds, pitch black like giant squid ink spilled covering the horizon. The clouds rotated slowly, heavy, and pregnant with static electrical charge that made the fine hairs on one's neck stand up even from behind a meter-thick stone wall.

  Below it, the Southern Sea roared.

  Five-meter-high waves, driven by invisible gale-force winds yet feeling sharp as razors, smashed against the granite cliff walls with brutal and rhythmic violence.

  KRAAASHHHH!

  Every impact was an explosion. Seawater exploded into white foam thrown tens of meters high, arching in the air, then raining down on the thick glass windows of the Coral Castle. The building, a gray stone fortress standing since the era of the First King, looked like a natural extension of the coral itself—hard, cold, arrogant, and unshakable.

  However, the power of the sea tonight was different. Every wave impact sent fine seismic vibrations—thud... thud... thud...—traveling up through the limestone foundation, piercing the cold marble floors, until they throbbed in the soles of anyone standing inside.

  Inside the Great Hall of the castle, the storm outside was merely a muffled background noise, an orchestra of death playing in the distance.

  The room was vast, smelling of beeswax, old rotting wood, and the dust of history settling between the stones. Its vaulted ceiling was high, covered in thick shadows that seemed to swallow light. Its stone walls were decorated with worn tapestries telling of battles whose years were forgotten, where golden threads had faded to dull brown.

  Suddenly, without any hand igniting it...

  FWOOOOSH!

  A pile of old oak wood in the giant, man-high fireplace exploded into flames. Orange and blue fire leaped high, licking the chimney greedily. Warm light instantly flooded the previously dim room, creating a wild dance of shadows on the walls, banishing the cold sea wind trying to slip through the gaps of rattling windows.

  An old head butler, the sole witness in the room, jumped in shock. He clutched his racing chest, staring at the self-igniting fire, then bowed respectfully toward the large chair in front of the fireplace. He understood. His master had "summoned" the flame. Wordlessly, the butler retreated steadily, his steps soundless on the thick carpet, leaving his master alone in sacred silence.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Amidst the warmth of the roaring fire and the floor's vibration from the waves, sat the Master of the House.

  Gauss Renville.

  The Old Noble sat motionless in a leather armchair facing the fireplace. The leather creaked softly under the weight of his massive body. His silvery-white hair was combed neatly back in a disciplined military style, a sharp contrast to the deep wrinkles on his face—trenches of experience mapping thousands of difficult decisions and hundreds of deaths he had witnessed.

  He wore a white shirt whose long sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows, revealing forearms covered in crisscrossing scar tissue, traces of countless wars.

  However, it wasn't those arms that became the room's center of gravity. But the object lying quietly on his lap.

  A Claymore. A two-handed greatsword inherited from ancestors.

  The weapon wasn't just a killing tool; it was an artifact. The blade length was nearly as tall as a grown man, forged from dark steel bearing a water-groove pattern like frozen waves. No tacky gold ornaments, no flirtatiously sparkling gems. Only pure function. Its hilt was wrapped in rough black shark skin so as not to slip from blood, and its crossguard was straight, simple, yet brutal.

  Gauss’ large, rough, and calloused right hand moved rhythmically along the cold blade. He rubbed the steel with a velvet cloth soaked in clove oil and animal fat.

  Shhhk... shhhk...

  The sound of cloth scraping metal sounded meditative, like the breathing of a sleeping giant. The sharp scent of weapon oil began to waft, mixing with the scent of sea salt seeping in, creating the distinct smell of war preparation. A scent triggering primal adrenaline.

  Gauss wasn't cleaning dust. That sword was never dirty. He was awakening the soul of the iron.

  His eyes stared blankly into the licking flames of the fireplace, but his mind wandered far into the depths of the sea out there. The vibration in the castle floor told him everything. Those weren't ordinary waves. The rhythm was too regular. The power too focused. The ocean was trying to vomit something, and it was his duty to ensure that vomit didn't crawl up onto land.

  He lifted the greatsword with one hand—a terrifying demonstration of strength for a man his age. He examined the edge of the blade under the firelight. The reflection of orange flames danced on the metal surface, as if the iron thirsted for the heat of blood.

  No one else was here. No child's laughter. No sound of family footsteps.

  Only him. And his duty.

  This solitude was his old friend. A gatekeeper must not have attachments that made him hesitate.

  Gauss put down his cleaning cloth. He stood slowly. His body towered, his shadow elongating on the stone floor until it touched the opposite wall. He walked toward a small table beside the fireplace. There, sat a small bowl containing ash from burnt sandalwood.

  He dipped three fingers of his right hand—index, middle, and ring—into the cold ash.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the vibration of the castle wall from thunder exploding outside.

  KRAAASHHH!

  When his eyes opened again, the look of the tired old grandfather had vanished.

  With a firm movement, he smeared his ash-covered fingers across his forehead.

  Swipe.

  Three vertical ash lines were now painted there. The mark looked dull on his wrinkled skin, but under the firelight, the lines seemed to glow with an aura of terrifying authority. It was a seal. It was an oath. That mark transformed the face of an old noble into the face of a Warlord, an ancient, merciless battle commander.

  Gauss grabbed his Claymore.

  With a practiced motion, he sheathed the giant sword across his back. CLANG. The sound of metal meeting metal echoed loudly in the empty Great Hall. The weight of the sword—nearly five kilograms of solid steel—felt familiar and soothing on his back. That burden was the counterweight to his soul.

  He didn't look back at the warm fireplace. He turned and strode out.

  His footsteps thudded—Thud... Thud... Thud...—on the stone floor as he descended the spiraling spiral staircase. Every step was a declaration of war. He walked down the long, cold corridor, where wall torches flickered in fear every time sea wind pierced the ventilation gaps.

  He reached the main gate made of ironwood as thick as a man's thigh. Two guards opened it with difficulty, fighting the wind pressure from outside.

  Gale-force winds instantly slapped his face.

  In the grassy courtyard at the foot of the castle, 40 elite military squads awaited.

  The sight was an anarchic fusion of the past and the future. They sat upright and disciplined atop restless warhorses. The horses' breath billowed white in the cold, salty night air. Hhhhrrrr...

  The troops wore modern tactical gear: pitch-black uniforms of lightweight synthetic material, Kevlar bulletproof vests, and combat helmets with advanced communication devices emitting a dim green glow from their visors. Slung across their backs were short-barreled automatic assault rifles.

  However, at their waists hung steel longswords forged the old way. Ancient cavalry and modern infantry had been fused into one hybrid killer unit.

  They all fell silent as Gauss emerged from the shadows of the castle gate.

  The Noble walked past the ranks of his troops without looking. His black velvet cloak swept the wet grass, flapping wildly blown by strong winds. He walked straight toward the edge of the steep cliff.

  He stood there, at the lip of the abyss, staring at the blackened and churning ocean below.

  KRAAASHHHH....

  A giant wave smashed against the base of the coral cliff with the force of thousands of tons of water. The vibration traveled up, shaking Gauss’ shins.

  ZHASSHHH...

  White foam and seawater exploded high into the air, blown by strong winds up the cliff, drenching Gauss’ face with cold, stinging saltwater. Water dripped from the tip of his nose and chin.

  He didn't blink. He didn't wipe his face.

  He stared into the darkness of the horizon, reading the foam patterns on the sea surface. They are coming, he thought. The sea never lies.

  In the grassy courtyard now wet with sea foam, under the gaze of 40 pairs of silent elite soldiers' eyes, Gauss turned from the cliff. His face was wet, the three ash lines on his forehead beginning to fade, yet his aura grew sharper.

  He approached a warhorse held with difficulty by an adjutant.

  A giant black Friesian horse.

  The beast was a monster in equine form. Pitch black and densely muscled, nearly two meters tall at the shoulder. Its short coat gleamed wet like spilled oil under torchlight. Its long, curly mane flapped chaotically covering its eyes. Hot steam spewed heavily from its flaring nostrils, creating a fog around its muzzle.

  With one fluid, powerful, and efficient movement—a movement deceiving his twilight age—Gauss mounted the black horse.

  Hup. CREAAK.

  The sound of old saddle leather stretching sounded heavy accepting the weight of the knight and his greatsword.

  The horse, sensing the wild energy from the sea storm and the killing tension radiating from its master, couldn't stand still. Its predator instinct was provoked.

  NEEEIGHHHH!

  The horse neighed sharply, shrill piercing the roar of waves and thunder. The one-ton beast spun its body in place aggressively, then reared violently, lifting its muscular, iron-shod front legs high into the night air, kicking the angry sky.

  The 40 elite troops flinched in shock. Their horses backed away restlessly, intimidated by the dominance of the leader's horse. Several soldiers tightened their grip on the reins, faces pale behind helmet visors.

  But Gauss didn't move an inch.

  He sat glued to the back of the rearing horse as if he were part of the beast's spine. He controlled the rampage with just one light grip of his left hand on the reins and a precise shift of body weight.

  He was a steel Centaur.

  At the peak of that cliff, as lightning split the sky KRAK-BOOM!, their silhouette formed perfectly.

  Gauss’ black cloak flapped horizontally behind him, beating hard in the air like the wings of a giant angel of death FLAP-FLAP-FLAP!. The Greatsword hilt jutted high behind his right shoulder, an iron cross defying heaven.

  And this was the visual impression the 40 modern troops saw.

  They didn't see an old grandfather. Their eyes, accustomed to seeing digital data and satellite imagery, were now forced to see a living myth. They saw a breathing monument of war.

  They saw the three ash lines on that forehead.

  Under the rising and setting moonlight, the lines made Gauss look no longer human. He was the ancient incarnation of the God of War risen from his grave, sick of false peace. He sat atop the black horse still snorting wildly, bathed in sea foam, staring at his troops with eyes as sharp as razors and as cold as an ocean trench.

  KRAAASHHH.... ZHASHHH...

  A massive wave once again smashed the cliff, as if the ocean gave a military salute to its master.

  To those 40 modern soldiers, their reality shattered. Primal fear crawled up their spines—a fear Kevlar vests couldn't protect against. Yet, above that fear, grew fanatical respect. Their herd instinct screamed: This is the Alpha. This is the leader they will follow into the mouth of hell.

  The pitch-black horse finally planted its two front legs back onto the wet ground with a heavy thud. THUD.

  The ground shook. The horse snorted loud, hot steam spewing. Its wild eyes still stared at the waves, but its body was now totally obedient under the control of Gauss’ thighs.

  Gauss sat upright in his saddle. He didn't shout. He didn't need to shout to overcome the sound of the storm.

  He stared straight at his troops, then closed his eyes for a moment, projecting his will.

  He mumbled one soft sentence. His lips barely moved behind his hardened jaw.

  Physically, the sound of that soft mumble should have vanished instantly, blown away by gale winds and swallowed by the sound of waves.

  However...

  That mumble was heard by the 40 troops.

  They heard it in unison. Not with their physical ears, not through their advanced radio earpieces.

  It was a telepathic voice, a soul resonance crawling directly into their brain cortex. A collective whisper that was cold, dry, authoritative, and absolute. The voice penetrated tactical helmets, ignored the ocean's roar, and echoed clearly inside each of their skulls like a divine decree.

  They all heard those words with lethal clarity:

  "Execute the Hunt Protocol."

  Ellios observed it all.