Iori.

  She was born into a race revered for its magic and marksmanship, an elf, descended from a long, unbroken line of archmages and legendary bowmasters.

  But those gifts didn’t reach her.

  She had no mana core. No spell would ever form in her hands.

  She couldn't even draw a bowstring properly, let alone aim it.

  To an elf, it was like being born without a heartbeat.

  A disgrace.

  A flaw.

  A cripple.

  When she came of age, 150 years old, the elven equivalent of a fifteen-year-old human, her parents cast her out of the village.

  No ceremony. No farewell.

  Just a shameful exile.

  And so, she wandered alone through the forest, walking deeper into the unknown.

  Until one day, she reached a human town.

  But fate, ever cruel, greeted her not with mercy… but chains.

  The first human she met was a slave merchant. She received a smile, a kind word, then a trick.

  Elven slaves were a luxury item. Not because of their skill. But because of their beauty.

  So the collar was put on her neck. Her entire being was put on sale.

  Iori became property. Passed from one master to the next.

  Her once-bright green hair dulled with dirt. Her emerald eyes dimmed until they looked like stagnant water.

  For twenty years, she served.

  Used.

  Discarded.

  Used again.

  Her 170 years of life had meant nothing. Nothing but rejection, chains, and filth. She had never truly belonged anywhere.

  She prayed to die more times than she could remember.

  And yet…

  She had been a legend.

  In Dream Land Online, she was known only as a Legendary-rank wanderer.

  No player ever learned her story, not even Frostina.

  Because she chose to be alone.

  When the catastrophe began, her master was the first to die.

  The collar unlocked.

  Her first breath of freedom in over a century.

  She couldn’t cast spells. Couldn’t loose arrows.

  But she had something else at that moment.

  Her will.

  Her will to survive.

  Her will to be free.

  To never bow to anyone again.

  Not to the elves, not to the humans.

  And definitely, not to the monsters.

  She picked up a sword from the body of a fallen guard. It wasn’t elven steel. It wasn’t even sharp.

  But it was hers.

  She fought.

  One monster fell. Then another.

  She ran. Hid. Fought again.

  When her sword broke, she found another. And another. And another.

  Until the blade no longer felt foreign in her hands.

  Until one day, she felt something awaken inside her.

  Not mana.

  But something elves weren’t supposed to have.

  An aura core.

  Then it bloomed… Green light erupted from her sword.

  “Iori First Form: Whisper of The Wind.”

  An energy forged not from lineage.

  But from freedom.

  ……

  But in this timeline, her story changed.

  She was never freed by a dying master.

  She was never forced to survive alone.

  Instead, she was bought at auction, by a girl named Cryssa Stelluna.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  A noble.

  A human.

  And the first person who looked at her not as property, not as a flaw, but as a person.

  Cryssa didn’t command her with cruelty. She offered something Iori had never known.

  Kindness.

  And through Cryssa, she learned what it meant to be valued.

  Not for beauty. Not for bloodline.

  But for strength.

  Not the strength of spells or archery.

  But the strength of a blade.

  Cryssa gave her a sword.

  And in doing so, gave her purpose.

  The Stelluna family, who once would have been just another name in a line of masters, became something more.

  They didn’t treat her like a tool. They treated her like someone worth trusting.

  And so Iori made a vow.

  Even if she was still a slave.

  Even if freedom never came.

  She would choose to serve Cryssa Stelluna.

  She would become her blade.

  Her shield.

  Her ice guardian.

  ……

  Now…

  The battlefield burned. The courtyard reeked of blood and ash.

  Iori lay on the ground, her limbs numb after taking the brunt of an ogre’s blow.

  She should’ve blacked out.

  She should’ve stayed down.

  But then… she saw her.

  Cryssa.

  Her master lay collapsed in the dirt, her body limp, her sword far from her reach.

  The sight struck Iori deeper than any weapon ever could.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  She felt like she was back in the village again, helpless and useless.

  And she hated it.

  She clenched her jaw and forced her trembling body upright, every muscle screaming in protest.

  Her hand gripped the hilt of her sword, not for battle, but as a crutch, a lever, a lifeline to anchor herself back to her feet.

  And slowly… she stood.

  Not to protect herself.

  Not for her own life.

  Not even for freedom.

  She stood for Cryssa Stelluna.

  For the girl who had given her purpose. For the master who had seen her not as a slave, but as a knight.

  For the only one who ever gave her a place to belong.

  To Iori, Cryssa Stelluna was her freedom.

  And so… She raised her sword.

  And then…

  It happened.

  A wind stirred around her, not from the battlefield, but from deep within.

  It wrapped around her like a whisper, carrying with it the chill of frost and the rush of gale.

  Her short, bright green hair fluttered in the rising currents, strands catching the pale light like silk. Her emerald eyes, dull for years, now burned with fierce clarity, sharpened like blades of jade.

  Her aura ignited.

  An explosion of energy surged from her chest, not just wind, not just ice, but something beautifully fused between them.

  Like a storm bound in frost.

  Like a winter gale shaped by will.

  The air around her twisted with howling currents, cold and sharp like blades. A chill swept outward, coiling around her limbs like a storm’s embrace.

  Her blade shimmered with twin auras.

  Whispers of wind, and the glow of frost.

  The ground beneath her hissed as thin veins of ice spread outward in jagged lines.

  Frost bloomed along the edge of her sword, woven with dancing trails of wind.

  Her silhouette shimmered in the shifting light. It was regal, deadly, and beautiful.

  For the first time in a hundred and seventy years, Iori looked like the elf she was always meant to be.

  She awakened.

  Not because she wanted to live.

  But because she had someone to protect.

  And for that…

  Iori bent low, one knee trembling in the blood-soaked dirt.

  Her hand reached down to her side and closed around the hilt of her sword with reverence, like it was the last vow she would ever make.

  She channeled everything she had.

  Every drop of her aura surged into the blade, as if her master’s life, Cryssa’s life, depended on it.

  She had no mana.

  But she had this.

  The wind she was born with.

  The ice she chose to master.

  Together… They answered her call.

  Her voice rang clear and calm, like a whisper of winter carried on a storm.

  “Iori First Form: Frostwind Crescent Grace.”

  FWOOOOSHH!

  The air split.

  A single slash carved a beautiful wide crescent arc through the battlefield, light blue-green energy trailing in its wake like drifting snow on the wind.

  At first glance, it wasn't violent.

  It was art.

  A horizontal sweep of wind and ice that shimmered like moonlight across a frozen lake.

  Iori could never aim an arrow.

  But she had a talent that no other elf had.

  With her sword, she could strike with precision that no bow could rival.

  The arc flew forward, cutting through both allies and enemies alike.

  But no screams came from the mercenaries it passed. Only a gasp.

  They felt a rush of cold across their skin, and then, their aching limbs lightened.

  Their stamina, drained from endless fighting, surged back into them like a second wind born of snow and breath.

  As for the monsters…

  The energy carved through them without leaving a mark.

  No wound. No blood.

  But then… the cold took root.

  Deep within their flesh, frost began to bloom. It was quiet, invasive, and merciless.

  Their organs turned to brittle glass. Blood crystallized mid-flow, stilled in its veins.

  And from within that frozen silence…

  The wind howled.

  BAAAAANGGG!!!

  Their bodies ruptured from within, exploded by the force of frost and the compressed gales trapped within.

  Ice and wind tore outward in brutal unity, scattering limbs, frozen blood, and steaming entrails in a spectacle of terrifying grace.

  The mercenaries stood in stunned silence.

  It was beauty.

  It was gore.

  It was vengeance and serenity bound in a single strike.

  And when they turned to look for the culprit behind this phenomenon…

  Iori was already falling.

  Her sword slipped from her fingers.

  Her body crumpled to the ground.

  She was unconscious.

  The monsters in the path of her blade had been annihilated.

  But the battle wasn’t over.

  The dimensional gates still poured forth endless threats.

  And yet…

  None moved without glancing back.

  The mercenaries looked at the collapsed elf girl with short, bright green hair and a blade still glowing faintly beside her.

  A girl once branded talentless by her own kin.

  Now the one who had just saved them all.

  Unanimously, they decided…

  They would protect the talent that had bloomed from the girl the world had called worthless.

  Protect her until more reinforcement comes.

  Protect her until this nightmare ends.

  Because she was…

  The frostbound knight who had become a storm.

  Unanimously, they decide her nickname.

  Iori.

  The Frostveil Storm Knight.