"I thought this test was supposed to be hard..." Micha’el murmured to himself with a calm, almost amused tone as he strolled through the forest path leading toward Aetherthorn.
Sunlight spilled through the Runewood canopy in golden shafts, casting dappled shadows across his lean, graceful form. Micha’el’s long golden hair, like flowing threads of sunlight, danced with the morning breeze.
His attire—simple, regal robes of yellow and gold—clung lightly to his fra, embroidered with the sigils of the Goldhair tribe. He wore no armor, no bag, and no supplies. Just one item accompanied him: Vael’turien, a massive greatsword nearly as tall as he was, strapped to his back, and, of course, confidence.
Despite the sword’s massive size, it moved with him as though weightless thanks to its special runic upgrades.
In that mont, Micha’el looked less like a returning warrior and more like a noble prince—though he bore no crown.
The towering silhouettes of Aetherthorn’s trees now lood ahead. Their imnse, pillar-like trunks reached so high into the sky they resembled the spears of ancient titans. The city’s outer branches shimred with magical energy, and nestled among them, hos of golden-hued wood and crystalline growths welcod their approaching son.
Already, the Goldhair tribe within Aetherthorn had begun their celebration. A massive viewing crystal displayed Micha’el’s journey, broadcasting his calm, undefeated return.
Cheers erupted from every corner of the massive ancient do. For them, it was not just a mont of pride—it was validation. The first to return from the Test of Fang was one of their own.
Trailing behind him in the shadows were two observers.
Tiny Lantaws, tad flying reptiles resembling chaleons but with fairy-like wings, silently followed his progress since the beginning. They were natural scouts, tad and controlled from far away by Elven tars. Their main purpose is to be the ’cara crew’ of this test.
The other observer was more intentional: Krhong, a fellow Goldhair elf and Micha’el’s assigned scout-watch. The Test of Fang was dangerous, and while Micha’el had been deed strong enough to take it, the Elven Council had sent many including Krhong to shadow the contestants from afar, minimizing risk while not interfering—unless necessary. Their main purpose is to save the contestants if they fail and are unable to return on their own.
Krhong was an expert in elven scout, having mastered a rare Goldhair technique that allowed him to rge with the forest like mist on bark. From the start, he had watched Micha’el’s effortless progression with growing admiration and increasing ease.
Last night alone, he’d seen Micha’el decimate a mutated Night Stalker with just a couple of swings of his sword—clean, powerful, and without hesitation.
Seeing such performance, Krhong’s vigilance relaxed. He remained distant but felt no need for his full camouflage anymore.
The Goldhair tribe, known for their devotion to beauty and magical precision, rarely relied on brute strength. Instead of clunky armor like the Sylvan’thir and Velka’Dar tribes, they adorned themselves with enchanted accessories—rings, tattoos, and woven charms—each capable of deflecting spells or blunting arrows.
Their specialized protective rings, for example, summoned radiant shields that could block attacks from all directions. However, unless one bore high-tier artifacts, the force of the blocked attack still impacted the wearer.
Only tribal leaders and the council carried high grade rings that absorbed impact entirely.
But Micha’el was different. Born into a tribe of goldhair mages and enchanters, he had erged with a warrior’s fra and a physical affinity—unusual for any elf, much less a Goldhair. His divine fra leaned toward brute precision and combat instincts rather than arcane manipulation.
To support him, the elders had commissioned an artifact like none before: a sword made not just with skill, but with victory in mind.
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Na: Micha’el
Level: 14
Title: Elven Greatsword Prodigy
Class: Sword Savant
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anwhile, his greatsword on his back is also one of a kind.
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Artifact: Vael’turien, the Star-Cleaver
Crafted By: Vaeltrum, Head Smith of the Silver Forge
Type: Great Sword [Artifact]
Runic Upgrades: 3
Effects:
30% Strength and Agility
97% Weight Reduction
35% Critical Strike Chance
Description: Forged from refined startal—the core of a fallen star—and tempered with starlight harvested at the edge of the Veil, Vael’turien was crafted for Micha’el to assist him in the Test of Fang. Runes etched during the final eclipse of the First Age bind the strength of the cosmos into the blade. Effortless in weight yet terrifying in impact, the weapon answers only to those chosen by destiny itself.
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With the overpowered Vael’turien in hand, Micha’el had breezed through the dangers of the Runewood. It was no surprise he walked carelessly, confident that no threat remained.
But sothing followed him from the morning shadows.
And neither Micha’el nor Krhong noticed the forest go silent.
Hidden in the upper shade of the trees, a predator stalked silently: The White Fang. Yes the sa one that Auren had faced the night before.
Its golden-red eyes, sharp and unblinking, fixed on Krhong—its nearest prey. Though massive in size, the beast moved with an eerie, spectral grace, weaving through sunlight and shadow as the forest leaves concealed its silent approach.
If Auren had been nearby, he would recognize this creature imdiately. This was the sa White Fang that nearly ended his life the night before. The ancient predator had vanished into the forest—but not in retreat.
The night prior, while licking its wounds by the river, its ears picked up the distant, dying howl of one of its kin. The sound was faint—imperceptible to most—but to the White Fang, it was a scream loud enough to awaken instinct. A Night Stalker subadult, almost mature, still under its territory, had been slain.
Without hesitation, it forsook Auren’s fading trail and turned away.
By the ti it and its pack reached the fallen cub’s body, it was already cold. The White Fang sniffed its remains—one fang was missing. Taken as a trophy.
Its eyes flared with vengeance. The human could wait.
Now, its target was the killer of its kin.
Unaware, Micha’el continued walking. Ahead, Aetherthorn awaited for his victorious arrival. But behind him, Krhong had made a fatal mistake.
Confident in their safety, Krhong had lowered his camouflage completely. After all, they were already within twenty minutes of the city borders. No Night Stalker had ever dared co this close - not until now.
The White Fang sensed him imdiately.
Its approach was soundless. Its massive paws landed softly, and the morning light cloaked it in broken shadows.
Krhong paused to yawn, stretching lazily as he prepared to resu trailing the goldhair constestant.
That was the last mistake he’d ever make.
URGH!~
The air was split by a sickening crunch as the White Fang silently struck from behind, its gaping jaws engulfing Krhong’s upper half in one motion. Two massive fangs, sharp as spears, pierced through his runic vest, shattering his magical protections with sheer ancient force and instantly locking him in its powerful jaws.
The scout didn’t even have ti to scream. Before he could even fight, his muscles has already lost its strength thanks to the White Fang’s overwhelming bite.
Paws like stone columns pinned his lower body down as he squird, helpless. The beast’s weight crushed him, its fangs pulsing with dark energy as they dug deeper.
Blood soaked the leaves.
And with a silent final bite, it devoured him whole like a constrictor except it was smooth and fast.
Neither Micha’el nor the tiny Lantaws noticed that death was already on their backs.
The wind carried no sound. The forest had grown still as stone.
Now, the beast began its true hunt. Its eyes locked onto the young elf—the one carrying the scent of its fallen kin’s fang.
At that sa mont, far away in the heart of Aetherthorn, Queen Elarya—matron of the elven tribes and guardian of the Runewood—sat gracefully upon her living throne.
Her skin shimred with magic, and her long hair flowed like vines over her shoulders. Her throne, grown from the heart of an ancient tree, pulsed with quiet life.
Suddenly, the roots around her shivered and caught her attention.
It was a silent warning.
The forest spirits, ancient and voiceless, whispered to her through the wind and bark. It reported of an unexpected danger... a familiar predator... too dangerous to leave alone.
A sharp frown creased her brow as she made a decision.
Then, her eyes turned to her side.
"Mathes."
The word was soft, but like magic, it summoned her most trusted aide.
"Yes, Queen Mother." Mathes appeared without sound, his silver armor gleaming softly, his presence composed but alert.
"I must attend to sothing urgent," she said. "And I am not sure if I can make it back quick."
Mathes raised an eyebrow. He could sense it. She was concerned.
"Do you require assistance?"
She shook her head gently. "Not this ti. But I leave the Test of Fang in your care. Ensure the celebration proceeds... without disruption."
Without waiting, she gracefully turned to the massive tree behind the throne.
The bark rippled beneath her shining touch, and she stepped into it as though it were liquid wood—vanishing into the sacred rootways that wove through the entirety of Runewood, allowing her to travel instantly to any place touched by rune-bound trees.
But just as Mathes turned to prepare the ceremonial rites, her voice returned—echoing from the tree.
"Oh—and send scouts west. The White Fang is moving toward the Aetherthorn border."
Mathes froze.
"What? Why would the White Fang co to our own territory?"
No answer ca.
But realization blood in his mind. Micha’el.
"Unless..."
He rembered the dying Night Stalker last night. Micha’el had struck it down with ease near the river.
’The White Fang must have heard it—or worse, slled the blood from its kin. It was tracking vengeance!’
"Prepare the n," he ordered quickly, rushing to the nearest arcane mirror.
"Dispatch west patrols now!"
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