Night had fallen over the ancient city of Eldor, the hidden stronghold of the elven kingdom veiled in illusion and moonlight. The air was cold, carrying the faint scent of mist and the subtle rustle of enchanted trees that lined the marble walkways. From above, the silver light moon bathed the tall spires in an eerie glow. Within the grand palace, everything was silent—eerily silent.
Inside the Throne Hall, the flicker of blue fire danced from crystalline sconces along the walls. Shadows crawled across the floor of smooth obsidian, and the chamber echoed with an oppressive stillness, save for the soft hum of ambient enchantments that resonated in the corners of the high domed ceiling.
At the far end of the hall sat the Elven King, draped in robes of woven starlight and midnight silk. His long silver hair framed a face carved from stone and shadow—cold, calculating, with eyes that glowed faintly blue, shimmering with old magic and deeper fury. He sat upon a throne not of gold, but of polished roots entwined with moonstone, pulsing softly with life.
A sound echoed through the hall—footsteps.
And then… a kneel.
One figure dropped to one knee at the base of the steps, his cloak trailing behind like torn ink. The masked elf, now without the mask, bowed low, his head dripping with sweat despite the coolness of the night.
He swallowed before speaking.
"Umm… my King…"
His voice was a whisper. Hollow. Hiding trembling nerves under a veil of forced calm.
The king did not move. His fingers rested calmly on the arm of his throne. Only his voice stirred the room.
"…What did you do in Exonory Kingdom?"
The masked elf—once confident, now visibly shaken—let out an awkward laugh, thin and brittle.
"I-I was just… strolling," he said, trying to mask his fear behind a crooked smirk. "There was a man… a merchant who tried to sell me spoiled meat. I—I just wanted to teach him a lesson, you know?"
His laugh trailed off, absorbed by the silence like water into stone.
The king's gaze narrowed. He rose slowly—deliberately. The magic in the air changed.
"Nonsense," the king growled.
The chamber darkened as his presence expanded like a storm cloud.
"That's your excuse? A merchant and spoiled meat?"
His voice boomed through the marble hall like thunder on still water.
"Where were you when I called for you last time?" the king barked, his voice laced with suppressed fury. "When the High Summon was issued—where were you?"
The assassin's lips quivered.
"I… I was just… I-I needed air after… after the mission. I didn't think—"
"You were STROLLING?!"
The room pulsed.
The torches flared.
The king stepped down from his throne with an ominous stillness. His blue eyes flicked over the assassin's trembling form.
"Then explain the bruises," he said quietly, venom beneath the calm. "The wounds you tried to cover. The new clothes. You really think you can hide that from me?"
The masked elf froze, his throat tightening. He clenched his hands, but it was no use.
A single drop of sweat slid down his cheek.
Because in that moment… he remembered her.
Her eyes—glowing with power.
The golems.
The fury.
Her voice.
Her blood.
The image returned with brutal force. Not just the pain of her magic, because he scape in purpose to avoid more complications.
His body tensed.
The King, sensing the hesitation, stepped closer.
"You disobeyed me. You fled battle. You brought shame into this hall."
Then, almost with cruel softness, he added—
"…Who was it that bruised you?"
The assassin didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because in truth, it wasn't just a girl who beat him.
It was a look alike on the king appearance. A storm wrapped in silver and pain.
And for the first time in his life, the assassin feared someone not above him, but beside him.
And he couldn't forget her face.
The air in the throne hall had grown stale—tight with unspoken dread. The flickering blue flames lining the walls wavered slightly, as if nervous themselves.
The King's voice once again sliced through the silence.
"Why did you retreat?"
Each word was laced with ice.
"What could have made you—one of my elite—turn tail and flee?"
His tone dropped into a low, pressing growl. "What were you fighting that left you stammering like a boy caught stealing bread?"
The assassin's body stiffened, jaw clenched. His lips parted—but no words came.
Because he knew.
And the memory—those glowing blue eyes, the way his body had been rag-dolled by her golems—clawed at his pride like thorns in flesh.
The king narrowed his eyes.
And then… the sound of soft steps on polished stone.
A woman entered the hall, her presence serene, but charged with unseen weight.
She wore long white robes that shimmered faintly under the torchlight, and in her arms, she cradled a crystal orb pulsing with ethereal light.
The Oracle.
Her voice was gentle, but when she spoke, it silenced even the thrum of magic in the walls.
"My King."
The assassin's head snapped to the side.
The King turned.
She stepped forward, her voice like mist, delicate—but heavy with revelation.
"It appears… your long-lost daughter has been found."
Silence fell like a blade.
The King's eyes widened, breath caught in his throat.
"What…?"
The Oracle nodded solemnly.
"The reason he was unable to fight… the reason he came back bruised and frightened… is because he encountered her."
She turned her gaze to the assassin, her tone soft but undeniable.
"He didn't realize at first. But up close—he knew. The girl he fought… is none other than your one and only daughter—
Dila."
A crack ran through the silence.
The assassin's face turned pale. His eyes stretched wide, disbelief colliding with fear.
The King stood frozen.
His clenched fists slowly rose—trembling.
The color drained from his face, only for it to return in flushed rage.
His lips parted, and his voice bellowed like a thunderclap:
"You KNEW?! You knew she was my daughter and said NOTHING?! You traitor—!"
The assassin flinched.
"I-I-I was afraid… I thought… you'd k-kill me if I said it!"
"OF COURSE I'D BE MAD!"
The King's roar was primal.
In a blur of motion, his fist surged forward—glowing faintly with runed power—and slammed into the assassin's face with devastating force.
CRACK.
"HAAAAAAH!!"
The assassin was sent flying—colliding with the marble wall like a broken puppet. Dust rained from the cracked stone behind him.
"AAAHHHHH!!"
The sound ripped through the hall as he slumped to the floor, coughing, blood streaming from his mouth, still kneeling—barely able to stay upright. His face was swollen and bruised.
He didn't dare lift his head.
The King stood at the top of the steps, chest heaving, eyes burning—not just with anger, but grief.
"…Dila…" he whispered.
His hands trembled, and for a moment, his proud, godlike presence faltered.
He looked toward the Oracle, his voice quieter—but it quaked with pain.
"…She's alive?"
The Oracle only nodded.
And her crystal shimmered.
The assassin, still kneeling with blood staining his lips, trembled beneath the weight of the king's gaze.
The King of Eldor slowly descended from his throne, his footsteps echoing with purpose. His long silver cloak trailed behind him like mist, eyes cold with command—but flickering with a fire that hadn't burned in decades.
He stopped just before the broken elf.
Then, with a voice as sharp and heavy as falling steel, he declared:
"You have a new mission."
The assassin dared not speak—he only listened, eyes lowered, his body still aching from the blow.
"You will scout Dila," the king said, voice unwavering.
"Find her. Learn where she goes. Watch for a time when she's away from others… in a lesser crowd. I don't want war. I want her returned… quietly."
The assassin nodded shakily.
"Yes, my king…"
But the king's next words froze the air itself.
"Do not return if you fail."
The assassin flinched. But he bowed his head even lower. "Understood."
With a shimmer of dark mist, the elf vanished into the shadows.
Silence returned to the grand hall.
The flickering torches burned low. The flame-colored banners above the throne barely moved, as if the air itself held its breath.
Then… alone at last, the King exhaled.
His trembling hands gripped the arms of the throne as he sat, lowering his head.
A single tear traced down his cheek.
"…You were stolen from me…" he whispered. "…Taken… by that man in the black armor… the berserker."
His voice cracked slightly, a rare sound from a ruler known across nations as cold and unshakable.
"I will kill him. I swear it. I will retrieve you, Dila… no matter what it costs me."
His hands clenched into fists, and suddenly his eyes began to glow—not with anger, but with the fury of a father betrayed.
A brilliant, fiery blue shimmered in his pupils like two burning stars. His power surged faintly around him, enough to make the stone floor tremble under his throne.
Then—
The screen fades to black.
But just before silence, a line of words etched themselves across the darkness:
■••••••
"Little did he know… the berserker he cursed… was not the villain—
but the avatar of Dila herself."
A shell of power she once played in a world that was only a game.
But the world has changed.
The timeline is broken.
The story has rewritten itself.
And now—
…it's no longer just a game."