“You may refer to me as... the Scar.”

Orion exited the grand library with measured grace, his determined stride carrying him toward the hallowed training chamber nestled within the academy's inner sanctum. The corridors, lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes, receded behind him as he pressed forward, his mind singularly focused on the arduous trial ahead. Upon entering the secluded chamber, he crossed the polished marble floor and seated himself in the center, assuming the lotus position with practiced ease.

A deep breath steadied his resolve. He extended a hand, sending a controlled pulse of mana into the black dimension ring adorning his finger. A moment later, a pulsating heart materialized in his grasp—vast and grotesque, its dark flesh slick with residual energy. The colossal serpent from which it had been claimed had fallen by Orion's hand just hours prior, but its vitality still pulsed within, defying death itself.

Orion was well aware of the ordeal that awaited him. The process of assimilation was not merely painful; it was an unrelenting trial of endurance, where only those of unwavering will could emerge unscathed. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly before channeling a fraction of his mana into the heart. A connection sparked, and the ritual began.

Power surged forth, an untamed river of raw mana forcing its way into Orion's core. His body tensed as the first wave struck, a crushing force bearing down upon his heart. His veins ignited with searing heat, his heart hammering violently against his ribs as if pushing a mountain instead of blood. He gritted his teeth, his muscles locking in resistance, but he did not falter. He had anticipated nothing less.

Time became meaningless. Agony stretched into eternity as Orion methodically replaced the serpent's foreign mana signature with his own, carving his dominance over the invading force. The pain only escalated, reaching a torturous crescendo that threatened to shatter his focus. Minutes bled into hours, but Orion held firm, his breathing controlled, his mind unyielding. He would not submit.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the torment waned. The surging energy that had threatened to consume him now lay tamed within his core, harmonized with his own. Orion exhaled sharply, his body drenched in sweat, his skin flushed as if scalded by unseen flames. He remained sprawled upon the cold floor, his chest rising and falling in exhausted relief.

After a moment's respite, he forced his weary limbs into motion. His fingers curled around the now-pallid heart, drained of its once-potent essence. With a flick of his wrist, flames erupted from his palm, consuming the lifeless organ in an instant. He watched as it crumbled into nothingness, reduced to mere ashes.

With great effort, Orion rose to his feet, his breath steadying. His gaze turned toward the chamber's exit, a single thought solidifying in his mind.

"It's time to leave."

—

The whisper of leaves filled the twilight air, a rustling symphony disturbed only by the hurried footsteps of five figures weaving through the dense underbrush. The outskirts of Death Forest stretched around them, its towering trees casting long shadows under the fading sun.

A woman clad in pristine white robes led the desperate flight, her breath labored as she carried an injured man on her back. The remaining three—two men and another woman—formed a protective formation around her, each gripping their weapons with unwavering resolve. A bow, a sword, and a spear gleamed under the dim light, their wielders tense and battle-ready.

Behind them, a pack of wolves pursued, their ebony fur blending seamlessly with the encroaching darkness. Their eyes, burning with an eerie crimson glow, remained fixated on their fleeing prey. These were no ordinary predators; they were Canny Wolves, creatures infamous for their ability to assess their opponents with unnatural precision. They never engaged foes beyond their capabilities, yet they never spared the weak.

And tonight, they had found easy prey.

"We can't keep this pace for much longer," the swordsman gritted out, his breathing heavy. His gaze flicked toward the wounded man draped over their healer's back, his pallor worsening by the second.

"They're closing in," the spear-wielding woman warned, her grip tightening on her weapon.

"We make a stand here," the archer declared, skidding to a halt and nocking an arrow.

The others hesitated for only a heartbeat before forming a defensive line. The healer, still bearing their fallen comrade, reluctantly pressed forward alone.

Unseen by all, a lone figure observed the scene from a nearby ridge, his silhouette blending into the shadows. He remained still, calculating eyes watching as events unfolded below. The group's strength was evident—one among them possessed a silver mana core, while the others hovered at the radiant yellow stage. Under normal circumstances, they could have dispatched the wolves with ease. But exhaustion clung to them, their mana signatures flickering weakly. Their strongest member was incapacitated, their archer ill-suited for close combat, and the remaining two barely standing.

Something had gone terribly wrong before this chase began.

The silent observer exhaled softly, and with a flick of his fingers, a pristine white mask materialized in his palm. Intricate red and gold patterns adorned one side, swirling with latent power.

Down below, the injured man suddenly stirred, wrenching himself free from the healer's grip. His weakened stance barely concealed the fire in his eyes as he spoke.

"Leave me here," he rasped, his voice firm despite the pain. "I'll hold them off. Run."

"No!" The healer reached for him, but he stepped back, summoning the remnants of his mana. A silver aura flickered around him—brief, fragile, but resolute.

"Go!" he urged.

The swordsman took a step forward. "We're not leaving you, Mark."

The others echoed his sentiment, resolute.

Then, the wolves lunged.

A wall of ice erupted before them, solid and unyielding, cutting off the pack's advance. The unexpected intervention left them momentarily stunned.

Mark, clutching his wound, glanced around. "Who—?"

Before the question could be voiced, flames roared to life, consuming the ice in an instant. A thick mist blanketed the battlefield, reducing visibility to mere feet. Silence followed.

Then, from within the swirling steam, a lone figure emerged.

A dark crimson cloak draped his form, the hood obscuring his features. A mask, palestine white with intricate red and gold etchings, concealed his identity. He moved with measured precision, his gaze sweeping over them with piercing scrutiny.

The weight of his presence was suffocating.

Mark, initially prepared to strike should the newcomer reveal hostility, found his fingers faltering over his concealed weapon. The masked man's gaze settled upon him, and for the first time that night, true fear crept into his bones.

Then, the stranger spoke.

"You should leave before more beasts arrive."

His voice, calm yet commanding, resonated through the tense air. He turned away without another word, striding toward the darkness from which he had emerged.

Mark hesitated before calling out. "At least tell us your name."

The figure paused but did not turn. "You may refer to me as... the Scar."

Mark watched him go, a deep respect settling in his chest. He bowed deeply. "Thank you, Mr. Scar."

The others followed his lead, bowing as well.

The figure somply raised his hand in a simple wave without turning back. Before he vanished into the jungle.

"We should leave as well." Mark spoke and soon they too turned to flee with renewed urgency, an unspoken vow to remember the one who had saved them from certain death.