"Scar it is then."

Orion gracefully exited the library, a determined stride leading him to the hallowed training room. Seating himself upon the floor, he assumed the lotus position. With measured composure, he sent a little of his mana into the black dimension ring on his finger, unveiling the pulsating heart of the colossal serpent, a trophy from the day's hunt.

Acutely aware of the impending ordeal, Orion steeled his resolve for the inevitable torrent of mana that would accompany the process. Inhaling deeply, he embarked on the sacred ritual, skillfully channeling a fraction of his own mana into the heart cradled in his hand. A symbiotic dance unfolded as the connection materialized, unleashing a relentless surge of power that seamlessly melded with Orion's essence.

Immediately, a crushing pressure descended upon his heart, but he held on, for he had expected no less. Such agony lasted for hours and hours long, tormenting orion as he kept replacing serpent's mana signature with his own. As time wore on, the torment only seemed to increased, reaching the torturous hight, Minutes felt like hours but orion held on. But soon the pain, once overwhelming, finally began to wane, dwindled to nothingness at the end.

Orion remained sprawled on the ground, his skin flushed as though scorched by the fiercest of fires, his body drenched in a sea of perspiration as a deep exhausted breath escaped his mouth. After a brief respite, he mustered the strength to open his eyes, fixating his gaze on the now pallid heart he held. Immediately a cluster of flames emerged from his hand, turning the now still heart into ashes.

With great effort, Orion rose to his feet, muttering under his breath with a resolute tone.

"Now, it's time to leave."

...

Swish! Swish!

The sound of fluttering leaves echoed in the surroundings as at the outskirts of Death Forest, a group of few people was running through the jungle. There were three men and two women, all fully geared with magical armors and equipment. But one of them seemed to be injured, so a woman with white robes was carrying him on her back as they all ran with urgency.

In their relentless pursuit was a horde of wolves, their ebony fur glistening in the twilight, and their eyes burning a malevolent red, slowly closing in on the small group. These creatures, known as Canny Wolves, were infamous for their uncanny ability to assess the strength of their foes with eerie precision, so they never engaged with someone they couldn't beat, running away immediately at the first sense of a dangerous foe.

They weren't that strong individually but posed a grave threat when attacking in a pack, and today there were too many of them. More than a normal horde should have.

A determined white-robed woman sprinted ahead, carrying her injured comrade on her back. The remaining trio readied their weapons. One of the men summoned a bow, another unsheathed a sword, and the woman was using a spear. They made a tight circle of defense to prevent the upcoming wolves from trespassing, intending to buy time for their companion to escape first.

Not so far from them, a man watched everything unfold, his face obscured under the shadow, his calculating eyes never straying from the scene. For several minutes, he didn't intervene and simply watched, gaining insight into the group's abilities.

He sensed that the strongest of them was a silver core mage, while the remaining members were at the radiant yellow stage. Normally, it wouldn't be too hard for a group of such strength to get rid of these wolves. But the one with the silver core was the injured one, and the man with the bow was simply useless in such close-range combat. The other two also appeared too tired, their exhaustion clearly visible on their faces, followed by the weak pulses of mana while they used magic.

It was obvious that they had befallen upon some terrible accident before getting chased by these wolves. The wolves had found an easier prey and were reluctant to let them escape so easily, pursuing them this far to the edge of the forest.

The man in shadows let out a deep, cumulative sigh, and with a wave of his hand, a pristine white mask appeared over his hand. A mask adorned with intricate patterns of red and gold on one of its sides, signifying the latent power it seemed to carry within.

"Leave me here and escape," The injured man, clutching at his deep claw wounds, abruptly jumped away from the woman's back. Though his injuries did not bleed, his pallor suggested the loss of blood, hinting at the gravity of his condition.

"Leave me here and escape. I will hold them back," he implored, a glimmer of determination in his eyes. His mana pulsed around him, revealing the formidable strength of his silver mana core, but it faded as swiftly as it appeared. Nevertheless, he cried out, "Go!" Yet, his steadfast comrades remained resolute, refusing to abandon him.

"We're in this together, Mark. We wouldn't leave," the man bearing a sword stated firmly. The others nodded in unwavering agreement and then formed a protective circle around the woman in the white robe, who appeared to be most vulnerable.

Soon they found themselves surrounded by a menacing pack of wolves, their growls echoing with impending danger. The whole group prepared for their final stand. But as the savage beasts lunged forward, ready to batter them to death, a towering wall of ice manifested in between, creating a big protective dome around them.

The unexpected defense startled them all. Its rapid appearance hinted at the mage's formidable abilities.

"Stay vigilant," Mark urged, his breath labored as he clutched his chest wound.

Not even seconds later, the flames erupted next, roaring even taller than the towering wall of ice, reducing it to nothing more than a fleeting barrier within a matter of seconds. The thick clouds of steam covered the surroundings.

And soon, emerging from the billowing steam, a cloaked figure appeared before them. Draped in a dark crimson cloak, his head concealed by the matching hood, while a palestine white mask obscured his face from prying eyes.

The cloaked mage halted his steps just a few meters away from them. While they remained still, paralyzed like statues by the intensity of his gaze. The masked man moved his gaze over them, one after the other. His eyes seemed to pierce through their very souls, as if searching for any sign of rebellion or defiance. The moment hung in the balance, as they awaited the mysterious figure's next move.

Mark, initially ready to strike if the masked mage revealed hostile intentions, found himself gripped by a sudden sense of fear when the mysterious figure's gaze bore into him. With an involuntary gulp, he sheathed back his concealed weapon, his planned surprise attack now rendered ineffective.

Before he could collect his thoughts, a commanding voice resonated through the tense air, snapping them all out of their frozen states.

"You should leave before more beasts arrive," The cloaked mage stated and without any hesitation, turned to leave, paying them no heed or attention.

"Tell us your name, at least," Mark implored, recognizing that this stranger had just rescued them.

"You may refer to me as... the Scar," came the curt reply, uttered without turning back to face them.

"Scar it is then," Mark muttered, understanding that aliases were common among those who roamed the world of hunting mages. Gratitude welled within him, prompting him to give a respectful bow as he shouted, "Thank you for saving us, Sir Scar," soon followed by others as well.

Scar acknowledged their thanks with a mere wave of his hand, never breaking his stride forward, and vanished into the depths of the forest again.

Mark took charge once more, rallying his companions with a somber tone, "Let us depart as well. We may not be fortunate enough to encounter another savior." The group nodded in agreement, hastening their retreat, carrying the deep gratitude for the shadowy protector who had appeared at their direst moment of need.