NOVEL NEXT Chapter 83: Fantasy Cliche
It didn't take long for Corven to start roaming the city, relishing in his newfound freedom, his steps light yet deliberate as though every corner of the city belonged to him now. His posture alone radiated confidence, his chin slightly raised, cloak shifting faintly against the sun's glow like he was daring anyone to stop him.
As for his appearance? He couldn't give a single damn about it. His shirt was still in tatters, chest bare, scars that once marred his skin completely gone, leaving only flawless muscle.
Not like anyone would be a threat to him at this point. Not anymore.
"The thrill! The joy! The searing heat!" Corven yelled out like a preacher, walking down the street with his hands stretched apart as if embracing the very air.
He looked like a madman, but it was to be expected of someone who hadn't felt the sun's warmth on his skin for days. The voice that left him wasn't just loud—it carried, echoing slightly across the stone walls as if the city itself had been forced to listen.
The citizens froze. Vendors paused with food still halfway in hand, children clutched by their mothers' arms, guards standing stiffly at the corners of intersections. None of them were sure how to react. His presence was unmistakable—Corven didn't just look powerful, he felt powerful. That overwhelming aura pressed on their instincts, a natural predator casually walking among prey.
But there he was, in broad daylight, walking like any other man.
And he wasn't attacking anyone.
The strangest part? He looked stupidly human. His ascension had healed the burns and wounds he'd carried, smoothing his skin into something near-perfect, like polished marble under the golden sun. His body had gone beyond mortal limits, and yet it made him appear almost approachable.
Almost.
Still, his presence alone wasn't enough to stop the city's natural rhythm. Wagons rolled, traders haggled, and life tried to continue.
"Quick! Get the thief!"
A merchant's cry cut through the air, sharp and panicked. The man was dressed in expensive green attire, face red from exertion as he chased a rugged, muscular thief. The thief sprinted through the crowd, shoving people aside, a large sack bouncing over his shoulder. Jewelry spilled from the torn opening, golden bracelets and silver pendants scattering across the cobblestones.
'I guess even that huge blast of energy didn't entirely phase everyone…' Corven thought, lips twitching upward. 'But this works for me. A little fun never hurt.'
FWOOSH.
CRACK.
Corven's foot slammed into the thief's ribs with a casual swing, the sound of bone snapping echoing like thunder in the narrow street. The thief's body flew into the side of an abandoned stall, wood splintering on impact.
"Oh, thank the heavens!" The merchant stumbled to a stop beside Corven, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "You're a lifesaver!"
Corven blinked twice, tilting his head. "You… aren't scared of me?"
The merchant laughed, though the sound was strained, more nervous than joyous. He straightened his back with an audible crack, trying to compose himself. "If you meant anything bad, I'd already be dead!"
He extended a trembling hand, gripping Corven's far larger one. Even with his words, the truth betrayed him—his hands quivered, pulse frantic, his blood thick with fear. Corven could smell it, taste the iron tang in the air. The man was putting on a mask of courage, hoping to hide the terror in his veins.
"Good point." Corven smiled faintly, clapping him on the back with enough force to make the man stumble a step forward.
"Off I go then!" the merchant barked out a laugh, far too loud to be genuine, before snatching the sack from the unconscious thief. He turned to leave, but not without pausing to deliver a brutal kick to the thief's skull. "That'll teach you."
That single act was enough. The gathered citizens, who had been holding their breath, all seemed to exhale at once. Whispered agreement rippled through the crowd, a chain reaction of acceptance.
Corven felt it wash over him like a tide—their fear softening, their relief blooming. The collective shift in atmosphere even gave him a strange sense of ease, almost like second-hand comfort.
But that didn't mean everything was fine. His hunger gnawed at him, sharp and demanding. He needed blood.
The dead guards back at the castle were an option, but stale, dried-up blood wasn't worthy of his first drink as a Daywalker. He wanted something fresh, something that would make this moment memorable.
'Let me go find a thief to prey on,' he decided with a small smirk.
His shadowy cloak shivered, fabric rippling unnaturally before reshaping into his leathery batlike wings.
'So that's how it works!' Corven mused, stretching them once, twice, before launching into the air with a powerful beat of his wings. The force of takeoff kicked up dust and startled nearby citizens.
From below, he must've looked like a sentinel, soaring above rooftops with predatory grace, overlooking the city like it was his domain.
"Now then… this is a fantasy world. There should be something interesting around…"
It didn't take long before something caught his eye.
Far in the distance—kilometers away—his enhanced vision zoomed in effortlessly, as if the world itself bent to let him see.
"Are those—?"
Elves.
A warband, no less. They wore armor that looked woven from leaves, but under the greenery glinted moonsteel, a metal unique to their kind. The steel shimmered with a faint silver glow even from afar, crafted only by elves from rare minerals deep within sacred forests.
And they weren't alone.
A pack of orcs clashed with them, the crude but overwhelming strength of the green-skinned warriors pushing against the elegant precision of the elves. Just beyond the battlefield, Corven spotted the orc settlement—huts of bone and hide, surrounded by makeshift palisades of freshly cut logs.
"So they were trying to clear out that tribe?" Corven muttered, rubbing his chin as he hovered in the air.
The Codex had warned him to stay in the city for two days, but it never said he couldn't take a short trip. And besides—there was another motivation.
'I wonder how orc blood tastes?'
With that thought, Corven tucked his wings and shot forward.
FWOOSH.
…
Morhen — Forest of Ancients
The Forest of Ancients stretched across the continent, vast and sacred, a place whispered of in both human taverns and elven courts. The section Corven entered was only a fraction of its true size, yet it still held the weight of untamed wilderness. The canopy was thick, sunlight filtering through in fractured beams. Birds scattered at the sound of steel clashing, and distant roars of beasts echoed faintly deeper within.
On the battlefield, the clash continued.
"Die, barbarian!" an elf snarled, long golden hair streaked with dirt and sweat. His sword danced in his hands, striking with precise speed.
CLANG.
The blade met a massive axe, sparks bursting into the air.
The axe was wielded by a towering orc, his body so massive it looked like three humans stitched together into one hulking form. His tusks curved upward, eyes glowing with feral rage.
"Puny elf! You dare attack orcish territory!?" he roared, veins bulging across his green skin.
CLANG.
Their weapons clashed again, the shock of the impact rattling through the ground.
All around them, war erupted—steel ringing, bodies colliding. Elves moved with speed and grace, orcs with raw brutality.
And yet… no magic. Despite the elves' affinity, they fought without casting. Pride dictated this skirmish—steel against steel, without advantage.
"You cut down our trees for your filthy huts and walls! This is an insult to our race!" the elf shouted, lunging again.
"So what!? You pointy-ears hollow out trees and call them homes!" the orc bellowed, swinging downward.
The strike missed, tearing a crater into the earth as the elf narrowly dodged, dirt spraying his face.
"We ask permission from the trees!" the elf retorted through gritted teeth, sword flashing once more.
And then—
FWOOSH.
A shadow streaked across the battlefield.
"You two—"
Corven's voice cut through the noise, mocking and playful.
"Argue like children!"
He descended with a wide grin stretched across his face, eyes gleaming with excitement. He had stumbled upon one of the oldest clichés of fantasy—elves and orcs locked in battle.
And he couldn't wait to involve himself.