It didn’t take long for Torg to arrive at the elven village.
The reception he received was the complete opposite of what he’d imagined.
“A human! Here?”
Countless shocked and hostile gazes locked onto him. With a troubled expression, he looked back at them.
…This wasn’t what I expected.
The elves were undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful. Each one of them possessed a grace Torg had never witnessed, and even the elders had features that seemed flawless and unmarred by time. Under normal circumstances, he would have been struck with admiration, but these were not normal circumstances.
These elves were hostile.
The mother of the child in his arms cried out, her face a mask of despair. It was then that Torg understood. They saw him as an outsider who had stolen one of their own.
The elder’s stern gaze fell upon the child nestled in Torg’s arms.
“Unacceptable!”
This was supposed to be a remote sanctuary, a place untouched by human hands. How could one be standing here now? Despite his unusually large stature, the intruder was clearly human.
“The barrier! How did he pass it?”
“Elder! There’s a tear in the barrier…”
Their location had been discovered. The barrier was woven from ancient elven magic; it was impossible to breach through clumsy force. The fact that it was broken meant the humans had come prepared.
“How long have they been tracking us?”
There was no time to ponder that. The elder’s voice was laced with urgency.
“Where is the queen? The rest of the humans will be here soon!”
“Queen Aeriel is currently scouting the surrounding area!”
One disaster after another. Torg scratched his cheek as he listened to their panicked conversation. The distance between them was considerable, yet he could hear their words as if they were standing right beside him.
Rationally, it all made a twisted sort of sense. They were elves, and he was a human. The tales of humans, so enamored with elven beauty that they resorted to kidnapping, were quite famous. And here he was, holding an elven child in his arms. It was the most obvious conclusion for them to draw.
First, he needed to clear up this misunderstanding.
“I am not your enemy. I am—”
“You bastard! Release that child, or I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth!”
His words were cut off without a second thought. They weren’t going to believe a thing he said. In that case, his actions would have to speak for him.
The child, who had just stirred awake, was now trembling in his arms. Gently, Torg knelt and set the little one down.
“Go on. Return to your family.”
Torg tried to offer the most reassuring smile he could manage. The child took one look at his face and burst into tears, then turned and ran wailing toward the village.
A deep sadness settled in Torg’s chest.
…Am I really that frightening?
In any case, the child was safe. Torg stood up and raised his hands to show he was unarmed.
“Elves. As you can see, I am not your—”
“The hostage is free!”
As if they had been waiting for that exact moment, the elves drew their bowstrings taut. A volley of sharp arrows sliced through the air toward him.
The shafts struck Torg’s body and simply bounced off, clattering uselessly to the ground. The elves didn’t hesitate, nocking and loosing another volley.
“He’s wearing a protective artifact! It must have a limit! Keep firing!”
Now, not only arrows but also lances of fire and blades of water flew at him. Torg shook his head, a melancholic look on his face.
…Elves are more savage than I imagined.
He had read they were a race that loved nature, yearned for peace, and lived by a gentle code of order. The reality, it seemed, was far more wild. His fantasies and illusions were shattering one by one.
…So this is what reality is like.
Well, elves were a race that lived in nature, and nature was a world ruled by the survival of the fittest. Peace was a luxury they likely couldn’t afford. It wasn’t so surprising, then, that they were fierce.
Of course, in truth, they weren’t. Elves were not a savage race. They were, in fact, gentle and peace-loving. If Torg had been an ordinary human, they might have been startled, but they would have been grateful for the child’s return and offered him thanks.
The problem was that Torg was Torg. A barbarian of the Baekseol Plains.
He was a walking incarnation of terror.
The intense aura radiating from him was overwhelming the elves. To them, it felt as a rabbit feels when a wolf appears at the mouth of its burrow. As beings of nature, elves were extremely sensitive to such things. Instinctual fear was short-circuiting their reason.
A lion had just wandered into their den and was staring at them intently. From their perspective, trying desperately to drive it away was the only sane course of action.
But Torg, unaware of any of this, could only see them as savage.
He decided to accept it without prejudice. This was the fantasy world he had yearned for, after all. Discovering how it differed from the books was part of the excitement.
As he sorted through his thoughts, something caught his eye. He plucked a passing arrow from the air and examined it. A faint whirlwind spun at its tip, sharp and precise. Blades of fire and water continued to fly past him.
Torg’s eyes lit with interest. Strange forces like these were common enough on the snow plains, but to think of them as elven elemental magic made them seem different, special.
While Torg watched their attacks with detached fascination, the elves grew more desperate.
“What kind of artifact is that?”
Even the most powerful defensive artifact had a breaking point. Yet despite their full-powered assault, the one this human wore showed no signs of failing.
As amusing as this was, he wanted to start a proper conversation. It was clear, however, that they had no intention of listening to anything he said.
I suppose I’ll have to calm them down.
Torg raised both his arms. Thinking it was the start of an attack, the elves threw up protective wards.
He clapped his hands together. A single, sharp report echoed through the clearing, and a shockwave erupted from the impact.
The magical shields shattered like glass. Trees were torn from the ground, their roots exposed, and branches were sent swirling into the distance. The elves who couldn’t brace themselves were sent tumbling across the forest floor.
The battle was over. The elves stared in astonishment. That clap hadn’t been a magical attack; it was pure, unadulterated physical force. The shockwave alone had turned their world upside down.
But Torg was also bewildered.
Was that too much power?
Perhaps it was because he had only ever faced either monstrously powerful foes or disgustingly weak ones, but he had a poor sense of how to measure his strength. Still, he had managed to forcibly create a moment of calm.
Torg cleared his throat and tried again. “I am not your enemy. Elves…”
Before he could finish, the air shrieked. A translucent arrow, tracing a beautiful arc, flew toward him. Torg watched it come, transfixed.
The arrow struck his chest and detonated. A roar of fire engulfed him completely.
An elf landed in the center of the ravaged clearing. Blonde hair billowed around a sharp, beautiful face, and her blue eyes shone with cold light. It was the queen.
The elder rushed to her side, his voice fraught with panic. “Humans have attacked!”
“…I expected as much.” Queen Aeriel’s expression darkened. “That man is merely the vanguard. The main force will arrive soon.”
Her expression shifted to one of confusion. “But I scouted the entire perimeter. There was no sign of them.”
A voice rumbled from within the inferno, and the elves flinched back in terror. A moment later, a massive hand emerged and casually swatted the flames away.
“I hope you’ll listen to me now.”
Torg stood in the exact same spot, utterly unharmed.
“How did he withstand the queen’s strike without a scratch?”
“What kind of artifact does he possess?”
Queen Aeriel’s eyes narrowed. Torg’s attire was simple. A hatchet hung from his waist. He wore a plain wooden necklace. A leather pouch was attached to his belt. That was all. An artifact powerful enough to block her attack would have radiated immense energy, but she felt nothing of the sort from him.
That meant he had weathered the blast with his own body.
“Even a strongman like you has come to hunt us? Humans are truly despicable.” Her voice was like ice. “You will regret this choice.”
Queen Aeriel drew her bow. “I am the queen of the Veridian Enclave. Human, you have dared to covet us. Now, face the consequences.”
…Are we even capable of communicating?
For a moment, he genuinely wondered. They were speaking the same language, but it felt as if she was choosing to ignore his words, dismissing them as worthless.
Is the relationship between humans and elves really this poor? He had told them he wasn’t a hunter. Then again, if he believed they were a race that would steal his child for sport, he wouldn’t think very highly of them either.
Torg felt a wave of gloom wash over him.
It can’t be helped.
He recalled one of the core principles he’d learned on the snow plains.
If you hit them, they listen.
Of course, he wouldn’t actually resort to violence. That was an unthinkable option for him now. He just needed to make them listen.
As Torg came to this conclusion, the queen drew her bowstring. A translucent arrow shimmered into existence against the string. She released, and it was gone.
It moved faster than sound, a blur impossible to track with the naked eye. Just as the arrow was about to strike, Torg’s hand shot out.
He caught it.
Naturally, it exploded. Flames erupted, threatening to consume him. In response, Torg did something very simple.
He clenched his fist.
With a soft fump, the magical flames vanished. The elves’ pupils dilated. Queen Aeriel stared in disbelief. Her arrows weren’t ordinary projectiles; they were imbued with nature spirits, each one carrying the essence of fire. Even a superhuman shouldn’t have been able to stop one without injury, yet he had extinguished it with a squeeze of his hand.
She drew her bow again, her movements sharp and furious. This time, the bow itself was wreathed in flame, a fire so intensely controlled that it caused the very air around it to warp and distort.
“Burn to cinders!” she screamed, loosing the shot.
The bolt of pure flame rocketed forward at a dizzying speed, gradually taking shape as it flew. It became a phoenix, its wings a dazzling spectacle of fire.
The elves cried out in awe. This was their queen’s ultimate technique: an arrow of the phoenix that would not be extinguished until its target was nothing but ash. It had never been stopped.
But the queen could only watch in bewilderment. Even in the face of her strongest attack, the barbarian’s expression remained placid, almost serene.
An arrow of a phoenix. A truly fantastical technique.
Moved by the sight, he simply balled his fist again. And then he punched.
He launched his fist toward the approaching phoenix.
Everything in the punch’s trajectory exploded. Trees snapped, and a perfectly clear path was carved through the dense forest in an instant. The inextinguishable flames were forcibly snuffed out. The shockwave didn’t stop there; it slammed into the Elf Queen, sending her tumbling through the dirt.
Torg clicked his tongue, a look of dawning realization on his face. “I should have held back more.”
The Elf Queen, bruised and battered, pushed herself up from the ground, her face a rigid mask. Through this brief exchange, she had learned the truth.
This opponent was strong. Incomparably so.
A superhuman… no, something far beyond that.
How could a being of such power be here? Queen Aeriel gritted her teeth. She had always been confident in her own strength, but this was a wall beyond walls. Her opponent stood on a level she could never hope to reach.
Her face hardened with resolve. “Everyone!” she shouted. “Get away from here! Now!”
The elder, realizing what she intended to do, took up the cry. “Everyone, run!”
The elves scattered in a panic.
Queen Aeriel stumbled to her feet. “Human… I acknowledge your strength. But you will never achieve your goal!”
Torg watched her with a flicker of irritation. The Torg of the snow plains would have already smashed their heads together and forced them to listen. As their stubborn refusal to understand continued, he felt the familiar urge to raise his fist.
But he suppressed it. This was the fantasy world he had dreamed of. He wanted to be patient, to act with a calm demeanor. He took a deep breath.
While Torg was composing himself, the queen pressed her palms together. Flames began to gather around her, swirling and taking shape.
“I call upon you! The one who holds the pure origin! I call upon you! The one who burns the creeping dark!”
Torg forgot his frustration and watched, impressed. Of course magic would have incantations. His heart pounded in his chest as he witnessed the real thing. He was glad he’d decided to be patient.
“Oh, come! He whose horns hold the unblemished flame! Zharos!”
The mass of fire warped, opening like a doorway, and from it leaped a great beast. Torg let out an involuntary cheer.
The reason was simple: the bull that emerged was magnificent.
Crimson flames licked across its entire body, and its mere presence caused the temperature in the forest to spike. But its most distinctive feature was the pair of horns that blazed atop its head. The bull itself was powerful, but the horns were on another level entirely. It was a difference even Torg, who was seeing a spirit for the first time, could feel instinctively.
That is a spirit. This is fantasy.
The creatures on the snow plains had been gruesome, alien things, closer to nightmares than fantasy. There were a few cute ones, like the black slimes, and some vaguely fantastical creatures like giant serpents, but they were a tiny minority. The vast majority were foul to look at.
But this bull? It was a creature wreathed in fire, with horns that burned with primordial flame. It was a being overflowing with romance.
While Torg stared, moved, the bull snorted, its expression one of pure annoyance.
[Hmph. You summoned me?] Zharos scraped a hoof against the scorched earth. [I am bound by the king’s order to aid you, but this contract is hardly worth my time. It’s one irritating demand after another.]
Queen Aeriel’s voice was strained. “Zharos.”
He was the highest elemental spirit of fire, a being of unparalleled power. As such, he did not follow the orders of his contractor meekly. Just as a tamer can never perfectly control a wild predator, so it was with spirits. The stronger the spirit, the older it was, and the greater its pride. And Zharos, who embodied the very concept of fire, was among the proudest.
He was a spirit the queen should not have been able to summon on her own. She had only managed to form a contract with him through the aid of another tribe.
“Fulfill the contract, Zharos.”
[It is an annoyance, but a contract is a contract. So, I am to kill this human before me?]
Zharos snorted again and finally turned his gaze on his target. He saw a human staring back at him, a strange look of awe on his face, and for a moment, the spirit doubted his own eyes.
The human’s body was so perfect it seemed unreal. If not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Zharos would have mistaken him for a masterfully carved statue.