Forbidden: Max level warrior

High above the capital, at the summit of the Whispered Eye's tower, two Archmages stood alone in a room woven from silence and magic.

The air trembled faintly around the older man. His staff rested beside him, its crystal dimmed with age, yet bound to deeper power than most in the kingdom could even comprehend. His level sat just one breath beneath legend—Level 99. The closest anyone in the Scarlet-Flame Kingdom had come to Grand Mage.

He gazed out the high-arched window toward the east. Toward the forest.

"The rupture site hasn't faded," he murmured. "Even now, the mana lingers."

Behind him stood the younger Archmage—barely eighteen years old, yet already Level 83. A prodigy, called the youngest Archmage in recorded history. Despite his talent, he said nothing. He knew better than to interrupt.

The elder continued.

"We saw them. Briefly. A young man and a girl. We still don't know who he is, where he came from, or what class his aura belongs to. But our scrying prism shattered the moment he noticed us."

He turned now, facing his pupil.

"We've seen enough to know we're dealing with something… unranked. Possibly unbound by the Tower's system, maybe a grand mage. The fact that such a presence can walk undetected through Verdant Edge—unregistered, uncontrolled—requires immediate clarity."

He stepped closer, placing a single hand on the younger mage's shoulder.

"Kaen, You will go. Observe. Find traces. Residual energy. Anything that might lead us closer to the truth. But do not confront him. Not yet. If danger finds you, defend yourself. If the forest resists you, tame it. But do not provoke what we do not yet understand."

The young Archmage inclined his head. "Understood, Lord Ordran"

Without another word, he raised his hand, summoned a glyph beneath his feet, and vanished in a pulse of white-gold light.

---

The outer edge of the Verdant Edge forest still smoked with lingering mana.

It was no ordinary forest—not merely trees and beasts, but a sprawling, ancient territory older than the Scarlet-Flame Kingdom itself. It stretched for leagues upon leagues, a wild zone where monsters, mana surges, and ruined relics slept untouched. Most of it was unexplored. Most who tried never came back.

Now, a quarter of it lay blasted open.

Towering trees had been reduced to ash and splinters. Patches of ground steamed with residual fire. The air trembled, as if reality had only just recovered from a magical concussion. And in the center stood a man in black and red robes, his staff buried in the earth, breath steady but shallow.

He was an Archmage—one of only a handful in the entire Scarlet-Flame Kingdom.

Cracks still spidered along his arcane barrier. His robes were torn at the shoulder, chest heaving from effort. At his feet lay the corpse of a massive creature, scales still hissing from residual magic. A half-dragon breed. A Razorback Wyvern—a creature ranked A-class, level 85. Built like a winged basilisk, with stone-piercing claws and flame-slick fangs.

It had taken everything to put it down.

The Archmage narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't random. It was agitated… drawn to the surge."

He turned his gaze toward the heart of the forest, still untouched in the distance. His voice, when he spoke again, was grim.

"No ordinary spell did this. And no normal mage could have drawn something of that caliber out."

He vanished in a flash of light, leaving behind a smoldering crater and a forest scarred by power.

---

Back in Feldrath, dusk was settling in.

Lanterns lit the cobbled streets. A soft buzz of life filled the taverns, the alleys, the merchant roads. Inside one of the larger taverns near the town square, the smell of roasted meat, bitter ale, and pipe smoke mixed warmly. The walls were worn but clean, and laughter rang out in soft intervals between clinking mugs and heavy footsteps.

Ann sat at a corner table, one arm resting lazily across the back of his chair, eyes half-lidded as he sipped from a silver cup. Lilly sat across from him, quietly chewing on a slice of buttered bread, legs tucked beneath the table in her new sapphire dress.

She looked... different now.

Not because of the clothes, though those helped. But something in her posture—still nervous, still unsure—was slowly beginning to thaw. Ann had barely said a word since they sat down. He was simply… enjoying the moment.

"This drink's not bad," he muttered, holding the goblet up to the light. "Sharp. Not too dry. Might be the best thing I've tasted in this world."

The tavern owner, an older woman with tired eyes and strong arms, overheard as she passed. She gave a quick, grateful nod.

That peace didn't last long.

The tavern doors slammed open.

Five armored men entered—each bearing the dark crimson badge of House Vaelthorn. Their armor wasn't royal, but it didn't need to be. Warden enforcers. Local brutes in the service of one of the most feared houses in the eastern provinces.

The leader—a stocky man with a shaved head and thick boots—shouted toward the counter.

"We've come to collect."

The room grew quieter. The music stopped. The tavern owner frowned but stepped forward.

"You already came yesterday."

"New policy," the man sneered. "We come when we feel like it. Call it a fee for protection."

The woman hesitated. "I... I won't survive like this. I won't have anything left."

"That's the idea."

The others laughed.

Ann set his cup down. "Tch. So noisy."

The men looked over. One squinted toward the corner table.

Ann didn't stand. He didn't raise his voice.

"I'm enjoying my drink," he said plainly. "You have five seconds to shut up, cut off your own fingers, and leave. Or I kill every one of you before you get the chance to blink."

The tavern fell into silence.

An enforcer blinked. Then laughed. "You what?"

"I said five seconds."

The leader stepped forward. This one carried a curved greatsword across his back and wore a lieutenant's band on his pauldron.

"You must be out of your damn mind," he said, voice low and gravelly. "I'm a level 60 elite. A B-rank swordsman. Captain of the Warden's second unit."

He stepped closer, letting his aura leak just enough to make the wooden floor groan beneath his boots. He unsheathed his blade—a black, wide-edged sword made of orichalcum, a metal harder than dwarf steel, said to slice through stone like paper.

"A single slash from this sword could flatten a mountain," he boasted. "And you—you little shit—will kneel and beg. Or I'll cleave this entire tavern in half."

Ann just looked at him. Then smiled.

"Try me."

The man roared and swung with full force, the blade humming with destruction.

It hit Ann's neck—directly.

No shield. No barrier.

And it stopped.

No sound. No shockwave.

Just—stopped.

The blade cracked.

Then shattered.

The captain stumbled backward, eyes wide.

"What…?"

Ann stood up slowly, brushing off his shoulder where the blade had struck. "Oh, right. I turned the barrier off this time. Wanted to see how it felt."

He looked down at the stunned warrior. "You attacked first."

Ann raised a finger.

Then gently tapped the man's forehead.

Pop.

The head exploded—instantly. No magic. Just raw force. Blood sprayed like mist as the body crumpled to the ground.

Gasps rippled across the room.

The remaining four enforcers drew their weapons and leapt forward in panic, roaring as they charged.

Ann didn't move.

Time seemed to freeze mid-air.

He raised one hand.

Snap.

Three of the four bodies exploded into clouds of blood and gore, suspended in the air like shattered red glass. Bits of armor clattered to the floor.

Lilly covered her mouth, eyes wide. She'd seen him threaten people before, but this… this wasn't a spell. This was something else.

The last one already got the message and didn't wait for anyone to tell him to run, Ann's motive was the entire warden family, he spared kne of them as a living witness to directly to the warden himself maybe next time the warden might come himself.

He had repeatedly created different scenarios where he acted against the warden time and time again, this was the finishing touch.

Ann sat back down calmly, picked up his cup, and took another sip.

"Shame. I really liked this drink."

The tavern was dead silent.

No one spoke.

No one breathed too loud.

The tavern owner dropped to her knees, shaking.

Ann looked at her. "Relax. I like your beer. Keep the place open. Consider them... dusted."

Then he raised a hand lazily toward the barkeep.

"Another round."

And just like that, the evening continued—except now, nobody dared disturb the man drinking in the corner with death in his smile.