Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The dense canopy of the forest filtered the golden morning sun into fragmented rays, casting jagged shadows across the forest floor. The air was thick—not with danger, but with expectation. Nero and Khione moved like wounded wolves, slow and deliberate. Their postures told the story of exhaustion. Their eyes, dulled to feign weariness, flickered with concealed sharpness.

They no longer used their detection spells to their fullest range.

That was intentional.

By now, they had determined that their mysterious stalker had some means of perceiving magical fluctuations. The moment they cast wide-ranged detection spells, the enemy would slink further into the dark, hiding their scent, their presence, their malice.

So instead, they gave nothing.

Only two predators, dragging their wounded bodies forward—appearing vulnerable, gasping, injured.

An illusion.

For half an hour, the forest gave nothing but silence. Each step felt like a performance on the world's most dangerous stage. Every breath measured. Every expression crafted.

And just when the silence stretched too long—just when their patience thinned—

The forest trembled.

A rhythmic pounding, like war drums approaching.

From between the gnarled trees, ten massive figures emerged. Towering over two meters each, they wore crude armor of bones and hide. Their bodies radiated raw chaos, muscles twitching with berserker fury. Ten berserk orcs—each seething with unnatural rage.

Khione's lips parted.

Nero's brow twitched.

Their expressions paled.

Perfect.

"Five each," Nero muttered, his voice laced with convincing weariness.

Khione merely nodded, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped her staff.

The orcs didn't wait.

With a thunderous roar, they charged—shaking the forest floor beneath them.

Nero's Side

The five orcs barreled toward him like living siege weapons. Nero raised his sword, the flames barely flickering across its blade. He forced his body to stumble back, letting his feet drag through the dirt.

The first orc swung down like a falling mountain. Nero rolled aside, "barely" escaping death.

He gasped loudly, loud enough for anyone hiding to hear.

The second orc came in from the side, cleaver swinging horizontally.

Nero blocked—barely. The clash sent him skidding back, boots digging trenches into the ground. He dropped to one knee, panting.

The third orc lunged.

"Flame Reversal Step."

He twisted mid-fall, erupting in a brief flash of fire to reposition behind the creature. His sword dug into its back—but not fatally. Just enough to stagger it.

The remaining two orcs boxed him in. He raised his blade—slowly, painfully—and defended in a flurry of sparks and chaos. His movements grew sloppier, more desperate. Blood spilled from his lip.

He fought like a warrior clinging to life.

Inside, his heart remained steady.

Every scratch had purpose.

Every stumble, design.

°°°

Khione's Side

The five berserk orcs facing her moved like rabid bulls, swinging their massive cleavers with terrifying force. Khione summoned a barrier of ice—one that shattered instantly under the first blow. She fell backward, her knees hitting the dirt with a thud.

Her face twisted in pain. Her breathing ragged.

One of the orcs reached for her throat.

She released a burst of cold mist—not too strong, just enough to slow them. As she staggered to her feet, she formed three fragile icicles in the air and launched them.

They struck the orcs—but again, no killing blows.

The battle raged on. Her robe was torn. Blood dripped from a gash on her thigh. Her left arm hung limp, the result of a staged impact. And yet, she kept moving—her staff like a lifeline in a storm of steel and fury.

She screamed as one orc slammed her against a tree.

A genuine sound—but not of pain. Of brilliance.

"Ice Shard Ring."

From her battered form, a ring of ice erupted outward—sharp, wild, and chaotic. It cut through two orcs' legs, crippling them. But the spell was unstable. She dropped to her knees, panting.

She looked weak.

She looked broken.

It was all by design.

As the fight dragged on, they let the wounds accumulate—superficial, controlled. Their clothes were tattered. Dirt smeared across their faces. Blood stained the earth.

But the orcs, despite their rage, began to fall.

Nero brought down his final orc with a wide, messy spin that ended in a thrust through the creature's eye. He let the beast fall over him, crushing him partially beneath it, dust clouding the area.

Khione, with trembling fingers, summoned a final freezing spike from the ground. It skewered the last two orcs, one through the chest, the other through the neck. She collapsed forward, her staff splintering beside her.

Silence.

Only the sound of wind through leaves.

And the slow, gasping breaths of two "exhausted" warriors.

Nero groaned and rolled the orc corpse off his body, dragging himself to his side and coughing.

Khione lay sprawled a few meters away, arms limp, legs bent awkwardly.

They didn't speak.

They didn't move.

Even their ragged breathing was choreographed.

They were broken, wounded, helpless.

Exactly what the enemy needed to see.

They lay in the clearing, surrounded by the corpses of ten berserk orcs, looking like survivors clinging to the edge of life.

But within them—behind those shuttered eyes—

They were waiting.

Waiting for the hidden enemy to drop their guard.

Waiting for the rat in the shadows to think—

"Now's my chance."

And when that moment came.

They would strike harder than ever before.

Having slaughtered the ten berserk orcs, they earned another 50 points, bringing their total tally to 661. A quick check of the leaderboard revealed their immediate competitors—the princess's team—were hot on their heels. Only 50 points separated them now.

Their eyes met. No words needed.

The same thing was happening on the other side. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Someone had infiltrated both the academy and this pocket world. And they were smart enough to realize that the higher-ups were undoubtedly aware. The silence from above wasn't negligence—it was calculated. The academy intended to use this chaos to smoke out the traitor, even if it meant sacrificing a few promising seeds.

It was a cruel, ruthless strategy.

But this was a military academy, not a nursery.

With that chilling realization, they each narrowed down the possible culprits.

Survival became their priority.

Not out of loyalty.

Not to protect others.

But because if they died here, it would all be for nothing.

And oddly enough, they shared this same sentiment. Perhaps, that was what made them get along so well.

Two lone wolves with aligned instincts.