The battle was over. The siege of Harheim, a once-thriving Harengon settlement nestled in the heart of a lush valley, had come to an end.
The air, thick with the acrid smell of smoke and ash, began to clear as the sun climbed higher in the sky, its golden rays piercing through the lingering haze.
The once-deafening sounds of clashing weapons, desperate cries, and the eerie groans of the undead had faded into an eerie, almost unnatural silence.
Gerlahim, the necromancer who had brought death and despair to the tribe, was no more.
His body, consumed by Keiran's flames, had been reduced to nothing but a fine layer of ashes scattered across the crater where the final confrontation had taken place.
Keiran stood at the edge of the crater, his figure silhouetted against the bright noon sun.
His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as if the battle had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
His eyes, a deep, unreadable black, scanned the scene before him with a detached curiosity.
He stepped out of the crater, his boots crunching against the charred earth, and surveyed the devastation.
The once-beautiful tribe of Harheim was now a patchwork of destruction—burned homes with their thatched roofs caved in, shattered walls that had once stood tall and proud, and the remnants of the undead army that Gerlahim had summoned.
Bones and broken weapons littered the ground, and the faint smell of decay lingered in the air. Yet, amidst the devastation, there was a sense of relief. The threat was gone.
"The battle is over," Keiran said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact. "Harheim is safe."
His words were simple, almost casual, as if he had just completed a routine task rather than defeating a necromancer who had been thought to be immortal.
The citizens of Harheim, who had witnessed the battle from a distance, stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and awe.
They had seen Keiran's power firsthand—the way he had wielded fire with such precision and control, the way he had stood unflinching against Gerlahim's dark magic.
To them, he was not just a warrior; he was something far greater, a force of nature that had descended upon their tribe to save them from destruction.
Among the crowd rose to his feet. His tall, lean frame was slightly hunched, as if the weight of the battle had pressed down on his shoulders.
His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were wide with shock, his usual composure shattered by what he had just witnessed.
Beside him stood Felicia. Both of them were struggling to process what had just happened.
But Keiran was not done yet. He raised his hands and activated Divine Inheritance, the air around him seemed to shift.
A strange energy began to gather, swirling like a storm. Black and white essences—remnants of the battle—rose from the ground and floated into the sky.
They twisted and turned, forming a massive cyclone with Keiran at its center. The sight was mesmerizing, almost otherworldly. The essences merged, their colors blending into a swirling vortex of light and shadow, before being absorbed into Keiran's body.
The ground beneath him seemed to hum with energy, and the air crackled with power. The onlookers watched in stunned silence, their breaths caught in their throats.
It was a display of power unlike anything they had ever seen. Keiran stood at the heart of the storm, his expression unchanged, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. When the last of the essences had been absorbed, the cyclone dissipated, leaving behind a calm, quiet air.
[You have received 251 Common Skills.]
[You have received 23 Uncommon Skills.]
[Death Shroud (Active): The necromancer envelops the battlefield in a thick, cursed smoke that lingers for a duration. Enemies caught within the shroud continuously lose health as their life force is siphoned away, weakening their strength and slowing their movements. The stolen vitality is distributed among the necromancer and their minions, rapidly healing them. The smoke also obscures vision, making it harder for enemies to target the necromancer. Mana Cost 5.]
[You have received 2 Rare Skills.]
[Eternal Legion (Active): Summon an unstoppable force of undead warriors—elite skeleton knights, vengeful revenants, and ravenous ghouls—from the remains of the fallen. Empowered by dark magic, these spectral soldiers possess enhanced strength, speed, and resilience, with a heightened resistance to exorcism-based magic. Their relentless assault instills dread in enemies, ensuring they fight until utterly destroyed. Mana Cost: 10.]
[Death's Bargain (Passive): When the Necromancer suffers a fatal blow, their minions will perish in their place, absorbing the damage. The number of minions sacrificed depends on the strength of the attack. Stronger attacks will consume more minions to nullify the fatal damage. If enough minions are available, the Necromancer survives unscathed.]
Because humanoids like Harengons and demons could learn different types of Common skills through various means—training, technique invention, books, scrolls, and other resources—Keiran had accumulated an extensive list of Common skills.
However, it hadn't been enough. The issue hadn't been his ability to gain skills but the finite number of skills available for him to absorb through Divine Inheritance.
Once he exhausted all known unique skills, his progress would come to a standstill. For most people, this wouldn't have been a concern—they would have been satisfied with mastering what was available. But Keiran couldn't afford to hit a ceiling. If he stopped growing, he would become predictable. If he became predictable, he would be vulnerable.
And weakness had been something he refused to accept.
The future had loomed with uncertainty, filled with threats both seen and unseen. Stronger enemies had always existed. If Keiran couldn't keep evolving, he would eventually become obsolete.
But he hadn't been the type to let limitations hold him back.
Keiran had already had a plan in mind.
[For acquiring unique skills, you have received experience points.]
[You leveled up 6x.]
[You have received 72 Stat points.]
This was the first time Ismael had ever encountered someone as powerful as Keiran. It was unlike anything he had faced before. Power radiated from Keiran in an overwhelming, suffocating way, pressing down on the air like an invisible weight. Even without making a move, Keiran's presence alone was enough to unsettle something deep inside Ismael, something instinctive that screamed at him to stay away.
Keiran possessed the power of calamity itself, a force that was beyond destruction—it was the embodiment of ruin, chaos, and inevitability. The energy around him felt cursed, as if existence itself recoiled in his presence. He didn't need to raise his hand or summon anything grand. His mere existence was a warning, a silent promise of devastation waiting to be unleashed.
Yet, for all that power, Keiran was as emotionless as a deep river, flowing without hesitation, without care. His gaze was empty, devoid of passion, hatred, or even the thrill of battle. He did not revel in his strength. He did not seek to prove himself. There was nothing behind his eyes but a void of indifference, a quiet detachment that made him more terrifying than any raging force of nature.
Ismael had fought countless foes before. He had seen warriors filled with rage, desperation, or even arrogance. But Keiran was none of those things. There was no malice in him, no desire to crush or dominate. He simply existed, and that existence alone was enough to unmake anything that stood in his way.
Ismael, still trying to comprehend what he had just witnessed, took a step forward. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. "Are you really a hero?"
Keiran turned to face him, his expression as calm as ever. "I am," he replied simply.
Before Ismael could say more, two figures approached from the distance. Greon and Agwil knelt before Keiran.
Their loyalty was evident in the way they carried themselves, their eyes filled with respect and admiration.
"My lord," Greon said, his deep voice filled with pride. "I knew you would win this."
Keiran nodded. "The fight was a lot more straightforward than I thought."
Ismael's eyes widened as he realized something. "Keiran Graywood… You have a Lionkin and a Cervitaur as subordinates. Can it be… Are you the ruler of the nation of Casimiro?"
Keiran's expression didn't change. "Yes."
Ismael's ears twitched, and a smile spread across his face. "Despite us rejecting your kind offer, you came and helped us."
Keiran's response was as blunt as ever. "I actually just came here to see bunny girls."
Ismael blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. Keiran's face was so serious that it was impossible to tell if he was joking.
Before Ismael could respond, Keiran turned and began to walk away. "Now that the problem is solved, we're leaving this part of the tribe. Other races aren't allowed in this area, right?"
Greon and Agwil followed without question, their footsteps echoing softly against the ground.
Felicia glanced at her brother, her eyes filled with unspoken words.
Ismael understood her silent plea. He took a deep breath and called out to Keiran. "Wait!"
Keiran stopped but didn't turn around.
Ismael bowed deeply, his ears drooping in a gesture of humility. "Although we Harengons are too proud for our own good, we know how to show gratitude." He extended his hand, a symbol of respect and thanks. "May I invite you to our castle so you can rest and have an audience with my father?"
Keiran glanced over his shoulder and gave a slight nod. "Okay."