Supreme Hunter of Beautiful Souls

The Council of Realms table was shrouded in a haze of tension.

It was an ancient chamber, carved deep within an enchanted mountain, where the seven greatest thrones of the races met to discuss matters of absolute crisis. The crest of Azalith flickered on the living stone walls, while magical echoes silenced the outside world. But within the chamber, chaos was about to erupt.

"Say something, for the love of the Gods!" roared Thorgal, the Dwarf King, pounding the stone table so hard that small cracks formed. His braided beard trembled with fury. "CHILDREN are being slaughtered in the school you insist on defending! In Azalith!"

"Control yourself, Thorgal," said the Western Human Emperor, Hadrian Borealis, calmly, his hands clasped together over his golden robe. His voice was as firm as steel, yet as cold as ice. We need more information before we act. Besides, Azalith is an institution shared by all our people. The responsibility lies with all of us."

"Convenient, don't you think?" murmured Ilysera, the Faerie Queen, her eyes narrowed, her voice thick with suspicion. Her long fingers toyed with a chalice of enchanted nectar. "A student murders two other students, and coincidentally, as he walks away… Azalith is attacked? Are you telling me, Headmaster, that Kael had nothing to do with this?"

The Queen's eyes narrowed. Silence fell at the table.

The Headmaster of Azalith, an elven elder with silver hair named Lysandor, stood up straight, but his eyes betrayed the weight of doubt. He took a deep breath, about to speak…

"THAT'S RIGHT!" Thorgal thundered again, rising to his feet as if he were about to crush someone with his own throne. "BRING THIS STUDENT HERE NOW! I WANT TO INTERROGATE HIM PERSONALLY! I WILL BREAK THIS BRAT IN TWO IF NECESSARY!"

And then…

His head exploded.

There was no warning. No flash of a spell. No dramatic gesture.

Just a surge of invisible energy—subtle, elegant…and utterly lethal.

The sound was grotesque. A muffled crack, followed by the impact of the Dwarf King's cranial mass hitting the wall behind his throne. The headless body fell forward with a dull thud onto the table, spurting thick blood onto the diplomatic parchments.

Time stood still.

All eyes turned in unison to the figure seated at the end of the table—a woman with scarlet hair that fell like flames to her waist, skin as pale as a full moon, and blood-red eyes that glowed like molten rubies. She hadn't even moved. Her fingers, adorned with black rings of ancient power, still rested on the back of the dark throne.

Eleanor Scarlet. The Witch Queen.

She tilted her face slightly, eyeing each ruler as an eagle watches fragile prey.

"Does anyone else wish to die trying to frame my grandson?" Her voice was low. Almost a whisper.

But each syllable vibrated with an authority so overwhelming that it seemed to silence even the gods themselves.

The Werewolf King, who had been growling softly until then, looked away. The Elf Queen remained still, but her fingers began to discreetly conjure a defensive barrier. Emperor Valemir frowned, visibly uncomfortable, and the Fairy Queen dropped the chalice, the sacred liquid trembling with the slight tremor of her hand.

"Eleonor… this…" began the Vampire King, Darius Vel'thar, his voice hissing, "… was an execution. He was a head of state. An ally."

"Do not interfere if you do not want to lose your immortality," Eleonor cut in, cold as stone. "He threatened one of my own. That has a price. I only named someone who is not an imbecile as King of the Dwarves. They have an entire race. Killing a worm is nothing."

The silence was absolute. The entire room seemed smaller, darker, under the shadow of her presence.

"My grandson," Eleonor continued, "is not a monster. But if he is provoked, he may very well become one. And if any of you dare to harm someone he loves, it will not be just a king you will lose. It will be an entire lineage that will be erased from history."

She then stood up.

Slowly.

Elegantly.

Terrifying.

"Azalith is burning. The blame lies with those who allowed evil to grow in the shadows. Not with the boy who lit a torch in the darkness. We all sent guards there and we are here discussing it, so don't give me that speech. Altharion has spoken many times about the risk, and no one has listened. Blame yourselves for your own incompetence."

Eleonor turned and began walking out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing like silent hammer blows in every consciousness there.

Before she could cross the obsidian door, Eleonor Scarlet stopped.

The witch queen turned her face slightly, enough so that everyone could see the menacing glint in her blood-red eyes. Her presence seemed to bend the air around her, as if reality itself were afraid to cross her.

"I sent Kael there." Her voice was low, sharp as a cold blade. "And he is no longer a student of Azalith. Now, he is a man with a purpose. Any attempt to punish him… to watch him… or even to point a finger at him without concrete proof…"

She paused.

The silence was deafening.

"…will be considered a declaration of war against the Witches. And I assure you, with all the certainty in the bones of this world… I will win."

…

The despair in Azalith was palpable. Screams echoed through the shattered corridors as flames engulfed entire wings of the continent's most respected magical school. Buildings crumbled under the weight of the explosions, and thick smoke painted the sky a suffocating gray.

Unidentified invaders, dressed in black robes reinforced with runes and forbidden magic, cut through with military precision. They weren't here to fight—they were here to destroy.

The knights sent as reinforcements by the kingdoms? They were already on the ground. Slaughtered.

There wasn't even a proper battle. They were annihilated.

And yet, amid the chaos, a voice broke through the crackling of flames and the sound of collapsing structures:

"Be careful! There are still students trapped inside!" cried Elizabeth, the Princess, her cloak torn and her hair singed, but her eyes shining with determination.

She conjured shields and protective circles around groups of wounded youths, guiding them to safety with steady hands, even as she trembled inside. The princess, raised to lead—now fought like a soldier.

But she was not alone.

The legendary Sword Unit, made up of the school's five best students, fought with all their might to save what was left.

Liam, Zane, Clarissa, Darius, Riven. The entire Sword Division.

"Leave no one behind!" Liam shouted as he spotted a screaming student trapped under a fallen beam. "Clarissa, here!"

She glided to the spot, summoning a beam of golden light that lifted the beam as if it were as light as straw.

In the background, the sound of another explosion shook the ground.

Elizabeth looked up at the west tower, now engulfed in green and black flames—a kind of magic she had never seen before. The invaders were toying with forbidden powers.

She gritted her teeth. She knew this was beyond any sabotage mission. It was a public execution of a symbol. They wanted to destroy Azalith as a message. And they were close to succeeding. "If we don't resist… it all ends here." she muttered to herself, before throwing herself once more into the chaos, her heart burning as much as the buildings around her.

The flames continued to roar, consuming everything in their path. The smoke stung their eyes, and the smell of burning magic and blood filled everyone's nostrils. Still, the Sword Unit did not stop. Every second was precious. Every life, a miracle saved from death.

"Where's Amelia?" Zane asked breathlessly, wiping the blood from his forehead with his forearm. "She should be in the North Wing!"

"And Irelia?" Clarissa added, healing a student with a stabilizing spell. "She always trains in the outdoor field before lunch. She must have been nearby when the attack started!"

Elizabeth hesitated, her eyes wide for a moment. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword.

"I… I haven't seen any of the three of them today. Not Amelia, not Irelia… not Sylphie."

A heavy silence fell between them, even with the chaos around them. This made no sense. There was no way they could have all been absent at the time of the attack… unless they had been targeted from the start.

"They came prepared…" Darius murmured, his voice tense. "This was no random attack. They knew exactly who to take out and when."

It was then that the sound came.

A scream.

Not an ordinary scream, but a piercing, deep scream, a sound of pure agony and despair that cut through the air like a vibrating blade and made the ground seem to tremble for an instant.

Everyone froze.

"Sylphie…" Elizabeth whispered, her throat dry. The blood drained from her face. "It was Sylphie."

The sound came from the west—from the tower engulfed in green flames.

Before anyone could react, a figure emerged from the smoke.

A tall dark elf, clad in a black cloak and runic leather armor. His red eyes shone with an almost supernatural hatred, and his face maintained a cruel serenity. In his hands, he dragged Sylphie by the hair, like a trophy.

Her body was covered in bruises and cuts, but it was clear that she was still fighting. The vines of natural magic tried to wrap around her arms, trying to escape, trying to fight back... but they vanished into thin air before they even touched him, burned by a black and suffocating aura.

"SYLPHIE!" Elizabeth shouted, raising her sword and starting to run towards him.

But before she could take three steps, the ground exploded in front of her, throwing shards of stone and a wave of dark energy that threw her back against the rubble.

"Stay where you are," said the elf, his voice low but full of power. He pushed her to the ground brutally. "The Target has been captured. Retreat. Now."

More shadows appeared around them—six, seven, maybe ten—moving with precision and synchrony. Each figure wore dark robes reinforced with runic plates, their eyes hidden by black masks, like specters from a nightmare.

They formed a circle around the dark elf, who still held the unconscious Sylphie by her hair. On the ground, runic lines glowed with evil energy, carving a ritualistic teleportation circle amid the burning ruins of Azalith.

The glyph began to pulse, ready to transport the group away.

But then... nothing happened.

The light from the runes flickered, hesitant... then began to fade.

"What...?" the dark elf murmured, frowning, looking at the circle beneath his feet. "Why... isn't it working?"

And then... the presence came.

Like an invisible tide of terror, it fell over Azalith like a pall of death.

The sky, once covered in smoke and embers, suddenly darkened, turning a deep red, as if the firmament itself were bleeding. The clouds swirled violently, like a vortex of hatred. A muffled thunder echoed—not in the air, but in the soul of every living being present.

A metallic smell of blood and death filled the air. There were no words. Only pure instinct. Flight. Terror. Death.

The invaders began to scream, but not from physical pain—from pure panic. One by one, the least prepared collapsed, their eyes glazed over, bleeding from their ears and nostrils, victims of something they could not even comprehend.

It was a killing intent so concentrated, so brutal and focused, that it seemed like a living entity, crushing everything around it with its mere existence.

The members of the Sword Unit—Liam, Zane, Clarissa, Darius, Riven—fell to their knees, suffocating as if gravity itself had multiplied a thousandfold. Their eyes were streaming, their bodies shaking uncontrollably. The air felt like liquid cement in their lungs.

Elizabeth staggered, falling to her hands, eyes wide with horror.

"W-who... is doing this...?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

And then... he spoke.

The voice was thick, deep as muffled thunder, echoing off the broken stones and fallen bodies. It came from behind the smoke, like a mournful wail announced by something ancient and unstoppable.

"Exelia. Capture them all. No killing."

The eyes of those who could still move slowly turned to the figure that emerged from the rubble and flames.

Steady feet. Heavy steps. A black overcoat billowing in the hot wind. Broad shoulders, straight posture, unwavering expression. His eyes were two embers, and around him... the very air seemed to ripple with heat, as if the world around him were about to implode at his mere presence.

"K-Kael...?" Clarissa murmured, barely able to breathe.

But no... this was not Kael the student. This was not the boy who faced tests and training in Azalith.

This was a man forged in war, hardened by time, consumed by rage. An absolute predator in the face of insolent prey.

There was death in his eyes.

But there was something even worse.

Control.

The dark elf, who had previously been dragging Sylphie along with him arrogantly, involuntarily released her, taking a step back. His fingers trembled.

"No... he wasn't supposed to be here..." he whispered, horrified. "He was far away..."

Kael didn't answer.

He just walked.

And with each step, the ground cracked slightly beneath his feet.

"Run!" one of the invaders shouted, but it was too late.

Behind Kael, Exelia appeared. Her eyes cold, armed with her rapier. No emotion on his face, just one sentence:

"Targets located. Proceeding with containment."