Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

Having slain twenty red goblins and two berserk orcs, the familiar mechanical chime echoed in their minds as the system registered the kill.

> +40 Points (20 Red Goblins)

+10 Points (2 Berserk Orcs)

Current Total: 611 Points

They now sat over fifty points ahead of their nearest competitors, still firmly in first place. Under any other circumstance, Nero might have cracked a cocky grin. Khione might have acknowledged their lead with a cold nod. But now, neither smiled.

Instead, their expressions were grim.

The quiet forest. The unnatural aggression.

Everything pointed to one conclusion:

They were being watched. Manipulated. Hunted.

Nero exhaled slowly, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. Khione stood beside him, gaze scanning the treeline, her expression calm—but the edge in her eyes was sharp. They exchanged a glance—silent understanding passing between them—and then continued forward.

They had barely advanced five hundred meters deeper into the forest’s core when the next ambush sprang.

From the shadows of the trees, twenty more red goblins, bloodshot and snarling, surged out. Two more berserk orcs emerged behind them, their roars shaking the branches.

Same formation. Same numbers. Same mindless rage.

Nero narrowed his eyes. ”Again...”

Khione didn’t respond. She raised her staff, but her movement was measured—calculated. They both knew now: whoever was behind this wanted information. These enemies weren’t just here to kill. They were studying their patterns, timing, techniques, stamina—looking for an opening.

But the puppet master had made a grave mistake.

Nero and Khione weren’t just strong—they were clever.

”We’re switching roles,” Nero said softly, eyes locked on the wave of goblins. ”Let’s give them a show.”

Khione nodded without argument.

”Understood.”

This time, Nero took the goblins, and Khione faced the orcs. But unlike their previous swift, precise executions, this time... they held back.

Nero rushed forward, blade low, letting just a flicker of fire coat its edge. The goblins shrieked and lunged, their claws and crude daggers slashing wildly. Instead of cutting them down in one blazing sweep, Nero dodged, blocked, parried. He let his footwork falter—intentionally overreaching in some movements.

A goblin’s blade nicked his shoulder. Blood dripped.

”Ugh—damn,” he growled, loudly, enough for any observer to hear.

He pretended to stagger slightly, then cleaved through two goblins in a wide arc—sloppy, wasteful. He deliberately missed several killing blows, allowing goblins to swarm.

In reality? Every step, every slip was perfectly calculated. Each opening he showed was a trap. He allowed a goblin to leap at his back—and then, as if by panic, spun around too late. The goblin lunged—

And Nero’s elbow crushed its skull midair with surgical precision.

He twisted, ”barely” dodging a pincer attack, only to ”panic” and unleash a wide burst of fire that singed three goblins but didn’t kill them.

All of it was theater.

On the other side, Khione stood her ground against the two berserk orcs. Their massive cleavers swung with feral power, each blow capable of shattering boulders. Normally, she would freeze them mid-swing or summon piercing shards of ice from their own blood.

But this time, she let herself be pushed back.

Each clash of her staff against the orcs’ cleavers rang out like thunder through the forest. Ice cracked, trees splintered. She summoned ice barriers and let them shatter dramatically, stumbling as if caught off-guard.

She panted softly—lips parted, expression subtly strained.

Deception.

Inside, her breathing was calm, measured. Every flinch was calculated. Every retreat was a lure.

One orc overcommitted, swinging too hard. Khione ”panicked,” falling backward. As the orc raised its cleaver to finish her—

”Glacier Bind.”

A massive hand of ancient ice erupted from the ground, clutching the orc mid-swing and slamming it into a tree. Khione flipped up lightly, landing like a feather, and conjured a spear of ice that she threw and deliberately missed, grazing the orc’s arm.

”Must appear... inefficient,” she whispered under her breath.

°°°

Back with Nero, the red goblins were relentless—but now visibly fraying. A third of them were dead. The rest were emboldened, thinking the swordsman was slowing.

Perfect.

Nero let one goblin stab into his side—a shallow, controlled cut. He growled, feigning pain, staggering.

”Now!” a goblin shrieked in its distorted tongue.

Five rushed him at once.

Nero’s eyes flickered—flames igniting in them.

”Overheat—Form One.”

He spun. In a single spiral, his sword arced with fire, low to the ground, catching all five in a controlled, blazing whirlwind. Their bodies turned to ash before they could even scream.

He stepped forward, breathing heavily on purpose. ”I... won’t fall yet.”

More goblins came—and again, he faked falters, only to end them in flurries that looked desperate, chaotic, rather than deliberate.

Khione, meanwhile, allowed one of the orcs to grab her by the arm.

It roared, lifting her into the air.

She screamed—not in pain, but in performance—before blasting herself backward with a shockwave of cold mist. She tumbled across the grass, rolling to her feet.

Blood dripped from her lip, ice crackling across her wounded arm.

”Too... strong,” she whispered audibly.

Inside, she smirked coldly.

The orcs charged, fueled by the illusion of victory. She stood still until the last second—then summoned twin ice disks, spinning them like chakrams. They cut the orcs’ legs, slowing them.

Her next spell froze their feet to the ground.

She raised her staff, panting.

”Ice Lotus Bloom.”

A massive lotus of frost erupted beneath them—frozen petals slicing upward, shredding flesh. The orcs screamed—until silence.

Khione stood amid the icy remains, face pale but composed. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple.

For show.

Nero finished his last goblin, stabbing it through the throat and letting its body slump to the grass.

Khione stepped toward him, wiping imaginary blood from her cheek.

They looked at one another.

A second passed.

Then they smiled.

Not victorious smiles—predator smiles.

”We’ve got our rat watching,” Nero muttered under his breath.

Khione nodded. ”Let them believe we’re tiring.”

Nero chuckled. ”Next time they come harder... we’ll know their hand.”

And then, without a word, they walked deeper into the forest—limping slightly, bleeding slightly, but with their minds sharper than ever.

The true hunt had begun.