Hose's Request and the Moon Shadow Sword's Secret
Unaware that Siriel was inwardly laughing at her own thoughts, Han Yeoul simply basked in the satisfaction of his victory. Watching her scream in frustration, a mischievous urge to tease her more flickered through his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. There was no point in riling her up further here.
'If she demands a rematch, it'll just be a hassle.'
He'd already depleted his mana unleashing Moon Shadow Sword repeatedly, while Siriel had summoned up to three sylphs—pushing herself a bit, sure, but she still had plenty of fight left. If they went another round, he'd lose nine times out of ten, no doubt.
'But I already won. Why would I fight again?'
As Siriel clawed at her hair with a "Gyaak—!", he sheathed his sword. Hose approached, wearing a pained expression.
"Hoo. You have my sympathies for dealing with my daughter."
"No, it's fine. It was just a trade for training my comrade, after all."
Leaving Siriel behind, they stepped out of the training dungeon.
"Siriel... hoo, don't torment her too much. Ever since she lost to you as a child, she's been a bit obsessed, but she's a good kid at heart."
Whether that reaction qualified as "a bit obsessed" was debatable, but he let it slide. Instead, he asked about something he'd noticed during the spar.
"By the way, Siriel seems to have higher aptitude for spirit arts and mana affinity. Why did she go through her coming-of-age as a warrior? Honestly, her swordsmanship and footwork don't seem suited to it."
Even at full power, Siriel's most threatening attacks had been her spirit arts. Her archery and physical prowess were average for an elf, considering racial bonuses. Elves trained in their best-suited path until adulthood, then chose it during their rite, receiving the World Tree's blessing to walk that road for life. Siriel's choice was unusually odd.
"I could've sworn she was following your path in magic when I first saw her. Why pick the warrior's way?"
"It's all because of you."
"Pardon?"
"Losing to you in swordsmanship that day must've hit her hard. From then on, she started seriously training in swordplay—what had been just for fun. I thought it'd fizzle out, but who knew she'd stick to the warrior path all the way to her coming-of-age."
"That sounds less like obsession and more like... well. But you didn't try to stop her all this time? It's been nearly ten years since then."
"Ten years is a blink for an elf."
'This is why long-lived races are...' He swallowed the last thought and sighed quietly. His chest felt heavy. Because of him, an elf destined for magic had become a warrior ill-suited to it. It gnawed at him.
"It's written all over your face. I said that earlier, but don't worry about it. It's her choice, and our history has seen warriors like her before. She'll find her way—you saw her spirit archery yourself."
"Ah, yes. That wind arrow storm... Blessed, was it? Impressive power. If not for New Moon, I'd have lost."
It was formless spirit mana, so New Moon countered it perfectly. Ice spirit arrows would've pierced right through.
"New Moon, eh? Looks like you've grasped Moon Shadow Sword to some degree."
"Just the forms, barely. Mana shortage limits me to two stances max."
"Non-elves can't attune perfectly, so mana drain is inevitable."
As a grand archmage first and moon elf elder second, Hose knew Moon Shadow Sword well. Hoping against hope, Han Yeoul asked,
"Any way to fix that?"
"Hmm... Han Yeoul, how far have you mastered it?"
"All six forms theoretically. Only used Lower Crescent in practice; Waxing Moon and New Moon as you saw."
His mother had taught him the six stances: 1. New Moon, 2. Crescent Moon, 3. Waxing Moon, 4. Full Moon, 5. Lower Crescent, 6. New Moon's End.
New Moon created a localized mana vacuum to block formless attacks. Drawbacks: tough control, massive drain. Waxing Moon and Lower Crescent struck from blind spots—downward or upward slashes—but mana limits made them crude imitations. Even New Moon was incomplete, barely shielding him from Blessed.
"All forms mastered?"
"Yes, though some I can't deploy fully due to mana."
"Hmm..."
Hose pondered, then dropped a bombshell.
"Looks like you didn't receive Moon Shadow Sword in full."
"What? No, I memorized every form Mother taught."
Transmission finished long before his parents vanished. He'd kept practicing since—no way it was incomplete.
"No, you didn't. Moon Shadow Sword can't be fully mastered by non-elves. You didn't know that, so you must've missed the full explanation."
"What do you mean? Mother wielded it perfectly..."
"Not as technique. It's half the sword. The true Moon Shadow Sword is a skill granted by Mother World Tree."
"A skill?"
If it was a Tower skill, not technique, that explained his struggles. Skills were divine gifts—humans couldn't replicate them easily. Something fundamental was missing beyond mana.
"Yes. Your mother earned the moon elves' recognition in the Tower, met Mother World Tree, and gained the skill. It's our symbol; granting it to a human was unprecedented."
Hose paused, reminiscing.
"The tribe grumbled—a mere human wielding it? But Mother World Tree decreed it. You were the exception."
"Me?"
"Your mother was pregnant with you. Debates raged: did the grant extend to the child?"
"What..."
"Sounds odd, I know. But it's sacred to us—needed caution. To honor her will without overstepping."
Elf customs around their god-tree seemed weird human-side, but cultural gap—best to accept.
"So we decided: teach the child forms sans essence. At adulthood, return to prove worth to Mother World Tree."
"So that's why I lack the full sword."
"Your parents should've told you... Show me your mana brand hand."
Han Yeoul extended his hand. Hose murmured moon elf incantations, etching a new brand.
"What's this?"
"Moon elf elder's mark. Tough now, but in the Tower, show it to our kin, seek the tribe. Prove worthy, meet Mother World Tree, learn the true sword."
"True Moon Shadow Sword..."
He stared at the mystical brand, shifting moon phases by angle. It glowed, then faded into his skin.
"It'll shine again meeting our kin—no worries."
"Ah, thank you."
"No need. Duty done. If grateful, grant a small favor: take Siriel to the tribe later."
"Siriel?"
"As a warrior, she needs proper guidance. Late's fine—your growth says you'll enter the Tower within a year."
"You're too kind."
"No flattery. Whatever fortune you found, your skill surged."
His Onahole Master (EX) powers, but no explaining that. He chuckled awkwardly.
"Hmm, time flies. Duties call."
Hose sliced space open as before.
Before stepping through, a curveball:
"Got a lover yet?"
"...No, single."
"Hmm. Still possible, then."
Muttering, Hose smiled meaningfully.
"Take care of my daughter, then."
"Pardon? Ah, yes."
'Don't forget her for the tribe, right?'
Bowing to the vanishing Hose, he hurried out—lest Siriel recover and chase.
'Brina's waiting.'
He'd planned solo training, but Siriel drama and worry for homebound Brina spurred him home. She obeyed, but first time alone—three hours felt risky.
'What could happen in that short time?'
Steps from home, a crash shattered the thought.
Boom—KABOOM!
"Ha, what now?"
Dread surging, he raced in. The apartment lot was wrecked—asphalt cracked, dust thick. Amid it, a young woman in black uniform embroidered with a golden dragon, her silky black hair whipping, ominous jet-black aura on her hands. Opposite: a ragged tank top, kitchen knife reverse-gripped, panting small figure—doll-like.
They clashed, but the black-clad dominated, toying like drawing out all tricks. The small one fought desperately, exhausted—one arm missing.
Standoff. Silhouette in dust: 'Brina?'
As he opened his mouth, the woman launched her black aura to finish.
"No!"