Teaching A Lesson

His gaze swept over the landscape before him, taking in the details with unnerving clarity. It was early morning in the camp.

The camp was nestled in the embrace of towering mountain ranges, their peaks silhouetted against the faint glow of the retreating night. A half-frozen lake stretched before him, its icy surface cracked like a shattered mirror. The frost glistened in the dim firelight from the camp's braziers, reflecting the chaos unfolding all around.

He was in the middle of a frozen landscape.

Massive tents sprawled across the clearing, their sturdy frames bending under the pressure of the battle. People scurried like ants between them, some armed with crude weapons, others clutching whatever they could find; shovels, poles, even cooking knives. The air was thick with shouts, cries, and the sickening sound of flesh meeting claw.

And then, he saw them.

Krepsunas.

They emerged from the shadows like nightmares given form. These weren't the Krepsunas he had read or seen before.

These were grotesque aberrations. Each stood over three meters tall, their segmented bodies glistening with a dark, chitinous sheen. Their elongated limbs ended in razor-sharp claws, slicing through anything in their path.

Wings like translucent dragonfly membranes buzzed furiously, creating an eerie drone that filled the air, while their mantis-like heads twisted unnaturally, multiple compound eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.

One of the creatures lunged at a group of defenders, its bladed forelimbs cleaving through a man's raised spear as if it were nothing. A woman screamed as she was dragged away, her cries abruptly silenced in the darkness. Another Krepsuna perched atop a tent, its grotesque wings vibrating as it screeched, before descending in a blur of speed and tearing into the people below.

The defenders fought valiantly, their desperation clear in every swing and thrust. A few managed to wound the creatures though. Gouges appeared in their chitinous armor and black ichor oozed from the injuries.

But it wasn't enough.

For every strike that landed, the Krepsunas retaliated with swift, merciless efficiency.

A young man, barely more than a boy, charged one of the creatures with a makeshift spear. It dodged with inhuman agility, its claw slicing through his chest in a single, fluid motion. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground, the blood steaming in the cold air.

Vastarael stood there, his glaive lowered at his side. His golden eyes took in the scene with an eerie calm. He didn't step forward, didn't even lift his weapon.

Instead, he watched.

The chaos unfolded around him like a tragic play, each moment more gruesome than the last. He noted the way the defenders' formations broke under the relentless onslaught, how their screams turned into gasps and then silence. He saw the futility in their struggle, the inevitability of their defeat.

His grip on the glaive tightened slightly, the cold bite of its sapphire handle grounding him. But he still didn't move. Something inside him told him to wait.

Until one of the creatures raced towards him.

He dodged one of the six razor sharp limbs and jumped up, swinging his glaive in one swift motion that completely decapitated its head. Before he could land, he summoned a few sapphire shards that completely went through the creatures' skulls.

By the time he landed on his bare feet, five of them were already dead. This made all the other thirteen... no, twenty one of those mantis dragonflies face him and ran towards him.

A collective gasp echoed from the camp, the people too stunned to react.

Vastarael stood his ground, his glaive raised in one hand, the other resting loosely at his side. The first Krepsuna lunged and he stepped forward, spinning his glaive in a blur of sapphire light. The blade met the creature's torso, cleaving it in two like he was slicing through paper. He pivoted on his heel and drove the glaive's opposite end into another creature's thorax.

His strikes were calculated and flawless. Every swing of the glaive was a masterstroke. Every step looked like he was performing a combat dance. He spun, ducked and leapt, his weapon carving through chitin and flesh with so much ease. One by one, the Krepsunas fell, their screeches fading into silence.

A Krepsuna tried to flank him, its wings buzzing furiously. Vastarael twirled the glaive, deflecting its claws with the blunt side before thrusting the blade through its abdomen. Another came at him from above and with a leap. He met it midair, severing its head before landing gracefully on the snow-dusted ground.

The remaining creatures hesitated, their insectile movements faltering. It didn't matter. Vastarael advanced without fear, his sapphire glaive glinting as it cut through the final Krepsunas.

By the time the last one fell, Vastarael stood amidst the carnage, his white robe stained with black blood. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his glaive dripping with the lifeblood of the slain creatures.

"Why are three Krepsunas weak? Are they of the Warped Rank? But I'm an Essentia so we should be on the same level of power. Huh..."

Around him, the camp was silent, the defenders frozen in awe, their weapons lowered as they stared at him.

Vastarael shifted his grip on the glaive, letting its sapphire material fade into nothingness. He raised a hand and began tracing glowing symbols in the air. A rune formed before it flared with light.

In an instant, the blood evaporated from his skin and clothes. His robe, gleamed in the light of the rising sun, completely clean.

As the first rays of the snowy morning broke over the mountains, they bathed Vastarael in a radiant glow. Standing atop the pile of fallen Krepsunas, his white robe and shining curly white hair caught the light, making him appear like a majestic statue of a god carved from the purest bronze.

The onlookers whispered among themselves. None of them could take their eyes off him.

"Are you the person Indulis and his daughters saved four days ago?"

Vastarael slowly turned and found himself staring at a man who looked like a leader. Like the other men and women, he wore a white robe with golden engravings on the sleeves. Only this time, he was a muscular man.

But...

"Yes. And you are?"

"Ha! You dare ask me who I am, Rune Drawer? I am a famous warrior of this tribe, one who has slain hundreds of monsters, Lizdlli! Show some respect, young boy!"

"I did celebrate my second birthday you know so I'm not a boy."

"Does it matter if you reached maturity? Regardless—"

Vastarael raises his hand, silencing him for a moment.

"Hold on a second. Famous warrior?"

The taunt man narrowed his eyes. "Yes. So?"

"Then why didn't you kill any of these creatures here? From where I'm standing, I'm the one who dealt with all of them here. Also, who the fuck introduces himself right after a monster attack? A few people died for goodness sake; For someone with a massive body, you sure have a small brain."

The man's face twisted in anger, his grip tightening around his spear as he stepped forward. His booming voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd, his muscular frame seeming to grow larger with his fury.

"You dare insult me, boy?! You think you're better than me because of some cheap tricks?!"

Vastarael arched a brow, his expression calm, almost amused.

"Cheap tricks? If cleaning up your mess counts as a cheap trick, then sure. I'm better than you."

Lizdlli's veins bulged, his fury reaching a boiling point. With a growl, he thrust his spear directly at Vastarael's chest, the jagged bone tip aimed to kill.

The crowd gasped, but Vastarael didn't even blink.

His hand shot out with lightning speed, catching the spear tip mid-thrust. The force behind Lizdlli's attack was immense, but Vastarael stood steady, his grip like iron.

Lizdlli's eyes widened in shock as he pushed with all his strength, yet the spear didn't move an inch. Vastarael tilted his head, his gaze icy and unbothered.

"This is what you call power? Sheesh, you're weaker than my sister Leones when she was born."

Without breaking a sweat, he clenched his fingers and snapped the spear's head clean off. The sharp crack of the breaking bone spearhead echoed through the arena.

Lizdlli stumbled back, staring at the broken weapon in disbelief. Vastarael tossed the shattered tip to the ground and stepped forward, his piercing gaze fixed on the man.

"You call yourself a warrior. Yet, when your people were dying, you did nothing. Now you want to fight me? Pathetic."

Lizdlli roared in frustration, swinging the broken spear like a club. Vastarael sidestepped effortlessly. Before Lizdlli could recover, Vastarael pivoted, driving a sharp palm strike into the man's chest.

Lizdlli staggered back, gasping for breath as Vastarael advanced.

"Stop embarrassing yourself, big guy. Please give up. I don't like causing chaos when there's more than enough already."

Enraged, Lizdlli charged again, fists raised. Vastarael moved with precision, stepping into Lizdlli's swing and locking his arm in a firm grip. With a quick twist, he forced Lizdlli to his knees, eliciting a pained cry from the larger man.

The crowd stood in stunned silence as Lizdlli knelt, clutching his arm and glaring up at Vastarael. The air was thick with tension, but Vastarael remained composed.

"You want to apologize now, won't you?" Vastarael said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't bother. I don't care."

Lizdlli stammered, his pride in tatters, but Vastarael silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Instead of wasting time proving how famous you are, why not actually protect the people who depend on you? Or is that too much for someone like you?"

"You wretch—"

He slammed his face right into the snow, causing the cold rocky ground that nearly carved out his face on it. Vastarael lifted his head, which was now bleeding profusely.

"Have some respect for the dead and your people, you overgrown pig."

He slammed his head again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over and over...

Until his face was not visible anymore, but still alive.

Vastarael dropped the man to the ground and sighed, shaking his hand as if he had touched something disgusting.

"I hate proud brainless bastards."