The Four Fundamentals III

The forest was quiet again. Not the kind of quiet that came from still air or lazy winds—but the trained silence of something intentional. Controlled.

The wooden rabbits weren't running anymore.

"Gotcha!" Elion said calmly.

One of them was in Elion's hands.

The other was still darting in anxious half-circles ten meters away—but Jordan had closed the gap to just three.

"Damn it! Almost got it!" Jordan sounded really frustrated. He had felt that he almost got it, but whenever that feeling came, the wooden rabbit would definitely run away.

Ronan stood near the edge of the clearing, arms folded, boots planted like tree roots. He didn't say a word. Not loudly, of course.

Not even when Elion finally succeeded—cradling the wooden rabbit like it might vanish if he moved too fast. Not even when Jordan let out a low, annoyed grunt and flopped back onto the grass, one arm flung dramatically over his face.

Ronan said nothing.

He didn't nod.

He didn't smirk.

He just watched.

Because the truth?

He was stunned.

Again.

Two hours ago, Elion had mastered Pulse—mastered, not just accessed the fundamental. And now, with barely an hour into Veil, Elion had already done what many Slayers took months to pull off. Fully suppress his presence. Walk up to an enchanted prey creature. And catch it bare-handed.

The wooden rabbit hadn't even twitched when Elion reached for it. It just… froze. Like it didn't know he existed.

That level of concealment? It was absurd.

"I wonder if he would master the fundamentals today?" Ronan muttered.

He had seen things—beasts—that could hide like that. But they were no ordinary beasts. They were at least at the rank of a Grand Beast. Now, there was a human who could do the same, too.

'If he can open up Twenty Mana Gates, he can be of help,' Ronan thought about something. Something that he needed to do after he completed his mission here on Earth.

And Jordan? While he didn't reach the same result, the progress was still exceptional. From ten meters down to three? That was enough to slip past a beast's senses. Enough to turn a fatal ambush into a preemptive strike.

If this were the Beast World, Jordan would already be marked as one of the gifted. The geniuses of any kingdom or empire. His future would be bright. Too bright.

But next to Elion…

The difference was too wide. Dangerous, even. So Ronan didn't praise them. Not this time. Because Elion didn't need the praise—and Jordan didn't need the weight of comparison.

Instead, he let the silence carry the moment.

Elion slowly stood, releasing the wooden rabbit back into the clearing.

"Off you go," he said as if the wooden rabbit was a real rabbit.

It didn't flee. It just blinked at him, confused, like it wasn't sure when it had been caught.

Jordan sat up again, hair full of grass, muttering something under his breath.

"Hey," he finally said, squinting toward Ronan. "You gonna say something, or is this the part where we're just supposed to cry with pride?"

Ronan's gray eyes flicked to him. Then to Elion. Then, back to the rabbit still doing bunny things near Jordan's foot.

He shrugged. "You both did fine."

Jordan narrowed his eyes. "Fine?"

"Fine is what I call progress without ego," Ronan said evenly. "You want a parade, go win a tournament. You want to live? Learn to appreciate quiet victories."

Jordan groaned but didn't argue. Deep down, he knew that was probably the highest praise Ronan would give today.

"Deep, but thanks anyway," he said with a grin.

Elion, for his part, didn't respond either. But his mind wasn't on praise. It was on that strange clarity he felt when the rabbit froze in his grip. The stillness inside him had gone beyond silence—it had become emptiness. And in that emptiness, he hadn't just disappeared.

He'd become nothing.

And the rabbit had responded accordingly.

'Have I mastered this perfectly, too?' he wondered, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his palm. He didn't say the words aloud. Not yet.

He still didn't understand it fully. And that, more than anything, made him want to push further.

Ronan turned away, walking back to his usual post beneath a crooked tree. "Rest up. You've earned it."

While Ronan spoke, Elion silently snatched Jordan's wooden rabbit and set it down gently. Jordan collapsed onto the grass with the dramatic flair of someone who had absolutely not earned it.

"Two fundamentals down," Ronan said after a pause. "Two more to go."

He didn't say it aloud, but in his mind, the reality was clear. These two people in front of him were progressing rapidly. Especially Elion.

Elion was no longer training like someone learning to be a Slayer. He was training like someone who might redefine what a Slayer could be.

And that thought?

That thought terrified him more than it inspired him.

After a few minutes of rest, Ronan finally broke the stillness again. They could not spend too much on other things other than training. Time was pressing, and they had too many things at hand.

"Any questions?" he asked, voice calm, as he leaned back against the crooked tree. His tone wasn't impatient or dismissive—just open, almost like a challenge.

Jordan sat up, brushing grass off his shoulders. "Yeah, I've got one."

Ronan raised a brow.

"How the hell are you so good at this?" Jordan asked. "I mean, you're strong, sure—but you also explain things like an old monk who's been doing this for centuries."

Elion chuckled. Somehow, he was impressed with how Jordan was pretty good with words, which made it sound funny every single time.

However, that actually made Ronan pause. His expression didn't shift much, but he blinked once—like the question had caught him off guard. He never knew that he was a good teacher, but when Jordan put it that way, only now he realized it.

"I won't lie," Ronan said after clearing his throat. "I am good at this."

Jordan grinned. "Wow, humble much."

"But I had help," Ronan added, ignoring him. "My Master. He taught me everything. Not just how to fight—but how to understand anything. How to break it down."

He looked away for a moment, eyes distant.

"He was strong. The kind of strong you don't measure with stats or rings. And yet… he could make the most complicated thing sound like child's play."

There was a pause. Ronan looked like he was about to say something else, then stopped himself.

Jordan caught it. "And…?"

Ronan exhaled through his nose. "And the second reason I'm able to teach like this…"

He trailed off again. His voice faded, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

Jordan tilted his head. "What? Come on."

But Elion stayed quiet. And oddly enough, so did Jordan after a second. It was like some invisible signal passed through the clearing—Don't push.

Ronan was relieved they didn't press further.

Because the second reason?

Was them.

It was because Elion and Jordan made it easy. They absorbed knowledge like sponges. They had instincts that didn't need hand-holding. And Elion… Elion especially. With a student like that, Ronan often felt more like a witness than a teacher.

But he wasn't going to say that out loud.

They'd get cocky. That was what he thought.

"Anyway," Jordan said, breaking the silence. "Your Master sounds like a legend. Who's he?"

"Who is he?" Ronan's face stiffened just slightly. He glanced at Jordan—but when he spoke, his words weren't directed at him.

They were aimed at Elion.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you his name," he said, eyes unreadable. "Or his title."

Elion blinked. "Why not?"

"Because it's a taboo," Ronan said quietly. "In the Beast World, his name is hunted. His title is erased. Both humans and beasts have marked him for death."

The forest felt colder all of a sudden.

Jordan frowned. "Wait. Both sides? What'd he do?"

Ronan didn't answer right away.

Instead, he looked directly at Elion again. This time, there was something different behind his gaze. A strange mix of regret… and something else. Like recognition. It was as if he saw something in Elion that he wasn't sure he should be seeing.

Elion noticed the stare. And for a heartbeat, his chest tightened. He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt odd. Like this wasn't the first time he and Ronan had stood on opposite ends of a conversation that mattered far more than anyone realized.

But before he could say anything, Ronan broke the stare and looked away.

"Some names carry weight," he said flatly. "And some weights are better left buried."

"That's it. Time's up." He pushed off the tree again, tone returning to normal. "You've had your rest. Get ready. We move to the third fundamental next."

Jordan groaned dramatically. "Already?"

"Yeah. Let's start the next training. "Ronan didn't even flinch. "Fang—the Focus."

Jordan's complaint died mid-breath.

Because that?

That one sounded super exciting.

Ronan didn't wait for more groaning. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned two slender objects from his dimensional ring—metallic glints catching the light for a moment before they sailed through the air.

Two needles.

Not long, not sharp enough to kill, but slim and precise. They spun once and then landed—one in Elion's palm, the other in Jordan's.

Jordan blinked. "Uh… needles?"

He stared at the one in his hand like it might be cursed. "What is this, acupuncture training?"

Elion, meanwhile, was already inspecting his. It was light. Cold. Utterly normal. No carvings. No runes. No trace of enchantment.

Just a needle.

And somehow… that made it even more suspicious.

Ronan nodded, pleased that they were asking the right questions. "They're just needles. Normal. Nothing fancy."

Jordan looked even more confused. "Then what are we supposed to do? Stitch monsters?"

Elion didn't look up. "Focus," he muttered, already catching on.

"Exactly," Ronan said, pointing at Elion. "This next training is about Fang—the Focus. The third fundamental."

He paced slowly as he spoke.

"You've learned to circulate your aura. You've learned to suppress it. But now you need to direct it. Refine it. Turn it into a blade."

He paused beside Jordan. "That needle? It's not for fighting. It's for precision. The smaller the tip, the more intense the control needed to coat it."

Ronan stepped back again, folding his arms. "Most people try to brute force this. They try to dump all their aura into their fists or legs. But Fang isn't about quantity. It's about mastery. About choosing where your aura goes—and keeping it there."

He looked at both of them now. "Your job is to use Pulse to circulate your aura… and then direct that flow straight to the tip of the needle."

Jordan squinted at it. "Why the tip?"

"Because it's the hardest part to coat," Ronan said. "And if you can coat the tip, you can coat anything. Your knuckles. Your elbow. Your blade. Even a single finger, perfectly."

Elion nodded. That made sense. It reminded him of drawing a line with ink—you couldn't just dump the bottle and hope it worked. You had to guide the flow. Control it.

Jordan, to his credit, was taking it seriously, too.

"Alright," Ronan said. "This part isn't flashy. And it's not going to explode. So if you're expecting a dramatic breakthrough—don't."

He walked back to his tree and sat down, stretching one leg out. "But if you get this right, you'll never lose a clash again. Not against someone who uses brute force."

Jordan exhaled, holding the needle between two fingers like it was some kind of sacred relic.

"Condense. Control. Channel," Ronan said simply. "Now start."

Elion adjusted his grip and closed his eyes. The world narrowed. His breath slowed. And with Pulse already humming inside him, he began to reach—not outward, but inward—guiding the current of his aura toward the slender object in his hand.

The tip of the needle was waiting.

And so was the third training.

***

It started with a scream.

Not the kind you hear in movies. Not the theatrical, drawn-out wail of a victim waiting for rescue. This was sharp. Guttural. Real.

And it was followed by silence.

Then, another scream.

Then another.

By the time the police arrived at the edge of Tchoupitoulas Street, the block was already on fire. A burning car was flipped onto its side, its alarm blaring weakly beneath the crackle of flames. A body was half-buried beneath it—still twitching.

But it wasn't just New Orleans anymore.

Beast sightings have been reported in every major region of the United States. From the back alleys of Chicago to the outskirts of Atlanta. From rural towns in Kansas to downtown Los Angeles.

It had become a national emergency.

And no one—no one—was ready.

The military had been deployed. National Guard units scrambled. Special Forces were dispatched. But there weren't enough boots on the ground to cover every corner of the map.

And worse?

Most of these "things" weren't beasts in the traditional sense. They were beast-men. Humanoids twisted with corrupted animal features. No two looked alike. No two fought the same.

In Oakland, a wolf-man with serrated claws tore through a SWAT van like it was paper. His fur shimmered with oil-slick darkness, and he howled not at the moon—but at the sirens.

In Philadelphia, a bat-man, not Batman, glided from rooftop to rooftop, its sonar scream rupturing glass and eardrums. By the time the snipers spotted it, it had already shredded its way through the tenth floor of a corporate building.

In Jackson, Mississippi, something slithered out of the sewers—long, sinewy, almost serpent-like. Its body was humanoid, but its face stretched and flickered like it couldn't decide on one form. The town's local power grid went offline within minutes. By the time authorities reached the scene, fifty homes had been leveled.

In Denver, witnesses swore they saw a beast with antlers and a humanoid skull face walking calmly down the highway. It didn't run. It didn't roar. It just pointed at passing cars—and they combusted.

No one knew what they were dealing with anymore.

They weren't just monsters.

They were coordinated. Strategic. Evolving.

Some of them wore tattered human clothing—remnants of who they once were. Some still spoke. In broken English and some other languages. In whispers. In languages no one could trace.

But all of them were killed without hesitation.

Some beast-men were killed—though rarely with ease. Others, after a period of carnage, simply fled. Vanished into alleys, sewers, and forests. As if they were obeying some invisible timer.

Smart people started noticing the pattern. Analysts. Strategists. Survivors.

Theories began to spread: They must have a time limit.

Like the bear-man caught in the CCTV footage of the Xylo Club massacre, he'd reverted. Fled.

Some brave souls took that idea and turned it into a plan. They fought not to win—but to stall. If they could hold the creature long enough, maybe it would revert. Maybe it would run.

Sometimes, it worked. A beast-man would start to weaken, shift, and collapse before being killed by the crowd.

But more often?

The brave men fell.

Because some beast-men were stronger. Smarter. Their transformation lasted longer. And the moment their prey got too confident… it ended in screams.

Worse still?

Even when a beast-man was finally brought down—when a dozen people managed to beat the thing into the dirt—it didn't end there.

Another one always came.

Sometimes, minutes later.

Sometimes among the very crowd that had killed the last one. A scream. Then, a shift. The next beast was always right there—already wearing a familiar face.

Authorities hadn't figured it out yet. But something dark was working in the background.

The truth?

The Corrupted Beast Rings were never truly gone. When one host died, the ring simply moved on—seeking a new body, a new will to twist. It bonded quietly. Invisibly. Hidden until it was too late.

And the cycle began again.

Newscasters had stopped trying to sugarcoat it. The president issued a national state of emergency. Cities began imposing lockdowns. Curfews. Checkpoints.

And still, the beast-men kept coming.

In New Orleans, where the first known outbreak had occurred, the tension was heavier than ever. Streets that once buzzed with jazz and nightlife were now patrolled by trembling hands gripping rifles.

But even armed soldiers hesitated when they saw them.

The beast-men weren't just stronger.

They were terrifying.

And for every one that appeared…

No one knew how many more were coming.