The Elven Cultivator

Four years passed in a flash.

In the year 9243 of the Chenxi Calendar, Anton celebrated his 22nd birthday.

In his previous life, this was the legal age for marriage.

But among the Elf Race, he was still just a child.

And this "child" was currently sitting at his desk, taking stock of his Talismans.

"Ten Concealing Breath Talismans, ten Vanishing Form Talismans, ten Light Body Talismans, twenty Storage Talismans... and a few other miscellaneous ones. A total of seventy-two Talismans."

Anton looked on with a sigh.

This was his entire fortune, accumulated bit by bit over the last four years.

There was no helping it. The effect of a single Spirit Gathering Talisman only lasted for three or four days, meaning he used about a hundred of them a year on average. Most of the materials he acquired went into this bottomless pit, so naturally, he had fewer of the other Talismans.

This was only possible because after Darian heard he was short on funds, he had specially arranged a job for him in the Rootvein Depository (the library), organizing ancient texts. Working just one hour a day earned him a considerable reward, which greatly eased his financial pressure.

On top of that, after getting permission from Darian to create Scrolls two years ago, he had used it as a pretext to siphon off a good amount of materials originally meant for Magic Scrolls to create his Talismans.

If not for all that, he wouldn't have been able to accumulate so much.

Just as Anton was sighing to himself, a familiar voice called out from outside.

"Anton, come on out!"

Anton immediately put away his Talismans, got up, opened the door, and walked out.

Romance was waiting outside. Seeing him emerge, she immediately handed over the item in her hands.

"Here. This is the Long Sword you wanted. I had to beg my mentor for days before she'd give it to me. She thought I was planning to give up the War Axe for Swordsmanship. As if! War Axes are way cooler than Long Swords..."

Ignoring Romance's rambling, Anton took the Long Sword and looked it over.

It was a refined steel Long Sword, about 110 centimeters in total length, with a sharp edge that glinted coldly. The blade had a dark, cold luster, as if it could swallow light. Even a layman who knew nothing about swords could tell that the workmanship was superb.

"A Black Steel Long Sword, forged by the Dwarves," Anton murmured to himself.

Romance let out a sound of surprise. "Huh? How could you tell? My mentor said we of the Elf Race prefer to use Leaf Blade Swords or Moon Blade Swords, and that very few use this style of Long Sword. This Black Steel Sword was just gathering dust in the armory for years. No one wanted it, which is why she was willing to give it to me."

Anton just smiled and didn't explain.

'This was the essential starter weapon that every new Human Race player in *Dawn Annals* received back in the day.'

'Although by the time I started playing, the game was already on version 3.0 and the Black Steel Sword had long been replaced by better weapons, I'd still seen many veteran players on the forums reminiscing about this 'first love of a sword'.'

Seeing that Anton didn't answer, Romance didn't press the issue and asked another question. "What do you need a melee weapon for? Don't all Casters use a Magic Staff?"

Anton flicked his wrist, performing a few flourishes with the blade, and replied casually, "Who says Casters can't use melee weapons? Ever heard of someone training in both Magic and martial arts?"

"You?" Romance's face was full of disbelief as she looked him up and down. "I've never seen you practice any combat techniques."

'That's because I specifically practice where you can't see me.'

Anton said with a grin, "How about we make a bet?"

"...What kind of bet?"

Alarm bells instantly went off in Romance's head. Whenever Anton wore that expression, she almost always ended up on the losing end.

"Let's have a friendly match. I won't use any Magic. If I win, you have to promise to do me a favor."

"...Have you hit your head or something?" Romance's eyes widened in astonishment. "My mentor herself told me not long ago that I'm already at the mid-level of White Rank! How could you possibly be my opponent if you don't use Magic?"

In the game, players could distinguish strength by levels, but the real Dawn Continent didn't have such a detailed system. Instead, a person's power was judged by their rank.

The lowest was No Rank, which basically encompassed everyone from village militiamen and city guard soldiers to ordinary army soldiers.

Above that was White Rank, which included battle-hardened veterans, elite Mercenaries, fledgling Casters, and the like.

Further up was the Black Iron Tier.

Reaching this level meant one had entered the Extraordinary Tier and possessed power unattainable by ordinary people.

For example, a Caster who had accumulated considerable Magic Power, mastered ten or more One Ring Spells, and formed a complete combat system would be considered Black Iron Tier.

As for the even higher Silver and Golden Tiers, those were the truly powerful experts.

The Great Elder of the Silver Moon Clan was a Golden Tier Caster.

For Romance to have the strength of a mid-level White Rank at her age, her aptitude was already considered outstanding among the younger generation of the Silver Moon Clan.

Anton wasn't surprised by this. He had seen from the very beginning that Romance was a natural-born Warrior.

'It was just a shame that the Dawn Continent didn't have a rich class system. Otherwise, she'd be a textbook Berserker.'

"Don't worry about that. Just tell me, are you in or not?" Anton said.

Romance hesitated for a moment, but ultimately agreed.

'She refused to believe it. How could Anton, a Caster, possibly beat her in a melee fight?'

'Even the senior apprentices at the training grounds, who had been training for four or five years longer than her, were no match for her!'

Seeing Romance agree, a meaningful smile spread across Anton's lips. He led her to the yard behind the treehouse.

The yard was surrounded by tall oak trees, forming a natural barrier that offered plenty of privacy, making it perfect for a private sparring match.

The two stood about ten meters apart, each taking their stance with weapon in hand.

Romance gripped her axe with both hands, its blade angled toward the ground. She lowered her center of gravity, her entire body like a fully drawn bow, ready to be unleashed.

Four years of combat training had ingrained in her an almost instinctual fighting stance.

Anton, on the other hand, held his sword in one hand, its tip pointing slightly down, with his other hand clasped behind his back. His posture was as casual as if he were taking a stroll through the forest.

"Be careful."

Romance gave a word of warning, then shot forward in a sudden lunge. The heavy War Axe in her hands felt weightless as it came cleaving toward him, carrying a ferocious power. The axe blade cut through the air with a low WHINE.

The next second, however, Anton vanished from her sight.

'Where did he go?'

Romance froze for an instant. Her axe blade sliced through empty air, the force of the swing kicking up the fallen leaves on the ground.

Immediately after, she heard the faint sound of rushing wind behind her ear.

'Behind me!'

The girl spun around abruptly, swinging her axe backward in a reverse grip. Her reaction was as fast as instinct.

But then came a crisp CLANG, like metal striking metal. The blade of her axe had been caught in Anton's single, bare hand, bringing its momentum to a dead stop.

The sight made Romance's eyes go wide, and she froze on the spot.

Before she could even register what had happened, Anton's other hand was already striking toward her with an open palm.

In that instant, Romance felt a blast of searing wind wash over her, like an eruption of lava or a surge of subterranean fire. She had the illusion that her entire being was about to be incinerated.

She could even faintly smell her own hair scorching, and her cheeks stung from the searing heatwave.

SWOOSH!

The palm stopped abruptly, just a dozen centimeters from Romance's delicate face.

The residual force of the heatwave lingered, blowing her long, silver-white hair back.

Romance stood frozen, her pupils constricting in shock.

At such close range, she could finally see that Anton's entire palm was glowing crimson like a branding iron, as if it had just been pulled from a furnace. Beneath the skin, faint golden streams of light seemed to flow, like magma surging through his veins.

She subconsciously took two steps back. Only then did she notice that the spot on her War Axe where Anton had grabbed it was now glowing red-hot, as if it had been scorched by extreme heat. There were even several clear fingerprints seared into the metal, as if it had been branded.

Forgetting to feel sorry for her weapon, Romance stared at Anton, dumbfounded, and stammered, "Wh-what kind of combat technique is this?"

Anton retracted his hand. The crimson glow receded like a tide, and in an instant, his palm returned to normal.

He smiled faintly and said with an air of casual indifference:

"Molten Soldier Hand."

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