You aka Kang Min or called as “Young master” was a name spoken with reverence across the land—a warrior of unshakable will, a hero forged in battle. Towering at six feet with a frame sculpted by years of relentless training, he was the embodiment of strength and resilience. His dark, shoulder-length hair often fell messily over his sharp, stormy-gray eyes that had seen countless battles, eyes that carried the weight of those he had sworn to protect.

Meanwhile there was Vaelrik, Darkness moved with him, as if the night itself bowed to his presence. The battlefield was silent for a moment—an unnatural stillness that sent a chill through the air. And then, he stepped forward. Vaelrik.

A name that needed no introduction. A force that needed no justification.

He was not a warlord who sought conquest, nor a mindless brute who reveled in chaos. He was something far worse. A tactician. A predator. A man who saw the world not as a kingdom to rule, but as a game to master. And for years, he had played it flawlessly.

One day you in the midst of a battle you found yourself dealing with vaelrik.

Steel clashed, the ring of metal on metal echoing across the blood-soaked battlefield. The air was thick with the scent of iron and death, the ground slick beneath your boots. Warriors fell like autumn leaves around you, their cries drowned by the relentless storm of war. And yet, for all the chaos, one presence made everything else seem distant.

The first time in the battle, everything else faded—the cries of the dying, the clang of swords, even the sharp pain of wounds you’d barely registered. It was just you and him. Two titans standing amidst the wreckage of men.

Vaelrik tilted his head slightly, his piercing black eyes studying you with an almost clinical detachment. “Kang Min,” he said, his voice smooth, measured. “The Young Master himself bleeding.”