'I Reincarnated But Have No System? You Must Be Kidding Me!'-Chapter 43: Nighthral Ascend

Outside the Inferna Hollow, dark clouds spiraled ominously above the vast Runewood. The air grew heavier, the mana thickened with each passing second—churning from a strange, unseen force steadily awakening in the area.

Mathes stood surrounded by the unified elven forces, all of them forming a loose perimeter around a massive figure lying in the center—the White Fang.

The same monster that nearly devoured Auren.

The same creature that had just slain at least fifteen seasoned elven warriors in mere moments.

Now, its enormous snow-white body lay motionless, smoldering on the blood-stained earth. Smoke curled from its charred fur, the aftermath of Mathes’ ultimate lightning strike.

Backup troops had only just arrived when they witnessed it—dozens of divine bolts crashing down like heavenly spears, pounding the beast into the ground with earsplitting fury.

They’d watched the skies erupt. They’d heard the explosions. They’d seen the legend fall.

"A-Amazing! Mathes truly is amazing!"

"Isn’t that the infamous White Fang?"

"I can’t believe he took it down by himself!"

The elven warriors began to surround the corpse in awe, murmuring praises and disbelief. They all knew what this beast was capable of. It was a terror spoken of in hushed tones—a predator so fearsome that their best strategy was always to run.

But now?

Now it looked... defeated.

Burning. Lifeless. Harmless.

Or so they thought.

Just as laughter and chatter filled the air, a voice shattered it.

"EVERYONE! TO AETHERTHORN—NOW!!"

Mathes’ shout cut through the field like a blade, his tone sharp with urgency. His face, usually firm and controlled, twisted in panic.

"What? Why?" several of the warriors asked, confused.

But before any answers could be given, the ground beneath them trembled—a low, creeping rumble. The countless corpses of slain Night Stalkers scattered around the White Fang’s body suddenly ignited in eerie white flames.

One by one, their corpses burned.

Smoke poured from their remains, streaming unnaturally into the White Fang’s body. It began to hiss, steam rising from its blackened fur, ascending into the swirling clouds above.

Mathes’ eyes widened.

Around him, his warriors continued pulling the wounded back, still oblivious to the signs.

The burning corpses, the thickening mana, the swirling heavens, the rumbling earth, and the steaming body of the beast.

"No... It can’t be," Mathes muttered, gritting his teeth as memories surged to the surface—memories from three centuries ago.

He remembered it clearly.

Back then, they had hunted the destructive beasts known as the Vuls. After days of bloodshed, only their Alpha remained. And when Elarya—who had only been a young elite Goldhair warrior then—landed the final blow, the same signs had appeared.

The same mana surge. The same earth rumble. The same swirling skies and the same white burning flame.

Back then... it wasn’t death. It was a sign of a beastly evolution.

And now, the White Fang was doing the same.

It was evolving right before his eyes.

And another nightmare was about to be born.

"To Aetherthorn! NOW!" Mathes shouted again.

This time, his warriors obeyed, sprinting toward the forest’s protective barrier. Though many grumbled—just having arrived—they knew better than to question him when he spoke with that voice.

Some of the older elves had already pieced it together and hurried their steps. Meanwhile, a young warrior approached him.

"Lord Mathes, forgive me, but we came to aid you. Why send us back now?"

Mathes, panting and sweating, downed another mana vial before answering grimly, "Because something on the level of Vulkris... is about to be born."

The elf’s brows drew tight. "What do you mean?"

Mathes pointed toward the beast’s smoldering form. "That... is being reborn. And when it wakes, we won’t survive. Not unless we hide under the shelter of the Aetherthorn."

He frowned deeply.

"And with the Queen missing... I doubt anyone here—not even me—can stop it."

The warrior’s grip tightened around his runed spear. "Then why don’t we destroy it before it fully evolves?"

"It’s useless," Mathes replied bitterly. "Elarya once cleaved the Vulkris Alpha into pieces to stop it. It came back whole—as if it had never died in the first place."

He looked toward the burning remains.

"In other words... this evolution is inevitable."

Despite the warning, the young warrior remained resolute.

"Even so, I won’t run. To see is to believe. But until then, I’ll strike it before it finishes evolving."

Mathes turned, preparing to leave. "Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

"I won’t. I’ll run if it comes to that." The elf gave a quick bow, then turned back toward the steaming corpse.

He was from the Velka Dar tribe, known for their pride and courage. With his spear cloaked in mana, he leapt high into the air—aiming straight for the White Fang.

But midway through the leap, his body spasmed.

"Wh—? I... I can’t breathe!"

The closer he got, the more the forming mana around the beast crushed his lungs. It was like smashing into an invisible wall of pressure—a suffocating dome of raw, deadly energy.

He fell back, gasping.

So this was what Queen Elarya endured when she faced the Vulkris Alpha?

"I’m not leaving until I—!"

But his sentence was cut short.

A blinding flash split the sky.

KRAKABOOM!

A colossal bolt of lightning struck the White Fang’s body. The resulting shockwave exploded outward, launching the brave elf like a ragdoll.

The lightning became a spark.

And the spark lit the fire.

The dead Night Stalkers ignited one by one in white flame. Within moments, nothing remained—no flesh, no bones—only ashes, absorbed into the steaming corpse at the center of it all.

From across the forest, all the elves felt it.

A booming thunder.A n overwhelming presence.

It sent shivers racing down their spines.

They instinctively huddled together under Aetherthorn’s protective spells, hoping the dome would be enough.

This time, there was no tribal division—Goldhairs, Velka Dars, Sylvn Ters—they were all just elves facing a shared nightmare.

From a safe distance, Mathes stared in horror.

The White Fang’s body had become encased in radiant magical light. Slowly, that light thickened—like mana solidifying—until it formed into a glowing egg.

This glowing egg pulsed with power. It was alive.

Each second, it drank in the dense mana around it.

And then—another strike. Then another. And another.

Each bolt of lightning struck the egg with terrifying power. Each one made the elves flinch.

Those who had survived Vulkris knew exactly what this meant.

A nightmare... being reborn.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, at last, the lightning stopped.

And where once there was light, now stood a massive black egg— approximately 30 meters tall and 20 meters wide. It looked almost beautiful, like a polished obsidian pearl.

But its presence was choking.

Even from afar, non-combatants felt its weight pressing down on them.

Then—cracks.

Hairline fractures split across its surface.

They grew.

And with a final shudder, the egg exploded in a blast of black mist, covering the field in a thick, swirling fog.

Vision was lost. But everyone felt it.

AWOOOOOOOOOO~

A long, bone-chilling howl echoed across the Runewood.

Every beast—from insects to predators, even the plants—froze.

They all acknowledged its presence.

A new alpha had arrived.

Mathes squinted through the mist, trying to make out the shape.

As the clouds parted slightly, faint light poured through, revealing the reborn monster standing in the haze.

It was enormous.

Its body was pitch black, humanoid in form, with long limbs and a monstrous aura. Its eyes glowed with pure white flame—no pupils, no irises, only rage and power.

Its lower half was feline, with three blade-like claws on each foot, each nearly two meters long. A black tail trailed behind it, ending in a scythe-shaped tip that gleamed with metallic sheen.

And then Mathes saw it.

The Divine Frame flickered to life.

*

Name: Nighthral

Level: 70

Title: The Eternal Stalker

Element: Dark

*

Mathes clenched his fists, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

This... this wasn’t the White Fang anymore.

That beast was brutal, yes—untamed and savage—but it still obeyed nature.

What now stood before him was something else entirely.

Something ancient. Something wrong.

It wasn’t just power. It was purpose. Rage bound by intellect. A predator reborn—not to feed, but to punish.

His breath hitched as the black mist began to thin. The monstrous figure still stood tall, its glowing white eyes unblinking, burning like twin torches of wrath beneath the darkened sky.

Then—without moving its jaw—a voice emerged while it turned its gaze towards Mathes.

Not loud.

Not shouting.

But deep. Cold. Echoing from within the very air around them, as if the Runewood itself was speaking through clenched teeth.

"Your kind has hunted my kin... for thousands of years."

The voice didn’t boom—it carved deep into his consciousness.

Each word scraped against Mathes’ bones like iron dragged across stone. A voice both dead and alive, filled with ancient memories and unending loathing.

Then—step.

"All in the name of your tradition and entertainment..."

The earth groaned as the creature moved forward, its scythe-like tail slicing through the mist behind it. With every motion, black mana shimmered in the air like heat waves, warping the world around it.

It lifted its head, slowly... and turned.

Toward Aetherthorn.

Toward the towering ancient trees.

Toward the place where the remnants of elvenkind huddled in fear behind their sacred walls.

And with a low, primal growl rising in its throat, it spoke again:

"Now..."

"It is our time..."

Another step forward.

"...to hunt you."

This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶