Michael opened his mouth before the old man could say anything else.

"I was attacked again," he said.

That single sentence drew the attention of everyone who was hearing him.

The silver-haired elder descended at once, her body cutting through the air like a falling blade before landing beside the old man.

"Again?" she asked.

Several nearby experts turned fully toward him now.

"Who attacked you?" the old man asked.

Michael shook his head.

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I didn't stay long enough to find out. They were stronger than me. Much stronger. I ran as fast as I could."

That was all. No exaggeration. Just a plain statement of fact.

The silver-haired elder's gaze sharpened as she studied him.

The others did the same.

And that was where the strangeness of his appearance crept in.

Michael looked terrible.

His coat was torn and destroyed in several places. Dirt and dried blood clung to his clothes. His mana was unstable, and his complexion was pale.

Yet…

There were no fatal wounds.

No signs of someone who had barely escaped death at the hands of a superior expert.

That contradiction made the silence stretch.

Michael could only sigh helplessly in his mind.

He had truly been roughed up lately.

Unfortunately, his body refused to cooperate with that image.

Even now, after everything he had been through, there were no crushed organs, no shattered bones, no lingering structural damage that matched the situation he experienced.

With his current constitution, if Michael still looked terrible after being given even a short window to recover, then the damage he had taken must have been extreme. Severe enough to harm a body that the Awakener System itself had already acknowledged as standing on the threshold of godhood.

The silver-haired elder continued speaking.

"Did they pursue you?" she asked.

Michael shook his head again.

"No. They tried to stop me from escaping, but they were too slow."

That answer only deepened the strangeness.

Too slow.

Several experts exchanged looks, especially the Amazari and Stonekin elders.

The moment Michael tore through the sky with nothing but his own body replayed itself in their minds with uncomfortable clarity.

They had seen him pursue teleportation itself, breaking through sound barriers one after another, the air detonating behind him as his body forced its way forward.

Aside from the Amazari elder, there were not many Rank Three supernaturals present who could confidently claim they were faster than that.

And that was the disturbing part.

Michael was still only Rank Two.

With his foundation, how strong would he be when he advanced?

The elders did not think this was the boy's peak. Even if he later couldn't find the law that suited him and followed another's path, he'd still be much stronger than ordinary rank 3.

Among the other races, the looks directed at him changed when some started to recognize him.

The old man noticed the shift immediately.

He cleared his throat.

"That," he said calmly, his voice carrying without effort, "is a discussion for later."

The pressure in the air eased slightly as his words settled.

"For now," he continued, "we still have matters to conclude."

As if on cue, the atmosphere rippled.

Three figures descended from above.

They were the leaders, or rather the ones with the highest authority among the three races in the fifteenth floor currently available right now.

All three turned their attention toward Michael.

Their gazes lingered on him as Michael himself also studied them as well.

There were three major races operating openly on the Fifteenth Floor of Hell.

Aside from the elves, there were two other races present.

The first were the Khar'veth.

A fully humanoid race at first glance, the Khar'veth were immediately recognizable by their four arms, arranged in two powerful pairs. Their skin ranged from muted bronze to deep stone-gray.

The Khar'veth were classified as Neutral-Pragmatic.

Across the universe, they were known as mercenaries and contract-bound enforcers. They did not fight for ideals or emotions. They fought for outcomes. If a battlefield promised profit, survival, or strategic advantage, the Khar'veth would be there. Once contracted, however, they were notoriously reliable. Betrayal was considered a cultural disgrace among them.

The second race drew far more attention despite their smaller frames.

They were the Virellion.

Shorter in stature, the Virellion possessed compact purple wings formed from dense, crystalline feathers. Their bodies were slender, with smooth skin that carried an unnatural luster.

The Virellion can be said to be a neutral race with incredible talent with several rare elements, but thanks to the low numbers, which was mostly caused by hunting, as their entire body consisted of treasures rare in the universe, they were quite an aggressive race.

One could say they evolved to become that due to their surroundings.

The silence that followed was broken first by the Khar'veth.

The four-armed figure stepped forward half a pace, all four palms coming together in a sharp, resounding clap. That cut through lingering tension like a hammer strike.

"You have our thanks," he said loudly, his voice deep and carrying, unbothered by the eyes now turning toward him. "Had you not disrupted the demon formation when you did, the losses on this floor would have doubled. At the very least. After all this is done we'll love your presence in our territory to give proper thanks."

He looked to the others that came to help as well and said something similar.

There was no flowery praise. Just a blunt acknowledgment of value.

That alone spoke volumes about the Khar'veth.

Next came the Virellion, who gave a similar thanks but on a more detached level.

Then, finally, the elves.

The elven representative was tall, even by elven standards, her figure slender without appearing fragile. Long hair the color of moonlit silver flowed freely down her back.

Her skin was pale and smooth with the marks of battle on her. Instead of affecting her beauty, it instead gave her a rough elegance.

Her eyes were what held Michael's attention.

They were a muted green, calm and clear, with no visible ripple of emotion within them. No admiration. No hostility.

The only thing he could sense well was the curiosity her eyes held.

The elf finally spoke.

"Are you… a half-elf?"

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