Chapter 116 - IS 116

Chapter 592: Figure

The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of a single enchanted lantern resting on the polished ebony desk. A faint hum of mana pulsed through the air, the only indication that this chamber was not as simple as it appeared. The thick stone walls, reinforced with protective runes, ensured absolute privacy—no stray ears, no lingering eyes.

The figure stood near the desk, his posture composed, his gaze lowered in deference. In front of him, a small, levitating communication crystal pulsed with soft, rhythmic light.

Then—

A voice.

Low, steady, but absolute. A voice that carried the weight of command, of a power that did not need to be raised to be felt.

"Yes, Your Majesty." The figure's tone was unwavering, a perfect mask of obedience. "Everything is going well."

A pause.

Then the voice from the crystal responded, smooth yet edged with quiet authority.

"Good."

The word carried weight, a silent expectation woven into a single syllable.

The voice continued, its cadence deliberate, unwavering.

"We need Varenthia and the trade routes under our control. I don't want any discrepancies."

The figure inclined his head slightly. "There will be none."

The glow of the crystal flickered, pulsing in time with the voice's next words.

"Aldric?"

The figure's expression remained calm, composed, as he delivered his next words.

"He is doing fine." His tone was measured, devoid of urgency, but laced with quiet assurance. "While it is true that his unruly nature surfaces from time to time, it is nothing beyond our expectations. For now, it serves our needs rather than hinders them."

A brief silence followed. Then the voice in the crystal responded, its cadence smooth, calculated.

"I knew Aldric was someone like this." There was no hint of surprise in the statement, only a quiet amusement, as if the speaker had long understood the nature of the man they had chosen. "But that is fine. Someone like that is needed for a place like Varenthia. A brute with a sharp mind, unshackled by useless notions of nobility, yet still bound by the hunger for power. That kind of ambition will stabilize our hold."

The figure inclined his head slightly. "As expected of Your Highness, the Crown Prince. Your foresight is unparalleled." His voice carried the perfect amount of reverence—neither too eager nor too subdued, striking that delicate balance of deference that only a man of his caliber could maintain.

The crystal flickered, a sign that the connection was nearing its end.

"Continue to monitor things," the Crown Prince said, his voice distant now, as if his mind had already moved on to the next grand plan. "Ensure that Aldric does not stray too far. He is useful, but only if he remains within our grasp."

The figure nodded once more, ready to seal the conversation.

But then—

Something shifted.

A sharp, unnatural pulse.

The artifact in his pocket shook.

A deep, unnatural vibration trembled through the air, an omen of something wrong.

The figure's body stiffened, his hand darting to his coat, gripping the artifact tightly as he pulled it free.

The runes along its surface were glowing— erratic, pulsing like a dying heart.

"What?" His voice, usually composed, cracked.

"How can this be?"

The crystal flickered, and the Crown Prince's voice cut through the sudden tension. "Did something happen?"

The figure could barely breathe. His fingers tightened around the artifact, his pulse roaring in his ears as the runes continued to twist and distort, as if the very foundation of what they were meant to track had been shattered.

His voice came out in a whisper, hoarse and disbelieving.

"Your Majesty… Aldric…"

The artifact pulsed one last time.

And then—

It stopped.

Cold. Silent.

"...Aldric is dead!"

The figure's grip on the artifact tightened as he lifted it to eye level, his mind racing.

The gem was no longer shining.

Not flickering. Not dimming.

Just—dead.

The artifact that had always pulsed with Aldric's presence, that had tracked his every movement through the city, was now as lifeless as cold stone.

He exhaled sharply, trying to steady his thoughts.

Then, from the communication crystal—

"Stay calm."

The Crown Prince's voice cut through the panic like a sharpened blade—commanding, firm. "Explain. How can he be dead? Didn't you ensure that no threat would occur?"

The figure forced himself to inhale, to steady his voice. "We did. We made sure of it." His fingers dug into the gemstone's surface. "The artifact detects every high-level fighter entering Varenthia. If anyone strong enough to kill Aldric had entered the city, we would have known."

A pause.

A deadly, suffocating pause.

Then—

"Then explain." The Crown Prince's voice was colder now, edged with something that made the figure's throat tighten. "How is he dead?"

His mind churned through the possibilities, grasping at answers, but there was only one truth.

"I don't know."

The words tasted bitter.

Because they should have known.

They should have seen this coming.

Aldric was a 6-star Awakened. A force of nature in battle. Not a man who could simply be cut down in the streets like some common mercenary.

And yet—

The artifact was dead.

Meaning Aldric was dead.

Which meant…

Something was in Varenthia that their artifact had not detected.

And that was an impossibility.

Unless—

The figure's breath slowed.

Unless what had killed Aldric was not something the artifact could track.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The figure kept his head bowed, his grip tightening around the lifeless artifact as if willing it to spark back to life—to prove that this was all some sort of temporary malfunction. But the stone remained cold, its once-vibrant pulse extinguished as if it had never held a trace of Aldric's presence at all.

The Crown Prince's voice cut through the silence like a sharpened blade.

"You don't know?"

It was quiet, measured, but beneath that forced composure was something far more dangerous—rage.

The figure swallowed, choosing his next words carefully. "Your Highness, I swear we have accounted for every variable. The artifact is absolute in its detection—no strong presence has entered Varenthia without our knowledge. There should be no force capable of killing Aldric, not without us knowing."

"Then explain why I am being told that he is dead."

The Crown Prince's words landed like hammer blows, each one pressing the weight of responsibility deeper into the figure's chest.

He exhaled, trying to regain his focus, trying to think. "It doesn't make sense," he admitted, his voice lower now, laced with frustration he had no right to show. "But for now, we must investigate before we conclude anything. I will send men out immediately. If Aldric truly is dead, then we will find out who is responsible."

The silence on the other end of the crystal stretched, taut with unspoken threats.

Then, finally, the Crown Prince spoke again, his tone colder, sharper than before.

"I refuse to believe that Aldric is dead."

The figure stiffened, not daring to interrupt.

"He was not a fool," the Crown Prince continued, voice unwavering. "Aldric was a warrior of his own making, a man who clawed his way up with sheer will. For him to simply disappear without a trace, without even a whisper of a greater power behind it? No. That is not something I will accept."

The figure hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. "Then I will confirm it myself. I will find proof."

"If he is dead," the Crown Prince continued, his voice dropping just slightly, turning more insidious, "then I expect the name of the one responsible. I don't care who they are. I don't care what it takes. But I will have an answer."

The figure let out a slow breath, pressing his free hand against the desk to steady himself. "Understood, Your Highness."

Another heavy pause.

Then, a final parting remark, delivered in a tone that sent an undeniable chill through the room.

"I will not tolerate any failure."

The connection ended.

The glow from the crystal faded into nothingness, leaving the chamber darker, colder.

The figure remained still for a long moment, staring down at the dead artifact in his hands. His pulse was steady, his expression unreadable, but in the quiet of the room, one truth settled heavily in his mind.

****

The fight was over.

With Aldric's severed head lying in the dirt and Lucavion's blood-drenched figure standing above them, the Black Veil's will to fight shattered.

The clatter of weapons falling to the ground continued, one after another. Surrender.

Even the strongest among them—those who had fought tooth and nail against Draven, Vyrell, and Soren—had no choice but to yield.

The spear-wielding warrior, the silent axeman, and the swift assassin—they all stood still, their eyes sharp but resigned.

They weren't fools.

They had fought hard, but the war had already been decided.

Draven exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "Tch… finally."

Vyrell adjusted his coat, flicking the blood off his blade before sheathing it. "A clean ending."

Soren let out a rough chuckle, gripping his warhammer like he wasn't quite ready to let go yet. "Shame. I was just getting warmed up."

Lucavion, still standing atop the rooftop, gave a lazy stretch, his smirk unwavering. "Well, you could always fight me next if you're that eager."

Soren immediately scoffed. "Tch. I like keeping my head attached to my shoulders, thanks."

Draven ran a hand through his hair before turning to his men. "Round up the prisoners. Take the high-rankers to the underground cells. The rest? Strip them of weapons, lock them up for now—we'll decide what to do with them later."

His men nodded and moved swiftly, restraining the surviving Black Veil fighters.

The three strongest—Aldric's lieutenants—offered no resistance as they were bound in heavy mana-restricting chains.

Draven eyed them carefully, watching their expressions.

Not broken. Not afraid.

Just waiting.

'They're still dangerous,' he thought.

They would need careful handling.

Still, it didn't matter. Not today.

The city belonged to them now.

Chapter 593: Gratitude

The scent of blood still lingered in the air as Draven, Vyrell, and Soren sat in the dimly lit meeting hall.

Their victory had been swift and brutal.

Now came the part that really mattered.

Lucavion entered the room last, his steps slow and unhurried.

He looked like a man who had already moved past the battle—as if the blood soaking his coat and the wounds still healing across his skin were minor inconveniences, nothing more.

He dropped himself into the nearest chair, exhaling lightly.

Draven leaned forward, his gray eyes sharp. "So."

Lucavion tilted his head slightly. "So?"

Soren let out a short laugh. "You really fucking did it, huh?"

Vyrell remained silent, studying Lucavion carefully.

Draven sighed, rubbing his temple. "Aldric's gone. The Black Veil's crushed. Varenthia's ours."

Lucavion leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The exhaustion was creeping into his bones now, dull and heavy, but his expression remained the same—calm, unreadable, just the barest hint of amusement lingering at the edge of his lips.

He stretched his fingers, rolling his shoulders slightly before speaking.

"Things may not be that simple," he muttered.

Draven frowned. "What do you mean?"

Lucavion closed his eyes for a second, collecting his thoughts. "Aldric was affiliated with the Royal Family. That's not something you just walk away from." He opened his eyes, looking directly at Draven. "If they had plans for this city, then this may not be over."

Soren clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Fucking great. Just when I thought we were done."

Vyrell exhaled through his nose, his fingers steepled in thought. "It's worth considering, but we have no reason to assume immediate retaliation. The Royal Family wouldn't move for someone like Aldric alone. He wasn't a noble anymore—he was a tool they discarded once. The question is whether his work here was part of something bigger."

Draven leaned back, his smirk returning slightly. "Well… we'll think about that later."

Lucavion hummed in response, as if he had already moved past the conversation.

Draven studied him for a moment before tilting his head. "So. Now what?"

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Draven smirked. "What are you planning to do now?"

Lucavion exhaled softly, stretching one arm. "I have no other business here," he said smoothly. "So, I'll be leaving."

Draven blinked. "Already?"

Lucavion glanced at him, smirking. "What? Now you're fond of me?"

Draven scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, voice dropping into a teasing drawl. "I'm sorry, but I'm not into men."

Soren immediately burst into laughter.

Vyrell let out a slow sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Draven just stared at Lucavion for a long moment, unblinking.

Then, finally, he muttered, "Tch."

Draven let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. "You and your fucking mouth."

Lucavion smirked, completely unbothered.

Soren, still chuckling, wiped at the corner of his eye. "Shit, I actually think I'll miss you, bastard."

Vyrell exhaled through his nose, setting his hands on the table. "Before you go," he said smoothly, "there's something we need to address."

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Draven leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You helped us take Varenthia. Whether it was for your own reasons or not, we came out of this a hell of a lot stronger than before." He tilted his head slightly. "And that doesn't go unpaid."

Lucavion hummed, watching them with mild curiosity.

Soren smirked. "A reward, basically."

Lucavion chuckled. "I don't recall asking for one."

Vyrell met his gaze, unwavering. "Consider it a matter of principle."

Draven exhaled sharply. "You took care of Aldric. We took care of the rest. And now, Varenthia belongs to us. That means it's only fair we acknowledge the bastard who made it possible."

Lucavion drummed his fingers against the table. "Hoh? So generous all of a sudden?"

Draven rolled his eyes. "Tch. Don't make this weird."

Lucavion smirked, but he didn't immediately decline. His gaze flicked between them, considering.

"Alright," he mused. "I'll bite. What are you offering?"

Draven exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "Since you're so damn eager to leave, let's get this over with."

Lucavion smirked but said nothing as Draven reached into his coat and pulled out the same old, metal case from before. With a lazy flick of his fingers, he slid it across the table.

Lucavion caught it effortlessly, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? This again?"

Draven nodded. "That artifact—it's yours now."

Lucavion tapped the case once, thoughtful. "Didn't you say this thing was stolen from some noble family's vault?"

Draven scoffed. "Yeah, so? Not like I'm going to use it. Besides, you got more out of it than I ever did. Might as well leave it with the bastard who actually made it work."

Lucavion chuckled, flipping the case open briefly. The artifact still pulsed with faint, irregular light, proof of its defective yet intriguing nature. He snapped it shut and tucked it away. "Not bad."

Soren grinned, setting a large, heavy pouch onto the table with a solid thud.

"Gold," he said simply. "Enough to get you through a few months of good living. Or a few weeks if you're the type to waste it on drinks and women."

Lucavion smirked, resting his chin against his knuckles. "Tempting. Maybe I'll see how quickly I can burn through it."

Vyrell sighed, but instead of commenting on Lucavion's attitude, he placed a small, intricately carved box onto the table.

Lucavion's sharp gaze flicked toward it.

Vyrell's voice was calm, measured. "A vial of Aethermist. Rare. Expensive. And difficult to acquire."

Lucavion's sharp gaze flicked toward the vial, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the box before lifting it. The silver-blue liquid inside shimmered under the dim candlelight, its luster almost unnatural.

Aethermist.

A rare alchemical concoction, something whispered about in the underground but rarely ever seen. Some claimed it could increase a person's affinity with magic. Others believed it could awaken dormant abilities.

But the truth?

It wasn't as mystical as the rumors made it out to be.

"It's a mana veins enhancer," Lucavion murmured, tilting the vial slightly as the liquid swirled within. "Speeds up cultivation. Helps breakthroughs."

Draven let out a low whistle. "Hah. Something like that could make a difference in cultivating."

Soren frowned slightly, crossing his arms. "And you're just giving it away?"

Vyrell remained composed. "I am."

Marciel, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his shrewd gaze flicking toward Vyrell. "Are you sure about this? Aethermist isn't something people just hand out. You wouldn't rather keep it for yourself?"

Vyrell exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "I've been stuck at 5-star for over ten years," he admitted, his voice even, matter-of-fact. "And I know I'll remain that way until the day I die."

Draven's smirk faded slightly as he studied the older man.

Vyrell continued, his fingers steepled before him. "I've tested my limits. I know where they are. Aethermist won't change that."

Lucavion's expression was unreadable as he flicked the vial once, watching the light bend through the liquid.

"Then you're wasting it on me," he said smoothly.

Vyrell's lips curled into the faintest smirk. "Am I?"

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, amused.

Vyrell leaned forward just slightly, his sharp eyes locked onto Lucavion's. "You, on the other hand… don't seem like someone who's anywhere near his limit."

Silence.

For a moment, the weight of Vyrell's words lingered in the air.

Then, Lucavion let out a soft chuckle, tucking the vial away inside his coat.

"Well then," he murmured. "Guess we'll see."

Lucavion turned, prepared to make his exit, but just as he stepped toward the door—

"Wait."

Draven's voice stopped him.

Lucavion exhaled softly, tilting his head slightly as he glanced back. "Hmm?"

Draven tossed something toward him. Lucavion caught it effortlessly, his fingers closing around three small, solid objects. When he opened his palm, he found three tokens—each distinct, each carrying an insignia he hadn't seen before.

His dark eyes flickered with curiosity. "What's this?"

Draven smirked, leaning back into his chair. "That one in the middle," he gestured toward the first token, "belongs to the Shadowmark Syndicate. You ever need information—tracking, records, a person found—take it to any of their branches. Show that token, and they'll listen."

Lucavion hummed, turning it between his fingers. "Oh…?" His smirk twitched, a hint of amusement in his voice. "So, an organization of rats?"

Marciel scoffed. "Information brokers, if you want to be polite about it."

Lucavion chuckled but didn't argue.

His eyes moved to the other two tokens. They were different in shape and insignia. He glanced up at Soren and Vyrell. "And these?"

Soren grunted, arms crossed. "That one's mine. Crimson Dogs' sigil. We don't do 'favors,' but if you ever need some muscle, flash that, and we'll hear you out."

Vyrell's gaze was calm as he spoke. "And mine… That's from the Duskrend Pact. My men don't move often, but when they do, it's efficient. If there's ever a situation that calls for precision rather than brute force, that token will open doors for you."

Lucavion studied them for a moment. Then, slowly, his smirk widened.

"Well, well…" He rolled the tokens over his knuckles with an easy flick of his fingers. "Didn't realize I was making so many friends."

Draven scoffed. "Tch. Don't get ahead of yourself. Consider it a professional courtesy. You helped us clean up this mess, so it's only right you get something out of it."

Lucavion tucked the tokens away into his coat. "How generous."

Vyrell exhaled. "Are you actually leaving now?"

Lucavion stretched slightly. "Unless you plan to keep me here?"

Soren chuckled. "Tempting."

Draven smirked. "You are an amusing bastard."

Lucavion turned toward the door once more, lifting a hand in a lazy half-wave. "It's been fun."

Draven watched him for a moment, then exhaled, shaking his head.

"Crazy bastard."

Chapter 594: A past that has been faced

Lucavion walked through the dimly lit streets of Varenthia, the cold night air settling over him like a second skin. The echoes of the city had quieted now, the chaos of battle nothing more than a memory painted in blood and smoke. The weight of exhaustion pressed into his bones, but his steps remained steady, his posture as effortless as ever.

Above him, the sky stretched vast and starless—no comforting light, no celestial glow to guide him. Only the remnants of a long night and the distant hum of a city in transition.

And then—

[They were courteous,] Vitaliara's voice drifted into his mind, smooth yet contemplative. [Not something you would expect from mere bandits.]

Lucavion chuckled softly. "It is often those who face the hardships of the world that show the most courtesy."

Vitaliara fell silent.

Lucavion exhaled, his fingers brushing over the inside of his coat where the tokens lay, nestled alongside the vial of Aethermist. A reward. A recognition of his part in this city's shift in power.

But none of it felt particularly important right now.

Because, despite everything—despite the smirk he had worn, despite the ease with which he had accepted their gifts—his body hurt.

A deep, lingering ache settled in his limbs, the toll of the battle creeping through his every movement. His core, though stabilized, was sealed. He could feel its absence, like a limb that had gone numb but had yet to be severed. It wasn't pain, not exactly, but something close. Something he didn't quite have the words for.

[I have a lot of questions, Lucavion.]

'I know you do.'

His tone was quieter now, lacking its usual teasing edge.

'I will answer them now.'

His pace didn't falter as he made his way back to the residence Draven had arranged for him

Lucavion pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into the dimly lit interior of the residence. The warmth of the place greeted him instantly, a stark contrast to the cold streets outside.

His gaze flicked around the spacious, lavishly furnished rooms. Gold-trimmed decor, fine velvet drapes, furniture that belonged in the estates of nobles rather than the hideout of a crime lord. Even after spending time here, it still amused him how absurdly extravagant Draven's tastes were.

However, something was different this time.

Caius wasn't here.

Lucavion's eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the room. Normally, the man would have been lounging somewhere, either drinking or looking like he had just barely survived yet another disaster. But now—

Gone.

"Hmm." Lucavion exhaled lightly, rolling his shoulders. "Well, let's hope that he's alive. Though…" A smirk tugged at his lips. "He does have the luck of a cockroach."

With that, he made his way deeper into the residence, heading toward the one place he had been looking forward to since the moment his body started aching—

The bath.

One of the few luxuries worth indulging in.

Draven's absurd wealth had at least been put to good use here. The bathhouse attached to the residence was massive, practically a private sanctuary, lined with intricate magical engravings. The water's temperature could be adjusted instantly—hot, cold, anything in between—and enchanted herbs infused the steam with a subtle, refreshing scent.

Lucavion stepped inside, the faint mist curling around him as he moved. The warmth in the air seeped into his skin even before he touched the water, soothing the weariness clinging to his limbs.

Slowly, he peeled off his coat, then the rest of his tattered, bloodstained clothing, letting each piece fall carelessly to the floor.

The moment he did—

[I am monitoring your condition.]

Lucavion paused, one brow arching slightly. Then—

A smirk.

"Are you sure you don't just want to peek at this body of mine?" His voice was laced with playful arrogance as he tilted his head slightly. "Aye… You're making me shy, Vitaliara."

Silence.

Instead—

[Hmph. Believe what you want.]

Lucavion chuckled under his breath.

Lucavion simply shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. "I don't mind it," he said smoothly, rolling his shoulders as he stepped forward. "If my body is that fascinating, who am I to deny you the view?"

[Tch. Arrogant bastard.]

His smirk lingered as he finally let his posture ease, allowing the warm mist to settle around him.

Now that his clothes were off, his body—every scar, every mark of battle—was fully exposed.

And there were many.

Old wounds, long since healed, crisscrossed his skin like a history carved into flesh. Some were faint, barely noticeable unless one looked closely. Others were deeper, jagged, remnants of battles that had pushed him to the brink.

But the freshest ones—the ones from his fight with Aldric—still lingered.

The burns, the bruises, the slashes that had been carved into him with mana-infused strikes… those wounds didn't just fade with time.

Injuries laced with another person's mana were always harder to heal. The foreign energy resisted outside interference, clinging to his wounds like a stubborn parasite.

Lucavion had experienced it before. He was used to it.

Didn't mean it wasn't annoying.

He exhaled lightly, stepping into the bath. The water was hot, perfectly so, its temperature shaped by the engravings that ran along the marble floor. The moment it touched his skin, a deep, satisfying warmth seeped into his muscles, easing the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.

Then, as he fully lowered himself into the water—

"Ahh…~"

He let out a quiet, drawn-out moan.

Just the right amount of breathy.

Just enough to sound a little too pleased.

And—

[LUUUCAVION.]

Vitaliara's voice snapped through his mind, sharp and immediate.

Lucavion grinned. "Hoh? What's wrong?" He tilted his head slightly, his smirk growing. "I was just expressing my appreciation for the bath. You're not getting flustered, are you?"

[I WILL KILL YOU.]

Lucavion laughed, low and rich, leaning back against the smooth edge of the bath.

"Now, now," he murmured, closing his eyes, his voice dripping with amusement. "What happened to monitoring my condition?"

[I am monitoring it! And I'd rather not hear you making those sounds while I do it!]

Lucavion exhaled, his grin softening slightly.

Teasing her was always too easy.

But there was something oddly comforting about their exchange.

Like, despite everything—despite the battle, despite his sealed core, despite the weight pressing down on him—he could still be himself.

He let his body sink further into the warmth, feeling the tension in his muscles begin to unwind.

"Fine, fine," he murmured, stretching slightly. "I'll behave."

[You better.]

A pause.

Then, quieter—

[…Are the injuries still bothering you?]

Lucavion's smirk faded just slightly. He opened one eye, glancing at the faint scars running across his arms. The lingering traces of Aldric's mana still pulsed faintly in the deeper wounds, resisting the warmth of the bath.

He inhaled slowly.

"It'll pass."

Vitaliara didn't respond immediately.

Then—

[You're used to pain.]

It wasn't a question.

Lucavion let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head back against the stone. "It's a familiar companion."

Another pause.

[…Hmph. Idiot.]

Lucavion simply smiled.

Vitaliara settled into one of the cushioned seats near the edge of the bath, her golden fur illuminated softly by the warm light flickering from the enchanted lanterns above. She curled her tail around herself, her posture deceptively relaxed—though Lucavion knew better.

She was waiting.

Her sharp eyes never left him, unwavering in their quiet demand.

Lucavion stretched, letting the water soak into his aching muscles, before finally tilting his head toward her with a lazy smirk.

"Bring it on."

Vitaliara didn't hesitate.

[Aldric Venthorin… He called you 'the boy with the scarred eye.']

Lucavion's smirk didn't fade, but something in his gaze shifted ever so slightly.

"Yes."

A beat of silence passed between them before she finally asked—

[What… what happened?]

Her voice wasn't just curious—it was searching.

Lucavion exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. "That's a long story…" His tone was light, teasing, but there was something in the way he said it that made it clear—this wasn't just a tale to be told over a drink.

[I want to hear everything.]

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his features.

"Oh…?"

His voice carried the usual mischief, but there was an edge of something else beneath it.

Something unreadable.

Something from the past.

Chapter 595: A past that has been faced (2)

Lucavion leaned his head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, his damp hair clinging slightly to his skin. The warmth seeped into his bones, but it did nothing to ease the weight settling over him now.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head just enough to glance at Vitaliara. Her gaze was expectant, unwavering.

No turning back now.

So, he began.

"I was a soldier."

Vitaliara's ears flicked slightly.

[Soldier?]

Lucavion hummed lightly. "Yes. Soldier."

[When?] She sounded skeptical. [You're not even that old.]

Lucavion's smirk curled at the edges, but there was no real amusement behind it.

"When I was fourteen."

Silence.

Vitaliara's eyes widened just slightly, but she didn't speak immediately.

She didn't have to.

Lucavion could feel the question forming, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing against him like the steam curling through the air.

Fourteen.

Too young.

Far too young.

But this wasn't a story of childhood.

No. This was war.

Lucavion exhaled, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again.

"And that's where it all began."

Vitaliara's tail twitched, her ears flattening slightly as she absorbed his words.

[Why?] Her voice was firm, but beneath it was something softer. Something cautious. [Why were you a soldier at fourteen? How did that happen?]

Lucavion's expression didn't change immediately.

But for a single, fleeting moment—his eyes did.

The usual glint of mischief, the lazy arrogance that colored his words, vanished.

Instead—

Cold.

Detached.

A glimpse of something locked away, buried deep beneath layers of careful control.

Then, just as quickly, it shifted again—melancholy bleeding into his gaze, something distant, something lost in the past.

He exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders.

"Circumstances made it so."

Vitaliara didn't accept that.

[Circumstances?] Her voice pressed against him, insistent. [What circumstances? You said you would answer my questions.]

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, his smirk returning, but it was subdued now—laced with something unreadable.

"I am answering," he murmured. "If you let me."

Vitaliara narrowed her eyes.

[Then tell me.]

Lucavion closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply before exhaling through his nose.

"Let's not focus on unimportant details."

Vitaliara's ears twitched.

[Unimportant? You were a soldier at fourteen, Lucavion. How is that unimportant?]

Lucavion chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Because it doesn't change anything."

[It changes everything.]

His smirk lingered, but he didn't argue.

Instead, his gaze lifted to the ceiling, his voice quieter now.

Lucavion's gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, his expression unreadable. The warmth of the bath did little to ease the weight pressing against him now—the weight of a past he rarely spoke of.

His voice was quieter when he finally spoke again.

"I was sent to war as a criminal."

Vitaliara's ears twitched.

[Criminal?] Her voice sharpened. [For what crime?]

Lucavion didn't answer immediately.

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but then—he exhaled, shaking his head lightly.

"....."

Vitaliara narrowed her eyes but didn't press him further. She let out a short breath.

[Fine. I won't pester you. Just continue.]

Lucavion's lips curled into something resembling a smirk, but it lacked the usual amusement.

"How generous of you."

A brief silence settled between them before he continued.

"They sent me to the battlefield as punishment. And since I was both young and a so-called criminal, my first battalion wasn't exactly welcoming."

Vitaliara's eyes darkened slightly.

[They didn't treat you well.]

Lucavion let out a low chuckle, but there was no real humor in it.

"I wasn't in a good state either, so it wasn't much of a surprise."

His fingers traced the surface of the water absentmindedly.

"In the first few months, I barely scraped by. Surviving in a war zone isn't about skill—it's about not being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I learned that fast."

He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes glinting with something distant.

"At that time, I wasn't an Awakened either."

Vitaliara's ears twitched again.

[Then?]

Lucavion exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

"Then," he murmured, "I met the first people who ever showed me kindness there."

Lucavion's gaze remained fixed on the rippling surface of the water, his fingers tracing idle patterns as he spoke. His voice had lost its usual playfulness—there was no teasing, no amusement. Just something quieter. Something reflective.

"It was then," he murmured, "when my squad was changed."

Vitaliara remained silent, waiting.

Lucavion exhaled, his eyes flickering with something distant. "That's where I met them."

[Met them?]

"Yeah…" His voice softened just slightly.

"Mateo, Felix, Garret, Elias, and Clara."

The names hung in the air, weighty with something unspoken.

[Who were they?]

Lucavion tilted his head back, letting the warmth of the bath soak into his weary muscles, but his thoughts were no longer here. They were somewhere else. A battlefield long past.

"They were the first people who didn't care about my so-called crimes," he said lightly, though his voice carried something deeper. "Didn't care about the rumors surrounding me. They just… accepted me as I was."

For the first time in a long while.

He could still picture them.

Garret.

The one who had been a blacksmith before the war stole that life from him. His hands were rough, his voice gruff, but beneath that exterior, he had been steady. A mentor, of sorts. He never looked at Lucavion like the others did—never with suspicion, never with contempt.

Mateo.

The one who always spoke of home, of the family waiting for him. A wife, two children. A man hardened by war but softened when he spoke of them. His sharp mind had kept them alive more times than Lucavion could count.

Felix.

The thief. The troublemaker. The one with the mischievous grin and quick hands, always slipping something from someone's pocket, even in the middle of a warzone. But beneath the playful arrogance was a deep, bitter hatred—for the nobles who had ruined his family, for the world that had taken everything from him.

Clara.

Fierce. Stubborn. She had joined the army to escape, to carve out a new life with her own hands. She never let anyone dictate her fate. Never let anyone tell her what she could or couldn't be. She had been reckless, sometimes too much so—but she had never been afraid.

And Elias.

The scholar. The quiet one. He wasn't built for war, not in the way the others were, but his mind was sharper than any blade. He read battlefields the way others read books, saw patterns in chaos, found answers when there were none.

Lucavion exhaled through his nose, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

"Back then, I wasn't an Awakened. I wasn't strong. I was just another body thrown into a war I didn't ask for." His voice was light, but there was something beneath it. A quiet weight.

"And they were the ones who taught me how to survive."

[Sounds like good people.]

Vitaliara's voice was quiet, almost mumbled. Her golden eyes flickered with something unreadable as she curled her tail slightly around herself.

[They might not have been 'good' in the eyes of the Empire or its laws. But they were good to you.]

Lucavion exhaled, his smirk softening just slightly.

"They were."

A beat of silence passed between them, the warm mist curling gently in the air.

Then—

[I see… Then…?]

Lucavion's eyes darkened slightly.

"Then," he murmured, "everything went down."

The words hung in the air, heavy with something inevitable.

"It was just another day of fighting on the frontlines, holding the Valerius Plains. Our squad was working as usual. The same routine, the same strategies."

His fingers traced the surface of the water, as if following the shape of an old memory.

"And then, the day before… Clara Awakened."

Vitaliara's ears perked slightly. [She did?]

Lucavion hummed. "Yeah. A full Awakening. We were all celebrating—quietly, of course, since there wasn't much time for that. But it was… a moment. A rare one."

A flicker of something crossed his face, gone as quickly as it had come.

"We were planning a small surprise for the team on the battlefield," he continued, his voice lighter, almost amused. "Just to inform the team that we know had an Awakened rising from our ranks.

His smirk faded.

"But then…"

Vitaliara's breath hitched.

She already knew.

[Aldric… Did he…]

Lucavion chuckled, but it was hollow.

"Well, you can guess, can't you?"

The water around him felt colder now.

"The Arcanis side was the first to send the Awakened onto the battlefield." His voice was smooth, too smooth, as if he were merely reciting a fact instead of recalling a memory burned into his very core.

"And that…"

He let the words settle, his fingers tightening slightly against the stone edge of the bath.

"It wasn't even a fight."

His gaze was distant now, lost in a battlefield long gone.

"It was just a one-sided massacre."

Chapter 596: A past that has been faced (3)

Lucavion's voice remained steady, but something in his tone had shifted—something colder, something distant. As if he was no longer speaking from a warm bath in the present but standing once more on the blood-soaked fields of Valerius, where everything had gone wrong.

"They fell one by one," he murmured. "I saw it happen right in front of me. And I couldn't do anything."

Vitaliara didn't speak. She simply listened.

"Garret was first."

The name hung in the air for a second before Lucavion continued, his fingers tightening against the stone ledge of the bath.

"The moment I realized the enemy's rank—the moment I understood what we were dealing with—it was already too late."

The words were too calm. Too controlled.

Like he had told himself this story over and over again, smoothing out the raw edges of grief, hammering it into something cold and sharp.

"The knight—Aldric—vanished from his spot."

A pause.

"And then—"

—SWOOSH!

Lucavion's body tensed, the memory sharp as a blade.

"Before Garret even realized what was happening, the spear was already through his chest. No chance to react. No chance to fight back. Just… over."

Vitaliara's tail curled slightly, but she said nothing.

"Then Mateo."

Another breath. Another name carved into the past.

"He didn't even see it coming. His throat—" Lucavion made a small flicking motion with his fingers. "—slit open in a blur of green light. Dead before his body even hit the ground."

Vitaliara's ears flattened.

"Felix tried to fight. Tried to do something. But he didn't last any longer. One strike. Straight through the heart."

Lucavion exhaled slowly. "Elias swung his weapon, tried to block—but he was too slow. Aldric parried and ended it instantly."

One by one.

Cut down like nothing.

"None of them could fight back. None of them stood a chance. They weren't Awakened. Just ordinary soldiers, standing in front of something beyond them."

Vitaliara's breath was barely audible.

"And you?"

Lucavion's smirk was bitter. "I was still on the ground. Watching."

The warmth of the bath felt distant now.

"It all happened so fast. A few seconds. That was all it took to erase them."

He closed his eyes briefly, his fingers digging into his palm. "I tried to move. But my body—"

[Wouldn't let you.]

Lucavion chuckled, hollow. "Yeah. It refused. My instincts… they told me to stay still. To not draw attention. To not die."

[But you didn't want to stay still.]

He exhaled, shaking his head. "Of course not."

A pause.

"And then—Clara."

Vitaliara's entire body tensed, but she didn't interrupt.

"She stood her ground," Lucavion murmured. "Even when she saw what happened to the others. Even when she knew she had no chance."

He could still see it.

Clara, her hands trembling but glowing with mana.

Her voice, shaking but fierce—

"Stay back!"

A desperate stand. A refusal to simply accept it.

"And Aldric—"

Lucavion's grip on the stone edge tightened.

"He mocked her. He toyed with her. Watched as she tried to gather more mana, as she tried to fight back."

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.

"And then he ended it. Just like that."

SWOOSH.

STAB.

The spear piercing her abdomen, twisting cruelly.

Her body crumpling.

The blood pooling at her feet.

"I screamed her name," Lucavion murmured. "But it didn't matter. Nothing I did mattered."

Silence.

Vitaliara finally spoke, her voice quieter than before.

[And Aldric turned to you.]

Lucavion's smirk returned, but it was sharp.

"He looked at me like I was interesting. That was it. Not a threat. Not an enemy. Just…"

His fingers traced the scar along his face.

"The boy with the scarred eye."

[This scar.....Was that his doing?]

"Yes."

[I see, then what?]

"What, what?"

[And he let you live?]

Lucavion's voice dropped to a whisper.

"Yeah."

[Why?]

Lucavion let out a slow breath, his fingers tracing the rim of the bath absentmindedly.

"He let me live," he murmured. "And for a long time, I wondered why."

His voice was even, but there was something beneath it—something old, something worn from being turned over in his mind too many times.

Vitaliara remained silent, waiting.

"I thought about it again and again. Was it pity? Was it amusement? Did he see something in me back then?"

His smirk was sharp, but there was no humor in it.

"But now that I've met him again, I know."

A pause.

"He thought I wouldn't survive."

Vitaliara's ears flicked slightly, but she didn't speak.

Lucavion exhaled, rolling his shoulders against the warmth of the water. "He must have figured I'd die soon after. Alone, broken, swallowed by the battlefield." His dark eyes glinted. "And if I didn't? Then he must have wanted me to fall into despair."

His voice dropped, quieter now.

"Most likely, he wanted to feel entertained."

Vitaliara frowned slightly. [Entertained?]

Lucavion chuckled, but it was hollow. "He was a 5-star Awakened, sent to a battlefield filled with ordinary soldiers. Do you think he wanted to be there?"

Silence stretched between them.

"From the eyes of someone like him," Lucavion mused, "killing non-Awakened must have felt like stepping on ants. Effortless. Boring. A waste of his time."

Vitaliara's tail curled slightly.

[Then he left you there as… a game?]

Lucavion tilted his head back, his smirk lazy but cold.

"Something like that."

A flicker of memory. The weight of a spear pressed against his throat. The amusement in Aldric's gaze. The way he had simply walked away, as if Lucavion had already been erased.

"He probably thought I'd crumble. That I'd break apart like the rest."

Lucavion's fingers tightened ever so slightly against the stone ledge.

"But he was wrong."

Vitaliara didn't say anything.

She just watched him.

Lucavion could feel it—the weight of her silence. Not judgment, not pity, just… understanding.

He let out a slow breath, leaning his head back against the stone, the warmth of the bath doing little to ease the memories.

"For a while," he murmured, "I lived solely for revenge."

The words weren't dramatic. Weren't heavy with grief or rage.

Just simple. Matter-of-fact.

"But with my body?" He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "I wasn't going anywhere."

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "I was just a non-Awakened kid trying to survive in the middle of a war. How could I ever become someone that could rival Aldric?"

The question lingered, rhetorical.

And then—

Lucavion's gaze flickered slightly, something distant in his expression.

"And then," he murmured, "I met Master."

A pause.

"In that battlefield."

The weight of that statement sat between them, unspoken.

Lucavion exhaled, his smirk returning, smaller this time.

"And here I am."

Lucavion blinked as Vitaliara hopped down from her perch, her white fur shimmering slightly under the bath's dim light. She moved with quiet grace, each step deliberate, until she stood beside him.

Then—

Without hesitation, she placed one paw on his right shoulder. Then the other on his left.

And somehow—somehow—she hugged him.

A cat's body wasn't made for such gestures, but Vitaliara didn't seem to care. She simply leaned into him, her warmth pressing against his bare skin, the steady pulse of her life energy threading through the air between them.

Lucavion's breath hitched.

[You suffered a lot.]

Her voice was soft. Not pitying, not sorrowful. Just… acknowledging.

Lucavion closed his eyes for a moment.

"…Yeah."

There was no need to deny it.

He had suffered.

And for the first time in a long while, someone wasn't trying to ignore that fact.

Then, her next words caught him off guard.

[But I'm glad.]

His eyes flickered open.

"Glad?"

Vitaliara pressed a little closer.

[Glad that I met you.]

Lucavion chuckled, his lips curling into a smirk despite himself. "You're going to make me blush."

[Hmph.] She huffed, but there was warmth in her tone.

And then—

[That girl beat me to this, but I will not fall back.]

Lucavion blinked.

Then, slowly, his smirk widened.

"Oh?" His voice turned playful, teasing. "Are you competing now?"

[Tch. Just be quiet and appreciate this moment.]

Lucavion laughed, low and rich, before resting his hand lightly against her fur.

He didn't say anything else.

But he didn't need to.

They stayed like that for a while.

Lucavion didn't move, and Vitaliara didn't pull away.

The warmth of her presence wasn't just physical—it settled somewhere deeper, somewhere beyond the lingering aches of his body, beyond the memories that still clung to the edges of his mind.

For once, he allowed himself to just exist.

No battles. No burdens.

Just this moment.

Then, after a long pause, Vitaliara finally spoke.

[Now that you've gotten your revenge… what are you planning to do?]

Lucavion's lips curled, his smirk returning with an easy, familiar confidence.

"Hmm," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "That's an important question, isn't it?"

Vitaliara just watched him, waiting.

Lucavion exhaled slowly, stretching his arms before resting them against the stone.

"It's time," he murmured, "to fulfill the promise I made to Master."

Silence.

Then—

"….."

Vitaliara's ears twitched. [And that is?]

Lucavion's smirk widened, mischief flickering through his dark eyes.

He took a slow breath—

And then, without hesitation—

"HERE I COME… ACADEMY OF ARCANIS!"

His voice echoed through the bath, loud, dramatic, completely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of it.

Vitaliara blinked.

Then—

[Pff—]

She snorted.

Then she laughed.

A bright, genuine sound, filled with exasperation but undeniably warm.

[You're ridiculous.]

Lucavion grinned. "And you're welcome."

Vitaliara just shook her head, tail flicking in amusement.

[You better not embarrass yourself.]

Lucavion leaned back, closing his eyes. "Oh, don't worry. If I do, I'll make sure it's spectacular."

Vitaliara sighed, but her smile lingered.

Then Lucavion looked down, checking his reflection from the surface of the bathroom water.

'…..With this….'

He thought as he looked at the line over his right eye.

'There is no need for you anymore…'

And just like that—

The one chapter of the story met its end.

----End of the Volume 4.

Chapter 597: Disciple

The wind howled through the mountains, sweeping through the jagged cliffs and curling around the ancient stone formations that had withstood the passage of centuries. The sky was painted in deep shades of twilight, the sun barely clinging to the horizon, casting a golden glow over the rugged terrain.

And in the midst of it all—

Aeliana sat atop a small, weathered boulder, perfectly still, her legs crossed, her hands resting against her lap. Her amber eyes were shut, her breathing slow, measured.

But she wasn't just meditating.

She was accumulating.

The mana around her was thick, heavy—alive. It pulsed in the air, invisible threads of energy weaving through her veins, coiling deep within her core. She could feel it—like a slow, powerful current, drawn in with every breath, refined with every exhale. It settled inside her, layered upon itself, growing denser, more controlled.

The process was delicate.

If she was too hasty, if she tried to force it—she could disrupt the natural flow, strain her core, and undo weeks of progress in an instant.

But she had long since learned patience.

Her thoughts drifted—back to her father's study, to that night when she had been dragged away without so much as a farewell.

Months.

It had been months since she last saw Lucavion.

Since she last heard his infuriatingly smooth voice. Since she last felt the warmth of his presence, the ridiculous arrogance in his words, the way he always somehow managed to get under her skin—only to soothe her irritation a moment later.

Is he at the Academy now?

The thought pressed at the edges of her mind, but she pushed it away.

Focus.

She needed to focus.

She inhaled deeply, allowing the mana to settle further, to sink deeper into the foundation of her being—

"You are doing really well."

Aeliana's eyes snapped open.

A voice—faintly amused, utterly at ease—drifted from her left.

Her gaze flickered toward the source, and sure enough—

There he was.

An elderly man.

Draped in robes that had clearly seen better days, his graying beard reaching down to his chest, wild strands of silver hair sticking out in random directions as if he had forgotten what a comb was. His wrinkled hands were tucked lazily into his sleeves, and his eyes—clouded with age, yet sharp as ever—held the glint of a man who was far more alive than his years suggested.

Aeliana sighed.

Tch.

"You."

The old man grinned. "Me."

Aeliana exhaled through her nose. "What do you want?"

"Ah, such hostility." The man tilted his head, stroking his beard with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Shouldn't you be more respectful to your esteemed teacher?"

Aeliana gave him a look. "I would be, if my esteemed teacher wasn't so irritating."

The old man cackled, completely unfazed. "Hah! That's the spirit!"

Aeliana fought the urge to roll her eyes.

This man.

This eccentric, impossible old man—

For months, he had been the one guiding her training, instructing her on the finer details of mana refinement, of core expansion, of pushing her limits while maintaining control. And while she could begrudgingly admit that his methods were effective—

He was also an absolute menace to deal with.

One moment, he was an insightful master, offering precise guidance and wisdom. The next, he was making terrible jokes, dodging serious conversations, or deliberately making her life harder just to amuse himself.

Aeliana pressed a hand to her temple. "If you have something to say, say it."

The old man hummed, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Impatient as ever."

Aeliana exhaled sharply. "You're the one who interrupted my training."

"True, true," he mused. Then, without warning, he flicked his fingers—

And a sudden burst of mana struck the boulder beneath her.

Aeliana's instincts flared.

With a sharp inhale, she gathered her mana in an instant, steadying herself even as the rock beneath her shook.

But she didn't fall.

Didn't even waver.

The old man grinned.

"Not bad."

Aeliana's eye twitched.

"Do you enjoy testing my patience?"

The old man cackled again. "You're finally catching on!"

Aeliana sighed.

Though she was not the only one.

The old man also let out a heavy sigh, stretching his arms with an exaggerated groan before plopping down onto the rocky ground beside her. His robes crumpled around him like a pile of discarded cloth, and for a brief moment, he looked less like a revered master and more like some homeless wanderer who had mistakenly found himself on a mountain peak.

Aeliana closed her eyes for a second, inhaling deeply. Patience. Breathe. If she let herself get irritated by every one of his antics, she wouldn't get anything done.

The old man, for his part, studied her with that ever-present twinkle in his sharp, aging eyes.

"Let's talk about your little… condition."

Aeliana cracked one eye open. "Condition?"

He stroked his beard, nodding sagely as if he were some profound philosopher. "Yes, yes. The strange case of Aeliana Thaddeus. Quite the anomaly, you are."

Aeliana sighed. "What now?"

"Well," the old man drawled, "it's not every day that someone wakes up from a lifelong illness and suddenly finds themselves at the peak of 1-star cultivation."

Aeliana stilled.

That again.

It wasn't the first time he had brought this up. And truth be told—she had noticed.

Before she had fallen ill, back when she had been just a child, her mana core had barely touched the threshold of 1-star. She had been progressing at a standard rate—nothing extraordinary, nothing out of the ordinary. Then the sickness took over, and everything stopped.

She had spent years bedridden, weak, unable to advance, unable to so much as lift a training sword.

And then—

She was cured.

And not only had she regained her strength—her mana had already reached the very peak of 1-star, like it had been growing somewhere else while she had been trapped in her body.

The old man tapped his fingers against his knee. "You didn't notice?"

Aeliana scoffed. "Of course I did."

He grinned. "Good. That means you're not completely dull."

Aeliana exhaled through her nose. "Are you actually going to explain something, or are you just going to sit there enjoying your own voice?"

The old man cackled. "A little of both, honestly."

Aeliana resisted the urge to shove him off the cliff.

He leaned back against his elbows, glancing up at the sky. "Here's what I think, girl. That mana—your core—it's not new. It's old. Ancient, even." He tapped his temple. "Something was growing inside of you all those years, even while your body was wasting away."

Aeliana frowned. "That's impossible. If I was cultivating mana while I was sick, I should have felt it."

"Should you have?" the old man mused. "Or were you simply not able to perceive it?"

Aeliana's fingers twitched.

The idea was unsettling. That something had been building inside her without her knowing, without her being aware.

But she pushed the thought away.

"So?" she asked, tilting her head. "What does that mean for my training?"

The old man smirked. "It means we have a foundation. A very strong one. And if you stop being so stiff, we can actually start working on refining that monstrous core of yours."

Aeliana huffed. "Fine."

The old man clapped his hands together, sitting up straighter. "Since you're a Thaddeus, naturally, you've been practicing the [Storm Sovereign's Dominion], yes?"

Aeliana nodded.

The [Storm Sovereign's Dominion].

A quasi-legendary cultivation method passed through generations of the Thaddeus bloodline. It was not merely a technique—it was a bond, a command over the ocean itself. The sea bent to its practitioners, the storms yielded to them. It was what had allowed the Thaddeus family to dominate the empire's naval forces, to rule the waters as if they were an extension of their own bodies.

The technique itself was brutal. Unlike other elemental cultivation paths, which relied on harmony and slow mastery, the [Storm Sovereign's Dominion] was sheer, unrelenting willpower.

There was no 'guiding' the mana like a gentle stream.

There was only dominance.

The practitioner had to seize the mana like a raging tide, wrestle it into submission, bend it beneath their control. They had to command the elements, not simply coexist with them.

And if they failed?

Then the mana would consume them instead.

Aeliana had spent months breaking herself against this method, forcing her body to withstand the sheer weight of it, strengthening her core to endure the raw force of the storms.

The old man grinned, as if sensing her thoughts. "Good, good. Then let's see how much you've improved."

Aeliana exhaled, closing her eyes once more.

She reached inside herself, into the deep, roiling depths of her core—

The moment Aeliana reached into her core, she felt it.

A tide of power—roiling, waiting. The mana within her was vast, a deep reservoir that had been lying dormant for years, growing in silence.

She exhaled slowly, commanding it to move.

And it obeyed.

A soft, electric hum filled the air as mana surged outward, coating her skin. It wrapped around her like a second layer of existence, a tangible force that clung to every fiber of her being.

Her body tingled, the power thrumming beneath her skin, resonating with the very rhythm of her breath. It was controlled, contained—exactly what a 1-star Awakened was supposed to achieve.

But then—

Something else stirred.

Deep beneath the surface of her core, a ripple.

A force older than her, older than the illness that had plagued her, older than the mere human limits she had once believed in.

Aeliana inhaled sharply as a pulse of mana—ancient, untamed—lashed against her consciousness. It wasn't wild in the way a storm raged or how the sea roared. It was something different. Something she did not yet fully understand.

Her breath stilled.

'Submit.'

Once again she started trying.

The same process.

She did not beg.

She commanded.

The mana bucked, resisting—like a beast unaccustomed to a master's hand.

In this part she had been failing for the whole past days.

"Remember, what I taught you, Aeliana."

But this time she knew.

She was close.

TOK!

Just then she felt it.

A sharp wind kicked up around her as the force inside her folded, merging with her core, intertwining with her like a current finally given direction.

She gasped.

For a moment, it was like she could feel everything.

The moisture in the air, the weight of the clouds above, the way the distant wind tugged at the trees along the mountain path.

It was intoxicating.

Power surged through her limbs, her breath syncing with the rhythm of the mana inside her, until—

A crackling sound echoed around her.

The old man, who had been silently observing, let out a low whistle.

"Oooooh…"

A wide, knowing grin stretched across his face, eyes glinting with unmistakable amusement.

"Such a talent."

Chapter 598: Prisoner

The scent of parchment and ink filled the air, the steady flicker of candlelight casting elongated shadows against the towering stacks of documents.

Duke Thaddeus sat at his desk, golden eyes scanning the latest trade reports with measured precision. His fingers tapped idly against the polished wood as he absorbed the numbers, the steady flow of profits, the shifting balance of power in the region.

Months had passed since the Kraken.

Months of political maneuvering, trade disruptions, and countless hours spent repairing the damage—both physical and diplomatic.

At first, it had been chaos.

The sea routes had become treacherous, not because of the Kraken itself—it was gone, after all—but because of fear. Merchants hesitated, investors pulled out, and the economy wavered under the weight of uncertainty.

A Kraken was no ordinary sea monster. It was a force of nature, a calamity that had reshaped the very foundation of trade and security in the region. Even with its death, people had hesitated to believe it was truly gone.

For the first few months, distrust ruled the markets. The whispers had been relentless—Was it really dead? What if another one appears? What if the Duke had merely repelled it and not slain it?

And so, business had slowed.

But now…

Thaddeus exhaled, his sharp gaze shifting to a different document. The latest financial report.

It was undeniable—things had stabilized. Trade routes were running smoothly once more, exports had resumed at full capacity, and most importantly—profits were steadily climbing.

Because word had spread.

The Kraken was dead.

And he had slain it.

Or rather—that was what the world believed.

Thaddeus' fingers paused against the parchment.

Lucavion.

That boy had been the one to deal the finishing blow, the one who had thrown himself into the heart of the storm and torn the beast asunder.

But he had refused the credit.

Thaddeus had expected it, in a way. Lucavion had always been an anomaly—someone who moved unpredictably, who never seemed to care for status or recognition. When the time came to declare victory, he had simply shrugged it off.

"Give the credit to you, Mister Duke." Lucavion had said it so casually, as if it meant nothing.

Thaddeus had been forced to step forward in his place.

At first, it had felt like a burden. A necessary political move, but one that invited more attention than he would have preferred.

Yet now, as he looked at the rewards—stability, power, an economy that was growing stronger than before—he couldn't deny the results.

The world needed a name to rally behind.

And whether he had intended it or not—Lucavion had given him that name.

Thaddeus exhaled through his nose, setting the parchment aside. His eyes flickered toward the sealed letters stacked neatly at the corner of his desk.

Letters from nobles. Investors. Foreign diplomats.

They all wanted the same thing—to be in the good graces of the man who had "slain the Kraken."

A lesser man might have reveled in this newfound prestige.

But Thaddeus?

He merely found it tedious.

He reached for his silver bell and rang it once.

Within moments, the door opened, and Lysander entered, ever composed, ever efficient.

"My lord," the butler greeted with a bow.

Thaddeus gestured to the letters. "Sort them. Priority to trade partners and military alliances. The rest can wait."

Lysander nodded, stepping forward to collect the documents.

As he did, the butler's gaze flickered to the Duke's face. A subtle shift in his expression, so small that most wouldn't notice.

"You seem deep in thought, my lord," Lysander observed.

Thaddeus did not respond immediately. His fingers tapped once more against the polished wood, the faint, rhythmic sound filling the silence.

Then, with deliberate ease, he stood.

Lysander did not comment as his lord pushed back his chair, the weight of his presence shifting the air in the study. The golden glow of candlelight flickered across his features, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the cold gleam of his narrowed gaze.

The Duke exhaled slowly, as if shaking off the weight of the reports, the trade routes, the politics. Yet something in his stance remained taut—coiled with a quiet, restrained energy that had not been there moments before.

"I will be going out," Thaddeus said at last, his voice even, measured.

Lysander's brows lifted, ever so slightly. The Duke rarely left his study for anything short of necessity. And yet, the way he spoke—so clipped, so final—left no room for questioning.

The butler inclined his head. "Shall I have the guards prepare an escort, my lord?"

Thaddeus shook his head. "No."

Lysander hesitated for only a fraction of a second before bowing once more. "Understood."

Without another word, Thaddeus strode past him, his boots striking against the marble floors with a steady, unhurried rhythm.

The corridors were silent at this hour. Most of the staff had already retired for the night, save for the night watch, whose patrols passed in disciplined intervals. The flickering sconces lining the walls cast long, wavering shadows, stretching and shifting with every step he took.

But Thaddeus did not waver.

He knew exactly where he was going.

*****

The scent of damp stone greeted him first.

The air was colder here—far removed from the warmth of the estate above, from the polished halls and gilded chambers where power was wielded with ink and whispered alliances.

Here, power was far simpler.

It was the weight of chains. The bite of silence. The slow, inevitable descent into irrelevance.

Thaddeus descended the final steps, his posture unchanging even as the air thickened with the scent of dust and iron. The guard stationed at the entrance straightened immediately at his approach, the man's expression unreadable beneath his helmet.

"My lord." A crisp salute. "Shall I announce your arrival?"

"No need." Thaddeus' voice cut through the dim space like a blade. "Open it."

The guard hesitated for only a moment before nodding, reaching for the heavy iron key at his belt. With a practiced motion, he unlocked the door, the sound of grinding metal echoing through the chamber.

With a dull thud, the door creaked open.

Thaddeus stepped inside.

She was waiting for him.

Even in the dim torchlight, her silver-blue eyes gleamed, sharp and steady.

She sat on the simple wooden bench provided to her—not slumped, not defeated, but poised. As if she were merely an observer in all of this, as if she had been expecting this moment all along.

The chains around her wrists and ankles did little to diminish her presence. If anything, they only added to the surreal image of her—bound, yet utterly composed.

Madeleina did not move as he approached.

Did not speak.

Only watched.

And for the first time since her imprisonment—since her entire world had shattered beneath the weight of her own actions—Duke Thaddeus finally looked at her.

Truly looked at her.

The woman he had once trusted above all else.

The woman who had, in her own twisted way, claimed to have done everything for him.

The woman who had tried to erase his daughter.

And despite the cold fury simmering beneath his skin, despite the quiet, seething weight of betrayal pressing against his ribs—

His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm.

The reason for his calm was simple.

It had been months since he last stood here.

Months since he had left her fate in Aeliana's hands.

At the time, it had felt like the right decision. No—it had been the right decision. His daughter, the one Madeleina had wronged most, was the only one with the right to pass judgment.

And yet—

Now, with Aeliana away, sharpening herself in training, growing beyond the shadow that had once bound her—Madeleina remained.

Left here.

Forgotten by all but time itself.

Thaddeus let his gaze settle on her, his golden eyes unreadable.

Madeleina held his stare without flinching, her silver-blue eyes as steady as they had ever been.

Not broken.

Not pleading.

She had always been a woman of conviction, and even in chains, that much had not changed.

"I did not come to grant you freedom," Thaddeus said at last. His voice was even, unwavering. "Your life no longer rests in my hands."

A statement, not a threat.

A fact, not a judgment.

Madeleina did not react.

Of course, she already knew this.

He had not come to decide anything.

So why had he come?

The silence between them thickened, not with tension, but with something heavier. Something unspoken.

Finally, Thaddeus exhaled, shifting his stance slightly, his hands clasping behind his back.

"Yet, I find myself here."

A flicker of something passed through Madeleina's gaze, there and gone in an instant.

Curiosity.

She did not voice it, but she was listening.

That, at least, had not changed.

Thaddeus studied her, as if searching for something—an answer he had not yet found within himself.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"Aeliana has left for her training."

Madeleina's expression did not shift. Not at first.

But then—her lips parted, just slightly.

Not in shock.

Not in relief.

Just quiet understanding.

"You are here," she murmured, "because you are curious."

Not a question. A certainty.

Thaddeus did not confirm nor deny it.

But she was right.

He was curious.

Not about the past—no, he understood that well enough.

Not about her guilt—he had already passed judgment on that long ago.

But about something else.

Something more fundamental.

Something he had not allowed himself to ask before.

Slowly, Thaddeus stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

"You claimed you did this for me."

Madeleina's breath was steady.

"You claimed it was for the Dukedom."

Still, she did not waver.

Thaddeus' gaze sharpened.

"Then tell me."

His voice lowered, golden eyes boring into hers.

"What did you expect to happen?"

The words lingered, cutting through the still air, demanding something deeper than the justifications she had given before.

Did she believe he would accept it?

Did she believe Aeliana would simply disappear, that the weight of her absence would not leave its mark?

Did she think, even for a second, that she would replace her?

Madeleina exhaled softly, tilting her head ever so slightly.

And then, for the first time since he had stepped into this room—

She smiled.

A small, knowing smile.

And she said, without hesitation—

"I expected you to move forward."

Chapter 599: Protagonist

The air hummed with energy, thick with the raw presence of magic. In the dim glow of a single floating orb of light, Elara sat cross-legged at the center of her room, her hands resting lightly on her knees, palms upturned as mana curled around her in slow, deliberate waves. The frost coiling from her fingertips spread outward, crackling softly as the temperature in the room plummeted.

The Zone of Chill wavered.

And then—it cracked.

A thin, hairline fracture split the frozen air around her, a jagged line of disruption in what should have been a seamless barrier of mana.

Elara inhaled sharply, her brow furrowing. Again?

She had been at this for hours, refining her mana control, pushing herself deeper into cultivation. But no matter how much she focused, no matter how precisely she wove her power, something always felt… off.

Her fingers curled slightly, tightening into fists before she exhaled and opened her eyes.

Her room was the same chaotic mess as ever.

The enormous library of books that lined the shelves—some stacked neatly, others toppling over in precarious piles—spilled onto the floor, pages marked and dog-eared from her relentless research.

The desk, covered with scattered notes and half-written theories, bore the marks of countless late nights spent pouring over spellcraft, trying to refine her techniques.

In the corner, old mana crystals, now drained of energy, sat piled in a heap, discarded after experiments gone wrong.

And yet, even amidst the disorder, this place was home.

Elara let out a slow breath, her eyes shifting toward the window. Outside, beyond the cold stone walls of the tower, the night stretched endlessly, stars glimmering in the sky like frozen shards of light.

Her chest tightened.

It had been six months since she had left Stormhaven.

Since she had been forced to leave.

She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to shake the thought away. Focus. She couldn't afford distractions, not now. She had work to do. She had to get stronger.

Shifting her focus, she raised a hand. The chilled air around her stirred once more as she guided the mana inwards, compressing it, refining it. The Zone of Chill reformed around her, dense and sharper this time, colder than before.

Crack.

Elara's breath hitched as another fracture formed in the mana field—this time larger.

Her irritation flared. Why? Why couldn't she stabilize it? She had mastered this before, so why now, after everything, was it breaking apart?

Her heart pounded as she clenched her teeth, pushing the mana back into place.

But it was no use.

The ice cracked again.

It wasn't her technique that was unstable.

It was her.

Her core was off-balance—her mana reacting to something beneath the surface, something she hadn't been able to name yet.

And she knew exactly when it had started.

Her focus.

Her resolve.

Her determination.

It should all be the same as before.

And yet, the more she cultivated, the more she felt it.

The emptiness.

She scowled, shutting her eyes tightly as she released the mana all at once. The room thawed slightly, though the chill remained. Her shoulders sagged, frustration curling in her gut.

She knew what this feeling was.

A flicker of space twisted beside her, and before the mana even settled, a figure stood in its place—effortless, silent, as if the universe itself had merely rearranged to accommodate her arrival.

"...."

Elara barely flinched. At this point, she had grown accustomed to it. Her master had never been one for conventional entrances. If anything, Elara was surprised she hadn't appeared in a more theatrical manner—maybe descending from the ceiling or stepping out from her own reflection in the window.

"Master," Elara greeted, not bothering to rise from her seated position. Her voice was steady, composed, though the faint frustration from earlier still lingered in her tone.

Eveline Draycott, the Archmage of the Azure Tower, stood with an air of unshaken amusement, her deep indigo robes flowing lightly despite the lack of wind. The brim of her pointed hat tilted just enough to shadow part of her face, but her sharp, knowing eyes gleamed beneath it.

"Ah, my little apprentice," Eveline mused, tapping her chin as she surveyed the frozen air still cracking from Elara's failed cultivation attempt. "Breaking things again, I see."

Elara's eye twitched. "It's not broken," she muttered, adjusting her posture. "It's… unstable."

Eveline chuckled, stepping forward without a care as the remnants of the frost dissolved at her feet. "Unstable, hmm? Is that what we're calling it now?"

Elara exhaled through her nose, choosing not to dignify that with a response. Instead, she gestured vaguely toward her scattered notes, the layers of research she had been compiling. "I've been trying to refine my mana flow, but…"

"But you're failing." Eveline finished the sentence for her, her lips curving into a small, knowing smirk.

Elara scowled. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." The older mage flicked her wrist lazily, and in response, the lingering mana in the room shifted. A soft glow pulsed through the space as if reacting to her presence, her mere will enough to command it.

Elara bit the inside of her cheek. This was the difference between them. No matter how much she trained, no matter how many spells she refined, standing next to Eveline was like standing next to an unshakable force of nature.

The Archmage turned her piercing gaze on her, and for the first time, her amusement faded, replaced with something quieter. More knowing.

"You're distracted," she said simply.

Elara stiffened. "I—"

"No excuses," Eveline cut in, waving a finger. "No clever rebuttals. No misplaced defiance." She tilted her head. "You know I'm right."

A cold lump settled in Elara's throat, and she looked away.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Eveline didn't push her. She never did—not in this way. She simply waited, patient as always.

Elara clenched her fists, then exhaled. "…I thought I had control over it."

Eveline's gaze softened—just slightly. "You did," she said. "But you left something behind in that city."

Elara's breath hitched, her mind flashing unbidden to him—to that battlefield, to the way the vortex had swallowed him whole. To the silence that followed.

"You're losing yourself in the questions, aren't you?" Eveline murmured, her voice quieter now. "Wondering if you could've done something differently. Wondering if it was your fault."

Elara said nothing, but she didn't need to.

Eveline's gaze didn't waver, her piercing eyes locking onto Elara with the weight of something far more than simple observation. It was as if she was peering through her, dissecting every thought, every hesitation buried beneath the surface.

"There are things in this world you cannot control, Elara," Eveline said at last, her voice carrying an unusual softness beneath the usual sharp edge. "Sometimes, no matter how much effort you put in, how much strength you gather, how much you prepare—fate simply takes its own course."

Elara's breath caught slightly, but she didn't reply. There was nothing to say. She knew that. She had lived that.

Her master's words were nothing more than a confirmation of what she had already been forcing herself to accept. That sometimes, despite everything, you still lost. That you were still powerless.

Still weak.

Elara clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palm.

"But," Eveline continued, stepping closer, "that is not your problem right now."

Elara lifted her gaze at that, her brow furrowing.

"You are on the verge of breaking through to five-star," Eveline stated, a note of quiet finality in her voice. "But you are holding yourself back."

Elara stiffened.

She knew that. She had felt it. The way her magic surged erratically, the way her mana control was just slightly off balance. The way her instincts screamed that she was close—so close—to stepping into something greater, but something inside her refused to take that step.

It wasn't just a mental block.

It was doubt.

Lingering emotions she hadn't yet let go of.

Eveline studied her carefully before exhaling through her nose in mild exasperation. "Well," she said, "we will deal with that soon enough."

Elara tilted her head slightly, sensing a shift in the conversation. "What do you mean?"

"Get ready," Eveline said simply.

Elara frowned. "Ready for what?"

Eveline's smirk returned, but there was something sharper behind it, something firm and immovable.

"The academy is about to start," she said. "And you are enrolling."

Silence.

Elara blinked once. Then twice.

"What?" she said, her voice flat, as if she had misheard.

Eveline's smirk widened just slightly, her sharp eyes glinting with something knowing—something that made Elara's irritation spike before she even said the words.

"Did you forget the time?" Eveline asked, her tone laced with amusement. "I seem to recall you being quite excited for the academy. Don't tell me…" She tilted her head, tapping a finger against her chin. "One single man changed your view of life?"

Elara snapped her gaze toward her, her jaw tightening as something hot and instinctive flared in her chest. "That's—" She cut herself off, forcing herself to exhale sharply, pressing her lips into a thin line.

No. She wouldn't let herself be baited.

But—had she truly lost track of time?

Her thoughts spun as realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. It had been months. She had buried herself so deeply in cultivation, in pushing her magic to the limit, that the days had blurred together. She had started this at early four-star, and now—now she was on the very edge of breaking through to five-star.

It had been fast. Faster than most mages could ever dream of. And yet… she had stalled.

Her body was ready. Her mana was surging, screaming to evolve.

But she couldn't step forward.

Not yet.

Her doubts—her emotions—had kept her locked in place.

She knew that. She hated that.

Elara inhaled deeply, regaining her composure. Her lips curled into something like a smile—but it was cold, distant, her eyes dark with something unreadable. "Of course not, Master," she said smoothly. "I haven't forgotten why I'm here."

The Grand Academy.

The center of excellence.

The place where nobility and the most talented of magic users gathered. The place where her targets resided.

Adrian.

Isolde.

The people who had cast her aside, who had ruined her life, who had stolen everything from her.

This was the very reason she had trained. The reason she had forced herself to grow stronger, to climb, to survive.

Nothing—not even a single man—was going to change that.

Eveline observed her for a long moment, her smirk curving into something softer. "Good," she said simply, folding her arms behind her back. "Because I expect results, Elara. If you're going to the academy, then you will be the strongest in your class. I have no interest in watching my apprentice waste her time."

Elara's grip on her emotions tightened. Waste her time?

No.

She would not waste a second.

She would take back everything.

And if her doubts still clung to her?

She would bury them in ice.