Chapter 665: Mirellia Dane
Aurelian's grin faded into something sharper—less mirthful, more alert. "They weren't joking this time."
Selphine nodded slowly, her eyes narrowed as she scanned the updated projection. "No. This isn't drama anymore. This is war by design."
The illusion field zoomed in with an almost predatory focus. What had once been carefully curated biomes now churned into each other—acid lakes draining into collapsing forest paths, frozen peaks crumbling into molten fissures. The borders between trial zones buckled like stressed glass, fragments of sky itself shattering and raining down as flaming meteors.
And then—
The monsters came.
Not as scattered skirmishes.
But as waves.
Creatures poured out from the edges of the convergence zones—misshapen beasts of mana and tooth, spell-fused amalgamations that moved with purpose. Some crawled, others flew. A few phased in and out of existence entirely, flickering like strobe-lit ghosts. The sheer volume was staggering.
Candidates across the trial field broke formation—no more posturing, no more petty duels. This was about survival. Defensive wards flared. Screams echoed. Spells lit the landscape like festival fireworks, but the expressions of those casting them were anything but celebratory.
Selphine's lips pressed into a thin line. "They're being herded."
"Trapped," Aurelian muttered, leaning forward with both elbows on the table now. "Monsters at their backs, collapsing space in front. If they don't move, they're pincered. If they do, they might run straight into another death zone."
"And the convergence," Selphine said, pointing to the growing boundary ring on the illusion map, "is speeding up."
Selphine's eyes narrowed as another set of glyphs pulsed across the illusion display—names flickering out, one by one, followed by the same harsh stamp:
[ELIMINATED – Convergence Violation]
"That's the seventh name in two minutes," she said quietly.
Aurelian let out a slow breath. "They're dropping fast now."
From the start of Phase Two, the convergence field had been slow—deliberate. A steady narrowing of space that eliminated stragglers, mostly those already too injured to continue. Candidates who had fought too hard in the early days—bled out in monster skirmishes or worn down by rival clashes—had been left behind when the terrain turned against them. Those who couldn't cross the threshold in time had vanished in a searing pulse of evacuation magic.
And most had managed.
Until now.
Because now the convergence was no longer steady.
It was accelerating.
On the illusion map, the convergence edge pulsed visibly—no longer inching, but sweeping. A crimson dome slowly tightening from all sides, symmetrical to the constructed space, collapsing inward toward the very center of the trial field. Not a flat line. A dome of compression. A cage of slow, inevitable closure.
"Look at the radius pulses," Aurelian said, pointing to the illusion's overlay as a ripple of red scanned across the terrain. "It's not uniform anymore."
"Oh, so they did it like that…" Aurelian muttered, eyes flicking from one rune to the next on the projection's edge. "Now that I look at it, it makes sense."
Selphine arched a brow. "Layered radius compression paired with trigger pulses. They're not just collapsing space—they're listening to it."
"You mean reactive convergence?" Aurelian leaned in, a little too eagerly. "Of course. They must be feeding ambient mana density back into the dome's movement. The more stagnant the energy, the faster it collapses that section."
Selphine gave a small nod, something between professional approval and genuine intrigue. "I'd wager they're using a mirrored feedback array tied to the candidate population clusters. It's a controlled vacuum."
Aurelian gave a low whistle. "That's high-tier spatial design. No wonder they brought in the Arch-Magisters to stabilize the lattice."
It was the kind of thing only mages like them would notice—how artful the violence had become. Every collapse, every forced movement, every monster wave wasn't just chaos. It was crafted. A puzzle designed not just to test strength or endurance—but response to shifting control.
And then—
The projection changed.
The air around the plaza shifted with it, like a collective inhalation.
The camera panned to a forest trail half-drowned in mist and crimson bloom. A group of candidates huddled at the base of a shattered rock shelf, bloodied, exhausted. The monsters came like tides now—slavering beasts with mana-ripped limbs and jagged bodies stitched from elemental residue.
And holding the line between them—
Was him.
Reynald Vale.
"That guy," Aurelian said, sitting up straighter. "He's still going."
Selphine's expression didn't change, but her tone softened. "Of course he is."
The screen showed him mid-motion—a clean, downward arc of his blade as it bisected a lunging creature, before pivoting into a backward thrust to catch another. Every movement was deliberate, economical. Not showy. Not theatrical.
But measured.
Reynald's stance wasn't perfect, not like a royal tutor's demonstration—but it was the kind of posture that had been tempered by necessity, not drills. Each attack kept distance between the monsters and the wounded candidates behind him. His eyes flicked constantly—assessing, shielding, adjusting.
"He's got battlefield sense," Selphine said quietly. "That's rare in someone his age."
"And look at his footwork," Aurelian added, eyes tracking every shift. "Not trained like court knights. But not sloppy either. That's real-world form."
They watched as he slammed the pommel of his sword into a creature's jaw and turned with barely a pause, sword tip dragging a quick warding rune across the air before stepping back into guard.
"Back home," Selphine murmured, "my family's knights trained against constructs and stage duels. This guy isn't even lacking compared to them."
Aurelian nodded, his voice low, but sure. "He's not just fighting well. He's fighting smart. Every movement, every angle—he's conserving energy, protecting the others, adapting."
Selphine tilted her head slightly, studying Reynald's posture as he adjusted his stance again, positioning his body between a collapsed girl and a new wave of encroaching beasts. "No wasted effort. He knows exactly how much force to use to kill, and where to stand to take the hit instead of them."
Around them, more voices joined in—onlookers drawn to the same projection, expressions rapt with an emotion that wasn't just awe.
Respect.
A merchant with soot-smudged gloves murmured, "That boy's not just fighting to win. He's guarding them."
An elderly mage, cane resting against her knee, squinted up at the illusion and said, "He moves like someone who's already lost people. That's not courage. That's resolve."
A young boy sitting cross-legged on the cobblestone whispered, "He's like the old stories..."
From somewhere in the crowd, a nickname emerged—soft at first, then picked up by others.
| "The Bastion."
Aurelian heard it and let the word roll on his tongue. "Huh… The Bastion. That suits him."
Selphine nodded slowly. "Not a hero. Not a commander. Just the wall between ruin and the rest."
The projection flared again—Reynald launching into another engagement, sword flashing in a short arc, clean and brutal. One of the younger candidates behind him scrambled to her feet, clearly scared, but Reynald just shouted something over his shoulder and jerked his chin toward a safer path.
And she ran.
Alive.
Because of him.
"The Bastion," Aurelian repeated, quieter now.
And as the next wave hit and the convergence ring crept closer, the title didn't feel like fanfare.
It felt earned.
The projection pulsed again—marking a shift, a shimmer in the mana-weave. Reynald's quadrant receded into one side of the illusion sphere, and a new image swelled into view.
This time, it wasn't desperation the viewers saw.
It was momentum.
A group of candidates—six, maybe seven—were cutting a clean, deliberate path through the chaos. Unlike the scattered clusters elsewhere, this group moved as one. Fast. Cohesive. Efficient. Their spells weren't thrown in panic but woven with purpose—defensive barriers layered seamlessly, attack patterns overlapping without wasting a breath of mana.
And at their center—
A young woman.
She wasn't towering or armored, but the entire group shaped itself around her presence. The ground trembled as she stepped forward—vines, thick and thorned, bursting from the soil at her heels and surging outward like summoned serpents.
One wrapped around a construct's leg and yanked it backward, snapping its balance. Another group of vines coiled into a spiral shield, catching a mana spear mid-flight before dissolving into blooming petals.
Her control was not just strong—it was elegant.
Selphine's eyes narrowed slightly, then flicked to Aurelian. "You recognize her?"
"Of course I do," he said, already leaning forward. "She was in the southern bracket, early rounds. That's—I think her name was—"
[Mirellia Dane]
Chapter 666: What is that
[Mirellia Dane]
The illusion confirmed it as the overlay script shimmered briefly at the corner of the feed.
Aurelian snapped his fingers. "That's her. She's a vine-element specialist—didn't just bind monsters, she harvested spells. Wrapped one caster up in his own attack and knocked him out cold. It was genius."
"She's not brute-forcing it," Selphine said, almost approvingly. "She's commanding a field."
The group following Kaela moved like trained scouts under her direction—spells cast where she pointed, positions shifted at a gesture. She ducked under a blade, sent a vine spiking up through the cracked earth, and impaled the construct clean through its fractured core.
It howled, then collapsed.
The others didn't cheer.
They just moved forward.
"She's leading them through the convergence," Aurelian noted. "Straight into contested ground. Smart."
"She was already impressive early on," Aurelian said, his tone shifting into analytical admiration. "Even before the relics activated, she was laying traps like she'd memorized the terrain. Half the candidates didn't even realize they'd been led into her ambush until the vines were already choking their casting arms."
Selphine nodded once. "Field control. Strategic foresight. And subtle restraint."
Onscreen, Mirellia Dane surged forward, her vines wrapping around a fallen stone arch and slingshotting her onto higher ground. The others followed without question, covering flanks as though they'd drilled it a dozen times. They hadn't, of course. But she made it look like they had.
"She became a Zone Lord early," Selphine continued, "not because she out-fought everyone—but because she out-thought them."
"She didn't kill all her challengers either," Aurelian added. "She left a few standing. Some of those same people are the ones moving with her now."
"Temporary alliances," Selphine said. "Calculated tolerance. She planned for escalation."
Aurelian grinned. "She knew something like the Breach Protocol would happen. Maybe not exactly, but she played for long-term stability from the start. That's real leadership."
The image blurred—then fractured briefly into a shimmering sphere of glyphs before switching feeds again.
A new set of candidates now appeared, scrambling through a more chaotic region—an unstable shard zone where gravity faltered and stone spikes hovered at odd angles. They fought with desperation, fending off constructs mid-leap, barely keeping the convergence at bay.
No unity here.
Just survival.
Another shift.
A marsh, now dried and cracked by the advancing convergence. A single contestant, cloaked in shadows, weaving through enemies with a whisper-thin blade, slipping through gaps like water between stones. Effective. But solitary. Unanchored.
The crowd around the broadcast pillars murmured, watching the flurry of skill and madness unfold.
Then—
The scene flickered again.
The haze cleared.
And him.
Lucavion.
The camera didn't cut to him. It found him—like it had been trying to track a moving storm. His form came into view mid-motion, his estoc gleaming as it tore through the hide of a warped beast. Flames cracked around him—not conjured, but echoed, as if the very act of cutting the monster loose from life summoned a shockwave.
The white cat on his shoulder barely flinched, paw flicking at the air in lazy approval.
Lucavion smiled.
Not with arrogance.
With ease.
As though none of this—convergence, monster waves, collapsing space—was even slightly inconvenient.
"Now that I'm looking at it…" Aurelian murmured, leaning closer, "that flame... it's strange."
Selphine narrowed her eyes. "That's not elemental fire."
"Of course it's not," Aurelian said, rolling his eyes without looking away from the screen. "The flame is black, Selphine."
She turned her head just enough to give him a sideways look sharp enough to shave steel—but said nothing.
Instead, she turned back to the projection, lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line.
Lucavion moved again.
Not with urgency—but with the kind of precise, fluid rhythm that didn't need haste to be devastating. His estoc sang through the air in a tight arc, and once again the black flame flared—not from his hand, but from the motion of the blade itself, trailing behind like a wake.
When it struck, it didn't explode or sear like fire should.
It ate.
The warped beast he hit spasmed—and then crumpled inward, as though the flame had burned through the mana holding it together. Not even ash remained. Just the faint scent of ozone, and a thin ripple through the ground where the flame had grazed it.
"…That's not destruction," Selphine said after a pause, her voice low now. Focused. "It's consumption."
Aurelian leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, eyes never leaving the illusion. "Maybe it's tied to a [Mana Accumulation Art]? Some sort of specialized intake method that warps his core signature?"
"Could be," Selphine murmured. "If he's drawing in ambient mana during motion and refining it through an advanced technique—then redirecting it into blade-form…"
Aurelian nodded slowly, eyes flicking across the lingering afterglow. "That would explain the delay between strike and flare. And why the flame doesn't behave like typical elemental fire."
"Look," Selphine pointed. "That one there—same monster type as the last group Mirellia's team fought. Her fire spell took nine seconds to neutralize it."
"And his?" Aurelian watched as the beast's chest imploded from a shallow cut.
"Three," Selphine said. "If that."
They both fell quiet again.
Because whatever this black fire was—it wasn't just flash or flair. It was efficient. Quiet. Ruthless.
And uniquely his.
The white cat shifted slightly on Lucavion's shoulder, eyes half-lidded, tail curling lazily as another monster growled in the distance. Lucavion didn't brace. Didn't even adjust his footing.
He just raised his blade.
The flame flickered again—soft at first, then sharp, like a whisper turning into a scream just behind the veil.
Aurelian's voice was quiet now. "It's not magic the way we know it."
"No," Selphine agreed. "It's something older."
And both of them knew—
Whatever he was using...
It wasn't taught in any court.
The projection pulsed again—another shift, another quadrant.
The scenery this time was harsher. Rock and dust and broken stone, lit red by the distant glow of the convergence line inching across the land like a hungry tide. The trees here were skeletal, stripped of leaves by mana distortion. Cracks ran through the earth like veins of old wounds reopening.
And in the center of it all—
A figure moved through the storm.
Aurelian blinked. "Oh. Him."
Selphine's lips curved slightly. "Caeden Roark."
The projection pulled into focus, revealing the broad-shouldered young man with the cleaver half the size of a grown man's torso—his grip tight, his stance wide, his bare arms glistening with sweat and blood under the haze of crimson light. His dark bronze skin bore fresh wounds, but none deep enough to stop him. Each strike came down like a falling mountain, and every time he swung, a monster went down.
One. Two. Three.
Not elegant.
Not calculated.
But strong.
He wasn't dodging anymore—he was absorbing. Letting strikes glance off thick muscle and braced limbs. When a beast lunged for his shoulder, he caught it with one arm and ripped it free from his body with the other, cleaver already reversing direction to split it in two.
Selphine's eyes narrowed. "He's been fighting nonstop, hasn't he?"
Aurelian nodded slowly. "Look at his boots. The leather's torn at the sole. That's a full day of movement, minimum. No break."
"And still standing," Selphine murmured.
The illusion lingered on his face as he turned. There was no grin. No joy. Just a raw, heavy focus—the kind of presence built not in academies or noble courts, but on blood-soaked ground and nights without food. He looked like someone who'd carried things heavier than that cleaver long before this trial began.
And behind him, through the dust, a trio of younger candidates scrambled to keep up.
He wasn't shielding them like Reynald.
He wasn't commanding them like Mirellia.
But they followed him.
Because if nothing else, Caeden Roark cleared a path.
"You think anyone's backing him?" Aurelian asked.
Selphine didn't answer right away.
But then she said, "They will be."
And she was right.
Because even through the illusion broadcast, even from a thousand feet of projected distance, you could feel it.
The hunger of the watching powers.
The patrons. The house agents. The academy scouts.
Watching every swing of that cleaver.
Watching a man carve his name into the stone of the trial with nothing but grit and raw strength.
"They'll want him for muscle," Aurelian said.
"No," Selphine corrected, gaze still locked on the screen. "They'll want him because he doesn't fall."
And in a world that fed on ambition, war, and magic—
That kind of endurance was more terrifying than any spell.
Chapter 667: Let them catch up
The projection blurred again, a flicker of spatial distortion streaking across the illusion field—then it snapped back into focus with a sudden crack of thunder.
Not the battlefield thunder of clashing spells or collapsing biomes.
No—this was louder. Closer.
More chaotic.
A lightning bolt split the screen, dancing in an erratic arc across the cracked forest floor, singeing two monsters and accidentally shattering the remains of a broken rune pillar in the process.
"Ah-ha—NOPE, not today! You furry spell-eating acid-fanged nightmares, I see you!" the voice rang out, high-pitched and panicked, as the familiar figure of the lightning mage burst onto the screen in a whirl of sparks and flailing limbs.
"Oh, stars," Aurelian muttered. "It's him again."
"Sparkjaw," Selphine sighed, rubbing her temple with the grace of someone already bracing for a headache. "Or whatever he's calling himself."
Toven "Sparkjaw" Vintrell—half performer, half catastrophe—was not fighting like a knight or a soldier.
He was running.
And complaining.
"Curse the mages and their bright ideas," he shouted as he dove over a shattered tree root, flipping mid-air with an exaggerated twist before landing in a crouch and letting off a lightning pulse that sent three more monsters staggering. "What genius designed a trial where the floor tries to bite you?!"
One of the monsters lunged.
He screamed. High. Unapologetically.
And then vanished in a stutter of light, only to reappear ten paces away, already mid-curse. "You all need therapy! And snacks! I'm not your dinner!"
Despite the theatrics, he wasn't losing.
And that—more than the chaos—was what made Selphine narrow her eyes.
"Wait," she said. "Look at his footwork."
Aurelian's brow furrowed. "What?"
She gestured subtly as Sparkjaw dashed sideways again—this time spinning beneath a monster's lunging claw and rebounding off a slope of stone, not in a panic, but with a deliberate bounce of momentum.
Aurelian leaned in, brow furrowed. "That's not just dodging."
"No," Selphine said quietly, eyes sharp and focused. "That's form."
Sparkjaw pivoted again, this time launching himself off a crumbling rock with one leg tucked in and the other flaring outward—not for flair, but to twist midair and arc a burst of lightning from heel to bracer in a single, fluid motion. The blast hit a leaping monster dead in the center of its throat.
He landed, rolled, and kept moving—feet striking the ground at angles that redistributed his weight like a dancer skimming across a spell-etched floor.
Aurelian exhaled. "But that's... martial. Not magical. I've seen something like it from blade-dancers, but they weren't lightning channelers."
Selphine's lips pressed into a thin line. "And that's exactly what makes it strange."
Because for all the grandeur of magic, for all the elegance of spellcasting and theoretical arts, there were unspoken rules among the awakened.
And one of them was simple:
Body or magic core. Not both.
It wasn't law—but it might as well have been. Every cultivation art, every lineage philosophy, every mentor across the empire whispered it in one form or another.
Focusing on your magic mana core—refining it, growing it, making it a star unto itself—took everything. Time. Energy. Spirit.
And so, most mages sacrificed the physical.
They grew brittle-boned, robed and robed again, hovering behind layers of spell shields and crystal wards. Not weak—but prioritized. Efficient.
Cultivating both the core and the body simultaneously?
Possible.
But foolish.
The ones who tried usually fell behind—too slow in their core's growth, too weak in their physique to keep up with martial cultivators. Pulled in two directions, and crushed somewhere in between.
And yet—
"His movement…" Aurelian said slowly, like a man unfolding a riddle too absurd to be real, "it's precise. It's light. That balance control—that's from physical cultivation, isn't it?"
"It has to be," Selphine murmured. "No mage footwork flows like that naturally."
"If he's cultivating his body and mage core at the same time," Aurelian said, almost to himself. "That shouldn't work."
Selphine didn't answer.
Because it shouldn't.
And yet the proof was leaping across their screen, cursing everything from beast saliva to the stitching of his own pants, all while weaving arcs of lightning so sharp and sudden it made fully trained spellweavers look sluggish.
One monster pounced from above.
Toven backflipped beneath it, lightning sparking off his boots mid-spin, and when he landed, his bracers exploded in a wide discharge arc that fried the creature from the inside out.
He stood there for a second, panting, then raised his hands to the sky with mock agony. "Is this what tuition gets me?! WHERE'S MY HEALTH PLAN?!"
The crowd around the illusion pillar laughed, but Selphine and Aurelian didn't join them.
Because beneath the showmanship—beneath the noise—was something else.
Something dangerous.
Something clever.
Aurelian didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
He just leaned in closer, eyes glued to the illusion feed as if the projection itself might whisper secrets back to him.
"…He shouldn't be able to do that," he said again, softer now. Less disbelief. More calculation. "Not with that clarity of channeling. Not while moving like that."
Selphine's arms were crossed now, posture tight. Her gaze tracked every twitch of Toven's feet, every spark of lightning that snaked across his bracers before launching into a pulse or a bolt or a whip-crack arc.
"I want to see his cultivation path," she said bluntly.
Aurelian nodded. "So does everyone else."
He glanced sideways, sweeping his gaze over the gathered crowd. Most were still laughing—charmed by the spectacle, the absurd commentary, the reckless speed.
But not all.
Some, like them, were watching with sharpened eyes.
A few figures in the back wore plain robes, but their fingers moved in quiet sigil tracing—trying to follow the spell pattern, trying to dissect the rhythm of Toven's casting.
Others, older mages, stood with arms folded, too still, too silent—observing, the way you did when you realized a piece of forbidden theory might've just stepped off the page and started doing backflips across the battlefield.
"It's going to cause a stir," Aurelian said.
Selphine didn't respond right away.
Then: "It already is."
"He's hiding behind the act. Most people will think he's just lucky."
"But the ones who matter," Selphine murmured, "will want to unpack him."
Aurelian looked up toward the looming spires of the mage towers in the distance, where he knew the observing panels for the Academy's inner circle had been lit for hours now.
"They're watching," he said.
"They all are," Selphine answered.
And without saying it, they both knew the truth:
Toven "Sparkjaw" Vintrell wasn't just surviving the exam.
He was rewriting what people thought was possible inside it.
And that kind of magic?
Wouldn't stay secret for long.
****
The chaos behind him howled like a dying world.
Lucavion moved through it—not with speed, but precision. Where others might have sprinted, he flowed. Every step a calculation. Every dodge an instinct honed on steel and suffering. The collapsing biomes tore at the edges of the world, smashing acid lakes into crumbling cliffs, hurling burning fragments of the fake sky down in a storm of molten prophecy.
But none of it touched him.
He was faster than disaster. Smarter than the slaughter.
Meant for this.
By the time he reached the convergence zone—where the final line of compression narrowed like the throat of a funnel—the earth had turned black with scorch and impact, the sky above torn between false starlight and the white glow of broken mana.
Then—
The ground leveled.
No more ripples of destabilized space. No more roaring waves of hybrid monsters or sentient constructs twitching with unstable cores.
Just quiet.
Lucavion slowed his pace as the terrain evened out into a strange, circular basin of obsidian stone and smooth, carved pathways. Ancient symbols glowed faintly beneath his feet—unfamiliar, but deliberate. A pattern of order drawn in the middle of chaos.
And at the center of it all—
A towering spire. Not natural. Not overgrown.
Forged.
Smooth obsidian like the floor, etched with glowing threads of silver-blue runes spiraling upward. It hummed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the compressed world around it.
Lucavion blinked once.
"Oh…" he murmured.
He'd made it.
The safe zone.
Or, more accurately, the final staging ground.
He let out a breath, chest rising with the exhale—not from exertion, but from awareness.
This was it.
The point where all paths would converge. The location where Zone Lords would meet, where elites would clash, and where the final phase would likely unfold.
And as his eyes swept across the wide expanse of blackened stone, he noticed something odd.
There were no footsteps in the dust.
No voices. No sparks of mana. No figures pacing or waiting in anticipation.
Just him.
The first.
Lucavion's smirk grew, slow and inevitable.
"Of course I'm first," he said, voice dry as wind over a blade. "It's only proper."
Vitaliara, still perched lightly on his shoulder, gave a soft flick of her tail.[No fanfare? No applause? Tragic.]
"Let them catch up first," Lucavion said, walking toward the base of the spire, his boots echoing in the eerie stillness. "It wouldn't be fun if they didn't have something to be late to."
Chapter 668: Reynald Vale
The fourth day of the Candidate Trials was passing without summons.
For the first time in nearly a week, Valeria was alone.
No velvet invitations. No floating carriages bearing sigils. No endless cycle of measured smiles and polished laughter.
Just her, a quiet balcony shaded by mana-fed ivy, and the distant, filtered hum of the city's arcane arteries pulsing in time with the sun.
She exhaled, slow and deep, letting the silence settle into her bones.
The gatherings had ended.
Dozens of salons. More tea than her stomach could comfortably recall. An entire catalog of nobles, each more eager than the last to measure her—by her name, her posture, her connection to Marquis Vendor.
That was the thread they all pulled.
Not Valeria.
Not the knight who had taken five fortified keeps in two seasons.
Not the girl who had ridden through storms and carved warlords from their thrones.
No.
What they saw—what they calculated—was a daughter of a relevant house, elevated by alliance, not legacy.
They hadn't said it outright.
They never did.
But she'd felt it in every compliment dulled by caution. In every smile that weighed her not as a person, but as a risk. A temporary novelty, aligned for now with power, but not part of it.
Still—she hadn't been surprised.
She didn't come to these halls expecting affection.
Only intelligence.
And in that, she had gathered enough.
Among the glittering performances, there had been a few sharp minds. A few people worth remembering—not out of fondness, but strategy.
Potential allies.
Students of old bloodlines, yes, but not blinded by them. Some had asked her real questions. Some had listened without performing. Those, she had noted. Quietly. Precisely.
They were attending the Academy too.
And Valeria knew better than most that real loyalty was often shaped after the banners were chosen.
The sun was dipping lower in the sky now, casting soft amber hues across the cobbled walkways of Arcanis.
From her place on the balcony, Valeria could hear the shift before she saw it—the sound of people. Not courtiers. Not nobles. Just people.
The distant clatter of shoes against stone. The laughter of children darting through the legs of spell-pulled carts. The occasional burst of music from some street performer or a bard-imbued crystal humming out old folk songs in warped harmony.
Below, the city was alive—celebrating the Candidate Trials in its own way. Shopfronts bore woven ribbons and floating glyph lanterns. Vendors hawked fried aether-batter and illusion-dyed silk scarves. Arcane puppeteers danced dragons in miniature between rooftops.
Valeria watched it all for a moment longer, then rose.
Her cloak was a casual one—plain-cut, dark slate with no embroidery, no sigil. Her blade, slung across her back in a half-scabbard, drew a few glances now and then, but no one stopped her. In a city where spell-stitched coats passed for armor and familiars flew overhead like birds, she didn't stand out much.
Which was exactly what she wanted.
She moved through the side streets first, her pace relaxed but alert. She was used to cities—had seen dozens during campaigns—but Arcanis was different. Built not just to hold power, but to broadcast it. And yet, beneath the grand towers and glowing ley-paths, there were still alleyways. Still steam rising from back-alley forges. Still taverns with chipped signs and stairways that creaked.
It was nearing mid-afternoon when her stomach gave a low, insistent growl.
She stopped beneath the overhang of a curved stone archway, eyes scanning across the row of buildings ahead.
One stood out.
Not for size or color—but because it didn't stand out.
A squat, two-story inn nestled between a potion stall and a runecarver's workshop. The sign above its door was hand-painted, a little faded. No enchantment. No illusion. Just a worn script that read:
The Fifth Bell.
Valeria stepped through its wooden doors and into warmth.
The inside was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn't silence, but comfort. Conversations hummed low. A few off-duty guards nursed drinks in the corner. Someone had enchanted the hearth to mimic woodsmoke even though it burned mana-bricks.
No one looked twice when she entered.
Valeria stepped deeper into The Fifth Bell, the soft clink of the door closing behind her sealing her into a warmth that wasn't just from the mana-fed hearth. The low murmur of casual voices, the scent of spiced stew and fresh bread—it was so familiar, in a way that caught her off guard.
Her eyes drifted toward the far corner, where a round table sat near the hearth.
'...Iron Matron's inn…'
The thought came unbidden. The quiet atmosphere. The faint comfort in the air. The way the patrons didn't stare long, didn't pry. It reminded her of those earlier days—when things had been simpler, though no less dangerous. When Lucavion would tease her into moving seats, when warmth was something hard-won, not granted by walls alone.
Her gaze softened, just for a moment.
'Jorkin's stew. That hearth. That bloody table.'
She wondered how they were doing. The people they'd left behind. Iron Matron's place had been a second home during those brief, chaotic weeks. Her mind lingered briefly on the beastkin siblings—Riken and Sena. Quiet Sena with her too-large eyes and skittish movements. Riken, all sharp words and bristled defiance, but still a child pretending not to be.
'They were so small…'
She stopped herself.
'I hope they're safe.'
With a silent breath, she stepped forward and claimed a seat at the back, near the far window where flickering glyph-lanterns cast rhythmic glows through the worn glass.
The moment Valeria stepped past the threshold and toward the dining floor, a young waiter in a crisp, magically-scented uniform practically materialized in front of her.
"Welcome, honored guest!" he said with rehearsed cheer, gesturing with one hand toward the seating and sweeping the other toward a chalkboard that pulsed faintly with illusion-light. "We have festival specials prepared today—slow-braised mana-boar with honeyroot glaze, fireleaf soup with baked embercrust, and an elderfruit tart steeped in moonwine reduction."
Valeria gave a short nod, scanning the room. Despite the gentle clatter of utensils and hum of low conversation, the energy was unmistakably festive. Lantern glyphs floated near the ceiling, cycling through colors in slow bursts. A quartet of enchanted instruments played themselves quietly in one corner. And above the hearth—framed in delicate runes—was a large, enchanted crystal projection.
The broadcast.
Faintly tinted in arcane blue and stretched across a floating screen, it showed a live aerial view of the Trial Grounds. Illusion barriers, glowing leylines—Valeria recognized it all. The Candidate Trials' next phase was well underway, and judging by the scattered figures sprinting across an obstacle-laden field, things had grown… chaotic.
She chose a seat at the edge of the inn, one tucked neatly into a booth along the wall. From here, the projection hung in clear view. No one blocked her sightline, and the slight shadow of the booth's overhang ensured no light-glare marred the image.
The waiter followed promptly. "Would you like the festival set? It's our most popular today—chef's recommendation."
Valeria didn't even glance at the menu. "That. And tea," she added, her eyes already fixed on the projection.
"Coming right up!" the waiter said, bowing and disappearing in a whirl of eager footsteps.
Valeria leaned back, arms folding as she studied the screen.
The broadcast shimmered, flickering briefly before zooming into one of the central arenas. The overhead illusion adjusted itself with a flash of rune-light, the image sharpening—too sharp, almost. The scene it revealed was chaos, pure and unrelenting.
Candidates were running.
Not posturing. Not exchanging tactical blows. Running.
The camera panned across a shattered ridge, then another, and Valeria's eyes narrowed slightly. Enchanted terrain—unstable, covered in frost traps and ley-triggered sinkholes—and behind the fleeing candidates surged a wave of monsters.
Not illusions. Not puppets.
Real summoned beasts. Razorfang ursoks. Reaping talons. Twisted spellhounds. All of them augmented with some kind of arcane haze that marked them as enraged variants.
Valeria blinked once. Then again.
Her lips parted slightly.
"…Oh."
Chapter 669: Reynald Vale (2)
"…Oh."
It slipped from her without thought—quiet, startled. It wasn't like her to be surprised.
But this? This wasn't an exam anymore.
It was a trial by fire.
The candidates onscreen were scattering, some of them barely holding formation. A few were already on the ground—wounded, conscious, but clearly out of the fight. One young woman tried to cast a barrier, only for it to flicker and shatter under the claws of a spellhound. Another group, huddled at the far side of the ridge, was trying to channel a group teleport—but the array was flickering, unstable.
Valeria leaned in slightly.
'That's at least a 4-star threat level. That's—'
The projection flared again, this time shifting to another sector: a shattered courtyard bordered by what looked like a crumbling fortress wall. Quite a lot of candidates were holding position here—barely—and leading them was a face Valeria recognized.
Reynald Vale.
Sturdy stance. Broad-shouldered. Sword braced in front of a collapsing barrier. The moment the view settled on him, it became obvious—he wasn't just fighting. He was shielding. Holding the line so the others behind him—two injured, one unconscious, and one desperately trying to stabilize the wounded—could reach the sigil-marked circle glowing faintly near the edge of the frame.
The safe zone.
"Come on—come on," Valeria murmured, eyes fixed.
Reynald's blade shimmered with an overcharged enchantment, and with a guttural shout, he struck down a mana-warped leoghul that had pounced straight for the healer. The force of the blow cracked the earth beneath them.
Then—finally—he turned, grabbed the nearest injured candidate by the collar, and dragged him across the finish line.
The glyph flared. Light surged. The monsters froze mid-step—bound by the zone's restrictions—and the barrier shimmered to life around the group.
Safe.
The scene panned out as a voice crackled faintly through the ambient sound system in the inn:
"—And with that, Reynald Vale and his team have cleared Phase Four of the Trial! Exceptional tenacity shown in Sector Twelve! Viewers, if you were watching, you know that was no ordinary escape—what a moment!"
Valeria's fork paused mid-air as the voice from the ambient enchantment rang out again—clearer this time, imbued with just enough presence to cut through the low murmur of conversation in the inn.
"Reynald Vale, ladies and gentlemen! That's leadership under pressure if I've ever seen it. Sector Twelve is officially cleared. What a sequence!"
Her brow furrowed slightly.
'That wasn't there before.'
She glanced toward the ceiling rune, watching as faint threads of sound magic shimmered down into the projection. The inn's broadcast had updated—not just the image, but the experience. Professional commentary. Public feed enhancements. Arcane amplification tuned for clarity.
'They're making it into a spectacle.'
It made sense. The Candidate Trials weren't just a test; they were entertainment. The city pulsed with energy, and the Trials were now its central flame. Public inns, private salons, even market stalls had started projecting parts of it.
And, Valeria had to admit—though she wouldn't say it aloud—it worked.
The tension was real. The victories satisfying. The failures sharp.
And then—
The projection shifted again.
The view panned over the recently stabilized safe zone, the camera arcane-eye swooping lazily through the protective dome, passing over the exhausted, the injured… and then—
Him.
Sitting casually atop a sloped piece of broken masonry, his coat lazily draped over one shoulder and that infernal smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.
A black cat rested on his shoulder like it owned the world.
Lucavion.
Her body stilled.
"...Lucavion," she murmured, so quietly the word barely escaped her lips.
He hadn't moved. Not when the glyph had flared. Not even when Reynald had stumbled across the line with half his team bleeding. Lucavion was already there—waiting—as if the whole ordeal had nothing to do with him.
'So he was here already.'
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
'I didn't watch yesterday. Didn't realize he'd already cleared this phase.'
The scene held on him for a beat longer. The cat yawned. Lucavion leaned back, folding his hands behind his head, utterly unbothered by the carnage outside the barrier.
'Of course he's relaxed. He's always like this.'
And yet… there was something about it.
Not arrogance. Not bravado.
It was comfort. Like he already knew the outcome.
Valeria exhaled softly, the sound half a sigh, half something else—something unreadable.
'Still playing your games, are you?'
She tore her gaze from the screen and took another bite of her meal, slower now.
'So… what now?'
The Trials had entered a new phase—one no longer shaped by prestige or clean duels, but by chaos. Survival. Adaptability. She'd seen how such crucibles could forge not just skill, but myth. And it seemed one such story was already forming.
Around her, the ambient chatter had shifted. She hadn't noticed at first, too caught in the flicker of the broadcast. But now the voices rose clearer—louder, animated.
"That Reynald kid... did you see how he dragged that unconscious one with him?"
"Didn't even hesitate. Just picked him up like deadweight and kept going."
"Reminds me of the old days. That kind of grit—it's rare now."
At the far end of the inn, a father lifted his son onto his lap, pointing toward the projection with a spark in his eyes. "See that, pup? That's courage. That's what it means to protect someone."
A pair of apprentices seated nearby leaned in over their plates, whispering with wide eyes.
"They're calling him The Bastion. Can you believe that?"
"Already? Gods, that's fast."
"Yeah, but it fits, doesn't it? The way he held the line—just stood there while everything fell apart. Like a wall."
Valeria's fork paused again, just above her plate.
The Bastion.
The name hung in the air, echoing gently from table to table like a growing tide.
She leaned back slightly, letting the voices flow past her, around her, through her.
It wasn't surprising. That kind of act—defensive, selfless, clear—it spoke to something primal in people. In a city like Arcanis, so wrapped in ambition and masks, a simple story of one man shielding others resonated more than any bloodline ever could.
And Reynald... he had played the role perfectly.
'They'll remember him for this,' Valeria thought, not with envy, but with a tinge of calculation. 'Not just his performance, but the image of it. The stance. The urgency. The weight.'
She turned her gaze briefly back to Lucavion's frozen posture onscreen—arms behind his head, cat on shoulder, eyes half-lidded like the world didn't require his attention just yet.
'And then there's you.'
No title. No nickname. Just Lucavion.
She wondered how long that would last.
The projection flickered slightly, stabilizing as the camera shifted—its arcane lens adjusting to the movement inside the safe zone.
Valeria, still chewing, noticed it first—the slight change in Lucavion's posture.
He wasn't lounging anymore.
He stood.
Not with urgency. Not with alarm. But with a familiar tilt of his head, eyes latching onto something just beyond the barrier's edge.
"Ho?" His voice came faintly through the enhanced broadcast, carried by ambient enchantments.
Valeria's breath caught. That sound—quiet, amused, drawn out like he'd just discovered something entertaining.
Lucavion's smirk unfurled like a well-practiced mask. That same expression. Equal parts arrogance, anticipation, and devil-may-care charm.
And she knew that smile.
It was the smile he put on his face when he was about to do something crazy.
'No... what are you—'
He moved.
Not with ceremony. Not with build-up. He vanished from the stone slab in a blur, a streak of slate and black shadow, the cat leaping from his shoulder with an indignant mrrrow! as he launched forward.
Gasps echoed throughout the inn.
"What?!"
"Did he just—?!"
Valeria's eyes locked onto the scene, hand unconsciously gripping the edge of her table.
Across the projection, the newly stabilized zone shimmered again—barrier rules adjusting—and then—
CLANG!
A shockwave erupted through the illusion frame…..
Chapter 670: Reynald Vale (3)
What is a knight?
When this question is asked, what could be an answer that one would give?
Would it depend on the person answering? Their experiences?
Or is it some sort of universal definition?
Lucavion sat in silence for a while, gazing at the edge of his blade—not for its sharpness, but for the reflection. It wasn't the steel he was trying to see. It was something beneath it. Something that should've meant more.
'What is a knight?'
The question hovered in his mind, deceptively simple.
'A title? A rank? A damn costume to parade around in?'
He chuckled under his breath, the sound dry and bitter.
'Depends who you ask, doesn't it?'
To a noble, a knight is a convenience. A decorated sword that follows orders. A glorified soldier with a name stitched into silk, ready to be thrown at the enemy, or perhaps paraded through the capital to make the House look noble and just. A dog, leashed in etiquette and expectation, barking when commanded.
But is that what a knight is… to a commoner?
No.
To them, a knight is something else entirely. An ideal. A myth come to life. A savior on horseback, gleaming in armor, standing between the people and the beasts that would devour them. The last hope when the guards flee. A symbol.
'And to a child?'
Ah, to a child—a knight is the first dream.
The sword in the bedtime story. The voice that says "I'll protect you" and means it. The hero.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. A faint breeze rustled through the camp, stirring the embers of the dying fire.
'So, which one is it?' he mused. 'The sword or the shield? The symbol or the servant?'
It all depends on the one telling the story.
Because like every title in this twisted little world—knighthood isn't universal. It's a mirror.
And mirrors always show what you expect to see, not what's truly there.
You ask a noble, they'll tell you a knight is obedience wrapped in steel.
You ask a child, and you'll hear about dragons slain and princesses saved.
You ask a commoner… maybe they'll talk about the man who stood when no one else did. Or maybe they'll spit at the ground, remembering the one who didn't.
Lucavion exhaled slowly, the soft hiss of breath mixing with the breeze. The fire crackled—low, tired, much like the thoughts running through his head.
'But there's something more to it, isn't there?'
He lifted a small twig, tossing it into the flames. It hissed, curled, and vanished into ash.
'It's not just what a knight is. It's what people want them to be.'
That… that was the crux of it.
'Humans. Gods, they're complicated. They don't just live—they hope. They need to hope. It's stitched into them like marrow in bone. And that hope... it always turns into expectation.'
He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting up toward the stars barely visible through the canopy.
'They hope for peace, so they expect protection. They hope for fairness, so they expect justice. And when the world refuses to give them those things… they demand a face. A voice. A figure they can see standing for them.'
He glanced at the fire again, his eyes dark, unreadable.
'That's why they protest. Why they raise their voices against rulers who don't listen. It's not chaos they crave—it's recognition. To be seen. To be heard. To matter.'
He flicked a small stone toward the flame, watching it roll to a stop beside the blackened coals.
'And what better symbol than a knight?'
He could see it, clear as memory: a lone figure standing in front of a terrified village, bloodied but unbowed. A sword in one hand, a banner in the other.
'A knight… for the commoner… is a kind of hope made flesh. A protector who doesn't wear silk gloves. Someone who doesn't just write laws, but bleeds to uphold them.'
Lucavion's tone softened—just slightly, just enough.
'Wouldn't that be a good representative?'
Lucavion's fingers brushed the hilt of his blade—not in preparation, not in instinct. Just habit. A tether to something grounded.
He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded.
'So then…'
His voice was quiet, like thought made audible.
'Wouldn't a smart ruler notice that?'
A pause. No answer, but the silence itself agreed.
'A smart ruler. A clever politician. Someone who doesn't just crave power, but understands how to hold it—how to shape it.'
His lips curled—not in amusement, not really. Something sharper. Colder.
'If they saw the way the people look at that kind of figure—the knight who shields, the one who bleeds—what do you think they'd do?'
He didn't need to finish the thought. He already knew.
'They'd use it.'
A bitter scoff.
'Of course they would. If you understand the game, you don't fight the symbol. You own it.'
He tapped his fingers once against the hilt, sharp and rhythmic.
'You elevate them. Give them a title, polish their armor, set them on a stage. You make them kneel publicly before your throne and call you their king. And suddenly, the people think they're being heard. Protected. Represented.'
He leaned forward, a faint glint in his eye that wasn't quite anger—but something far more dangerous.
'But it's a leash, isn't it? Dress it in gold and call it honor. Put a collar on the dog and whisper that it's a crown.'
His tone lowered.
'A knight the people trust? That's a dangerous thing. If he's real, he's a threat. So you clip his wings. You reward him. Parade him. You bury the edge of his blade under obligation.'
Lucavion's smile returned—thin, unreadable.
'Or, if you're especially cunning… you build one yourself.'
His voice dipped to a near whisper.
'A manufactured knight. Groomed for the stage. Appears when the crowd is loudest. Fights just enough to win their faith. Speaks just enough to echo their fears. And behind it all… remains obedient.'
Lucavion's gaze slowly lifted, the cold brilliance of his thoughts fading just slightly as a shift in the ambient mana brushed across his senses—like ripples in still water. He turned, boots grinding faintly against the fractured stone beneath him.
Beyond the flickering edge of the safe-zone's barrier, a group emerged—wounded, spent, but still standing. The barrier glyph flared, runes crackling with static light as the protective dome expanded to accommodate the incoming figures.
Leading them—
A boy, broad-shouldered and bruised, dragging another candidate across the threshold, his sword still trembling faintly with leftover enchantment.
Lucavion's lips curled.
'Ah. There it is.'
And here he was—sweat-soaked, blood-streaked, and standing just close enough for the illusion to begin.
A soft voice slipped into his thoughts like wind through a keyhole.
[Oh… another group is coming now.]
Lucavion didn't respond immediately. He watched the group cluster together beneath the stabilizing dome, collapsing in exhaustion. Cheers were audible even here, faint echoes drifting in from the edges of the city. The crowd was responding. Just as expected.
[Lucavion?]
He tilted his head, the same half-lazy motion that always veiled his intent.
"That's right," he murmured, gaze never leaving Reynald. "They've arrived."
A pause.
[Then… why are you smiling?]
His smirk widened, though the sharpness in his eyes dulled none.
"Why?" He adjusted his collar absently, glancing down at his reflection in the shattered stone.
"Someone I've been meaning to meet just stepped through the door."
His coat shifted slightly as he stood from the stone slab, brushing the dust off with idle grace. The cat leapt down, trailing after him with a flick of its tail as he stepped closer to the barrier's edge. Each footfall was slow. Deliberate. Like the start of a waltz he'd danced a hundred times before.
'The Bastion,' huh?
He watched as Reynald looked up—felt the faint spark as their eyes met across the distance. No recognition in the boy's gaze. Only exhaustion. Unawareness. That would change.
Lucavion's thoughts sharpened.
'The pawn of the Crown Prince…'
His hand settled on the hilt at his side—not drawn, not threatening. Just waiting.
'Let me remove another one.'
Chapter 671: Another reference!
Reynald Vale.
The name echoed in Lucavion's thoughts with a sharpness that almost amused him.
Reynald Vale…
That is what the world knows him as. The name whispered in hopeful tones by desperate cadets. The name that blooms like a banner across the lips of those who still believe that righteousness comes wrapped in armor rather than intrigue.
A charming illusion, really.
Young. Earnest. Always at the center of every rescue. Every rally. Every quiet comfort offered in candle-lit corners of the academy.
The perfect commoner hero.
But Lucavion had seen enough masks to recognize when one was worn too well.
'Of course… that's not who he really is.'
Seran Velcross.
That was the name buried beneath the skin. The true identity. The Crown Prince's carefully placed seed among the fertile soil of rebellion and class friction.
A counterfeit knight for a counterfeit cause.
Crafted by design, Seran was never meant to be free. He was raised to be followed. Raised to be admired. Every gesture rehearsed, every kindness calibrated. A marionette carved in the likeness of a savior, his strings held by the hands of royalty.
Lucavion's gaze lingered on the boy, watching the way Reynald—or rather, Seran—helped the injured across the barrier, sweat-drenched and trembling.
Flawless execution.
'To the commoners, he's one of them—climbing the ladder they were never meant to touch.
Lucavion's eyes didn't waver. Not even as the barrier pulsed with a low thrum, adjusting its radius to shield the newcomers.
He simply watched.
Reynald Vale—no, Seran Velcross—knelt beside one of the unconscious candidates, murmuring something soft, something noble. The kind of words that were meant to linger. The kind of words expected of him.
The sweat that trailed down Seran's temple wasn't just the result of strain—it was part of the act. Convincing, perhaps. Even admirable, if one didn't know better.
Lucavion did.
He always did.
'You look exhausted. The ideal image of a protector stretched to his limits.'
His gaze lowered, tracking the subtle way Seran's shoulders remained just a bit too square. Not the posture of a man near collapse. The trembling in his arms—measured. Visible, but never spilling into true weakness.
A masterstroke of performance.
Lucavion could have almost applauded it.
Almost.
He shifted his stance slightly, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his blade—its reflection flickering over the fractured stone like a dying star.
If he didn't know the novel.
If he didn't know the novel, he might've believed it too.
The soft exhaustion in Reynald's posture. The muddied boots. The gentle way he laid a coat over a shivering candidate like some wandering knight from a bard's tale. All perfectly measured. All so very human.
But Lucavion had read Shattered Innocence.
And he remembered.
Not the words on the page—but the layers beneath them. The implications. The truths hiding behind dialogue and narrative sheen.
Elara would come to know this fact.
She would know—at least, early enough. She hadn't needed whispered warnings or letters slid under doors. All it took was one moment. The way the Crown Prince's gaze lingered too long on her, not with lust, but with a terrifying possessiveness. The way his flattery was too careful, his gifts too precise.
Calculated obsession.
And it didn't take long for her to realize: the only way someone like him could keep his fingers on the pulse of the student body was through a vessel. A voice that the people already loved. A face that belonged to them.
Then she would confront the crown prince, and the crown prince himself would reveal this fact with his own mouth.
Like how he'd built him.
But proof? There was none. The Crown Prince was meticulous, his fingerprints scrubbed from every chain. And Seran Velcross? He played his role so well, it was like he'd forgotten it was a role.
So Elara kept her silence.
Because the only thing more dangerous than being wrong… was being right without power to act on it.
Lucavion stood.
Slowly. Smoothly. Every motion deliberate. Controlled. His smile was small—barely more than a curl—but it held the weight of thunder just before the strike.
His fingers brushed over the hilt at his side.
Now… Dear Crown Prince.
Should I remove another pawn of yours?
He began walking—unhurried. Each step just loud enough to be heard. Just soft enough to be forgotten a moment later.
Until he reached the edge of the group.
A girl turned, blinking in surprise. "Oh, there was another person here?"
Lucavion stood.
Slowly. Smoothly. Every motion deliberate. Controlled. His smile was small—barely more than a curl—but it held the weight of thunder just before the strike.
His fingers brushed over the hilt at his side.
Now… Dear Crown Prince.
Should I remove another pawn of yours?
He began walking—unhurried. Each step just loud enough to be heard. Just soft enough to be forgotten a moment later.
Until he reached the edge of the group.
A girl turned, blinking in surprise. "Oh, there was another person here?"
Lucavion didn't respond to the girl's surprise. He didn't glance her way, didn't acknowledge the ripple of gasps sweeping through the group. His gaze was fixed—forward, unwavering—as his estoc rose, its edge catching the ambient light with a quiet gleam.
And then—
He moved.
A flicker of motion, then gone. The space he'd stood in warped with the sudden burst of force, the air cleaving in a thunderous CRACK as his body blurred into existence just meters ahead—his blade already mid-thrust.
The impact was immediate.
A shockwave erupted from the point of contact, rupturing the dirt, flattening nearby grass, and forcing those within the safe zone to stumble back in a chorus of gasps and shouted confusion.
"What?!"
"Did he just attack—?"
Dust spiraled, curling like smoke around the crater where his estoc had struck. And standing there, sword braced and barely deflecting the blow, was Reynald Vale.
—or rather, the marionette named Seran Velcross.
The clang of steel rang louder than the chaos around them.
Reynald's eyes met Lucavion's. Steady. Confused. Alert.
"...Why are you attacking me?"
Lucavion said nothing at first.
He merely tilted his head, the loose strands of his hair falling into place as if even they had been part of a calculated motion. His hand remained on the hilt, pressed just enough for pressure—enough to let Reynald know: If I wanted to break you, you'd be broken.
His voice, when it came, was soft. Unhurried. As if this conversation were merely a continuation of a private thought.
"...Curious. That's the first question you ask?" A faint smile touched the edge of his lips. "Not who I am. Not whether I've lost my mind. Not even if I've mistaken you for someone else."
Reynald's brow lifted ever so slightly.
The dust around them had not yet settled, but his posture remained composed—eerily so, considering the blow he'd just absorbed.
Then, he spoke.
"I believe… there must be a mistake here."
His voice was level, clear. Not a tremor of fear in it. Not a spark of aggression either. Only the calm, tempered clarity of a man who had trained not just to fight—but to lead.
"I'm certain," he continued, keeping his sword angled defensively but not raised to strike, "that we haven't met before. This is the first time I've seen you."
'Mm. Perfect pitch. No haste in the tone. No shift in the feet. That knightly posture—too deliberate to be honest.'
Lucavion didn't blink.
Reynald glanced toward the others watching, then lowered his sword just a fraction—just enough to signal peace without fully opening his guard.
"I don't know what provoked this, but I assure you," he said, eyes sincere and just faintly burdened with disappointment, "there's no need for violence between us. I don't wish for a fight. Not here. Not now. And surely not against someone who's on our side."
A masterstroke of public restraint.
Reynald's expression didn't shift, but his tone softened with measured diplomacy, the kind that soothed even when edged with control.
"Isn't it better," he said calmly, "if we both conserve our strength? These Trials are designed to push us to our limits. There's no sense in turning on one another before we've even crossed the finish line."
A quiet murmur passed through the surrounding candidates—those huddled just behind the warded edge of the safe zone, still trembling from their near-disaster. The same ones Reynald had pulled from the jaws of failure.
"He's right…"
"Yeah, what's the point of fighting now?"
"He helped us. You saw what he did."
"I don't know who that guy is, but we wouldn't be here if not for Reynald—"
They weren't whispering anymore. Some were standing taller now, emboldened by Reynald's calm. Their eyes flicked to Lucavion—not with fear, but wariness. Suspicion.
Reynald continued, eyes steady on Lucavion.
"We don't need to clash. Not unless the Trial forces our hand. I won't strike you first—I give you my word. If combat becomes inevitable, we settle it then. Not before."
He extended that offer as if it were a gift.
A truce wrapped in reason.
It would've been a strong political move in the halls of nobility. It certainly played well here. Everything about it read as noble, rational, measured.
Lucavion tilted his head, slow and thoughtful.
A silence fell.
And then—
"I refuse."
Chapter 672: I refuse!
"I refuse."
Reynald's brow furrowed, confusion finally cracking through the mask of composure.
"…Why?"
The word wasn't sharp or accusing—it was stunned. A genuine question. And around them, the chorus echoed.
"What?"
"He said no?"
"But why would he—?"
Lucavion's smirk widened. The confusion, the disbelief—it rolled over him like a breeze. Familiar. Predictable.
"Ah," he said, drawing out the sound like a connoisseur savoring fine wine. "That expression… I do love that one."
He tilted his head, locking eyes with Reynald, whose grip subtly shifted—still low, still defensive, but tighter now. Less relaxed.
"One of my absolute favorite things to do," Lucavion mused, his voice light, almost conversational, "is to look someone dead in the eye, right as they offer me what they think is a perfectly fair deal…"
A beat.
And then—
"…and say 'no.'"
The final word hit like a bell toll, its echo dancing across the broken terrain of the safe zone.
In the same breath, mana surged from Lucavion's body.
Brilliant, cold. Not the searing heat of fire, nor the booming crush of brute force—but precise, elegant, hungry. Starlight kissed shadow, weaving down his blade like the breath of the void itself.
His estoc gleamed.
Then—he vanished.
—FWOOOSH!
A streak of slate and dusk tore across the distance. He moved not like a man, but like an inevitability—grace wedded to violence, drawn toward truth like a blade to flesh.
Reynald's eyes widened, sword jerking upward—
CLANG!
The sound split the air as steel met steel once more, but this time it was no test. It was declaration.
****
Lucavion's cloak flared behind him as he twisted his body, shifting his weight like a dancer mid-lunge. The estoc gleamed, precise and narrow, aiming not for brute impact but for the spaces Reynald's armor couldn't guard.
He darted forward again, foot skimming the stone.
—FWOOOSH!
The tip of his estoc lunged for Reynald's shoulder joint—a small gap between plate and padding.
—CLANG!
Reynald deflected the thrust with the flat of his blade, sparks flying as metal met metal. He rotated his grip immediately, trying to follow with a sweeping counter-cut across Lucavion's midsection.
Lucavion dipped below the arc, his feet gliding across the ground.
—SWOOSH!
He spun low, estoc dragging with him, then snapped upward in a rising strike aimed for Reynald's jaw.
—SKRING!
The blow was checked again—but Reynald's posture was looser now, slightly off-balance from the relentless tempo. Lucavion could feel it. The subtle unraveling. The weight of too many defensive moves, too little ground gained.
'You're adjusting. But too slowly.'
Lucavion moved again, this time rotating into Reynald's guard. His elbow drove toward the knight's ribs.
—THUD!
The hit connected, knocking the breath from Reynald's lungs. His blade lifted slightly—reflex, instinct.
Lucavion's eyes narrowed.
'There it is.'
He went for the opening, estoc snapping forward again in a thrust too fast to track.
—CLANK!
Reynald brought his longsword down just in time. But now he was blocking from a poor angle—defensive, reactive. He knew it too.
Lucavion smiled, teeth flashing like a drawn dagger.
"Still hiding behind your reputation?"
He stepped in, close—too close for a longsword.
—THWACK!
Lucavion's shoulder struck Reynald's chest, jarring his stance. The estoc flicked again, this time dragging along Reynald's vambrace in a streak of mana-coated edge.
—SKRRRSH!
A line of red glimmered beneath torn cloth. Blood, drawn clean.
Reynald's eyes widened.
Lucavion's voice dropped, low and cold. "You'll have to stop posing eventually."
He vanished again.
—FWOOOSH!
And when he reappeared—it was already with his blade set for another strike.
Reynald stumbled back, the sting of the wound on his arm flaring white-hot beneath the clangor of battle. His lungs burned. His grip was tight—but no longer steady.
'He's faster… sharper… he's meant for this.'
The realization struck not like a blow but like a judgment.
He couldn't win this exchange with steel alone.
Without a word, he slammed his free hand against the ground, mana bursting outward in a compressed wave of force.
—BOOOOM!
The explosion of power cracked the air, sending dust and debris in all directions. Lucavion's figure was flung back, his boots skidding across the stone, cloak whipping violently around him.
The crowd gasped. Some backed away. Others stared in open awe.
Reynald stood tall amidst the settling dust, a slow exhale curling from his lips.
And then—his body began to glow.
Subtle at first, then radiant. His aura swelled outward, a steady pulse of power rolling through the field like the breath of a giant.
The air thickened with heat. His presence expanded—no longer the composed knight of elegant defense, but a proper threat.
Mid 4-star.
The strength he'd demonstrated throughout the Trial. Controlled. Contained.
Until now.
Mana coiled around his blade, dancing across the metal in thin arcs of golden energy.
"Stay down," Reynald said, voice firmer now. "I don't want to escalate this further."
Across from him, Lucavion slowly rose, brushing his coat down with a mock sigh. His eyes, black as the void between stars, gleamed.
Then he smiled.
Not in mirth. Not in mockery.
In anticipation.
His hand slid across his blade—
and flames ignited.
But not red.
Black.
Pitch-dark fire, crawling like ink over his estoc's edge. Silent, unnatural. It didn't radiate heat.
It devoured it.
The [Flame of Equinox] whispered through the steel, steady and lethal.
Lucavion tilted his head slightly. "Why? Why must we fight?" Reynald asked, sincerity flashing behind his voice. His grip had tightened, but not with pride. With purpose.
Lucavion's grin widened.
"Why? Is there supposed to be a reason?"
He raised his estoc, pointing it directly at Reynald's chest, eyes gleaming with quiet madness.
"I just enjoy fighting."
And then—
—FWOOOSH!
He vanished, again.
But this time, it wasn't flair. It wasn't for the crowd.
It was for the kill.
Reynald's eyes narrowed.
He moved.
His stance shifted instantly—low, grounded, precise. The longsword flared with golden light, its edge guided by instinct and experience.
—CLAAAANG!
Lucavion's estoc met it, sparks bursting as black flame clashed with golden steel.
They locked eyes.
The collision rang like a cathedral bell splitting the heavens. Black flame met gold-tinged steel, not in defiance, but in prophecy—two blades speaking in a language only warriors could understand.
Lucavion's weight shifted subtly, the estoc sliding off the edge of Reynald's blade as if dancing along tension.
His footwork whispered along the earth—
—FWOOOSH!
—and he was gone again.
But Reynald's eyes didn't flinch.
He stepped to the side—precise, anticipatory.
—CLANG!
Their blades met again, sparks bursting between them like twin comets striking.
Then Reynald moved.
His longsword pulsed with mana—not flamboyant or dramatic. No runes, no shouting, no divine pronouncement.
Just a whisper of pressure and stillness.
「Form III – The Stroke」
A single step. A single arc. The blade curved not toward Lucavion's neck, but across the air—cutting pressure itself.
—BOOM!
The very space ahead of Reynald cracked, a sharp, invisible arc of compressed mana racing outward.
Lucavion's eyes lit with hunger. His estoc rose—but not with the eerie grace of voidlight.
Not this time.
His core pulsed, not with cosmic hunger, but with fire.
Old fire.
Balanced. Controlled.
The stars within him—sealed. His [Devourer of Stars] core was dormant, its depth locked by his own hand… or perhaps by caution.
But the [Flame of Equinox] still breathed.
A pulse traveled down his arm, black flame unfurling in silence.
He whispered the invocation.
「Flame of Equinox: Twin Cinders」