Chapter 673: What is he doing ?
「Flame of Equinox: Twin Cinders」
The estoc ignited—not in flame, but in opposing currents. One edge shimmered with frigid darkness, the other with heatless white. The blade balanced between burn and freeze, entropy and stillness.
He didn't try to deflect Reynald's mana arc.
He cut through it.
—SKRRRSH!
The dual flame edge met the compressed wave—
And devoured it.
Not with power. With equilibrium.
The arc unraveled in midair, dispersing in a hiss of golden motes that never reached Lucavion's coat.
Reynald's eyes widened, just a fraction.
Lucavion stepped forward.
"Mm. That one had a name," he mused, voice low, appreciative. "You're opening up."
He dashed forward, a glimmer of mirth on his tongue.
—FWOOOSH!
The estoc snapped toward Reynald's thigh—one of the few unarmored spots.
—CLANG!
Reynald's longsword intercepted it, redirecting upward, and followed with a quick slash toward Lucavion's collar.
—SWOOSH!
Lucavion weaved aside.
But this time—Reynald didn't retreat.
He advanced.
Two steps. A sudden downward cut.
「Form II – Breaking Palm」
Not a strike meant to slice, but to break balance. His sword came down not toward Lucavion's head, but near his foot—the base of his pivot.
—THUD!
Stone shattered. Lucavion's foot skidded—
Just enough.
Reynald rotated mid-swing and raised his sword for a piercing strike—
But Lucavion was already in motion.
「Flame of Equinox: Death Bloom」
He spun. A low, blooming arc of black flame erupted from his blade's edge.
—BOOOOM!
A flower of flame burst outward—twelve petals of pure combustion in a ring. Each petal rotated, an orbit of destruction expanding around him.
Reynald was forced to retreat.
One petal scraped across his armored shoulder—
—SKRING!
Even without breaking through, the flame sank in. Mana recoiled. His arm trembled.
Reynald's stance reset, sharp but slower.
Lucavion exhaled through a grin, twirling his estoc once as the petals flickered and died behind him.
"You're skilled," he said.
Lucavion's grin lingered—languid, amused—but something beneath it shifted.
A flicker behind the eyes.
Not mockery. Not thrill.
Intent.
He raised his estoc slightly, as if testing the weight of what came next. Then, slowly, deliberately, he drew his foot back, grounding himself. The playful tilt in his posture vanished like dust on the wind.
"You're skilled," he repeated, quieter now.
Then—his smile curved wider.
"But it's time to get more serious now."
A pulse trembled through the air. Subtle at first.
Then—
—THOOM!
A burst of pressure exploded from his body, like a heartbeat magnified into reality. The very ground shuddered beneath his feet.
"If you want to continue the exam, that is," he added casually, voice echoing slightly beneath the weight of the surge.
His eyes, once shadowed in mischief, ignited.
Not literally—but they may as well have. Twin coals burning in starlit sockets, sharp and unflinching.
His aura flared.
—FWOOM!
The petals of the [Death Bloom] hadn't even fully faded before a new wave of power crashed over the battlefield.
It wasn't wild. It wasn't showy.
But it was undeniable.
Pressure rolled outward in concentric rings. Not just heat, not just force. The feeling of standing too close to a boundary that shouldn't be crossed.
An instinctive sense of danger.
A quiet, suffocating truth.
That he wasn't done.
Not even close.
The black flame that once traced only his blade now licked faintly across his shoulders, barely perceptible—like cracks in the air itself where heat and cold met, intertwined in unnatural balance.
A few of the watching candidates took a step back, involuntarily. Others stared, mouths open.
Reynald didn't speak.
But his hands gripped the hilt of his longsword just a little tighter.
Lucavion tilted his head, his aura pulsing again in rhythm with his breath.
"Come on then," he said softly.
"Let's not disappoint them."
****
Valeria's gaze hadn't left the projection once. Her meal sat half-forgotten, cooling on the table beside her. The tea—untouched. The spoon in her hand trembled faintly, unnoticed.
On the screen, Lucavion moved like the breath between silence and catastrophe.
He was relentless. Elegant. Controlled.
And wholly, unmistakably, antagonistic.
'Why…?'
She narrowed her eyes, jaw tense.
Lucavion hadn't just struck Reynald. He had targeted him. Hunted his rhythm. Crushed his pauses. Pressed every advantage with clinical detachment and a smile that, to the untrained eye, looked almost gleeful.
'But why him? Why like this?'
Reynald had shown no aggression. Had offered peace. Had protected others—protected strangers, even—through blood and effort and conviction. Valeria had seen the respect in the eyes of the onlookers. The quiet awe. And now—
Now they were watching him bleed.
"Who is that guy?" someone muttered behind her.
"He's just attacking for no reason?"
"He jumped the Trial's golden boy," another scoffed. "What, jealous of Reynald's attention or something?"
A woman at the next table leaned forward, shaking her head in open disapproval. "It's disgraceful. Look at him. That smug smile, those moves—he's not trying to compete, he's just showing off."
"He's not even trying to win people over. Is this how he thinks he'll earn support?"
"No honor at all. Attacking Reynald of all people."
Voices were turning. Public opinion was bending—firm, instinctive, and harsh.
And Valeria sat among them, staring at the screen in silence.
She didn't join the chorus.
But she didn't defend him either.
Because she didn't understand.
Not this time.
Lucavion had always been a mystery. Calculated, unpredictable, almost theatrical in his chaos. But there had always been a thread—something under the mischief, under the smirks and riddles. He played at being careless, but he never struck without purpose.
Until now.
'What's the point of this?' she thought, eyes narrowing at the flickering image of him, wreathed in black fire, aura radiating danger like a predator with nowhere left to hide.
'You're provoking him. The entire Trial is watching. The city is watching. You know what this looks like…'
And still, he smiled.
Lucavion, the shadow between stars.
Lucavion, with his blade drawn not for survival—but for something deeper.
'What are you trying to show us?'
She clenched her fist.
Because if there was a reason, he hadn't revealed it.
The clash on the broadcast intensified.
Each time Lucavion vanished, he reappeared in another streak of motion—pressure curling around his strikes like a second skin. Each blow sharper than the last. Precise. Beautiful. Unforgiving.
And Reynald—The Bastion—met every one of them head-on.
Sparks danced across the screen like fireworks. Blade met blade. Strength met speed. Resolve met chaos.
But the room was no longer in awe.
It was tense. Stirred. Turning.
"He's still attacking?"
"Why hasn't someone stopped this?"
"Reynald saved lives and this lunatic just waltzes in and—what, tries to ruin that?"
"He has to lose. He needs to lose."
"Come on, Bastion—put him down already!"
The name stuck. Bastion. Voices began to lift now, not just in judgment, but in rallying.
"Go, Reynald!"
"You've got this!"
"Teach him a lesson!"
It spread like fire, fed by the very thing Lucavion seemed to be courting—disapproval. Public wrath. Suspicion. They weren't just rooting for Reynald now. They were hoping Lucavion would fall.
Valeria could feel it like a shift in the wind.
And yet—
The duel remained locked in rhythm.
Lucavion's strikes came like whispers of disaster—always where they shouldn't be, always just one breath faster than expected. But Reynald's guard held. He read the angles. Predicted the dance. Matched the pressure with poise.
It looked, from the outside, like a stalemate.
To most, it was a stalemate.
Even the broadcast's commentator had quieted for a beat—perhaps unsure which narrative to chase. Two elite candidates, locked in a flashfire duel amidst a safe zone already fraying at the seams.
But Valeria's eyes narrowed.
It wasn't a stalemate.
Lucavion wasn't slowing down.
He was waiting.
And then, the shift came.
It wasn't grand. No explosion. No change in posture.
Just a flick of his wrist, a pulse of something beneath the surface, and the flame that clung to his estoc—until now little more than an ominous shimmer—flared.
Not red.
Not orange.
Not even the black petals of his earlier technique.
It was something else.
Cold fire. White at the edge. Black at the center. The kind of flame that didn't burn toward you—but pulled you in.
And she remembered it.
The kind that hungered.
For real.
Lucavion's blade didn't glow—it devoured light around it. The air curled, not from heat, but absence. Like reality itself was making room.
And still—he smiled.
He wasn't struggling.
He hadn't been pushing yet.
This had all been the warm-up.
"Oh gods…" someone whispered in the inn, their voice suddenly quiet. "What… is that?"
"Is that even legal…?"
Reynald's stance shifted—just slightly. His footing braced wider. His eyes locked tighter.
He knew.
Lucavion twirled his estoc once, slow, deliberate, like a violinist tightening his grip on the bow before the final crescendo.
Valeria inhaled, slow and cold.
'Now you're serious.'
Chapter 674: What is this man?
Reynald's confusion was total.
Not the kind born of ignorance—but of contradiction.
This person's presence, his every movement, defied reason.
He should not have been like this.
Reynald's breath came hard and shallow, vision still ringing from the last impact. His blade trembled slightly in his grip, not from exhaustion—no, his training had long since drilled that away—but from something worse.
Doubt.
'What is this man?'
The battlefield had rules. Patterns. A structure to violence that every knight learned—how to control a fight, how to predict an opponent's rhythm. But this guy didn't follow them. He stepped through them, like a man walking over a shattered mirror, untouched by the shards.
Every slash, every motion… it was elegant.
Filled with emotions that didn't suit the battlefield at all.
Reynald staggered back another step, the weight of his longsword biting into his shoulder. Focus.
He had a mission.
That was all that mattered.
'He' had given it.
The one who pulled the strings from the throne-shadowed chambers. The man whose ambitions carved through nations with the same ease as the blade carved through spellsteel. And Reynald—Seran—was his instrument.
That was the only reason he was here.
The Candidate Trials were never meant to test him. They were theater. A proving ground for others. But for him? It was insertion. Establishment.
He had been ordered to enter as a commoner. Molded into the perfect face of rising hope—of meritocracy. He would pass the Trials not just with skill, but with perception. Humble. Brave. Resilient. Everything a commoner child dreamed of becoming.
Because 'he' had understood one vital truth: the academy wasn't just a place of learning.
It was the heart of the Empire's future.
Control the academy, and you control the next generation of leaders, knights, and lawmakers. Control their faith. Their idols.
Reynald Vale.
The commoner hero.
Crafted by hand, sculpted with purpose.
And Seran Idric Velcross had accepted that purpose without hesitation.
Because he owed everything to him.
He should've died, years ago. A child no older than six, torn from the burning remains of a disgraced estate. The Velcross name—once respected, feared even—had been extinguished in a single night, branded traitors for the sins of Seran's father and grandfather.
He hadn't even known what they'd done. He hadn't understood politics, or military secrets, or betrayal.
He was just a boy.
But the Empire didn't care for the innocence of blood.
Until 'he' stepped in.
Until the boy had been brought before a man with cold eyes and careful hands. A man who looked at a trembling orphan and saw not a child—but a weapon.
And instead of a blade, he'd been given a new name. A new face.
A second chance.
Reynald Vale.
From that day forward, he had no name but the one given.
Not Seran Idric Velcross, the scion of a ruined house. That name had been buried—burned like the banners of his disgraced bloodline. What remained was something cleaner. Simpler.
Reynald Vale.
The boy who was spared. The boy who was shaped.
He trained in silence. Not at the grand academies of the capital, not beneath banners or sunlight—but beneath shadows. In halls without windows. With mentors who did not ask questions and blades that never dulled. Every form drilled into him was meant for one purpose: not to survive—but to serve.
He had been given access to techniques restricted to the upper noble class. Forbidden texts. Artifact-grade weaponry. Sparring partners who were whispered about in military reports but never named aloud.
But he did not waste them.
He couldn't.
He didn't just want to be strong.
He wanted to be worthy.
And when the moment came, when he was finally summoned to the tower beyond the reach of stars and sound, the man who had given him everything greeted him not with affection—but with expectation.
The room had been silent. Wide. Lined in obsidian and restraint.
And at its center, seated not on a throne, but on a simple, high-backed chair—him.
Even seated, the air around him felt heavier than steel. Cloaked in precision. Power carved into every angle of his posture.
He did not turn to greet Reynald.
He simply spoke.
"The Trials begin soon."
His voice was not loud. It did not need to be.
"You will enter."
Reynald dropped to one knee without hesitation.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He continued, each word measured as if written into history before being spoken.
"You will go as a commoner. Obscure. Modest. Let your strength reveal itself only in necessity. Let the people think they found you. Let them love you for it."
He stood then, finally. The motion was smooth—like a shadow rising against torchlight.
"Make no mistake, Seran… This is not merely for victory. You are not there to fight. You are there to be seen."
He turned now, eyes the color of cold iron fixing onto Reynald.
"I do not need another blade. I need a symbol."
A pause.
"You will pass the Trials. You will draw the eyes of the commoners. You will be their voice—their dream made flesh. They will follow you, not because I told them to… but because they want to."
The weight of that command sank into Reynald's bones like iron chains—and yet, it felt more like armor.
The Crown Prince took a final step forward, stopping just close enough for his voice to lower.
"There are many who dream of change. But dreams without direction become disorder."
A hand, gloved and precise, tapped once against Reynald's chest.
"You will be their direction. Their hope. Their shield. And when I call upon them… they will already be loyal."
He stepped back, voice rising just enough to end the moment.
"Go. Take the name they gave you. Turn it into a banner they'll follow."
The memory pulsed through his chest like a second heartbeat.
And he had followed it.
Every step. Every breath.
From the moment he entered the Candidate Trials, he had played the role—no, embodied it. The humble swordsman. The quiet strength. Not too skilled, not too prideful. Just enough to impress, never enough to intimidate.
He hadn't worn silk. He hadn't drawn attention to his name. He hadn't claimed leadership.
He'd earned it.
By staying up to tend the wounds of others. By giving up his rations to the girl who couldn't stand. By dragging the unconscious boy to the healing ward when no one else could lift him.
By fighting just hard enough to survive, but never hard enough to shine.
He had made himself dependable.
He had made himself good.
Even when the cameras weren't watching—especially then.
Because it was never about spectacle.
It was about belief.
When others hoarded potions, he shared his. When others cursed the instructors, he spoke in calm, even tones. When panic swept through a group, he steadied it—not with force, but with a hand on the shoulder, a few chosen words.
"I'll hold the line. You just get them to safety."
"Here—take my coat. You need it more."
"I'm not the strongest. But I won't run."
The mask had become his second skin. Not because it was false—but because it was needed.
He had even gathered a small team—three others, now safe behind the dome. Candidates who owed their passage entirely to him.
He didn't ask for thanks. Didn't seek it.
He didn't need it.
Their belief was enough.
They would speak his name with respect. With gratitude. They would remember who pulled them through Phase Four.
And the city would see it.
The broadcasters had already started highlighting him. Commentators whispering about his "unshakable humility," his "quiet valor," his "underrated talent."
A mid-tier candidate with a mid-tier rating. Mid-four star, nothing more. No noble ties, no grand artifact.
Just strength of character.
Just hope.
It was going perfectly.
Until now.
"You are skilled…..But it's time to get more serious now."
Chapter 675: Show your real face
"You are skilled… But it's time to get more serious now."
The words hadn't been shouted. They didn't roar like a challenge or sting like an insult.
They just were—quiet and absolute.
And the moment they were spoken, the world changed.
Reynald—no, Seran—felt it.
First, the flame.
Not the kind that scorches flesh or licks at the edges of robes.
No… this flame breathed.
It pulsed, coiled like a living force around that man's frame—cold and hot all at once. Black fire woven with starlight and shadow. It didn't burn the way flame should. It unraveled. It devoured. Not with hunger, but with indifference.
'What is that flame…?'
Reynald's grip tightened around his longsword, his breath catching in his throat.
His mana.
It recoiled.
When that man—this guy, whatever his name was—unleashed that wave of power, Reynald felt his own energy bend. It was like placing polished steel into acid: slow at first, but inevitable. His aura thinned in places, drawn out of alignment, fraying like threads.
'That's not heat. It's… entropy.'
And then came the pressure.
A weight that pressed down—not on his shoulders, but in the marrow of his bones. Like the battlefield itself had drawn breath and now watched.
His instincts screamed.
Fight or flee?
No—those weren't the options.
Yield or break.
This guy hadn't used a title. Hadn't drawn on fame. Hadn't even declared anything.
And yet, he stood there—his blade low, posture almost casual—as if he were the one issuing the exam.
Reynald staggered a half step back. He told himself it was strategy.
But the truth?
He couldn't understand.
Not just the technique. The why.
Why are you doing this?
He had offered him cooperation.
Earlier—before this clash had spiraled into madness—he had tried.
He had spoken evenly, offered joint movement to the next phase. Had extended the olive branch with the same tone he used to soothe frightened candidates and skeptical nobles alike.
He had been careful.
Measured.
Just as planned.
And yet—this man attacked him anyway.
He didn't insult him. Didn't challenge his honor. Didn't even speak his name.
He just moved. Like a force of nature disguised in human shape.
'This isn't just some talented outlier. This guy is wrong.'
Because nothing about this made sense.
The flame that devoured his mana. The pressure that bent space around him. The movements—too precise, too fast. A fighting style that looked like poetry written in violence.
And worse?
That look in his eyes.
It wasn't rage.
It wasn't pride.
It was intent.
As if this entire farce—the Trials, the cameras, the politics—meant nothing to him.
As if Reynald Vale himself meant nothing.
'Why… now? When everything was going well?'
He had done everything right.
He had followed the script.
He had bled just enough to be admirable, spoken just enough to be loved, saved just enough to be remembered.
And now, this man—this madman—was shattering it.
No explanation. No challenge. Just force.
Reynald's heart slammed against his ribs as the fire coiled again behind the stranger's back, petals of black flame spinning lazily in the air like stars pulled from the void.
And for the first time since he took the name Reynald Vale—
Seran wasn't sure what was he supposed to do….
*****
The flame deepened.
It wasn't just mana now. It was a presence—an idea, manifest. Around Lucavion, the battlefield dulled in color, as if the very air had forgotten how to breathe. Black fire coiled lazily behind him in orbiting shapes, drifting not like smoke, but like constellations slowly unfurling.
Then—
—FWOOOOOM!
His mana burst forth.
The effect was instantaneous.
Several candidates watching from the sidelines staggered back, clutching their chests, eyes wide in disbelief.
Seran—Reynald—stood rooted, every fiber of his body screaming at him to act. To move. To do something. But his instincts warred with logic, both crushed under the suffocating bloom of Lucavion's power.
Lucavion moved again.
But this time—he wasn't dashing.
He walked.
Deliberate. Poised. Like a judge descending the steps of some cosmic tribunal.
Seran raised his blade instinctively, lips parting to command a retreat—when—
"NOW!" one of the cadets screamed.
Three of them. The ones he'd shielded earlier. The ones who had survived the wrecked platform thanks to his calm, his leadership, his sacrifice.
They surged forward, weapons drawn, enchanted sigils flickering across their limbs.
Foolish.
Lucavion didn't even flinch.
Instead, he extended his free hand, palm open toward the ground.
The petals of black fire behind him pulsed once.
And bloomed.
「Flame of Equinox: Withering Lotus」
—FWOOOOOSH!
Twelve lotus-like glyphs erupted in a perfect circle from the ground, each one spinning outward from Lucavion's position. They didn't explode. They didn't roar.
They whispered.
Black flame curled up from the runes like the tendrils of a sleeping god. Elegant. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Each cadet took one step into that zone.
The tips of the flame—thin, graceful filaments like lotus stamen—rose toward them like they had been waiting.
—SHHNK. SHHNK. SHHNK.
Three gasps.
Three collapses.
No blood. No scream.
Just mana being cut.
Burned not from the outside, but from the inside out. Their cores stung, their spells collapsed, and they fell—unconscious before they even hit the dirt.
Lucavion didn't spare them a second glance.
His eyes were on Seran.
"Don't interfere," he said calmly.
And then, with the same voice—soft and cruel in its simplicity—he spoke again.
"Come on."
Lucavion's estoc lowered slightly—casual, almost disappointed.
"Come on."
No roar. No fanfare.
Just a quiet beckoning.
An invitation dressed in inevitability.
And Seran—Reynald Vale, heir of discipline, darling of diplomacy—snapped.
He could not stay there. Not after that.
Not when those cadets—his cadets—fell like petals to an invisible flame.
He moved.
—BOOOOM!
The ground cracked beneath him as he surged forward, golden mana erupting in full from his core. His sword blazed with light, his eyes hardened with royal clarity.
All pretense was gone.
The aura of a mid 4-star warrior—true mid 4-star, not tempered for display—poured from him in waves.
—FWOOOOOM!
The pressure was vast. Real. Noble. A force built on discipline and lineage. A pressure honed in hidden rooms of the palace, forged beneath secret teachings and cloaked in anonymity.
His blade arced forward, drawing a golden glyph mid-air.
「Form VI – Dawnbreaker Spiral」
—CLANG!
A storm of luminous slashes descended in tight spirals, each one layered with precise timing and controlled burst-mana. The technique was meant to overwhelm. To corner. To seal.
Lucavion didn't block.
He shifted.
A pivot of the foot. A tilt of the hip. The kind of movement that wasn't taught—only known.
—SWOOSH!
The first spiral missed.
The second clipped nothing but cloak.
The third—
Lucavion stepped into it.
—CLINK!
His estoc intercepted the final strike not with power, but with a deflection so clean it made the watching crowd inhale as one.
Seran gritted his teeth. He spun, blade glowing brighter.
「Form VII – Crown's Resolve」
A direct, high-speed thrust imbued with his full weight of mana. Gold shimmered along the blade's length like a comet descending—
Lucavion parried with a flick.
Not of the wrist.
Of the heel.
His boot twisted along the earth, shifting his stance by a breath's width—and the estoc flicked sideways.
—CLANG!
The golden thrust was knocked askew.
Seran's balance faltered.
Lucavion didn't press forward.
He waited.
Letting the pause hang there like a blade's edge. Then he spoke:
"Is that all?"
Seran growled, stepping back. Mana surged again, brighter this time.
「Form VIII – Solar Crest」
The blade vanished in motion—too fast for the eye. A horizontal arc, then vertical, then a crashing cross.
Lucavion ducked.
Twisted.
And moved with the strike—not against it.
He passed beneath Seran's final swing, cloak trailing behind like shadow stitched to nightfall.
And then—
—THWACK!
His fist met Seran's stomach.
Not the blade. Just a punch.
Seran's body lurched.
—THUMP!
He collapsed to one knee, coughing once, the gold in his aura flickering like a candle in the wind.
Lucavion stood above him, estoc idle in hand.
"If you don't want to show more, I will eliminate you here."
No killing intent.
Only craziness.
"Do it or not, this is your final chance."
Chapter 676: Seran
Seran's breath caught.
Thump…
The echo of the blow still rang inside his ribs—dull, internal, nauseating. A punch. Just a punch.
And yet his vision swam.
For a split second, the world around him blurred at the edges, the scent of charred mana in the air mingling with dust and shame.
He pressed one knee into the cracked stone, sword trembling against the ground as he looked up—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
And there he was.
Standing above him.
This guy.
That same posture. That same look. Not pity. Not mockery.
Just… indifference. Calculation.
And those eyes—that obsidian black, clear and sharp, looking at him like a problem to solve.
'You.'
The word formed in his mind like a crackle of dry lightning.
A strange heat surged through his chest. Not fear. Not guilt. Not even humiliation.
Anger.
Pure. Clean. Centered.
How dare you.
He had done everything right.
He had followed the script. Had smiled at the right times, bled at the right moments. Had lifted others, even as he carried the weight of a name that could never be spoken.
And now this thing—this anomaly with a god's flame and a madman's poise—was looking down on him like he was the imposter.
'You don't get to look at me like that.'
And yet—
A second truth burned beneath the anger.
He couldn't win. Not like this. Not within the constraints he'd been ordered to obey.
He was stronger than this. So much stronger.
He was no mid 4-star. He was at the peak—an Awakened talent with training that rivaled knights twice his age. The palace had poured relics into him, forced breakthroughs at the edges of stability. He had seen techniques most nobles never even read about. His body had been honed with quiet cruelty.
But it was all hidden.
Because it had to be.
If a "commoner" entered the academy with the strength of a peak 4-star and the discipline of a royal guard, questions would surface. Investigations would follow. Who trained him? Who funded him? Who hid him?
And eventually, the trail would lead back to him.
To the Crown Prince.
And the Crown Prince's plans were never meant to be questioned—let alone seen.
That's why he was ordered to limit his strength.
Hold back. Appear promising, but raw. Develop publicly, but never shine too brightly.
Seran had agreed without hesitation.
He understood.
Because it made sense. The Trials weren't meant to be lethal. They were structured to push, not break. There should have been no reason for him to go beyond his carefully planned restraint.
He was sure of it.
Until this.
Until this impossible bastard stepped into the ring without warning, without title, without even a damn name—and began dismantling everything.
So then what now?
Seran stood in the shadow of the man before him, vision sharp, muscles screaming, his mana trembling like a caged animal behind thin bars of logic.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
Because this wasn't just a duel anymore. This was a trap. A perfectly engineered contradiction.
If he didn't reveal more of his strength—if he kept his aura dimmed, his edge dulled—he wouldn't win. No tactic, no formation, no textbook response would bridge the gap.
Not against him.
Not against this goddamn lunatic who fought like a storm disguised in silk, who burned through spells and pride with those petal-shaped flames of oblivion.
And if he lost?
If Reynald Vale—the supposed symbol of commoner tenacity—fell here?
Then he would be eliminated.
The academy had made that much clear. No exceptions. No "but he tried" passes.
Fail in the Trial, and you don't enter.
And if he didn't enter the academy—
The entire plan collapsed.
The Crown Prince's vision of a symbolic commoner leader… shattered. His political lever. His presence inside the student body. The subtle control through influence and admiration.
Gone.
All of it. Gone in a single match.
Because of him.
But the alternative…
If Seran revealed the full extent of his strength—if he unleashed the peak of his 4-star Awakened potential right here, in front of witnesses, enchanted recordings, and rune-sealed observation wards—then everything he'd built would unravel anyway.
The commoner hero?
No.
He'd be seen as a fraud.
A plant.
People would ask questions.
How did a nobody get that strong?
Who trained him?
Where did he get access to those techniques? That aura control? That footwork?
They would investigate. Dig. They would tear apart the carefully constructed lie he had worn like armor.
And eventually, they would find the truth buried beneath the ashes of the Velcross name.
They would find him.
They would find the Crown Prince.
And the questions wouldn't stop there.
Not ever.
So then—
What the hell am I supposed to do?
He couldn't win without revealing himself.
He couldn't reveal himself without destroying everything.
He was trapped.
And that bastard across from him?
He knew.
Lucavion stood with that calm, half-bored posture, flame drifting behind him like a question with too many right answers. As if daring Seran to make the mistake.
As if this had been the real test all along.
Seran's teeth clenched.
A thousand hours of training. A thousand lines of policy. A thousand steps executed without fault.
And now, with the world watching, he had to choose:
Protect the lie, or win the war.
And the worst part?
There was no good choice.
Only risk.
Only exposure.
Only him—standing there with those star-black eyes, as if he'd already decided how this story ends.
Lucavion watched him in silence.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
Measured enough to feel like judgment.
Then—
"Fine."
His voice was soft, almost bored.
But the tone—
It split the air.
"If that's how you'll act."
The petals behind him pulsed.
And then burned.
—FWOOOOOM!
Black fire erupted, trailing up his blade like breath being drawn from the soul of the earth. His estoc lifted, no longer idle, no longer patient. The point leveled toward Seran—not like a challenge.
Like an executioner settling the blade.
Then Lucavion tilted his head slightly, as if examining something beneath the surface.
And he spoke again.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
But direct. Piercing.
"So that's all it was, then?"
His gaze sharpened, the mirth behind his eyes vanishing like mist under moonlight.
"A little act. A bit of theater."
He took one slow step forward.
"The commoner knight. The humble hero."
A scoff, soft, elegant, edged with frost.
"How pathetic."
Seran's shoulders tensed.
The guy saw it. Pressed further.
"You spent all that time pretending to inspire them. And for what?"
His tone curled like smoke around the next words.
"To fall to a man you didn't even know the name of?"
Seran's breath caught.
Lucavion's voice dropped lower—just above a whisper, sharp as glass.
"The mask fits, Seran Velcross… but only when no one's watching."
Everything inside Seran froze.
His name.
His real name.
The guy hadn't said it loud enough for the audience to hear. Only for him. Intentionally. Calculated.
A threat.
A warning.
A goddamn scalpel aimed straight at the heart of the lie.
Seran's fingers trembled on the hilt of his sword.
This wasn't just an enemy.
This man was cutting into the plan. Into the future the Crown Prince had forged.
Into everything Seran had bled to build.
And now… it was all teetering on the edge of a blade.
Lucavion stepped forward again, his voice ice and starlight.
"If that's really all you've got, then kneel."
He paused.
The flame behind him flared.
"Because everything else you've done?"
A smile—not cruel. Just honest.
"It meant nothing."
Snap.
That was the sound Seran felt, not heard.
His restraint—meticulously forged, tightly wound, blessed by royal decree—fractured.
Because no one got to say that.
Not after what he survived.
Not after what he gave.
The stone beneath him cracked as his aura surged—not gradually.
All at once.
—FWOOOOOOOM!
Golden mana erupted from his form in a torrent, not just blazing—it howled.
No more hiding.
No more half-steps.
His eyes blazed with gold. His sigils ignited across his blade. Every inch of him screamed war.
The pressure of a true peak 4-star surged outward like a tidal wave, slamming into the field with force that sent watching candidates stumbling.
Lucavion's cloak stirred slightly in the wind.
And he smiled.
Just a little.
As if this was exactly what he wanted.
Chapter 677: Seran (2)
The Fifth Bell had fallen silent.
Not fully—but enough. The chatter, the clinking utensils, even the enchanted instruments in the corner had quieted to background whispers. The projection hovering above the hearth had captured every eye in the room.
And every soul was watching Reynald Vale lose.
Valeria sat motionless in her booth, fingers tight around her cooling cup. Her eyes didn't blink. Her breath came slower than usual, like her body was bracing for something that hadn't landed yet.
On the screen, Lucavion advanced again—slow, surgical. No wasted movement. No flare for drama. Just execution. Every step was measured. Every thrust of his estoc was clean, angled to cut without theatrics. The flames that coiled around him now seemed like an afterthought.
They weren't showpieces.
They were statements.
—CLANG!
Reynald blocked again, but barely. His sword arm was trembling. Not from fear. From attrition. He was burning mana just to maintain footing, his stance growing tighter, more reactive.
Lucavion hadn't been pushed once.
"He's still standing," someone muttered, hope clinging to their voice like frost to dying leaves.
"Come on, Reynald…"
"Don't lose, please—"
"He has to win… right?"
Valeria's eyes didn't move, but she could feel the air changing. The crowd's enthusiasm had soured into tension. A mass dissonance. They'd spent the last few minutes wanting Reynald to win—but now, they were starting to realize—
He wouldn't.
Lucavion ducked beneath a retaliatory arc, gliding forward like shadow drawn by gravity.
—THWACK!
A knee to Reynald's ribs. A pivot. A slash.
—SKRRRK!
Reynald's shoulder plate cracked, black flames curling over the exposed cloth beneath.
"...He's losing," someone whispered, voice brittle.
"No… not yet. He still has more techniques."
"He has to—he saved people! He's—he's Reynald Vale!"
But that name—so heavy a moment ago—sounded thin now. As if even the air doubted it could hold.
Lucavion's next strike knocked Reynald's sword sideways. A sweep of his foot threw him further off balance.
—BOOM!
The flame burst downward, not to damage—but to pin. Glyphs bloomed beneath Reynald's boots. Trap sigils. Pre-cast. Hidden in the rhythm of the fight.
Reynald stumbled.
Lucavion didn't grin.
He didn't celebrate.
He just pointed his estoc toward Reynald's chest and let the final blow hover, poised but not delivered.
And the world knew—if he thrust, it would be over.
Gasps filled the room.
"No… no, no, no—"
"This can't be happening."
"Not like this."
"He helped people! He didn't deserve this!"
Valeria still didn't speak. Her pulse ticked like a slow drum in her ears.
She had seen Lucavion fight before. On battlefields where the stakes were real. When lives—not reputations—hung in the balance.
But this—
This was different.
He was too focused. Too sharp.
Like he wasn't just fighting Reynald.
Like he was cutting through something.
Or someone.
And even now, she didn't know why.
Did he see something the rest of them didn't?
Or was he…..
…just doing this because he wanted to?
The moment hung suspended—like a blade caught mid-swing.
Lucavion's estoc hovered just above Reynald's chest, the final thrust within reach. The lotus glyphs spun slow around them, petals of black fire coiling closer. The silence was thick, taut with the inevitability of end.
But then—
—THRUMM!
The sound wasn't heard. It was felt.
A pulse. A ripple. A surge.
Reynald's body arched slightly—his eyes snapping open, no longer weary, no longer doubting.
And his mana erupted.
—FWWOOOOOM!
Golden light burst from his core, not like a wave, but a dome—rushing outward in a blazing sphere of power. It collided with Lucavion's encroaching black flame in an instant.
—KRRAAAKHHH!
The shockwave shattered the ground beneath them. Flame and gold collided in a vortex of pressure, swirling upward in twin spirals—opposing colors vying for dominion. The lotus petals cracked, some disintegrating mid-air under the radiance of Reynald's release.
The inn watching from afar gasped again.
"What is that?"
The golden light didn't just push—it changed.
It deepened. Thickened. The color remained the same, but the sensation behind it twisted into something new. What had once been warm and noble, a stabilizing force, now flared with pressure sharp enough to crack stone.
Even the inn projection flickered under the force of it, the mana distorting the image for a heartbeat.
Lucavion's boots slid back across the scorched earth.
A first.
His smirk wavered—not from pain, but from revelation.
"Owww…"
He winced, theatrically rubbing his shoulder. "Now that stings…"
His eyes flicked toward Reynald, who stood tall amid the collapsing glyphs, bathed in gold fire that hissed where it met the last of the black petals.
Lucavion's grin curled again—this time edged with sarcasm.
"So you were peak 4-star all this time?"
His tone was needling, amused. The way he always sounded when he already knew the answer and wanted to make you say it aloud.
He tilted his head, gesturing lazily with his estoc.
"I wonder why we—"
—CRACK!
He didn't finish.
Reynald moved.
Faster than before. Sharper.
—BOOM!
The ground split beneath him as his foot launched from it, golden glyphs bursting in a spiral at his heels. His longsword came down in a vertical arc, not wild, but absolute.
—CLAAAANG!
Lucavion raised his estoc to parry—but the force pushed him.
Not deflected—pushed.
His boots dug trenches in the dirt as he was driven back, his cloak flaring violently behind him from the sheer impact.
The room watching erupted.
"Did you see that?!"
"He's faster now!"
"What the hell was that? That's not mid-tier anymore!"
"Go Reynald!"
But Valeria's eyes didn't move.
She saw it.
Not just the power—but the shift.
His aura—no longer smooth. No longer moderated. It surged and dipped in fluctuations that only a peak-tier Awakened would understand.
It wasn't that he was getting stronger.
It was that he had been holding back.
'He was hiding his strength…' Valeria thought, her gaze narrowing. 'All this time.'
The crowd's cheers hadn't faded completely—but they had shifted.
The air inside the inn now bristled with a new, uncertain energy. Not triumph. Not awe.
Doubt.
Valeria heard it before she saw it.
Someone near the bar lowered their mug mid-sip, eyes narrowing at the projection. "Wait a minute…"
"Wasn't he ranked mid-tier until now?"
"Yeah," another muttered. "All the analysts had him pegged at low-to-mid 4-star. Nothing like this."
Across the room, a woman with sharp eyes leaned forward in her seat, voice edged with unease. "That surge just now… You don't hide that kind of power by accident."
The festive mood soured another shade.
More voices joined in, hushed at first, but growing in number.
"He was helping people, wasn't he? Why pretend to be weaker?"
"If he was always that strong… why let himself almost lose before?"
"Was it all just a setup to look like a hero?"
"I mean, I still like the guy, but…"
"I believed in him—"
Valeria's gaze didn't lift. But internally, she noted every crack forming in the illusion.
The people of Arcanis were not easily fooled. They weren't rural peasants or sheltered frontier dwellers. Even commoners here had seen Awakened battles before. They understood the difference between growth under pressure… and a mask being dropped.
'They're starting to see it,' Valeria thought, her knuckles tightening faintly.
It wasn't betrayal. Not yet. But the perception Reynald—Seran—had built was shifting. The "humble swordsman" narrative, the "quiet strength" of a common-born knight—it was being weighed against strategy.
And strategy, when exposed, often felt like manipulation.
The cheers didn't stop.
But they weren't whole anymore.
They had cracks. Notes of caution.
Of mistrust.
And Valeria knew—once that began, it never truly stopped.
Chapter 678: Seran (3)
The air boiled with golden light.
Mana surged from Seran's body in waves—no longer tempered, no longer hidden. It howled through the battlefield like a second heartbeat, like the voice of something that had been caged too long.
The dust around his feet scattered.
The cracks beneath him widened.
And above it all, his eyes—once careful, composed, scripted—now burned.
Locked.
Dead center.
On him.
Lucavion.
The man who had peeled back his mask and held the truth up for the world to almost see.
Lucavion tilted his head again, calm in the face of the storm.
Then, for the first time—
He smiled.
Not mockingly.
But knowingly.
"So," he said, voice cutting through the wind like silk through flesh,
"you were peak 4-star all along."
Seran didn't answer.
His grip on his blade tightened. The glyphs on his vambraces lit up—triple-tiered layering scripts designed for momentum bursts and rapid aura cycling.
Lucavion continued, still standing in place, estoc at his side.
"Then why—"
He never finished.
—BOOOOOOM!
Seran exploded forward.
He didn't want to hear it.
Didn't want to hear another syllable from that arrogant mouth, that self-assured tone, that goddamned voice that sounded like it was never asking—but deciding.
No more analysis.
No more dialogue.
Just destruction.
It wasn't just a duel anymore.
This was personal.
This was pride.
The pride of an Awakened at the peak of 4-star, trained beyond limits in shadows no one would ever see.
The pride of the attendant to the Crown Prince himself—chosen, forged, and trusted.
And no wandering freak of a man—no matter how powerful, no matter how elegant—would look down on him and live to speak about it.
His aura roared, brighter than ever before. Gold bled into the stone, the very ground cracking beneath the weight of his will.
Lucavion raised his estoc again, calm as dusk.
But the fire was coming now.
And it would not wait.
—BOOOOOOM!
Seran's foot collided with the earth, and the battlefield shattered beneath him. Not cracked—shattered. The impact ruptured stone in a sunburst pattern, golden veins of mana racing outward like divine judgment. The air screamed as his body surged forward, faster than sound.
Lucavion's estoc rose—not in panic, not even in defense.
In recognition.
Because this was no longer "Reynald Vale."
This was Seran Velcross, peak 4-star, Awakened, trained in royal chambers beneath runic seals and blood-stamped oaths. A weapon sculpted in secret—and now unsheathed.
And that blade in his hands?
It sang.
Golden mana enveloped it entirely, wrapping the steel in a burning gleam. The edges pulsed with radiant script—no amateur layering, no half-measures. Runes within runes, echoing legacy and bloodline.
And that form—
Lucavion's eyes narrowed.
"…Ah. Not just technique."
He stepped back half a pace.
"That's a sword art."
He said it with reverence.
Seran didn't respond.
Instead—
「Crescent Crown – First Arc: Dawnburst Laceration」
—SHHRRRAAAANG!
His blade flashed—a rising horizontal slash that curved like a comet's trail. The golden arc carved through the air and cleaved through three meters of stone and wind like silk.
Lucavion dodged—
—FWOOOSH!
Just barely. The edge of his cloak caught the blow—
—SKRRT!
—and disintegrated.
He landed, light, steady, but Seran was already there.
No pause. No breath.
「Crescent Crown – Second Arc: Royal Descent」
—BOOM!
A leaping strike from above—vertical, devastating, not meant to just hit but bury. Gold flared down like a sword drawn by a falling star.
Lucavion raised his estoc—
—CLAAAANG!
The impact was deafening. For the first time, Lucavion gave ground. His boots slid back. His knees dipped. The starlight flame along his blade flickered.
The crowd gasped.
From the rim of the battlefield, stunned cadets could only watch—many of them still reeling from the Withering Lotus, still trying to understand what Lucavion was. And now, Seran—no, the man once called Seran—was undoing him.
Undoing the myth in real time.
He didn't let up.
「Crescent Crown – Third Arc: Radiant Spiral Fang」
—FWOOOOOM!
He spun with supernatural speed, blade spiraling outward, golden petals erupting around him in a radiant nova. The strike wasn't just physical—it dragged with it trails of mana, fangs of golden energy flaring out in all directions.
Lucavion weaved—elegant, evasive—
—CLINK! CLANG! SWOOSH!
—But the pressure was immense. Every motion had to be perfect. Every misstep cost distance, control.
And this time?
Lucavion was losing both.
His estoc lashed out to counter—
—CLANG!
Too slow.
Seran's blade struck his shoulder—light, glancing, but it hit.
—SKRRRSH!
Black cloth burned. A shallow red line bloomed.
Lucavion stepped back, breath sharp.
And Seran—standing in the eye of his own golden storm—leveled his blade forward, aura roaring around him.
「Crescent Crown Sword Art – Unique Rank.」
His eyes burned.
"Remember it."
And he dashed again.
Lucavion parried—
—CLANG!
Their blades screamed in contact.
But it wasn't enough.
—CLANG!
—CLAAAANG!
—SKRASH!
Steel sang and screamed beneath golden arcs and black flame. The air twisted with the scent of burning mana, scorched stone, and something else—resentment.
Lucavion danced between the strikes—not without damage, but without yielding. Every evasion was precise. Every parry was just enough. And yet, he was still bleeding.
Another shallow cut traced along his ribs.
Another trail of red slid down the edge of his coat.
Seran's form never faltered. His blade didn't slow. His technique remained perfect, radiant with the glow of Crescent Crown. And yet—
Lucavion remained standing.
Still moving.
Still smiling.
And that—
That infuriated him.
This was supposed to be it.
This was the moment he proved why the Crown Prince had chosen him. Why he had endured those years of suffocating, merciless training. Why he had swallowed his identity, buried his pride, and worn the mask.
And now this nameless, absurd, untrained bastard—
Was still here.
Still mocking him with every breathless dodge, every sidestep that turned a killing strike into a graze.
Seran's eyes narrowed. His grip tightened until the leather of his gloves groaned in protest.
"You should be on the ground," he hissed between teeth, voice laced with heat and disbelief.
Lucavion ducked beneath another sweeping arc, dragging his estoc up in a narrow parry.
—CLINK!
Seran shifted—flawless transition into a follow-up stab. No pause.
—SKRRRSH!
The blade sliced across Lucavion's shoulder, biting deeper this time.
A clean wound.
Lucavion staggered—but only for a heartbeat.
Then—
He straightened.
Head tilted.
Eyes locked.
Smiling.
As if the blood meant nothing.
As if Seran's masterpiece of a sword art was… annoying.
Seran's aura flared with fury.
「Crescent Crown – Fourth Arc: Imperial Verdict」
His blade ignited—blinding gold—and slammed downward with the weight of judgment.
Lucavion caught it on his estoc's edge, sliding back—
—CRACK!
The arena floor buckled beneath his heels.
Blood dripped from his forearm. The flame on his blade sputtered.
But he didn't fall.
He didn't even blink.
Seran snarled.
And poured more mana into the blade—no longer precise, but angry. The gold flared brighter than before, wild arcs leaking from the edge like a sun unraveling.
"You don't understand," he snapped.
"You're beneath this."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow.
"This is a technique—" Seran shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos, "—that the likes of you can never dream to obtain!"
He slashed again, golden mana screaming from the arc.
—BOOOOOM!
The blow caught Lucavion in the side.
—SKRNNNK!
Blood burst across the field. His body twisted mid-air from the force, cloak torn, ribs likely fractured. He hit the ground hard, dust exploding around him.
The audience gasped.
Someone screamed.
And Seran stood tall above the crater, blade still burning, voice seething.
"Now cease your filthy claims."
The silence that followed was heavy—expectant. Final.
And then—
From the center of the dust cloud—
"Pfffft…"
A laugh.
Chapter 679: Seran (4)
"Pfffft…"
The laugh slipped from the smoke like a crack in reality.
Light at first.
Mocking.
Then—
"Haha…"
A pulse of unease rippled through the crowd.
Even Seran froze. Just for a moment.
The golden light of his blade shimmered above the dust, his breath still heavy from the last strike. The air still reeked of scorched mana and blood—but that sound didn't match it.
Didn't belong here.
"Ahahahaha…"
The laugh swelled. Low. Wild. Like something snapping not from pain—but from pleasure.
And then—
—FWOOOOOSH!
The smoke tore open as a windless force blew it away, revealing the figure standing at the center of the crater.
Lucavion.
Coat in tatters.
Shoulder bloodied.
His ribs—yes, definitely cracked—shifted slightly beneath the fabric, rising and falling with sharp, deliberate breaths.
But his face—
That smirk.
Half-mad. Half-beautiful. Eyes wide with fire and delight.
"Finally…" he whispered.
His estoc dragged once along the ground, leaving a black smear of heat-seared stone.
Then he raised it—slow, deliberate, the point locking straight onto Seran's heart.
"This is what I like to see."
His voice didn't yell.
It didn't need to.
It commanded.
Lucavion tilted his head, lips curled just slightly, voice dropping to something quieter. Sharper.
"You finally quit the bullshit."
He took one step forward—casual. Tensionless. But the pressure returned.
That impossible pressure.
No aura flaring, no burst of light.
Just intent.
"Hero. Helper of the commoners. Savior of the weak." He rolled the words off his tongue like they tasted foul. "Blah, blah, blah."
Another step.
The fire returned—not just behind him.
But in his eyes.
"You spoke of a technique the likes of me could never dream of."
The black fire on his estoc re-ignited—
But it wasn't flickering now.
It breathed.
It shimmered with threads of impossible color—cold and hot all at once. Flame that didn't burn. Flame that remembered.
And then—
—FWOOOOOM!
The blade exploded in radiant black flame, stretching out from the hilt like the core of a dying star. Starlight shimmered within it. Not the gentle glow of night.
But the devouring silence of what lay beyond the stars.
Lucavion's smirk widened.
"Then let me show you—"
He drew the blade into stance, the ground beneath him fracturing in spiderweb cracks.
"…what a real sword is."
****
What… is this feeling?
Seran's grip tightened unconsciously around the hilt of his sword as Lucavion stepped forward through the settling smoke, that damned smirk still curling on his bloodstained face. His estoc burned with black flame, crackling with mana that didn't just oppose his—it ignored it. Like his golden aura was nothing but noise in the presence of something far older, far quieter.
Something hungrier.
A chill.
Down his neck.
Across his spine.
Into the marrow.
His lungs felt tight. Not from exhaustion. Not even from pain.
From instinct.
From danger.
That wasn't right.
'Why do I feel… threatened?'
His thoughts tangled, jaw clenching as the unease spread.
'From a commoner? From him?'
It was absurd.
Impossible.
And yet—he felt it. That wild pressure. That devouring force of presence that Lucavion wore like a second skin. Not trained. Not noble. Not refined.
Real.
And Seran hated it.
He hated the way Lucavion stood there, bloodied, laughing, not even trying to win the crowd's favor, not trying to be admired—just enjoying the fight.
He hated the way those black eyes looked straight through him—not with awe. Not with fear. Not even with anger.
Just certainty.
Like the outcome was already decided.
And worst of all—
He hated that for the first time in years, he wanted something more than to follow the Crown Prince's orders.
He wanted to kill this man.
Right now.
Rip him apart.
Tear that expression off his face and shatter whatever insane illusion let this nobody believe he could stand on even footing with a Velcross.
With him.
Lucavion took one more step.
And Seran snapped.
His blade rose again, his mana surging out in a flash of gold, fire and fury spilling from every pore.
He opened his mouth to speak, to challenge, to command—
"Cat got your tongue?"
Lucavion's voice sliced the silence.
And then—
He was there.
—FWOOOOOSH!
No flash. No warning.
Just speed.
Lucavion moved faster than Seran had ever seen him move. Faster than during the first exchange. Faster than when he activated [Twin Cinders]. Faster than when he invoked the Withering Lotus.
And suddenly—
The world tilted.
Lucavion was right in front of him.
Too close.
Too fast.
"Wha—"
He barely got the word out before the estoc was already crashing down.
—CLAAAANG!
Seran blocked. Barely.
But the weight behind it—was different now.
He slid back, boots screeching against stone. A shallow line of blood cut across his cheek where the estoc had grazed during the descent.
His heart thundered.
'What…?'
What is this?!
Lucavion was moving like gravity forgot him. Fluid. Merciless. Untethered from the logic Seran had built his style around.
—FWOOOSH!
Lucavion blurred again—gone from sight, gone from reach—and then reappeared, not behind, not above—
Right in front.
His estoc gleamed—not with raw power, but with perfect intent.
A thrust.
—SHHHNK!
Seran twisted his blade just in time—
—CLANG!
The estoc veered off, sliding against his sword's flat edge, grazing the plating at his shoulder.
Lucavion didn't pause.
Another thrust.
—THWIP!
Seran spun his blade again, pivoting into a defensive turn.
—CLANG!
Two.
His arms were starting to ache now. The weight of those thrusts wasn't normal. It wasn't brute force—but velocity, precision, like Lucavion was driving that estoc through air, blood, and bone in one motion.
Seran tried to reposition.
But Lucavion was already there.
The third thrust came low, deceptive.
Not at the chest. Not at the core.
The waist.
—SKRNNNK!
"Tch—!"
The blade sank through his side armor, shallow but clean. Blood hissed against the heat of the black flame. Seran stumbled half a step back—
But Lucavion's fourth thrust came without delay, aimed at the throat.
—FWOOOSH!
Seran ducked, breath catching as the tip of the estoc sliced past his cheek—millimeters from his eye.
Too close.
He turned on instinct, blade flaring—
But the fifth thrust was already incoming, drawn back not like a fencer, but like a predator.
A sharp, sudden step forward—
—SHHNK!
The blade pierced just under his right shoulder, digging beneath the clavicle. Not deep enough to end the fight—
But deep enough to break form.
Seran's knee buckled, breath shuddering.
And Lucavion?
He didn't stop.
He was already raising his blade again.
Seran's eyes widened—his breath hitched.
No.
Not like this.
He couldn't keep dodging. Couldn't keep falling behind. If he didn't reset—if he didn't stabilize—
He'd lose.
And so—
With a burst of golden mana, he roared.
「Crescent Crown – Fifth Arc: Pillar of the Sun」
—BOOOOOOM!
Golden energy erupted from beneath him like a rising column, slamming upward in a spiraling burst. The sheer force launched Lucavion back—just a few feet—but enough.
Seran stood, blood trailing from his side, shoulder scorched, ribs throbbing. But his blade was up again.
He gasped for breath, chest rising and falling like a bellows—but his feet were grounded.
His mana burned.
But he now understood something crucial.
Chapter 680: Seran (5)
The golden pillar still shimmered behind him, steam rising from the cracked stone in slow, hissing spirals. Seran stood in its light, chest heaving, his blade trembling slightly—not from weakness.
But from impact.
From the weight of what had just happened.
He wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand, golden aura still flickering violently around him.
But his eyes—once wild with anger—were now focused.
Watching Lucavion.
Watching the man who had been thrown back, whose shoulder had been pierced, whose ribs were bruised and battered—
And yet…
He stood there like it meant nothing.
Lucavion rolled his shoulder once, the black fire around his blade humming low, pulsing like a heartbeat. His gaze hadn't changed. Not softened. Not even hardened.
Still calm.
Still so damn sure.
And suddenly—Seran understood.
He felt it.
Not from the pressure of their clash, not from instinct alone.
But from experience.
He'd faced peak 4-stars before. Trained against them. Been beaten by them in blood-soaked, rune-sealed chambers.
And now that he had clashed head-on with Lucavion—
There was no longer any doubt.
"…Peak 4-star."
He said it aloud. Quiet. Hoarse.
But final.
The realization hit like frost down his spine.
'He's… one of us.'
Not a prodigy.
Not some flaring anomaly.
Lucavion was a peak 4-star Awakened—just like him.
And worse?
He had been hiding it.
Just like him.
'How…?'
His mind raced now. Thought slammed into thought, tangling over themselves like frantic soldiers trying to retreat through a crumbling tunnel.
A peak 4-star couldn't be made like this. Not without training. Not without guidance. Not without resources.
So who—what—was backing him?
Was he part of a faction?
Was he planted here, just like me?
Was this some covert operation from the Nobility Council? The Outer Dukes? One of the old houses?
Because this wasn't natural.
This wasn't possible.
'A commoner doesn't reach peak 4-star. Not like this. Not with that sword style. That pressure. That control.'
It defied everything Seran had ever been told. Ever been trained to believe.
That's why I hid my power.
That's why he was told to limit himself.
Because rising too fast, too strong, without explanation—it would draw attention.
It would lead to questions.
Questions like the ones he was asking right now.
Who the hell is he?
What family could forge someone like that in silence?
No name. No fame. No noble ties, no legendary sword, no bloodline known to the Empire.
And yet he stood there—equal.
No, worse.
Comfortable.
Seran's throat tightened.
'Who trained you?'
'Who gave you permission to stand beside me?'
His heartbeat pounded like war drums in his ears.
Because if this man wasn't backed…
If this wasn't a political insertion, or a noble project, or some secret investment by a forgotten house—
Then it was something worse.
Something unstoppable.
A monster born of nothing.
And if that was true…
Then Seran wasn't special.
He wasn't unique.
He wasn't the Crown Prince's flawless symbol of hope.
He was replaceable.
This was something he could never have prepared for.
No lesson, no sparring match, no whispered warning behind palace doors had ever hinted at the possibility of this.
Someone like him.
Here.
Seran's pulse thundered behind his ears, drowning out the murmurs from the watching crowd, the howling winds, even the fading echo of the golden pillar behind him. Nothing else mattered now.
Nothing.
Not the Trials.
Not the plan.
Not the reputation he'd spent years carefully building, scene by scene.
Not even the Crown Prince's direct orders to stay hidden.
Because this—this man—was a threat.
Not to him.
To Him.
To the one Seran owed everything to.
And that? That was unforgivable.
Lucavion stood unshaken, black flame crackling low around his estoc, eyes unreadable, patient.
Waiting.
Still calm.
Still certain.
Still looking at him like he was just another obstacle.
Seran's jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
'No.'
He wasn't going to be looked at like that.
Not by this freak.
Not by this ghost of nowhere.
Not by a man who dared to stand where only those chosen should tread.
Seran's hand lowered to his belt—not to his blade, but to the second rune-sigil hidden beneath the fabric of his coat. One that pulsed with a darker shade of gold. Forbidden to use in official trials. Reserved only for live combat, real threats.
He'd sworn never to activate it unless given a direct order.
He would violate that vow now.
Gladly.
Let the observers scream.
Let the instructors brand it as misconduct.
Let the damn judges revoke his position.
He would deal with the fallout later.
Because right now?
He had to end this.
Seran activated the seal.
—CRACK!
Mana ignited behind him in a surge that didn't shine—it shuddered. A deeper resonance, darker than his prior radiance. It trembled across the field in jagged pulses, breaking apart the structure of his golden aura. Controlled energy gave way to fury.
His eyes gleamed—not with light.
With resolve.
—CRACK!
The hidden sigil beneath Seran's coat ignited with a violent snap, golden mana flaring outward—then collapsing inward like a dying star. It didn't radiate light.
It folded it.
Mana twisted around his body, tightening like a noose of power. His aura didn't pulse. It throbbed. The pristine arcs of golden energy were gone now, devoured by something darker, more absolute.
The artifact had activated.
And Seran—no, the weapon beneath the name—rose to the surface.
His eyes, once bright with frustration, now turned cold. Calculating. Not the chill of fear.
The chill of resolve.
Lucavion's gaze narrowed slightly. He didn't speak. Not yet.
Seran raised his sword again.
But this time, the mana didn't coat the blade.
It merged with it.
Golden glyphs spun along the flat of the weapon, layered with crimson undertones—command runes, meant to bind, suppress, erase.
Seran inhaled.
And for the first time, the battlefield trembled beneath his voice.
「Crescent Crown: Final Arc – Emperor's Dominion.」
—BOOOOOOM!
His sword ignited into a pillar of fused golden-red mana, nearly double its length, impossibly sharp. Not a blade.
A judgment.
The ground cracked in a perfect ring beneath him. Wind spiraled outward as energy coiled around the blade like a corona of a falling sun.
Then—
He pointed the tip at Lucavion.
"You should've submitted," Seran said, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "But no."
His body vanished in a flicker of heat-distorted air.
Reappeared mid-swing—right above Lucavion.
"Blame your own arrogance for losing your life."
And he brought it down.
—KRAAAAAAAASH!
The blow split the sky. Mana roared like a storm, tearing through the battlefield with the sound of creation being reversed.
It was a strike designed not to injure.
But to end.
And Lucavion—
He smiled.
Not panicked.
Not surprised.
Amused.
"Watch this."
His estoc lifted—not with haste, not in panic. Just lifted.
Like a conductor before the final note.
"This is a real sword technique."
His voice was calm.
Final.
Unrelenting.
"The likes of you can never reach it."
The black flame devoured everything.
And then—
Lucavion's blade shimmered. The air bent around it.
Space twisted—not with heat, not with mana—
With absence.
「Annihilation Sword – Null Space.」
Chapter 681: Seran (6)
The observation tier of the Citadel shuddered under the weight of the spell-feed.
Golden light poured across the projection chamber, cast not by illusion, but by raw force. Mana readings spiked across the aether-tracking glyphs, breaking past the second-tier tolerance limits. Runes flickered red. Warning sigils bloomed.
"He activated a combat-restricted sigil," one analyst gasped. "That's... an Emperor-class burst array—unauthorized!"
Another technician slammed his palm against a control sphere. "The surge was deliberate. It's not slipping—he's focusing it."
From the center screen, Seran Velcross's blade shimmered with golden-red mana, dense enough to warp space. The strike that followed shattered the illusion of restraint. No longer a duel.
This was attempted lethality.
"He's trying to kill him," someone said aloud. It wasn't a theory. It was a fact.
"And he'll succeed if we don't—"
"—intervene now!"
Panic surged like wildfire.
Dozens of hands snapped toward control arrays, scrying orbs flared with emergency overrides, and high-ranking mages chanted barrier-activation protocols so fast the syllables collided like hailstones.
"Emergency lockout! Disengage spatial simulation—NOW!"
Glyph arrays pulsed, golden threads lighting up as the override seals activated—
—then failed.
One by one.
—FAILURE.
—FAILURE.
—FAILURE.
The words flashed in crimson against the scrying spheres. The override requests were rejected. Not by the system—but by the system's own refusal to recognize them.
"What the hell?" a senior technomage snarled, slamming his palm against the primary stabilization console. "It's not responding!"
"The simulation won't release the spatial bind!" another shouted. "It's rejecting our interference!"
"Try forcing a dimensional sync. Shift the whole quadrant back five seconds—"
"Impossible," someone snapped back. "The time-stabilizers are locked! They're not responding to outside commands—"
"Someone's interfering," Levrinne breathed, her voice tight, her face pale. "Something's rewriting the response tree."
Across the observation tier, the mages fell into a new kind of silence.
Not the silence of helplessness.
But of dawning horror.
Because this was more than a breach of conduct.
This was a trap.
A test of not just the candidates—but of them.
Keleran's fist slammed into the arm of his chair. "If that boy dies under regulated supervision, in a sealed trial, in front of the entire kingdom's broadcast grid—"
"—we'll lose everything," someone finished, sick. "The Council will demand heads. The nobles will riot."
"The Academy's legitimacy will burn," whispered another.
They watched—trapped behind walls of their own design—as Seran's blade fell like the wrath of a dynasty, a crescent of golden-red death, engineered to destroy.
And Lucavion—
Lucavion didn't run.
Didn't dodge.
He smiled.
The screen flared. Energy twisted. The viewing platform flickered under the weight of it.
And still, the override seals remained inert.
The Headmaster had not moved.
But the eleven spells orbiting his platform slowed, shifted, narrowed.
His eyes were half-closed.
Watching.
Measuring.
Absorbing.
"Keleran," he said quietly.
"Sir?"
A heartbeat passed.
Then—
"Do not touch that console again."
"…What?"
The Headmaster's voice, calm as snowfall, cut through the rising hysteria.
"I said—do not interfere."
"But sir—he'll die—"
The room froze.
Every eye turned toward the Headmaster.
Not because of authority.
But because of certainty.
His gaze remained fixed on the screen—on the moment the blade fell, the air split, the battlefield twisted like fabric straining against truth.
And still, Lucavion stood.
Still, he smiled.
"No," the Headmaster said, not to rebuke.
But to correct.
The word fell like iron wrapped in snow—gentle, yet undeniable.
Keleran's mouth opened, the protest still caught between disbelief and fear, but he couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Because the Headmaster's eyes—half-lidded, ancient—now lifted, slow and deliberate.
"There are times," he said, "when protocol must yield."
The spells around him began to shimmer in new patterns, slower, deeper—the orbits no longer stabilizing tools, but observers.
"The world," he continued, his voice quiet enough to make the silence louder, "is about to witness something that even the strongest Awakened may never live long enough to see."
The mages didn't respond.
Not because they disagreed.
But because they felt it too now.
The ripple.
Not through the arena.
Not even through the spell-weave.
Through reality itself.
"Most mortals rise to their limits," the Headmaster said, eyes still on Lucavion. "A few shatter them."
He breathed once—slow, reverent.
"And then, there are those who make the world rewrite them."
A faint pulse of light flickered across Lucavion's blade—not flame.
Not mana.
But absence.
A silence so pure it became a force.
Keleran whispered, almost against his will, "…what is that?"
And the Headmaster finally answered—not as an instructor.
Not as Archmage.
But as a witness.
"Something that should not be," he murmured.
"And yet—is."
He leaned forward, resting one hand against the railing of his platform, as if to bow—not in submission, but in respect.
"Watch closely," he said.
"For what comes next… no spell will ever replicate."
******
The estoc dragged across the air, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Not silence.
Not stillness.
Nothing.
The golden blade fell.
And Lucavion moved.
His flame surged.
Not as a wave.
As a truth.
「Flame of Equinox: Balance of Destruction.」
A second force erupted—black and white, cold and burning, swirling in symmetrical collision. It formed a ring around him—twelve symbols rotating like a divine clock.
And from their center—
His sword rose.
Estoc clashing upward into the godlike blow from Seran's Dominion.
—CRACKA-THOOOOOOM!
The two forces collided.
Gold and black. Judgment and entropy. Creation and erasure.
The shockwave didn't just knock the cadets back—it threw them.
The arena ruptured beneath them.
The stone shattered in a dome outward from the center of their clash, rippling like cracked glass under divine hands.
In the eye of it—
Their blades locked.
Seran's teeth gritted. His muscles screamed.
Lucavion's eyes gleamed.
Still smiling.
Still not yielding.
"You still think I'm beneath you?" Lucavion whispered over the roar of destruction.
The Balance of Destruction began to spin—petals of nullfire and equilibrium folding inward toward the lock point.
Lucavion's pressure surged.
"Let's see…"
He twisted the blade.
"…how your crown holds up—with no kingdom left to rule."
—WHOOOOOOOOM!
The clash didn't just shake the battlefield.
It rewrote it.
Lucavion's estoc moved—not forcefully, not wildly, but with the exact precision of something ancient. A rhythm that obeyed no style Seran had ever seen. No stance he'd ever studied. No technique that had ever been whispered through noble halls.
And then—
It began.
The tip of the estoc carved a narrow spiral in the air—small at first, barely visible through the flaring gold of Seran's descending blade.
But then the air twisted.
Mana bent.
Not because Lucavion forced it—
Because it wanted to move.
A vortex bloomed.
Tiny. Controlled. Yet devouring.
The radiant energy of Seran's [Emperor's Dominion] began to veer, pulled toward the spiral—against its trajectory. At first, just a curve. Then a drag. Then a siphon.
"What…?" Seran muttered through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing.
But the estoc spun again.
A second loop.
Then a third.
—FWOOOOOSH!
The vortex expanded, swallowing the air around them, pulling Seran's technique inward like a collapsing sun.
The radiant gold flickered.
The spiral bled it dry.
Seran's mana—amplified through the artifact, honed through years of discipline—began to unravel.
His eyes widened.
And then he saw it.
The flame.
It began at the center of the spiral—soft at first, a black petal in a storm of gold.
Then—
Twelve more.
The petals of [Balance of Destruction] expanded, orbiting the estoc as they spiraled with a counter-force that obeyed only Lucavion's intent. Each petal whispered death to mana, undoing it not with heat—
But with equilibrium.
Not opposed.
Not resisted.
Nullified.
Seran's golden arc—his grand, noble strike forged from years of privilege and burden—was being eaten.
—SHHHHHHHRRRK!
The black fire crawled along the edges of his blade, like ink bleeding through paper.
The glyphs etched by the artifact sputtered.
Mana lines destabilized.
And in that moment—
That exact moment—
Seran saw it.
Through the blur of pressure, through the rupture of form, through the screaming pain of unraveling power—
He saw it.
The peak of swordsmanship.
Not just strength.
Not technique.
Something else.
Lucavion stood at the center of his spiral, cloak shredded, coat bloodied, eyes gleaming—not like a victor.
Like a man finally satisfied.
The black petals of flame rotated behind him in perfect balance. His estoc spun once more through the eye of the vortex, guiding the collapse, as Seran's mana was drawn into the center—
And burned.
—FWWSSHHHHHH!
The golden blade cracked, overwhelmed by the pull. His aura broke at the edges, fragments of gold evaporating into the wind like dying embers.
And Seran—
His eye, wide, trembling, caught all of it.
The elegance.
The devastation.
The technique that didn't shout to be known.
It didn't need a name.
Because it was the sword.
He staggered, his limbs refusing to move fast enough.
'What…'
His thoughts failed to form, broken by what he saw—by what he felt.
The flames had reached his hands now.
Chapter 682: A message left
—FWWSSHHHHHH!
The pitch-black petals of [Balance of Destruction] curled inward, closing like a lotus sealing the last breath of a god.
Seran's blade cracked down the middle—runic core flickering, sputtering like a dying star. His aura collapsed in ribbons of light, unspooling from his frame in silent strands. And still, the black flame moved.
It touched his hands.
And did not burn.
It kissed his skin—tender, almost reverent. A brush of annihilation laced with restraint.
Seran's breath hitched.
His arms trembled, but not from pain.
From realization.
He had nothing left to give.
His techniques—unraveled.
His mana—devoured.
His sword—broken, in soul if not yet in steel.
The artifact—useless now, its seal faded and nullified by a technique that should not exist.
And then—
Lucavion stepped forward.
The spiral of nullfire around him slowed, condensed, and ceased. Twelve petals vanished in the air like they were never there. His estoc, glimmering with traces of that black entropy, pointed low—then slowly, deliberately—
Rose.
Seran tried to lift his blade.
It wouldn't move.
His arm wouldn't move.
Lucavion's estoc came to rest at the hollow of his throat—gentle. Deadly.
A single breath. A single tremor of pressure.
And it would pierce straight through.
Seran's pupils constricted.
He didn't feel fear.
He felt exposure.
He had spent his whole life behind veils—masks layered over identities, each one crafted with precision, purpose, and pride.
And this man…
This freak, this phantom in ragged clothes and ruined coat…
Had torn through all of them in a matter of minutes.
Now he stood there.
Silent.
Watching.
Flames still curled near Seran's fingers—enough to blister skin, to remind him how easily his hands could be taken from him.
And then—
Lucavion exhaled.
The fire stopped.
It didn't vanish.
It just… froze. Holding there, at the edge of destruction.
And with the blade still poised at his throat—
Lucavion tilted his head.
Smirked.
And spoke.
"Heh…"
Lucavion's smirk wasn't wide.
But it was sharp.
And it held no warmth.
Only recognition.
"You were trying to kill me," he said softly, the estoc still resting just beneath Seran's throat.
Not a question.
A statement.
The words sank in, slow and heavy.
Seran didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Lucavion's eyes—those void-deep eyes, unblinking and unreadable—scanned him like glass under frost. And still, he didn't press the blade forward. Not yet.
Instead, he angled his head slightly. Curious. As if studying something pathetic clinging to a name it never deserved.
"I could feel it," Lucavion said, tone light, conversational even. "The interference."
He raised his free hand for a moment—just a flick of the fingers. Barely a gesture.
"But it wasn't yours, was it? Not entirely."
Seran's breath hitched again. His pulse jumped.
He knew.
Not just about the killing intent. The artifact. The override seal.
He'd felt the anomaly in the system—the artifact meant to guide the blade toward fatality, the mana that threaded through the arena's bindings like silent wire. He'd read the movement of the fight and the flow of the kill.
Seran's chest heaved.
His knees quivered.
His hands—once iron-bound by pride and purpose—hung limp at his sides, bloodied and useless.
Lucavion's estoc hovered at his throat, weightless in its stillness, as if daring the world to breathe wrong.
The golden blade in Seran's hand cracked again, a soft ping echoing in the silence. Another splinter through the core. Another fault line through everything he thought he knew.
He stared at Lucavion—not in anger.
In disbelief.
Not from the humiliation.
But from the impossibility.
This man—this nobody, with no house, no title, no history—
He had shattered it all.
The artifact. The technique. The decades of calculated, royal training.
Lucavion had danced through them.
Burned through them.
With flame that didn't even scream when it devoured him.
And Seran—
He didn't understand.
He couldn't understand.
'How…?'
How could someone like him—a commoner—possess such power?
How could someone outside the noble system, outside the bloodlines, the rituals, the sealed chambers, the Empire's blessed crucibles—
How could he—
'How could you stand there like that?'
Even now, Lucavion didn't speak. He didn't boast. Didn't look down on him like Seran had once looked down on others.
He just stood there.
Present.
Certain.
Unmoved.
A part of Seran wanted to scream. To call it unfair. To demand the truth. To insist this was a trick—that there must be someone behind this. A noble, a sponsor, a long-forgotten master pulling the strings from behind some veil.
But the truth…
Was staring at him.
There was no string.
No puppet.
Only him.
Lucavion.
And Seran—
He couldn't stop it.
His lips parted. The question slipped out—not as a challenge, not as defiance.
But as a whisper.
"…Why?"
Lucavion's brow raised slightly.
Seran's throat tightened.
"…Why are you doing this?"
The words felt too small. Too broken.
He didn't even know what he meant.
Why did you attack me?
Why did you crush me?
Why do you exist like this?
Why do you fight like you don't belong to anyone?
Because I do.
I was made to belong.
But Lucavion… didn't.
He just stood there, alone.
And strong.
And free.
Seran's voice faltered as he stared up at him.
"Why… someone like you…?"
Lucavion's estoc dipped slightly.
Lucavion's estoc dipped—just slightly—as he repeated the word.
"Why?"
His voice was quiet.
But then came the smile.
Not soft.
Not kind.
A grin stretched wide across his face—razor-sharp and utterly unhinged. A glint of something primal danced behind his black eyes, not madness born from chaos, but clarity sharpened to a vicious edge.
And he answered.
"Because I want to."
Seran barely had time to flinch.
—SHHNK.
The estoc moved a mere inch forward.
Not a stab.
A cut.
Clean, deliberate, just deep enough to slice a shallow line across Seran's cheek. Blood welled immediately, warm and red against the cold.
Lucavion's smile didn't fade.
"I'm not going to kill you here," he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. "Even though I could."
Seran froze.
Because it was true.
He could.
The artifact embedded in Seran's gear—the same artifact he'd relied on to push him into victory, to twist his blade into something fatal—was still active.
He could feel it humming, like a final breath waiting to be released.
And Lucavion could see it.
Could feel it.
Which meant—he could break it.
Breach the override.
Kill him, right here.
And no one would be able to stop him.
Seran's breath caught, heart hammering against his ribcage.
Lucavion leaned slightly closer.
"Do you know why?" he asked again, gently. The blade finally pulled away.
Then—step by step—he moved forward. Slow. Unhurried. Like the fight had never happened. Like this wasn't a battlefield soaked in mana and ruin.
He stopped directly in front of Seran.
And then, delicately, he placed one hand on his shoulder.
Seran twitched—body screaming to move, but muscles refusing to obey.
Lucavion leaned in.
Close.
Too close.
His mouth brushed the air beside Seran's ear.
And he whispered.
"Because you need to leave a message."
Then—
He pulled back.
Lucavion's free hand rose—his fingers outstretched.
And pressed against Seran's chest.
—FWSSSSSHHHHH.
The flame ignited instantly.
Not to destroy.
But to mark.
It burned not with heat alone—but with precision. Pain lanced through Seran's chest like a brand being driven into bone. He gritted his teeth, unable to scream, unable to collapse.
Lucavion held him there—held him still—his fingers glowing with the embers of something ancient, sharp, and deliberate.
And then he spoke.
"Your master."
His voice had no weight.
It didn't need any.
"I'm coming for him."
The pain seared deeper.
Then—Lucavion withdrew his hand.
Smoke curled upward from Seran's chest, his armor scorched open. Beneath the shredded fabric, etched in still-burning fire, was the mark.
A crown.
Not beautiful.
Not regal.
Cracked.
Warped.
A mockery of sovereignty.
Seran's gaze dropped—saw it—and the last illusion of distance between this fight and his world collapsed.
Lucavion stepped back one pace, still watching him.
And then—calmly, cruelly, quietly—
"I'll take his useless crown."