Chapter 683: Sword Demon
The fight had ended.
Not with thunder.
Not with glory.
But with clarity.
Lucavion stood, surrounded by curling remnants of black flame, the battlefield warped beneath his boots—testament to a technique that should not have existed.
And Seran—Reynald Vale—was no longer a hero.
Not in their eyes.
Back in the inn, Valeria said nothing.
The tavern had gone quiet again, but not with reverence. The voices around her were hushed, uncertain, watchful. The projection crackled slightly above the hearth, flickering between broken images of Seran's defeat and Lucavion's final, damning words.
"This is a technique the likes of you can never dream of using."
"You should've submitted."
The mask was gone.
Whatever careful persona Seran had worn—the kind swordsman, the noble soul who rose from nothing—had fractured under black flame and swordpoint.
And worse than his defeat…
…was the truth of what he'd hidden.
"Did you see those runes? That's not common access."
"He was acting humble the whole time, wasn't he?"
"Playing weak… just to look like a savior."
Even now, the doubts were whispered—but they spread like smoke. Not from hatred.
From disappointment.
The projection crackled again—distorted, streaked with static and faint arcane interference. The final clash, once seared into memory with perfect clarity, now replayed in fragments. The visuals remained—blades crossing, fire blooming, the sigil of the cracked crown burning into the battlefield like a brand upon fate itself.
But the voices?
Gone.
From a certain moment onward, the sound had vanished.
Muted.
No one had heard what was said when Lucavion's blade was at Reynald's throat. No one had caught the quiet malice, the measured revelations, or the promise he left behind. Only motion remained—Lucavion's lips moving in silence. Reynald's eyes widening. The silent tremor that followed.
And the mark that seared into flesh and perception both.
In the inn, the tension turned brittle.
"They cut the audio," someone muttered. "Or… something did."
"Must've been the spell pressure. You saw what happened to the broadcast—the runes flickered."
"Yeah, well, that didn't look like a system fault. That looked deliberate."
"They muted them."
"I don't like it," another voice said. "They didn't want us hearing what was said."
Valeria didn't move.
But she listened.
And she wasn't the only one.
Because now, another question began to rise. A question with no easy answer. The doubt about Reynald—yes, it lingered. People now saw him not as the humble hope of the people, but as someone constructed. A performance, backed by resources and secrets.
But that was only one half of the equation.
The other half?
"…Who was that guy?"
A man near the bar asked it aloud.
A hush followed.
Another added, uncertainly, "Lucavion, right? They said his name earlier. But… who is he?"
"He beat Reynald."
"No. He humiliated him."
"And Reynald was strong. Like, properly strong."
"Stronger than he pretended to be. And still lost."
"Then what does that make Lucavion?"
Someone laughed, bitter and nervous. "Makes him scary, that's what."
But others weren't laughing.
"He's not noble-born, right?"
"No crest. No sigil. No sponsor house."
"So where the hell did he learn that? Those techniques—they weren't even style-based. It was like watching entropy choose a form."
"Is he from some hidden sect?"
"Or a dungeon survivor?"
"No way he's self-taught. No way."
Valeria's grip on the edge of her seat tightened.
'But he is,' she thought.
They didn't know what they were looking at. Not truly. They saw chaos. She saw discipline—older than form, deeper than blood.
And still, the question echoed:
"Who is Lucavion?"
The murmurs were starting to swell again, louder now—less awe, more uncertainty. The name Lucavion rolled across the inn like a storm gathering shape. Still, no one had answers.
Until—
"I know him!"
The voice cut through the crowd like a blade.
Heads turned. Every eye snapped toward the doorway, where a newcomer stood just inside the threshold, the flickering projection glow painting one side of his weathered face.
He looked like he'd ridden through a war and decided to punch it on his way out. Rough cloak. Travel-worn boots. A scar across his jaw. Leather armor scuffed, patched, and patched again. An adventurer, unmistakably.
A local leaned forward from the bar, skeptical. "You know him?"
The man stepped forward, voice firm. "Yes. I saw him. In Andelheim. About a year ago."
A pause. Then:
"He won the Vendor Martial Arts Competition."
Another voice, younger, echoed in confusion. "Wait—Vendor what?"
"Tournament," the man corrected, waving his hand. "Or whatever they called it. The one hosted by House Vendor. Full-contact duels. Invite-only. No enchantments, no arcanists. Just blades and fists."
Another man near the hearth squinted. "That's an underground arena, isn't it? Not public broadcast."
"Not exactly underground," the adventurer said, "just unadvertised. But the nobles go. Always. It's a proving ground. You don't win unless you're… different."
The inn fell into a hush again as the adventurer finished, a slow grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.
"He was called the Sword Demon. That's what they named him after the final match."
Valeria blinked, slowly.
'Finally.'
"The Sword Demon…"
The name spread like wildfire once spoken—passing from lips to lips, table to table, like an old legend suddenly reborn in real time.
And now that they had something to grasp, something to anchor their awe and confusion to, the tone in the inn shifted again.
No longer fearful.
No longer speculative.
Now—
Reverent.
"That was him?"
"I heard about the final match in Andelheim. They said his opponent didn't walk again for weeks."
"Wasn't there a count's son who challenged him for fun and got humiliated?"
"They said he fought like a phantom. Like a man who bled shadows."
"He didn't even use an artifact weapon tonight. That was just him."
"I thought the Sword Demon was a myth…"
Valeria watched the tide of perception turn, as it always did, once the crowd had a name to assign to the fear. Humans didn't understand the unknown—but they respected a name. And Lucavion, now that he'd been named, no longer stood as a question.
He stood as a myth confirmed.
She exhaled softly, a sound barely audible under the mounting voices.
A tired, amused breath. Not of surprise.
But inevitability.
"Once again…" she murmured, almost to herself, "you shook the world."
He had dismantled Reynald's image.
And now?
He had crowned himself in the public eye—not as noble, not as prodigy, but as something far more dangerous.
Unplaceable.
He didn't belong to a house.
He didn't carry a sigil.
He wasn't backed by sponsors, prophets, or empires.
He walked alone.
And yet, tonight, he had stolen the entire stage of Arcanis.
'A performance no one could expect,' Valeria thought. 'No one… but me.'
Because she had seen it before.
That calm.
That grin.
That awful, elegant precision wrapped in quiet madness.
The world was only now seeing Lucavion for what he could do.
They still had no idea who he really was.
And maybe… that was exactly how he wanted it.
****
In the silence of his study, the glow of the arcane projector lit Anthony Thaddeus' face in sharp relief—lines of candlelight warping against the flicker of recorded combat. The footage looped again, crackling at the edges. A moment suspended in time.
Lucavion, shrouded in black flame, stood atop scorched ground, eyes calm, voice sharp.
Then the image wavered. Distorted. The sound cut. And all that remained was a battlefield carved with meaning. A throne of consequence shaped by violence, not titles.
Thaddeus leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath him as he exhaled. Slowly. Measured. Yet beneath the calm exterior, his thoughts were anything but still.
"This kid…" he murmured.
The projection flickered again. Reynald Vale—Seran—on his knees. Exposed. Not just defeated in blade, but unraveled in spirit. The world had seen him crack. And then it had seen Lucavion.
Not boast.
Not claim.
Not celebrate.
But leave.
No banners. No emblem raised. No speech delivered to win the hearts of the masses. Just that same signature silence—and the blade that spoke louder than any noble's name.
Thaddeus shook his head, golden eyes narrowing slightly.
"He really shook the world."
Not with politics. Not with an army. But with a single sword.
And it struck Thaddeus, again, just how rare that was.
Because Lucavion had no family to uphold him. No territory to defend. No title demanding reverence. And yet, he had just carved his name into the consciousness of the continent with nothing but unyielding force and a smile that was half-madness, half-mastery.
Most swordsmen aimed to impress the world.
Lucavion had unmade someone the world adored—then left the crowd with no answers.
Thaddeus exhaled again, slower this time, his fingers tapping against his desk as he let the implications root themselves. His advisors would talk. The Royal Court would whisper. The Archducal Watch would start probing.
And yet—none of them would know what to do with someone like him.
You could ignore a vagabond.
You could silence a rising commoner.
But what did you do with a man who could crush your myths with one swing and didn't even want the power that came afterward?
'He didn't take Reynald's position,' Thaddeus thought. 'He dismantled it. Then walked away.'
That's what frightened them most.
He doesn't want the crown.
Which made it all the more likely that people would try to place one on his head regardless.
Thaddeus leaned forward, arms braced against the desk, eyes steady on the now-static image of Lucavion at the moment of victory. That posture—relaxed, arrogant, and utterly detached from the gravity of what he'd just done.
A man like that didn't just shake the world.
He redefined it.
And with a tired, half-wry smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, Thaddeus whispered to the empty study—
"…You really meant every word, didn't you?"
Then his voice turned quieter.
"You really are the Sword Demon."
Chapter 684: Sword Demon (2)
The fourth day of the entrance exam.
Priscilla sat alone at the imperial garden terrace, the light of the projection disc casting subtle gold across her face. The feed hovered above the obsidian altar, tuned directly to Zone Eight—where two figures now stood, tension curling in the air like storm clouds before a downpour.
One of them: Reynald Vale.
The boy the people once called hero.
And the other—
Lucavion.
No fanfare. No dramatic pose. He stood as he always did—still, poised, unbothered.
The confrontation began with no grand declarations. Just silence. But Priscilla, watching, didn't blink. Her fingers, folded in her lap, didn't twitch.
She watched.
Studied.
And then—
The moment Reynald moved, everything sharpened.
The broadcast flared with light as his sword art emerged—something elegant, structured. A crescent of force, refined into thin arcs that bent light and air alike. The crowd watching around her murmured at the display—admiration, reverence, some even awe.
But Priscilla did not murmur.
She remembered.
That pattern.
That energy signature.
It had a cadence—too precise. A rhythm she had only encountered once before.
Not on the battlefield.
But in the palace.
At that time... the duel of retainers.
A private affair—her brother Lucien's entourage clashing with their sister's for status over some ceremonial selection. Two servants, one from each side, had demonstrated their martial strength under the guise of a test.
And the sword art from Lucien's attendant?
It was the same.
Not identical. But unmistakably of the same root. The same principles. The same ancestral blade school—one long since buried, practiced only by families that served the Crown's inner circle.
And now here it was.
In Reynald Vale's hands.
Her throat tightened—subtle, nearly imperceptible. But her gaze did not leave the projection.
Why does he feel similar...?
It wasn't just the swordplay. It was the way he carried the power. Not like it was earned. But like it was given.
A gift. Or a debt.
Is he affiliated...? No. That's not enough.
But it raised a question.
It struck her all at once.
Not a blow. Not a revelation.
But a pattern snapping into place—like a lock recognizing its key.
Priscilla's gaze remained fixed on the projection, but her thoughts unraveled swiftly, drawing thread after thread from the edges of everything she'd seen.
Reynald Vale…
A commoner, supposedly.
Humble.
Gracious.
The kind of person the people would rally behind—not out of fear, not out of obligation, but belief.
And now—he was faltering. His grace stripped. His strength exposed.
By Lucavion.
But before that… before today…
Reynald had everything. Charisma. Clean victories. Noble poise. The illusion of hardship.
And all of it?
Too perfect.
Her breath slowed. Her shoulders stayed still, but the air around her shifted—tightening like a bowstring drawn too far.
What if…
Her eyes narrowed.
What if Lucien planned this?
Not just the scandal. Not just the audience.
But all of it.
The creation of Reynald.
His entrance. His ascent. His poise. His "modest" strength. His curated failures. A perfect construct for the people—something they could love, follow, defend.
A symbol of unity born from humble roots.
And under that illusion…
Control.
The more she thought, the more sense it made.
Lucien would do it. Not just because he could—but because it was clean. Elegant. He never fought in public unless victory was absolute. But he manipulated?
That was his true battlefield.
And Reynald… Reynald may have just been another pawn.
No—worse.
He was a crafted hero.
And now he was being dismantled.
Priscilla's fingers curled faintly in her lap.
He created a symbol… and now it's crumbling.
Because of Lucavion.
She could almost hear Lucien's voice in her mind, calm and venomous.
"If the people need hope, give them a puppet. Let them cheer while you place the crown behind their backs."
And now the puppet was breaking.
Before a crowd. Before the Empire.
And Lucien?
He would hate this.
Because you couldn't control chaos. You couldn't brand it. You couldn't hide it in velvet.
And Lucavion… was chaos.
Unclaimed. Unbound. And now—
Seen.
She exhaled slowly, the first breath she'd truly drawn in minutes.
Her eyes stayed locked on the projection.
But her thoughts were far ahead.
If Lucien truly made Reynald… then this isn't just a loss of face.
This is war.
And the boy she met on the terrace?
He just declared it in front of the Empire.
The wind stirred faintly across the terrace as Priscilla remained seated—eyes fixed to the projection, mind spiraling through implications far larger than the duel she'd just witnessed.
And then—
"Your Highness."
Idena's voice, soft as ever, threaded through the weight of her thoughts. Her shadow fell to the side as she approached, respectful, yet never hesitant. Priscilla didn't glance away from the disc, but her ears tuned in at once.
"I looked into him, as you asked," Idena continued, standing close, her voice just low enough to remain theirs alone.
Priscilla said nothing.
Idena didn't need prompting.
"Lucavion," she said. "That is his registered name. Confirmed birth in the outskirts of the Empire. A minor settlement—no noble ties, no merchant blood, no mage certification."
Priscilla's gaze didn't shift, but her brow creased slightly. Go on.
"His family," Idena added quietly, "was unremarkable. Farmers. One elder cousin who did scouting work for the border militia—but no one with talent. And all of them… gone. Killed in a border raid nearly six years ago. Village destroyed."
A pause.
"Confirmed by both imperial census and civilian records."
Priscilla exhaled, slow and quiet.
So he was truly a commoner.
But commoners didn't move like that.
"After that," Idena went on, "he disappeared for some time. No travel records. No border crossings. No scroll-traced purchases or guild interactions."
Priscilla's lips pressed together.
So he vanished.
Idena continued. "He reappeared two years ago. First formal sighting—Rackenshore Town. Over a issue of the local lord. The town had been under the thumb of a rogue cultivator. A peak 3-star, using illegal enchantments to dominate the trade routes."
That made Priscilla blink.
"Three-star?" she murmured, arching a brow.
Idena gave a small nod. "Yes, Your Highness. In imperial terms, not significant. But in the outlands… a peak 3-star is enough to control a region. Equivalent to a regional knight captain, perhaps stronger. The kind that could cripple a town's economy or enslave half its population unchecked."
Priscilla considered that.
And then imagined Lucavion—three years younger, walking into such a place. Without title. Without allies.
And ending it.
"…Did he kill the bandit?" she asked quietly.
"...Did he kill the bandit?" she asked quietly.
Idena's answer came with the kind of calm certainty that made Priscilla's fingers still in her lap.
"Yes. According to the documentation from the local lord," Idena confirmed, "he not only killed the rogue cultivator but also rescued the kidnapped heir of the barony. The boy was only seven at the time. His survival and return cemented Lucavion as a local hero… at least, for a while."
But of course—that wouldn't be it. Not for Priscilla.
Such a feat, while impressive for someone of common birth, still paled in comparison to the precision, the control she had seen today.
No. This wasn't the work of a boy who rose through grit and luck alone.
Her gaze darkened faintly.
"Anything else?" she murmured.
Idena hesitated.
"There was a second appearance," she said at last. "Roughly a year after the incident in Rackenshore. He participated in the Martial Tournament of Vendor."
Priscilla's gaze snapped toward her.
"Vendor?" she repeated, voice low, sharp. "Marquis Vendor?"
Idena nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."
Now things were getting interesting….
Chapter 685: Sword Demon (3)
"Vendor?" she repeated, voice low, sharp. "Marquis Vendor?"
Idena nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."
The weight of that name sent a ripple down Priscilla's spine.
The weight of that name sent a ripple down Priscilla's spine.
Of course it was him.
The reason for her unease was simple.
In recent months, a storm had begun to stir within the outer provinces—subtle at first, then undeniable. A rising force within the Empire's nobility. A name that had once lingered at the periphery of power, distant and unconcerned with central politics, now surging forward with bold, calculated momentum.
Vendor.
The Marquis Family of Vendor had long been exempted from the Empire's courtly entanglements, protected by its distance and isolation. Too far to be relevant. Too localized to be dangerous.
But that was no longer true.
They had changed.
And they had moved.
Aggressively.
In the past year alone, Vendor's name had echoed across three provinces. Not with diplomacy. Not with trade.
But with action.
Their alignment with House Olarion had shifted the balance. What began as a formal cooperation—military aid in exchange for land and honor—had become something far larger. A crusade.
Together, the two families had begun systematically purging the remnants of the Cloud Heavens Sect.
And not in silence.
The accusations had started with whispers. Then, came the documents. The testimonies. The confessions. The Imperial Court had been reluctant to intervene—until the evidence became undeniable.
Child trafficking.
Human furnacing.
Cultivation through stolen lives.
The Cloud Heavens Sect had used their sacred arts as a front to harvest the potential of the young, turning bodies into vessels for power.
And Vendor had brought it all into the light.
Now, the once-proud Sect was in retreat. Their holdings seized. Their temples dismantled. Their members hunted like traitors across the provinces.
And behind it all—Vendor.
Vendor, whose political ascent was no longer theory but reality.
Vendor, whose alliance with the disgraced but martial House Olarion had birthed a blade the Empire could no longer ignore.
Priscilla's gaze lingered on the projection, but her mind had already pulled far ahead of it. Her voice came soft, unreadable.
"He appeared there," she murmured, "and then?"
Idena's reply was calm, but it carried a tension—like flint being drawn across steel.
"He won."
Priscilla blinked once. Slowly.
"Oh?"
She leaned back just slightly, the subtle shift of posture barely visible beneath the folds of her storm-gray mantle.
It made sense.
Of course it made sense.
After seeing the way Lucavion dismantled Reynald Vale without resorting to theatrics—after watching him weave swordplay into something closer to arithmetic than art—there was no doubt.
Only a handful in the Empire could match that level of technical brilliance.
Still, the confirmation settled in her chest like a falling coin.
Then—
Idena continued.
"And it was also him," she said, voice quieter now, like dropping a blade into silence, "who first exposed the Cloud Heavens Sect."
The words landed hard.
Priscilla's hands, still resting in her lap, stilled even further. Her lips parted slightly—but no sound came out.
Lucavion…?
The same boy who stood unbothered at the edge of the forest relic.
The same boy who smirked at nobles and turned down power like it was spoiled wine.
He had brought down a Sect?
Not just defeated.
Exposed.
The implications rushed in all at once.
"Wait," Priscilla said, her tone sharper now. "He… was the one who uncovered it? The first one?"
"Yes," Idena affirmed. "Before the court acknowledged it. Before the temples were seized."
A beat.
Idena's voice didn't waver, but the weight of her words sank deeper than before.
"In the semifinals," she said, "Lucavion faced Lira Vaelan. Senior disciple of the Cloud Heavens Sect."
Priscilla's head turned sharply.
Lira Vaelan.
She knew that name.
The one they once whispered would be the Sect's next leader. Elegant, precise, revered. A prodigy among a generation of predators.
"She was undefeated," Idena added, "until him. And it was during that fight… that he revealed the proof. Evidence. Names. Sealed scrolls from inside the Sect's sacred archives."
Priscilla didn't respond immediately.
Her gaze had drifted, no longer watching the projection above—now, it was inward. Focused. The weight behind her eyes wasn't disbelief. It was recognition.
Because this had happened before.
And she hadn't seen it—then.
Not clearly.
But now?
Now she did.
Lucavion, standing before Lira Vaelan, presenting the truth not as a sword but as a scalpel. Laying bare what the Sect had hidden under gilded reverence. And doing it not in court. Not in the comfort of noble halls.
In the ring.
In public.
Before an audience trained to look, but not always see.
And then…
Reynald Vale.
His downfall had followed a similar shape, hadn't it?
Lucavion didn't just defeat him.
He dismantled him.
With words sharpened like blades, with power too carefully measured to be born of chaos. With a rhythm that wasn't improvised, but orchestrated.
Another "golden" figure.
Another illusion made palatable for the people.
Stripped bare.
This time… without even needing to say the whole truth aloud.
'Is that what you're doing?' Priscilla thought, eyes narrowing.
A repeat. A reflection.
Not just a fight.
A message.
But this time, the audience wasn't just the crowd. This time, only those who'd seen what he did before—only those paying attention—would recognize the pattern.
The question turned into certainty.
'He did it intentionally.'
He wanted Reynald to snap.
He wanted the mask to fall.
Just like before.
He had chosen the when, the where, and the how.
And now—she couldn't help but ask it.
Her breath slowed.
Her thoughts honed to a single edge.
'Is he… is he really confronting brother? Is this really what he wants to do?'
The moment she asked it, the pieces fell into place.
The terrace.
The speech.
The choice of law.
The deliberate escalation.
And now, dismantling a figure whose roots—however subtly buried—reeked of Lucien's hand.
Reynald Vale.
Chosen. Shaped. Then, exposed.
It made sense.
Too much sense.
Priscilla's voice came low, almost inaudible.
"But why?"
If Lucavion truly was aiming at the Crown Prince…
Why?
Why would a boy with no name and no title reach so far?
What did he stand to gain?
And more than that—
What did he stand to lose?
She stared at the projection, but it wasn't Reynald she was looking at anymore.
It was him.
Lucavion.
And for the first time… she didn't just see a rogue.
She saw a blade being drawn from its sheath.
Carefully.
Quietly.
And aimed.
****
The crystal screen flickered to life across the city square, its surface a shimmer of light and illusion weaving together into a live broadcast.
Cheers erupted from the crowd gathered below, cloaks rustling, mana-sabers glowing faintly in their scabbards.
But one girl stood apart from them.
She leaned against a wrought-iron railing several levels up/
Her hair was pale—too pale to be natural, though the roots betrayed nothing—and her gloved fingers curled slightly around a paper cup of half-finished tea, long gone cold.
Her eyes, however, were not on the cup.
They were fixed on the screen.
There.
Just there.
A flicker.
Not the duel itself—not the burst of frost that cascaded outward, but the boy who deflected it with elegant footwork and arrogant grace.
No, she didn't care about the fight.
Her eyes locked onto him.
The boy on the screen—no, the young man now—moved with a grace too practiced to be called youthful. His blade sang through the air, clean and sharp, not for show, but with the efficiency of someone who had killed before. Who would kill again. His coat fluttered behind him, scorched at the hem, but his stance remained unshaken, centered in that chaos like a silent verdict.
The camera's enchantment caught a close shot.
His face.
Those eyes.
Chapter 686: A tie of the past
Crystal-clear. Framed by strands of ink-black hair that curled slightly at the ends. Like still water over a deep, endless well.
And just beneath the image, the broadcaster's magic traced his name into the lower edge of the illusion.
Lucavion Thorne.
Her breath caught—not in surprise, not quite—but in something deeper. Slower. As if her body had registered the recognition before her mind caught up.
At first… she didn't recognize him.
Time had carved new lines, refined the boyishness into edge. He was taller now. Broader. The smirk he used to wear like a shield was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous: stillness. Precision.
But the name.
The name made it real.
A name etched in her memory like a blade to the ribs.
Lucavion.
The silence of her breath was followed by the faintest tremor in her gloved fingers. The tea cup in her hand tilted slightly, steam long dead. Her other hand moved to her coat pocket, almost unconsciously—where a silver pin remained, untouched, unpolished, and very, very sharp.
A whisper slid past her lips, not meant for anyone but the winter-chilled wind.
"So you were here."
The silence of her breath was followed by the faintest tremor in her gloved fingers. The tea cup in her hand tilted slightly, steam long dead. Her other hand moved to her coat pocket, almost unconsciously—where a silver pin remained, untouched, unpolished, and very, very sharp.
A whisper slid past her lips, not meant for anyone but the winter-chilled wind.
"So you were here."
And then her face changed.
The slight curve of her mouth vanished. The softness in her features drained away like heat from an open wound.
Her beauty—previously admired from afar by a few lingering passersby—twisted. No longer beautiful. No longer luminous.
What remained was raw. Empty. Awful.
Her lavender eyes dimmed, as if something ancient had awakened behind them, something cold and endless and terribly patient. The kind of cold that didn't speak in screams or curses, but in silence. In waiting.
In watching.
The crowd below roared again as Lucavion landed a finishing blow, but she didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Only the wind responded to her presence, curling against her coat and whispering her name where none could hear it.
She stayed there.
Still.
Until the screen faded to black and only his name remained glowing in ghostlight.
Lucavion Thorne.
The cup cracked in her grip.
She didn't notice.
Just like his surname.
Thorne.
A name that always felt wrong in the mouth. Too soft on the tongue for something that sharp.
Because that's what he had been.
A thorn. Not the kind that warns you away with visible barbs, no. Lucavion had been the hidden kind—the kind that nestled beneath the skin without notice, festering in silence until blood welled from nowhere and you couldn't remember when you'd started bleeding.
She had eliminated him.
That much she remembered with precision.
He had served his purpose. Every whisper. Every manipulation. Every calculated accident. She had woven his threads into her tapestry, and when the design no longer needed him, she had pulled the knot.
Tight. Clean.
Discarded like any other broken tool.
He was finished.
That was how it was supposed to end.
But he had disappeared.
No body. No echo. No trace. Just absence.
At first, it had irritated her in the way loose ends always did—mildly, in the background. But over time, the silence stretched too far. It wasn't a disappearance. It was defiance. A refusal to stay gone.
And she loathed it.
Because if there was one thing she hated more than betrayal, it was inefficiency. Unfinished business.
And Lucavion Thorne was supposed to be finished.
So why now?
Why here?
Her gaze fell again on the screen, now dim, but the ghost of his presence still hung in the air like static. The afterimage of that final strike. The way he had moved—not just like a fighter, but like someone who had waited for the moment.
Who had practiced.
Who had survived.
A chill traced her spine, slow and intimate.
"Was it coincidence?" she murmured, more to herself than the wind now. Her voice held none of the breathy softness from before—only calculation, the syllables as crisp as frost snapping underfoot. "Or were you waiting, too?"
The thought coiled in her chest like smoke.
Lucavion, rising from obscurity… here, of all places.
The Academy.
Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek, slow and deliberate. She tasted blood, welcomed it.
If he had come here as part of some naive attempt at rebirth—seeking power, redemption, or revenge—then he was already walking into her mouth like a deer into the den of wolves.
And if he wasn't?
If he remembered everything?
If he'd never stopped playing?
Her smile returned—but it was not the smile of a girl. Not anymore.
It was thin. Surgical. A smile made of bone and broken promises.
Then fine.
Let him crawl back into the game.
Let him try.
This time, she would not eliminate him quietly.
This time, she would bury him loudly.
And make sure he stayed buried.
Just then, a voice—soft, velvety with carefully practiced affection—slipped in from her side.
"Isolde. What are you looking at?"
She didn't turn right away. Not until the scent of bergamot and burnt cinnamon wrapped around her senses—his cologne, subtle but deliberate. Then came the sound of footsteps, calm and measured, stopping just beside her as if summoned by the very tension she wore like perfume.
Adrian.
The man who appeared was dressed as all noble sons were taught to be—elegant, but not vain. His coat bore the sigil of the Royal family of the Lorian Empire stitched in gold, his blond hair loosely tied back, framing a face sculpted by fortune and influence. In his hands were two drinks, each delicately steaming in the chilled air.
He offered one to her with a warm, lopsided smile, then leaned down with the ease of routine to press a kiss to her gloved hand.
The frost from her fingers didn't reach his lips.
But he pretended not to notice.
"Adrian, my dear," she said, her voice softening like silk across stone.
And just like that—as if it had never existed—the storm vanished from her features. The glint of cold recognition. The tightness in her mouth. The predator's stillness. All gone.
In its place bloomed a smile. Radiant. Serene.
"I was just watching the broadcast," Isolde murmured, bringing the cup to her lips without sipping. The tea had long since gone cold, but the ritual mattered. A play was a play, after all. "The academy trials are quite… entertaining."
Adrian smiled beside her, his expression effortlessly gracious—though not entirely kind. It was the smile of a man who had practiced diplomacy with a sword in his hand and a crown at his back. A smile that didn't quite reach the eyes. That never did.
"Peculiar magic, isn't it?" he said, his gaze drifting toward the screen as if it might still offer some final flicker of interest. "The way they weave those artificial battlefields. Simulations, layered atop real mana fields. Their methods are flashy. Theatrics for the commoners."
Even as he said it, the slight stiffening of his jaw betrayed him. The pride was there—unbent, unwilling to admit that the Empire's techniques, archaic and grand, might now be outpaced by their enemies' adaptation.
And Isolde, of course, saw it all.
She always did.
Her smile grew faintly, elegantly.
Like silk drawn over a knife.
****
The room glittered with opulence, but it was the wrong kind of gold—the loud, garish shine of conquest rather than inheritance.
Tapestries woven with arcane thread hung from walls engraved with the sigils of victory, and above them, polished masks of long-dead High Mages stared down in silent judgment.
At the center of it all, beneath a floating crystal sphere humming with broadcast resonance, a young man reclined in a throne carved from obsidian and starlight.
His face was beautiful in that cruel, pointed way—the kind of beauty that knew it held weight. Hair black as void magic, eyes the color of tarnished gold. His lips, soft and full, moved.
"Useless."
The word dropped like a blade.
On the display above him, the final moments of a battle flickered—frost spreading across a ruptured field, a boy's silhouette dashing through the chaos with impossible grace, his blade striking down a magic-forged behemoth as though it were paper. The boy wasn't noble. He wasn't bred. He wasn't even documented.
He was just... there.
And worse—he had won.
The young noble's fingers tightened on the armrest, obsidian cracking beneath pale knuckles.
"Losing," he said, voice colder now, quieter, "to a mere commoner."
The resonance crystal pulsed, casting flickers of blue light over his face. On the display, the crowd was roaring. The commentators—a chorus of bought tongues—were already spinning tales of the underdog, the rising star, the untamed prodigy.
"Lucavion," he breathed.
His eyes—once lidded with disinterest—sharpened. Pride curled in the edges like smoke catching fire. Not the kind of pride that admired, but the kind that could not bear to be eclipsed.
'A worm crawling where it was never meant to rise.'
Chapter 687: A lecture
The battlefield no longer resembled an arena.
It looked like a war had ended—and maybe, in a way, one had.
Lucavion stood at the epicenter of ruin, surrounded by smoldering stone, melted glyphs, and a crater wide enough to swallow the dreams of anyone who had once believed themselves peerless. The air still vibrated with leftover force, mana threads snapping like overstretched cords in the aftermath of his final technique.
[Balance of Destruction] had not just ended the duel—it had rewritten the terrain.
Char-blackened stone stretched in every direction, the mana clash between Lucavion's nullfire spiral and Seran's radiant dominion leaving behind a ravaged scar through the center of the arena. Cracks veined outward like shattered glass beneath divine pressure, still smoking faintly. The spire in the distance, once untouched, now stood lopsided, leaning under the weight of its proximity to that impossible clash.
Lucavion lowered his estoc, the black flame fading from its blade at last. His coat hung in tatters, one sleeve entirely gone, revealing the stained wrappings beneath. Blood matted parts of his chest and shoulder, but his stance never wavered.
He looked more like a myth than a man.
And still—his breathing was even.
Unrushed.
Unbothered.
And then—
Seran vanished.
A sharp, abrupt shimmer cracked across the space surrounding his collapsed form—like glass catching light at the wrong angle. A pulse, then a bend in air, and in the next breath—
He was gone.
No flash of light.
No triumphant declaration from the system.
Just absence.
The artifact embedded in his chestplate finally flickered once—its purpose fulfilled, its secrets spent—and dissolved into dust. Not scattered by wind. Disintegrated by the weight of failure.
Lucavion didn't react.
He simply stood there at the center of the battlefield, the faint steam from charred stone curling around him like smoke from a long-dead fire.
On the distant observation tier, silence reigned.
Then—
"…What just happened?"
The question came from a tall man in a deep crimson coat, voice low and raw. His eyes were still fixed on the place where Seran—no, Reynald Vale—had vanished, hands clenched white around the railing.
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
A woman beside him—bronze armor, crescent scar across her cheek—opened her mouth, closed it again, and then managed, "That… that wasn't mid-tier power. That wasn't even peak 4-star, was it?"
"Reynald was peak 4-star," murmured another.
A silence followed. But not the kind born of awe.
The kind that settled when too many truths started to unravel all at once.
The man in crimson slowly turned from the railing. "Then why didn't he ever show it?"
No one answered.
Because that question had too many answers.
And none of them were clean.
The woman in bronze armor—Ceryn, once a borderland vanguard—shook her head slowly. "He always fought just hard enough. Never more. Never less. Remember the Thorn Maw pack?"
"The ones outside we faced on second day?" one of the others muttered.
"Yeah. They should've overwhelmed us. Hell, even I was bracing for death. And he just… handled them. Not cleanly. Not spectacularly. Like it cost him something." Her brow furrowed. "But now? I'm wondering if he was just pretending it did."
"I thought he was holding back so we wouldn't feel useless," a younger mage added, voice brittle. "You know—like a leader trying to keep morale high. Like… he didn't want us to know how far behind we really were."
"He let me strike him," someone else whispered. "I remember. Back when we met near the Kirel Ridge ruins. I challenged him. He disarmed me and told me my technique was promising. Said I needed refinement." A pause. "But I felt it. He could've broken my sword if he wanted to."
One of the swordsmen from a guild named Valean guild stepped forward, jaw tight. "We all met him like that. Alone. Bleeding. Scattered. And he picked us up." His voice shook. "Said he wasn't here to win. Said he just wanted to keep people safe."
"Pffft…"
The sound cut clean through the silence, light and dry like the scrape of steel along satin.
A few heads turned slowly.
And then—Lucavion laughed.
Not loud.
Not mocking.
Just… genuinely amused.
A breath of laughter, rising smooth from his chest as he stood amid the ruin like a man who had just remembered the punchline to a joke only he understood.
He raised a hand, ran it lazily through his blood-matted hair, and exhaled with that same smirk pulling at his lips—sharp, unbothered, and maddening.
The conversation on the platform broke instantly.
"The hell is he laughing at?"
"Did something—"
"Is he mocking us right now?"
The tension in the air thickened fast—coiling, brittle, coarsened by frustration and helplessness. Dozens of eyes turned toward Lucavion, and though none dared step forward, their glares landed sharp.
Even Ceryn—the woman in bronze—narrowed her gaze, voice clipped. "Why are you laughing?"
Lucavion tilted his head slightly, gaze drifting lazily across them like they were paintings on a wall.
And then he answered.
Still smiling. Still calm.
"Why am I laughing?"
He echoed the question softly.
Then shrugged.
"Because it's funny."
That was it.
That was all he said.
And it was infuriating.
Because he wasn't wrong—and he wasn't explaining either.
Some of them bristled, visibly. The younger mage from earlier clenched his fists, lips parting—but no words came out.
Because what could he say?
Lucavion had just erased the strongest among them. He hadn't just won the duel—he had humiliated the man they all had trusted. Revered. Followed.
And now… now he was laughing.
Because it was funny.
Because they were funny.
No one spoke after that.
Not directly.
They just looked at him.
And behind every look—resentment, fear, and something deeper.
Acknowledgment.
Lucavion let the laughter taper off, the last breath of it vanishing into the scorched silence like smoke curling from a dying flame. His eyes scanned them again—cold and amused. Measured.
Then his voice, still light, still edged with quiet mischief:
"Let me ask you all one thing."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Every word landed like a stone dropped into still water.
"Why are you here?"
The question hung in the air.
His smirk—the one that always rode the edge of arrogance and certainty—lingered like an insult. And his tone—soft, half-laughing—irked them more than any blade could.
One of the Valean guild swordsmen blinked. "What?"
Lucavion stepped down from the fractured rise of stone he'd been standing on, moving with that same unhurried grace, his estoc now resting loosely at his side.
"I asked," he said again, voice silk-smooth, "why are you here?"
A beat.
Then Ceryn, brow still tight with suspicion, echoed slowly, "Why… are we here?"
Lucavion gave a half-shrug. "Yes."
The younger mage shifted awkwardly, then mumbled under his breath, "We're here for the entrance exam."
Another voice added, more certain this time, "To get into the Academy."
Lucavion's smirk deepened.
And then he tilted his head—not in confusion.
In disappointment.
"Exactly," he said, tone sharpening by degrees. "You're here for the entrance exam. To prove yourselves. To show what you're worth."
His boots crunched over loose shards of charred stone as he walked forward slowly, not toward anyone in particular—just through them, like the battlefield was still his and they were just echoes in it.
"So tell me…" He turned, eyes narrowed now. "What did hiding behind Reynald Vale prove? What did following a stronger man into every fight say about your talent?"
Silence.
He continued.
"You weren't recruited. This isn't a noble-sponsored gala or some royal placement test. This is the Academy's last gate. Its filter." His gaze flicked from face to face, tone now lower, steadier. "They want the sharp. The strong. The ones who carve their own path."
Another step.
Another pulse of presence—quiet, yet undeniable.
"And you thought they'd pass through those gates just because you followed someone competent enough to not kill you?"
No one answered.
Not because they didn't want to.
Because they couldn't.
Lucavion's smirk returned, thinner now. Not amused.
Just cruel.
"Do you really think," he said softly, "that the Headmaster—hell, that anyone worth a damn—is going to look at your record and say: 'Ah yes, this one survived because someone stronger pitied them. Give them a seat.'?"
Chapter 688: A lecture (2)
Lucavion let the silence stretch.
Then he took one slow breath, and with that same unreadable calm, continued, "That guy carried you."
His voice didn't rise.
It lowered.
Sharper. Icy now—not cruel in tone, but in truth.
"But did he really do something to help you?"
He pointed upward—at the broken sky, still trembling with ambient magic, where wisps of mana displays shimmered faintly across the dome. Distant pulses marked eliminations. Dozens more vanishing every few minutes.
"You all made it into this safe zone," he said, gesturing lazily with the blade of his estoc. "That's nice. Clean. Predictable."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"But outside—? Candidates are still bleeding. Still falling. Some of them were stronger than you. Some were smarter. And they're gone."
He turned, slowly, walking back across the edge of the scorched stone and stopping mid-circle—right in the crater's shadow.
And then he said it.
Simple. Unforgiving.
"What's the difference between you and them?"
He pointed.
"To you?"
He pointed again.
"And you."
Another.
"You."
A few flinched.
His voice, like a slow dagger—
"Nothing."
Not a shout.
Just the weight of unvarnished judgment.
He stepped forward again, close enough now that Ceryn's breath caught for half a second. His eyes swept across them—not blazing, not filled with contempt.
Worse.
They were disappointed.
He shook his head, slow.
"If you hadn't followed him… if you'd taken a real path through this trial—fought your own battles, faced your own near-deaths—maybe someone watching would've seen you."
He looked to the sky again. "Because believe me—they are watching."
Eyes from every corner of the kingdom. Scholars. Archmagi. Recruiters. Sponsors. People looking for edge, for genius, for unshaped potential to mold into their legacy.
Lucavion turned back.
"But instead, you followed a man who was never planning to lift you. Only to use you. Shields for his illusion. Silence to his mask."
A beat.
"And you gave it willingly."
The younger mage bit his lip. "But if he tried to eliminate us—"
Lucavion cut him off.
"Then you die fighting. You try. You make it yours. You leave something visible." He jabbed a finger toward the air, where another elimination flared. "Do you think those people fell without fighting? Without someone seeing what they could do?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"And here's the real punchline…"
He grinned again.
"Following him didn't make sense either."
A quiet rolled over the group—this time brittle with something worse than fear.
Realization.
Lucavion didn't twist the blade.
He didn't have to.
He just held it steady—words sharpened into truths—and let them feel it.
Lucavion straightened.
No haste. No drama.
Just that same measured, effortless movement—as if the cracked battlefield beneath him was nothing more than a stage he'd grown tired of, and the silence hanging off every breath was just another rope waiting to be cut.
He tilted his chin slightly, letting the estoc rise.
And then—he said it.
"Since I've already eliminated people stronger than you…"
His voice was calm.
Cold.
"…it's natural that I'll do the same with you."
The words didn't land like a threat.
They landed like weather—inevitable, impersonal, and devastating.
Gasps rippled through the group.
Ceryn's hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of her sword. The younger mage took half a step back. The others simply froze—some blinking in shock, others already pale beneath the glow of the fractured sky.
Lucavion's estoc rose further.
Not in aggression.
In declaration.
The blackened blade pointed directly toward them—casually held, perfectly steady. As though daring them to earn its attention.
"But," he added smoothly, the edges of his smirk returning, "I'll give you a chance."
The blade shifted slightly. Not downward. Not merciful.
Just inviting.
"Prove yourself," he said. "At the very least, to them."
He nodded once toward the glowing veins of light still crackling across the sky. The hidden watchers. The judges. The sponsors. The opportunists.
The world.
"Make this fight yours," he said, voice low and even, "before it becomes mine."
And then—he stood there.
Perfectly still.
Like a storm deciding whether it wanted to fall.
They didn't speak right away.
They just looked at each other—glances flicking from face to face, unsure, unwilling. The kind of silence that settles between people who've just realized they're all standing at the edge of a cliff, and the only direction left is forward.
The younger mage muttered something, but it died before it reached air. One of the swordsmen lowered his gaze, shame flickering behind his eyes. Another tightened their grip on a staff, knuckles white, but said nothing.
Then—
Ceryn stepped forward.
Not with defiance.
But with clarity.
Her bronze armor caught the fractured light above, edges cracked from old clashes, still stained from fights that weren't hers.
Her voice was low. Gritted. But certain.
"He's right."
A few heads snapped toward her.
Ceryn's eyes stayed on Lucavion.
"I don't like it. I sure as hell don't like you," she said bluntly. "But he's right."
She glanced briefly at the others—at the ghosts of decisions left unmade—then back again.
"I've been following since day two," she said. "Letting someone else carve the path. I kept telling myself it was smart. Tactical. Efficient."
She exhaled, slow. Heavy.
"It was cowardice."
Lucavion didn't reply.
He just watched.
That same crooked, unreadable smirk still riding his lips—calm, indulgent, almost amused.
"So," Ceryn said, drawing her sword in one clean motion, the metal whispering free of its scabbard like it knew this moment wasn't for survival—but for reclamation.
"At the very least," she said, raising the blade and settling into stance, "I'll put up a fight."
Lucavion's eyes gleamed faintly, like some private thread of interest had finally been tugged.
He shifted.
Just slightly.
And lowered his estoc.
An invitation.
"Come then," he murmured. "Let's see if you can make it count."
Ceryn didn't hesitate.
She launched forward, blade drawn back, her boots striking the cracked stone with renewed purpose—not charging to win.
But charging to be seen.
The others watched.
Frozen. Still. Silent.
As Ceryn's silhouette closed the distance—
CLANK!
The blade's clashed.
*****
The observation tier was still reeling from the aftershocks of the duel with Seran Velcross when the feed stabilized again.
Now, it displayed something else.
Not a battle of equals.
Not a clash of names.
But judgment.
Lucavion stood in the heart of the safe zone—the place that was meant to offer refuge, strategic respite. Yet what unfolded was anything but rest.
One by one, he called them.
Pressed them.
And they moved—some reluctantly, some with desperation—but they moved.
Not as a group.
As individuals.
"What… is he doing?" one analyst asked, brow furrowed as her spell-thread adjusted the focus on Lucavion's position.
"Culling," someone else said, voice faint.
"That can't be right," another murmured. "This zone is protected by Trial Design. We weren't going to activate Phase Cull until—"
"Until next rotation," Keleran finished, his arms folded as he watched the live feed, eyes sharp. "We were going to isolate the safe zones. Force the weaker ones to show their hand or be flushed out."
"But he's doing it now," Levrinne said quietly. "Alone."
A moment of silence passed before a younger mage, voice laced with disbelief, asked:
"Was this planned?"
Keleran didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"No."
He glanced toward the Headmaster's platform.
"That was our next phase," he said. "Triggered aggression. Candidate cull. We were going to seed conflict into the center and thin out the numbers manually."
"And now?"
Keleran watched the projection as Ceryn struck again—desperate, but no longer hollow. Lucavion met her blow not with scorn, but with control. Enough force to test. Not enough to crush.
Another figure hesitated near the edge. Then stepped forward.
Another voice: "He's dragging them back into the exam."
"Making them earn it," Levrinne murmured. "Even now."
Someone scoffed softly from the back, though not unkindly. "What a weird kid."
A soft chuckle rippled through the room. Not out of mockery.
But out of awe.
Because Lucavion hadn't just survived a forbidden strike.
Hadn't just wielded a technique that bent understanding.
He had stepped into their roles—theirs, the architects, the overseers—and without permission…
He had taken control.
Not that they minded it.
Chapter 689: Final candidates
Lucavion stood near the outer edge of the scorched basin, arms loosely crossed, his estoc resting against the ground beside him like a blade long since grown bored of drawing blood. Wind scraped softly through the broken spires, carrying with it the scent of mana-scorched stone and distant ruin. The ground beneath his feet still bore the echoes of too many clashes—half of them his.
He was alone now.
Or rather—alone from them.
The previous group was gone. Every last one.
Not because they had fled.
But because they had tried.
Some came with pride in their hearts, swords drawn, asking for a chance to be seen—and to them, Lucavion had obliged. He had met them halfway, held back his full speed, pulled every strike just short of breaking bone. He offered a few words between motions. Corrections. Quiet critiques. A low parry with a murmured "Too open on the right." A redirected spell with a single raised brow and "Control your core's breath." They hadn't left unscarred, but they had left with something. Truth.
And then there were the others.
The ones who thought numbers would tilt the scale. Who whispered to each other when they thought he wasn't listening. Who decided that if one-on-one wasn't enough, five or seven or twelve would be.
Those didn't get pointers.
They got removed.
Swiftly. Efficiently. Without drama.
The sky shimmered now, signaling new arrivals. More candidates breaching the zone edge, drawn by the shifting field. Their auras pulsed like distant storms—some strong, most uncertain. He could feel them approaching in the distance, even if they hadn't dared step into the arena's ruins yet.
From somewhere just beneath the edge of his thoughts, her voice emerged.
[You once again did something crazy.]
Lucavion's lips twitched into a dry smile.
"I didn't do anything," he replied smoothly, not looking up. "What do you mean?"
[Vitaliara's mental tone flicked with exaggerated disbelief.] [Yeah, yeah... You just happened to eliminate half a dozen in one stroke because they 'got too chatty,' and called it a tactical adjustment.]
"They were chatty."
[You gave pointers while dueling them.]
"I was being educational."
[You marked one guy's cloak with a mana-cut that said 'try harder.']
Lucavion shrugged.
"It was good advice."
A beat.
Then, her voice dipped—lower, thoughtful.
[That knight… Seran, or Reynald, or whatever name he thought he wore—he wasn't a normal guy, was he?]
Lucavion's smile deepened.
Not warm.
Not cruel.
Just… knowing.
"Heh…" He exhaled softly, almost like a chuckle. "Guess?"
Vitaliara scoffed.
[If you don't want to answer, Lucavion, just don't.]
Lucavion gave the barest shrug, his gaze never leaving the distant shimmer where the next group would emerge.
"I'm not hiding anything," he said. "You're just smart enough to figure it out yourself."
A pause.
She didn't argue.
Because she was.
And after a beat of silence, she exhaled through their bond, her voice steadier.
[I would guess… he was a noble's plant.]
Lucavion finally smiled again—thin, wry, just a hint of teeth.
"On the right track."
A moment of quiet passed between them, tension stretched not by argument, but shared inference. They didn't need to spell it all out. Not between them. Not now.
[But why?] she asked. [Why put him here? Why all that pretending?]
Lucavion let the wind pass between them, the breeze dragging ash and memory through the ruin.
And then he turned the question on her.
"Why are you the representative of the Beasts of Life?"
She blinked through the bond.
[What?]
"It's a simple question."
[Because I'm strong.]
"Good answer." He nodded once, like a teacher acknowledging the first step of a correct proof. "But is strength alone enough?"
A pause.
[You're baiting me into something.]
"I'm asking."
[Beasts of Life follow power. That's how it's always been.]
"Do they?" he murmured, turning just enough to glance down at the etchings beneath his boots—the charred stone still humming from the last battle. "Tell me. Would they follow a Mythical Beast of another element? A Fire Beast? A Death Beast?"
Vitaliara hesitated. [No. They… wouldn't.]
"Why?"
[Because it's not just about power.]
He smiled.
[It's about belonging. About nature. About… resonance.]
Lucavion gave a slow nod.
"Exactly."
Vitaliara went quiet.
Not in confusion.
In comprehension.
She let the idea settle, threading its weight through the lattice of her instincts—centuries of inherited memory and old-world logic clicking into place.
[So he was sent there… not to win. Not to lead.]
Lucavion didn't respond. He didn't have to.
[He was a spy. Planted among them to make them feel like he was one of their own. Make them comfortable. Lead them quietly. And when the time came—steer.]
A long pause.
Then—
[...You humans are really something.]
Lucavion chuckled softly, resting his chin on the back of one hand. "That almost sounded like a compliment."
[Don't push it.]
A new wind curled across the basin—warmer this time, and not from the stone.
From people.
One by one, new figures began to step across the cracked boundary that marked the edge of the safe zone. Their presence wasn't loud or coordinated. It was cautious. The air had shifted, after all—the pressure here was different. The terrain still bore the mark of Lucavion's last stand. Charred. Unwelcoming.
And yet… they came.
Candidates hardened by the previous phases, whittled down to those who had made it through not by hiding behind someone—but by surviving. Scarred. Tired. Real.
He could feel them.
Each one edged with tension. Quiet breaths. Flickers of mana threaded tight in preparation.
Then—
A shimmer.
Not grand.
Not loud.
Just… absent.
The air pulled back.
And she emerged.
The girl in gray.
She didn't walk with the others. She didn't move in a line or formation. She simply appeared—half-parted from the breeze, half-drawn from shadow.
Lucavion's eyes shifted immediately.
The silent one.
The one he had fought before.
Slender, wrapped in muted tones of cloth that seemed to refuse light. Her presence was like a whisper in a dream—half-seen, half-remembered. Illusion magic, threaded through stealth techniques. A phantom with intent.
[Vitaliara's voice curled through the bond, laced with quiet interest.]
[So… she survived.]
Lucavion's gaze lingered on the girl in gray. She hadn't spoken. Hadn't even moved beyond her initial step into the zone. But her presence was stable—her footing deliberate. She wasn't just alive. She was composed.
"Well," he murmured, "she was quite talented."
The girl didn't break eye contact. Not fully challenging, but not yielding either. Just a quiet understanding. A mutual recognition of what they both were: efficient. Precise. Dangerous when necessary.
Lucavion offered a faint gesture with his hand—just a small, open-palmed wave.
Not mockery. Not dismissal.
An acknowledgment.
She blinked once, then stepped to the edge of the basin, keeping her distance. Watching.
As the shimmer of the sky pulsed again, more candidates crossed the fractured threshold into the safe zone. One after another. Wounded. Breathing hard. Covered in mud, blood, and cracked enchantments.
But then—
Lucavion's brows arched just slightly.
"Oh," he murmured with mild amusement. "He's here."
A figure stumbled in—lean, his coat torn at the shoulder, pants half-singed, and his boots trailing dust from four separate biomes.
His expression?
Beaming.
"I made it!" the young man grinned to no one in particular, throwing his arms up. "WOOOHOOOO!"
Mana cracked faintly around him—not aggressive, not deliberate. But unstable. Thin tendrils of lightning shimmered in the air around his shoulders and fingertips, sparking like excited nerves.
Lucavion tilted his head.
Vitaliara made a soft noise of confusion.
[What a weirdo.]
"I think I like him," Lucavion muttered.
The boy, still grinning like a lunatic who'd won a game no one else knew they were playing, gave a mock bow to no one in particular, then collapsed onto a patch of unburned moss with an exaggerated sigh.
"Five stars," he said to the sky. "Zero regrets. Would not recommend."
Laughter stirred from a few corners of the crowd. Just a breath. Just enough to crack the tension that had begun to coil again.
Because tension was still here.
Despite the new faces, despite the sense of achievement, no one had forgotten where they were.
They were still rivals.
Still contestants.
And every person gathered in that basin—healers patching wounds, warriors sharpening blades, mages gathering their shattered focus—knew what was coming.
The final convergence.
And not all of them would leave it walking.
Chapter 690: Final Candidates (2)
The atmosphere had begun to stabilize—tense but quiet. Candidates huddled in corners of the basin, meditating, tending to wounds, casting wary glances at rivals and enemies alike. Mana was being restored. Plans were being made.
And then the ground shifted.
Not literally.
But perceptibly.
The air grew heavier. The mana thinner, like something massive had entered the field and drawn attention without sound or speech. Lucavion's head tilted slightly, his gaze already locked on the southern arch of the safe zone.
There—between the crumbled stone and shifting light—
He entered.
A figure whose presence felt carved, not born.
The young man who stepped through was built like war given skin—broad-shouldered, shirt torn across the ribs, blood drying in streaks across dark bronze skin. His cleaver—less a weapon and more a slab of steel shaped by fury—rested across his back like an extension of his spine.
And he radiated intent.
Not killing intent.
Not threat.
But challenge.
The kind of pressure that rolled off his form like heat from a forge, daring anyone nearby to even consider stepping forward.
[That's… not subtle,] Vitaliara muttered.
Lucavion didn't answer. He simply watched as the mountain of a man strode forward, each step deliberate, each movement taut with focus. The wounds on his arms looked recent—half-stitched by regeneration magic or sheer willpower—but none of them seemed to slow him.
He wasn't smiling. Not like the lightning fool had. Not like the smug nobles had before.
This man entered like a warrior who had earned the right to walk tall.
And he knew it.
Every person in the basin noticed.
The chatter stopped.
Even the gray-garbed girl's gaze lifted subtly, tracking him as he passed by her with a presence that didn't need words. The lightning-coated boy whistled low.
"...Damn," he muttered. "Did someone summon a raid boss?"
Lucavion smirked faintly at that.
Because yes.
It felt like that.
This wasn't just another survivor.
This was someone who had dragged half a war behind him just to arrive here.
And the aura he unleashed—
It wasn't accidental.
It was invitation.
A blatant declaration to every single candidate still conscious:
I'm not afraid of you.
Try me.
Lucavion's smirk deepened.
The newcomer hadn't spoken a word, hadn't so much as looked in his direction. But his presence had entered like a battle hymn without music—felt rather than heard.
[Vitaliara's voice coiled in his mind, drier than the cracked stone beneath their boots.]
[You've found your soulmate. Congratulations.]
Lucavion rolled his eyes without looking away. "You're hilarious."
[Seriously, you two should just spar until one of you breaks a rib or proposes.]
"I'm leaning toward both."
She huffed, smug. [And people say I'm dramatic.]
But then—
The light changed.
A low, deep pulse thrummed through the ground, followed by a golden shimmer that crept up the boundary of the safe-zone like frost in reverse. It wasn't violent, but it wasn't calm either.
Outside the circle, distant roars began to echo—monsters driven to frenzy, spell-saturated beasts losing form and control as the space around them warped.
The safe-zone itself lit with runes—one by one, like switches being thrown.
It had started.
Lucavion's eyes narrowed.
"The zone's converging."
Even the air was changing now, thicker with pressure, more volatile with shifting mana. Candidates began shifting on instinct, eyes darting, backs straightening. No one said it, but everyone felt it.
They had maybe twenty minutes.
Maybe less.
Then the circle would collapse, and the next phase—whatever chaos the mages had brewed—would begin.
But then—
Something else happened.
A flicker at the edge of vision.
A silhouette.
Small. Slender.
Crawling across the field outside the zone.
No—sliding.
"...Is that—?" someone muttered.
"Are those vines?" another asked, squinting.
Lucavion stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly.
They were vines. Thick, ropey threads of deep green, twisted with faint runes of movement magic. They writhed beneath the girl like living skates, carrying her broken form forward with aching slowness.
She was bleeding badly—her left leg wrapped in makeshift cloth, the wound still fresh, oozing with every shift. Her face was pale. Hair matted to her cheeks. But her eyes…
They never wavered.
Focused on the circle.
On survival.
Lucavion exhaled through his nose.
'Another one from the novel.'
She hadn't been a central character, not quite. But he remembered her. A quiet genius with plant affinity—slippery, calculating, and ferocious when cornered.
She didn't walk into the circle.
She slid into it.
Exactly one second before the convergence wall slammed shut.
Mana flared around the safe zone as it sealed completely, a burst of light rising skyward like a siren's call—and she collapsed onto the ground, the vines curling around her like tired limbs.
The tension rose again.
Lucavion didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just watched as another piece of the board settled into place.
And the final game prepared to begin.
*****
The sky above the basin dimmed for a breath.
Then—
It shone.
Not with sunlight, not with magic, but with intent. Golden threads of structured mana wove into a lattice, stretching upward and outward until it formed a dome of radiant arcane script above the gathered candidates.
The voice that followed was neither human nor machine. It was deep, resonant, and laced with the kind of timeless reverence that demanded attention without ever raising its volume.
"Congratulations."
A pause.
"To those who have reached this sanctum—your path has not been easy. You have bled. You have endured. You have been witnessed."
The words echoed through the basin, rolling over tired shoulders, bruised minds, and wary hearts.
"The trials you faced were not simply tests of survival—but tests of character, growth, and capacity. And now—your names shall be etched upon this trial's record."
A pulse rang through the air.
Then the dome shifted—compressing to a flat pane of pure mana above them, where golden letters began to inscribe themselves one by one.
First the header:
—CANDIDATE PERFORMANCE INDEX—
Then the names, listed in descending order, glowing brilliantly for all to see.
---------------------
Lucavion – 168,420 points
2. Caeden Roark – 56,010 points
3. Elayne Cors – 48,920 points
4. Mireilla Dane – 44,300 points
5. Toven Vintrell – 42,700 points
6.
7.
.
.
.
21.
--------------------
A murmur passed through the group like a wave. Someone audibly gasped.
Toven's voice broke the hush, cracking upward. "Wait, WHAT—?"
Even Vitaliara blinked.
[You tripled him.]
Lucavion tilted his head, expression unreadable.
"I was being polite."
[No, you weren't.]
The golden list continued etching names until the twenty-first entry shimmered into existence.
Then—
The voice returned.
"Current standings have been recorded."
A new pulse rippled through the air—less ceremonial now, more structured. The kind of shift that signaled a transition. A rule being drawn.
"There are twenty-one of you."
The light dimmed slightly, and a new interface formed beneath the performance list—a smaller set of glowing script now hanging midair like an edict suspended before judgment.
"Of these, the top five have earned provisional qualification to the Imperial Academy."
A breath caught in someone's throat.
The implication was clear.
Only the top five.
Lucavion didn't move. Caeden Roark nodded once, solemn but unsurprised. Elayne Cors's gaze narrowed in subtle focus. Mireilla straightened slightly despite her wound, eyes burning faint. Toven… looked like someone had hit him with a slow-moving realization spell.
"However," the voice continued, "those beyond rank five are not eliminated. Based on your demonstrated ability, you are eligible to join subsidiary academies within the kingdom's arcane, martial, and hybrid divisions."
There were murmurs now. Shifting stances. Some hopeful. Others… clearly not satisfied.
Then the light flared again, and the tone changed.
Sharper.
"If you are unhappy with your current placement—if you believe your talents warrant a higher place—you may issue a formal challenge to one of the top five."
Every head turned then.
Slowly.
Toward Lucavion.
Toward Caeden.
Toward Elayne.
Toward Mireilla.
Toward Toven.
"All challenges will be honored. All duels will be one-on-one."
Another beat.
"However, each candidate may only challenge once."
That last sentence dropped like a guillotine. Final. Cold. Unforgiving.
One shot.
One name.
One chance.
"Victory allows you to take your opponent's rank—and access to the Imperial Academy."
"Defeat ends your claim. Permanently."
The golden script hovered, silent once more.
And then, slowly—
The tension shifted again.
Everyone looked at everyone else.
Not just as survivors now.
But as rivals.
The final round had begun.
Chapter 691: Final Candidates (3)
The final words of the announcement faded—
And the silence that followed was no longer born of tension.
It was anticipation.
The kind that coiled in the gut. The kind that didn't crackle with fear, but readiness.
Then—
A ripple of energy shimmered across the outer edge of the safe-zone. Smooth. Intentional.
Dozens of figures began to appear in flashes of silver-blue light. Mages in layered robes and glowing insignia, each one marked by the Imperial Academy's seal—a nine-spoked sigil of convergence, hovering subtly above their left shoulders. Behind them came assistants, aides, and formal attendants dressed in neutral grays and gold-trimmed uniforms. Some held mana crystals. Others carried diagnostic relics, potion cases, or parchment-scroll interfaces hovering midair.
The candidates instinctively straightened.
This wasn't like the simulated broadcasts.
This was real presence.
Authority had arrived.
One of the mages stepped forward, an older woman with hair bound in coils of silver thread, her robe woven through with enchantments that glimmered as she moved.
Her voice carried without amplification.
"Candidates," she said. "You've reached the final trial phase. From here on, your battles will be fought under observation, judgment, and full restoration protocols."
She lifted a hand, and beneath her, sigils spread out like lotus petals—wide enough to cover the entire basin.
"You will now be granted recovery."
The petals shimmered, and a wave of soft mana rolled across the safe-zone—warm, vital, threaded with clarity and healing. Wounds began to mend. Bruises faded. Muscles unclenched. Mana cores tightened and rebalanced.
Even Lucavion felt it—like cool water threading through a forge.
[That's… clean work,] Vitaliara admitted. [Refined. Minimal interference. They didn't just pump healing magic into the air—they are tuning it for each individual.]
Lucavion said nothing, just closed his eyes for a moment as the ambient force recalibrated his internal flow.
Around him, others were visibly relaxing. Some collapsed onto the ground with ragged sighs. Others knelt, heads bowed as the pain they'd been carrying for days finally began to leave them.
Even Mireilla, still tangled in her vines, let out a breath so deep it almost cracked.
The mage continued.
"You will have time to rest. Food and mana restoration tinctures will be distributed shortly. Your next instructions will arrive within the hour."
Her gaze swept across the group once.
Cold.
Measuring.
She turned.
The other attendants began to move, dispersing recovery kits, stabilized potions, core-soothing scrolls, and in some cases—just warm water.
Lucavion exhaled slowly, feeling the threads of magic seep deeper into his frame—beyond the layer of healing, beyond the mundane restoration. There was something else in it. Something ancient. Something precise.
He opened his eyes.
"I didn't expect them to use divine power," he murmured.
[Vitaliara's presence sharpened immediately.]
[Divine power? So that's what it was.]
"Yes."
He rose to a full stand now, flexing his fingers as the lingering traces of the spellwork slipped away like silver mist. The tuning, the precision—it wasn't just smart magic. It was something more refined than arcana.
"Such wide-range recovery, all tuned individually," he continued, voice low. "It's not something normal high-tier healing spells can accomplish. And that clarity—how it never clashes with our own mana channels? That's divine resonance."
[From war?] she asked cautiously.
Lucavion's smirk was faint. Knowing.
"…You can say that."
Vitaliara huffed.
[Of course you know what that feels like.]
But she didn't press further.
Because the air was already changing again.
The basin, once chaotic and scarred, now shimmered with a subtle transformation. The atmosphere didn't grow heavier—it became defined.
Above each candidate, a shimmering thread of mana now floated—barely a hand's length above their heads. Thin golden lines, each pulsing softly, glowing with a single, undeniable truth:
Their names.
Not spoken. Not shouted.
Simply shown.
Lucavion
Caeden Roark
Elayne Cors
Mireilla Dane
Toven Vintrell
And down the line. All twenty-one.
There were no ranks attached—only names.
But the moment Lucavion's shimmered into view, there was a pause.
Heads turned.
Toven's breath caught, and he visibly deflated. Mireilla, still half-reclined, blinked once and simply nodded to herself, as if confirming a suspicion. Elayne's gaze flicked upward—not in surprise, but in confirmation.
And around them, others—those ranked below, some just outside the top five, some at the very bottom—looked.
At him.
Because now they knew who he was.
Lucavion tilted his head back, just slightly, letting the golden thread above him shimmer in his peripheral vision.
Then, with a lazy smile curling across his lips, he exhaled a single phrase—
"Wow… Look, I'm famous now."
He said it like a joke.
But the eyes on him?
They didn't find it funny.
Not because he wasn't amusing—he was.
But because the smile wasn't mocking.
It was relaxed.
Laidback.
Like a man lounging on the edge of a volcano, wondering if anyone would be stupid enough to push him in.
Lucavion's gaze swept casually across the crowd, catching every glance thrown his way—curious, fearful, envious, calculating. He met them all with the same look.
An open invitation.
Go on, he thought.
Try me.
Because under the calm, under the amused glint in his eye and the hand loosely resting against his hip, he could feel it.
The itch.
The pulse.
That soft thrum of anticipation rising through his skin like a second heartbeat.
He wasn't smug because he was safe.
He was smiling because he was ready.
If any of them—any one of them—was arrogant enough to believe that 168,420 points could be earned by trickery or happenstance…
Well.
Wouldn't it be fun to prove them wrong?
The kind of fun that left craters.
Just then, as if to cater his thoughts…
A shadow moved.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Boots thudded against the basin floor—not with urgency, but with certainty. Not like someone charging into a duel, but like someone walking home.
Lucavion's smile widened—barely.
Because he already knew who it was.
Caeden Roark stepped forward from the gathered candidates, towering over the crowd like a wall that had grown legs. His frame was a masterpiece of tempered brutality—muscle packed tight, not bulky in excess, but in function. Every motion spoke of strength refined through purpose, not vanity.
His skin, deep bronze, bore recent scars like medals—some slashed down his shoulder, one still fresh across his left collarbone, cauterized but not healed. His cleaver, nearly the size of a grown man's torso, was strapped to his back in a harness of rune-threaded leather, though he didn't reach for it. Not yet.
He didn't need to.
Not to speak.
Caeden's hair was short, the curls damp with sweat and dust. His jaw was squared, unshaven, his expression carved from stone and set with one clear emotion: recognition.
And still, he walked.
Right up to Lucavion.
Until he was close enough that his shadow covered him entirely.
And then—he stopped.
Said nothing.
Just stood there, gaze tilted down with the weight of someone who wasn't impressed by titles, numbers, or flair. Not out of arrogance—but honor. Because Caeden Roark didn't look down on Lucavion to belittle him.
He looked down to meet him.
This wasn't hostility.
It wasn't challenge born from pride.
It was a test.
Silence rippled through the crowd.
Lucavion, still resting one hand lazily near his hip, blinked once.
Then grinned.
Because beneath Caeden's calm exterior, beneath the quiet steps and unmoving stance—he could feel it.
Not anger.
Not ego.
But fire.
A slow, patient one.
The kind that built under mountains for centuries…
…before exploding skyward.
Just how he liked it.
The silence stretched long enough to feel like the world was holding its breath.
Around them, the other candidates leaned in—some subconsciously, some openly. Even the mages and attendants paused mid-movement, their senses fine-tuned enough to register the crackling tension blooming at the center of the basin.
Lucavion, still relaxed, didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He waited.
And then—
Caeden Roark spoke.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was deep, even, and unflinching.
"You…"
A pause.
"…you are strong."