Chapter 131 - IS 131

Chapter 717: You have grown

'Three years ago, he fought like a wildfire,' Harlan thought, eyes narrowing slightly. 'As if nothing to lose, and as if only to fight.'

Back then, every swing Lucavion made carried a kind of beautiful recklessness—raw, untamed, dangerous in its refusal to care about the consequences. He had bled just to feel alive. Had smiled at the taste of pain because it meant he hadn't disappeared yet. He swung not for victory, not even for survival.

He swung to burn.

But now…

Now the fire was different.

Harlan looked again—not at the movements, but at the stillness.

At the blade Lucavion hadn't drawn.

At the way he controlled each step like a man who knew exactly where he was going—not just in the spar, but in the world.

'That sword of his… it has a direction now.'

The realization struck deep.

'It's not just being swung anymore. It's pointed at something. At someone.'

Harlan didn't know what that was.

Didn't ask.

But he saw it—in the way Lucavion held his weight, in the way he breathed between clashes, in the eyes that didn't burn as wildly as before but cut sharper than ever.

Purpose.

That was the difference.

The blade hadn't dulled—but it had focused.

And for the first time in Harlan's long, soot-lined life, he felt something that wasn't irritation or pride or the urge to hurl a wrench at someone's head.

It was concern.

Not for Lucavion.

For whoever would stand at the end of that sword.

'Gods help them,' he thought, 'because I can't.'

He took one step back and planted the test blade down into the floor with a firm clang, letting the echo ring once through the chamber.

Then he looked up—at the young man who had walked into his forge like a memory and now stood there like the weight of the future.

"You've passed," he said.

Lucavion arched an eyebrow, playful. "Was this a test?"

Harlan's voice dropped.

"It always was."

Harlan looked at him for a long time, the lines in his face cast deep by the forge-glow, his stance more relaxed but his eyes… older. Sharper.

Then he said it—not like a confession, but like the inevitable weight of a truth settling into place.

"I can't see through you anymore."

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, but didn't interrupt.

Harlan continued, quieter. "Back then, I could read your stance, your intent, your edge… like watching the grain in hot steel. I knew where you'd crack. Where you'd lash out. But now?" He shook his head. "You've grown above what I am. I'm good in a fight. I can still swing a hammer. But I'm a blacksmith, not a swordsman."

Lucavion shrugged. "If I wanted, I could become the Empire's greatest blacksmith too," he said, deadpan.

Then he added, just a shade too quickly, "Kidding."

Harlan scoffed, sharp and immediate. "You'd burn down your own forge before you figured out how to temper flux."

Lucavion grinned. "You say that like it hasn't almost happened."

Harlan didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead, he leaned back slightly, glancing down at the now-stilled practice blade still planted in the stone.

"Still," he muttered, "going from a 2-star brat to a peak 4-star awakened in this short a time… You really are a kid no one can make sense of."

Lucavion blinked once—just once—then looked over at him sidelong.

"You could see through that?"

Harlan shook his head. "Nah."

He gestured vaguely with his hand, as if brushing aside the question like ash.

"I was told the one coming today would be a peak 4-star awakened. Age: twenty. Blade-user. Quiet aura, strange flame." His lips twisted. "I scoffed. Thought it was another high-born brat with a puffed-up title and six guards carrying his coat."

He looked back at Lucavion.

"And who the hell would've guessed it was you."

Lucavion's expression stayed still for a moment longer. Then—

He gave a short, low chuckle.

"Well," he said, stretching his arms behind his head, the edge of a grin curling into place again, "I am very good at ruining expectations."

Harlan grunted. "You're good at giving me a headache."

Lucavion smirked. "Same thing."

And for a moment—just one brief, ember-quiet moment—there was no Empire, no war, no next battle waiting.

Just the master smith.

And the sword he had once tempered.

Harlan finally broke the silence with a long exhale, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to dislodge the weight of the past five minutes.

"Well," he muttered, stepping back from the dais and giving Lucavion a last once-over, "now that I know you're not going to snap like copper in the quench…"

Lucavion rolled his shoulders, the grin still sitting comfortably at the corner of his mouth. "That your way of saying I passed?"

"No," Harlan said flatly, already walking toward the hall's exit. "It's my way of saying I won't feel bad when your new blade tries to kill you."

Lucavion fell into step behind him, hands slipping into his coat pockets with that same casual swagger. "Ah, so the usual then."

They exited the armory chamber together, the great iron doors rumbling closed behind them with a heavy, resonant thunk—like the forge itself was sealing a verdict.

The hall outside was quieter, broader—a transition space where fire gave way to stone, and the true crafting rooms lay ahead.

Kaleran stood near one of the archways, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression just short of impatient. The attendant beside him perked up the moment they entered, shoulders stiffening like he'd just remembered to breathe again.

"There you are!" the attendant blurted, half-panicked, half-relieved. "We—uh—we heard sword clashing. Multiple strikes. A spar? A duel?"

Harlan's eyes slid toward him like a whetstone dragging along an old chip in the blade.

"No," he growled. "You heard me trying not to bury a boy in the wall."

The attendant flinched slightly, then tried to laugh it off. "Of course, Master Harlan, I didn't mean to imply—"

"Then don't," Harlan cut in, already walking past him. "Stop implying. Stop talking. In fact, stop being. You're wasting perfectly good hallway space."

Kaleran didn't flinch—but his eyes did twitch sideways. "He's been like this since you left," he muttered to Lucavion.

Lucavion gave a mock-thoughtful hum. "I think he likes me more when I'm not around."

Behind them, the attendant mumbled something vaguely apologetic and disappeared down another hall with a stack of parchment like it was a shield.

Harlan stalked back toward the dais, the light of the forge crawling over his shoulders like it was familiar with the shape of his scowl. He paused at the center—boots grinding slightly against the scorched blackstone beneath him—then turned, arms crossing over his chest.

"Well then," he said gruffly, eyes on Lucavion. "Let's talk about your blade."

Lucavion stepped into the light beside him, the air still thick with heat and awe.

"I was wondering when we'd get to that part," he said, voice light but clear. The usual smirk flickered at the corners of his mouth, but didn't fully form—not here. Not yet.

"This isn't just about design," Harlan continued. "We need to talk access. Material grade. Rune density. Alloy layering. I don't care what kind of miracle you want me to build if I'm stuck using bar scrap and borrowed cores."

He shot a pointed look sideways—past Lucavion, toward the watching figure in slate gray.

Kaleran, ever dignified, folded his arms. "All entrants were given a baseline allocation, with scaling determined by rank and—"

Lucavion cut in smoothly, gaze sliding toward him with the weight of inevitability.

"We have quite a lot to use, don't we?"

Chapter 718: You have grown (2)

"We have quite a lot to use, don't we?"

It wasn't a question.

And Kaleran knew it.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing whether reminding Lucavion that he was in possession of more exam points than half the region combined was wise or necessary.

He settled on clipped precision. "Yes. Your score entitles you to… extensive material rights. And priority." He paused, then added with faint resignation, "Nearly unrestricted within the forge's sanctioned inventory."

Lucavion turned back to Harlan, voice low and easy.

"There you have it, old man. Empire says I'm rich in fire."

Harlan gave a single nod at Kaleran's reluctant confirmation, the gesture curt but approving.

"That's good then," he said, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Because what I'm about to do… it won't be cheap. Not in steel. Not in effort."

Then his gaze shifted.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And locked onto Lucavion.

"Kid," Harlan said, voice lower now—rougher. Not with annoyance, but with weight. "Your condition is as unique as your flame."

Lucavion tilted his head, his smirk gone, expression sharpening with curiosity. He didn't interrupt.

Harlan continued, stepping closer, his voice almost quiet enough to get lost in the flicker of forgelight.

"When I forged that first blade for you… you brought the materials. The Lesser Abyssal Wyrm's scale, tempered under your flame, fit with you. It wasn't just resonance. It was alignment. Symbiosis." His eyes flickered down to the sword still resting at Lucavion's hip. "But let's not pretend that's what made it work."

He tapped a knuckle lightly against the hilt, a hollow metallic thud echoing off the stone.

"It worked because I forged it right. Tempered it with your flame in mind. Held it at the edge of destruction until it stabilized. Anyone else would've cracked it in the first hour."

Lucavion didn't argue.

He didn't need to.

They both knew it.

"But we're not gonna find something like that again," Harlan said, straightening. "No second miracle scale just waiting to fall into your hands. And frankly…"

He folded his arms again, tone shifting with quiet certainty.

"We don't need one."

Lucavion's brow rose slightly. "Oh?"

Harlan nodded toward the old blade.

"We're not starting over. We're building forward. That weapon of yours—it's taken more than most royal-armory prototypes could. It's seasoned. Balanced. But it's strained."

He turned and began pacing slowly, thoughtfully, as if outlining the blueprint aloud more for the forge than the boy.

"So here's what I'm going to do: I'll reforged it—not replace it. The base stays. Abyssal scale stays. But I'm going to layer it."

He glanced toward the vault doors at the side of the forge chamber.

"There's a cache of Umbracite alloy—strong enough to add structural reinforcement without fighting the wyrm's mana signature. I'll weave it through the inner core, bolster the edges where the resonance channels are thinning."

Lucavion's eyes sharpened slightly. Not with skepticism—but with understanding.

"And the runes?" he asked.

Harlan smirked.

"I'm going to re-etch them. Properly this time. Conductive series from the old Aetherium school. Built for hybrid flame users, and crazy bastards with unstable circuits."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Lucavion muttered.

"You better," Harlan shot back, then continued.

"The new runes'll boost your control—less strain on your core when channeling through the blade. They'll let you push farther, harder, and longer without snapping your resonance wide open."

Lucavion nodded slowly, fingers brushing once more along the flat of the blade.

"Alright," he said, voice quiet but resolute. "Let's give her one more life."

He unfastened the sheath from his hip and held it out—not like a weapon being returned, but like a memory entrusted.

Harlan took it without ceremony, but with a kind of reverence only smiths ever understood. He turned it once in his hands, ran a thumb along the aged spine, then gave a curt nod.

"Good," he muttered. "I'll start the prep now."

Lucavion was already stepping back when Harlan's voice followed him, just a bit lower.

"…Also not done."

Lucavion paused mid-turn. "Not done?"

Harlan didn't look up. He was already walking toward the inner forge chamber, blade in hand.

"I'll be forging some other artifacts for you."

Lucavion's brow rose. "Some other artifacts?"

"You'll see them when the time comes."

Lucavion crossed his arms, leaning slightly to one side. "Come on, old man, you know I hate surprises."

"No."

"That's it? No elaboration? Not even a hint?"

"No."

Harlan gestured vaguely without turning around, the motion half dismissive, half threatening. "You're already a pain just standing here. Go."

Lucavion made an exaggerated show of sighing. "Acting pretty cold for someone with all our shared history."

Harlan finally stopped.

Turned his head just enough to show one eye beneath the shadow of his brow.

"Shared history?" he asked, voice deadpan. "Kid, we spent two days in Rackenshore before you ran off with a blade and three cracked ribs."

Lucavion shrugged. "Memorable two days."

"You slept in the corner of my forge and threatened a customer over tea."

Lucavion grinned. "Again. Memorable."

Harlan pointed toward the exit with the handle of a smithing hammer.

"Out. Before I start forging your sense of drama into a horseshoe."

Lucavion held up both hands in surrender, chuckling. "Alright, alright. I'm going."

As he stepped out of the forge chamber, the heat pulsing at his back like a familiar breath, he glanced over his shoulder once.

"Don't ruin her," he said softly.

Harlan didn't turn around.

"She is my own creation."

And with that, the forge roared to life behind him.

****

The heat of the forge faded behind Lucavion like the breath of an old dragon content to slumber once more. The corridor ahead pulsed with the quieter lights of polished stone and embedded runes, and just beyond it—distantly—the ringing of other blacksmiths' work.

It didn't take long for the others to finish.

One by one, they emerged from their designated forge stations—some with blades wrapped in enchantment cloth, others with reinforced gloves, gauntlets, or magical focusing pendants held tight to their chest.

Caeden was first. His weapon was a refined greatsword, elegantly minimal but layered with latent aether coils. It looked like it belonged on a battlefield carved from myth. He said nothing, only gave Lucavion a quiet nod that held far more than words.

Elayne followed, her artifact not a weapon in the traditional sense, but an intricate bracer-rig for spell acceleration. It shimmered faintly in the light—almost like it didn't want to be noticed. Typical.

Mireilla's was a vine-bound glaive, the shaft reinforced with metalroot and the edge carved from something too luminous to be iron. Her expression remained unreadable, but her knuckles never left the grip.

And then—Toven.

Dragging his feet. Grumbling like a child denied dessert.

"I'm just saying," he muttered, holding up a mana-core stabilized wand lined with defensive runes, "it's nice, but it's not a flaming sword that can split mountains."

Mireilla gave him a sideways look. "You can barely lift a sword."

"I could've trained."

"You still wouldn't lift it."

"I could've asked for an enchanted—"

Lucavion patted Toven once on the back as they walked. "Sword is every man's romance, right?"

Toven sighed theatrically. "At least someone understands me."

Together, the five exited the Emberhold, the fading hum of the forge at their backs, and made their way back through the crystalline pathways of the Imperial Borough. The floating lights above had dimmed into twilight colors—deep blue and pale gold—marking the capital's transition into evening.

By the time they reached their accommodations again, dinner had already been prepared.

It wasn't opulent—not by noble standards—but it was refined. Elegance without waste. Spiced bread, steamed root blends, seared meat glazed in mana-brew, and wine that adjusted its notes to the drinker's mana.

Lucavion took his seat at the circular dining table last, reclining just enough to give the impression of contentment while still keeping his posture guarded.

They ate together. Not boisterously, not like comrades. But like people who had bled in the same ring and now found themselves tethered, however reluctantly, by fate and circumstance.

Then—

Kaleran arrived again.

This time, he didn't lecture. He didn't sigh. He simply stood by the edge of the room like the herald of a new chapter.

"Your sponsor meetings will begin tomorrow," he said, his tone formal. "You've received more interest than any entrant class in recent memory—particularly you, Lucavion."

Lucavion didn't respond, just swirled the last of his wine in its cup.

"I suggest," Kaleran continued, "you review your provided dossiers tonight. All sponsors for the first wave of meetings will be finalized by sunrise. You will be expected to dress accordingly and be on time."

Toven blinked. "Wait—we have to meet them?"

"You don't have to accept anyone," Kaleran replied. "But you will be present. The Academy has its own pride to maintain. I suggest," his eyes flicked toward Lucavion briefly, "you do not greet any of them with fire."

Lucavion raised his glass.

"No promises."

Kaleran didn't even twitch. He just turned and left the room in silence.

Leaving only the soft chime of floating utensils and the quiet thought:

Chapter 719: Failure

The room was quiet.

Not the peace of silence.

But the kind of quiet that waited.

Reynald sat alone in the center of a perfectly square chamber carved from deep, dark stone. Smooth walls pulsed faintly with containment glyphs—soft runes etched into the walls like veins, shifting gently with blue-white light. Not enough to blind. Just enough to remind.

You are not free.

It had been a day and a half.

Thirty-nine hours, by his count.

He had not been questioned.

He had not been summoned.

Not a single mage had stepped through the reinforced threshold that sealed the only door. No instructors. No judges. No Crown-bearers.

Just silence, and the quiet hum of restraint wards working endlessly overhead.

He shifted slightly on the bench they'd given him—clean, polished stone, with a cushion that suggested civility rather than mercy. The food had been fine. Nutritious. The water was cool. His injuries had been treated, his burns salved, his bones aligned.

Everything looked like kindness.

But it wasn't.

He wasn't being treated.

He was being watched.

Reynald leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers curling into each other.

There were no shackles.

No bars.

But he knew the truth.

This place was more secure than any prison. The wards etched into the walls were tuned to resonance signatures. Personalized to match his aura. His escape was not only unlikely—it was mathematically impossible.

The Crown Prince had told him what to expect if he failed.

He had not told him what would happen if he disobeyed.

And that was the weight pressing down on him now.

Not the confinement.

Not the silence.

Uncertainty.

'No one's come.'

Not even a reprimand.

Not even a scolding.

And that was what unnerved him most.

He had expected judgment.

What he'd gotten was…

Nothing.

His thoughts spiraled.

Did he overstep? Of course he did.

The artifact—unauthorized. His technique—lethal. The intent—not just evident, but public.

He could see it now. The way Lucavion had looked at him at the end.

He had known.

Every inch of it.

And so had the observers.

Of course, the crime he'd committed—while severe—wasn't enough to warrant execution.

Not officially.

The rules of the Academy's entrance exams were clear. No artifact-class weaponry above Tier III. No externally synced spellcraft. No lethal force without direct provocation or life-endangerment.

He had broken two of the three.

And yet, in the eyes of the law, the penalty would be suspension. Disqualification at worst. A sealed record. Maybe a quiet reassignment far from the capital, hidden behind paperwork and forgotten honors.

But that didn't matter.

Not to him.

Because this wasn't about a violation.

It was about a failure.

He had been given a job.

Not a task. Not a goal.

A purpose.

Infiltrate the Academy. Rise with the commoners. Shape their narrative. Be the symbol.

That was all he was supposed to do.

And he'd failed.

There was no misunderstanding it. No way to explain it cleanly. No mitigating detail that could rewrite what had happened on that field.

He had fought with full strength.

He had used the Crown Prince's tools.

He had tried to kill a man.

And he still lost.

'How did it come to this?'

The question turned in his mind like a blade lodged too deep to pull free.

Lucavion.

That man.

The fracture in every assumption. The ghost in the machine. The one piece of the board that didn't follow rules, didn't answer to any faction—didn't belong.

He had expected resistance. Rivalry. Even danger.

But not that.

Not someone who could stand at the peak without a crown.

Not someone who could smile through fire, unravel techniques designed by palace tacticians, and walk away not triumphant—

But amused.

And worse—informed.

'How did he know?'

Lucavion hadn't just matched him.

He had spoken words he should not have known.

"Your master. I'm coming for him."

Reynald's throat tightened.

Lucavion hadn't guessed.

He had known.

About the Crown Prince.

About Reynald's role.

About the artifact's presence.

And that—

That changed everything.

This wasn't just a freak encounter with a rogue awakened. This wasn't some unexpected prodigy slipping through the cracks.

This was interference.

Premeditated. Directed. Designed.

'But by who?'

Who was Lucavion?

Who trained him?

Who gave him that sword technique?

No public records. No noble house. No Empire-granted cultivation route. And yet—he moved like someone who had seen death from the inside and carved a name into its walls.

He knew things he shouldn't.

He did things that shouldn't be possible.

And maybe the worst truth of all—

He hadn't even been fighting to win.

Lucavion hadn't killed him.

Hadn't even tried.

Because Seran had never been the target.

He had been the message.

The thought struck like a cold needle through his spine.

He had been used.

Used by someone else's plan to carry a warning to his master.

He clenched his jaw, fists tight against his knees.

'No.'

Just then…..a sound echoed.

—KNOCK.

The sound wasn't loud.

But it was foreign.

Alien.

After nearly two days of uninterrupted stillness, the single rap against the reinforced door struck like thunder. Reynald's head snapped up, every thought in his mind freezing mid-motion.

Someone was here.

Finally.

He rose to his feet, not quickly—but with practiced grace, keeping his posture sharp even now. He brushed a hand through his hair, composed the tension in his shoulders, and faced the door.

Was it him?

The thought came unbidden.

Had the Crown Prince arrived to speak in person? To pass judgment? No—he wouldn't come here. Not to the holding tier of the Citadel. Not when his presence could stir whispers, trigger questions.

Still…

He waited.

A series of mechanical clicks followed—runic seals disengaging, glyphs stuttering briefly as the door hissed open.

And the one who entered—

Wasn't Him.

It was worse.

Reynald's eyes narrowed.

"…Ronnie."

The man who stepped inside was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in travel-dark armor lined with crimson thread—form-fitting, but ceremonial. His white gloves were spotless, his cape draped with just enough flair to suggest importance without arrogance.

But his smirk?

That was pure poison.

"Reynald," Ronnie said, his tone smooth and slightly amused. "You're looking well. Considering."

Reynald said nothing at first.

His eyes dropped slightly—just for a second—toward Ronnie's belt. The seal hanging there bore the same crest etched into his own armor months ago.

The sigil of the Crown Prince's inner circle.

But unlike Seran…

Ronnie didn't wear it like it was borrowed.

He wore it like it belonged.

"What do you want?" Reynald asked, keeping his voice even.

Ronnie chuckled softly, stepping further into the chamber with that same casual confidence that made Seran want to snap the bench in half.

"To visit an old comrade," he said.

"Don't lie."

"Oh, I wouldn't insult you with lies," Ronnie replied, brushing invisible dust from his lapel. "Not when the truth is so much more fun."

He met Reynald's gaze directly.

"I came to see what failure looks like."

Chapter 720: Failure (2)

"I came to see what failure looks like."

Reynald's glare could have carved glass.

His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, knuckles paling, but he didn't strike. He didn't rise to the bait. Not now. Not in here.

He'd learned better.

"I know I failed," he said, voice like a drawn blade—quiet, sharp, restrained. "You don't need to remind me."

Ronnie raised a brow, arms folded loosely as he leaned against the rune-sealed wall. "Then what, Seran? Should I offer comfort? A handshake? Maybe write a letter of recommendation for your early retirement?"

But Reynald didn't flinch.

He stepped forward.

"Lucavion," he said, his voice cutting through the chamber like the edge of his own ruined sword. "He's not just some rogue awakened. He knew."

Ronnie's expression didn't change.

"He knew, Ronnie," Seran repeated, firmer now. "He knew I was under direct orders. He knew I wasn't a real commoner. He knew about the Crown Prince."

At that, Ronnie blinked once.

Slow.

Measured.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't loud. Just a short exhale through his nose—disbelief dressed up in a sneer.

"Oh, gods, Seran…"

He shook his head, pushing off the wall with an easy roll of his shoulders.

"So that's what this is."

Seran stiffened.

"You're making excuses."

"It's not an—"

"You're trying to protect your pride," Ronnie continued, cutting him off. "I get it. It's pathetic, but I get it. You thought you'd be the golden shadow, right? The perfect little emblem of loyalty."

His tone dropped.

"But you lost. On camera. To a man who never said his name."

Reynald took a step closer, jaw tight. "I'm not excusing anything. I'm warning you. Warning him. That man—Lucavion—he didn't beat me by chance. He planned it. He provoked me into drawing the artifact. He knew where it was. How it worked."

Ronnie's smirk faded slightly, but only slightly. His eyes stayed cold, flat.

"You really expect me to carry that up the chain? 'Oh, he beat me, but he knew too much, sir!'" His lip curled. "Do you think the Prince has time for your paranoia?"

Seran's eyes blazed. "Then send me to him. Let me speak directly—"

"No," Ronnie snapped. The smile vanished now, fully replaced by disdain. "You don't get to speak directly anymore. You forfeited that right when you exposed your rank, your weapons, and our involvement in front of the Empire's whole damn broadcast grid."

He leaned in.

"You don't get to lecture me on threats. You are the threat now. A liability."

Silence.

Reynald stood still.

Then—

"If you don't believe me, fine," he said, low. "Ignore me. Write me off."

But his eyes, now clear and steady, locked onto Ronnie's.

"But when Lucavion burns through the next operative—when he gets closer—don't say I didn't warn you."

Ronnie stared back, unreadable for a moment.

Then he turned, walking for the door.

At the threshold, he paused.

"Lucavion," he said again, the name rolling off his tongue like something bitter. "You know, it's not just you whispering it anymore."

He turned, only slightly, enough for the faint glow of the glyphs to catch the sharp curve of his smirk.

"Half the damn Empire's whispering it now. You've seen the rankings….Oh right, you haven't…."

Reynald didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

Ronnie continued.

"First-ranked. Highest point total. Eliminated over a dozen high-tier candidates—including your entire group."

His tone darkened, now tinged with disgust.

"Every last one of them. The kids you hand-fed through the earlier stages, the ones you shared your rations with—he erased them. No hesitation. No delay. One by one, clean and quiet."

Reynald's eyes narrowed.

Ronnie let the words hang for a moment, like smoke curling in still air.

Then he scoffed, shaking his head with a humorless grin.

"Oh—and get this," he added, as if tossing a final insult onto an open grave. "He gave them tips."

Reynald's gaze snapped upward.

"Mid-duel. Mid-pressure. He offered corrections on their stances. Told one of them not to overextend with her left leg. Gave another advice on mana flow before shattering his shield right through it."

Ronnie turned, pacing with theatrical disgust. "Gives them help, then wipes them off the field. What does that make him? A battle tutor from the abyss?"

He stopped. Met Reynald's stare again.

"And still came in first. Overwhelmingly. Every instructor on the top floor had their runes pinging red from the spike in kill score."

"He wasn't after points," Seran said.

The words came flat.

Firm.

Ronnie tilted his head, amused. "No?"

Seran's eyes burned.

"He didn't just dislike my group. He targeted them. Because of me."

"Oh? So now it's personal?"

"He said it himself," Seran replied coldly. "'Because you need to leave a message.'"

Ronnie blinked, and Seran stepped closer, his voice low, even.

"He spared me on purpose. After disabling me. He branded my chest with flame. A crown, Ronnie."

A tense pause.

"He told me," Seran continued, "'Your master. I'm coming for him.'"

That stilled the air for a heartbeat.

Then—

Ronnie laughed.

Not lightly.

Not kindly.

A full, dry, mocking laugh that rang off the stone walls like nails dragged across iron.

"Hunting the Crown?" he echoed through the grin. "Ahahaha…"

He wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, Seran. You poor bastard. You've been beaten so thoroughly you've started quoting your opponent like some tragic bard from the frontier."

He leaned forward again, smirking like a knife.

"Next thing you'll be telling me he's a fallen god in disguise, cursed to walk among mortals, preaching poetic vengeance between sparring drills."

Seran didn't blink.

Didn't move.

And that was what made Ronnie's grin finally falter.

Just a little.

"You think I'm being dramatic," Seran said.

Ronnie turned away.

"No," he said over his shoulder, voice cool again. "I think you've cracked under pressure."

Seran's composure cracked.

His hand lashed to his collar, fingers digging into the fabric. He yanked the front of his tunic down, exposing the skin just above his heart—where the mark still lay.

A twisted, blackened burn.

Not jagged. Not random.

A crown.

Charred into flesh with precision. The edges still raw. The skin still tender.

Unhealed.

Despite the potions. Despite the restoratives they'd given him when he was dragged from the arena. Despite the healers who had mended his ribs, aligned his spine, cleared the battle-bruises from his limbs.

This mark—

It stayed.

"Look at it!" Seran shouted, voice echoing through the chamber like a fractured sword strike.

Ronnie turned, pausing just long enough to glance.

Then he laughed.

Not the sneer this time.

A bark of amusement.

"You're showing me scars now?" he said, grinning like this was theater. "What's next, Seran? Do you write poetry about the fire in his eyes?"

Seran didn't flinch.

He kept his hand over the brand, jaw clenched.

"This isn't normal," he growled. "I've had third-circle curse brands vanish in minutes. But this? It hasn't faded. It hasn't even scabbed."

"And what, exactly, do you want me to do with that?" Ronnie asked, spreading his arms with mock empathy. "Report to the Crown Prince that Lucavion's flames are emotionally clingy?"

He tilted his head.

"Or maybe you think that's part of the prophecy too."

Seran's breathing was sharp now, each inhale laced with restraint. "You think this is funny. You think he's funny. But listen to me, Ronnie."

He took a step forward.

Closer.

"This mark—this brand—he left it intentionally. As a message. As a promise."

Ronnie stared at him.

Unimpressed.

Seran's voice dropped.

Low. Hollow.

"He doesn't want to fight us. He wants to tear through us."

Ronnie stared at the charred crown, lips twitching with amusement.

Then he exhaled—long, exaggerated—before clicking his tongue once.

"Come on, man…" he said, voice dripping with false pity. "You've really gotta do better than self-harm conspiracies."

Seran blinked. His breath caught.

Ronnie gave a dramatic shrug, motioning lazily at the burn on his chest. "A non-healing brand? In this era? With the healers you had access to? You expect me to believe he etched a permanent magical threat into your skin and nobody could purge it?"

He smirked again. Cruel now.

"Honestly, Seran, if you did carve that into yourself, I'll admit—it's a nice touch. Very tragic. Very literary." He leaned back slightly. "Next time maybe add a poem around it. Something about fire and forgotten crowns."

Seran's fists trembled at his sides.

But Ronnie didn't give him a chance to speak.

He turned for the door, gloves folded neatly behind his back as the runes began to swirl in preparation for departure.

"Anyway," he said casually, "your new placement's been finalized."

The door hissed.

"Welcome to the Ash-Class."

The glyphs pulsed brighter behind him.

"But don't worry. Someone'll come fetch you soon."

He stepped through.

And then, without turning—

"Oh. And Seran?"

The words echoed like a nail driven into old wood.

"Try not to embarrass him again."

The door sealed behind him.

And Seran stood alone.

The crown on his chest still burned.

Not with heat.

With reminder.

Chapter 721: List (1)

The palace air was heavier this morning.

Not in weight, but in tension—sharp, subtle, threaded through the corridors like a scent only the politically aware could smell. Priscilla Lysandra stood by the arched window of her private chamber, the soft light of early afternoon glinting off her shoulder brooch, casting a long shadow across the scrolls laid before her.

Idena entered, as she always did—quiet, efficient, unbothered by the disrepair of the western wing where her mistress lived. But today, her steps were brisker. Intentional.

"They've made the announcement," Idena said, coming to a calm stop beside the desk. "Today is the final deadline for sponsor applications."

Priscilla's gaze did not shift from the city skyline beyond the window. But the slight tension in her shoulder eased—not from comfort, but from recognition. She had expected this.

"All five candidates?" she asked.

"Yes," Idena confirmed. "The academy has finalized the list. Sponsor applications are being collected now. The selection will be left entirely to the candidates. Each of them has until the bell of eight to make their decisions."

Priscilla turned at last, one hand resting against the cool frame of the window. "And how many hours until that?"

"Two," Idena said crisply. "Most of the top-tier houses have already submitted their offers—some even multiple ones, through different representatives."

Priscilla's lips curled faintly. "Desperate."

"Calculated," Idena corrected gently. "Especially for Lucavion."

Priscilla's eyes darkened at the name.

Lucavion. Of course.

She could already imagine the halls of Zephyrstone teeming with young heirs, sponsors, agents with silver tongues and gilded contracts—each one of them waiting for the same storm-touched boy who had shaken the Trials with nothing more than precision and presence

"And the academy?" she asked. "Do they interfere?"

"Not officially," Idena said. "They've left it to the candidates entirely."

Priscilla said nothing at first.

Her gaze lingered over the skyline of the Imperial Borough, where the gleam of the spires masked a thousand layers of politics, ambition, and veiled hunger. Somewhere beyond that, in the heart of Zephyrstone, five names were being weighed. Assessed. Claimed.

And hers?

Wasn't among them.

Not yet.

She knew the reality. Her station was imperial—but her influence was hollow. She had no seat in the central councils, no faction behind her, no lineage to validate her rise. The other princesses would already have sent their envoys. The highborn sons of dukes and marquises would have written letters gilded in runes and polished praise.

And she?

She was still gathering the news.

Late.

As always.

"I could prepare the writ," Idena offered gently, sensing the hesitation. "We have two hours still. Even a provisional letter would allow for a meeting request—especially if submitted through the lesser halls. They cannot refuse your name outright, even if they try."

Priscilla didn't move. But her eyes—those sharp, crimson eyes—lowered just slightly.

To want something... and be refused was one thing.

But to ask for it, to announce that want, and then be denied?

That was a wound her station could not afford to show.

She'd lived too long under the weight of silent rejection. Her bloodline questioned. Her position tolerated. The thought of presenting herself for selection—like a merchant hawking empty promises—curdled in her throat.

She hated it.

And yet—

Lucavion.

Her fingers curled slightly against the window frame.

There was something about him.

That strange, unshakable calm. The way he had spoken on the terrace—like he knew her. The way he had dismantled Reynald Vale—not for glory, not for audience, but with intent. Purpose. A blade used not to climb, but to carve.

It made no sense.

And yet, in her chest, where instinct often warred with reason, a quiet voice whispered:

If you asked... he would answer.

A foolish thought.

And yet not untrue.

"...If I were to submit a request," she murmured at last, her voice soft, measured, "and no one accepts... the court will know. The nobles will whisper. It would be another public fracture."

"Yes," Idena said honestly. "But if you do not submit, the fracture remains—only quieter. And they still win."

Priscilla didn't answer.

She watched the clouds drift above the palace rooftops. Somewhere beneath them, Lucavion stood untouched by all of this. No crest. No house. No banner. Just the fire he wielded and the smile that unnerved the Empire.

A smile that, for some reason, had not once looked at her with contempt.

"...Only Lucavion," she said finally.

Idena blinked. "Your Highness?"

"If I apply," Priscilla said, turning at last from the window, "it will be only for him."

Idena inclined her head. "Understood."

"Prepare the letter," Priscilla added. "Seal it in my name, but use the lesser envoy method. Let them think it's unofficial. Uncertain."

"You think he'll accept?"

Priscilla's gaze sharpened slightly.

"I think," she said, voice low, "he's already expecting me."

Idena stood still for just a breath longer than usual.

Not from disobedience. Not from doubt.

But surprise.

She had served Priscilla for years—watched her navigate the empire's thorns with silence and steel. Watched her wear indifference like a veil, and retreat behind poise when the court threw their veiled insults. She had seen anger from the princess. Coldness. Patience. Even quiet grief.

But this?

This glimmer of certainty in her voice—of expectation, not from arrogance, but instinct?

That was new.

And dangerous.

"You believe he anticipated this?" Idena asked, softly, not challenging. Just trying to understand.

understand.

Priscilla didn't flinch.

"He moves like someone who sees more than he says," she replied. "And speaks like someone who's already read the final page of the story."

She turned from the window fully now, walking back toward the table where her seal lay beside a folded map of Zephyrstone.

"Let's not disappoint him."

Idena gave the smallest bow, her voice steady. "I'll prepare the writ at once. And deliver it through the Lesser Hall, as instructed."

"Keep it quiet," Priscilla said, eyes distant again. "Let them think I'm hesitating. That I submitted late. They'll be watching for weakness."

Idena turned, her cloak swaying lightly behind her.

But just before she exited, she glanced back once more. Just enough to see the faintest trace of something on Priscilla's face.

Not vulnerability.

But resolve.

"Yes, Your Highness," she said.

And then she was gone—already halfway down the long corridor toward the Ministry Couriers, carrying a name that had begun to coil itself around the empire like a slow-burn prophecy.

******

Around the ninth chime of the evening hour, the walls of Lucavion's suite gave a subtle shimmer—a soft pulse of shifting mana, like the breath of some waiting presence announcing itself with restraint.

He didn't turn right away.

The room, once more, had tailored itself to his mood. Low starlight filtered through the dome above, casting a dusky glow on the polished stone floor. His coat hung lazily over one arm of the couch, and he reclined in half-shadow, legs crossed, teacup in hand.

It was not the kind of tea one drank for comfort.

Dark. Bitter. Unyielding.

'Fitting.'

With a flick of his eyes—not even a full glance—the Resonance Conductor pulsed to life beside him, its translucent surface spinning open into a circular display, runes blooming outward like petals of glasslight.

INCOMING SPONSORSHIP DOSSIERS – FIRST WAVE

Status: Finalized

Count: Thirty-seven primary requests. Eight conditional invitations. Three imperial-tier interest notices.

Classification: PRIORITY

Chapter 722: List (2)

Lucavion gave a slow, quiet exhale through his nose. "Tch."

He brought the cup to his lips, sipping without urgency, his other hand reaching lazily toward the interface. The list unfolded before him—names that carried weight, names that carried blood, and names that carried nothing but ambition.

House Velhane.

The Lyrecrest Guild.

House Merridan of the Northern Obsidian March.

The Flamewright Enclave.

The Syrelith Consortium—now that was a name he hadn't heard in years.

And tucked among the formal entries, layered with respectful flattery: House Idrayne, one of the Crown Prince's inner circle.

Immediately beneath it—like a shadow cast by ambition—was House Silvelle. The First Princess's banner.

Lucavion sipped his tea again, not for the flavor, but the familiarity of the heat against his lips. 'So they're both casting lines already…'

He tapped a finger against the Resonance Conductor's rim, scanning without slowing.

Most of these names, he knew.

Not personally.

But he'd studied them and had gotten the intel when he was in this city for waiting for the entrance exam.

He'd heard them whispered in drawing rooms, scrawled across the back pages of tavern ledgers, mentioned in passing by merchants who didn't realize he was listening. A good name carried weight. A real name carried leverage. And every name on this list… came from a game much older than him.

But now?

Now he was on the board.

And both sides wanted to claim the knight that didn't start in their hand.

'How quaint.'

Crown Prince's faction had sent three bids. Predictably. Tidy, calculated, and tied in political overtures disguised as "elite mentorship opportunities."

The First Princess, Selienne, had countered with two direct proposals—one laced with an offer for "artifact research collaboration," the other a diplomatic training post under one of her military attaches. Disguised control. A leash, braided in gold and silk.

Of course, they weren't the only ones at the table.

Several neutral factions had filed interest—guilds not directly aligned with any noble bloodline. The Enclave of Glassborn Scholars, the Free Order of Eastern Arcanists, and even the Wanderer's Vault, a nomadic guild rumored to deal in sealed ruins and dangerous inheritance relics.

Lucavion lingered on that last one.

Wanderer's Vault rarely stepped into politics.

Which meant they didn't want him for who he served.

They wanted him for what he was.

Interesting.

[Reading them like love letters?] Vitaliara's voice drifted lazily from the corner cushion, where she lay half-curled in the shadows. [Or just counting how many want to own a piece of your spine?]

He didn't answer immediately.

Just tilted his head slightly and let his finger hover over the most recent offer—House Vesskar, known for their blood-bound duelists and loyalty to no throne but their own.

"I'm just wondering," he said softly, "how many of them think I care about titles."

[All of them.]

His smirk curved, sharp and faint. "They'll be disappointed."

[Will they?] Vitaliara purred. [Or will you use their disappointment like a blade?]

Lucavion gave no answer to that.

Lucavion scrolled further, the light of the Resonance Conductor casting pale glows across his fingertips. The usual suspects passed beneath his gaze—some predictably bold, others cautious, trying to sound casual as if they hadn't spent half their political capital just to get their name on his list.

And then—

A seal.

Deep crimson, threaded with silver aether-ink.

The crest was unmistakable.

House Varenth.

He stilled.

"Ho…"

The murmur escaped him without thought, quiet as steam curling from a cooling cup.

House Varenth.

A Marquis family.

Old blood. Ancient title. Wealth and martial authority both. Their banners were stitched into the Crown Prince's robes—not figuratively. Their heir trained beside Lucien since boyhood, their holdings guarded the eastern routes to the capital itself.

And unlike the others on the list—who operated under the faction's broad banner, chasing favor in anticipation of future division—Varenth was direct.

They didn't move unless the Crown Prince moved first.

Lucavion's eyes narrowed.

That meant this wasn't a speculative outreach. This wasn't a noble testing the waters.

This was a message.

Either Lucien had taken personal interest—or someone had told him to.

"Did my message reach you?" Lucavion murmured, his tone almost absent, more thought than speech.

He leaned back, thumb hovering just above the crest of House Varenth, that crimson-and-silver weight pressed into digital parchment. He had left breadcrumbs, after all. Through Seran. Through the calculated display of his power in the exam.

But even so…

'Lucien shouldn't have taken it seriously. Not yet.'

The Crown Prince was many things. Paranoid. Controlled. Calculated to the marrow.

But not impulsive.

Not someone who sends his hound out unless he smells real fire.

Which meant…

Lucavion's eyes narrowed further.

He smelled it.

Or someone made sure he did.

"It doesn't matter," he said softly, brushing past the Varenth dossier without opening it just yet. "We'll see about that."

He tapped the filter tab on the upper ring of the interface and selected the imperial-tier notices. The light shifted—brighter, tighter. Sealed names unspooled before him.

Only three.

That was all it ever took to change an entire board.

The first one blinked into view—

Imperial Tier Priority: Princess Selienne—First Imperial Daughter. Request for direct audience.

Lucavion's breath caught—just a fraction. Just long enough for it to be noticeable, even to himself.

He hadn't expected that.

Her faction sending offers? That was politics.

But Selienne herself?

That was personal.

His fingers slowed as he scanned the terms—formal, but concise. No handlers. No subordinates. No pretense of intermediaries. Just a single line at the end, written in her own sigil.

-------------

"A discussion between those who do not wait for crowns to validate them."

-------------

His brow rose, ever so slightly.

"…Interesting," he murmured.

But before he could linger, the second notice followed.

Imperial Tier Notice: Third Prince Roniel.

Lucavion stared at it for all of three seconds before a crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Roniel," he drawled, voice laced with dry amusement. "So the First Princess's favorite court jester wants in, too."

Everyone knew Roniel aligned himself under Selienne like a loyal shade. The moment she rose, he'd parade himself as her most fervent supporter. His own ambitions were thinner than the air above the floating gardens.

Lucavion didn't even bother to open the message. It would be filled with flowery language, carefully veiled promises, and desperate appeals to relevance.

"Pass."

But the third?

Ah.

The third brought his smile back in full.

Imperial Tier Notice: Fourth Imperial Princess Priscilla.

And that—

That was a surprise.

"…So, little Priscilla has decided to act."

He let the notice unfold slowly, savoring the rare pleasure of the unexpected. The emblem wasn't gilded in gold or etched with ivory mana lace. No—hers was simpler. Cleaner. Almost austere, as if she refused to let station dilute intent.

Raised in obscurity. Rumored bastard. The "commoner princess" most nobles refused to name in formal circles.

He read her message twice.

There was no request for obedience. No promises of position. Only one line, written in clean Imperial:

----------

"You were waiting for me."

---------

Lucavion chuckled, the sound low and genuine.

"Oh….She is pretty sharp, as expected."

He closed the message and stood, the tea now forgotten.

"The world is moving faster than it should."

[Does that bother you?] Vitaliara asked, stretching along the couch's edge.

He didn't answer right away. He just turned to the projection glass and let it reflect the faint smirk that had returned to his face.

"No," he said finally. "It excites me."

Chapter 723: Sponsor

The morning light in Arcania's inner ward always arrived with an air of deliberate majesty—soft, gold-dusted, and polished by runes that ensured it never felt too sharp. It flooded the grand dining hall through tall aether-glass windows, washing over the polished silverware and cascading across the white-onyx floor like water made of sunlight.

Lucavion arrived first.

Of course he did.

He always did.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, already halfway through his tea—today, a sharper blend, something that bit the tongue and didn't apologize. His breakfast remained untouched. He had no appetite for food when the day promised far richer indulgences.

Elayne entered next—silent as always, her presence so soft it barely displaced air. She took her seat diagonally across from Lucavion, giving only the faintest glance of acknowledgment. She didn't ask if he'd already reviewed his offers.

She knew he had.

Caeden and Mireilla followed soon after, arriving almost together. Mireilla was already muttering something under her breath about etiquette being just a polite excuse to test which of them would bow first, while Caeden calmly adjusted the cuffs of his coat, every inch the knight he refused to be defined by.

And then—

Toven.

Dragging his heels. Rubbing his eyes. His hair an uneven crown of unbrushed defiance.

"I overslept," he mumbled, flopping into the seat between Mireilla and Caeden.

"You're thirty minutes early," Caeden said mildly.

"...I meant emotionally," Toven muttered.

Lucavion sipped his tea again. "Try sleeping with the weight of four imperial houses deciding whether they want your head polished or plated. Works wonders on the nerves."

Toven blinked. "Wait. You got four?"

Lucavion smirked, didn't answer.

Mireilla set her cup down a little too firmly. "I got one," she muttered. "Just one."

Caeden gave a low sound—something between sympathy and mild surprise. "Only one?"

She rolled her eyes. "The Circle of Western Defense. Military board. Which makes sense, I suppose. I've got the face of a soldier and the tact of a falling axe."

Lucavion glanced sideways at her. "I've seen falling axes with more subtlety."

She didn't dignify that with a glare. Just flicked a piece of fruit from her plate toward his cup. He caught it midair without even looking, dropped it beside his saucer.

"Still," Caeden said, tapping thoughtfully at the glyph hovering near his shoulder. "That's not a bad sponsor. They're efficient. Clean. Not a political snake pit."

"You're just saying that because they offered you something," Toven said.

Caeden gave a mild shrug. "Two things. One from them, one from the House of Quiren."

Lucavion arched an eyebrow. "Quiren? That's rare."

Caeden nodded. "They don't usually sponsor outsiders. But I suspect they're trying to rebuild favor after that scandal last year."

Elayne lifted her gaze from her tea just slightly. "You mean the one where their heir set fire to a duel court and blamed it on a spirit fox?"

Toven blinked. "Wait, that was a scandal? I thought that was a folk tale."

Lucavion gave a quiet chuckle. "No, that was very real. And very expensive."

"I'd rather deal with scandal than flattery," Mireilla muttered. "At least scandal burns fast."

"I got three offers," Toven said suddenly, trying not to sound too pleased about it. "One from the Crimson Lamp Consortium—"

"Smugglers," Caeden said flatly.

"—one from the Vynari Archive—"

"Book smugglers."

"—and one from the Night Ember Circle."

Everyone paused.

"Assassins?" Lucavion asked, tilting his head.

"No, no," Toven said quickly. "They're more like… flame dancers?"

Mireilla stared at him.

"So… assassins with flair," Lucavion concluded. "They're trying to recruit you?"

"I think they liked my fireballs," Toven said defensively.

"Or they think you'd explode well under pressure," Mireilla offered.

Before he could reply, the doors opened—smooth, quiet, deliberate.

Kaleran entered.

His coat was darker than usual, the etched silver trim catching the morning light in cold flickers. He walked with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, posture exact.

"Schedules," he said without pleasantries. "You've each been assigned order of meetings based on the priority and scope of your accepted sponsor list. You'll have an hour between each. If you miss a time, the meeting is forfeit—no exceptions."

He gestured, and five crystalline glyphs hovered midair—color-coded, shifting slowly with embedded sigils of noble houses and faction banners.

"You are permitted one escort from the Academy, should you choose to take one. Otherwise, you'll be monitored by trace glyph."

Lucavion didn't even glance at his schedule. He already knew it.

Kaleran's eyes swept over the table once, pausing half a beat longer on Lucavion than the others.

"Remember: you are not required to accept any offer. This is courtship, not command. But make no mistake—how you walk into these rooms will shape how this city remembers you."

"Then I hope they remember sarcasm and stunning cheekbones," Lucavion muttered into his cup.

"You're not wrong," Elayne said suddenly, to everyone's mild surprise. "Presentation is currency."

Lucavion gave a slow nod. "And I'm feeling rather wealthy today."

Mireilla folded her arms. "I'm not wearing lace."

"No one asked you to."

"I saw what was in the wardrobe." She grimaced. "Someone definitely asked me to."

Caeden, with his calm composure, stood first and lifted his glyph. "Well then. Time to dance with lions."

"Have fun," Lucavion said. "Try not to get adopted."

As each of them rose—one by one, gathering their schedules and making final preparations—the morning light curved along the dining hall like it was bowing farewell. The day was waiting.

*****

A man moved through the eastern quarter with a gait too measured to be casual, too relaxed to be parade.

His coat, dark and heavy with silver-thread lining, shifted like water with each step, the hem whispering against the polished stone. He didn't look like a soldier. And yet every part of him felt like one—carved with discipline, molded in iron.

He wore gloves even in spring.

His hair was dark, cropped short, revealing a face not young, not old. Just worn right—like a blade long-used, long-sharpened, never chipped. His eyes were unreadable beneath a quiet brow, and his lips held a smile that didn't reach them. People moved aside for him without thinking. Not because they recognized him, but because something told them they should.

As he passed, murmurs drifted in his wake, barely audible.

"An envoy?"

"No... too plain."

"Too still."

His eyes didn't lift once from the road.

The invitation had been accepted.

That alone should have been enough to end the guessing games. Most of the noble houses had sent their messages adorned in the usual excess—wax seals, lineage stamps, aether-marked lace meant to impress.

But he had brought no scroll, no flourish.

Just a presence.

And that was all that was needed.

The moment the message had returned, bearing Lucavion's acceptance, a single phrase had echoed in the meeting hall behind the eastern estate walls:

"As it should be."

One did not ignore their house.

Not if they intended to walk long in the capital.

He turned a corner, boots soundless on stone, and let the familiar weight of expectation settle across his shoulders. The empire was watching. The Crown Prince would be watching. And soon, Lucavion himself.

The boy who had broken every convention of the entrance trials. Who had taken the highest score without a patron. Who had factions twisting themselves into knots to secure his favor.

A commoner who had made nobles hold their breath.

And now?

Now, he would speak with him.

Not the Lord. Not a steward.

Him.

He stepped beneath the grand archway of the reserved imperial quarters—polished aether-glass reflecting his figure back at him. For a moment, he looked into his own eyes and saw no vanity there. Only weight. Duty. Calculated necessity.

"Bring him under our wing," the voice had commanded.

He had bowed without hesitation.

Not because he feared the one who gave the order.

But because he agreed.

A thread of wind stirred his coat as the reinforced doors ahead pulsed with recognition, parting for his arrival. The air within shimmered faintly with ambient mana. Neutral space. No political ties within these walls—only conversation.

Only leverage.

He crossed the threshold.

And as the door slid shut behind him, the seal upon his chest caught the light—

A blade of crimson wrapped in silver thorns.

House Varenth.

And he—Ser Khaedren Varn, the Thorn of the Eastern March—had come not to test the waters.

But to claim what was already his.

Chapter 724: Sponsor (2)

The streets changed when he crossed into the Imperial Borough.

No noise. No clutter. Just clean lines and cleaner silence. Even the air tasted different—tinged with mana-filtered purity, as if the wind itself had been scrubbed of its imperfections. There were no shouting vendors here, no scent of steel or smoke. Only serenity, enforced by money and old blood.

He moved with ease past the first security gate. The guards glanced up—and didn't speak. One flick of the sigil on his coat and they bowed, sharp and shallow. Protocols were observed. Not a single wasted word.

The outer walkways of the estate were paved with lunar marble, veined faintly with violet—a material rare enough that even most highborn never walked it barefoot. Twin statues of archons flanked the entrance, their gaze forever cast downward as if even they deferred to those inside.

The place was called the Sanctum of Stars—an extravagant name for what was, in practice, a gilded cage. It hosted only the finest people of the world, and only those with offers from nobles or direct imperial interest were granted entry.

Aside from the Imperial Palace and the Grand Towers of Magic themselves, this was the most prestigious place in the capital to stay.

And it was here Lucavion had been placed.

'Not bad for a boy who started with nothing,' Khaedren mused, stepping across the threshold.

The moment he entered, three attendants in tailored robes turned in perfect unison. Their eyes didn't linger on his face—they dropped immediately to the crest. Crimson thorns. Silver blade. The room hushed.

"Honored guest of House Varenth," the lead attendant said, bowing low. "You are expected."

He inclined his head once. No words. None needed.

The lead attendant turned without hesitation, her stride brisk, precise. No fawning. No delay.

Professionalism, as expected.

"This way," she murmured, as they passed the central atrium—a suspended garden of floating aether-lilies glowing softly in the light of enchanted skylights. The petals shimmered with passive wards, a sign of the layers of protection and luxury embedded into every inch of this place.

As they moved, whispers followed.

Other candidates peered through the glass-walled lounges. Some recognized the crest. Others recognized the silence that followed it. The weight of House Varenth was not just felt. It commanded.

They reached a corridor with inlaid gold trim—discreet, but unmistakable to those who knew what it meant.

The elite suites.

Not rented.

Not requested.

Granted.

The attendant stopped before a high, double-paneled door, its surface etched with old imperial script—translated loosely: Only those invited may cross the threshold.

"Sir Lucavion is within," she said, voice softer now. She stepped aside, her eyes never once meeting Khaedren's.

He didn't knock.

Didn't pause.

The moment the attendant stepped aside, he placed a gloved hand on the door and pushed.

Not roughly.

Not gently.

Just decisively.

The double-paneled doors opened without resistance, their hinges too well-oiled for sound. And without waiting for permission—spoken or otherwise—he stepped inside.

It was a beautiful suite. Opulence layered with restraint. Marble inlay beneath his feet, runic crystal set discreetly into the walls to suppress noise and amplify aether. A cascade of filtered sunlight spilled through the skylight, illuminating the room with a soft, golden hush. There was a dining lounge, a modest library, a private altar to the imperial saints.

And in the center of it all, seated with one leg draped lazily over the other, was the boy.

Lucavion.

Top of his class. Star of the entrance trials. The one who'd had the gall to reject three imperial houses before even stepping into his uniform.

He was dressed in simple black—unadorned, sharp, tailored to move. A cup of tea rested beside his elbow, still steaming. His eyes didn't widen at the intrusion. Didn't twitch at the lack of decorum.

He didn't stop walking.

Not at the sight of Lucavion's calm posture.

Not at the tea left untouched.

Not even at the deliberate stillness of the boy's spine.

And certainly not at the fact that Lucavion—this so-called prodigy—had not moved an inch.

Not risen.

Not bowed.

Not even acknowledged his entry with so much as a shift of posture.

Khaedren's eyes narrowed, only slightly.

'Unacceptable.'

The judgment didn't reach his face.

It didn't need to.

But it noted itself—neatly, ruthlessly, alongside the other data he collected with each step.

No etiquette. No ceremonial courtesy. No recognition of the difference between invitation and authority.

When a noble enters, you stand.

Lucavion did none of these.

The boy simply watched.

And that, more than anything, confirmed what Khaedren had suspected before arriving.

Powerful? Certainly.

But still untamed.

He stopped three paces from the table, hands folded behind his back.

The silence pressed down, thicker now, not due to hostility—but weight.

Lineage had its own gravity.

"You've been allowed the finest accommodations in the capital," Khaedren said quietly, his voice like silk folded over iron. "You've been granted access to a sanctum that most highbloods wait years to even glimpse."

His eyes didn't leave Lucavion's.

"And yet you do not stand."

It wasn't a question.

It was an evaluation.

A correction.

Not to provoke.

But to instruct.

Because if Lucavion was to walk among them—not just tolerated, but wielded—he needed to understand the rules.

And right now?

He was failing them.

"This lack of etiquette," Khaedren said, his voice still steady, but edged now with cold finality, "is unacceptable."

The words hung there—not shouted, not threatened. Just delivered, like a blade placed gently on a table. A warning. A lesson.

And finally—finally—Lucavion moved.

He turned, unhurried, head tilting just enough for one black eye to glance toward him from the side. The steam still curled from the lip of his teacup. His expression didn't shift. His hands didn't rise. His posture, maddeningly, remained unchanged.

But his voice?

Smooth.

Unflinching.

And far too composed for someone meant to be apologizing.

"One does not simply speak of lack of etiquette," Lucavion murmured, "when they failed it at the start."

His gaze drifted—not toward Khaedren, but toward the still-closed door.

Or more precisely—

Its untouched, un-knocked frame.

"Or…" he added softly, his voice dry as winter silk, "should I presume House Varenth simply doesn't know the basic etiquette of knocking?"

There was no anger in the tone.

No mockery.

Just fact, dressed in tailored sarcasm.

The sort that did not seek offense.

Only invited it.

Silence followed.

Tense.

Charged.

For the first time since stepping through the door, something in Khaedren shifted.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't sudden.

But it was there.

A stillness, deeper than calm.

Sharper than patience.

The kind of stillness that belonged to wolves before the bite.

He took one slow step forward.

And another.

And this time, the gloved hands behind his back curled just slightly.

"That," Khaedren said—quiet, restrained—"was not a clever remark."

The formal tone had not broken.

But it had lowered. Hardened.

Because now it wasn't diplomacy that filled the room.

It was bloodline.

"You presume parity," he continued, gaze narrowing. "As if we are peers. As if the legacy behind my name and the dirt behind yours are worth the same breath."

Another step. Not fast. Just close.

Close enough that Lucavion's seated posture placed him beneath Khaedren's full height—and the unspoken weight that came with it.

"You sit as if this is your table. You speak as if this is your court."

His voice grew colder.

"And now, you suggest that House Varenth—the blade of the Crown Prince, the shield of the eastern gates—owes you courtesy?"

His hands relaxed.

But his eyes?

His eyes were ice drawn into needlepoint.

"A commoner may rise in ranks. In skill. In potential."

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to let his words settle between them like frost.

"But a commoner does not demand equal footing."

The words struck not like thunder—but like scripture. Ancient. Unyielding.

He straightened then, gaze unblinking.

"You may be useful. You may even be valuable."

A pause.

"But do not mistake being wanted for being entitled."

He let that linger.

Then:

"Stand."

Chapter 725: Sponsor (3)

"Stand."

The word echoed—not loud, but deep. Like the strike of a gavel in a silent court. Not backed by mana. Not shaped by spellcraft.

And yet—

The walls seemed to listen.

The light stilled in place.

Even the steam from Lucavion's tea slowed, its delicate curl halting in the still air.

It was not sorcery. Not magic.

It was will.

Refined. Sharpened. Delivered through tone and breath and absolute certainty.

Speaking with Intent.

A technique older than any duel. Cultivated not in arenas, but in council chambers. Where empires rose or died by a single phrase. A practiced art passed down through bloodlines that had never known hunger, never known defeat. It crushed lesser men. Bent ambitious ones. And taught the proud the shape of their place.

Khaedren let the weight of that word spread through the room like ink in water.

A command.

An expectation.

A law, uttered as though it had always been so.

And Lucavion?

He felt it.

The pressure coiled at the base of his spine. A stillness that tried to climb up his ribs. His shoulders tightened—an instinct. A body trained in countless battles preparing to react, to shift, to obey.

The air grew denser.

The silence sharpened.

And Khaedren watched.

He watched because he had done this before. A hundred times. A thousand. He had spoken men to their knees. Had watched generals stand straighter, kings second-guess themselves.

He expected the same.

He always got the same.

But—

Lucavion didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't stand.

He merely tilted his head.

One hand lifted—slow, deliberate—and gently turned the teacup in place by its handle, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer.

The teacup clicked once more as it settled back into the saucer.

Lucavion didn't look away from Khaedren.

Didn't rise.

Didn't flinch beneath the sharpened silence.

Instead, his voice came—quiet, smooth, and undeniably clear.

"Is this," Lucavion asked, "how you treat someone you came into the presence of?"

The question was simple. But in it was a precision that sliced past formality and reached something deeper.

"You walk into my chambers without knocking. You speak of etiquette while refusing to show even a fragment of it yourself."

His gaze lingered on Khaedren's posture—not with deference, but the same way one might examine a chessboard with a piece slightly out of place.

"And I have allowed you," he continued, tone still calm, "to speak. Freely. Without interruption. Without reproach."

Lucavion's fingers came together loosely beneath his chin, his eyes half-lidded, his voice steady.

"Are all the things you've come here to say… simply this?"

He let the question hang for half a breath before continuing.

"Is this how House Varenth operates? That you come with no offer, no clarity, no courtesy—just… the expectation of reverence?"

His head tilted slightly, like someone studying a flaw in a finely crafted blade.

"If that's the case," Lucavion said, a flicker of something sharper entering his voice, "then House Varenth has grown more arrogant than I thought."

The words hung in the air like the aftermath of a blade drawn in a temple.

And for a moment—

Khaedren didn't speak.

Not because he was searching for words.

But because the words in his mind were no longer suitable for civil rooms.

Lucavion's tone, his posture, his utter lack of submission—it was not just disrespectful.

It was sacrilege.

The boy hadn't just failed to show humility. He had inverted the dynamic. Reversed the current of nobility itself and dared to speak as if he were the one weighing the House of Varenth on a scale.

"You don't know your place," Khaedren said at last, his voice low, clipped.

And then—

Lucavion waved a single hand.

Casual.

Precise.

"No," he said flatly. "I know my place."

He stood.

Fluid.

Unhurried.

A single motion—not reactive, but chosen.

"And that's the part you still don't understand."

His eyes, black and still, met Khaedren's fully now.

The tea was forgotten.

The walls seemed closer.

Even the filtered sunlight felt colder.

Khaedren's expression remained composed, but there was a shift—too subtle for most to see. A tightening of the shoulders. A readiness born not of fear, but of insult unforgotten.

Lucavion's smirk curved, faint and sharp.

He stepped forward once—not in challenge, but with the kind of precision that made distance irrelevant.

"Let me ask you something," he said, voice still calm, but colder now—cut glass in velvet.

"Do you think you're untouchable?"

Khaedren blinked.

"…Huh?"

The word had slipped out before he could stop it.

Lucavion's smirk deepened, not in mockery—but in confirmation.

He repeated, slowly.

"Again. Do you think you're untouchable?"

The question didn't echo like Khaedren's command had. It didn't fill the room with pressure or intent.

But it cut.

Because it wasn't spoken like a challenge.

It was spoken like a warning.

Khaedren's jaw shifted, just slightly.

"Is that a threat?" he asked, his voice like chilled iron.

Lucavion's smirk remained, undisturbed.

"No," he replied. "It's a simple question."

His tone was calm—disarmingly so. He stepped forward again, a fraction closer. Not invading space, just occupying it.

"Because the way you act," Lucavion said, his voice still soft, still surgical, "it's as if you think you're untouchable."

He gestured lightly, a flick of his hand as though dismissing smoke.

"You walk into my chambers without respect. You speak like I should be grateful for the mere scent of your house's banner. You wield etiquette like a blade, but you forget something very simple."

He raised his fingers.

And flicked.

A crisp, clean snap of sound in the silent air.

"Your presence," he said, voice dropping, "is not a gift."

His gaze turned sharper, colder, voice like frost crawling across iron.

"It's the noise a lapdog makes when his master sends him scratching at another man's door."

And then—

Khaedren moved.

Not in calculation.

Not in intent.

But in reaction.

A flash of fury cracked through the chamber, and the carefully restrained aura of the nobleman snapped—not mana, but posture. The chill iron of his restraint shattered beneath the insult, the word lapdog searing through centuries of blood-borne pride.

"You insolent bastard—!"

His hand surged forward—grabbing for Lucavion's collar, or perhaps just needing something to crush.

But Lucavion?

Lucavion didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

His smirk deepened, slow and cruel.

As if he'd been waiting for exactly this.

And as Khaedren's hand lashed forward—swift, trained, deliberate, it simply closed on empty hair.

Lucavion had already stepped back, one smooth motion, precise as breath. Not hurried. Not startled.

Just absent from where he'd been.

He stood now a pace further—out of reach, untouched, untouched by design.

And then—

He smiled.

"See?" Lucavion said, voice low, almost amused. "A lapdog."

His fingers lifted again—not to flick, not to taunt, but to gesture in quiet confirmation.

"All talk."

A beat.

"And barking when angered."

Chapter 726: Sponsor (4)

"And barking when angered."

The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They curled into the room like smoke laced with oil—smoke that knew it could choke the room if it chose to.

Khaedren's stance had stiffened, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to slits of restrained fury. But Lucavion wasn't done.

"Be careful, though," he added, voice turning quieter still, but colder—measured with dangerous exactitude. "Your master's not here to hold your leash this time."

He took a half-step forward again—not challenging, but circling.

And his eyes—black and calm and merciless—never left Khaedren's.

"You wouldn't want to cause problems that might embarrass him."

Another pause.

The silence cracked.

Not with noise.

But with realization.

Khaedren's hand slowly lowered, and for the first time in the exchange, his breath caught in his throat—just enough for his chest to still. His fury hadn't vanished. No. It was still there, coiled like a serpent behind his ribs.

But behind it now stood something colder.

Recognition.

He had lost his temper.

In a sponsor meeting.

Where civility was the cornerstone, and restraint the currency.

He—representative of House Varenth—had been baited into lunging.

By a boy.

By a commoner.

And worse—he knew exactly what that looked like from the outside.

"You..." Khaedren growled under his breath, voice quiet but venomous, "you will pay for your words."

Lucavion didn't flinch. Didn't respond with fire.

He just gave a small shrug. Almost casual.

"Quite a lot of people have claimed as much," he said, tone almost conversational. "Guess where they are?"

Khaedren's face twisted—elegance crumpling at the edges. The words were not a boast. Not even a threat.

They were history.

Undeniable.

Unapologetic.

And that was what stung the most.

This wasn't boldness.

It was certainty.

Lucavion didn't think he was beyond Khaedren's reach.

He knew Khaedren wasn't worth reaching for.

That final, subtle smirk on the boy's face said it all.

There would be no leash.

No shaping.

No decorum.

No control.

This wasn't a blade that could be claimed. It was a spark in a powder room. An arrogant, delusional wildcard who had been handed a position through sheer brilliance—but lacked the instincts to survive the game he was stepping into.

A boy like that would burn fast.

And drag whoever stood too close down with him.

Khaedren's posture straightened, his coat smoothing with the breath he didn't realize he'd held.

No more.

He would not waste another second on this.

The talk was done.

"You've made yourself clear," Khaedren said coolly, voice returned to that smooth, noble edge. "So have I."

No bow.

No courtesy.

Just cold silence as he turned from the boy—no longer seeing him as a potential asset.

But as a warning.

He walked to the door.

Slower now.

Not from defeat.

But from calculation.

And as he reached for the handle, he spoke one last time—without turning back.

Khaedren paused at the threshold.

One hand on the door.

His voice, when it came, was smooth again—no longer burning with anger, but chilled with that distinct, noble cruelty that comes from utter conviction in one's superiority.

"When the tide turns against you…" he said, quietly, without facing him, "…and it will—"

A breath.

Not for effect.

But to make it sting.

"—I hope you remember this day. The day a house greater than anything your blood could dream of… deigned to offer you its hand."

His gaze slid to the side, eyes catching Lucavion's reflection in the polished brass of the door's frame.

"You were granted presence, recognition, and a place far above your station."

A pause.

"And you spat on it."

Khaedren stepped to the threshold.

One hand on the door.

The final words dripped from his tongue, cold and sharp.

"Remember that, when you're drowning alone in waters you were never meant to swim."

He pulled the door—

Only for flame to crack like a whip across the chamber.

Not loud.

Not wild.

Just fast.

A single ribbon of fire licked across the top edge of the doorway with perfect precision, sealing the door mid-motion. Heat shimmered in the space between hinge and frame—an invisible hand pressing the door firmly closed again.

The metal groaned faintly under the sudden heat.

Khaedren froze.

He turned.

And Lucavion was already there, walking forward, the light of the flame dancing in his black eyes.

Eyes that no longer reflected calm.

But intent.

"There is no water," Lucavion said, voice low and steady, "that I am not meant to swim."

He stepped closer.

Close enough now that the flames behind him threw long shadows on the marble floor, and the distance between commoner and noble had collapsed into inches.

"If such a sea exists," he continued, "then I will simply—evaporate it."

His gaze locked with Khaedren's, unblinking.

"Until there is nothing left."

He tilted his head slightly.

"And as for the ones who think they rule those depths—"

His fingers twitched once, the flame behind him dimming, curling inward like a beast called back to heel.

"When they're grilled alive…"

A pause.

That smirk again—sharp, knowing.

"…their arrogance will be the first thing to go down."

For a second—just one—Khaedren didn't move.

Lucavion's gaze didn't waver.

Didn't soften.

He leaned in, just slightly, voice lowering to a murmur that was all the more final for its quietness.

"Make sure to remember that."

The words dropped like iron into still water.

And Khaedren—

He stood frozen.

His throat tightened without command, his spine straightening too fast to feel natural. The breath in his lungs—steady, cultivated—caught.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

A single drop of sweat traced a line down his temple.

Slow.

Cold.

He blinked—and the flame behind Lucavion's shoulder flickered like a serpent's tongue, retreating as if it had never been there at all.

But the pressure—

That presence—

Remained.

His mind wanted to label it rage.

Pride.

Delusion.

But it wasn't.

It was presence. Weight. Gravity pulled into human shape.

And it reminded him of something.

No—

Someone.

His thoughts recoiled.

A memory, half-buried, clawing to the surface.

The first time he met him.

The man he now served.

The one whose orders he obeyed without question.

He had felt this once before, years ago.

This same silent force pressing against the inside of his ribs. This same moment where logic and instinct diverged.

'No.'

He forced the thought away, buried it beneath anger, beneath nobility, beneath lineage and law.

It couldn't be.

Not from him.

Not from this.

He clenched his jaw and turned.

The door gave way under his palm.

And this time, he didn't leave with silence.

He slammed it.

The sound cracked through the suite like thunder, echoing down the corridor with the finality of a snapped chain.

But it was already too late.

Because the echo that followed wasn't just of the door.

It was of fear.