The two brothers descended the sweeping staircase of their manor, flanked on either side by servants standing in silent readiness, awaiting even the slightest command from their lords. In truth, the structure was far grander than a mere manor—it was a castle in all but name, as befitting the most powerful family within Constella. Decker adjusted the black leather gloves that encased his hands, tugging them tight before binding his hair with a band to keep it from falling loose. His attire was regal, meticulously chosen to reflect his status as a scion of House Vermillion—golden chains draped across his chest, each one a quiet proclamation of immeasurable wealth and influence.
As they spiraled downward along the grand staircase, the brothers spoke. Though Decker clearly had little desire for conversation, he humored his elder brother nonetheless. His face remained rigid, devoid of any trace of warmth, while his brother's expression radiated an almost effortless brightness, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"You know your wife worries about you," Lord Vermillion said, his tone light yet edged with quiet reproach. "She tells me you scarcely speak to her, and that you refuse even to share a bed."
Decker did not look at him as he responded, his voice cold and measured. "That is nothing new. I have never enjoyed speaking with that woman. In truth, I have never enjoyed her presence whatsoever." He adjusted the cuff of his glove with deliberate precision.
His brother exhaled softly, shaking his head. "You should not speak so carelessly about your wife."
Decker clicked his tongue in irritation. "The wife you chose for me—not the one I desired. The one I desired… you drove away."
A quiet chuckle escaped Lord Vermillion as he reached out, placing a hand upon Decker's shoulder. Decker recoiled instinctively, shrugging off the contact. There was resentment there—sharp and festering—yet beneath it lingered something far more complicated. Despite everything, he still loved his brother. And so, when Arion draped an arm around his neck moments later, Decker did not pull away.
"It is almost as though you have forgotten," Arion said with a hint of pride, "that it was because of me that your name came to echo across the world. People speak of Adel as the catalyst for Orion's rise, but they forget—before Adel, there was you. Tell me, what was the name they gave you?"
Decker cast his brother a brief glance, his expression unreadable. "The Blood of House Vermillion. A fitting title, would you not agree?"
After graduating from the academy, there had been a five-year period during which Decker stood among the strongest of his generation. Aries retained its rank at the very pinnacle largely due to his unparalleled feats. In his first year alone, he shattered records by slaying thirty-three Star Beasts. In his second, he turned the tide of war against the Northern Continent, annihilating an entire squadron single-handedly. By his third year, he had ascended to the position of second-in-command within Aries. In his fourth, he slew one of the Northern Continent's primary commanders. And in his fifth and final year, he accomplished the unthinkable—slaying five Four Star Fallen Beasts, more than doubling the previous record of two.
It was this era of relentless dominance that earned him the title: Blood of House Vermillion. And yet, at the height of his power, he chose to step away—retiring from the battlefield to take up the quieter role of a lecturer at Constella Academy.
"I celebrated every one of your victories as though it were my own," Arion said, his voice softening. "I was proud of you."
Decker lowered his gaze. "I was not proud. I was angry. Every achievement you speak of… was born from that anger."
Arion stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps you were not proud," he admitted, "but I was. And I will remain proud of you until my dying breath. Because you are my brother."
Decker said nothing in response. A low grunt escaped him instead, and Arion's smile widened ever so slightly as they continued their descent. Decker had assumed they would depart immediately, but Arion had other intentions. Rather than heading for the exit, he veered toward the dining hall.
The room was vast, dominated by an elongated table capable of seating the entirety of House Vermillion. Today, however, only four seats were occupied: Decker, Arion, Arion's wife Ariella, and Decker's own wife—once of House White—Hersea.
Decker lingered at the threshold, his displeasure evident as he turned toward his brother.
"I thought we might share a meal before attending the meeting," Arion said casually.
He moved toward the head of the table—the largest and most ornate chair, a clear symbol of his authority. As he passed behind his wife, he paused. Ariella was a woman of striking beauty, her dark brown hair cascading elegantly against sun-kissed skin. Though not born into one of the Five Great Families, she carried herself with a grace that rivaled any noblewoman.
Arion rested his hands upon her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She blushed, smiling softly despite the years and the countless betrayals she had endured. Her affection for him had not diminished.
He then took his seat and looked toward Decker, who still lingered by the doorway.
"Brother, come. Sit," he said, gesturing toward the seat beside Hersea.
With a resigned sigh, Decker complied. He took his place at the table, though the distance between himself and his wife was palpable. The meal began in silence, the air thick with unspoken tension.
…
Tristan's POV.
Tristan stood within a vast, cold void—an endless expanse of darkness illuminated only by scattered stars. Before him stood Killington, alongside the spectral soldiers Tristan had gathered over the past nine months. In that time, his strength had grown exponentially. He had reached the rank of a 2-Star, unlocking his Celestial Forge, and now stood on the precipice of ascending even further—teetering on the edge of becoming a high-end 2-Star.
"Shall we begin, my lord?" Killington asked, raising his blade.
Tristan reached into the constellation of stars surrounding him, drawing forth a weapon newly forged. It was an obsidian blade, its surface dark and gleaming, with a swirling grip, a guard adorned by twin crimson rubies, and a pommel containing a mysterious, liquid-like core.
"Let's begin," Tristan replied, leveling the blade toward his opponent.
They moved instantly.
Steel collided with steel in a clash of near-equal speed—though Tristan lagged by the slightest margin. Sparks erupted with each impact, scattering like fleeting stars within the darkness. Killington pressed forward with overwhelming force, driving Tristan backward. Tristan deflected a heavy strike and sidestepped, causing Killington to momentarily lose his balance. Seizing the opportunity, Tristan slashed diagonally.
He should have won in that instant.
But Killington reacted with terrifying precision—releasing his blade entirely and catching Tristan's strike with his bare hand.
Tristan attempted to push forward, but Killington's strength halted him completely. In response, Tristan released one hand from his sword and formed a gun-like gesture. A compressed bullet of air fired from his fingers, striking Killington's shoulder and forcing him to let go.
Without hesitation, Tristan manipulated the ground beneath Killington, destabilizing him and sending him crashing into the void-like floor. Killington attempted to rise, but Tristan was faster.
In an instant, his foot pressed firmly against Killington's chest, his obsidian blade poised inches from his throat.
Killington's gaze lifted to meet the dark edge of the weapon.
"I win," Tristan said.