Nert stood at the center of the vast hall, his legs shaking beneath him, jaw clenched tight as he fought the urge to kneel.
Along the walls, nine thrones loomed like mountains, each one occupied by a Draconian whose very presence could crush the courage out of anyone foolish enough to stand before them.
They were the Nine Celestials of the House of Drakios.
Each of them was power incarnate — beings who could split mountains with a flick of the wrist, drown cities in flame, and make continents tremble just by breathing a little too deeply.
And yet, here he was — one man, standing before nine gods in flesh. One wrong breath, one misplaced word, and his body could scatter into blood and ash under the weight of their existence alone.
Their gazes tore into him, cold and merciless. Some eyes gleamed with mockery, others with disgust, as though the mere sight of him soiled the air they breathed. Nert could almost feel the hatred radiating off them — the silent wish to see him torn apart, erased, forgotten.
But he didn't flinch. Not anymore. Seven years of enduring those stares had burned away the fear. What remained was a dull, iron calm — the kind that comes only after the pain has numbed you senseless.
"What a relief," Lord Vaenor drawled, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade dipped in venom. "Do us all a favor and die quickly in the ruins, defect. Watching you struggle with that pathetic realm of yours is an insult to this house — though, I suppose, your filth has already done enough damage."
"My, my… how can you say that to such a cute little boy?" Lady Elyndra cooed, turning toward Vaenor with an exaggerated pout. "Don't you see how much you're scaring the poor lad, you heartless brute?"
"I'll drink to that," Xal'Morath rumbled, lifting his massive jar and gulping down a mouthful before smashing it to the floor.
The jar exploded on impact, shards scattering across the marble like a storm of knives.
Nert reacted instantly — his teeth gritted as he hardened his arms with a layer of violet-hued Cosmic Dust, raising them to shield his face. The glow pulsed faintly across his skin, but even then, a few shards cut through, embedding themselves deep and drawing thin lines of blood.
Xal'Morath's booming laugh shook the air. "See what I mean? The boy doesn't even flinch! Such a shame to waste him — he's been the perfect punching bag for the younger ones. I'll miss watching them use him to polish their egos!"
A few of the Celestials chuckled — humorless, cruel, the sound echoing like the hiss of cold steel.
Nert's fists tightened until his nails split skin. He could feel the warm trickle of blood crawling down his palms, but he didn't wipe it away. His eyes, faintly red behind his cracked glasses, locked on them one by one.
"Even so," Tharion snarled, his tone low and guttural, "I can't fathom why the Patriarch would bother sending him to die there. We could end this farce ourselves and save everyone the trouble. Letting some gutter trash kill him is an insult."
"The Patriarch has his reasons," Veyra interjected coolly, though suspicion laced her voice. "Still… I'm curious what offense was grave enough to warrant such a public execution."
"Are you all done reciting your shitty lines?" Nert's voice cut through the air as he adjusted his displaced glasses.
The room froze.
Every gaze turned razor-sharp, every breath gone still — disbelief flickering across faces that hadn't known shock in centuries.
Nert met their eyes without flinching, his lip curling. "Truly, it warms my heart — being so deeply despised by the mighty House of Drakios. But forgive me if I disappoint. I've no intention of dying just because it pleases you."
His fists trembled, blood dripping from between his fingers and staining the polished floor.
"I'm going to walk into that ruin," Nert said, his voice trembling with exhaustion yet burning with something dangerously close to pride. "And I'm going to come back. Alive."
He took a slow step forward, glaring at each of them. "I'll return breathing, standing, smiling — for one simple reason: my face pisses you off. I'll make damn sure every single one of you has to look at me again, smell my 'disgusting' scent, and bask in the revolting presence you can't stand."
Then, with a crooked grin, he bowed — not in respect, but mockery. "I promise to prove that I am the ultimate trash. Since that's all I'll ever be in your eyes, I might as well become the best at it — the finest garbage to ever drag this family to new heights."
"YOU DARE!" Kael'thorin's roar split the air like thunder, his fury shaking the very pillars of the hall. A violent wave of aura exploded outward, slamming into Nert like a collapsing world.
The impact drove him to his knees with a deafening crack. Blood burst from his nose, his ears, his eyes — warm rivers running down his face and dripping to the floor.
But he laughed.
The sound was raw and broken, echoing off the marble walls like the cry of a madman. "What's wrong? I thought the great Boundless would have more bite than this. Is that all your aura can do to trash like me? Pathetic. I expected more."
"YOU LITTLE—!"
"Enough."
The word came like a blade through silence — soft, calm, but absolute.
The crushing pressure vanished, leaving the air heavy but breathable. Nert raised his head slowly, his chest heaving as his vision blurred through blood and pain. His gaze settled on the woman who had spoken.
Nyxora. The Grand Elder.
Celestial of Shadows.
Harbinger of Doom.
Harvester of Souls.
Looking into those inky black eyes, Nert swallowed the retort that had been clawing at his throat. Nyxora flicked her hair sideways and turned to him, crossing her legs leisurely, a faint, amused smile curling at the edge of her lips.
"We have quite the talker, haven't we?" she said. "Boy, tell you what — if you survive the ruins, I will give you the privilege of choosing a spirit‑forged weapon from the treasury. You definitely need a tool to match your ferocity."
"He won't be able to handle it without exploding from overload," Tharion scoffed. "If he returns alive, which is impossible, I highly recommend giving it to the kid so that it finishes the job."
"You don't have to worry, sir," Nert cut in with a grimace. "This should be nothing for such a great and sturdy punching bag like me—"
"Nertraki Dracona!" Nyxora called, her voice cold and final. "You shall journey to the ruins without guards, without help, relying on no one but yourself to survive. If you die, the House will not mourn you. If you return alive, you will spit on our faces and prove that you are barely trash." She took a deep, measured breath, as if questioning why the farce was taking so long. "NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY THRONE ROOM!"