Dragnol Fire-Storm walked at a measured pace between Lord Auric and Swordmaster Ergenil, the corridor no longer seeming to close in on him the way it had when he first entered the manor. For the first time in years, he felt a fragile thread of understanding forming between them—thin as silk, but present.

  “I may have…misstepped,” Dragnol admitted quietly, folding his free hand behind his back while the other was preoccupied with his dark staff. “Stormed in without warning, disrupted your son’s celebration. It was unbecoming of me.”

  Auric released a long, tired sigh. “It was rather rude, old friend.”

  Dragnol’s wrinkled cheeks flushed. “Quite right. I apologize. I only wished to show that there is another path—another possibility for who should be the next Named Hero. I did not intend offense.”

  Ergenil stroked his salt and pepper beard thoughtfully.

  “The Cysserian boy is talented,” the swordmaster conceded. “I can see why you chose him. To combine lightning magic with Battle Skills…what a frightening combination.”

  Auric nodded to that, reiterating the same idea he’d brought up earlier in the study. “As I said—we will train both boys. Your Rhavak and my Claude. And we will see, without prejudice or favoritism, who proves worthy of backing as Named Candidate.”

  Dragnol inclined his head with deep respect. “A fair approach. And…thank you, Auric. Truly.”

  He meant it. He trusted the man’s word. And he was honestly relieved—relieved that if Rhavak surpassed Claude, Auric had sworn to support him. It was more than Dragnol had expected.

  But as they neared the courtyard door, a prickle crawled up the old mage’s spine.

  His Mana Sense unfurled like a net out of habit, in search of his apprentice.

  And instantly, his stomach dropped.

  “Rhavak…?” he whispered. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Rhavak’s energy—normally brilliant and awe-inspiring for his age—was dim. Fading. His Mana Pool was drained, his Aura Heart thumping weakly.

  Dragnol pushed open the manor door.

  The first sight he saw was Rhavak on the ground, bleeding, broken.

  Atop him stood a young man with a relaxed expression, holding a bottle and pipe as casually as if he were sunbathing on a garden chaise. A heel was pressed lightly yet mercilessly onto Rhavak’s skull.

  The world narrowed.

  Dragnol did not see a human boy.

  He saw a vile thing that had no place in this world.

  A souless creature.

  A predator with a human mask.

  A being born to be destroyed.

  And it would kill Rhavak, the same way another monster like it had killed Gareth.

  Dragnol would not lose a second Hero. He would not fail again.

  There was no time to think. No time to breathe. He raised his staff.

  [Ruinous Thunder]

  Lightning erupted from its tip, tearing through the courtyard as Dragnol unleashed the full weight of his fury and fear in a single, devastating bolt.

  “Get away from him, you vile thing!” Dragnol roared.

  The spell soon faded from Dragnol’s eyes as the smoke cleared.

  He had missed.

  The creature had twitched, a brief blur of golden light, evading the path of his spell.

  No. Not evaded.

  It had read him.

  It had felt the exact trajectory of his Mana and leaned away, moving just far enough to escape annihilation. But it had been too slow. The edge of the [Ruinous Thunder] spell had still caught it, shearing away half its face.

  Dragnol’s lips tightened into a grim line. There could only be one explanation: The creature could read the Mana Tether, the aim guidance all mages used for Spells. How it could sense this—when the Tower Master could detect no Mana Pool in the creature—he did not know.

  No matter. A mage of his caliber—a Master Mage—did not need to rely on Mana Tethers. Aiming Spells without the normal guidance of a tether was child’s play.

  He, Dragnol Fire-Storm, would not miss again. No thing born of the Abyss would escape him.

  He began to channel again, the air crackling around his staff.

  [Glory be thy Strength]

  The world crushed downward.

  A pressure descended, not of magic, but of pure, overwhelming life force. It was a physical weight that slammed down on the courtyard, forcing the recovering guests to their knees once more. This was the Aura Presence of a Nova Arisen—Eregnil, the Glorious Sword.

  A gauntleted hand gripped Dragnol’s staff, forcing it down with irresistible strength.

  “Have you gone mad, Dragnol?!” Eregnil roared, his Aura dying the entire courtyard in red light.

  Though struggling under the crushing pressure, Lord Auric’s voice rose as loudly and even fiercer than the swordmaster’s. “You dare try to murder my son in front of me, Dragnol?!”

  House Edelyn’s guard, led by their captain, marched forward and surrounded the Tower Master, their lone Adept Mage at their flank.

  The combined shock of Eregnil’s intervention and Auric’s betrayed fury made Dragnol’s concentration waver. His magic receded, and for the first time, he truly looked at the monster he had struck.

  It was…the boy. Lucon Edelyn. Auric’s firstborn. He remembered a vibrant, courageous child. Then the wayward, disappointing youth he eventually became.

  Lucon straightened up, his posture still unnervingly casual. Half of his face was a ruin of blood and glistening bone, the jaw and teeth of his right side exposed. He turned his head, the one remaining eye fixing on Dragnol.

  “Uncle Dragnol,” he said with familiarity, voice clear and oddly melodic despite the mutilation. “Was the party so unsatisfactory that you had to strike me?” The exposed muscles around its jaw twitched in a grotesque imitation of a smile. “I promise, I wasn’t the one who picked the music.”

  A wave of revulsion and horror swept through the onlookers. This was not the reaction of a man who had just been half-disfigured.

  Lucon blinked his single eye. He then raised a hand and lightly touched the ruined side of his face, his fingers coming away bloody.

  “Oh,” he said, the tone one of mild realization. “That’s why you’re all looking at me like that.” He looked around at the horrified faces. “Don’t worry. My healing magic has gotten better.”

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  [Mandate for Mercy]

  A soft, golden light concentrated solely on the ravaged side of its face. The flesh began to writhe and knit together with agonizing slowness, tendons snaking back into place, skin stretching over the exposed bone. It was a horrifying, mesmerizing sight.

  After a moment, he lowered his hand, the face now whole, though slick with residual blood.

  Lucon grinned, “See?”

  Dragnol’s blood went cold.

  “Vile creature!” he roared, voice cracking with terror and rage. “I see what you truly are!”

  A demon. It had to be a demon.

  Only a demon would bear such a wound without screaming.

  Only a demon would speak through exposed bone.

  Only a demon would smile with half a face.

  Dragnol’s Mana flared to life once more. It burst from him, a brilliant, furious blue light that drowned out the red of Eregnil’s Aura. He used Mana Pulse, a greater Mana Sense that wielded power enough to knock down the House Edelyn Guard and disrupt the Adept Mage’s Mana Pool.

  ***

  Eregnil saw the homicidal madness in his old friend's eyes. There was no time for words. Only action.

  [Assailing Grandeur]

  Steel whispered from its sheath.

  Eregnil’s sword ignited in roaring flames as his Aura surged—blazing, suffocating, sweltering. The temperature spiked instantly; the air shimmered like a forge. Guests gasped, choking under the overpowering radiance.

  The swordmaster brought his blade down.

  He didn't strike Dragnol; he struck the source of the threat. His blade came down on Dragnol's staff with a deafening clang, slamming the tip deep into the dirt and pinning it there.

  "Dragnol, get a hold of yourself!" Eregnil growled, his voice a thunderous command that brooked no argument.

  Lord Auric was already upon them. His face—normally composed, diplomatic, calculating—was twisted with unfiltered rage.

  "Our friendship, our past, everything we built—it's gone, Dragnol," the Merchant Hero spat, the words final and cold. "I will never stand by a man who has tried to murder my son!"

  The fury in Dragnol's eyes flickered. The blue light of his Mana dimmed as he looked from Auric's betrayed face, to Eregnil's stern one, to Lucon—now whole and watching with that unnerving calm—and finally to his own staff, buried in the earth. The fight drained out of him, leaving a hollow shell of a man.

  He shook his head, a slow, weary motion.

  "It was a mistake to come here," he murmured, his voice thick with a grief Eregnil recognized all too well. The old mage wrenched his staff free and turned, beginning a slow, defeated walk away from the ruins of the celebration.

  “Dragnol—wait.” Eregnil reached out. He couldn't let this happen. They needed the Tower Master. The realms needed this alliance. "Auric, we cannot do this without him. Claude needs a magic teacher of his caliber."

  "Let that senile conjurer go," Auric spat, his gaze fixed on the wizened mage’s back, filled with genuine hate.

  Eregnil turned on him, his voice urgent. "Remember our goal, Auric! To save the realms! To kill the Demon King! To avenge Gareth!"

  Auric whirled, his composure shattering. "That bastard nearly killed one of my sons!"

  "I know what you're feeling—"

  "You couldn't possibly understand!" Auric cut him off, his voice raw. "You never had sons of your own!"

  The words struck Eregnil still, the roaring heat of his Aura faltering.

  "I know I'm not the strongest or the fastest. I know others are far more talented, have more connections, are richer, better looking...and a few can even defeat me in a single move..."

  A memory surfaced—a scrawny, desperate boy with mediocre talent, chasing him all across Vusric Academy, his voice full of a hope that defied all logic.

  "...but if you give me a chance to prove myself, I can...H-Hey! Where are you going, Instructor Eregnil? Please, take me as your apprentice!"

  He had taken that boy under his wing. He had forged him. He had loved him as his own.

  Eregnil withdrew, his proud shoulders slumping. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by deep sorrow.

  "I had Gareth," he said, his voice quiet.

  Auric made a dismissive, almost cruel gesture. "Gareth wasn't your son."

  His words cut deep to the heart. Eregnil met Auric's gaze, his own filled with a pain years in the making.

  "Then why," he murmured, the words barely a breath, "does it feel like I lost one?"

  He turned away, the weight of the night suddenly unbearable. "Dragnol is right. This wasn't a good idea." He looked to Claude, who was watching the collapse of his future with wide, horrified eyes. "I am sorry, Claude. I don’t think I can be anyone’s master…not again."

  Auric stared at him, his anger giving way to stunned disbelief. "I know what this is, Eregnil. You're like Dragnol. You blame me for Gareth's death."

  Eregnil shook his head, the motion heavy with exhaustion. He didn't turn back, speaking over his shoulder.

  “I don’t blame you for his death, Auric.” He paused. “I blame you for him never receiving justice.”

  Crimson Aura erupted around him, not in a blaze of glory, but in a silent scream of grief and fury. He bent his knees and leapt, a single, impossible bound that carried him high over the Edelyn manor, a red comet against the dark sky, leaving behind silence and ruined dreams.

  ***

  Auric stood motionless, the night air prickly in his lungs as crimson light faded into the sky. He could scarcely comprehend what he’d just witnessed.

  Both of them.

  Both of Gareth’s old masters—gone. Walking away from him, from Claude, from everything they had worked toward.

  His plans—years of carefully laid foundations—collapsed like a bridge of twigs. How was Claude supposed to become a Named Hero now? How were the realms supposed to stand against the Demon King?

  Why…why was nothing going according to plan anymore?

  Auric Edelyn, the Merchant Hero, so renowned for his insight and wits—somehow incapable of making a single damned thing go right. The irony pressed atop him like a boulder.

  A hysterical laughter threatened to claw its way up his throat.

  His eyes darted from the empty sky, down to Claude—his poor boy seeming on unsteady legs—then to…

  Lucon.

  Lucon, who was drinking again.

  Auric watched in silent disbelief as his eldest son lifted one of the bottles meant for the highest-ranking guests—an exquisite, imported vintage worth a small fortune—and drank from it like it was pump water. No shame, no hesitation, just an indifferent glugging.

  Of course.

  Of course.

  All of this was because of him.

  This catastrophe, this humiliation, this loss—Lucon had managed to poison everything by doing his “best” once again. The parental need to protect him and the relief Aruic felt that he survived Dragnol's attack began to recede.

  Rhavak was back on his feet, Dragnol guiding the beaten youth away from Lucon’s presence. Rhavak kept a venomous glare on Lucon. Auric grimaced. No doubt House Cysserian will seek some form of recompense for the overt public shaming their heir received.

  [Storm Rider]

  A thunderclap echoed, and in a split-second flash of bright thunder, both Tower Master and apprentice shot into the sky and vanished. The Norlon boy tried to leave with them but he was left behind.

  A shuddering breath fell from Auric’s mouth, the last vestiges of his control feeling as if it was slipping away. Surrounding him were the stunned guests in their torn finery. Claude looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Mabel’s limp body could be spotted being carried inside, unconscious.

  Everything had gone wrong. Every piece falling out of place.

  And all of it…

  He shut his eyes. All of it started with Lucon.

  A hand steadied him.

  Auric’s veined eyes shifted to see Niles. The round merchant gave him a small, friendly smirk.

  "Auric," Niles said gently, his voice a familiar anchor in the chaos. “While the money flows, we can’t stand still.”

  The simple, humorous motto they once shared, a callback to their riskier merchant ventures, grounded him.

  Niles then urged, "Time to wrap things up, I think. See to it the guests leave as they came—in one piece."

  Auric nodded, pulling the tattered remains of his dignity around him.

  He addressed the shell-shocked crowd, his voice hoarse but carrying. "My friends...my most sincere apologies. This...spectacle was not what I intended. I will make this up to you all, you have my word. For now, please, return to your homes safely." He drew a breath, forcing conviction into his tone. "And know this: though tonight's celebration has ended, the hope has not. My son, Claude, will still save this world. He will slay the Demon King."

  A tinge of hope rose in the crowd—faint but returning.

  And then, as hope sparked, an idea struck him.

  Why not now?

  Why not tell them what was in store, perhaps grow their hope like a budding flame into a comforting fire—that Claude would be the new heir of House Edelyn?

  He glanced toward Lucon.

  Lucon was staring at him.

  Not confused. Not oblivious.

  Staring with a peculiar, knowing expression—as though he could see the very thought forming in Auric’s mind.

  Auric shook his head.

  Impossible. It wasn’t like Lucon could read minds.

  No. Absurd.

  He turned back to the guests, drawing in a breath.

  “I have one last announcement,” he said. “From this day onward, the new heir of House Edelyn will—”

  “The heir will now announce the most splendid news,” Lucon suddenly declared, stepping forward, voice bright with theatrical cheer. “I, Lucon Edelyn of House Edelyn, am to marry Klara Serbal of House Serbal.”

  ***

  A few minutes earlier.

  Rhavak lay in a bloody heap on the grass, barely able to register the pain of his injuries over the haunting humiliation he had just endured. The wizened figure of his master approached, expression grave.

  How could this have happened? To be defeated by the most infamous wastrel in the kingdom—before so many witnesses, and worst of all, before his own master.

  “M-Master…!” Rhavak groaned.

  Dragnol helped the broken youth to his feet, guiding him away from his tormentor—who wasn’t even paying attention. Lucon was draining a bottle of alcohol as if humiliating a prodigy were nothing more than a drinking game.

  “I swear I will have my revenge on him,” Rhavak hissed, glaring back at Lucon.

  He noticed his master’s silence and looked up—only to become still. Dragnol Fire-Storm was trembling.

  “You must become stronger,” Dragnol said quietly, his aged eyes fixed on Lucon. Slowly, he raised his staff toward the sky.

  [Storm Rider]

  “Is…is this wastrel truly so special?” Rhavak asked. Even having been beaten, his mind refused to accept it. There had to be an explanation—some trick, some foul play. There was no way it had been fair.

  Dragnol answered, his voice heavy with foreboding. “That boy reminds me of him.”

  A bolt of lightning struck them, and they rode it skyward.

  “Wait for me, Young Lord!” Norlon cried, sprinting after them—but he was too late. They were already beyond reach.

  The last thing Rhavak saw of the celebration was Lucon, standing below, grinning up at them.

  He couldn’t help but notice his master’s grip tighten around the dark staff, knuckles whitening with fear.