Marcus POV
“Now, you idiot,” Marcus hissed in a low voice to the shrouded man beside him.
He was only a hired hand—Marcus didn’t need to treat him with any respect.
Scowling, the hooded man quickly condensed fire mana, pouring in far more than was needed.
Apparently satisfied with the basketball-sized sphere of roiling flame, the mage raised his hand and aimed it toward the now-stopped middle carriage—the one Marcus knew held his targets.
His orders were simple—execute George, Lillia, and that little brat Tyrius.
He’d been given permission to bring in extra help to ensure it got done.
The only reason he was letting this Tier 3 cast the opening strike was because Marcus’ own light magic was too potent—it would alert George immediately. This wasn’t meant to kill them all at once. No, this was meant to kill Tyrius.
George would no doubt sense the incoming attack, but it would be too late to shield the boy.
The rest? He’d handle them himself.
He wasn’t worried about the mess—this would all be written off as an unfortunate accident.
He had no doubts about the outcome. He’d recently advanced to Tier 4, and George was still stuck at Tier 3. George would lose.
He would lose.
Marcus chuckled to himself.
His grin widened as the fireball launched, scorching the air as it hissed toward the carriage. A faint pulse of recognizable mana flared from within.
Earlier than I thought he’d notice… but no matter.
The blazing inferno slammed into the carriage door, flooding the cabin with heat—then erupted in a deafening blast.
The entire vessel was blown apart in an instant.
That was the signal.
Spells tore through the air, slamming into the other carriages just as quickly. Screams rang out, followed by the clash of steel, detonating mana, and flaring auras.
Marcus wasn’t concerned. The defenders of this caravan stood no chance—House Creedmore had made sure of that.
I’ll have to thank Elder Han for this later.
He snapped his focus back to the main carriage, eyes scanning for the results or for survivors.
His enhanced senses easily pierced through the chaos as he located his targets.
To his astonishment, the boy had survived. He alongside the others were arcing through the air, flung free by the explosion.
Even worse—they all looked mostly unharmed.
Marcus scowled.
See if you can survive this.
With a thought, he cast [Descending Radiance]. His newly-refined light-aspected spell would erase the boy completely. It wouldn’t leave more than a scorch mark.
High above, his mana gathered—then the white, jagged bolt tore downward.
He watched gleefully as the blast swallowed the boy whole.
The crash of thunder followed a heartbeat later, slamming into the forest and cratering the earth. Marcus couldn’t help but smile.
Look how powerful I’ve become.
He applauded himself inwardly.
Then—
A scream.
Marcus’ smile faltered.
What!? That brat’s still alive?
I suppose I did feel some resistance… did he have an artifact?
He doubted it. Tyrius was a child still, and no one from the House would give the boy anything of real value.
George? No. George could only use his barriers through his shield—and that relic never left his arm. Marcus had seen him fight enough to know that firsthand.
And George had been launched in the opposite direction.
Still… Marcus had to admit—even he had struggled to break through that man’s defenses.
But it shouldn’t matter anymore.
I’m Tier 4 now.
Marcus watched from a distance as George appeared, calling out to the boy.
He moved faster.
As he neared the crater’s edge, rage churned in his chest. The child was still alive—still relatively unharmed.
Impossible.
His spell should have destroyed the boy’s soul. And yet… there he lay. Alive. Healing even.
George had already fed the insect a potion.
That boy truly is like a cockroach, Marcus sneered inwardly.
He activated [Light Step], appearing behind George in a flash—sword already in hand.
George tensed.
He still sensed me?
The thought irritated Marcus more than he expected.
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Then the blade plunged through the man’s back and burst from his chest.
Tyrius screamed beneath him. Marcus smirked and yanked the sword free with a wet squelch.
Pathetic.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Lillia’s gaze.. Even now, she looked beautiful to him.
Too bad we can’t have a little fun first. But orders are orders.
So instead, he took his time. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his sword—like a guillotine poised for the drop.
He knew George had sworn to protect both of them. He knew Lillia respected the bond between her son and the old retainer.
Marcus wanted her to watch it break.
He’d kill Tyrius next. Just to see her shatter.
A raindrop swiped past his cheek, breaking him out of his delusion. Below him, the dying man was in the middle of muttering something to the boy.
Marcus didn’t care to listen. He never did. George had always talked too much.
“—Focus on that, and I know y—”
His blade swept through the man’s neck, severing it cleanly.
“That’s enough of that,” Marcus said, victorious.
He turned to Lillia, eager to see the despair on her face—
—only to catch something glinting in the air.
A ring?
She had thrown a ring at him. Not with superhuman speed—nothing dramatic. Just a casual toss.
Marcus blinked, confused. Then, with a flick of his aura, he caught it midair.
He drew it closer, spinning it with a thought.
A storage ring?
Confusion shifted into something else.
Runes shimmered across the delicate band—each one overcharging violently with mana.
He had no time to react.
“Sh—”
The ring exploded.
Lillia POV
Tyrius had always been surrounded by fate mana. Since the day he was born, it lingered like an invisible, ever-present cloak.
But that didn’t mean he could use it. No, this was something else. Less a blessing, more a declaration—an omen from the forces that pulled the strings of the world.
Lillia felt it constantly. And when Tyrius turned five, that sensation intensified. The mana no longer clung to him—it fell from him in waves. That was when the boy began to change.
He stopped playing like other children. Instead, he watched the world as if it held secrets only he could see. His intelligence spiked. His gaze sharpened. And in his eyes, Lillia saw a depth she hadn’t expected to see for decades.
Still, she didn’t let it bother her. He was still her Tyrius. The fate mana, once thick around him, began to fade after that. She never learned why. But she was content—he was alive. He was hers.
A year later, Tyrius told Lillia and George about the “magical words” that had appeared in his head.
She couldn’t have been happier. Her son had been chosen by the Ethereal Words and granted an intrinsic ability—a gift so rare it could shape entire generations.
Maybe this was what fate had planned all along, she thought.
But some of that mana still lingered. Just a trace. Enough to make her wary. The world, she knew, wasn’t finished with him yet.
Still, none of that dulled her love. When she learned the words granted him the lesser skill [Spiritual Sensitivity], she demanded House Creedmore stop their political games and provide the resources Tyrius deserved.
A gift like his needed to be nurtured, not discarded. And House Creedmore needed something—anything—if it wanted to survive. The last Fracturing had taken too many lives from this House. Including her husband.
She explained all this. Pleaded with them. But instead of support, factions formed—those who wanted to protect the boy, and those who wanted them gone.
The only thing shielding them from exile was her husband’s memory. As the former Patriarch, his shadow still had weight. Even the other noble Houses would not allow his widow and child to be cast aside so easily.
Then one day, with little warning, Vaelon came. Kaelon’s brother, the replacement.
He spoke of sending the three of them to Caelthall—for Tyrius.
Lillia could only hope: Maybe this was fate too. Maybe this was the dream taking root.
But during the conversation, Lillia saw it—the faint tugging of fate pulling at everyone in the room. Subtle. Fleeting. If she hadn’t been so sensitive to it, she might have missed it entirely.
That was the first sign something wasn’t right.
She studied Vaelon as he addressed them. They were to depart immediately. His eyes held no warmth—no familiarity. It felt like he was speaking to prisoners, not family. That was her second sign. She had never trusted Vaelon to begin with.
And after they were loaded like luggage onto the caravan and sent off, she felt it: the ever-present threads of fate around Tyrius had finally begun to unravel.
That was the confirmation.
The world has him where it wants him. Something is going to happen to this caravan. Something that will shape him.
A sense of dread bloomed in her chest—growing heavier with each passing second. She had learned to trust that feeling. It had saved her life more than once. When you’re attuned to fate, you listen to its whispers.
Lillia’s thoughts raced, each one a frantic attempt to shift their path. But none eased the dread. None except one.
She rummaged through her storage ring. Moments later she retrieved a device she had hoped never to use—an object given to her by someone no one else in the carriage had any knowledge of.
It was cold. Unnaturally black. Shaped like an elongated six-faced crystal. Even holding it, she couldn’t sense the enchantments hidden beneath its surface.
But she knew what it was.
It had only one purpose.
She hesitated. Then pushed her aura into it. The tier 6 construct drank deeply, a faint glow pulsing in response—subtle, nearly imperceptible. But to her, it meant everything. There was no turning back now.
She held the device throughout the ride, steadily feeding it aura. At one point, she sensed George gently probing at it with his own. She could tell he was trying to be subtle, but Lillia noticed regardless.
George had always assumed his aura control was better than her own. It was an unfounded opinion, and one she didn’t care to correct.
His probing on the device, although slightly rude, didn’t bother her. She let him wonder. He wouldn’t understand what she held—not truly.
But fate is still fate. There’s only so much anyone can do.
So it came as no shock when the carriage was suddenly attacked and she found herself looking down into a smoldering crater—watching Marcus behead George, who had been shielding her now-crippled son.
That didn’t mean she felt nothing.
It shattered her.
Fate-attuned users rarely advanced quickly. Their abilities weren’t meant for war, and strength only came to those who fought. It made her weaker than most. But not helpless.
With a measured expression, she activated her skills. She tore the ring from her finger and imbued it with [Spontaneous Eruption], flooding the spatial enchantments with volatile mana.
Then she threw it. Clean. Controlled. Deliberate.
The skill was her first—one she never intended to acquire. And even now, she didn’t fully understand it. It caused mana to rupture. Not much else.
But it didn’t have to.
Marcus caught the ring with his aura, intrigued. Brought it closer. Studied it.
[Spontaneous Eruption] triggered.
His eyes widened as the enchantments began to collapse—right next to his face.
Most storage devices were built to safely disperse spatial energy if damaged.
Hers wasn’t.
She watched as the detonation tore open the air. Space rippled. Marcus, Tier 4 or not, was hurled backward—cut deep by the resulting lacerations.
The ground shredded.
But Tyrius—somehow—remained unharmed. Her prediction skill had been right.
She didn’t hesitate.
She swept him into her arms and vanished into the forest.
The beacon in her palm pulsed again—still dormant. Still unanswered. Its delicate rhythm confirmed it hadn’t been received. Not yet.
She needed more time.
Rain began to fall, heavy and cold. The sounds of battle behind them were already fading. She knew the battles would be wrapping up soon, and then they’d be after her.
The moisture soaked through her clothes, doing little to improve her sour mood—or her opinion of a certain someone’s timing.
Please hurry.
