KREG JEVELIAR
The lieutenant stood before us with his sword drawn, his crimson eyes burning with defiance. Even outnumbered three to one, he refused to back down. Foolish bravery—or sheer desperation.
"Fire Step: Third Form!" He shouted.
His blade arced downward, unleashing a vertical slash of pure flame that carved through the air and cleanly bisected his own mansion in a single, devastating strike. Raphael sidestepped effortlessly, but the attack served as a warning: this man was dangerous.
His wrath turned toward me next. Fire erupted around me, a swirling cage of heat and destruction.
"-econd form!"
The lieutenant's voice echoed as the inferno sealed me inside. But I only smirked.
Mana Manipulation.
With a flick of my finger, the flames dissolved, absorbed into my core. The foreign energy fractured, assimilated, becoming mine. Lightning crackled to life in my palm, forming a blade as I lunged.
He was distracted, parrying Carolina's onslaught—too slow to react. My strike pierced his mana clad armor and sank deep into his side.
A choked gasp. A stumble. Yet, even wounded, he retaliated. Another cage of fire erupted—this time around himself.
A last stand.
Inside, the sounds of labored coughing, his desperation evident.
"Come out!" Raphael barked, landing beside me. "Face us, coward!"
Silence.
I glanced at Raphael, and he nodded. Once more, I activated Mana Manipulation, draining the flames until nothing remained but a broken man on his knees. As if he had been stripped naked.
He coughed violently, crimson dripping from his lips.
"The likes of you... can never take over Wikesland!"
A final defiance—before his strength gave out.
"Kreg," Raphael's lips curled in that infuriating smirk of his. "Finish him."
The order hung in the air as I advanced. The lieutenant dragged himself backward through his own pool of blood, his breath ragged. My palm extended toward him, ready to drain his life force—but instead of begging, he smiled.
That damned smile.
A gust of wind whipped past my face—then exploded into a hurricane. I barely had time to throw up my hexagonal mana shield before the gale-force winds would have ripped us apart.
"An intruder," I growled, shielding my comrades. "The lieutenant was stalling."
As the dust cleared, two new figures stood beside the wounded man.
"Lieu—cough—Lieutenant Yaz," Utah rasped. "Careful... they're strong."
My eyes narrowed. That earlier fire attack—it hadn't been meant to hit Raphael at all. A signal.
Cunning bastard.
"Messenger Klara!" Yaz barked. "Buy us time!"
He scooped up Utah, but before he could flee—
"Aeon Platus!" Raphael's voice carried an edge I'd never heard before. "You shouldn't be here!"
The towering figure of our superior materialized from the shadows, his presence crushing. Even injured from his battle with that damned Diviner, his power made the very air tremble. The lieutenants froze—literally. The weight of his mana pinned them like insects.
Yaz managed half a step before an earthen spike impaled him through the chest. Utah collapsed atop him, their blood mingling in the dirt. Klara didn't fare better—a cage of spikes erupted around her, sealing her in an earthen coffin.
Just like that. Three opponents neutralized in less time than it took to blink.
I clenched my fist. The gulf between an Aeon and us Leytens was... humiliating.
We dropped to one knee in unison.
"Aeon Platus," Carolinus asked, head bowed, "shall we return to camp?"
"Not yet." He kicked at a charred rose bush. "We're in for a show."
My head snapped up. A show?
"The National Tournament begins tomorrow," he continued, answering my unspoken question. "We'll leave them a message there."
Raphael hesitated. "The barracks—"
"Are already dealt with." Platus examined his nails. "I cleared the central grounds myself. The generals were absent, but the lieutenants and majors... well." He gestured to the corpses at our feet. "Keep the woman alive. She might be useful."
With a dismissive wave, he turned away. "Raphael—take her to camp. Carolinus, Kreg—you're with me."
"Yes, my Aeon." The words tasted like ash.
As Raphael hauled Klara's unconscious form over his shoulder, I stared at the two dying lieutenants. Their chests still rose and fell—barely.
Platus followed my gaze. "Problem, Leyten?"
"No, sir." I straightened. "Just admiring your work."
His laugh sent ice down my spine. "Good. Because the real work starts tomorrow."
The tournament would be more than a message.
It would be a massacre.
Jerome Kruger
I stood on the top of the clock tower. It was a sweet spot for having a clear view of the city. But I wasn't just commanded to come here and enjoy my time here...
I had been watching from afar. I had been sent to spy on the Boltaire mansion but I couldn't have ever thought of seeing such a horrendous sight. The mansion...Scathed...Presumably 3 Lieutenants...Left to die... It was a massacre...
I had never felt this powerless in my entire life. I failed my task and more importantly, I was unable to save them. Before remorse got the best of me, I composed myself once again. I needed to get out of here.
"This is where it all ends."
The voice slithered through the dark, freezing my blood. I whirled around—nothing but shadows.
Then, two golden eyes ignited in the blackness.
A silhouette lounged in a chair, casual as death itself.
"Wh-who are you?" My voice barely escaped my throat.
The figure gestured to the seat opposite him. "The tea's getting cold."
Every instinct screamed run. But his presence pinned me in place. Slowly, I sat.
"Jerome Kruger." His voice was deceptively soft. "Son of Jarrod Kruger. Do you pledge allegiance to your king?"
A trap? A test? My pulse hammered.
"O-of course. Why?"
"If that's true..." He sipped his tea. "...you're relieved of this mission. You're here on the prince's orders, aren't you?"
How does he—
"W-what? Why?"
"Your family's been granted... salvation." Golden eyes gleamed. "But interfere with us..." The cup clinked against its saucer. "...and we'll erase your bloodline like we did the Boltaire family. Like you just witnessed."
Ice flooded my veins. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He stood. I flinched.
A smirk curled in the dark. "Do Wikesmen prefer cold tea?"
Silence.
Then he stepped into the moonlight—a middle-aged man with refined features and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Don't worry. It's not poisoned."
With that, he stepped off the tower's edge.
I didn't watch him fall.
I was too busy realizing I'd just sat across from death itself—and lived.
For now.