8:40 AM
Isolde leaned forward, her knuckles whitening as she gripped Punition’s hilt with brutal force. A smile as sharp as her blade’s edge sliced across her face.
"Let’s see if you keep that tone when reality hits you square in the face..."
In the distance, between the garden columns, Ezren felt sweat slither down his back. The heat radiating from Isolde’s affinity was a furnace; every breath seared his lungs.
"Mom isn’t playing..." he muttered, digging his nails into his arms.
Alaric never took his eyes off the battlefield, his expression strained.
"Let’s hope Astrid doesn’t overstep..." he said, with a tinge of worry rarely heard in his voice. "You know how Mom gets when she thinks someone needs a ‘lesson.’"
Ezren shot him a sidelong glance. No reply was needed. They both knew the cost of defying her too well.
Punition’s flames wreathed the blade in a scarlet shroud, casting Isolde’s face in ghostly light. For an instant—amid the smoke and steel’s glare—she saw her own reflection in Astrid’s eyes: a desperate young woman clutching a rusted knife in an alley twenty years ago.
Astrid’s razor flashed, mirroring her stance, her fury, even that same twitch in the jaw. It was like staring into a warped mirror—a version of herself she’d never been able to tame.
"Are you going to cry?" Isolde spat the words, but the echo of her brother Zirian in them made her shudder. Without realizing, she’d clenched her fist with the same brutality he had that day...
Isolde Montclair
Before she was a Rouge. Before she became what she is now.
The only daughter among three sons in a family of gem merchants. While her brothers learned the trade, she was locked away with seamstresses and etiquette manuals.
"Are you going to cry? Pathetic little girl..."
Zirian, the second brother, smirked as his boot crushed Branric’s hind legs. The white poodle howled, dragging its bleeding limbs toward Isolde.
"STOP IT!"
Isolde lunged, nails outstretched like claws. But Dareth, the eldest, caught her by the waist, laughing.
"This isn’t how ladies behave, little sister."
As Zirian kicked Branric again, Isolde learned three truths:
- Weakness smells like the urine of a terrified dog.
- Tears only feed predators.
- Real power doesn’t wear skirts.
That night, she found Branric drowned in the fountain. Zirian smiled from the window, wiping his hands clean.
Isolde fled at dawn with nothing but the clothes on her back and a fire eating through her chest. She would never be trapped again. Not ever.
Years passed in rotten alleyways and filthy markets. In the slums, where the Montclair name was worth less than the mud on her shoes, she became simply "Isolde". She joined a gang of teen thieves, learning to move her fingers faster than guards could blink. But while others stole bread or coins, she stole techniques. She watched mercenaries, copied their stances, memorized how their muscles tensed when swinging a sword.
Her family searched for her. They offered rewards, bribed guards. But Isolde was no longer the girl they’d known. She was a shadow with teeth.
By sixteen, she forged her legend in soot and grime:
She wielded a knight’s greatsword—a steel beast most men couldn’t lift. Her arms, slender but carved by relentless training, swung it with brutal precision. Day after day, night after night, the sound of her blade cutting through air mingled with drunkards’ screams. Every strike was a vow:
She would never be weak again.
That same year, the Fifty-Sixth Calibration Exam gathered the kingdom's brightest prospects. Among them, two figures already emerging as legends:
Hadrian Rouge, eighteen years old, heir of the main branch.
Everything about him was black: the glove covering his left hand, the leather jacket that creaked with every movement, the boots that struck the ground like judgments. Only the immaculate white of his shirt broke the mourning of his attire. His gaze—cold, calculating—scanned the battlefield like a hawk sizing up prey. That intensity wasn't temporary. It was the beginning of what he would become.
Beside him, Charles Rouge, fifteen years old, the prodigy already whispered about in the halls.
His long coat, trimmed with white fur, fluttered like the wings of a lazy raven. His black hair—slightly too long—hid his eyes but not the easy smile that contrasted with his uncle's severity. Where Hadrian commanded respect, Charles inspired curiosity. A dangerous combination.
Among the participants, one name spoken with a mix of respect and wariness: Apollo Jaune.
The last heir of a clan that had not yet known tragedy. Without the starborn tattoo that would later mark him, without the crown he would one day bear. Just a young man with short blond hair and simple clothes: a light steel breastplate, long-sleeved green shirt, plain white trousers. He dressed as what he was then: a prince without a kingdom, a lion hiding among cats.
"Apollo! You're early."
Charles extended his hand with that smile already becoming famous. The handshake echoed in the air like a challenge disguised as greeting.
"We promised to participate together, remember?"
Apollo laughed, but his eyes never lost that spark of alertness. He knew what it meant to face a Rouge, even a smiling one.
"Let's hope we get to fight together..."
Charles looked at him then as only rivals who admire each other can: with hunger.
The atmosphere tensed when Tadanori Bleu appeared, heir to a clan that rivaled the Rouge in antiquity and power.
His ice-blue eyes contrasted with the severe topknot that gathered his straight hair, shaved at the sides in the style of warrior monks. His white kimono fluttered slightly, the blue-embroidered dragons seeming to move with each controlled breath.
"Hadrian..."
Tadanori's voice cut the air, laden with the challenge only decades of rivalry could inspire.
"Tadanori..."
Hadrian didn't even break stride. Just cast a sidelong glance, cold as his sword's steel, before continuing. Two predators recognizing each other, measuring each other, knowing their final battle had not yet come.
Between them, the air vibrated with unspoken promises. The exam had barely begun, but their duel had been years in the making.
The first two phases had concluded. Only the decisive match remained.
After defeating Jonathan Valemont—that rookie knight who years later would lead the Royal Army's First Division—Isolde received the news: in the quarterfinals, she would face Hadrian Rouge.
A defiant smile curled her lips.
"Are the Rouge really as fearsome as they say?"
As she spoke, her massive sword gleamed under the sun. Her white, long-sleeved blouse with a high collar, cinched by a black corset, fluttered slightly with each movement. Skin-tight pants and reinforced knee-high boots completed her combat attire.
Her straight, jet-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face with piercing green eyes that burned with determination. The short bangs and two side strands swayed in the wind, as if anticipating the coming battle.
The arena separated them, the distance measured to the millimeter.
Hadrian remained motionless, his eyes analyzing Isolde's every step as she circled him slowly, like a tiger sizing up prey.
"If you won't attack... I will!"
Isolde lunged in a brutal charge, her massive sword wreathed in flames that illuminated her resolute face.
Hadrian reacted instantly. "Bonheur" materialized in a swirl of dark dust, the sacred Rouge blade unsheathing with lethal elegance:
- A black blade with silver edges that bitinto the light
- Ancient runes near the tip that seemed to pulse
- An angular crossguard like bat wings
- A metallic circle at the center glowing with arcane energy
- A straight, austere hilt designed to kill with efficiency
CLANG!
The impact reverberated across the field, forcing Hadrian back a step. For the first time, surprise flickered across his impassive face.
"Since I saw your match against Valemont, I knew you were different..."
As he spoke, the shadows at his feet came alive, rising into jagged spikes that shot toward Isolde.
She didn’t flinch. With a flick of her wrist, she dissolved her sword into ashes, leaping back with feline agility. Before the spikes could reach her, she’d already re-summoned her weapon, carving an arc of fire that split the air with a roar. The flaming wave devoured everything in its path—including the remnants of Hadrian’s shadows.
The inferno surged toward Hadrian, forcing him into a defensive stance. He crouched slightly, extending his sword with deadly precision before engulfing himself in a shroud of darkness that flowed around the blade.
"Fin Traguique!"
His voice cut through the fire’s roar as he unleashed a black wave that not only halted Isolde’s attack but advanced with unstoppable force.
Isolde didn’t hesitate. With a swift motion, she dematerialized her sword and backflipped at the last instant, narrowly evading the onrushing darkness. Midair, she thrust out her hand—and six magic circles materialized behind her, each charging with fiery energy until they blazed like miniature suns.
"Hell Laser!"
The scorching beams fired simultaneously, streaking through the air with high-pitched shrieks.
Hadrian, however, remained unfazed. He dispersed his sword into shadows and dove straight through the lasers. His body turned intangible—living darkness—as if the flames were mere illusions unable to touch him.
The air vibrated as Hadrian's hand clenched empty space.
"I thought you were smarter..."
His words froze on his lips when Isolde vanished. From the still-smoldering ashes of her own spell, her figure reappeared like a phantom born from fire.
"Likewise."
Her laugh sliced through the air as she sprinted, summoning her massive sword anew. This time, something dark and twisted coiled around the steel, merging with the flames—anti-karma, the energy that denies the world itself.
"Scorched Destiny!"
The strike she unleashed wasn't just fire. It was pure destruction—black and red flames entwined in a vortex that devoured the air. The only possible counter against a warrior who became one with darkness. The only way to touch the intangible.
The impact landed with a dull crunch as the wave of fire and anti-karma slammed into Hadrian's back. He spat blood, his body hurled against the arena wall with brutal force. But at the last instant, his own shadow rose like a starving beast, enveloping him completely before disappearing.
Isolde stood motionless, fingers adjusting her sword's grip as her eyes scoured every inch of the battlefield. She knew his tactics. His previous fights had taught her how a Rouge battled.
Will he appear from behind?
The thought was a mental whisper, but accurate. As if he'd heard it, Hadrian emerged from his own shadow, Bonheur materializing in a deathly spin aimed at her waist.
Isolde pivoted with instinctive speed, her sword rising to block.
CLANG!
The sound reverberated through the arena, but her victory was fleeting. Hadrian's blade turned intangible—dark as the night itself—phasing through her defense as if it weren't there, its tip driving straight for her torso.
"Shit...!"
The curse gritted through her teeth as she forced a sudden explosion of energy. The detonation flung both fighters apart, interrupting the lethal strike.
They rose in unison, their weapons rematerializing instantly before they crashed together again.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Each steel collision resonated with equal intensity. Their speeds were perfectly matched, creating a frenetic dance where firebursts intertwined with curtains of shadow.
At the edge of the arena, Apollo approached Charles with a mocking smile:
"Looks like your uncle can't handle that girl."
Charles, without taking his eyes off the duel, answered with a laugh:
"I don't think that's it... He doesn't usually smile like that in a fight. He's enjoying it."
And so he was.
The battle had become a perfectly balanced display of power. Hadrian, normally impassive, wore an unusual smile as he wielded his sword. Isolde, for her part, also smiled, satisfied to be matching a Rouge blow for blow.
Charles watched with growing intrigue, murmuring to himself:
"When was the last time I saw him smile like that?"
A memory assaulted him: the image of Hadrian with that same expression during a training session with his younger sister, Neris Rouge.
"Does he see her reflected in that woman?"
Neris, whose life had been taken by Tadanori Bleu in the War of Grudges—that bloody conflict between the Rouge and Bleu clans that had changed Hadrian forever.
The duel had now lasted half an hour, draining both warriors to their limits.
Hadrian panted, sweat and blood mingling on his face. His ragged breathing shattered his usual composure.
Isolde fared no better. Her white blouse was torn and bloodstained, her hair plastered to her skin from exertion. But her eyes... her eyes burned with the same intensity as at the start.
"Time to end this, don't you think?" Hadrian flashed that rare smile while studying Isolde's expression. For a moment, he saw Neris's eyes reflected in hers.
Isolde returned the smile—complicit. Both knew the next move would decide everything.
The audience held their breath. Even the typically impassive guild leaders leaned forward in their seats.
Then, the Bloody Eye awakened.
The whites of Hadrian's eyes turned black as night. His pupils burned with an intense red, while his hair darkened to scarlet. An oppressive aura flooded the arena, forcing weaker spectators to their knees.
"Shit! My body won't respond...!" one shouted, trembling. Others simply collapsed unconscious.
Apollo, unfazed, laughed beside Charles:
"His control is similar to yours."
Charles, equally immune, crossed his arms:
"Now he won't hold back."
Amid the chaos, whispers grew:
"He's a demon! The Rouge shouldn't be here!"
Isolde tightened her grip on her sword's hilt, her knuckles whitening. The flames engulfing the steel flared until they became blinding, transforming the surrounding air into a suffocating furnace. The blade, glowing red-hot like molten metal, intertwined with dark tendrils of anti-karma that warped the space around it.
Before her, Hadrian raised Bonheur, the black sword devouring light like a hole in reality. Nebulas of pure darkness swirled around its edge, merging with the black lightning of anti-karma that made the weapon vibrate with raw power.
"They're going to destroy the arena at this rate!" a spectator shouted over the roar.
They weren't wrong. The floor tiles began to crack and lift, pulverizing under the combined pressure of both combatants. The air itself seemed to tear, rippling like fabric under extreme heat.
In a moment of unnatural silence, both warriors charged.
Their swords never made contact.
The anti-karma from both weapons created an invisible barrier between them—a space where the normal laws of the world were denied. Isolde's flames roared, struggling not to be devoured by Hadrian's darkness, creating a vortex of fire and shadow that illuminated the arena in alternating flashes of red and black.
The heat was so intense that Isolde's flames began consuming the remnants of her blouse, leaving marks on her skin. But she didn't even blink.
The balance shattered.
A sharp crack echoed as Isolde's blade began to yield, fractures spiderwebbing across the red-hot metal. She wasn't prepared. Her mastery of anti-karma, though impressive, lacked the endurance to match a Rouge.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
CRACK!
The sound of her sword breaking was as abrupt as her hopes shattering.
But the final blow never came.
Hadrian stopped Bonheur centimeters from her face. In those green eyes, he saw Neris again—that frozen moment in time when his dying younger sister had whispered his name with terror-filled eyes. A memory that had haunted him every night since.
Isolde staggered, but before she could fall, a firm hand caught her by the waist.
She looked up to find a smile she never thought possible on that usually stern face. It was pure, unguarded—a glimpse of the Hadrian who existed before the war, before the loss.
"You're strong." His voice was a whisper heavy with nostalgia. "Don't let that fire in your eyes disappear... please."
A blush burned Isolde's cheeks with an intensity that rivaled her own flames. For the first time, someone truly saw her. Not as the rebel, not as the misfit, but as what she was: a warrior who'd forged herself.
It was the recognition her soul had always secretly craved.
The echoes of the Calibration Exam still reverberated when both warriors received their fates.
Isolde and Hadrian joined the "Divine Knights", Ashendrell's most prestigious guild—distinguished by its ten-star ranking and led by the legendary Osric Grimwald, "the Sage", an SSS+-class swordsman of the old guard.
Hadrian was appointed Vice-Commander of the Fourth Division, while Isolde took the role of Captain within the same unit. Both achieved A-Class rank—a remarkable feat for their first foray into the guild world.
Meanwhile, Charles and Apollo, already A+ Class, chose a different path. They founded the "Celestial Order", a guild that quickly rose to prominence due to the overwhelming power of its founders.
But as with all things that shine brightly, their decline soon followed.
Internal conflicts fractured their brotherhood, culminating in the legendary "Duel of Pinecrest", where Charles was defeated and exiled from the order. Mere days later, Apollo Jaune would be crowned King of Ashendrell, marking the end of one era and the dawn of another.
Isolde's success had unexpected consequences.
The Montclairs, her blood family, suddenly showed interest in reclaiming her. The economic crisis plaguing their noble house had led them to a desperate solution: marrying her off to a Darnell, the powerful family that owned the kingdom's most lucrative ports.
But Isolde had no intention of returning.
"After everything they did to me...?" she whispered to herself, fingers digging into her arms. She knew the risk—with their political connections, the Montclairs could revoke her warrior's license, erasing years of effort in an instant.
Then, she heard familiar footsteps in the grass.
"You're lost in thought..."
Hadrian approached, stopping beside her as she sat hugging her knees by the lake.
Isolde looked up, the question gnawing at her finally finding voice:
"How do you bear the weight of being a Rouge?"
Hadrian gazed at the horizon, the water's reflection painting lines of light across his solemn face.
"It's like being born. You don't ask for it—don't choose where." A pause. "But you choose what to do with it."
His words fell like stones into the pond of her thoughts:
"I'll meet expectations. But only my own."
Isolde studied his profile, that impenetrable expression that, against all logic, still made warmth bloom in her cheeks.
The wind caressed their silhouettes by the lake when Hadrian broke the silence with a question that rang like a challenge:
"So you plan to surrender this easily?"
His night-dark eyes pinned her. Isolde felt heat rising up her neck to stain her cheeks—that mix of surprise and shame only he could provoke.
"I—I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" Her voice broke, frustrated tears falling freely as she buried her face in Hadrian's chest. Her weak fists beat against his torso in a staccato rhythm of release. "I don't even know who I am anymore..."
Hadrian didn't flinch. With fingers that defied his reputation for brutality, he gently lifted her face.
"You're Isolde Montclair," he declared, each word carved into the air like irrefutable truth. "The A+-class swordswoman who defeated Valmar 'the Inhuman.' You are what you do, not what others say you should be."
She averted her gaze, her blush deepening.
"I'm still... that weak little girl."
The warm wind played with their hair as Hadrian responded, his voice a beacon in her storm:
"Then stop being her. Grow so strong your weaknesses turn to dust in the wind."
Isolde looked at the ground, shadows of doubt dancing through the grass.
"It's not that simple... I'll wander aimlessly and fall again."
Hadrian tilted his face toward hers, capturing her fleeing gaze. In his eyes, a promise forged in steel:
"I'll lift you up. I'll guide you through this unjust world."
Then—between the lake's whisper and the shared warmth of their breath—Isolde found the courage to hold his stare. Something blossomed in her chest, warm and vibrant.
Her once-trembling smile transformed into pure gratitude.
Without thinking, she surged forward. Her arms encircled him urgently, her lips finding his in a kiss that sealed a pact deeper than any oath.
In that moment, between the taste of tears and promises, Isolde made her choice:
She wouldn't be Hadrian's shield.
She would be his second sword.
As time passed, the Montclairs intensified their pressures—but rumors of Isolde’s bond with a Rouge forced them into prudent retreat.
Two years transformed their destinies:
Hadrian, now twenty-one, had carved his legend through impossible missions and merciless battles. His rise as Vice-Commander of the Divine Knights and heir to the Rouge legacy earned him the fear of his enemies. He wielded shadows with such mastery that he’d been dubbed "the Thousand-Shadowed." His S-Class rank was a seal of terror few dared to challenge.
Isolde, at nineteen springs, had perfected a style uniquely her own. Alongside Hadrian, they formed a lethal duo—though their methods contrasted brilliantly. Where he wielded dark force, she used her body as a weapon, seducing targets with smiles that hid daggers. High society whispered her epithet with equal parts desire and dread: "the Noble Siren." Her S-Class rank was as undeniable as it was dangerous.
Their reputations grew in parallel—he the devouring darkness, she the alluring flame that burns. Together, they wrote a story no noble or guild could ignore.
The horizon bled crimson as twilight descended upon the fateful encounter. Outside the guild headquarters—where they'd celebrated so many victories—a wind sharp as a dagger's edge carried with it the tatters of a shattered lineage. Each icy gust whispered of past betrayals, bearing the weight of a family history that now lay in ruins between them.
Dareth Montclair, now head of his house, stood before Isolde with the frigid elegance of those convinced of their righteousness. His white velvet cloak, fastened to a dark green suit, fluttered like the banner of an undeclared war.
"Isolde..." His voice was a knife sheathed in courtesy. "It's time to stop running."
She didn't flinch. Lifted her gaze with that hard-won steadiness, arms crossed like armor.
"Stop running?" A razor-edged laugh. "I stopped doing that long ago."
Dareth didn't blink. "We refrained from contacting you after rumors spread of your... closeness to that Rouge." The word Rouge left his lips like a curse. "Yet years passed, and nothing came of it."
A silence. Then the low blow:
"Father died two years ago believing his daughter would salvage his financial mismanagement."
Isolde felt bitterness sear her throat. "So what if he died?" Her voice trembled—not with fear, but restrained fury. "All you ever did was torture me with restrictions. You think I'd be happy like that?"
She looked away, memories surfacing—of Branric, of mocking brothers, of the subdued role they'd forced upon her. "The only debt I owe is being born into luxury..." A pause, then the final twist: "But don't worry. I'll repay it. In exchange, I never want to see you again."
Dareth laughed, a hollow, empty sound. "How do you plan to do that? By playing warrior forever?"
Then Isolde dropped her bombshell, with a smile sharper than her sword:
"I'm carrying that Rouge's child." Dareth's eyes dilated. "So I'll have to marry him." A sarcastic snort. "Aren't you pleased? Your financial problems will solve themselves."
The silence that followed was more eloquent than any farewell.
Isolde turned on her heel and walked away, knowing this would be the last time she'd ever see a Montclair.
The burden of their new roles forced them to leave the Divine Knights. Hadrian, as the future Rouge patriarch, could no longer remain a mere vice-commander. Isolde, for her part, would follow her husband without hesitation.
The ceremony took place in the gardens of the Rouge mansion, under a sky that seemed to hold its breath.
All family branches attended, turning the event into a display of the clan's might:
Charles Rouge, "The Immortal" (Second Branch)
Still a member of the Celestial Order and an S+-class warrior, his mere presence electrified the atmosphere.
Varek Rouge, "The Impulsive" (Third Branch)
A living legend of hand-to-hand combat (SS-class), already showing signs of his impending retirement, yet no less formidable. By his side, his children:
? Elazar, seven years old, with those serious eyes that already hinted at his future
? Selene, six, her black hair waving like flames with every step
Ashuric Rouge, "The Religious" (Fourth Branch)
Master of dual katanas (SSS-class) and devout servant of King Chronen, "The King of Paradoxes." His faith was as sharp as his blades.
The garden, witness to so many battles, now hosted a moment of familial truce. Between toasts and calculating glances, the Rouge celebrated a union that would change their history.
Motherhood brought with it a painful revelation for Isolde. Each time she held Alaric in her arms, she saw reflected in his innocent face the ghosts of her own childhood: the weak girl, the humiliated daughter, the betrayed sister.
She would not let her blood grow up wearing those chains.
Thus, even with the pain of childbirth still fresh in her body, Isolde girded her sword once more. Missions wouldn't wait, and the Rouge - now her family by blood and name - demanded more than a mother's tears. Together with Hadrian, she became the anvil and hammer of their clan: she, the flame that purged their enemies; he, the darkness that smothered them.
Every drop of sweat, every wound, every night spent away from Alaric's cradle was a silent vow:
Their children would learn to be wolves, not lambs.
"I won't cry. Not over something this stupid..."
Astrid's voice cut through the air like a knife, snapping Isolde back to the present. Her daughter's defiant smile flashed for an instant before her body became a whirlwind of motion. The air whimpered as it split beneath her speed, the icy mist swirling in her wake like a winter cloak. Beneath her feet, frost spread across the ground, each step leaving behind a trail of crackling crystals that sounded like breaking bones.
CLANG!
The impact reverberated through the mansion walls as Astrid's dagger collided with Punition. The sound—enough to freeze the blood of any warrior—barely earned a blink from Isolde. With the lethal grace of a panther, she twisted her sword and counterattacked.
The blow sent Astrid flying, her body hitting the ground with a dull thud. A thin trickle of blood escaped her lips, but her eyes—those green eyes identical to her mother's—showed not a hint of surrender.
She stood up.
Astrid's fingers wove ten seals in the air, each movement as precise as her dagger's edge.
"Water Clones!"
Three figures emerged from nothingness, liquid mirrors of Astrid given life from the droplets still suspended in the air. They lined up behind her, poised to strike.
Isolde didn't flinch.
She stood firm, Punition relaxed at her side, her gaze—cold as steel and burning as hellfire—challenging her daughter without words.
Prove you're more than tantrums and whims, those eyes seemed to say. Prove it was worth it.
The air froze as the four Astrids lunged in perfect synchronization—a coordinated assault from every possible angle. Three were mere watery reflections, moving with their original's grace but lacking her lethal edge. The dagger, unique and irreplicable, remained in the hands of the true Astrid, whose eyes burned with green fire as she faced Isolde.
A sigh. A single motion.
Punition dissolved into ashes on the wind as Isolde's fingers traced a single seal in the air. Heat erupted in a scorching wave, boiling the water clones before their ghostly hands could graze her. Droplets of evaporated water hung in the stifling air like tears.
"You forget you're at an elemental disadvantage."
Isolde's voice cut colder than any blade as her hand clamped around Astrid's arm like a shackle. For an instant, mother and daughter locked eyes—one with calculated disapproval, the other with incandescent defiance.
The next moment, Astrid was airborne, her back slamming against the wall with a crack that shook the portraits of Rouge ancestors. Plaster dust rained onto her shoulders as she slid to the ground, but her eyes... her eyes still blazed.
"She doesn't stand a chance against Mom..." Ezren murmured, his voice thick with suspense, as if the words weighed heavy on his tongue.
"Exactly..." Alaric agreed, his cold eyes recording every move of the fight. "That's the strength of an S+-Class."
Silvren, however, couldn't loosen the knot in his chest. Watching his idol being dismantled piece by piece burned inside him, but something held him back: Astrid's eyes, unbroken, burning with a defiance even pain couldn't extinguish.
This is her fight...
The thought echoed through his mind like a mantra, a fragile dam against the torrent of his instincts. He knew intervening would be futile—a drop of water against a wildfire—but how could he stay still? How could he not raise his hands even as the world crumbled?
Astrid rose with effort, her muscles taut like bowstrings about to snap. Her fingers closed around the forgotten edge—the dagger lying on the ground like an unfulfilled promise. The frozen air clung to her skin as she charged again, an arrow of frost and fury, leaving behind a crystalline trail that glimmered under the pallid light.
But Isolde danced between her strikes as if time bent to her will. Every thrust, precise and swift, was nothing more than a whisper in the wind to reflexes honed by decades of battle.
"Show me what your father sees in you..."
Isolde's voice dripped venom laced with curiosity as she dodged with the ruthless elegance of someone crushing a butterfly without even looking.
Astrid gritted her teeth. Her dagger sliced through the air, carving silver arcs of desperation and pride, but each movement, each spin, was a lost echo against her mother's immutable perfection.
Isolde's counterattack struck like lightning—a brutal kick that smashed into Astrid's crossed arms with enough force to send her skidding across the ground, tearing up earth and grass beneath her boots. The impact vibrated through her bones, but she held firm, breathing through clenched teeth.
"You think that strength is enough?" Isolde spat, the scorn in her voice as sharp as the flames now dancing between her fingers. "If so... why does he care so much about you?"
Punition materialized in her hands once more, the dark metal igniting into a hellstorm of ravenous flames. The heat was so intense that nearby flowers withered instantly, their petals blackening like charred paper.
With a calculated motion, Isolde raised the heavy blade, fire swirling into a lethal spiral.
"Scorched Destiny!"
The firewave tore through the air with a roar, devouring everything in its path. Astrid reacted on instinct—her raised hands summoned ice barriers, one after another, trying to halt the avalanche of flames. But the attack didn't stop. The ice melted like tears under the sun, dissolving into steaming puddles without even slowing the assault.
"ASTRIID!"
Ezren's scream ripped through the air, his body moving before thought, though he knew he'd never reach her in time.
Beside him, Silvren had already broken from hiding, sprinting toward the battlefield with fists clenched. But the fire advanced faster—unstoppable—and in his eyes, only the reflection of the flames about to swallow Astrid whole remained.
A bolt of purple lightning split the air.
Edith materialized between mother and daughter with lightning precision, her slender katana deflecting the incandescent attack in an explosion of sparks and brute force. The shockwave lifted Silvren like a leaf in the wind, hurling her several meters back.
"WHAT?!"
Isolde's growl rumbled with barely contained fury, her eyebrows knitting into an expression that froze blood. "Why are you meddling in how I raise my children, Edith?"
Her emerald eyes, charged with maternal venom, clashed against the intruder's glacial gaze. Edith's violet pupils crackled with static energy, creating an electrifying contrast between Isolde's fire and the violet storm challenging her authority. The air between them sizzled with years of unspoken rivalry.
The katana's silver edge remained extended like a boundary line when Edith spoke in a metallic voice:
"Lord Hadrian ordered me to intervene."
Each syllable carried the weight of an irrevocable decree.
"'It's enough. She's proven her determination, and that suffices.'"
Edith recited the message with mechanical precision, her purple eyes as unmoving as those of a programmed automaton.
Isolde barked a harsh laugh, her knuckles whitening under the pressure of her clenched fist.
"And he couldn't tell me that himself?" she spat, each word dripping with acid-laced ice. "Why send his lapdog instead?"
The ensuing silence was as sharp as the blades they'd wielded. Isolde, the right hand. Edith, the left. Two pillars of the same throne—yet the ground between them was mined with unspoken grudges. Because beneath the loyalty and duty festered a green poison in Isolde's gut: the certainty that Hadrian breathed easier when it was Edith watching his back.
"Tch! Nothing else to say?"
Isolde's voice cut through the air like a whip, her furrowed brows casting shadows over eyes scrutinizing Edith with irritation. That rigid demeanor—of a puppet with no visible strings—grated on her especially.
"Whatever..."
Finally, with a dismissive flick, Punition dissolved into black smoke, its threatening weight evaporating.
Her gaze then shifted to Astrid, sprawled on the ground like a defeated banner: body bruised, breathing ragged, clothes torn. But her face... her face remained untouched, an island of purity amidst the chaos. As if, in some hidden corner of her rage, Isolde had refused to erase the last reflection of what she'd once loved in her daughter.
A fraction of a second. That's how long the charged silence lasted. Then Isolde delivered one final look—cold as steel at dawn—before turning on her heel and striding away, leaving behind echoing footsteps and a garden turned battlefield.
The roses, once proud and fragrant, now lay charred, their blackened petals twisted by heat. The walls, silent witnesses to the clash, bore deep cracks like fresh scars. Everything spoke of destruction... except that miraculously untouched face.
The Ashendrell Highlands - Mountain Range
9:00 AM
The carriage swayed gently, rocking Livia in her sleep like a lullaby. Her head, crowned by that characteristic rebellious fringe, rested on Charles' shoulder while her steady breathing mingled with the creaking of wheels on the road.
Charles watched the landscape through the window, the first sunbeams caressing distant peaks. The mountains rose like ancient sentinels, silent witnesses to their journey.
"I managed to catch the carriage without incident..." he thought, though the memory of the previous night still loomed in his mind like a shadow.
A sigh escaped his lips, barely audible.
"Once we cross these mountains, we'll reach the legendary Druven Forest..." he murmured to himself, careful not to wake Livia.
His fingers tensed slightly as he remembered the events. The hooded figures, the chains, the blood... and that name: "Gourmet Vulture."
"So long without seeing you...and you welcome me with never-ending troubles..." A hand rose to his forehead, as if trying to ward off the stress gathering behind his eyes.
But then, as if the universe granted him respite, Livia stirred beside him.
"Charles, my love..." Her voice was soft, still laced with sleep yet brimming with that unique warmth only she could convey.
Her eyes opened slowly, shining with that light which always disarmed him.
"I can smell that scent on the wind...the one my father always told me about in this country..." A smile bloomed on her lips, as sweet as morning dew.
And before Charles could respond, a fleeting but tender kiss brushed his lips, scattering—if only for a few seconds—the weight of the shadows chasing him.
Lower City of Ashendrell - Abandoned Factory
10:00 AM
Dawnlight struggled through the factory's broken windows, painting dusty stripes across the cracked concrete floor. The air reeked of rust and dampness, carrying that unsettling silence that precedes a storm.
"Hey, Jigen—" Andrew raised his voice just enough to echo off the empty walls, "you sure those strange noises came from here?"
The building threw his words back at him, as if mocking the question itself.
Beside him, Elazar Rouge stood motionless, his matte silver armor—edges stained blood-red—absorbing the scant light like a stalking wolf. The yellow-shouldered cape fluttered slightly at his back, the "Justice" emblem gleaming stubbornly even in the gloom.
"I doubt the report was wrong," Elazar replied, his gravelly voice cutting through the air like a knife. "This place... reeks of danger."
Andrew sighed, adjusting his gauntlet nervously.
"See? You even got the Vice-Commander himself to bother coming..." he muttered, glancing at Jigen who advanced silently beside them.
The dark-skinned knight with imposing musculature didn't respond, his eyes scouring every shadow with predator's precision. A man of few words and enigmatic presence.
"Let's finish this already," Andrew grumbled, trying to suppress the chill creeping down his spine. "I want to get home... to have my beloved Olivia greet me with that smile that shatters my soul..."
His hands traced shapes in the air, as if conjuring her image in this sinister place.
The crunch of ghostly footsteps echoed through the derelict hall. Everyone tensed, hands flying to weapons... everyone except Jigen.
In a movement fluid as mercury, his sword found Andrew's flank. The steel pierced flesh and organ with the precision of a watchmaker adjusting his mechanism.
"J-Jigen...?" Andrew's voice emerged between bubbles of scarlet blood staining his lips. His eyes, round as full moons, reflected a betrayal too absurd to process.
Elazar reacted with lightning speed. His ritual knife carved a silver arc through the air, slicing a deep groove into his own palm. Blood welled up, obedient, solidifying midair into a lance of living ruby—its edge sharper than any forged metal.
"You bastard!" Elazar's roar made the factory's broken glass tremble.
But Jigen was already gone. His body dissolved into a dark nebula, reappearing ten paces away with the elegance of a cast shadow. The blood lance, now without a target, found its destiny in Andrew's chest. A final gasp escaped his lips before life left his eyes forever.
The crimson lance dissipated into a carmine mist that rained over the corpse, as if the universe itself wept for the betrayal. Jigen observed the scene with monstrous calm, his eyes now revealing the true nature they'd always concealed.
The air thickened with the echo of laughter that didn't belong to the Jigen they knew. Laughter that dripped malice like poisoned honey.
"Elazar Rouge..."
Jigen's words boomed as his face twisted into a grimace that unveiled the monster hidden behind years of lies. With theatrical flair, he shed his armor, exposing a tattoo on his left forearm that froze Elazar's blood: a grotesque, hungry vulture with spread wings, as if carved from old scars.
"'We'?" Elazar spat the pronoun with the caution of a cornered panther, his eyes scouring every shadow.
He didn't need to wait for an answer. Three figures emerged from the void like materializing ghosts, their black hoods trimmed in white glowing with a sinister aura under the dim light. They formed a perfect circle around Elazar, moving with the synchronization of those who've hunted together for decades.
"Who are you?" Elazar's grimoire sprang to life in his hands, its pages fluttering like bat wings. "What the hell do you want?"
The answer came between cackles, laughter that sounded like clashing knives:
"We are the 'Gourmet Vulture'," confessed one hooded figure, his voice an icy whisper. "And we only came for your eyes, Rouge..."
Elazar's grimoire blazed crimson, illuminating his face carved from pure determination. He knew what was coming. And he was ready to turn it into his final massacre.
The Gourmet Vulture moves again!
Can they defeat Elazar Rouge?
Will the main branch face an ambush too?!