Claude was lying.

  It was clear to Lucon through the Flow. From where he stood next to his mother, he watched the arena pit through the haze curling from his pipe as Claude and Klara rose to their feet, clasping hands in a show of mutual respect beneath resounding applause.

  A draw. A noble, honorable conclusion that preserved both their dignities.

  But that wasn’t the truth. Able to peer into them both, Lucon saw Claude’s Aura Heart burning like a peaceful red campfire, his Mana Pool still half-full, while Klara’s energy sputtered like a candle in the wind.

  The match hadn’t ended in stalemate—Claude had engineered one.

  He had pulled his final strike, deliberately dissipating his power at the last moment to create that spectacular, equilibrium-inducing blast. He wasn’t merely saving face for Klara; he was protecting an older sister figure—the first Arisen near his age he’d ever trained with—ensuring her hard-won reputation as the “Red Storm” remained untarnished.

  Lucon took a slow drag from his pipe.

  Claude, he thought. You really are Father’s son. Always leading with your heart.

  But Lucon was not the only one who had noticed.

  A hostile, indignant disturbance splashed into the Flow like a boulder falling into a pond. He turned to its source: Rhavak Cysserian. Rigid and controlled until now, Rhavak now exuded unbridled fury.

  Rhavak’s black eyes were fixed on Claude. A pulse of imperceptible Mana surged from him—Mana Sense. Only a mage, or someone like Lucon attuned to the Flow, could perceive it. Mana Sense was a mage’s tool, an extension of awareness through Mana—to measure another’s strength, search for danger, and also to communicate with another mage.

  Rhavak’s Mana Sense screamed a furious, wordless diatribe, pinging against Claude’s own mage senses, demanding acknowledgment, a recognition of the charade.

  Claude gave none. He merely smiled at Klara, steadying her, utterly ignoring the psychic assault.

  Rhavak fumed.

  “Young Lord Lucon?”

  The timid voice pulled Lucon back. Petyr had shuffled over, arms still wrapped around his teetering ledgers. “If your business with me is concluded, I really must return to my work.”

  Before Lucon could respond, the Flow grabbed at him again. A familiar ache seeped into it—his mother. Her eyes held disappointment. The catty noblewomen were all but forgotten as her gaze lingered first on the smoldering pipe in Lucon’s hand, then on the half-empty bottle at his table.

  Before, when he defended her, she had offered a silent, hidden gratitude, careful to maintain appearances for Lord Auric’s sake. Now it was gone, replaced by a weary sadness that colored the Flow around him.

  “You promised us, Lucon,” she said, her voice carrying a mother’s unique power to pierce the heart. “Your father and I. You swore to us that you would quit these vices.” Her eyes flicked to the anxious Petyr. “Don’t drag Petyr back down that path again. He’s made something of himself. You should take inspiration from him, not…go back to your old ways.”

  Petyr coughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing. “I, ah, just need to return to the accounts, my lady. But…your son…” He searched for something positive to say, perhaps out of old loyalty. “He has hidden talents. He’s still capable of great things, I’m sure of it.”

  Petyr had once been Lucon’s greatest supporter, drawn in by drunken rants and boasts of grand dreams.

  But his words rang hollow to Mabel, unconvincing. And in the Flow, Lucon felt his mother’s silent reply as clearly as if she had shouted it: I wish with all my heart that were true.

  The part of Lucon that disregarded broken fingers, the taste of burnt Mana Crystal, the part that surrendered to the Flow—he began to lose power. The Lucon who still cared, the man still yearning for redemption, wanted to explain everything to his mother. To tell her it was all fine. That he was working to make the barony prosperous again.

  He never got the chance.

  A voice rang above the post-duel chatter—audacious, commanding, and loud enough that only an Arisen’s superior physiology could produce it. The crowd fell silent, eyes homing in on Rhavak as he spoke.

  Rhavak pointed directly at Lucon.

  “I challenge my senior, Lucon Edelyn!”

  The declaration hung in the air, followed by a stunned, prolonged silence.

  As one, everyone’s heads swiveled in unison, following the line of Rhavak’s pointing finger. A delayed, collective realization flooded the audience.

  There he was. The other Young Lord Edelyn.

  The pause broke into a wave of murmurs—a storm of low voices carrying disbelief and disdain that washed over Lucon through the Flow. It was a blizzard of scornful energy: mocking glances at his half-open shirt, disapproving stares at the smoldering pipe in his fingers, and the casual lean he favored, misread as the sloppy posture of a drunkard.

  The Prince of Ruin had finally arrived.

  Exhaustion weighed on Klara’s body. Her war blessing had whitened her hair and thinned her frame. Yet fatigue did not stop the aversion in her eyes at the sight of her betrothed.

  But in the Flow, a strange thread of curiosity wove through her reaction—almost as if she’d heard something good about him, unlikely as it was.

  Claude’s reaction was the most visceral. He stared at his brother, composure cracking for a single, unguarded moment. His eyes weren’t merely disappointed—they were furious, as if Lucon’s very presence had undone the triumph of the duel. Then he turned on Rhavak with focused intensity.

  “The tradition is for incoming students to challenge their senior students,” Claude bit out, each word clipped. “Not those unassociated with the Academy.”

  Rhavak finally deigned to glance at Klara, his gaze challenging.

  “Well, Senior? Clarify the rule for him.”

  All attention shifted to Klara. She was silent for a moment, a subtle struggle crossing her face—a battle to uphold honor above all else, even at the cost of personal relationships.

  Finally, she let out a resigned sigh. “The term ‘senior’ in the challenge tradition…it means anyone who is older, not just enrolled students. It was designed so incoming students could challenge even instructors, to learn from them before the term begins.”

  Claude appeared momentarily defeated, his own adherence to tradition turned against him.

  Rhavak scoffed, his coal-black eyes shifting back to Claude.

  “I am teaching you a lesson. You besmirch the position of Named Hero candidate by granting a charity win to someone undeserving. It devalues the candidacy—for both of us.”

  Klara went rigid, as if struck by lightning.

  “How dare you!” Julie immediately shrilled, stepping protectively closer to her friend. “Klara is the most deserving warrior at Vusric!”

  A single cackle added to the tension. Norlon, face alight with malicious glee, pointed between Claude and Klara.

  “I knew it! I knew something was fishy about that ending! So even Claude Edelyn can lie if it makes him look like a good person!”

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  He merely pretended he had known the truth all along, but the words fanned the flames regardless. The crowd murmured, realization spreading like wildfire—the orchestrated draw was now common knowledge.

  Perrin mumbled, “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Klara is rather gifted…” but his words were ignored by all.

  Lyris’s wide eyes searched Claude. “That isn’t true…right?”

  Klara, pride shattered, stared at him too. “Claude…?”

  Claude said nothing. He stood a pillar of conflicted honor—unable to lie to her face, yet unwilling to justify his actions without wounding her further. His silence confirmed everything. The devastation on her face radiated outward, palpable to everyone around.

  Into that charged silence, a voice interjected—smooth, amused, utterly unconcerned.

  “I accept!”

  Every head snapped to Lucon. He drew a pull from his pipe, exhaled a plume of smoke toward the sky, and gave Rhavak a crooked smile.

  Mabel reached out instinctively, but her hand caught only air.

  “Lucon, don’t—!”

  He was already moving, pipe smoke trailing behind him like a battle banner waving in a gentle breeze.

  Petyr stepped close to Mabel, voice tense with alarm.

  “I’ll fetch Captain Mavor,” he murmured, clutching his ledgers as he hurried through the startled crowd.

  From the hedges, a rustle—the faint whisper of Hilda’s head popping out, speaking in a low tone only Lucon could sense in the Flow.

  “Master…”

  He didn’t glance her way. His eyes were fixed on Rhavak dropping down into the pit.

  Bethea, realizing what was about to unfold, broke into a run, skirts flying as she headed toward her brother’s post.

  Lucon strode through the crowd, every step stirring a deluge of whispers in his wake. The guests parted like leaves before the wind, their ridicule painting the Flow around him. The Prince of Ruin, making his brother’s celebration all about him—or so they most likely thought.

  In nearing the pit, he passed Julie, her expression a mix of disbelief and disdain.

  “You can’t be serious,” she exhaled.

  He met her gaze with calm, unreadable eyes.

  Perrin came next. His tone was anxious.

  “If Klara can’t beat a Named Hero candidate, I don’t think you can…”

  Nearby, Norlon’s grin was slimy and mocking.

  “House Herlonde will pay for any injuries Young Lord Lucon suffers,” he declared, “A future Named Hero like Rhavak isn’t cruel—he’s merciful!”

  Then came Lyris, her voice a whisper as he passed her.

  “I already told Father everything you’ve done.”

  Lucon’s only response was a faint smile, one corner of his mouth lifting as if she had offered encouragement rather than harsh words.

  He reached the edge of the pit, where Klara seemed lost—armor scorched, spirit near-broken. Pale eyes met his—confused, ashamed, wary.

  “I’ve embarrassed you,” Lucon said quietly, something in the Flow urging him to secure this piece on the board.

  She blinked, surprise softening her expression, clearly not expecting an apology.

  “…It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, looking away, her forlorn returning.

  Julie’s whisper followed him from behind.

  “You don’t deserve her!”

  Lucon didn’t look back. He stepped to the pit’s edge where his younger brother awaited him.

  “Brother,” Claude said firmly, “forfeit. Don’t fight. I think you’ve done enough for one night.”

  Lucon smiled faintly—an expression where no one could tell if he was joking or not.

  “I’ll handle this, little brother,” he added casually. “He doesn’t deserve to be Hero.”

  Claude’s mouth opened, words caught in his throat. He didn’t know how to respond to that.

  Lucon walked past him without another word, the soft thud of his boots echoing against the hardened earth as he dropped into the pit.

  And there, waiting in the center, was Rhavak—motionless, already poised. His red hair gleamed like fresh blood under the lantern light.

  A faint violet glow of Mana-Aura fusion energy burned around him.

  The crowd leaned forward, expectant, likely imagining a short, decisive fight.

  Lucon took a slow pull from his pipe, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye in the dim light.

  Rhavak didn’t spare him a glance. His black gaze was locked on Claude at the pit’s edge. His voice carried across the arena.

  “You did this. Watch how thoroughly I ruin your brother.”

  Claude seemed at a loss, unable to find an honorable way to respond or to end the confrontation.

  Rhavak’s eyes remained on him. “You should be thankful, Claude. I’m punishing the failure of your family—this useless leech who only drains honor and money from your noble house.”

  Claude turned to Lucon, his voice urgent. “Lucon, remember—quit the moment it starts!”

  Above, the monk Georgi lifted his hands, face filled with concern. Bald and massive, he was built like a siege tower, his pacifist ways seeming ill-fitting for a man his size.

  [Mercy’s Refuge]

  Golden threads of light spiraled outward, weaving into the barrier once again. The translucent dome shimmered faintly as it sealed the arena from the world beyond.

  “The match will begin,” Rhavak announced, still ignoring Lucon, still staring at Claude, “once the barrier closes.”

  Lucon blew a smoke ring toward the closing barrier.

  “Must be nice to have so much of her blessing. Eh, Georgi?”

  “Still up to your old ways, huh?” Georgi replied with familiarity as the golden barrier sealed them in.

  “To see you and Petyr in the same place,” Lucon grinned, “feels like old times.”

  “I won’t be able to fight your enemies for you like I did back then,” Georgi cautioned, nodding toward Rhavak. “By the way, he’s starting.”

  Lucon turned back, and the Hero candidate was already moving.

  No warning. No signal. His body barely shifted, black mage staff already pointed at Lucon.

  [Lightning Strike]

  A blinding, deafening spear of pure white lightning erupted from the staff tip, crossing the pit in an instant. The light was absolute, bleaching color from the arena and drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.

  Mabel screamed, “LUCON!”

  Both of Claude’s hands pressed tightly against Georgi’s barrier.

  From the bushes, Hilda half-leapt, a strangled cry caught in her throat, before sinking back, hands clamped over her mouth.

  It was over. Everyone knew it. They had expected a quick fight, but not this instantaneous, not this brutally final. Rhavak hadn’t held back—he had unleashed a spell at full power on a man who wasn’t even ready.

  The light vanished as quickly as it came, leaving purple afterimages flickering across every eye.

  A collective murmur began, then died in their throats.

  Lucon was still standing. Exactly as he had been. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his long pipe to his lips. He took an unbothered puff, the smoke rising in idle spirals around his serene expression.

  The faces of every onlooker contorted in confusion. Rhavak had…missed.

  Rhavak, for the first time, had turned his head fully to look at his opponent. The barest hint of a frown tugged at his mouth. Above, Claude’s eyes were wide, having seen what the stunned crowd had not.

  “He got lucky…” Rhavak muttered, the words carrying cold analysis.

  He didn’t wait. Violet flames, reminiscent of Claude’s, erupted around him. His black staff flashed once more.

  [Lightning Strike]

  Another jagged bolt of lightning shot across the pit, brighter than the first, a sustained blast roaring like a caged beast, aimed directly at Lucon’s chest.

  The concussive boom was followed by Mabel’s choked sob as she crumpled, fainting into the arms of a nearby servant.

  Another blinding flash, and then it dispersed.

  Silence.

  Lucon still stood, untouched. Not a hair out of place. Not a scuff on his boot. He lowered his pipe and exhaled a plume of smoke that rose to swallow the lingering lightning sparks in a gray cloud.

  His eyes held no fear—only profound, almost bored understanding.

  Only the faint crackle of residual lightning made a sound. Rhavak’s carefully maintained composure had finally cracked, replaced by an intense, analytical focus.

  “How are you doing that?” he demanded, his voice disrupting the quiet air.

  Lucon blew a stream of smoke in Rhavak’s direction.

  “How am I doing what?” he asked.

  “Do not play the fool with me, wastrel,” Rhavak bit out, his grip tightening around his short staff. Irritation flashed in his coal-black eyes.

  Above, at the pit’s edge, the stunned crowd began to stir.

  “What is going on…?” Julie whispered, her earlier disdain replaced by pure shock.

  Lyris, confused, tugged on Klara’s tattered cape. “Sister, what happened? Why is Rhavak missing on purpose?”

  Perrin, standing next to her, looked lost, his gaze darting between the two figures below.

  Norlon leaned toward his sycophants, his smirk gone.

  “Did any of you see what happened?” he whispered. “What’s going on?” They all shook their heads, equally bewildered.

  The crowd parted as Captain Mavor and Lieutenant Kaeson arrived at a run, their armor clinking. They skidded to a halt at the edge, expecting to see a grievously injured Young Lord. Instead, they found Lucon standing calmly, pipe in hand, facing a visibly agitated Rhavak.

  “Young Lord!” Kaeson called out in alarm.

  Lucon didn’t turn, merely waving a dismissive hand without looking. “It’s quite alright, Lieutenant. My junior just wants to play with me. No need for concern.”

  Claude stood frozen, his face struck with utter disbelief. The composure he was known for had completely shattered.

  “That’s…my brother…?” Claude murmured, the words barely audible.

  Petyr arrived, panting, having chased after the two elite guards.

  “What happened…?” The clerk’s eyes widened as he looked into the pit. “The Young Lord…he lives!”

  Klara never took her eyes off Lucon. Her voice was low, filled with dawning, impossible realization.

  “He’s…dodging lightning.”

  As if on cue, Rhavak’s patience snapped.

  [Lightning Strikes Twice]

  Two more bolts of lightning erupted from his staff in rapid succession as precise, targeted strikes. His focus was entirely on Lucon this time, and more of the crowd finally recognized the impossibility unfolding.

  A golden glow enveloped Lucon.

  The first bolt seared toward his chest. He took a single, casual step sideways. The lightning struck the empty ground where he had just stood, scorching the earth.

  The second bolt aimed for his head. Lucon ducked but in the most peculiar way. He leaned backward at the waist, spine curving with impossible, languid grace—as if resting against an invisible bed. The bolt passed so close it should have singed at least his hair, but it hit only air before colliding with the pit wall.

  Where his feet had been, two shimmering golden footprints glowed briefly on the dirt before fading.

  [Golden Step]

  “By the gods,” Captain Mavor breathed, his stern face slack with awe.

  Beside him, Kaeson stood wide-eyed, speechless.

  “I missed it again!” Lyris whined, stomping her foot in frustration.

  Perrin blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

  “Are…are my eyes playing tricks on me?”

  Below, Lucon exhaled another plume of smoke, utterly serene, as though lightning magic were no more than a stranger he let pass him on the street.

  The Flow revealed Rhavak’s irritation twisting into fury.

  The Hero candidate’s lightning moved many times faster than Helto’s [Bull’s Rush]. Yet, it was Rhavak himself who had made it possible for Lucon to evade it.