A dark ripple tore through space beside the group—a portal of shadows and red mist opened like a bleeding wound in the air. Thud. Flaron stepped out. His presence froze the hallway in eerie silence. Even the alarms seemed distant under the weight of his power. His red eyes locked onto the guard. "I said… no one touches my cultists." The guard raised his blade. "You must be their leader." "And you must be the fool standing in my way," Flaron replied. He raised his scythe. The corridor trembled.
The royal guard didn't hesitate. He lunged forward with surprising speed, greatsword glowing. "Weapon Art—Heaven's Fall Slash!" A devastating shockwave tore down the hallway, ripping through walls and floor alike. Flaron grinned, stepping forward as his Scythe of the Dead twirled once in his grip. "Weapon Art—Death's Elegy." He spun midair and cleaved through the shockwave with a single sweeping arc. Black energy countered the silver flash, and the two collided in a brilliant explosion that sent debris flying in every direction.
They clashed again and again—a blur of darkness and steel, sparks and blood flashing through the hall.
The guard roared, summoning every ounce of his strength.
"Final Art — Titan's Reckoning!"
His greatsword expanded with magnetic pulses, growing massive. With one final cry, he brought it down with divine fury, meant to shatter walls and bones alike.
Flaron didn't move.
Instead, he whispered coldly:
"Final Weapon Art — Reaper's Silence."
He vanished—a blur of shadow.
And in that instant, time itself seemed to pause.
Flaron reappeared behind the guard, his scythe extended. No movement. No sound.
Then—a single line of red slid across the guard's chestplate.
His blade dropped. His body froze.
And it fell apart in two clean halves.
The cultists stared in awe as the scythe pulsed once and returned to its dormant glow.
"This is why we follow him…" Nyra whispered.
Flaron turned to them, voice like a low fire.
"Get the relic out. Now. The royal guard is coming."
Roz, panting, nodded and activated the portal.
"Yes, my lord."
As they vanished into the shadows, the halls of House Lancier burned in silence.
The relic was gone. And the kingdom would soon feel the echo of this night.
Wind howled through the sky as the cultists rode atop a swirling current of magic, tearing across the clouds like shadows on wings.
Roz, hunched over with the relic clutched to his chest, stared blankly into the dark. His body still trembled from the fight—half in pain, half in awe.
Beside him, Nyra lay silent, arms crossed, her eyes on the stars, though her mind was elsewhere.
The wind mage, Velya, kept them aloft, channeling air currents from her palms while casting occasional glances behind, checking for pursuit.
No one spoke—until Flaron did.
"You all did well," he said, his voice calm but laced with steel. "Even when you failed to win... you bought enough time."
Roz gritted his teeth.
"He would've killed us. I thought I was ready. I wasn't."
Flaron didn't look at him.
"Now you understand the world's cruelty. That strength is not given—it is taken."
He turned, crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood.
"Next time, you don't hesitate. You kill."
No one argued. Even the wind seemed to quiet in respect—or fear.
The magic faded as they landed atop a broken plateau shrouded in black mist. Their base lay carved into the ruins of an ancient fortress, veiled with cloaking enchantments.
Guards in bone-white masks stepped aside as Flaron and his team passed.
Inside, cultists gathered, kneeling in silence as Roz presented the relic to their leader.
Flaron held it up. The black prism shimmered faintly, emitting a low hum—ancient, powerful, alive.
"One step closer," he said softly. "To waking the Sealed One. To ending this kingdom of liars."
A ripple of whispers spread among the cultists. A few bowed. Others raised clenched fists.
Roz, still breathing hard, looked up at Flaron with newfound devotion.
"I'll be ready next time," he said. "No matter who stands in our way."
Flaron nodded once.
"You'd better be."
The Lancier estate was in chaos. Entire wings burned, the ground cracked, guards lay dead—some dismembered cleanly.
Reporters. Scholars. Royal scribes.
And fear.
"A relic... stolen?"
"Not just any relic—a Forbidden Era piece. Gone. And an elite guard, killed."
"They say it was Flaron... himself."
Every major guild hall posted the same announcement by midday:
High-level threat bounty — S Rank — Flaron, leader of the Sealed Ones cult.
Rumors spread faster than ink on parchment.
"He cut down an exalted-ranked guard in seconds."
"They're getting bolder… and stronger."
"If Flaron's on the move, war is coming."
The King of Elaria, a tall man draped in gold-stitched robes, sat upon his obsidian throne. Around him stood representatives of the Five Noble Houses—Duskveil, Lancier, Alcrest, Shivilier, and Nyancer.
The Head of House Lancier stepped forward.
"They entered our home. Killed our best. And they took it."
The king's voice was cold steel.
"Then they will pay."
"My liege," said Lord Nyancer, "this proves they have spies in our archives. They must be eliminated—swiftly."
The king raised a hand.
"They will be."
He turned to the side, where a cloaked figure had stood silently since the meeting began.
A tall man stepped forward, his armor scorched and veined with glowing cracks of molten orange. His red eyes burned beneath a hood shaped like rising embers. His aura radiated suffocating heat.
The king's voice echoed through the chamber.
"Magisterial Solaris Flamehunt. You are hereby tasked with finding the location of one of the Sealed Ones' bases."
"When you do... you will eliminate everyone there. No survivors."
The cloaked figure gave a curt nod.
"As you command, Your Majesty. The fire will cleanse them."
With a twist of his hand, a circle of magma runes ignited beneath him. Heat surged through the hall. Courtiers flinched, sweat beading.
Then—
FWOOOSH—!
He vanished in a pillar of flame, leaving only scorch marks on the marble.
The king stood, eyes dark.
"So begins our retaliation."