Chapter 3: The Falling of the Silent Reaper

The Rulers' Throne Room loomed like a mausoleum built for fallen kings, its architecture an ode to malice.

Obsidian pillars rose into a vaulted ceiling lost in darkness, their surfaces carved with the names and sigils of rulers who had perished across the ages.

Crimson light seeped through invisible fractures overhead, casting a blood-red sheen across the polished marble. Along the walls, braziers burned with molten amber flames, their smoke crawling over the floor like living shadows.

At the far end of the chamber stood seven thrones upon a jagged dais of crimson stone.

Each bore the sigil of a National Class Hunter.

They were not kings or emperors, though the world often treated them as such.

They were the ones who decided which monsters deserved to live—and which nations could be left to burn.

The Beast Monarch leaned against a pillar of shadow-steel, his fur-lined armor reinforced with bone. He cracked his knuckles, each pop echoing through the chamber, before turning his golden eyes toward the cloaked figure standing nearby.

Dorian Nightshade, the Silent Reaper, remained motionless.

His dusk-colored armor seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Even among the most powerful Hunters alive, he possessed an unsettling presence—a man who could stand in plain sight and still feel absent from the world.

The Beast Monarch sneered.

“Well? Was killing a child too difficult for you?”

Dorian inclined his head slightly.

“I tried.”

“You tried?” The Beast Monarch barked out a laugh. “The Silent Reaper, defeated by a boy who hasn't even reached adulthood? Should we start fearing infants next?”

Dorian's jaw tightened.

“I said I tried. The Blackthornes were stronger than expected. Even with the others, eliminating them came at a greater cost than anticipated.”

“Excuses.”

A crystal skull struck the marble.

Tok.

The sound silenced the laughter.

Alaric Spellbinder, the Arcane Sovereign, stepped from the crimson gloom. Violet runes crawled across his dragonhide robes, flickering whenever his staff touched the floor.

“Enough,” he said. “Mocking Dorian will not undo what happened.”

His gaze settled on the Silent Reaper.

“The poison intended for Seraphina took effect, though not as cleanly as we had planned. And Dorian himself fell during the battle. Had I not possessed the Decima Vitae, we would have lost another valuable piece.”

The Inferno Monarch's gauntlets ignited.

“Then you should have let me burn the boy when we had the chance! What happens if he inherits even a fraction of Maximilian's power?”

Dorian turned toward him, his expression hardening.

“Then perhaps you should have finished the job yourself. Unless you're afraid of a child.”

The flames around the Inferno Monarch's fists surged.

For an instant, the chamber seemed ready to erupt into violence.

Unbelievable.

Dorian kept his thoughts to himself, though contempt simmered beneath his calm expression.

An entire gathering of the world's strongest Hunters failed to eliminate one family without suffering losses. Yet somehow, I'm the one standing trial.

They speak as though any of them would have fared better.

Alaric tapped his staff against the floor.

“Your quarrel can wait. The boy is alive, and that is the only fact that matters now.”

His expression darkened.

“The Decima Vitae was never intended to become a crutch for our failures.”

At the mention of the relic, the chamber fell noticeably quieter.

Even the Beast Monarch's mocking smile faded.

The Decima Vitae was no ordinary artifact. Its name appeared in fragments of forbidden records, usually beside accounts of ancient necromancers who had sought to command the boundary between life and death.

It did not heal wounds.

It did not restore vitality.

It reached for something far more fundamental: the soul.

When a person died, the connection between body and soul was severed. Most souls passed beyond the reach of the living, beyond spells, healing, and even the greatest powers of restoration.

The Decima Vitae could interrupt that passage.

Through its authority, Alaric could seize a departing soul and draw it back toward its abandoned vessel, binding the two together before the final separation became irreversible. If the body remained a suitable vessel and the soul could still be reached, death itself could be overturned.

But the relic did not create life from nothing.

It commanded what remained.

That distinction made it both precious and terrifying.

A soul that had passed beyond its reach could not simply be summoned at will. A body too damaged to contain its former inhabitant could not be made whole by the relic alone.

And every resurrection required Alaric to establish his dominion over the returning soul—a contest of necromantic authority that could not be won through brute mana alone.

The Decima Vitae did not demand a simple payment of blood or years.

Its burden was more dangerous: the more deeply a soul had crossed into death, the harder it became to reclaim—and the greater the risk that something would return changed.

Even Alaric did not fully understand what lingered on the other side of that boundary.

He had simply learned enough to exploit it.

And that was why the relic had been reserved for those whose survival could alter the balance of the world.

Dorian was one such person.

Maximilian Blackthorne had been another.

Alaric's eyes narrowed.

“I brought Dorian back because his knowledge and abilities remain useful. But do not mistake the relic for an endless supply of lives. Each resurrection is a victory wrested from a force that does not surrender what it has claimed.”

The Beast Monarch rolled his neck.

“Then we should stop wasting time. No Blackthorne should survive. If the boy is still breathing, find him and finish what we started.”

The Inferno Monarch's flames burned brighter.

“And if he has already begun awakening his father's power?”

“Then we kill him before that power matures,” Alaric replied.

He raised his staff, and violet light swept across the seven thrones.

“Search every ruin, every mountain, every forest. Examine every trace of mana that could belong to the Blackthorne bloodline. Leave no sanctuary undiscovered and no witness unexamined.”

His voice hardened.

“We will not suffer another Dark Emperor.”

One by one, the Hunters departed, their figures dissolving into the shadows beyond the throne room.

Dorian was among the last to leave. His expression remained unreadable, but the humiliation of the gathering had settled deep within him.

He had survived the Blackthorne battle.

Yet survival had brought him neither respect nor gratitude—only suspicion and ridicule.

He would remember that.

Outside the chamber, a man cloaked in black and yellow stood beside the entrance, his features hidden beneath the hood. His presence carried an unusual weight, though no guard had dared question why he was there.

Alaric emerged last.

He paused beside the stranger.

“So,” the Arcane Sovereign murmured, “what are your thoughts on the survival of that little monster?”

The cloaked man remained silent for a moment.

“A disappointment, perhaps. But Maximilian's death is no small blessing.”

His voice was deep and measured.

“Even after all these years, I still feel the sting of your sister's loss, Alaric.”

The Arcane Sovereign's expression tightened.

The man lowered his head slightly.

“Perhaps, with his son's death, your sister may finally find peace.”

Neither spoke again.

Beyond the chamber, the machinery of their victory was already in motion.

The boy had survived.

But the world would never be allowed to know what had truly happened at Blackthorne Manor.

The world was given a story.

Not a rumor whispered in dark corners, but an official account polished until every contradiction had been buried beneath carefully prepared evidence.

According to the National Hunters, Maximilian Blackthorne had encountered a powerful demon deep within a Gate. The creature had poisoned him with a substance that gradually corrupted his mind, twisting his judgment until he could no longer distinguish friend from foe.

Driven mad, the Dark Emperor had turned against his own family.

The report described a massacre. Blackthorne Manor had become the scene of a terrible tragedy, its inhabitants slain by the very man who had once sworn to protect them.

By the time the National Hunters arrived, they claimed, nothing remained to be saved.

Only ruins, corpses, and the remnants of a once-mighty house.

As for Maximilian, the official account stated that he had taken his own life after realizing what he had done.

It was a horrifying story.

And it was believable.

The Hunters provided reports, witness statements, Gate records, fragments of damaged surveillance footage, and evidence recovered from the manor. Every detail pointed toward the same conclusion.

Maximilian had been poisoned.

He had lost control.

He had murdered his family.

And he had died consumed by his own darkness.

No surviving Blackthorne appeared to challenge the account. No authority possessed both the evidence and the power to dispute the National Hunters' declaration.

The great families mourned, offered their condolences, and moved on. Some regarded the tragedy as proof that even the strongest could fall. Others quietly wondered whether Maximilian had always been too dangerous to exist.

Almost no one asked the question that mattered.

Who benefited from the Blackthornes' disappearance?

By the time anyone thought to ask, the answer had already been buried beneath the weight of accepted history.

The Blackthorne name had not merely been erased.

It had been disgraced.

Their patriarch became a warning against unchecked power. Their manor became a ruin. Their legacy became a tragedy used to justify their own destruction.

And the truth vanished beneath a story that the world had every reason to believe.

The National Hunters had understood something simple: killing a man could end his life, but controlling the story of his death could destroy everything he left behind.

Their lie became the official record.

Then the official record became history.

And history, once accepted by the world, could be far harder to kill than any living man.

***

Far from the Rulers' Throne Room and its poisonous ambitions, beneath a canopy of ancient oaks, Lucian Blackthorne found the sanctuary his mother had once told him about—a place where the true legacy of his family remained hidden from the world.

He pressed his palm against the faded Blackthorne crest carved into a crumbling wall.

Golden light spread beneath his fingers.

With a deep groan, the ancient stone parted, revealing a chamber untouched by time.

The Blackthorne Sanctuary.

Dust floated through pale shafts of light, illuminating rows of pedestals bearing sealed relics. A-Rank and S-Rank artifacts lined the outer walls, while a single SS-Rank pedestal stood at the center.

Upon it rested a black sword and a letter sealed with blood-red wax.

Lucian approached, his hands trembling as he broke the seal.

Lucian,

If you are reading this, then I have failed to protect you.

Everything within this sanctuary belongs to you. The sword is Obsidian Oath, the greatest heirloom of our family, forged in shadow and bound by the oaths of our ancestors.

Take the Nyxveil Relic as well. Its pendant can shield you from an eighth-class spell once each day and transport you to safety. Do not waste its protection.

Live. Learn. Become stronger.

And when the time comes, make them remember the Blackthorne name.

—Your father

Lucian read the letter twice.

His fingers tightened around the parchment until it crumpled in his grasp.

For a moment, he was no longer standing in an ancient sanctuary. He was back in the ruined manor, kneeling beside his dying parents, listening to the last words his father would ever give him.

He lowered his head.

“I will, Father."

The words came out quietly, but he meant every one of them.

Beside the sword floated a vial filled with a luminous vermilion liquid. Lucian uncorked it and drank it in a single swallow.

Warmth spread through his body.

The pain that had lingered in his muscles began to recede. His torn tissues mended, his strength gradually returned, and the worst of his physical injuries began to heal.

It was not an instant cure for everything he had endured, but it gave his battered body the chance to recover.

In a hidden recess, he discovered more healing potions, medicinal pills, and rare elixirs. He gathered what he could carry, then secured Obsidian Oath and the Nyxveil pendant.

For the first time since the destruction of Blackthorne Manor, he possessed more than a sword and a desire for revenge.

He had inherited the tools his father had left behind.

Now he had to become worthy of them.

***

For the first week, Lucian did nothing but rest.

He slept, ate, and allowed his body to recover. The sanctuary offered silence, shelter, and enough supplies to sustain him while he gathered his strength.

But his mind never truly rested.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his father's final expression. He remembered his mother's fading voice, the blood on the manor floor, and the men who had walked away believing the Blackthorne bloodline was finished.

By the seventh dawn, he could no longer bear to remain still.

He rose before sunrise, carried his sword outside, and began training.

At first, his body struggled to endure even the simplest exercises. His muscles had not fully recovered, and his mana control remained inconsistent.

He stumbled beneath the waterfalls, lost his footing on the mountain slopes, and repeatedly failed to maintain the techniques he was trying to master.

But he returned the next morning.

Then the next.

He trained beneath crushing waterfalls until his legs trembled, crossed frozen ridges where the cold numbed his fingers, and practiced his sword forms through storms that threatened to throw him from the cliffs.

He learned to control his breathing before controlling his mana. He learned to conserve his strength rather than waste it on unnecessary movements.

He refined his senses until he could distinguish a familiar presence by its mana signature and notice the smallest disturbance in the air around him.

His progress was neither effortless nor immediate.

Some days, he advanced.

Others, he spent hours correcting a single mistake.

Whenever frustration threatened to overwhelm him, he returned to the sanctuary, reread his father's letter, and began again.

He was still a child, after all. Grief could distract him. Exhaustion could cloud his judgment. There were nights when he missed his parents so deeply that he could barely bring himself to leave his room.

But he learned to keep moving even when his resolve faltered.

Over time, his movements became sharper. His mana flowed with greater precision, and his sword no longer felt like an unfamiliar weapon in his hands.

He learned to read an opponent's intentions through subtle changes in posture, breathing, and mana circulation.

More importantly, his purpose began to change.

At first, he had wanted nothing more than to kill the people responsible for his family's destruction.

Four years gave him time to think beyond that first, burning impulse.

Killing the National Hunters would not restore his parents. It would not erase the lie they had spread, recover the Blackthorne family's lost standing, or undo the damage they had inflicted upon the world.

If he wanted to reclaim his legacy, he needed more than the strength to defeat his enemies.

He needed to uncover the truth.

He needed to learn why his father's closest comrades had betrayed him, who had orchestrated the massacre, and what the conspirators stood to gain from the Blackthorne family's disappearance.

And when the truth finally emerged, he would ensure that the world could no longer hide behind the lies it had accepted.

His goals became clear.

First, survive and grow strong enough to confront the National Hunters.

Second, uncover the conspiracy behind his parents' deaths and expose the truth they had buried.

Third, reclaim the Blackthorne legacy and rebuild everything their enemies had tried to destroy.

And finally, he would ascend to the position his father had once held—not merely to command the world's strongest, but to ensure that no one could ever destroy his family so easily again.

Revenge remained a part of him.

He did not try to extinguish it.

He simply refused to let it become the only thing guiding his life.

Four years passed.

Four years of training, meditation, failure, and hard-won progress.

By the age of fourteen, Lucian had mastered the first nine forms of the Blackthorne Eclipse, the forbidden sword art passed down through his family's bloodline.

The tenth remained elusive—a technique whose principles he understood but whose power his body and mana control had yet to sustain.

He had spent months attempting to complete it.

Each failure had left him drained, sometimes unable to lift his sword for hours.

The technique demanded more than raw mana. It required absolute control over the flow of his power, compressing it into a single strike without allowing the energy to disperse prematurely.

One mistake, and the entire technique collapsed.

Today, he intended to try again.

***

Lucian stood before a mountain whose summit disappeared into the clouds.

Obsidian Oath rested in his hand, its black blade reflecting the pale morning light. The Nyxveil pendant lay beneath his training clothes, cool against his chest.

He studied the mountain in silence.

Four years ago, he had been too weak to save his parents.

He remembered every second of that night: his father's failing strength, his mother's blood, and the helplessness that had followed him into the sanctuary.

Those memories had brought him here.

But they would not decide what happened next.

Lucian drew a slow breath and settled into his stance.

Reddish-black mana gathered along Obsidian Oath, forming a thin veil around the blade.

“First Form—Obsidian Genesis.”

He swung.

A crescent of darkness carved through the mountainside, leaving a deep scar across the stone.

“Second Form—Midnight Veil.”

Shadows spread through the surrounding forest, swallowing the light and muffling the sounds of nature.

“Third Form—Sable Tempest.”

His next strike unleashed a violent current of darkened wind, tearing branches from trees and scattering them across the slope.

He continued.

The Fourth Form bent the earth beneath its pressure.

The Fifth drained the color from the vegetation it touched.

The Sixth left spectral echoes lingering in the wake of his blade, while the Seventh gathered darkness overhead.

With the Eighth, a cyclone of shadow swept through the forest.

The Ninth distorted the space before him, its cutting edge seeming to reach beyond the ordinary limits of distance.

Lucian lowered his sword.

His breathing had already grown heavier. Sweat ran down his temples, and his forearm ached from the repeated strain.

The mana within him churned unevenly, demanding rest.

He ignored it for the moment.

There was still one form left.

The Tenth Form.

He closed his eyes and recalled the countless failures that had brought him here.

He had tried forcing more mana into the strike, increasing its speed, and compressing its power until the blade trembled in his hands.

None of it had worked.

The answer had never been to release more power.

It was to control all of it.

Lucian steadied his breathing and allowed his mana to gather along the length of Obsidian Oath.

Instead of forcing the energy outward, he drew it inward, compressing the dark current until the blade seemed to swallow the light around it.

His shoulders tightened.

The pressure began to build.

A tremor ran through his arms.

For an instant, the mana threatened to break apart.

Lucian adjusted his grip and corrected its flow, forcing himself to maintain the delicate balance.

He was close.

Closer than he had ever been.

He opened his eyes.

"Tenth Form—The Sovereign's Finale.”

He swung.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then a thin black line appeared across the mountain.

The peak split.

A colossal fracture raced through the stone, dividing the mountainside with a single, impossibly clean cut. A moment later, the delayed force struck, and the surrounding ground shuddered beneath the impact.

Dust surged into the sky.

Trees bent beneath the shock wave.

Stone crashed down the distant slopes.

Lucian remained in his stance, his sword extended before him.

He had done it.

He had finally completed the Blackthorne Eclipse.

Yet he could barely keep his fingers wrapped around the hilt.

The mana surrounding the blade vanished, leaving Obsidian Oath dark and still.

His arms shook violently, and a wave of dizziness swept through him. He tried to straighten, but his knees buckled.

The sword's tip struck the ground.

Lucian caught himself against its hilt, breathing hard as the remaining strength drained from his body.

“Damn…”

The word escaped between ragged breaths.

His vision blurred at the edges. Every muscle ached, and his mana reserves felt almost completely depleted. He had pushed himself beyond what his body could comfortably endure.

For several seconds, he could do nothing but stand there, leaning on his sword.

The mountain had split before him.

But he could barely remain on his feet.

A tired laugh escaped him.

“So much for the Sovereign's Finale…”

He lowered himself onto a nearby rock, still holding Obsidian Oath to keep his balance. His hands continued to tremble as he tried to steady his breathing.

He was fourteen.

He had mastered a sword art that had once belonged to the most powerful man in the world, yet a single use of its final technique had left him exhausted.

The realization was humbling.

He had made extraordinary progress, but he was far from invincible. His control remained imperfect, his stamina limited, and his body still had years of growth ahead of it.

Completing the Blackthorne Eclipse did not mean he had reached his destination.

It meant he had taken another step toward it.

Lucian looked at the divided mountain, then down at his trembling hands.

For the first time that morning, a faint smile appeared on his face.

Not pride in the destruction he had caused.

Satisfaction that he had finally overcome a challenge that had resisted him for years.

He would recover. He would refine the technique until he could use it without bringing himself to the edge of collapse. He would grow stronger, wiser, and more capable of controlling the power he had inherited.

Because the National Hunters were still out there.

They still believed the Blackthorne bloodline had ended with Maximilian's death. They still enjoyed the prestige, authority, and influence they had seized in the aftermath.

And they had no idea that the boy they had failed to kill was preparing to dismantle everything they had built.

Lucian pushed himself upright, though his legs still felt unsteady. He sheathed Obsidian Oath and turned toward the sanctuary.

He needed food, rest, and time to recover.

Tomorrow, the work would begin again.

First, he would learn to wield the Tenth Form without exhausting himself.

Then he would leave the sanctuary and begin searching for the truth.

He would discover who had ordered his family's destruction, expose the lies that had condemned their name, and make the conspirators answer for what they had done.

He would rebuild the Blackthorne legacy.

And one day, he would claim the title of Dark Emperor—not as a child consumed by revenge, but as a ruler powerful enough to protect what remained and restore what had been lost.

The mountain behind him stood divided beneath the morning sun.

Lucian continued toward home, exhausted but determined.

Four years ago, he had been a frightened boy who could do nothing but watch his parents die.

Now, he had a path forward.

And for the first time since that terrible night, he knew exactly where it led.

***
Dorian Nightshade’s villa overlooked the sea, perched atop a cliff carved by time and arrogance.

Built from white-streaked stone and darkwood, it stood without guards or protective enchantments. No sentries patrolled its grounds. No magical barriers shielded its windows.

Dorian was a National Class Hunter.

He had spent years believing there was no one in the world who could threaten him.

Tonight, that certainty would be tested.

Lucian approached beneath the cover of midnight.

His cloak, Phantom’s Embrace, a Legendary-class artifact he had discovered by chance hanging from a wooden coat stand inside the sanctuary, rippled with ethereal shadows.

Its magic blurred his outline, concealing his presence until he seemed little more than a passing distortion in the darkness.

He reached the villa’s gates and touched the Nyxveil Relic resting against his chest.

The pendant pulsed.

Space folded around him.

In the next instant, he appeared inside the villa, behind the glass wall overlooking the sea—and directly behind Dorian.

The Silent Reaper sat on a leather couch, a goblet resting in one hand as he watched waves crash against the cliffs below. Moonlight glinted faintly across the glass, illuminating the relaxed posture of a man who believed himself untouchable.

Lucian stood still.

His fingers tightened around Obsidian Oath.

There he is.

For four years, Lucian had imagined this moment in countless ways. Sometimes, he pictured himself standing over Dorian after a decisive victory. Other times, he imagined forcing the man to confess everything he knew about the massacre.

But now that he was finally here, with his first target only a few steps away, his thoughts refused to settle.

Four years of training. Four years of preparing for this.

His gaze drifted to the back of Dorian’s neck.

And now that I have the chance…

He hesitated.

Not out of mercy. He had no sympathy left to offer the man who had helped destroy his family.

It was something less familiar—and far more frustrating.

Uncertainty.

Until this night, every opponent he had faced had been part of his training. The mountains had never fought back. The shadows had never begged for their lives.

And no matter how violently he struck the earth, he had never truly crossed the distance between practicing to kill and choosing to kill a living person.

His grip tightened until his knuckles paled.

He helped murder my parents.

The memory came without warning: his father’s failing voice, his mother’s final moments, and the unbearable silence that had followed.

Lucian drew a slow breath.

If I turn away now, what were these four years for?

He did not need to become fearless.

He only needed to stop allowing fear to make his decisions.

Lucian stepped forward.

“Aren’t you enjoying your night rather leisurely?”

Dorian’s head snapped around.

Before he could rise, a cold blade pressed against his throat.

His eyes widened.

“Who are—”

Lucian leaned closer, allowing the moonlight to reveal his face.

“You forgot the Blackthornes too soon.”

For a moment, Dorian stared at him without understanding.

Then recognition struck.

The boy from Blackthorne Manor.

The child whose mother had fought with a ferocity that had left even the Silent Reaper humiliated.

The child he had believed would never survive.

Dorian’s expression faltered.

Then panic flashed behind his eyes.

He twisted away, and condensed shadows formed into daggers in his hands. He slashed through the space where Lucian had stood, his movements swift and precise.

But the blade had already withdrawn.

Dorian stumbled back, forcing a smile onto his face as he searched for an explanation that might restore his composure.

“To think you survived all these years,” he said, his voice strained beneath its practiced calm.

“I thought you would have taken your own life somewhere in the world by now.”

Lucian advanced without answering.

Obsidian Oath gleamed in his hand.

There was no need to argue with a man who had already revealed what he thought of his survival.

Dorian’s smile tightened.

Stay calm. He may have survived, but he is still a child.

Lucian’s sword began to hum.

“Sixth Form—Phantom’s Requiem.”

His strike swept across the room in a broad, silent arc.

The air split.

A violent shock wave tore through the villa, cracking the stone walls and shattering the glass overlooking the sea.

Half the room collapsed beneath the force, sending broken furniture and chunks of masonry tumbling into the darkness below.

Dorian leaped onto an exposed ceiling rafter, narrowly escaping the center of the attack.

A thin line of blood marked his cheek.

He touched it, then stared at the stain on his fingers.

That could have killed me if I had reacted even a second later.

The thought chilled him more than he cared to admit.

Still, he straightened and forced a sneer onto his face.

“Impressive… but you’re still a child!”

His body dissolved into shadow.

In the next instant, he reappeared directly before Lucian, both daggers angled toward the boy’s neck.

The attack was fast enough to catch most opponents off guard.

But Lucian was no longer the helpless child Dorian remembered.

His body blurred.

The daggers passed through him.

For an instant, Dorian felt no resistance at all—as though he had struck empty air.

His eyes widened.

Shadow Step.

Over four years, Lucian had refined his control over the technique until he could shift a short distance through the shadows with barely a trace of movement.

In close combat, the slightest misjudgment could turn a lethal strike into a fatal mistake.

Dorian’s daggers cut nothing but the fading remnant of Lucian’s presence.

A voice came from behind him.

“Still a child, huh?”

Dorian spun around.

Lucian stood at his back, Obsidian Oath raised high above his head. His expression was no longer uncertain.

The hesitation that had troubled him moments earlier had settled into something colder: a decision made and no longer open to debate.

“Then look who’s getting tricked.”

He brought the sword down.

“Obsidian Genesis!”

Darkness erupted from the blade.

The descending strike carried enough force to split the shattered villa apart, and Dorian instantly understood that he could not withstand it head-on.

His strength lay in speed, concealment, and precision—not in matching an opponent’s overwhelming power.

He had no time to escape the attack’s full reach.

Desperation forced his hand.

“Severance Realm!”

The world shattered.

The villa, the cliff, and the roaring sea dissolved into floating fragments of midnight. Sound vanished.

Time seemed to drag beneath an unseen weight, and the space between the two combatants warped as Dorian’s ultimate skill asserted its authority.

Yet even the altered realm could not erase the full force of Lucian’s strike.

The descending blade tore through the fractured space, its dark energy forcing Dorian to abandon his attempted counter and evade at the last possible instant.

He escaped the direct impact.

Barely.

The space behind him cracked apart, spreading jagged distortions through the abyss. The remnants of Lucian’s sword energy faded into the darkness, leaving the air trembling in their wake.

For a moment, neither moved.

They stood within a vast, lightless expanse where the ordinary world had been torn away.

Dorian lowered his daggers, forcing his breathing under control.

His expression had changed. The mocking smile was gone, replaced by the wary concentration of an assassin who had finally recognized the danger standing before him.

Around Lucian’s blade, the mana extinguished. The interruption of the form had drained the gathered energy before the technique could fully resolve.

Dorian noticed.

A thin smile returned to his face.

“My perfect kill zone,” he whispered. “No one leaves.”

Lucian looked around the fractured darkness, then back at the man before him.

His eyes glowed crimson.

A faint, almost amused smile touched his lips.

“No one needs to.”