At that very instant, an overwhelming surge of arcane energy burst from the heart of the bar, shaking its foundations and lighting up the sky with violent luminance. The sheer pressure of it was palpable—a tidal force that screamed into the heavens. From the epicenter of that blast, two distinct auras surged upward like twin beacons of raw, unrestrained power: Alexander's energy, deep and burning orange, glowed with a solemn, tempered intensity, while Seymour's steely grey aura shimmered with eerie composure, cold and exacting.
The force alone was enough to hurl Jackson and Johnathan several meters back, their bodies tumbling across the ground like dolls tossed by some uncaring god. Yet Julius, in stark contrast, remained firmly rooted, his boots unmoved, his stance unwavering. His grin widened with something between bloodlust and ecstasy. His eyes, wild and glinting with savage delight, betrayed the truth: he was not afraid. He was elated.
He did not often get the privilege of facing worthy adversaries. Violence, for him, was not merely a necessity—it was the crucible in which he was forged. He lived for this, thrived on it, like a wolf scenting blood in the wind. Combat was not survival. It was play.
Alexander and Seymour locked eyes. Neither spoke, but the unspoken understanding between them pulsed like a second heartbeat. Their expressions were stern, resolute, shaped by years of restraint and experience—but beneath that exterior, there was something unmistakable: amusement. Not arrogance, not mockery—something deeper, more human. In that moment, they were no longer commanders or tacticians, not guardians nor veterans. They were boys again—boys who had been denied joy, denied mischief, denied the thrill of reckless abandon for far too long.
And now, Julius would be their outlet.
Their opponent. Their challenge.
Their toy.
The energy between them no longer crackled with tension. It sang—a harmony born of mutual recognition and anticipation. They understood the stakes. They understood the danger. And yet, they smiled, inwardly, subtly, like old friends reunited in a familiar, dangerous game.
The dynamic between the three men could not be described by hierarchy, nor allegiance, nor morality.
It was mutual.
Mutual in hatred.Mutual in power.Mutual in purpose—whatever that purpose may yet prove to be.
And beneath the rising crescendo of power, beneath the glow of clashing auras and the silence before the inevitable clash, that one word hung in the air like a blade poised above the battlefield:
Mutual.
And just before the battle began—just before the tension shattered into chaos—Alexander turned his head slightly and mouthed something to Jackson.
There were no sounds, no gestures. Just the silent shaping of words.
Yet somehow, Jackson understood. Not logically. Not consciously. He simply knew what had been said.
"Run, Jackson. Run to Layla. Make sure she's safe."
That one sentence struck with the weight of a command passed from bloodline to bloodline. Without protest, without delay, Jackson turned on his heel and bolted from the ruined remains of the bar, his boots pounding against shattered glass and broken tile. The smoky air blurred his outline as he leapt into Alexander's waiting car, which sat crooked on the dirt path outside, its frame dusted with ash and pine needles.
Seymour saw the motion through the corner of his eye and gave a curt, subtle gesture—almost lazy, yet heavy with meaning—for Johnathan to follow.
Johnathan sneered at first, lips curling in resistance, but said nothing. There was no point in arguing when seconds were measured in heartbeats. With an exasperated groan, he jogged out behind Jackson and yanked open the passenger-side door, throwing himself into the seat without grace or care.
Inside, the air was heavy with silence, thick with mutual contempt.
Jackson didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His entire demeanor radiated disgust. The look he shot Johnathan wasn't subtle—it was unfiltered loathing. His jaw clenched. His hand hovered near the ignition.
Johnathan rolled his eyes and muttered, "Save it."
There was no argument. Not here. Not now. Another fight would only fan the flames of Julius's twisted delight. They both knew it. And so, with mutual reluctance, they sat—tense, unwilling allies against a larger storm.
Jackson pulled the key from his coat pocket, slid it into the ignition, and twisted it sharply. The engine responded with a thunderous growl, headlights bursting to life and slicing through the night like twin blades. With a sudden jolt, Jackson reversed the car, spun it with an expert flick of the wheel, and tore down the dirt road. The tires screamed as they clawed at gravel and dust, a cloud of smoke trailing behind them like a signal fire.
Back in the bar, as the echoes of retreat faded into the distance, Alexander turned his head slowly toward Julius. The dim glow of Seymour's pale aura and his own smoldering orange energy threw sharp, flickering shadows across the floor and walls. The very air trembled with the weight of the coming battle.
Alexander's voice cut through the silence like a blade, steady and void of emotion.
"Hey, whatever your name is."
Julius tilted his head, amused, as though delighted to be addressed.
Alexander's eyes never wavered. "I can cut you a little slack if you're joking," he said, his tone low and surgical. "But if I return to Nimerath and find even a scratch on my granddaughter, I will burn your world to the ground. I will kill you. Every one of your associates. Your boss. Every single hand that touched this plan. No negotiations. No questions."
There was no fury in his voice. No tremor. Only truth. Cold, absolute, and certain.
Julius laughed.
It was a strange laugh. Raspy, unhinged, unmoored from reason. A sound like metal scraping against bone. A sound that didn't belong in the human throat.
"How bold of you," he said at last, still grinning like a wolf in the presence of wounded prey. "How boldly... wrong."
He took a single step forward, the green energy rippling faintly with his movement.
"To assume I'm working for someone?" he continued. "That I'm just another pawn? Hah. You insult me."
The grin widened, his teeth sharp in the flickering light.
"Although," he added, almost as an afterthought, "you're not entirely incorrect."
He stopped walking.
"No, I'm not alone in this. But even if you manage—somehow—to kill me, you'll never reach him. Not because you can't—though, trust me, you truly can't. But because..."
Julius's eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to reverence.
"Because he's our little prodigy."
He smiled—slow, genuine, unsettling.
Alexander did not speak. But in the stillness of his stance, in the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, it was clear his mind had locked onto the phrase.
Our little prodigy.
The words echoed. They clung to the walls of his thoughts like a stain.
Who could it be?
Who was he protecting? Who was the 'he' who stood behind this chaos?
And more disturbingly... why did he speak of him with such pride?
Ground floor of Blackwood Tower, 9:57
The base floor of Blackwood Tower pulsed with energy, alive with movement and murmurs as the grand ballroom prepared to open its doors. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over a sea of polished marble and velvet accents. Servants moved in practiced synchrony—security personnel in earpieces flanked the exits, butlers glided through the crowd with silver trays, chauffeurs waited near the entrance, eyes watchful and still behind the glass of parked luxury cars.
And at the heart of it all stood Andrew, Camael, and Layla—three fixed points in a maelstrom of prelude.
Layla shifted her weight again, tapping the sharp heel of her stiletto against the floor with thinly veiled agitation. The sound echoed—click, click, click—like a metronome counting down something dreadful.
"Where the hell is Grandpa?" she muttered beneath her breath, pacing a short line across the marble. Her voice was sharp, low, laced with an edge of tension she made no effort to disguise.
Andrew offered a reassuring look, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his own uncertainty.
Camael, standing just beside them with his hands clasped behind his back, tilted his head slightly in her direction. His voice was calm—steady as always—but there was steel beneath it.
"You know Alexander keeps his promises," he said. "He'll be here by ten. On the dot."
Layla exhaled through her nose. The words helped—just a little—but the frown lingered on her lips.
Camael shifted his weight, casting a glance toward the elevator across the hall. "But someone else who isn't here," he muttered, more to himself than to the others, "is Caspian. And he better be here right now."
His tone sharpened on the final word, as though he could summon the boy through sheer force of will.
And then—as if the very air had heard him—the elevator gave a quiet chime. The mechanical hum of its descent was barely audible beneath the noise of the crowd, but when the doors opened with a soft, ceremonial ding, it commanded attention.
From within the metallic chamber, bathed in warm golden light, stepped Caspian.
His posture was calm, almost cold in its precision. The dark suit he wore clung to his frame with clean elegance, each line tailored, each button gleaming faintly beneath the overhead lights. His expression, as ever, was unreadable—eyes distant, like someone who had just stepped out of some place far removed from the world of music and marble.
Camael's face broke into a grin the moment he saw him.
"Well, speak of the devil," he said with a laugh, striding across the floor. He reached Caspian and, without warning, slung a firm arm around his shoulders, pulling him in with the familiarity of an older brother.
Andrew allowed himself a quiet chuckle and folded his arms, watching them with a glint of approval.
Even Layla, though still clearly on edge, couldn't help the faint smile that curved across her lips.
"You took your sweet time," she said, arching a brow at Caspian.
"I had some... business to attend to" Caspian said.
"Well, our business is locating her grandpa," Camael said with a dry chuckle, gesturing toward Layla with an amused tilt of his head.
Layla rolled her eyes but said nothing. The mood among them remained uneasy, suspended in that strange place between anticipation and frustration.
For a few seconds, no one spoke. The tower was still—eerily so. Then, a faint buzzing echoed from within the folds of Andrew's coat. It was a subtle vibration, but in the quiet, it might as well have been a fire alarm.
Andrew furrowed his brow and slipped a hand inside his coat, retrieving his phone. The screen cast a pale glow on his face. He wasn't expecting a call. With any luck, it would be from Alexander—but that hope vanished almost instantly.
Across the screen flashed a label that gave him pause:Scam Likely.
He hesitated.
Any normal person would've declined it without a second thought, dismissing it as some automated nonsense or robocall. But Andrew wasn't normal. He had a longstanding policy—one born of necessity and long years of dealing with unpredictable networks of people—that he would answer every call, no matter how obscure.
With a sigh, he brought the phone to his ear.
"Andrew?" a voice said, tight with urgency. "You may not know who I am, but I work for Alexander. My name is Jackson—and we have reason to believe that Layla may have been kidnapped. Or worse."
The voice was strained, breathless. In the background, the distant rumble of tires on wet asphalt and the occasional hiss of windshield wipers underscored the tension.
But before he could speak, a softer voice broke the silence—confused, almost amused.
"Uhm… I'm right here," Layla said awkwardly, lifting her hand slightly, as if to confirm her own presence.