The air grew heavy. A suffocating silence followed. Sion's breath grew ragged, not from fear, but from fury.
"Where's that old bastard Duke John?" he growled.
"In the office. Speaking with the king through a magical broadcast."
"Damn coward..." Sion snarled. Then, scanning the room with urgency, he hissed, "Where's my sword?!"
Jerin froze. "Young Master, I—"
"NOW! Bring me a longsword!" Sion roared, his voice filled with a wrath that made the walls tremble.
Terrified by the look in his young master's eyes, Jerin relented. "R-right away! But please—we must go now."
Sion's eyes were no longer calm blue—they burned with primal rage. "Lead the way."
As they sprinted through the halls, Sion's mind churned with strategy and bloodlust. He whispered to himself, "I've rebuilt three circles. The core is stable... time to test if this world knows true power."
They reached the training grounds.
What he saw stopped him cold—then ignited a fury beyond words.
More than twenty knights circled a small, broken figure—Janet. Her dress was torn, her skin bruised. She lay curled, trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks. The knights laughed and spit on her, some jeering, others beginning to touch her with leering intent.
One knight bellowed, "The seed of a traitor, just like her whore of a mother!"
Something inside Sion snapped.
The rage within him boiled over.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING TO MY SISTER?!"
The shout cracked through the sky like thunder. Every knight froze.
The knight captain sneered. "Oh? Look who woke up. The brat wants to play hero. Don't worry, boy. Once we're done with your little sister, you're next."
Sion didn't respond.
He vanished.
A blur—then the sound of flesh being torn.
The captain's head fell to the ground, severed cleanly.
Silence. Blood splattered the dirt. A heartbeat later, the body slumped.
"W-what?!" one knight stammered.
But Sion was already moving.
His sword—a sleek longsword glowing faintly with mana—danced like a predator in his hand. He didn't attack. He executed. No wasted movements. No mercy.
He twisted mid-air, casting [Blade Art: Crimson Fang]—a curved slash of compressed air tore through five knights at once.
"He's a demon!"
"Get him!"
They charged.
He welcomed them.
[Blade Step: Spectral Blink]—he weaved between them like smoke.
[Blade Art: Reaper's Waltz]—a flurry of strikes that left trails of blood in every direction.
Two minutes.
Forty-five dead.
Jerin stood paralyzed. The once-ignored boy had become a beast. Covered in blood, Sion stood in the center of the massacre, chest heaving, sword dripping crimson.
In the distance, from Duke John's office tower, two figures watched through a magical mirror.
John Ragnar's eyes narrowed.
"Is that... Sion?"
His secretary, Luthor, looked stunned. "He just... slaughtered the entire training squad. Alone."
The Duke leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "Interesting."
Back on the field, Sion approached Janet. Gently, he draped his cloak over her trembling form.
"I'm here now, Janet. And I swear—this will never happen again."
His voice was calm.
But his eyes promised war.