The man in black stood still.
Silent.Unmoving.Watching.
Lyriq gripped the wooden sword tighter, his tiny hands barely able to wrap around the hilt. His arms trembled—not with fear, but with effort. The weapon was heavier than it looked for a boy of three. Still, he stood his ground, eyes unwavering.
The man said nothing. But inside, he hesitated.
This child… couldn't be more than three. He could barely hold the sword upright. Was this some childish act of bravery? A noble bloodline acting bold? A tantrum?
Yet, the man's gaze narrowed.
The way the boy stood—how his feet dug in, how his eyes didn't flinch—this wasn't mindless mimicry. He knew what he was doing.
And then, something unexpected happened.
The man… decided.
"A prince must know defeat," he thought. "Only loss forges the iron within."
And so, he prepared to strike—not with the sword, but with the same mysterious technique he had used on Cedric. A calculated, non-lethal blow that would overwhelm the boy and leave a deep lesson behind.
But Lyriq… was already analyzing.
He remembered Cedric's fall—how he hadn't screamed in pain, hadn't groaned or clutched any part of his body. He had simply collapsed backward, instantly unconscious.
That told Lyriq everything.
It wasn't a punch.It wasn't a kick.It wasn't even physical contact.
It was something else.
His mind raced.
"If the man used full force, Cedric would be dead. But he wasn't. That means precision. Purpose. A specific point of impact…"
He mentally replayed the moment—Cedric flying backward.
"He wasn't thrown. He fell. His body reacted to something striking the forehead. No clenching. No recoil. Just… a blackout."
Then came the bold theory:"It came from the head. Not the hands. Not the feet. If the lips never moved—it wasn't a sound wave. If the mouth stayed shut—then it must be…"
The eyes.
A focused, directed magical blink.
"He blinked. And the air between them pulsed. That's the only moment it happened. No incantation. No gesture. A blink."
The deduction was insane.Unprovable.But Lyriq trusted his instincts. His mind had been forged on battlefields in another life. It told him this wasn't just plausible—it was correct.
There was no time to dodge. It would be too fast.
That left only one plan: block it.
And so, as the man's eyelids began to lower, Lyriq acted.
He lifted the wooden sword with both arms—slow, clumsy, and barely able to aim it in front of his face.
But then—
Time slowed.
It was as though the world paused for Lyriq and Lyriq alone. Dust hung motionless in the air. The breeze stilled. The crows on the palace walls froze mid-flight.
Even the man in black stood statue-still, eyes half-closed, the blink caught mid-motion.
Lyriq's eyes widened.
He could move, even as the world stood still.
He ran forward—not with grace, but with raw determination—toward the man. The wooden sword rose high above his head. His small legs pumped furiously as he closed the distance. But just as he raised the blade—
Reality resumed.
Time snapped back.
The man blinked.
A ripple of pressure burst from his eyes—like invisible force slicing through the air, aiming straight at Lyriq's forehead.
But Lyriq had already moved.
With one desperate swing, he brought the wooden sword down in front of his face—not to strike, but to shield.
The ripple hit.
A crack echoed through the courtyard.
Lyriq was blasted off his feet—thrown several feet back, tumbling across the ground like a rag doll. Dust clouded the air. Gasps rose from the guards.
But when the haze cleared… he was not unconscious.
Lyriq lay on his back, blinking up at the sky, the wooden sword cracked in two beside him—but his eyes still open.
The man in black stared at him, unmoving.
Then, for the first time…
He smiled.
It was the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth—but to everyone watching, it was like a storm had changed direction.
He stepped forward and extended a hand.
Lyriq, bruised and sore, looked up, surprised.
"You deduced it," the man said quietly, voice smooth and low. "You're the first in this palace to realize what happened to your brother."
Lyriq frowned. "It was your eyes."
"Yes."
"Magic?"
"Of the rarest kind."
Lyriq struggled to sit up. "You blinked. Air condensed. Like a pressure shot."
The man nodded. "I did not expect anyone—let alone a child—to figure that out."
Lyriq, panting, looked at the cracked sword. Then up at the man.
"…Who are you?