In the Southern Territory, the main streets were filled with food stalls and subdued laughter.
Citizens walked at ease, their hands occupied with warm meals. Their expressions were calm—as though the day itself had been crafted for happiness.
"What a beautiful day," a man remarked.
"The governor's daughter is finally getting married."
"Of course," his companion replied. "When the ruler is content, the people follow. Besides, I heard the meat is free."
Their laughter was light.
Unburdened.
No one noticed the man in a brown cloak walking against the flow of the crowd.
His steps were steady.
Too steady.
Several guards became aware of him.
None intervened.
They merely followed—from a distance chosen by instinct rather than command.
---
Southern Territory Castle
The grand hall gleamed beneath banners of authority. Polished marble reflected the glow of enchanted chandeliers.
Nobles filled the room, their conversations layered with courtesy and calculation. Every gesture was measured, shaped by etiquette and interest.
Vhalorien Noctyrr, ruler of the Southern Territory, stood at the center, welcoming guests with flawless composure.
Then—
BANG.
The massive doors were thrown open.
A woman entered, dressed in a wedding gown.
Her posture was upright. Her expression composed.
Yet in her eyes lingered something that could not be concealed—a restrained stillness, heavy with unspoken weight.
What am I being treated as?
The thought surfaced without emotion.
Lyra walked straight toward the altar.
Caelric stood waiting, clad in ceremonial attire, his smile carefully arranged—too carefully.
If this is fate, Lyra thought, then fate is far too orderly.
Everything had been prepared: political alliances, territorial interests, a marriage that satisfied everyone—except the two at its center.
Lyra smiled.
It was not a smile of joy.
The ceremony began. Across the territory, magical screens flickered to life. Citizens watched with anticipation.
Vows were spoken.
Blessings declared.
Yet Caelric noticed one detail.
Lyra's hand.
Her fingers trembled—barely.
"I thought your smile meant resolve," he murmured.
"It seems you're still uncertain."
Lyra did not respond.
The officiant raised his voice.
"Do the witnesses approve of this union—"
BANG!
The rear doors burst open.
Every head turned at once.
A man stepped inside and lowered his hood. His golden hair immediately drew attention.
The hall froze.
Several soldiers moved on reflex.
"Stop! Who are you—"
The man turned.
His gaze was cold. Not angry—simply vacant.
"Silence," he said.
The air shifted.
Not through pressure,
but through awareness.
Nobles froze in their seats. Soldiers failed to advance. The officiant struggled to breathe.
The man extended his hand toward Lyra. His expression remained neutral, marked by the faintest curve of a smile.
"It's been a while," he said.
"Lyra. Do you wish to return with me?"
Lyra's eyes widened.
"Veyron…?"
"Why are you here? The schedule was moved without notice."
Veyron was about to answer—
"Enough!"
A young noble rose abruptly, his face flushed with anger.
"You just spoke your name—"
His words were cut short.
Not by shouting.
Not by warning.
Something passed.
Blood splattered across the marble floor.
A scream followed.
"AAARGH! Father! Help me!"
The man collapsed, clutching the side of his head. One ear was gone.
Veyron glanced at him briefly.
"So there are still those who resist," he said calmly.
"Relax. I have no intention of ruining this joyful celebration."
His gaze returned to Lyra.
"I'm simply waiting for your answer."
He extended his hand once more.
"Return to the Aethelgard Imperial Academy," he said,
"or remain here."
Lyra stared forward.
Doubt surfaced—only for a moment.
Then she inhaled.
With a decisive motion, she removed the ring from her finger and took Veyron's hand.
"I choose to return to the Aethelgard Imperial Academy," she said firmly.
Veyron smiled.
Not a smile of happiness—
but the expression of someone whose design had unfolded exactly as intended.
"Very well," he said softly.
"Zephyron."
The wind roared.
The clouds split apart.
A lightning dragon descended from the heavens, its black-and-gold scales gleaming as thunder danced along its body.
An adventurer hired by Vhalorien trembled.
"That is…" he muttered.
"A Lightning Dragon. A creature once regarded as a child by the Dragon King…"
He swallowed hard.
"And now… it has a master."
Veyron lifted Lyra onto the dragon's back.
Then his gaze shifted to Caelric, who remained frozen in place.
"You," Veyron said.
"You're coming as well."
Caelric hesitated. Images of confinement—and his adoptive father—flashed through his mind.
He clenched his jaw, then grasped Veyron's hand.
"So this is my way out," he murmured.
Caelric mounted the dragon.
Yet Veyron remained below.
"Go," he said calmly.
"Zephyron."
The dragon inclined its head and took to the sky.
Veyron watched until they disappeared from sight.
He exhaled softly.
"Living is exhausting," he muttered.
Turning back to the nobles, he spoke lightly.
"Why are you all suddenly trying to attack me?"
"I haven't even done anything yet."
His sword slid free from its sheath.
One slash.
The castle floor split open beside the adventurer.
The man's face drained of color.
Veyron glanced once more toward the sky.
A small smile formed.
"All right. I'll take my leave," he said politely, bowing with a hand over his chest.
"Thank you for allowing me to take my friends home."
"Wait!" the adventurer shouted.
"You're Veyron Aldrecht, aren't you? The man who wields two types of mana—Magic Mana and Sword Mana?"
Veyron turned.
"That's correct," he replied.
"And?"
"You can't escape. The dragon is gone."
Veyron laughed softly.
Cracks formed in the air behind him.
CRASH.
"This is how I depart," he said, stepping backward.
"My apologies for interrupting your false celebration."
The crack closed.
Silence enveloped the Southern Territory Castle.
No noble spoke.
No citizen watching through the magical screens could utter a word.
That day, it was not merely a wedding that was annulled.
Two critical pieces left the board—
and the world finally realized one thing:
Veyron was not reacting to events.
He was arranging them.