The ballroom erupted into sheer, unadulterated pandemonium.
Screams ricocheted off the gilded archways as noblewomen dropped their crystal flutes, shattering glass spraying across the polished marble while dignitaries ducked beneath heavy mahogany tables. The heavy, festive atmosphere vanished in a single heartbeat, replaced by the suffocating, panic-laden stench of cold terror.
"Oh, great," Zayne muttered aloud, his voice dropping an octave as he calmly reached out and plucked the frozen, void-touched arrow directly from Valen's grasp to inspect the residual runes etched along its shaft. His golden eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
A few paces away, the Monarch of Space stepped out of a flickering tear in dimensional fabric, his expression twisting into a sneer of pure aristocratic disdain. "A king was ambused right inside the Lucas residence," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "How utterly humiliating for your security, Patriarch."
Zayne didn't bother wasting breath on a retort. Without a single word, Zayne, Valen, and the Monarch of Space vanished from the dais in a blinding flash of sovereign mana, tracing the residual, fading thread of spatial-void mana straight to its source.
Miles away, high above the city at the towering, wind-whipped apex of the Clock Tower of Storm Cove, a masked assailant stood frantically packing a high-powered, bone-carved sniper bow into a dark leather sheath. His hands shook violently as he threw his head over his shoulder.
"Where do you think you are going?"
The voice cut through the howling midnight wind like a razor. The masked man froze, turning around to find **Aston** casually crossing his arms, leaning his back against the stone wall with a completely unbothered, half-elfin smirk dancing on his lips.
Before the assassin could even channel a spell, a ripple of distorting light bloomed directly behind him, and **Cerci Lucas**, the legendary Great Sage, materialized out of the ambient mana.
"Nice work, Aston," Cerci murmured, her golden eyes gleaming with ancient, terrifying amusement.
Startled out of his wits, the assassin tripped backward, tumbling hard onto the stone rooftop. He scrambled away from Cerci like a cornered beast, desperately trying to crawl backward until his dark hood caught on a protruding slate tile and ripped completely off.
Two jagged, soot-stained demonic horns snapped outward from his temples, dark ichor oozing sluggishly from their base.
Cerci raised an eyebrow, a cruel, mocking smile touching her lips. "Would you look at this. A stray demon playing archer."
"What are you going to do with him, Great Sage?" Aston asked, tilting his head as the wind whipped his green hair across his face.
"Leave him," Cerci replied smoothly. "Interrogating trash is Zayne's favorite hobby."
Sensing his absolute doom, the demon's eyes went wild. In a desperate, split-second bid for self-preservation, he whipped his head back, aiming to bite down on a suicide capsule embedded in his molar.
*SNAP.*
Cerci didn't even blink. With a flick of her finger, a localized telekinetic grip wrenched the demon's jaws open, forcefully extracting the poison capsule—along with two bloody teeth that clattered uselessly against the stone.
"Oh, no you don't," Cerci chided gently, her tone dripping with mock disappointment. "Suicide is strictly prohibited without a permit."
A fraction of a second later, the space above the clock tower warped violently. Zayne, Grand Monarch Valen, and the Monarch of Space stepped out of the rift, dropping heavily onto the open platform.
Zayne looked down at the bleeding, horn-bearing demon shivering on the cold tile. The sheer, suffocating fury radiating from the Lucas patriarch made the very air around the clock tower freeze solid. He took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing the murderous rage back down into his chest.
"Bring him in for questioning," Zayne said, his voice terrifyingly cold. "Let's find out who invited these rats into our home."
Back in the grand ballroom of the Lucas estate, the chaos had mutated into a fragile, brittle order. The terrified nobles had picked themselves up off the floor, but the collective air remained heavy, thick with whispered paranoia. Those old enough to remember the horrors of the last great demon war exchanged pale, horrified glances, their minds trapped on a single terrifying question: *Is this the bloody dawn of another war?*
All eyes—heavy, desperate, and silently pleading—instantly snapped toward Luke. In the absence of Zayne, Valen, and the senior pillars, the nobles naturally looked to the hero of the relictomb to step up, take command, and reassure them.
Up on the dais, Luke stood frozen. His mind was entirely blank. The weight of a hundred staring aristocrats felt heavier than the trials of Kaizer's vault. His throat tightened, his palms grew slick with nervous sweat, and for all his incredible power, he felt like a helpless child caught in a storm. He had no idea what to say.
Sensing an opening to posture and inflate his own pathetic ego, a man stepped forward from the trembling crowd.
Lord **Bartholomew Pendergast**—a greasily fat, perpetually sweating short man whose expensive velvet doublet strained desperately against his bulging, beer-swollen gut—strode out into the open clearing. His face was a flushed, greasy shade of purple, topped with a pathetic tuft of oily comb-over hair that clung desperately to his forehead like a drowning rat. A heavy gold chain rattled against his massive stomach with every pompous, waddling step he took.
Bartholomew let out a loud, mocking snort, sweeping his stubby arms wide to address the entire hall.
"Look at him!" Bartholomew bellowed, his voice dripping with oily, grating condescension as he pointed a stubby, ring-bedecked finger directly at Luke. "The great, invincible hero of the Lucas house! A demon sneezes outside, an arrow flies through a window, and our glorious savior stands there like a wet loaf of bread with his jaw hanging open! The realm expects us to place our lives in the hands of a stuttering boy who can't even manage a room full of frightened guests? Utterly pathetic! If this is the caliber of our modern guardians, we might as well roll out the red carpet for - "
"Enough,"
A single word, dropped like an executioner's axe onto marble.
The entire hall went dead silent. Bartholomew blinked, his mouth hanging open mid-rant, as the suffocating wave of collective tension shifted entirely.
Every single eye in the ballroom whipped around.
Standing right in front of Bartholomew was Kyle. His hands were neatly tucked into his sleek black leather gloves, his silver hair falling slightly across his forehead, and his ice-cold silver-gold eyes locked dead, unblinking, and murderous into the fat noble's soul.
Bartholomew's face flushed an even deeper, uglier shade of crimson, wounded pride surging through his bloated frame. "How *dare* you—you insolent little—"
"You talk an awful lot for a man whose neck looks like a stuffed sausage," Kyle interrupted, his voice dripping with smooth, lethally calm mockery. "Tell me, Bartholomew, does your family crest feature a pig roasting on a spit, or did you earn that title purely by being the loudest coward in the room?"
The hall gasped.
Bartholomew raised a thick, sweaty hand, his face twisting into a furious snarl. "You arrogant whelp! I'll teach you some respect!"
He swung his arm in a vicious, sweeping backhand aimed squarely across Kyle's face.
Kyle didn't even flinch. In a blur of movement too fast for the eye to track, Kyle's gloved hand shot out, catching Bartholomew's flailing wrist mid-air with the unyielding grip of a hydraulic press.
*CRACK.*
With a lazy, effortless flick of his arm, Kyle threw the heavy nobleman entirely off balance. Bartholomew let out a high-pitched, undignified squeak as his legs tangled beneath him, sending his massive, rotund frame crashing heavily onto the pristine marble floor with a room-shaking *THUD*.
For a second, there was stunned silence. Then, a few stifled snickers broke out near the back. Within seconds, the entire hall erupted into raw, howling laughter. Nobles who had been shaking in terror moments prior were now openly pointing and giggling at the sight of the estate's most obnoxious lord sprawled out like an overturned beetle.
Bartholomew scrambled to his feet, his face purple with absolute humiliation. He opened his mouth to scream, but the second he caught Kyle's chilling, dead-eyed glare boring back into him, his voice caught in his throat like a dry bone. Choking on his own rage, Bartholomew stammered, "Y-You... you insolent brat! You will regret this! The Pendergast name will—!"
"Yeah, yeah, write it down and mail it to someone who cares," Kyle dismissed lazily, waving a hand as if shooing away a bothersome housefly.
Humiliated beyond recovery, Bartholomew spun on his heel and fled the hall, practically tripping over his own expensive robes.
Amidst the fading echoes of laughter, Diana rushed forward, her hands flying to grasp Luke's fingers. Her dark eyes were wide with deep, genuine concern. "Luke? Are you alright? Don't listen to that fat idiot, you did—"
Luke didn't say a word. The humiliation of freezing up, combined with the crushing pressure of the evening, broke something inside his patience. Without meeting anyone's gaze, Luke pulled his hand away, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the grand hall toward the quiet, shadowed gardens.
"Luke!" Diana cried out, panic flashing across her face.
Without hesitation, Olivia spun around, grabbing Reo and Silvia by the arm as Diana sprinted after him, the group chasing out into the night to comfort the grieving hero.
Nearby, Jade stood with her striking blue hair catching the ambient light, crossing her arms as she watched Luke storm off. She turned her piercing blue gaze toward Kyle, a slight smirk playing on her lips. "Do you really think letting him run off like that was the right thing to do?"
Kyle glanced at her, offering a nonchalant shrug. "Who cares about that old fart."
Soft murmurs and speculative gossiping rippled through the lingering crowd as the hero abandoned the party entirely. Yet, amidst the swirling chaos of whispers, Vaygar and Luna remained completely unfazed. The two bonds were currently sprawled out near a velvet curtain, deeply and entirely engrossed in batting a discarded silver ribbon back and forth, paying zero attention to the human drama.
Suddenly, a tiny, glowing golden blur shot past them. Sensing Luke's deeply distressed emotions echoing through their bond, Ingis—still stubbornly trapped in her round, fluffy chick form—let out an angry, high-pitched chirp and aggressively flapped her tiny wings, rocketing out the double doors to chase after Luke into the dark gardens.