Moen darted swiftly through the forest. With the boost from his Shadow Step, his figure almost transformed into a fleeting afterimage, sending a cascade of fallen leaves tumbling in his wake.
Lea, held firmly by his hand, surprisingly managed to keep up with his pace.
“Um… that…”
Hearing the faint gasp from the girl, Moen slowed his steps slightly, tilting his head in puzzlement.
“Hm?”
“It’s… nothing.”
The girl merely bit her lip, casting a quick glance at the small hand he gripped, then shook her head without saying anything further.
Moen raised an eyebrow.
Does she not like being held like this?
Fair enough.
But now wasn’t the time to worry about such details.
Feeling the intense tremors emanating from not too far away, Moen's heart sank slightly.
In the end, the scene he dreaded most had come to pass, and in the worst possible way.
The forces operating in the shadows were more maniacally determined than he had imagined, and the extent of their actions far exceeded what could reasonably be attributed to a single individual’s power.
When these blood-drained parasites band together and act in unison, not even his father—the once-revered Duke of Belland—might dare to confront them recklessly.
“They sure think highly of me. It looks like my approaching engagement with Celicia has truly hit their nerves hard.”
But he had faced enough challenges in his life that he was no longer the spineless target he had once been, one to be trampled at will.
His lips curled into a mocking smile, and he quickened his pace.
“Moen!”
The neighing of dragon-blood horses pierced the air as carriages burst through the dense foliage, racing toward him. Fannie, gripping the reins tightly, was pale as death. Sensing the terrifying energy emanating not far away, she shouted shakily:
“What on earth is happening?”
“Just a minor issue—nothing to worry about.”
“Minor?!”
Fannie froze for a moment, staring at the ominous, blood-stained sky that cast its hue over half the horizon, and at the soul-crushing waves of energy radiating outward. Minor? You call *this* a minor issue?
“There’s no time to explain. We need to leave now!”
“To where?”
“The border! My father’s former subordinates stationed there—they’ll protect us!”
Moen's eyes flicked past Fannie to the carriages behind her.
The dragon-blood horses, specially trained and disciplined, were visibly distressed by the reverberating energy nearby, yet they obeyed their commands, pulling six carriages that formed a neat line and had successfully followed along.
Others were perched aboard the carriages. Although their faces were pale, their collective gaze turned toward Moen with a newfound steadiness. Despite knowing that this duke's son was younger than many of them, his very presence seemed to provide a stabilizing reassurance.
Moen’s eyes shifted slightly as he moved to guide Lea toward Fannie’s carriage. “You guys go first.”
“What about you?”
“Their target is me. To ensure your safety, I’ll—”
*Boom!*
Before Moen could finish his sentence, a deafening roar rent the air. A tearing wind rushed toward him. Alarm bells blaring in his mind, Moen reacted instinctively, pulling Lea back into his arms as he retreated sharply.
A figure, cannonball-like in its trajectory, crashed into the ground, kicking up a choking cloud of dust.
The dragon-blood horses reared back, screaming in terror as though some malevolent force loomed closer.
When the dust began to settle, revealing what lay within, Moen’s face twitched violently.
“Pink Bear? Seriously?”
“Oh, screw you! Why don’t you give it a try if you’re so capable?!”
Pink Bear, bedraggled and battered, his suit nearly splitting at the seams, leapt agilely to his feet from the crater he’d made, glaring in frustration. “Do you even know who that guy is? For crying out loud, I’m not even *The Crowned*! The fact I can exchange a few blows with him is a feat in itself, okay? Go flip through some history books—how many non-Crowned individuals were ever able to stand against The Crowned? The few who did? Each of them reshaped history!”
“But that was *so* fast. You couldn’t even last longer…”
“That’s crap! Who says I’m fast? I’m not—I’m *definitely* not fast, I—”
“He’s not fast at all. Honestly, for him to hold me off for two minutes in his current state counts as nothing short of miraculous.”
The chillingly calm voice sent a shiver through the air, abruptly halting the banter between Moen and Pink Bear. Both stiffened, shifting their gazes toward the other end of the crater.
“To call someone ‘incredibly gifted’—that wouldn’t have been an exaggeration for the you of the past. But the Leopold family curse has contorted that talent of yours into a prison.”
Indra King stepped forward, his ragged robes hanging from his frame like old sackcloth, looking more tattered than moments ago. His clasped hands now bore even more wounds, though compared to Pink Bear, who appeared to be bleeding profusely, Indra King seemed unscathed.
Indeed, the disparity was apparent. Even a seasoned match-up involving a crowned sovereign versus someone merely capable of standing beside them was a clash of qualitatively different levels.
“It’s pitiable when you think about it,
Orlanriel. You once had the potential to surpass even the first emperor to bear the Crown. Yet here you stand, reduced to numbing yourself with such trivial distractions.”
As he spoke, Indra King casually produced a small, adult magazine Moen recognized all too well from seemingly nowhere. Flipping through its pages rapidly, he clicked his tongue as if in mock admiration.
“Oh? I didn’t take you for someone with such… peculiar tastes. No wonder she chose to leave you.”
“Shut up!” A rare malice flashed across Pink Bear’s gaze.
“You're in no position to pity me.”
“Heh… how unfortunate. It seems our time here is coming to an end.”
Indra King’s voice, devoid of any emotional cadence, carried an unnerving certainty. He crushed the magazine into powder in his hand, sprinkling the remnants to the ground.
He only briefly glanced at the twitching corner of Pink Bear's eye before his gaze swept across the other, younger individuals present. Watching their expressions falter and succumb to fear, a smile crept across his face, icy and devoid of warmth.
Finally, his sights landed on Moen.
And there, his smile froze.
What greeted him wasn’t the terrified young noble he expected to see. Instead, Moen, unremarkable in skill and status—merely a second-tier warrior whose magic could barely scrape the surface of his own oppressive might—showed nothing. No fear. Not even a tremor of unease.
“Why?” Indra King’s voice, for the first time, betrayed genuine confusion.
“You should be trembling. You should be begging.”
“Begging?” Moen took a steadying breath, placing a calming hand on Lea’s trembling shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, returning the question with one of his own.
“Why would I beg?”
“You’re about to die.”
“And why would I be dying?”
“Because *I* demand it.”
“Fair enough.”
Facing him, Moen’s gaze was almost tranquil.
“But so far? There’s been no shortage of people—or beings—who’ve wanted me dead. Compared to them, you wouldn’t even make the list.”
Dead silence. Absolute stillness.
In that single, brazen declaration, even Pink Bear—renowned for his notoriously irreverent nature—couldn't help but raise a secret thumbs-up to Moen behind his back. *No wonder I hit it off with this kid from the get-go. That level of bravado? Straight out of my playbook when I was young.*
“…”
Indra King didn’t lash out in anger. Yet, a subtle shift darkened his expression.
Looking at this brat—someone he could annihilate effortlessly with just a flick of his hand—he felt it. Unexpected, unfamiliar: a blossoming sense of disquiet.
But this sense of disquiet must not linger. No; it had to be dealt with swiftly.
Indra King’s hand extended slowly, and in that instant, the air itself seemed to freeze. Even the faintest whispers of wind stood still.
Yet in this suffocating calm, a crushing weight descended.
It was as if the entire world had been gripped tightly within his fist.
“Die.”
Indra King’s voice was soft, but like a deity pronouncing judgment. His hand clenched into a fist.
Crackling sounds echoed in the air like eggshells fracturing. Fine, hairline fissures spread out in all directions.
Within a fleeting moment, everything—everyone—within proximity would be shattered. Reduced to nothingness.
But Moen’s expression remained unchanged. Death, approaching as it was, didn’t stir even the faintest ripple in his gaze.
And then, at the pinnacle of this consummate stillness…
A faint sigh echoed.
