“Nero, you don’t have any Demigod-tier friends dropping by again, do you?! And Uncle should’ve gotten the distress ping from the pocket watch, right?!”

Zhe’s sudden roar hit like a thunderclap. Nero froze, a flicker of fear glazing his eyes like frost on glass, then he snapped back.

“No! Absolutely not! Zhe, don’t tell me—”

“Yeah… at first I thought the stinging came with Duke Dion. But even after he left, the sting didn’t fade. It sharpened, like needles under the skin, like a Demigod breathing down our necks.”

Zhe clenched his jaw till it creaked. He crushed the jade talisman in his fist, veins bulging like coiled ropes, every throb spelling how savage the pain was.

“A Demigod slipped into our heartland… Which faction is it? It can’t be another crown prince, right? Winning someone like Duke Dion already flips the board. Sending a Demigod just to watch us is even worse.”

Jasmine spread her senses like a net over dark water. She masked her ripple with care, cracked the window, and tossed out a few paper cranes laced with Arcane Power. They drifted like pale birds into the wind. Nothing came back. That void gnawed at her, and irritation flared like sparks.

“That thing’s still dangling right beside us. They know I’ve got these charms and they’re doing it on purpose! Damn it, my skull feels like it’s about to blow!”

Zhe roared, then bit his lower lip till blood welled. He didn’t dare keep biting his molars—he feared he’d snap his own tongue under the sting. His nails had split his palm; blood threaded through his fingers like red silk.

Nero’s heart hammered, but seeing Zhe like this, his eyes widened. Since they’d met, he’d never seen Zhe lose his calm like a broken mask.

“Christine! How much farther!”

Nero yanked a medical kit from under the seat. None of them had healing spells or druidic craft. With Zhe’s mind fraying, forcing Arcane Power to mend wounds would shake the carriage’s ward like leaves in a storm. Zhe knew it, so he let the blood run and kept his Power still.

Nero’s shout drew no answer. Realization snapped in, but too late. The speeding carriage unraveled in an instant, wood and steel flying like crows. Darkness crashed over Nero’s vision, and a brutal force swatted him into the night like a toy.

“Duke Dion, so I was saying—”

By the teleportation array, Fenrir and Duke Dion felt a surge of Arcane Power rip the air like a gale. Both turned, instincts pointing like compass needles toward the same direction.

They had left the camp to avoid suspicion. Once outside, Duke Dion used a teleport to step beyond the city walls. A Demigod’s vast Power made a small jump erase districts like stepping stones across a river.

They were about to use the prepared array outside to return to the capital when the city’s violent ripple rolled out like an earthquake. Both paused, eyes hard.

“That’s… Demigod-level aura. Duke Dion, I didn’t misread it, did I?”

Fenrir’s voice chilled like winter steel. Her scarlet eyes narrowed, pupils slipping into predatory slits. Black scales crept over her pale hands like midnight frost, and a pair of curled horns pushed from her brow like ebony crescents.

Inky Arcane Power pooled around her like stormclouds. Her dragon bloodline stirred, old and hungry. In that form, every strength she had rose a tier like a tide.

“It’s a Demigod’s aura, yes. But it feels like the wielder can’t leash it, letting Demigod strength run wild, like he’s shouting into everyone’s ear, ‘There’s a Demigod right here.’”

As he spoke, Duke Dion’s gaze slid to Fenrir, worry tightening his features like knotted bark. He clenched his fists. The timing smeared suspicion like soot; they had just left, and the storm broke. He trusted Fenrir, but he’d seen too much royal chaos to ignore doubt.

“It wasn’t me. I can’t afford a Demigod, Duke Dion.”

Fenrir shook her head without flinching under his stare. Her slit-pupiled gaze held steady, hard with resolve, enough to make him sigh.

“Your Highness Fenrir, the fault is mine for the conflict. Judge me as you will later, but let me beg leave now. Nero may be in serious trouble.”

Duke Dion bowed his head, about to kneel. Even Fenrir, for all her cold, wouldn’t take that kneel. She caught his arm, words firm as a blade.

“There’s no need. I won’t accuse you of anything. I’m coming with you. My blood’s restless, snarling. That aura carries something my dragon blood despises. For that alone, I need a look.”

Black wings unfurled behind her like night itself. She took the air with a beat. Duke Dion rose on a simple flight spell, and together they arrowed toward Clive City.

They didn’t teleport straight into the city. Entry from outside needed a writ; the city’s defensive array would lash intruders like lightning. It kept enemies out and reined in the mighty. Even a Demigod wouldn’t risk it. If the Demigod inside was an assassin aiming for Nero, delay by the array could cost his life.

“Stop! Who are you?! Halt! Clive City ahead. No flying straight in!”

Figures vaulted into the sky, bodies cutting across the wind to block them. The lead man wore his arrogance like grease. His eyes crawled over Fenrir, lewd and devouring, filthy as a swamp.

Even Duke Dion frowned at the sight. He had no time for mud like this. He tugged his collar and showed the badge inside, voice steady as a drawn blade.

“I’m Duke Dion of the capital. The one beside me is—”

“Oh yeah? You say it, so it’s true? I don’t care who you are. I say you don’t pass, you don’t pass. Unless…”

The thug’s tone reeked. He meant to stall Duke Dion and Fenrir at the gate, and with the citywide aura boiling like a storm, his intent was poison-clear.

Duke Dion stopped wasting breath. He let his collar fall and gripped the sword at his hip, knuckles white as bone.

“Oh? Planning to kill someone? If you think—”

He didn’t finish. His ugly grin froze like cracked clay. His body went limp and dropped from the sky, and mid-fall, his head parted ways with his neck like a candle cut from its wick.

The lackeys around him tumbled after, no better fate on their ticket. One alone flashed a massive war-lance, catching Duke Dion’s blade with a clang that rang like iron on iron.

“Duke, go back up Nero. Leave this one to me.”

Fenrir slid between them on a gust of black wind. Her Arcane Power burst outward like a storm of ink, locking onto the lancer with a predator’s focus.

“Please!”

Duke Dion didn’t hesitate. He shot toward the city like an arrow. Under Fenrir’s suffocating pressure, the lancer didn’t dare glance away. If he loosened guard, she’d carve him into regret.

He didn’t plan to stop Dion anyway. The moment Dion fled, he shifted his grip and lunged, war-lance thrusting at Fenrir like a black comet.

“So I’m your target? Fine. Try me! Blackflame—Cleave!”

Fenrir didn’t dodge. She let out a dragon’s roar that shook the air like thunder over mountains. Her Arcane Power ignited into roaring blackflame, and at her command it shattered forward, cleaving into the oncoming lance like a burning tide.

With that cry, black scales raced over her body like night sealing the moon. From the heart of the blackfire, she reached and drew an ancient sword, its edge calm as a river, then lashed it at the foe who dared stand before her.

They traded blows. Arcane detonations boomed like stormbreakers. Fenrir slid back a step, boots grinding the air like stone. The lancer fared worse. His standard armor had fractured in the backlash, shards falling like dead leaves. The pristine white beneath was smeared with blackflame, and the fire clung like tar, refusing to die.