Paragon Raizel froze, dumbstruck. Not because the young soldier's words confused him, but for two distinct reasons.
First, the boy's knowledge of such information startled him. Yet a heartbeat later, this revelation lost its surprise. After all, Dante spearheaded this entire revolution.
The man had slaughtered his own ntor to ignite it. Paragon Raizel hardened his resolve, recognizing that Dante would employ any tactic—no matter how extre—to carve his rebellion's justification into the hearts of all who listened.
Even if that ant twisting truths and molding impressionable minds like clay on a potter's wheel.
Paragon Raizel pitied them, though he recognized the irony of his sympathy given his current predicant.
At this mont, Dante stood inside that complex with his wife and other governnt officials... including Raizel's father.
Not that his father was the reason for his presence here. The thought of the man barely rippled through his consciousness.
Paragon Raizel stared into space for several heartbeats before finally lifting his hand to run fingers through his hair. His jade green eyes remained lakes of calm.
He sighed.
"Oh dear stars. What poison has Dante fed you all? I can't fathom what that gutter-born snake has sold you. So fairy tale about being Gafarè's descendant? The only soul in this world blessed with the grand mandate of unification—or at least the only one who cares enough to fulfill it?"
The young soldier stood rigid, his expression masking a storm of pain and fury beneath its stern surface.
Paragon Raizel waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away an irritating insect.
"Not that I care. Dante weaves lies like a master tailor. I'm certain he has you all wrapped around his finger, feeding you precisely the scraps of information needed to keep you leashed."
Burning Storm's glare intensified, his eyes glinting like winter frost—cold and devoid of rcy.
"I don't expect you to believe . Frankly, I couldn't care less. But you will step aside, or you'll discover firsthand why they call Burning Storm."
The soldier straightened his posture and adjusted his military cap until it cast his eyes in shadow.
"Burning Storm or whatever na you hide behind. I don't give a damn about the might or power it represents. I'll be the one passing judgnt for your sins of disloyalty and treason against our cause."
The young soldier summoned his weapon and lunged toward Paragon Raizel. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between them.
He whirled through the air like a cyclone unleashed, unleashing a tempest of strikes as he spun around the Paragon.
Burning Storm, sword already poised for battle, deflected the onslaught but staggered backward two steps, boots scraping against the ground.
The young soldier retreated slightly before charging again, his form blurring with preternatural speed. Both hands now wielded silver daggers—curved like crescent moons with pronounced, razor-sharp angles that caught the light with deadly promise.
He moved with the fluid grace of a silent dance, each strike forcing Paragon Raizel deeper into a defensive stance that pushed him backward across the battlefield.
His footwork shifted rhythmically—deliberate and asured when necessary, then erupting into astonishing bursts of speed that caught the eye unawares. At first, Paragon Raizel found himself stunned by the masterful artistry of movent his opponent displayed.
The young soldier advanced with calculated precision, each motion purposeful and economical. He knew exactly what each step would accomplish, manipulating the very foundations of their combat to suit his aggressive strategy. No wasted movent, no hesitation—only pure, lethal intent.
Paragon Raizel couldn't mask his surprise that one so young possessed such extraordinary mastery of footwork. It was refreshing to witness soone who had truly mastered the fundantals. Without such dedication, the young soldier could never exhibit such composure while wielding such overwhelming power.
He admired it.
But that admiration ended there.
Burning Storm furrowed his brows as he intercepted the next flurry of attacks, his movents flowing in perfect harmony with the onslaught—despite wielding only a single claymore that glinted like frozen lightning in the light.
The Paragon was, without question, a battle-hardened master in his own right. A claymore typically presented a severe disadvantage against swift daggers, yet in his hands, this fundantal rule of combat seed to dissolve like morning mist.
After just one minute of their deadly dance, the young soldier grew unsettled by the serene composure with which Paragon Raizel t each of his strikes.
"If you truly intend to stop ," Raizel murmured, voice steady as stone, "you'll need more than re dagger strikes. I stand here desperate, and so—I will act with a desperate man's resolve."
Burning Storm widened his stance and raised his sword fractionally higher. His eyes narrowed to slits, irises igniting with an erald glow as the atmosphere around him shimred and warped like heat above flas.
Then, in one fluid motion that defied human perception, Paragon Raizel vanished from sight and thrust forward.
His sword didn't simply part the air—it violated it. A colossal tear ripped through space with impossible speed, cleaving through the fountain they now stood over thirty ters away from, and punching through the building beyond as though it were made of parchnt.
The banner and everything in the blade's path split cleanly in two, yet strangely, the bisected structures remained suspended, refusing to crumble apart.
In that heartbeat of suspended ti, far in the distance, a catastrophic earthquake erupted. The ground convulsed with trendous force, buildings from their vantage point sinking as though swallowed by the earth itself.
Paragon Raizel glanced back, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"Looks like my subordinate is already beginning to warm up to the festivities."
A dark frown etched itself across the young soldier's face, impossible to miss despite the shadow shrouding his eyes.
Paragon Raizel's mouth curled into a half-smile as he scoffed. With casual indifference, he began to advance, strolling toward the path his blade had carved through reality.
The ground tiles lay shattered and broken, gouged into a narrow channel where his cleave had passed. But the true marvel remained the strange vacuum his strike had created—a corridor where wind refused to flow, as though that thin slice of the world had been excised from existence itself.
This display of power dwarfed what he had shown in Lithia. There, he had rely channeled his cleaving force through his bare hand. Here, that sa devastating ability manifested through a blade crafted for death.
And now, there was no reason for restraint. The vicinity stood emptied of civilians. In this mont, should he choose, he could unleash the full form of his Essence Manifestation —unfettered and complete.
He stood but a single thought away from that decision... with only one thing staying his hand: his reluctance to extinguish the life of this young, promising soldier who stood before him like a candle in a tempest.
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