Darius could barely contain his rage. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were bone white, and his jaw was set with barely concealed fury. The nobles around him, once loud with chatter, had been left in silence.
Their expressions ranged from shock to disbelief, eyes wide, mouths slightly parted as they took in the scene unfolding before them.
Zarot, a guard of the third prince—a powerful warrior in his own right—had just been killed in front of them all, brutally, by a guard of the fourth. The execution had not just been savage, it had been deliberate, a calculated act ant to send a ssage.
Aric had always been the less intentional, quiet forgotten one, the one no one paid much mind to, but now—now things had changed. That was what unsettled them the most.
This wasn't just disrespect to Darius. It was a declaration. Aric was no longer willing to be ignored, no longer willing to sit in the shadows.
But it wasn't just the brazenness of the execution that disturbed them. There was sothing far more unnerving beneath it. Zarot had been a seasoned warrior, a man who wielded ki like it were his greatest weapon, and perhaps it was. His power had been unmistakable, and yet Alan—Aric's guard—had utterly destroyed him.
And throughout the entire fight—from the start Alans's display to the very end of it, there had been sothing missing.
There was no ki.
The martials among the nobles whispered amongst themselves, their voices low, trembling with a mixture of shock and curiosity. They had all felt it—or rather, hadn't felt it. Alan had shown no signs of ki.
The possibility of ki suppression was always there, but such tricks only worked on the weak, the untrained. No one could suppress their ki to the point of fooling the emperor, the first prince, or even the imperial guards—all who had also noticed this fact.
Yet Alan had moved with the precision of a seasoned martial artist, had crushed Zarot with the strength of soone far beyond a normal man, and had done it all without the telltale signature of power.
If Alan had no ki… if he truly had no magic… then what manner of warrior was he?
Darius seethed in silence, his eyes burning holes into Aric, but it was Sylas, the second prince, who broke the tension. His red hair was tied neatly behind him, and his face was an unreadable mask, eyes betraying nothing. He leaned slightly toward Aric, his voice low, but loud enough for those nearby to hear.
"Don't you think your man went a bit overboard?" Sylas asked, his lips curling into the faintest smile.
Aric turned his gaze toward his older brother, his expression as calm and calculated as always. "That's how he's trained…to kill," he replied, voice smooth, almost conversational.
"A battle is not won until the enemy is dead."
Sylas said nothing, only smiled a little wider, his eyes flicking briefly back to the colosseum below where the next round of gas was beginning. Captured beasts from the north—vicious creatures bred in the harsh, cold northern forest—were led into the arena, their massive forms thrashing against their chains.
The crowd's attention shifted, and for a mont, the tension seed to dissipate.
But there was no missing the quiet presence of the emperor, ever watching, ever silent. His gaze had never wavered, and his expression had not changed. Even as the wild northern beasts were released into the pit, their handlers barely escaping the jaws of the massive creatures, the emperor remained still.
His eyes flicked briefly to his sons, noting their moves, their strategies, and their tactical tugs of war.
The gas continued into the night. The colosseum was alive with the sound of roars—both from the beasts and the crowd. n fought for honor and glory, blood staining the sands as they battled against the savage creatures.
The northern beasts were no ordinary animals; they were ferocious, with thick fur that resisted swords and claws sharp enough to tear through armor. The crowd watched with bated breath as warriors fought them, so winning, so falling to the dirt, their bodies ripped apart in a grueso display.
Each fight was more brutal than the last, but none held the sa gravity as the earlier spectacle. Aric's na had been whispered in the streets before, but now it was spoken openly, boldly.
His return had been marked with blood, and though it had stirred fear, it had also solidified his presence. He was no longer the sickly prince. He had drawn blood, made a statent, and now the people were watching.
But that alone wasn't enough.
He had won a single battle against Byzeth, but his brothers had nurous achievents as well, Crown prince Valen for example had won countless.
At the age of thirteen, Valen had led n against the elven empire during their siege on Lusan and had triumphed. It had been victory after victory since then. Aric still had a long way to go before anyone saw him as a true contender for the throne. The people might whisper about his sudden rise, but they hadn't forgotten the brilliance of the crown prince or Sylas and Darius.
Aric knew this.
He understood that one fight, one victory, didn't an the tide had shifted in his favor. But tonight had been about laying the foundation. A seed had been planted, and now he would let it grow.
As the final cheers of the night rang out, and the last of the blood gas ca to a close, Aric stood from his seat in the imperial box. He gave a formal bow to his brothers and to the emperor, offering his thanks before turning to leave. His steps were calm, asured, even as his mind churned with thoughts of the future.
Xavier, the emperor, said nothing, only nodded slightly as Aric left. But as Aric passed by Darius, the third prince pulled him close, his breath hot against Aric's ear as he whispered, "I've left a surprise for you."
Aric barely blinked, only giving a small sigh as Darius smirked and turned away, heading toward his own estate.
Without another word, Aric and his house exited the colosseum, the long night of blood and spectacle behind them. They boarded the carriages that would take them back to his estate, and as they rode through the streets of the irial city, Aric's mind wandered.
The estate had been left in the care of two trusted guards—holt and Zahai—two years ago when Aric had left for Byzeth. He hadn't seen them since. But as the carriages pulled up to the gates of his estate, it all looked diffrent.
The grounds were pristine. The grass was trimd to perfection, and the flowers were in full bloom, their vibrant colors illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns. The once-shabby manor, which had fallen into disrepair, now stood tall and gleaming as though it had been rebuilt from the ground up.
Alan was the first to step out, his eyes scanning the area with subtle precision. He walked ahead of the others, searching for holt and Zahai. There was no sign of them.
The carriages rolled to a stop at the entrance, and Aric stepped out aswell, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his estate. It had been transford—just like he had requested, a paynt of five million gold was made for that very purpose afterall, but sothing about it felt wrong.
Too perfect. Too… staged.
Alan reached the door first, his hand resting on the handle for a mont before he pushed it open. The door creaked slightly as it swung inward, revealing the foyer bathed in soft candlelight.
The interior was spotless, every inch polished and shining as though the entire manor had been scrubbed clean.
But as Alan stepped inside, his gaze imdiately went to the staircase at the far end of the room.
Hanging from the railing, their bodies swaying gently in the still air, were holt and Zahai.
Their lifeless forms were suspended by thick ropes, their faces twisted in expressions of pain and terror. Blood dripped slowly from their wounds, pooling on the floor below them. The estate guards who had served Aric had been turned into nothing but broken, bloodied corpses, left as a grotesque display in the heart of Aric's ho.
The air was filled with the stench of death, the silence in the room so heavy it was suffocating.
Alan's hand dropped to his side, his expression unchanged, but his eyes darkened. Aric stood behind him, his gaze locked on the bodies of his fallen n, his face unreadable as the reality of the scene set in.
Darius's "surprise" had been left hanging for him to find.
Aric was prepared, ready for this even. The paynt of blood could only be more blood and he understood this, he did not return to the imperial city for no reason, he ca prepared for the battle, not the one fought in war with swords and bows, but of politics and blood.
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