BKG Character A: "No way… that's Percy Atlas Magus. He actually came here."
BKG Character B: "Tch, of course he did. The guy practically dominated the battle exams. Did you see what he did to Jason Lunarae?"
BKG Character C: "I still can't believe it. Jason had the power of Hal'Korith… and Percy still overwhelmed him."
From the center of the quad, Percy's footsteps echoed softly.
His posture was loose, unhurried—but there was something in the way he moved that made people part for him.
"Some perceive me as a force of nature…"
"…while others regard me as an outright menace."
He smirked to himself, letting the voices float by like fading echoes.
BKG Character D: "Some say he's a Sacred Family prodigy. Others say he's self-made. Either way—he's dangerous."
BKG Character E(grinning): "Dangerous? I'd say exhilarating. Can you imagine the fights he'll have during the Survival Exam?"
BKG Character F(lowering their voice): "Or imagine getting dropped into his zone. If the examiners teleport you into his environment… you might as well just forfeit."
BKG Character G: "Don't overhype him. Yeah, he's strong—but this is Solarskis. It's full of monsters. He's not untouchable."
(Overhyped? Perhaps.)
(But none of them are mistaken in their caution.)
Percy's eyes flicked sideways—briefly catching sight of a few who dared meet his gaze.
Most quickly looked away.
(And Solarskis is teeming with monsters, huh?)
(I wonder how many will still be standing when I'm finished.)
BKG Character H(whispering): "Still... no one really knows what he's capable of. He fights like he's three steps ahead."
BKG Character I(arms crossed): "That's exactly why we should be wary. People like him? They don't just appear. Either he's been hiding his strength for years... or someone—something—helped him ascend."
BKG Character J: "Whatever it is… I just hope I never end up in a fight with him."
BKG Character K: "You're all acting like he's some untouchable legend. He bleeds like the rest of us. And if he's as strong as you say? That just makes him a target."
"He bleeds like the rest of us…"
Percy's lip twitched—just slightly.
(Let them try.)
He said nothing.
Not a single word.
But the silence that surrounded him said everything.
The murmurs trailed behind him like ghost-fire.
And as he moved through the center of the quad, his presence felt less like a person…
…and more like a weather system.
A force.
A tension.
A shift.
In a sealed chamber deep within Solarskis' estate—an arcane sanctum pulsing with ancient power—six figures sat at a black obsidian table that hummed with residual Mánhar.
Arcane formations spiraled overhead, woven through the air like threads of starlight.
The walls shimmered with layered wards, blocking even the most skilled of eavesdroppers.
This was no mere meeting.
This was a council of kings and queens.
The Mage Families had gathered.
Thalassa VestalynAlistair SolonarEvelyn LunaraeAlaric CaelumisCedric AurorixMorgana Tempestarii
Their children stood behind them—silent, sharp, watching.
Thalassa Vestalyn was first to speak, her voice regal and cold:
"The rise of this Percy Atlas Magus is... unexpected.
A boy with no recorded lineage, displaying prodigious skill far beyond his station.
We must determine—is he a threat?"
Alistair Solonar answered with clipped certainty:
"Threat? Perhaps. But more than that—he's an anomaly. His sigilcraft against Jason was too precise. That isn't learned overnight."
Evelyn Lunarae's tone carried a subtle sting:
"His battle with my son was no coincidence. He anticipated Jason's techniques with clinical ease. Either he's been hiding his capabilities—or something has been teaching him."
Alaric Caelumis folded his hands, speaking with calm rationality:
"If he has backing, we must uncover it. The mage world does not tolerate chaos. He could be a weapon… or he could be a wildfire. I propose investigation, not elimination—yet."
Cedric Aurorix scoffed, voice laced with contempt:
"You speak of investigation as if the answer isn't obvious. His magical manipulation is unnatural. Someone like him does not belong among us. He should be removed—now—before he unbalances the order."
Alaric leaned back, a slow smirk forming:
"Cedric, you speak as if we're debating a rabid beast. But if guided properly... Percy could be the most valuable asset any of us have ever seen."
Morgana Tempestarii, ever the eye of the storm, nodded thoughtfully:
"Or perhaps... he's exactly what the mage families need. No allegiances. No inherited loyalties. He could be the greatest threat... or the most effective tool."
Thalassa turned her head, her silver gaze falling on the heirs behind her:
"You've seen him. You've felt his power. What do you say?"
The younger generation stepped forward.
Eyes locked. Postures stiff with pride and prejudice.
Marcus Vestalyn, jaw tense, tone laced with disdain:
"He's a fluke. No pedigree. No heritage. One flashy fight doesn't make him equal—it makes him dangerous."
Lyra Caelumis arched a brow, voice airy but sharp as a spellblade:
"You're afraid of him. Admit it. He's a variable—and variables tend to rewrite equations."
Marcus, bitter:
"Please. You think a back-alley rogue with a glint of luck means anything to those born into power?"
Lyra, razor-thin smile:
"Seems he made more of his birthright than you've made of yours."
Before the tension could sharpen further—
Elian Caelumis stepped forward, water-eyed and unreadable, voice calm as the void:
"You're all chasing ghosts. Percy doesn't need permission to exist. He already does. The only question is—what does he break next?"
Marcus Vestalyn, jaw clenched, retorted with acidic precision:
"Break? Please. The boy's spellwork is stitched chaos. You want to hand him accolades for guessing right under pressure?"
Lyra Caelumis, leaning slightly with amused detachment:
"Sounds like someone's bitter he can't predict a wild variable. You build castles in logic—Percy just sank your drawbridge."
Marcus, scoffing:
"Order built Elysmyr. Not recklessness disguised as brilliance."
Lyra, smiling:
"And yet chaos just rewrote your syllabus."
Mason Solonar, ever precise:
"An unknown defeating Jason in front of the academy? That wasn't a duel. That was a data spike—undeniable."
Aurora Solonar, twirling a lock of hair, voice dripping with lazy superiority:
"If this were a romance novel, I'd call it foreshadowing. But I hate tragedies with main characters who lie about being nobodies."
Mason, dryly:
"And yet the plot keeps orbiting him."
Liam Vestalyn, calm and cool, offered the analysis:
"He's unstable. Unmapped. If he collapses, he'll crater everything around him."
Claire Lunarae, glacial and measured:
"Which makes him useful. Or lethal. Possibly both."
Tristen Lunarae, voice sharp as a whisper:
"He humiliated Jason."
Claire, snapping like a closing gate:
"Then ensure he never does it again. But don't pretend he didn't earn the right."
Skylar Aurorix, arms folded, unimpressed but surgical:
"Containment won't work. He's fluid. He learns too quickly. You'd need a storm to catch a current like him."
Elijah Aurorix, with a flicker of genuine curiosity:
"And if we're wrong? If he's more than current—if he's tide? Then maybe it's not about stopping him. It's about not drowning."
Harper Tempestarii, tone flat, eyes calculating:
"He's a pressure test. We've all grown too soft clinging to prophecy. He didn't fit the narrative... so we labeled him dangerous."
Lucas Tempestarii, rolling his shoulders like thunder warming up:
"Let me fight him. If he's a storm, I wanna know what happens when lightning kisses lightning."
Aurora, laughing:
"You're all so obsessed with control. Maybe he's not here to be a weapon, or a symbol. Maybe Percy's just the thing that finally makes this stale world interesting again."
Elian, hands in pockets, gaze distant:
"You want to fear him. Frame him. Cage him. Me?"
He smiled.
"I want to see what happens when the system realizes it can't hold him."
Marcus, low growl:
"Typical Caelumis opportunism. Always ready to ride the comet while the rest of us burn."
Elian, blinking slowly, unbothered:
"And yet, somehow, we keep surviving the impact."
Morgana Tempestarii leaned forward, her smirk like lightning before the crack:
"It seems the children are just as divided as we are. How fitting."
Alistair Solonar, voice like a drawn blade, slammed the table:
"This is not a game. He grows stronger with every battle. We must eliminate him."
Thalassa Vestalyn, ever composed:
"We guide him."
Evelyn Lunarae, venom in her tone:
"We erase him."
Alaric Caelumis, calm and curious:
"We watch him."
Cedric Aurorix, withholding judgment:
"We learn from him."
Silence.
No decision.
Just tension.
A storm waiting to break.
Thalassa Vestalyn spoke last.
Her voice like steel veiled in velvet.
"Then we are at an impasse."
"But one thing is clear—Percy Atlas Magus will not be ignored."
"Whether he proves to be ally... or adversary… we will decide soon enough."
For better.
Or for worse.
In the grand, angular hall of Solarskis' Sword Estate, four legendary names shared space beneath a storm-chiseled dome:
Kenji Takahashi, Lucius Draconis, Ingrid Klingenhart, and Fiona Sabrelan.
Around them, Mánhar-infused blades floated along the walls, humming with ancestral echoes.
A hall steeped in silence—broken only by one name:
Percy Atlas Magus.
Lucius Draconis broke the quiet first, voice as sharp as the steel he ruled:
"Percy Atlas Magus… His technique with the blade is formidable, yet he has no known master. No lineage. A stray wolf—yet he moves like a predator trained for war. A concern, wouldn't you all agree?"
Fiona Sabrelan, poised, arms crossed, replied evenly:
"Concern alone is not enough. The boy stood against Jason Lunarae—and won. That alone demands recognition, if not vigilance."
Kenji Takahashi, calm and unreadable, sipped from a delicate porcelain cup:
"Hmph. Vigilance is a given. A blade with no forge is... unstable. But I see opportunity. If guided properly, he could become a weapon worth wielding."
Ingrid Klingenhart's scoff broke the illusion of calm:
"You assume he was forged in a vacuum. That would be naïve. No one wields a blade like that without a guiding hand. The real question is: who trained him—and why?"
Lucius leaned forward, tone hardening:
"Which is why we investigate. If he proves to be a mere anomaly, we decide his worth. If he's a threat? We eliminate him."
Kenji, setting down his cup:
"You draw too quickly, Lucius. A true swordsman tempers his blade before he discards it."
Ingrid, voice firm:
"Enough. We watch. We assess. If he threatens the balance, we remove him. But if he can be guided... we determine his value."
Across the room, the heirs listened.
Sharp minds.
Sharper blades.
Emma Sabrelan stood still, arms crossed. Her gaze didn't flicker—not at politics, not at speculation.
She only thought of the way Percy moved.
Not how he won.
But how easily he did it.
"You're all looking at this wrong."
Her voice cut like her sword—direct. No wasted motion.
A few heads turned.
Maximum Gladiusforte raised a brow, voice like steel dragged across stone.
"Oh? And how should we be looking at it?"
He folded his arms.
"A nameless swordsman rises without a house? Without a master? That's not talent. That's a red flag."
Emma's gaze swept the room.
"You're still stuck on bloodlines. On names. But on the battlefield?"
She raised her chin.
"Only the blade speaks. And Percy... didn't stutter."
Wyatt Tsurugikin, quiet until now, leaned back. Calm. Calculated.
"Perhaps he doesn't need legacy," he said, adjusting the cuff of his robe.
"Some blades are forged without a name—but they cut all the same."
Grace Sabrelan scoffed, flipping her hair with practiced disdain.
"Oh please. You all sound starstruck. A no-name takes down Jason and suddenly you forget discipline?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"Either he cheated, or Jason choked."
Ava Tsurugikin smirked slightly, adjusting her stance.
"Or maybe Percy just made it look effortless."
Her voice had that silken lilt—half compliment, half test.
"Not everyone needs flashy footwork to win. Some of us use precision. Others… get by with chaos."
Emma turned her head.
"He didn't win with chaos. He won with control."
Her expression hardened.
"He read Jason like a scroll and rewrote him line by line. That's not luck. That's lethal."
Carter Gladiusforte, still seated at the edge, sharpening his blade, finally paused.
He didn't speak.
He just looked up—then went back to sharpening.
Ava, watching, chuckled softly. Her eyes flicked to Aria Klingenhart.
"Aria... you knew him before, didn't you? What's your read?"
Aria, quiet all this time, leaned back slightly.
Her hand rested on her hilt, fingers curling as if remembering.
"...He was weak."
That earned silence.
Carter looked up.
"Before?"
Aria's tone didn't shift, but her eyes darkened.
"I remember him. No form. No Mánhar control. He flinched at wind."
A pause. Then, sharper:
"Now? He's unreadable. A shadow behind every blade. And we don't have a name for what that means yet."
Jackson Klingenhart, impassive as ever, finally spoke:
"You make it sound like he isn't the same person."
Aria looked at him, just once.
"Maybe he isn't."
Emma nodded.
"He wasn't a late bloomer. He was a non-starter. No one expected anything. Now? He makes duelists look like amateurs."
Jackson, rubbing his chin thoughtfully:
"If he truly sees technique that fast... the Field of Swords won't test him."
"It'll test us."
Maximum growled, stepping forward.
"So what do we do, then? Wait for him to surpass us?"
Aria finally locked eyes with him.
"We wait. Because if he's real—he'll come back stronger."
Emma smirked, finishing the blade-stroke of her thought:
"And when he does…"
Aria:
"We see if he actually belongs."
The silence that followed wasn't casual.
It was sharp. Intentional.
Because none of them trusted easily.
And now, none of them knew what Percy was anymore.
Only that he wasn't who he used to be.
And that made him dangerous.
The chamber of the martial families was different from the others.
There were no floating sigils, no glimmering crystals, no banners of bloodline superiority.
Here, the walls were bare stone, carved with generations of impact.
The floor bore the scarring of a thousand training strikes.
Purity. Endurance. Will.
That was their legacy.
At the head of the stone-etched table sat three titans of martial lineage:
Zhang Jun Wugongshi, Minji Hwarangdo, and Hiroshi Bushidoyama.
Behind them, their chosen elders.
And across the room, their children—not seated, but standing, as was custom.
Observation first. Judgment after.
Zhang Jun Wugongshi leaned forward, gaze sharp as obsidian:
"This Percy... no clan. No known lineage. Yet his ability rivals our highest-tier disciples. The question is—how?"
Minji Hwarangdo did not flinch. Arms crossed. Expression still:
"The others debate origins. I care more for implications. If this strength is self-made—his ceiling may not exist. If it was cultivated, then we must ask: by whom?"
Hiroshi Bushidoyama let out a quiet, rumbling chuckle—like thunder behind a mountain:
"Doesn't matter where he came from. All that matters is if he can stand. Strength reveals truth. If he's earned it, we honor him. If not, he'll fall under real pressure."
Elder Takeda Musashi of the Bushidoyama family stroked his long beard, voice measured:
"He possesses more than raw talent. Precision. Endurance. Adaptability. These are not the tools of a fraud. The question is not if he's strong—but if his strength threatens our foundation."
Elder Baek Jisoo of Hwarangdo tapped her fingers once—methodical, like a metronome of tradition:
"Centuries of refinement. We train only those worthy. And now... a stray walks among our finest. If we don't seek the truth—we abandon the path."
Elder Wu Tianfang of Wugongshi bowed his head slightly:
"An anomaly, perhaps. But anomalies are signs. We uncover the truth. Prepare for resistance. And if he is useful—we guide the flame."
The elders fell silent.
And then, the heirs spoke.
Mei Wugongshi, arms crossed, voice calm but resolute:
"You're all too focused on power. I've fought him. He doesn't overwhelm. He unravels.
Every strike was placed. Every movement, calculated. It was like facing choreography written by someone who had already won."
Xiang Wugongshi frowned, voice low but firm:
"That makes it worse. No natural warrior fights like that without years of discipline.
It's... too clean. Too controlled. That's not instinct. That's legacy—or something worse."
Joon Hwarangdo nodded, shoulders steady:
"He doesn't just react. He reads. His awareness is beyond reflex—it feels... rehearsed.
Like he's walking a fight he already lived once."
Soo-min Hwarangdo tilted her head, a wry smirk pulling at her lip—not defiant, just flowing with it:
"Or maybe he's just really, really good. Not everything that breaks your expectations is unnatural."
She leaned back a little.
"We always act like only tradition breeds greatness. But maybe Percy's the outlier that proves us wrong."
Joon didn't bristle. He simply exhaled.
"You misunderstand. It's not just strength—it's what he represents.
A path that isn't ours... and still reaches mastery."
Soo-min, quiet but unshaken:
"And maybe that's what scares you."
Her words settled over them like mist—soft, but heavy.
Ryuji Bushidoyama cracked his knuckles, grin razor-edged:
"Cool story. Let me fight him next. If he's that good, he won't fold. If not... I'll find the cracks the hard way."
Daiki Bushidoyama, cool as granite:
"Trial by contact. No more guessing. We test him. If he holds, he stands. If he folds, he was never worth our time."
Yumi Bushidoyama didn't speak. But her gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.
Her thoughts?
(He doesn't fight like someone trained to win. He fights like someone who already lost everything... and decided never to lose again.)
She lowered her lashes, letting the silence speak.
After a long pause, Minji Hwarangdo finally broke it—her voice like tempered steel:
"Whatever he is... we can't dismiss him. If left unstudied, he may fracture the balance we've defended for generations."
Zhang Jun Wugongshi sighed quietly—not defeated, but reflective:
"Then we watch.
We learn.
And when the moment comes—
We decide."
Hiroshi Bushidoyama let out a rare, low chuckle—more rumble than laugh. But buried deep in his voice... was something else.
"Or maybe... he'll decide it for us."
The meeting ended without resolution.
But none of them expected one.
They were the children of discipline.
The heirs of masters.
Judgment doesn't come with talk.
It comes with fists.
And somewhere beyond those silent halls...
Percy Atlas Magus walked unknowing...
That the old titans had begun to move.