Angelo left the room determined to explore every corner of the castle. He walked through the wide corridors, listening to the soft echo of his own footsteps while admiring the decorated walls, the banners, and the imposing architecture.
Turning into a narrower hallway, he found a guard standing perfectly still, like a statue. Angelo approached slowly… and stopped right in front of him.
The guard maintained a rigid posture, but Angelo tilted his head slightly and stared straight into his eyes—without blinking.
The guard tried to endure it. Angelo didn't say a word. He just kept staring.
A drop of sweat rolled down the guard's forehead.
Another.
Angelo leaned a little closer.
The guard finally broke.
— Y-young Angelo… please… could you stop staring at me like that? Did I do something wrong?
Angelo relaxed his gaze and gave a crooked little smile.
— No, nothing. I'm just messing with you.
Then he turned and dashed down the corridor, leaving the guard behind to release a sigh so deep it echoed across the marble floor.
— That Orson boy… — the guard muttered, wiping his sweat. — He gives me chills sometimes. That family… they're really something else…
Angelo kept walking until something caught his attention.
A red-haired girl with burnt-orange eyes was sitting in a small lounge—an area meant for young guests of the castle. There was a mini bar filled with sweets, snacks, and light drinks. She was absentmindedly stirring a dessert, completely alone.
Angelo approached, intrigued.
— Wait… I know you.
The girl turned quickly, almost dropping her spoon. She blushed, visibly nervous, her voice trembling.
— A-Angelo… is that you?
— Of course it is — he smiled. — Angelo Orson.
— H-hi, Angelo… — said Serafina, trying to hide her nervousness. — How are you?
— I'm great. And you, Serafina?
She nodded, fidgeting with her fingers, unsure where to put her hands.
— I-I'm fine…
His presence completely threw her off.
Angelo frowned.
— But wait… you're here alone? Where did that hot-headed brother of yours go?
— Asher? — Serafina looked around, confused. — He was here. Sitting right next to me. I don't know where he went…
Angelo exhaled, suspicious.
— Hm… so your brother just vanished, huh?
That was when he felt it.
A vibration.
A hot snap in the air.
Angelo instinctively shifted his body sideways—a fireball whistled past his head, missing him by mere centimeters before exploding against the floor behind him. He almost lost his balance, barely managing to recover.
He turned.
Asher stood at the entrance of the lounge.
The prince of the Fire Empire was wrapped in living flames, his eyes glowing like burning embers. His aura resembled a vengeful spirit—pure fire and fury.
— ANGELO ORSON! — Asher roared. — THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU GET CLOSE TO MY SISTER!
He raised his hands. Fire condensed, spinning violently, forming a massive sphere of blue flames—larger than any attack Angelo had ever seen him use.
The fireball rose, illuminating the entire lounge.
Angelo took a step back, his heart racing.
Asher prepared to throw it.
The gigantic fireball burned fiercely above Asher's palm, bathing the lounge in a pulsing crimson glow. Heat rippled through the air, distorting the space around him as if the environment itself feared the prince of Gaia.
Angelo, however, simply smiled.
Without even stepping back, he calmly raised one hand. A compact vortex of wind condensed in his palm—clean, sharp, precise—and surged forward like an invisible blade.
FWOOSH!
The fireball was extinguished instantly, dissolved in a muted crack.
Asher's eyes widened in disbelief.
— Oh yeah? — he growled, clenching his fists. — So you can pull off that trick now? Let's see how long that confidence lasts.
The fire prince lunged forward like a lightning bolt. The floor rang beneath his steps, driven by pure rage. He closed the distance, and the fight began without warning.
Punch.
Dodge.
Spinning kick.
Angelo bends backward.
A flaming knee strike.
Angelo slides aside, light as the wind.
The exchange was so fast that even the flames lining the walls seemed to follow the rhythm.
Asher attacked with raw violence—every blow felt like a meteor. Angelo evaded with flawless fluidity, as if his body were too light to be caught by brute force.
That had never happened before.
In every previous fight, Asher had crushed Angelo effortlessly. It was tradition. Routine.
But now…
Now Angelo was different.
He was fighting seriously.
And as he dodged with surgical precision, a slow smile spread across the Orson boy's face.
That only enraged Asher further.
— STOP SMILING! — Asher shouted, throwing a straight punch at Angelo's face.
Angelo tilted his head.
Just centimeters.
Only centimeters.
And in that tiny act of absolute control, the tide of battle shifted.
Before Asher could retreat, Angelo grabbed his wrist—exactly the way his father had taught him during training—and spun his body, using the prince's own momentum against him.
The movement was clean.
Calculated.
Humiliatingly simple.
THRASH!
Asher was sent flying across the lounge, crashing against a column on the far side.
A heavy silence fell.
Angelo adjusted his hair, still smiling.
— Well, well, Asher… — he said calmly as he walked toward his fallen rival. — My father always taught me that rage and hatred aren't strength. He raised a finger. — Technique. Dedication. Talent. Then he shrugged. — And honestly? I still don't know why you hate me so much. I've never done anything to your sister. Man… you're just being unnecessary.
Asher's eyes burned even hotter.
— Unnecessary, am I?! — he snarled, jumping back to his feet. — This fight isn't over!
He spread his arms, focusing his power. The entire lounge trembled. A colossal fireball—far larger than the first—formed between his hands, vibrating like a newborn sun.
The air became suffocating.
Guards stormed into the room immediately.
"PRINCE ASHER, STOP!" shouted the captain. "You cannot use a technique of this level inside the castle! This involves diplomacy! Politics! And young Orson also carries a name and a position!"
Other guards positioned themselves between the two, fearing the hall might be destroyed.
Asher exhaled deeply, his eyes burning with frustration.
"This isn't over," he said, extinguishing the fireball with a snap of his fingers. "We'll settle this off the record. Just you and me. And stay away from my sister."
Angelo merely raised his hands in a gesture of impatience.
"What a guy…" he muttered, turning and walking calmly down the corridor while the Prince of Igansia trembled with rage.
After the tension and the guards' warning, Angelo Orson took a deep breath. His heart was still racing, but more from the thrill of the fight than fear. He ran a hand through his hair and murmured:
"Well… I'm not going to let this ruin my day."
He turned and walked toward the exit of the hall. The warm light of the late afternoon streamed through the castle windows, painting the corridor in golden hues. As he pushed open the massive doors, the fresh wind hit his face like an invitation.
Outside, in the courtyard, dozens of workers were setting up flags, ancient symbols, and small wooden structures.
Preparations for Pilgrims' Day were everywhere.
Angelo smiled, nostalgic.
"Ah, that's right… almost forgot Pilgrims' Day is coming soon."
He leaned back, hands behind his head, feeling the fresh air.
"Since I'm out here, I might as well enjoy this beautiful day… and I think I'll go visit Tocre."
With that thought, he walked toward the castle gate, feeling light, as if the small battle had awakened something familiar inside him—something he enjoyed.
After Angelo Orson stepped outside for some fresh air, the hall fell into quieter stillness. Seraphina, still nervous, sat back at the table. Asher, his body still radiating heat, approached and flopped into a chair beside her.
Seraphina looked straight at him:
"Asher… why do you act like this? You could have started a war just now!"
Asher clenched his fists but didn't look away:
"I did what I had to do. I protect you. And I will keep protecting you whenever that… Orson gets near you."
Seraphina sighed, frustrated:
"Protect me from what?! Angelo hasn't done anything to me! This is all your paranoia! And honestly… I want you to stop this immediately."
Asher leaned forward, his voice sharp and authoritative:
"I am the older brother. So I decide what's best for you."
Seraphina huffed:
"Two years, Asher. Only two years difference! And another thing:
If one of us gets married first, then our child could inherit the throne. You don't have a monopoly on decisions!"
Asher, with a cocky, self-satisfied smile, ran his hand through his fiery hair:
"Then don't worry. Because obviously, I'm getting married first.
You know how I am… naturally handsome. Girls like me. When I turn eighteen, I'll have a line of women wanting to marry me."
Seraphina closed her eyes, exasperated:
"Sometimes… I don't even know how we're related."
She stood up, visibly irritated:
"I'm going to my room. And think about what you're doing, Asher. Before you end up destroying the very things you claim to want to protect."
Asher didn't try to stop her. He only said coldly:
"Be careful."
She left.
Asher sat in silence, sinking into the chair, staring at the food she'd left behind. He pulled the plate closer, rested his chin on his hand, and muttered:
"This isn't over, Angelo Orson…
Not by a long shot."