"What...?" Khalia sat dumbfounded, her mind stalling as the words echoed in the quiet office.
Noticing her stunned silence, Velzoyr let out a cheerful chuckle. "I know it must sound completely sudden, but it is the truth. She is my wife, and our official wedding ceremony is scheduled for two months from now. I insisted on telling you before anyone else, given that you are my closest friend."
"I... see..." Khalia managed to force out, a faint, fragile smile masking her face.
She desperately wanted to offer genuine congratulations and feel happiness for her friend, but a sudden, suffocating weight settled in her chest. Deep down, Velzoyr had been the sole person she had romanticised—the one man she secretly hoped to build a future alongside.
When she first ascended to the rank of Director of Magic Research at such a young age, Velzoyr had been the very first among the elite to acknowledge her talents and offer her true, unvarnished respect. Despite his standing as the heir to the grand Nova Duchy, he had consistently treated her with warmth. To the rest of the world, he was notoriously arrogant, prideful, and unforgivingly critical, but to her, he had been an unwavering pillar—a companion she could implicitly trust with her life.
They had built years of shared memories, late-night banter, and quiet, intimate moments. Yet, despite all of it, another woman had seamlessly captured his heart. It felt overwhelmingly cruel and deeply unfair. But deep down, a dark, familiar bitterness reminded her that this was simply her reality. The individuals she held closest in her heart never viewed her with that same singular importance. They were kind, supportive, and friendly, but she was never the one they ultimately chose.
"Velzoyr has spoken at great length about your exceptional capabilities, Miss Silverstone," Charlie chimed in, her smooth, melodic voice cutting through the heavy fog in Khalia's mind.
Charlie leaned back slightly, her golden eyes locking onto Khalia with that same perfectly serene, razor-sharp smile. "Securing the position of Director of Magic Research at merely eighteen years of age is a monumental achievement. In fact, hearing the sheer adoration and high praise he lavishes upon your intellect... honestly makes a woman like me feel quite jealous~"
"My intellect is nothing special, Mrs Nova," Khalia replied, turning her gaze toward the orange-haired woman with a calm, practised composure. "When I compare my intellect to that prick," she added, pointing a single finger directly at Velzoyr, "it genuinely feels like I am a complete dumbass."
"You seriously need to stop underestimating yourself," Velzoyr waved a hand dismissively, a confident smirk playing on his lips. "If I were thrust into your position, sure, I might have managed a few clever tricks here and there. But the sheer, impossible feats you pull off—especially crafting a specialised enchantment capable of completely nullifying the hyper-regeneration of an Aimus Harbinger—are things even I could never have engineered."
"An enchantment is nothing extraordinary," Khalia stated, dropping her hand back to her lap. She made to continue her line of thought, but Velzoyr promptly let out a groan and facepalmed.
"You literally analysed, formulated, and finalised that entire anti-regeneration enchantment within three short hours following your very first field encounter with a Harbinger," Velzoyr pointed out, shaking his head in disbelief. "According to your chief assistant, your development speed was practically unheard of. In fact, if not for that exact enchantment, I would have been killed two years ago during that nightmare extraction operation when multiple Harbingers ambushed us inside an anti-magium field."
"See?" Charlie chuckled softly after Velzoyr finished speaking, her yellow eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and quiet observation. "This is precisely how he speaks of you when we are alone. He paints you as his brilliant saviour and a genius without equal."
"That is simply his dramatic way of romanticising basic efficiency," Khalia replied flatly, her voice smooth and devoid of affection before she shifted her gaze back onto the Finance Minister. "And Velzoyr... setting aside your exaggerated praise, have you not noticed something deeply unsettling about the Harbingers lately?"
"Are you referring to their absurd deployment numbers?" Velzoyr's relaxed demeanour vanished in an instant, his sharp features hardening into seriousness.
He rested his elbows on the desk, crossing his fingers as his tone shifted into a calm, analytical register. "It is certainly anomalous. Every sovereign nation within our alliance maintains a strictly limited, highly vetted roster of apex military power. The Solathians command their Champions, the Heavenly Empire deploys its Archangels, the Holy Empire relies on its Heralds, the Bloodrose Empire fields their Rooks, the Beastkin Federation unleashes their Executioners, the Sylverians revere their Archmages, the Elyrians follow their Sovereigns, and our Riversong Empire has us—the Prosecutors."
He paused, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the geopolitical reality.
"While every single elite operative across our allied nations possesses the raw combat output and strategic weight to justify their title, the Aimus's Harbingers feel... vastly underwhelming by comparison. Stripped of their specialised anti-magium technology, a Harbinger's actual baseline offensive threat is remarkably low. Their sole redeeming asset is their hyper-regeneration factor—and as proven, even that can be bypassed with certain high-tier destructive spells or precise enchantments. For a force meant to rival the alliance's top tiers, their individual performance is far too weak."
"Yeah, even though I am nowhere near as proficient in close-quarters combat as Felix or Zaira, I was still capable of holding my ground against three Harbingers simultaneously in melee," Khalia added, her eyes narrowing as she processed the anomaly.
"I received word that young Amon didn't fare nearly as well during his recent engagement against them," Velzoyr noted, his expression remaining composed and serious. "By all reports, he was practically thrown around by a pair of Harbingers, even after drawing a powerful sword to defend himself."
"Well, according to him, his entire tactical plan depended on him intentionally losing that clash," Khalia replied, looking at Velzoyr with a dry, deadpan stare.
Velzoyr fell completely silent for several seconds after her statement, his sharp gaze lingering on the surface of his desk. Then, a rich, genuine laugh burst from his chest, echoing through the quiet luxury of his private office. Khalia's brows knitted together in total bewilderment, while Charlie leaned back slightly, her interest visibly piqued by her fiancé's reaction.
"What is so amusing, my love?" Charlie asked, watching Velzoyr with a fond, affectionate smile.
"That Crown kid never ceases to amaze me," Velzoyr declared, shaking his head in absolute delight before turning his attention back to Khalia. "Look closely at the pattern, Khalia. From every piece of data we have gathered on the boy, every single one of his encounters against Harbingers has ended with him utilising elaborate, indirect schemes to secure victory. He has never once engaged them in a simple, direct contest of raw power. Has he?"
"Yeah...?" Khalia affirmed hesitantly, still thoroughly confused as to why Velzoyr found the observation so thrilling.
"That kid figured it out long before any of us," Velzoyr grinned, resting his folded hands against the polished mahogany desk.
"When you analyse his actions critically, the boy resorted to tactics that were completely unnatural and seemingly unnecessary for someone of his background and intellect. During his very first encounter, he realised he lacked a clean counter to the Harbinger's hyper-regeneration, so he baited them with that vehicle trick and summoned Grand Duchess Crown to clean up the mess. But when you look at his second encounter, the entire sequence becomes outright suspicious."
Velzoyr paused, his tone shifting into a sharp breakdown of the tactics.
"He already possessed complete intelligence regarding the Harbinger's regeneration factor. Not only that, he commands two Primordial familiars that could have easily obliterated those units in a fraction of a second. Yet he chose to recycle the same vehicle trick, going through convoluted lengths to pull it off a second time. I understand there were Disruptor Mechs in the vicinity, but he could have summoned his familiars long before ever trading blows with those Harbingers."
Khalia slowly raised a hand and facepalmed, letting out a long, exhausted sigh as the full weight of Velzoyr's tactical breakdown landed on her. She was completely at a loss for words, utterly drained by the sheer, unhinged layers of Amon's dramatics and the realisation that the boy was running circles around everyone.
A heavy silence fell over the opulent office, stretching on for a full minute as the heavy mahogany clock on the wall ticked softly. Finally, Khalia stood up, adjusting her coat without saying a word, and turned toward the massive double doors.
"You should grab an ice cream from that new parlour that opened up near my office," Velzoyr called out smoothly after her, his voice carrying a calm, amused warmth. "It might help bring down those cortisol levels you've been nursing for the past few days."
Khalia didn't look back, nor did she grant him the satisfaction of an answer. She simply maintained her even, graceful stride, pushing open the heavy doors and stepping out into the quiet corridor.
As the doors clicked shut behind her, the lingering scent of luxury mahogany faded, leaving Velzoyr and Charlie once more in private, silent contemplation inside the sunlit office.
- - -
The torrential rain hammered relentlessly against the sodden earth, turning the vast field into a sea of mud and pooling crimson. Thick, bruised clouds smothered the sky, locking the world in a cold, suffocating gloom.
Amon lay sprawled in the dirt, his breathing ragged and shallow. Blood continuously welled from the jagged tear across his chest and the deep puncture in his abdomen, washing away in dark, diluted streams beneath the downpour.
"Damn..." Amon croaked out, his body convulsing as a wet, violent cough forced a fresh splatter of blood past his lips.
"Hold still! Please, just hold still!" Seraphina sobbed, her vision blurred by a mixture of rain and frantic tears. Her hands trembled violently over his chest as vibrant, golden healing magic surged from her palms, flaring bright against the bleak grey sky. But no matter how much magium she poured into the light, the wounds were too deep, the flesh refusing to knit back together under the assault of the bitter cold rain.
Beside her, Jeanne stood frozen. Her knuckles white and trembling. A rare, overwhelming terror clawed at her chest, tightening around her throat until she could barely draw breath. Her mind screamed at her to do something—anything—to save him, but her limbs felt like solid lead, anchored to the mud by the sheer weight of her despair. She had watched him stand invincible, yet here he was, fading before her eyes.
"Jeanne..."
Amon's hoarse, raspy voice barely cut through the sound of the falling rain. Slowly, agonisingly, he lifted his right hand off the wet grass, his fingers trembling, slick with rain and blood, reaching up toward her.
The sight broke the paralysis binding her. Forcing her stiff, uncooperative body forward, Jeanne dropped to her knees in the mud beside Seraphina. She lunged down and caught his cold, blood-stained hand in both of hers, squeezing it with desperate, shaking strength.
"Amon, just stop talking! Save your breath!" Jeanne pleaded, her normally stern, ironclad voice cracking wide open. A tear slipped down her cheek, instantly swallowed by the torrents of rain. "You're going to be fine! Do you hear me? You just have to hold on! Don't you dare close your eyes!"
Deep down, a suffocating wave of panic told her the truth she refused to accept. His pulse was a faint, erratic flutter against her palms. Life was draining out of him second by agonising second, and for the second time in her life, Jeanne felt utterly powerless.
Amon's lips pulled back into a faint, exhausted shadow of a smirk, but it instantly vanished as another violent shudder racked his frame. He choked, a mouthful of crimson spilling over his chin and down his pale throat.
"I've... done my part..." Amon croaked, his vision swimming, his grip on her hand slackening despite her desperate effort to hold him anchored to the world.
He coughed again, the faint spark of light behind his eyes wavering under the oppressive dark.
"I'll leave..." another laboured, shallow breath rattled in his chest as he met her panicked gaze one last time, "... everyone's safety... in your hands..."
His hand went completely limp in her grasp, his head tilting back against the damp, muddy earth as his eyes slowly rolled shut.
- - -
The evening was breathtaking, the horizon bathed in a warm, golden glow as the sun dipped low in the west, slowly sinking beneath the skyline. It was currently 6:21 PM, precisely an hour and twenty-one minutes after the final bell had signalled the end of classes at R.S. Advanced Academy. The expansive campus grounds had settled into a quiet hum, with the majority of the student body relaxing in their dormitories or lazily strolling through the grand academy halls.
Inside her private quarters, Jeanne lay on her modern, queen-sized bed, dressed comfortably in a soft blue T-shirt and loose, baggy blue trousers. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. She sat up abruptly, her chest heaving as she drew in sharp, ragged breaths against the silent room.
"That... was a weird dream..." she murmured, her voice barely a whisper in the dim evening light.
A strange coolness on her skin caught her attention. Reaching up, she pressed a hand against her cheek, her fingers coming away glistening and wet. She had been weeping in her sleep.
Shaking off the lingering chill of the nightmare, Jeanne swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, slipped her feet into a pair of blue flip-flops, and padded toward the bathroom. Once inside, she clicked the lock into place and stepped up to the porcelain sink.
"..."
She stared silently into the mirror for several long moments, tracing the faint red outline around her eyes. Turning on the tap, she cupped her hands beneath the cool, running water and splashed her face repeatedly, desperate to wash away the visceral memory of blood, rain, and dying words. She shut off the tap and grabbed a plush towel hanging nearby, gently patting her skin dry.
Stepping back out into her main room, towel still in hand, Jeanne walked over to her study desk and pulled out the chair. Sitting down, she leaned her elbows on the polished wooden surface and buried her face in her hands, her expression heavy with deep, uneasy thought.
"That dream... what could it possibly mean...?"
At that moment, her smartphone began to chime on the desk. She reached over, picked it up, and glanced at the glowing screen. The instant her eyes registered the caller ID, her thoughtful gaze dissolved into an icy, unreadable calm. She swiped to accept the call and pressed the phone to her ear.
"Yes, Cardinal, what is it?" she spoke, her tone entirely devoid of warmth, replaced by a razor-sharp, professional edge.
"Boss, Marquis Xirgo has won the territory battle against Marchioness Altresh. Marchioness Altresh and her entire family have been completely wiped out," A calm male voice reported from the other end of the line. "Word is that the Empress is already considering elevating Marquis Xirgo to the status of Duke. The Prime Ministress, the Home Minister, the Defence Ministress, and the International Affairs Ministress are all strongly in favour of the decision."
"He was elevated to Marquis merely a month ago," Jeanne noted, her voice flat and measured. "He continues to exceed expectations and push his agenda forward."
"Boss, there is an additional matter," the Cardinal's voice continued through the receiver. "The Marquis holds an extreme distaste for our organisation. He has already executed several members of our cause who were operating within his newly claimed territory..."
"Ah, his deep-seated hatred for occult societies... The very same crusade that prompted his initial strike against Marchioness Altresh," Jeanne said smoothly, her composure remaining unbroken. "It is a bitter loss that a steadfast loyalist such as Marchioness Altresh has fallen. However, we have no leisure for grief. Order everyone to lay low immediately and refrain from any reckless manoeuvres. Alert all loyalists to maintain maximum vigilance. Should the Marquis make another misstep... eliminate him."
"Understood, Boss," the Cardinal replied smoothly.
Jeanne moved her thumb to disconnect the line, but before she could press the button, the Cardinal's voice chimed in once more from the receiver.
"Boss, one final matter."
Jeanne brought the phone back to her ear, her focus sharpening. "Speak."
"Sophia Von Crown made a personal appearance at the underground Black Market Auction near the border between the Crown Duchy and the Leone Duchy," the Cardinal reported calmly. "She acquired the heart of the SS-Rank Frost Disaster Dragon, Glaive. According to our embedded sources, her winning bid reached 5 billion Deiom—and she settled the entire sum in upfront, hard cash."
Silence lingered on Jeanne's end of the line as she processed the intelligence. Her brows knit together in silent deliberation.
"Five billion Deiom for a single Dragon Heart..." Jeanne mused aloud, her voice dropping into a low, calculating register. "What game is she playing?"
"Grand Duchess Crown and the Grand Duke would strictly forbid any of their offspring from patronising black market auctions," Jeanne thought. "Yet Sophia not only attended, but spent a fortune on a dragon heart..."
A sudden spark of clarity flashed through Jeanne's mind. The underlying motive behind Sophia's absurd, back-alley transaction crystallised in an instant, and a small, dry chuckle escaped her lips.
"Boss?" the Cardinal asked from the other end, his voice carrying a note of quiet confusion.
"It is simply amusing," Jeanne murmured, a dark smirk playing at the edge of her lips, "to witness just how desperate an older sister can become in her scramble to narrow the monstrous gap in power between herself and her younger brother."
"Boss, is she... planning to consume that heart directly to... force a breakthrough in her power...?" the Cardinal asked, his voice laced with palpable disbelief from the other end of the line.
"Because as far as I am aware, forging a high-tier artefact or weapon from a Dragon's heart is extraordinarily difficult due to how violently concentrated and dense the magium is inside the core. It would actually be far more effective to ingest it."
Wild dragons—feral, uncivilised beasts lacking higher intelligence—certainly existed, and they had once been hunted relentlessly across the continent until the signing of the alliance with the Elyrian Empire. Following the treaty, dragon hunting had been strictly outlawed under severe imperial penalties. However, the Black Market recognised no legal treaties, prioritising exorbitant profits above all else.
"Of course," Jeanne replied, her tone a smooth blend of dark amusement and playfulness. "What else do you imagine she bought it for? Though what intrigues me far more is how the Black Market managed to harvest and smuggle an SS-Rank Disaster Heart without raising alarms."
"...I will launch an immediate investigation into the supply chain, Boss," the Cardinal assured her from the other end. "I will report back once I have concrete answers. Stay safe."
"You as well," Jeanne murmured, and with those words, the line went dead.
She set her smartphone down onto the polished surface of her desk and turned her head toward the grand window, gazing out at the golden hues fading across the evening sky.
"Things truly keep getting more interesting..." she murmured to the empty room, a faint, lingering chuckle escaping her lips.