CHAPTER 185: CHAPTER 184 - DELAYING TACTICS.

The King didn’t speak.

He merely stared.

The temperature in the courtroom dropped by several degrees—not through magic, but sheer tension. The air itself seemed to cower.

Raven, completely unfazed, held the new acorn aloft like a game show host presenting the grand prize. "See? Slightly cracked on the left, glowing infernal core sealed with soul-binding glyphs—you can tell it’s real because this one’s humming ominously."

The acorn was humming ominously.

In fact, it was gently pulsing with a red light, and the distant sound of echoing demonic screeches seemed to come from nowhere in particular.

One minister fainted.

Another crossed himself in three religions.

The Queen leaned forward with interest. "...Now that’s a nut."

The King raised a single finger—barely a twitch—and one of the royal mages stepped forward.

He was elderly and stooped, and his beard had more braids than moral restraint. With trembling hands, he took the acorn.

There was a moment.

Then another.

The acorn had stopped trembling now.

The court mage narrowed his eyes, glancing at Raven and his group.

Then, he turned toward the King. "Your majesty, this is a normal red acorn—"

But before he could complete his words—

Brrrr!

The acorn vibrated again, and Raven moved.

Woosh!

Before the mage could react, Raven snatched the acorn away from him, his finger pointing at the mage.

"You demon! What were you trying to do the acorn?! Were you trying to absorb its demonic energy?!" Raven growled with his eyes wide.

"W-What—?" The court mage couldn’t understand what was going on.

No one could.

Even the King and the Queen were staring at all this with a frown.

"Don’t ’W-What?!’ me," Raven glared at the mage, his eyes narrowing as he lifted the acorn that was now humming dangerously. "Why is it that the acorn goes silent the moment it reaches your hand?"

"H-How would I know—?"

Raven didn’t give the mage a chance to continue as he turned toward the King.

"Your Majesty," he pointed at the mage, "This mage is most likely a demon. So, I would request you to decide what to do with us after you have dealt with him."

The King, however, was no fool.

He gave Raven a long stare, then turned toward the mage, who was looking around nervously as everyone was now scrutinizing him with an accusatory gaze.

Then, he turned to another court mage. "You go."

Everyone leaned forward, understanding the King’s intention.

Before Raven could even object, the King raised his hand. "We will first verify the acorn. If it is as you claim it to be, only then would we take action against the mage."

Raven paused, realizing that he couldn’t stall for any longer.

He turned to Clara, whose fingers were twitching as she was the one who had been manipulating the acorn vibration and not some demonic energy.

When the court mage held it, she had stopped because the mage would’ve noticed the magic being used.

Now, however, that wouldn’t be possible.

They could blame one mage for being a demon, but what about the other? Then, another?

Could they keep doing it?

No.

Now, they couldn’t do anything.

As the second mage—a younger, far less suspicious-looking man with shiny robes and a clipboard—stepped forward to examine the accursed acorn, Raven’s group subtly shifted their positions.

Whispers erupted like panicked chickens behind a smiling farmer.

"Is it time for a stab party yet?" Siris whispered, already inching toward her hidden dagger with the subtlety of a brick through glass.

"No stab parties," Clara whispered harshly. "We’ve already used up our weekly violence quota!"

"I vote we stab the clipboard instead," muttered Jessy. "That smug thing looks like it taxes squirrels."

"I can call for Blargh to distract others as we all run," Alex suggested helpfully.

"We’re in a palace, Alex," Rufus muttered. "Where would we run? Into royal jail?"

Hearing all this, Raven stared at the ceiling, pretty sure that would be Crisaius’s entry point if he ever came.

’Old man... now would be the best time...’

"Should I eat the acorn, then?" Alex suddenly offered.

Everyone turned to him in horror.

Alex shrugged. "Just sayin’. If it disappears, so does the problem."

Before Raven could reply to that catastrophic suggestion—

As if the universe heard his previous groan—

CRAAAAAAAAKKKK—!!!

The entire ceiling exploded.

Not cracked. Not broken. Exploded.

A violent rift of golden and black lightning tore the sky open above the royal palace.

Dust rained like divine ash.

Chunks of marble were flung across the courtroom like shrapnel.

One royal knight was flung ten feet just from the pressure.

The chandelier didn’t fall—it evaporated.

Every noble, guard, and mage in the room froze mid-breath as the temperature dropped—not from cold, but from raw mana pressure compressing the air itself.

A singular presence descended.

BOOM.

From above the shattered ceiling, a foot landed. Then another.

Dust parted.

There he stood.

Crisaius Von Vaise.

His cloak fluttered with magical wind—no breeze in sight.

His aged frame was tall and lean, not frail, with veins of red and gold mana pulsing just beneath his pale skin.

His wild white hair danced around his head like a halo of chaos.

He wore a mismatched outfit: half royal robes, half training gear, a single steel gauntlet on one hand, and sandals.

One sword on his hip, and another strapped across his back at a crooked angle—both humming like caged storms.

His eyes?

Unblinking. Glowing. Red.

As the eyes became visible, every single person in the room felt it.

Pressure.

Like a dam had cracked in reality. Like the world itself was politely asking permission to collapse.

Crisaius grinned.

And that was somehow the most terrifying part.

He walked forward, slow, purposeful, his boots cracking the marble as if the floor was glass beneath him.

"RAVEN!" He boomed, voice layered with laughter, madness, and absolute authority.

Raven turned, deadpan. "Oh good. The public menace has arrived."

Crisaius reached him and clapped a hand on his shoulder hard enough to make Alex wince.

"I sensed stupidity from twenty kilometers away. You rang?"

He finally looked around.

Silence. Pure, suffocating silence.

Dozens of elite guards had their weapons halfway drawn but couldn’t finish the motion.

The King himself stood—face grave, hands clenched behind his back.

The Queen leaned forward.

Crisaius looked at them.

Then he looked away as if they were part of the furniture.

But then, his eyes suddenly caught sight of someone he knew.

It was Damien, standing behind the throne.

His expression shifted.

No more jokes.

Only pity.

"Oh, Damien..." Crisaius exhaled, shaking his head. "You were always a bit dim, but this?"

His voice dropped. Cold. Final.

"You betrayed Argon. You didn’t just cross a line—you burned the whole map and danced on the ashes."

He took a step forward.

Everyone tensed.

Even the King’s chair creaked under his grip.

Crisaius whispered like thunder, "I hope they bury you in something nice. It’s the only dignity you’ll have left."

Damien flinched.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Because deep down, he knew.

Crisaius doesn’t make threats.

He makes predictions.

Most of them always came true.

Back with the group, Clara leaned toward Raven. "Should we tell him we were pretending the acorn was cursed to delay judgment?"

"No," Raven muttered. "Let the old man freestyle."

Crisaius, now inspecting the acorn mid-rant, poked it.

It hissed.

He poked it again.

It screamed—a high-pitched demonic shriek that echoed through the court like a banshee in therapy.

Of course, it was Clara’s doing.

Crisaius beamed.

"Ah! Now it’s working."

Then, he glanced at Clara and winked. "Good glyphwork, Clara."

One of the royal mages actually fainted.

The King finally spoke, his voice cutting through the madness.

"Crisaius Von Vaise... Explain yourself."

Crisaius turned to him with the tilted head of a man who’d forgotten why laws exist.

"Oh? You’re still here. Right. Yes. Sorry, I didn’t see you over the sheer irrelevance of your guards."

A guard took a step forward—

Crisaius looked at him.

Just looked.

The guard sat back down.

"No need to panic," Crisaius continued, waving a hand dismissively. "We’re not traitors. Not demon worshippers. We’re just... very competent criminals with national interest in mind."

He leaned closer to Raven.

"By the way, next time you fake a cursed object, don’t make it hum in B-flat minor. I kinda hate it."

Raven rubbed his temples.

"Old man, please. Just say we saved the kingdom."

"Oh, right!" Crisaius turned around, his arms out wide. "This nut nearly killed twenty of us on the eastern front. Sealed it with sacred fire, blood glyphs, and a squirrel sacrifice."

Nibbles chirped indignantly from Raven’s shoulder.

"...Symbolic sacrifice," Crisaius corrected.

With that—

The room didn’t relax.

It couldn’t.

Because one of the strongest magic swordsmen alive had declared the conversation over.

Above all, no one dared argue with a man whose mere entrance redefined the structural integrity of palaces.