CHAPTER 50: RAGOS DUCHY

Duchy of Ragos—the territory held by the esteemed Duke Ragos, whose bloodline has ruled this land for over a thousand years. The Vareldis Empire has seen the rise and fall of many noble houses beneath its towering dominance, and the Ragos family is one such legacy—old, proud, and fiercely ambitious.

Yet ambition has a price.

For generations, the Ragos House has dreamed of placing one of their own upon the imperial throne. Not as conquerors—for none dared openly challenge the might of the Vareldis bloodline, a lineage whispered to be laced with the hidden monsters that guards it—but through subtler means. Marriage. Bloodlines. Influence.

A seat beside the throne, or better yet... a Ragos heir sharing both the Imperial blood and the Ragos blood.

But those dreams remained nothing more than dust beneath the boots of the ruling line.

Until now.

Within the grand marble manor of the Ragos Duchy, lit by sunstone chandeliers and guarded by ancient wards, a figure knelt in reverence. Long black hair spilled like ink over her crimson robes, and her eyes—dark red, almost black—gleamed with quiet authority.

This was Lady Lia Ragos, Duchess and Matriarch of House Ragos.

Before her knelt two nobles—Empress Balina, once a high noble before her rise into the imperial harem, and Drake Ragos Vareldis, Fourth Prince of the Empire. His face burned with indignation... and fear.

He hated bowing.

Especially to a woman. Even more so to one beneath his rank. He was a Prince, and she was merely a Duchess.

But in front of Lia Ragos, no one stood tall—not even the most arrogant sons of the Empire.

Her aura, subtle yet suffocating, curled around him like the breath of an ancient predator.

"Drake," she said softly, her voice like silk over steel. "Bow deeper... or I will break your back and replace you with one of your cousins."

The air grew heavy.

Drake lowered his head instantly, primal fear overtaking his pride.

"Good," Lia said, rising from her seat and circling them slowly.

She paused beside Balina and reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from the former Empress’s cheek.

"So... our pieces are nearly in place. Mavis has taken the Third Prince, hasn’t she?"

Balina nodded. "Confirmed. She claimed him openly. The Belfrost daughter has entered the game."

Lia’s smile was cold.

"Then it begins. The throne is still far... You were our hope, Drake. Ragos blood on the throne. And yet..."

She turned her gaze on him.

"You still wish to rule?"

Drake swallowed. "Yes... Matriarch."

"Then remember this: the Vareldis throne is not taken with fire. You bleed into it. Let Mavis train him. Let the boy grow. You will defeat him—or any other Prince—and sit upon the throne." She turned toward the massive map of the Empire that hung across the wall. "But if you fail... we will simply have him marry one of our women. And there will be another Drake."

Her finger tapped the capital.

"And you will die."

Drake’s breath hitched as he stammered, "Please... give me the chance. I am better than that cripple. So what if he survived the King’s Killer poison? I can still win! I’ve trained since I was five. I’m stronger than him."

His voice rose with fervor as he added, "Now that he’s healed, no one will question me if I challenge him. I can humiliate him openly. He’s nothing in front of me—not with my High Master-rank strength."

Empress Balina joined in, voice calm but firm. "Yes, Matriarch. Until now, the boy’s achievements were easily dismissed. He was forgotten—weak, poisoned. But now, after Mavis claimed him as disciple... everything has changed. He’s healed. And he’s become a contender for the throne."

"Whether we like it or not," Lia murmured, "he is rising."

Her crimson eyes narrowed.

"What I’m concerned about is how he survived the King’s Killer poison."

Balina hesitated. "That’s what troubles me as well. The Belfrost Archdukedom is old... older than even we are. But even they shouldn’t have been able to solve that poison. Not without the antidote."

Lia’s gaze turned steely as she tapped the armrest of her throne.

"We can’t allow that. The King’s Killer is our most potent creation. There must not be an antidote. We cannot afford even the rumor of weakness."

She leaned back, eyes distant but calculating.

"Find out what cured the Prince. And if someone truly holds an antidote to our poison..."

Her nails scraped against the wood.

"...eliminate them."

They bowed in unison, the weight of Lia Ragos’s command pressing down like a curse.

As the heavy doors of the chamber creaked open, Drake stormed off, fists clenched and mana flickering dangerously along his knuckles. His pride, though cowed for now, simmered just beneath the surface—volatile and ready to explode.

Empress Balina lingered a moment longer, watching his retreating back with a faint frown.

"Tch... he still lacks discipline," she muttered. "He needs to master his emotions. A Prince who cannot control himself is nothing but a pawn."

She turned, gracefully adjusting her robes, and made her way through the manor’s shadowed corridors. Though her own pride had been dented—kneeling again before the Duchess she once rivaled—her mission had changed.

Now, her eyes were set on Fenric.

The boy who should have died.

The poison that should have worked.

The cure that should not exist.

She would uncover it. No matter what ancient secret, forgotten artifact, or forbidden bloodline had saved the Third Prince... she would find it.

And once she did?

Either the knowledge would belong to House Ragos...

Or be buried with the rest of the dead.

Meanwhile... in a forgotten training chamber somewhere beneath the palace, far from sunlight and mercy...

Fenric lay sprawled on the cracked floor, blood splattered across his arms, chest, and face—none of it someone else’s. His breathing came in shallow, ragged bursts, like a beast trying to remember how lungs worked.

His vision swam, mana flickering weakly around him, barely clinging to coherence.

Mavis stood over him.

Arms folded. Eyes cold. Presence like a guillotine.

"You call that a block?" she had snapped ten minutes ago.

"You have mana sea deeper than most Dukes—yet you flinch from pain?"

Snap. That was his left arm.

Crunch. Right leg.

She hadn’t even used a weapon.

Just her fingers. Just pressure points. Just overwhelming precision.

And all while reciting magical theory like a bored instructor reading grocery lists.

Now, as Fenric trembled, she crouched beside him, inspecting his broken body with the detachment of a sculptor evaluating uncooperative marble.

"You’re still conscious," she noted.

He coughed, something wet and red staining his teeth. "Unfortunately."

"Good," she smiled—a chilling, surgical curve. "Then we can continue."

"Mavis," he wheezed, "this isn’t training. It’s..."

"—Torture?" she offered helpfully, voice light. "Oh, no, dear prince. If it were torture, I’d be using poison, noise spells, or emotional trauma. This is pressure-based cultivation."

Fenric groaned. "You broke all my bones."

"They’re resetting stronger. You’re welcome."

She stood and summoned a small scroll, unfurling it mid-air.

"Now. Next stage: spell-weaving while inverted and under blood-loss constraints. We’re activating your muscle memory through near-death adaptation."

He stared at her, jaw slack.

"You’re insane."

She gave a prim nod. "That’s what my mother says."

Then she clapped her hands.

"UP, Emperor Candidate."

And despite everything—

Despite the fact his ribs felt like glass and his mana pool was nearly dry—

Fenric pushed himself up, trembling, teeth gritted, sweat mixing with blood.

’Second chnace at life, not going to give up due to some pain’ He reminded himself and once again started sparring aginst the Puppet Knight.

Mavis stood on the upper terrace of the sealed training compound, her arms loosely crossed, her eyes narrowed—not in irritation, but in calculation.

Below her, in the blood-soaked courtyard, Fenric was moving through a complex magical sequence, sweat streaking down his face, but his mana control immaculate. Not a single rune faltered. Not one sigil bled power inefficiently. His stance was iron, breath measured. The wind answered him, the earth pulsed under his feet, and fire danced at his fingertips—not in chaos, but in harmony.

He’s faster now.Sharper.Deadlier.

She had broken his bones seventeen times. Shattered his magical circuits twice. Starved him of mana, oxygen, sleep—and affection.

Yet here he stood, not only whole but transcendent.

And that was the problem.

This boy... this boy is dangerous.

She had begun to sense it days ago—an ache, a pulse in the air when he cast. The type of subtle shiver that came when something old or great was awakening. And today, watching him, she couldn’t deny it.

He’s not just talented.

He’s the brightest star I’ve ever seen.

Her expression darkened, slightly.

And that’s exactly why Balina tried to erase him.

But now he was healed. Somehow.

And the light that had once been smothered under sickness and isolation was surging back with terrifying momentum.

This is what Balina feared, she thought. That he would surpass her son. That her bloodline would be forgotten the moment Fenric’s power surfaced.

And she was right to fear it.

Fenric talent is monstrous so his mind, he is not impulsive like the Fourth Prince, but is smart and cunning as Fox like the First Prince.