Chapter : 639

Not a single trace remained. Not a scorch mark different from the ones Lloyd had already made. Not a wisp of foul-smelling smoke. Not even a single grain of ash. The creature, and the soul of the knight that had fueled it, had been so completely and utterly consumed, so perfectly unmade by the conceptual flames of annihilation, that it was as if it had never existed at all.

Lloyd stood in the sudden, ringing silence, looking at the empty, blackened space on the lawn. He felt a flicker of surprise, a genuine and profound intellectual curiosity. It was not surprise at his victory—that had been a foregone conclusion the moment he had committed his full power. It was surprise at the totality of it.

He had known Iffrit’s fire was powerful. He had not, until this moment, truly comprehended its conceptual nature. It didn't just burn matter. It seemed to specifically and fundamentally erase things of shadow, curse, and negative spiritual energy. It was the perfect, absolute counter. A valuable piece of tactical data for future engagements.

The Curse Knight of Altamira, in all his forms, was gone.

The judgment was complete.

The White Mask had won.

---

The silence that followed the demon’s absolute erasure was heavy and profound, a vacuum in which the world seemed to hold its breath. The searing heat that had bleached the sky began to dissipate, replaced by the cool, crisp air of the afternoon, now permanently tainted with the sharp scent of ozone and the ghostly smell of vaporized stone. The White Mask stood alone in the center of his scorched circle of devastation, a silent, solitary figure whose stillness was more intimidating than any roar.

Behind him, Iffrit, the god-like demon of fire, let out a low, rumbling growl of deep, primal satisfaction. Its purpose fulfilled, it dissolved into a swirling vortex of crimson motes of light and shadow, vanishing as silently as it had appeared, returning to the soul-space from whence it came. The spectacle was over. The immediate threat was neutralized. For the White Mask, it was time to disappear.

Lloyd turned, his movements calm, economical, and deliberate. He began to walk away from the heart of the destruction, his back to the stunned audience of royals, elite guards, and traumatized students. His part in this public drama was finished. He had been forced to reveal a fraction of his true power, a move that would have dangerous and unpredictable consequences down the line, but he had achieved his primary objectives: he had protected Airin, and he had eliminated a high-level threat from a rival kingdom. It was a necessary cost, a calculated risk in a war that was growing more complex by the day.

“Wait.”

The voice cut through the silence, clear as a crystal bell, yet ringing with an imperious authority that was accustomed to absolute obedience. It was Princess Isabella.

Lloyd paused his stride but did not turn around. To acknowledge her was to engage. To engage was to risk a conversation. And a conversation, no matter how brief, carried the unacceptable risk of exposure. He had to maintain the mystery. He had to remain an unsolvable, terrifying enigma. So he stood with his back to her, a silent, final act of dismissal.

He heard the soft, hesitant scuff of her boots on the scorched earth behind him. She was approaching. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the garden, a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on their silent tableau.

“I asked you to wait,” she said again, her voice closer now, and he could hear the frustration and outrage warring with a reluctant awe. “You saved my life. You saved the lives of my students. You saved my personal scholar. The Crown of Bethelham owes you a profound debt. I would know the name of our benefactor.”

Lloyd remained silent. He took another deliberate step, his intention clear. He was leaving. Her gratitude was a political complication he did not need. Her debt was a leash he had no intention of wearing.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm.

It was small, but the grip was surprisingly firm, the calluses of a swordswoman pressing against the fabric of his sleeve. The Princess had physically, publicly, stopped him. It was a breach of protocol so profound, a princess of the royal blood touching a mysterious, cloaked, and demonstrably apocalyptic figure, that it sent a new ripple of shocked gasps through the onlookers.

“I will have your name,” she insisted, her voice now a low, fierce whisper meant only for him. “I command it.”

Chapter : 640

Lloyd stopped. He stood perfectly still for a long, agonizing moment that stretched into an eternity. Beneath the blank, emotionless void of his white mask, his mind was a raging sea of calculations and risk assessments. He could feel the fine, embroidered fabric of her royal cadet’s uniform against his own simple, dark attire. He could smell the faint, aristocratic scent of jasmine and polished steel that clung to her. He could feel the heat of her pride, her frustration, her desperate, royal need for an answer, for a box to put him in, for a name to attach to the impossible power she had just witnessed.

And he could give her nothing.

With a movement that was at once impossibly gentle and yet irresistibly firm, he pulled his arm from her grasp. He did not flinch. He did not look back. He did not offer a word or a gesture of apology.

He simply took another step forward, and as he did, his form was consumed by a silent, swirling vortex of crimson flame. For a single, breathtaking heartbeat, he was a pillar of living fire, and then, he was gone. A final, dramatic, and utterly unequivocal exit that left no room for further questions.

Princess Isabella was left standing alone in the center of the circle of black earth, her hand still outstretched, grasping at the empty, superheated air. She stared at the spot where the masked man had vanished, her expression a complex, beautiful storm of frustration, awe, and a deep, unsettling intrigue that burned brighter than any fire. She had been saved by a ghost, a phantom of fire and shadow, and she was no closer to understanding him than before. The mystery of the White Mask was no longer a simple curiosity; it had become a burning obsession in the heart of the kingdom’s future queen.

A few moments later, in the cool, deep shadows of a secluded stone alcove hundreds of meters away, near the faculty lounge, reality shimmered and tore. A vortex of silent, crimson flame bloomed for an instant and then vanished, leaving Lloyd standing in its place. The high-speed movement using Fang Fairy's lightning cloak drained his energy, he was so fast that it looked like teleportation. He sagged against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The adrenaline of the battle, the god-like power of his spirits, was now receding, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep weariness.

He moved with practiced efficiency. The featureless white mask was untied and tucked away into a hidden pocket. The fiery broadsword, which was merely a mundane practice blade he had channeled his power through, dematerialized back into his System’s inventory. The menacing, oppressive aura of the Major General was ruthlessly suppressed, locked away behind layers of mental discipline.

He smoothed down his fine, ducal attire, took several deep, centering breaths to calm his racing heart, and recomposed his features into the bland, polite, and slightly vapid mask of Professor Lloyd Ferrum. The transformation was complete. The god of war was gone, and the awkward young academic had returned.

He pushed open the heavy oak door to the teachers’ room and stepped inside, preparing a story about having been caught in the chaos and taking shelter. He expected to find a room full of panicked academics, a flurry of activity and frightened chatter.

Instead, the lounge was empty. Eerily silent. The sudden crisis had clearly sent the other professors rushing to the main hall to await royal orders, or to secure their own classrooms and students.

“Good,” Lloyd muttered under his breath, a wave of relief washing over him. “The last thing I need right now is a barrage of questions from a flock of panicked old men.” The thought was uncharitable, but he was too physically and mentally drained to care. All he wanted was to sink into a chair in the solitude of his office, to be still, to process the chaotic, world-altering events of the past hour.

He walked across the plush carpet toward the door of his small office, the adrenaline crash hitting him like a physical blow. His legs felt like they were filled with lead. He had just reached for the doorknob, his mind already anticipating the blessed quiet, when a calm, deeply resonant voice spoke from the main doorway of the lounge, a voice that made his blood run cold.

“A rather eventful first practical lesson for your tenure, wouldn’t you say, Professor Ferrum?”

Lloyd froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His heart, which had just begun to slow, leaped back into his throat. He turned slowly, a dreadful certainty settling in his gut.