CHAPTER 87: A NEW BATTLE

Darius could barely contain his rage. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned bone-white, his jaw locked with barely concealed fury.

The nobles around him—once loud with chatter—sat in stunned silence.

Their faces ranged from shock to disbelief, eyes wide, mouths half open as they tried to process the spectacle before them.

Zarot, guard of the third prince, a warrior feared and respected, had just been killed. Brutally. And not by a royal or a famed champion—but by the guard of the forgotten fourth prince.

The execution had not only been savage, it had been deliberate. A message in blood.

Aric—the quiet, overlooked one, the prince no one paid mind to—had stepped out of the shadows. And that unsettled them most of all.

This wasn’t merely disrespect toward Darius. It was a declaration. Aric would no longer be ignored.

What disturbed them further was the nature of the fight itself. Zarot had been a seasoned warrior, his ki as sharp as his sword. His power had been unmistakable—yet Alan, Aric’s guard, had destroyed him. Effortlessly.

And through it all, something had been missing.

There was no ki.

The martial nobles whispered among themselves, their voices low, trembling with shock and unease. They all felt it—or rather, hadn’t. Alan had shown no trace of ki from start to finish.

Suppression techniques existed, yes, but they only fooled the weak. No one could mask themselves so completely that even the emperor, the crown prince, and the imperial guards failed to sense them.

Yet Alan had fought with the precision of a master, the strength of someone beyond human, and had done it all without a single flicker of power.

If he had no ki, no mana... then what manner of warrior was he?

Darius seethed, his glare fixed on Aric, but it was Sylas—the second prince—who broke the silence. His red hair was tied neatly behind him, his face an unreadable mask. He leaned slightly toward Aric, voice low yet loud enough for nearby ears.

"Don’t you think your man went a bit overboard?" Sylas asked, lips curving in the faintest smile.

Aric turned, his gaze steady, his tone almost conversational. "That’s how he’s trained—to kill. A battle isn’t won until the enemy is dead."

Sylas said nothing, only smiled wider, his eyes drifting back to the colosseum where the next round was beginning.

Captured beasts from the northern forests—massive, vicious things bred in the cold wilds—were dragged into the arena, thrashing against their chains. The crowd’s attention shifted, tension easing for the moment.

But the emperor did not stir. Xavier sat as he always did—watching, silent, expression unreadable. Even as the handlers barely escaped the snapping jaws of the beasts, his gaze lingered only on his sons, weighing every glance, every word, every maneuver.

The games stretched long into the night. The colosseum shook with roars, from beast and man alike. Warriors fought for glory, blood soaking the sand. Northern monsters fell, but only after tearing through armor, flesh, and bone. Some warriors triumphed, others died screaming, their bodies ripped apart before the eyes of thousands.

It was brutal. It was bloody. Yet none of it carried the same weight as what had come before.

Aric’s name spread through the stands openly, boldly. His return had been written in blood, his presence carved into memory. No longer was he the sickly prince. Tonight, he had made his statement.

But he knew it wasn’t enough.

He had won one battle in Byzeth, but his brothers had legacies carved from war. Crown Prince Valen, for example, had led men into battle at thirteen, defeating the elves during the siege of Lusan. Since then, victory after victory had been his. Against such records, Aric’s rise was only a spark.

He understood this. One fight did not turn the tide. One victory did not make him heir. Tonight had been about foundations—planting a seed that would grow in the shadows until it could no longer be ignored.

As the final cheers faded and the games ended, Aric rose from his seat in the imperial box. He bowed formally to his brothers and the emperor, offering thanks before turning to leave. His steps were measured, calm, even as his mind churned with plans.

The emperor gave only the faintest nod.

But as Aric passed, Darius leaned close, his lips almost brushing his brother’s ear. His whisper was sharp, laced with venom.

"I’ve left a surprise for you."

Aric did not blink. Only sighed, as if weary of a game already too familiar. Darius smirked and turned away, striding toward his own estate.

Without another word, Aric and his household left the colosseum. They boarded their carriages, riding through the lamplit streets of the imperial city.

P

The estate had been left in the hands of two loyal guards—Meholt and Zahai—when Aric departed for Byzeth two years ago. He had not seen them since.

As the carriages approached, the estate came into view.

It looked transformed.

The grounds were immaculate. Grass trimmed, flowers in full bloom beneath the lanterns. The manor itself, once shabby and crumbling, now gleamed as though newly built.

Alan was the first to step out. His eyes scanned the grounds, sharp and searching. He advanced toward the manor doors, but saw no sign of Meholt or Zahai.

Aric followed, his gaze narrowing. He had paid five million gold for the estate’s restoration, but this perfection felt unnatural. Too polished. Too staged.

Alan reached the entrance first. His hand lingered on the handle before he pushed. The door creaked open, spilling warm candlelight across the foyer.

The interior was spotless, every corner gleaming.

But Alan’s eyes went immediately to the staircase.

Two bodies hung from the railing.

Meholt. Zahai.

Their corpses swayed gently in the still air, faces twisted in agony, blood dripping from fresh wounds to pool below. They had been turned into a grotesque display, their loyalty mocked in death.

The air reeked of blood and rot, the silence suffocating.

Alan’s hand dropped to his side, his expression cold but his eyes darkened. Behind him, Aric stared at the bodies of his fallen men, his face unreadable as the truth settled.

Darius’s "surprise" had been left hanging for him.

Aric was unmoved.

He had expected this.

Blood always demanded more blood. He had not returned to the imperial city to play at peace. He came prepared for battle—not of swords and bows alone, but of politics and shadows. Of betrayal and vengeance.