CHAPTER 152: WARNING DO NOT UNLOCK

It was charging.

Replenishing itself by leeching the mana from the surrounding space, the process slow but steady.

As an Iron Rank cultivator, Damien’s spiritual space was still limited in its capacity, and his mana reserves weren’t vast. However, the Accretion talent granted him an edge—if he wanted to, he could accelerate the process.

But he didn’t.

He wasn’t in a rush.

After all, when standing at the edge of something ancient and unknown... it was better to walk than run.

Finding his way out was far easier than navigating the labyrinthine Blue Hammer library. In just a matter of minutes, Damien emerged from the ancient halls, stepping back into the palace corridors drenched in golden sunlight.

He had barely taken a single step outside when a voice called out urgently from the far end of the hallway.

"Crown Prince, here you are! We were searching for you everywhere. The delegation from the Valthorn Kingdom has arrived and is waiting for you."

The words sparked something in Damien. His eyes gleamed with interest, lips curling into a subtle, satisfied smirk. So, they’ve finally come, he thought.

He let out a pleased chuckle, brushing off the dust from his robe with a flick of his wrist. "Good. Lead the way," he said calmly.

The guard saluted sharply before turning around, guiding him with hurried steps through the ornate palace corridors, their boots echoing faintly on polished stone.

Meanwhile, in another chamber deep within the ancestral wing of the palace—

Two figures stood in still silence, their attention fixed on a colossal statue carved into the far wall. The sculpture depicted the revered ancestor of the Blue Hammer bloodline, locked in fierce combat against a monstrous five-headed serpent, barehanded and unyielding.

The ancestor’s bulging veins, sculpted with masterful precision, seemed to pulse with lifelike vigor. His battle stance, so realistic it almost breathed, conveyed timeless defiance. Opposite him, the serpent’s fangs dripped with imagined venom, its scales glinting under the soft illumination of magical sconces embedded in the walls.

Under the watchful eyes of the two observers, the room grew still—as if time itself had halted. Then, something strange happened. A shimmer passed through the air.

The statue seemed to shift. The posed combatants moved ever so slightly, locked in an eternal clash. The hall trembled with phantom vibrations, as if the long-past battle was replaying itself for those with eyes sharp enough to perceive it.

It was then a clear, youthful voice rang out with sharp urgency.

"Watch out! Swordmaster, don’t get lost in the illusion."

The speaker was none other than Dervrok—the elder brother of Damien.

He stepped forward from the shadows, a sharp glint in his eyes and a controlled sharpness in his tone.

In the past month, Dervrok had undergone a transformation that even the most seasoned warriors would envy. His aura no longer burned outward like a raging fire. Instead, it had collapsed inward, dense and potent, like the still surface of a lake concealing terrifying depths.

He had succeeded. He had taken his first steps onto the Sword Path.

One with the Sword.

It wasn’t just a title—it was a metamorphosis. His presence was honed, measured, and lethal. Every breath he took, every blink, every flick of his fingers was part of a larger flow—like a blade that never dulled, merely waited for its moment to strike.

And if one looked deeper, they’d realize he wasn’t just content with reaching the Iron Rank peak.

No—he was surging ahead, like a dam about to burst.

The speed of his rise was insane. It would be shocking even for those following the so-called "Fast Path"—a rapid cultivation route that most viewed as the peak of human efficiency.

But here stood Dervrok, a walking contradiction.

A genius, once dismissed as a late bloomer, now outpacing even the elites of the True Path.

And he hadn’t even started getting serious.

There was silence for a moment.

Then, Swordmaster Anek gave Devrok a deep, lingering look.

As someone who had devoted his entire life to the pursuit of the sword, Anek could feel it clearly—the undeniable sharpness that clung to Devrok like a second skin. Sword intent. Potent, refined, and bursting with promise. Every breath the young prince took, every subtle shift in his posture, seemed to cleave the very air.

He was no ordinary cultivator anymore.

First the Crown Prince... and now, the Eldest Prince Damien as well...

Anek’s heart stirred.

The winds of fate were shifting, and he had a feeling that the fortunes of the Valthorn Kingdom were about to change—radically.

Devrok, however, remained unaware of the thoughts racing through the Swordmaster’s mind. Had he known, he likely would’ve scoffed at them.

He had only just taken the first true step—establishing his Stage One Sword Path: One With Oneself—and while that was a significant breakthrough, it was nothing compared to what his younger brother had accomplished.

Damien had done the unthinkable.

He had crushed an empire.

The shame and humiliation that had plagued Valthorn’s warriors for generations—mocked by history and ground beneath the boots of their enemies—had been washed away in a single, tyrannical act of overwhelming power.

One man against an empire... and the empire lost.

Even now, it didn’t seem real. Devrok had watched it unfold with his own eyes, but even then, some part of him struggled to process the enormity of what his brother had done.

He turned his gaze toward the open window.

The skies above were bright and cloudless, yet Devrok felt a strange hollowness settle in his chest. He had always watched over Damien like a protective older brother, but now... now he wasn’t sure if he even understood who Damien had become.

Had he always been this terrifying? Or had something changed within him?

The unease clung to him for a moment longer before he exhaled deeply and shook his head.

He was thinking too much.

He should be proud—damn proud—of what his brother had accomplished.

And so, with a faint smile that flickered across his face, Devrok turned back toward the training ground, the sharp edge of his sword aura surging once more.

Anek, who had been silently watching the Eldest Prince, let out a soft sigh of relief.

For a moment, he’d been worried.

Jealousy between brothers at a time like this... would’ve been disastrous.

Thankfully, Devrok wasn’t that kind of brother. Not the narrow-minded, easily provoked type born from court politics and spoiled pride. No—his heart had always leaned toward the sword, not the throne.

Anek’s gaze then drifted to the wooden box in Devrok’s hands.

The very same box given to them by the Divine Researcher.

He couldn’t help but feel curious.

What could possibly be inside it?

Yet despite the pull of curiosity, Anek dared not ask. Dared not force it open. That box—that gift—belonged to the Eldest Prince, and there were lines even a Swordmaster wouldn’t cross.

Just then, rhythmic footsteps echoed from outside the chamber.

The stone agate doors creaked open.

A figure strode in.

"Big brother... you’re finally here."

The voice was calm, steady, and laced with something deeper—familiarity, perhaps even amusement.

Damien stepped inside, tall and confident, his gaze cool as it swept across the chamber. His eyes lingered for a moment on the figure seated within, as if silently asking a question: Was there anyone else with you?

Anek, standing beside them, understood his intent.

He cleared his throat and said, "Due to a sudden emergency, the Crown Princess couldn’t attend. And the generals are currently defending the border regions. Their absence couldn’t be helped."

Damien gave a small nod.

He hadn’t really expected them to show up anyway. His question had been out of formality, nothing more.

But then... something changed.

His gaze narrowed slightly as he turned to Devrok.

A subtle pulse—like a heartbeat—rose from Devrok’s body.

A surge of vitality, rich and pure, radiated outward in waves. The very air shimmered around him, and Damien’s eyes flashed.

Such clean, potent mana...

Devrok was nearing the peak of Iron Rank.

Damien’s lips curled into a faint line, unreadable.

Just how is this possible?

He didn’t speak, but his narrowed eyes said enough.

The little brother he used to protect...

Suddenly, without even realizing it, the corner of Damien’s mouth curled upward into a faint grin.

He praised without a shred of hesitation.

"Well done... as expected of you, brother."

For a brief moment, Devrok blinked in confusion, unsure of what Damien meant.

But then it hit him.

The meaning behind those words.

The intent behind that look.

A peaceful smile slowly bloomed across Devrok’s face.

So... his progress hadn’t gone unnoticed after all.

His little brother was indeed extraordinary.

Others had overlooked it. Even the seasoned warriors and sharp-eyed instructors hadn’t sensed anything unusual. But Damien? He’d seen through it in a single glance.

Not a word more was needed between them..

That was the kind of bond they shared—a quiet understanding forged in the fires of shared battles and unspoken loyalty.