Chapter 125-127

Chapter 125

They were children of House Drazhal.

Their mother, Queen‑Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal, ruled the Infernal courts with iron law and older fire. Their aunt, Veythra Drazhal, taught the royal methods and burned failure out of the slow. Their father, Prince‑Consort Kaedor, spoke little and watched much.

Azrakel was firstborn. Iskara came two years later.

And from the day her veins lit, every eye followed the younger one.

*

Azrakel Drazhal, at age ten, rose every day before dawn. When the palace torches still guttered and the servants slept, he was already in the yard, warhammer in hand, slamming its dull edge against slabs of stone.

His palms blistered. His shoulders ached. He used this as an exercise to make casting Skills harder. The recoil from the warhammer tried to break his concentration, but he kept going while he circulated Mana into his own Constitution Skill.

No one had ever seen a talent like his—not before his sister.

His breaths rasped in the cold air. He counted every strike, every crack, every repetition, because no one else would.

The servants whispered he had his father’s iron. His tutors whispered he had his mother’s pride. Azrakel heard none of it. He only heard the rhythm of blows on stone and the pulse in his veins, begging them to become stronger, to evolve, to just be… more.

If I work harder than anyone, if I sweat enough, if I bleed enough, the veins will answer.

The quality of one’s veins, given the nature of the harsh Mana Infernals were required to tame, could make or break a talent. Up to a few years ago, when Iskara Drazhal, his sister, got tested for the first time, he had been slated to be the designated heir, to inherit all the best Skill Crystals that his family had hoarded for their future ruler.

Yet, his sister’s test changed everything.

No one had ever seen a talent like hers. Her Mana was simply out of this world, more akin to a Devil’s than an actual Infernal.

She was celebrated like a divinity and, yet, she was so…

She’s nothing. She doesn’t deserve it.

Sometimes, many hours since Azrakel started, Iskara watched from the balcony. She yawned, sprawled in the sun, skipped drills to nap in the garden or steal honey cakes from the kitchens. When pressed, she flicked her wrist and sparks danced in her palm. The tutors gasped and applauded her incredible talent, leaving her more and more wiggle room to just laze around. Azrakel grit his teeth and swung harder.

And yet, in these early years, he was stronger. His grip on the practice blade was steady. His stance never faltered. He ran longer, lifted heavier, fought harder. In sparring bouts, he bested Iskara again and again, leaving her scowling in the dirt while he himself stood upright, unfazed.

“See?” he told himself after every match. “Hard work wins.”

At night, while Iskara snored on silk cushions, Azrakel soaked his hands in salted water until the sting made his teeth clench. He lay awake staring at the ceiling beams, whispering the names of Skills he swore he would master, promising himself he would outpace the miracle child who didn’t even care.

For a while, he believed it. For a while, he was ahead.

*

“Again,” Lady Thrazkal, a Mithril‑Ranked Knight and their Tutor, said.

Azrakel braced the crystal with both hands in the room of the tower where they went for lessons. He breathed. He drew. Nothing flowed. The crystal fractured in dull light and spat grit into his palms. His veins ached like split glass.

What they were doing was an exercise not unlike the ones that Veythra, their Aunt, would teach years later at the Academy.

Iskara stepped up without a word. She touched the next crystal once. Light rushed into the glass and made it change color several times before it started gently levitating and humming.

“Hold the flow. Do not push,” Lady Thrazkal sighed at Azrakel, who seemed unable to learn the Mana pathways she’d been trying to impart to the siblings.

Iskara held. The light steadied.

“It hurts,” Azrakel trembled, feeling his entire body in pain. He had overdrawn his Mana one too many times and his veins were starting to bleed.

Queen‑Matriarch Maelthra turned her gaze on Azrakel.

“You will not speak of pain, Prince Azrakel. You will bring me a Skill worthy of Drazhal blood. Your mother was very clear. You either show us some talent or you may not come to table tonight. You’ll eat with the servants once again.”

He bowed his head and tasted copper.

That night he once again ate with the servants, isolated even among those plebeians.

*

Banners hung over the black stone. The great hearth burned high with Infernal flame, and goblets clinked in celebration.

“To the jewel of our line,” Maelthra Drazhal declared from her high seat. “To Princess Iskara, who bears Lucifer’s Veins.”

The nobles roared the name. Servants poured finer wine, brought richer cuts of meat, showered her in praise.

Azrakel sat lower down the table, his right arm bound in fresh black wraps. His attempt at forcing a lesser Skill that morning ended the same as every other—pain, fracture, blood. The wraps hid the swelling, but not the tremor in his fingers.

He lifted his goblet, but his throat would not swallow.

Kaedor, silent as always, passed behind him. He did not slow. He did not touch. His words dropped like cold iron:

“Do not bleed on the marble.”

The command was so casual, so final, that Azrakel felt smaller than the servants clearing trays at the hall’s edge.

When the nobles dispersed, he remained in his seat until the fires guttered low. He waited because standing too soon would have shown how badly his legs shook.

*

Later that night, the palace slept. Azrakel climbed to the roof beams, palms raw, veins throbbing from the day’s failures. He held one of the practice crystals, now cracked and dull, the edges biting into his fingers. He rolled it between his hands like a stone he could not put down.

Iskara appeared barefoot, hair loose, carrying two cups of water and a strip of cloth. She didn’t bother hiding the yawn that stretched her face as she padded across the tiles. She sat beside him, the glow of her Lucifer’s Veins faint even in rest.

Azrakel had heard that even his sister struggled to fully integrate the power of her Skill, which made him wonder if he could ever have learned something like that.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you keep doing it like that,” she said, setting the cloth in his lap. Inside were wraps and salve, the kind the healers kept for soldiers.

Azrakel didn’t look at her. “Better to hurt myself than stop.”

“You work too hard.” She leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, staring at the Infernal moon. “You’ll catch up. You always do.”

Her words were soft, meant to comfort. To Azrakel, they burned hotter than the blisters in his palms. He watched her veins flicker in rhythm, perfect and obedient, and felt the ache inside his chest deepen.

“You don’t even care,” he said quietly.

Iskara tilted her head toward him, blinking. “What?”

“You don’t care. You don’t need to. The veins bow to you without effort.” He tightened his grip on the broken crystal until shards dug into his skin. “I bleed for the smallest progress, sister, and you call it catching up.”

Iskara looked away, lips pressed thin. The silence stretched between them until the wind picked up, carrying the smell of ash from the city furnaces.

When she finally went, she forgot the bundle of cloth. Azrakel sat with it in his lap, staring at the shards in his hand, refusing to use it.

*

The next day, Aunt Veythra stood before them with a slate board, her chalk scratching sharp white lines.

“Mana pathways are rivers. Force is nothing. Control is all.” She traced loops across the board: Rising Sun, Median Heart, Outer Containment.

Iskara closed her eyes and breathed. Her veins glowed faintly, and the chalk dust stirred on the board as though drawn to her.

Azrakel copied the loop. The Mana caught, flared, and seared his shoulder. His breath hitched. He bit the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth, but he didn’t stop.

“Stop,” Veythra commanded without looking at him. “You will scar the branch.”

He obeyed, his hand trembling. He pressed it against his thigh to keep the tremor hidden.

Veythra wiped the slate clean. “Some Skills are meant only for those born to them,” she said, tone neutral but final.

Azrakel stared at the empty board. He saw nothing but closed doors.

*

The palace was silent, torches guttering low. Azrakel stood alone in the courtyard, hands raw from the warhammer, veins burning from overdrawn Mana. His breath steamed in the cold air.

He slammed his fist against the stone again and again until blood slicked the cracks. No light answered. No power came.

Above, a balcony door opened. Iskara, still in her silks, peered out with sleepy eyes. “Brother? Still training?” she called down. Her voice was warm, but careless, as if the words cost her nothing.

Azrakel looked up at her, his chest heaving. She smiled faintly, gave him a lazy wave, and slipped back inside. The door shut.

He lowered his head, tasting copper where he’d bitten his lip raw.

Hard work wins, he told himself. But the words felt hollow now.

When he turned to leave, he noticed a man standing just beyond the gates. Cloaked, still, watching.

*

The salt wind cut sharp. Lanterns swayed over the Infernal harbor where black‑keeled ships unloaded cargo under the watch of guards and diplomats. Azrakel stood among them, his arm still bound, the title of “honorary overseer” pressed on him by his mother to “make him useful.”

He barely listened to the droning of the diplomats. Their words were names of treaties and tariffs he’d forget before morning. His eyes wandered across the sailors and merchants scurrying on the planks.

And then he noticed one man.

Among the bustle, the man was still. Cloaked, hood low, face hidden. He wasn’t part of the delegation, and yet no guard moved him along. His gaze didn’t leave Azrakel. Not once.

Azrakel felt it burn through the noise of crates and waves, a pull like recognition.

He scowled, but the man only tilted his head. As if measuring him. As if waiting. Then the man started limping away.

Then a diplomat tugged Azrakel’s sleeve, dragging him toward some meaningless inspection. When Azrakel looked back, the cloaked figure was gone.

He tried to shake it off. But the weight of those eyes followed him back to the palace.

*

Azrakel heard the door to the tower where he was used to training—facing the dark sea below the capital—open.

“Iskara, I told you not to disturb me when—”

“I’m not Iskara.”

A deep voice made him turn and grab his sword from the side.

“Who are you?!” Azrakel asked nervously. He knew that since he was a prince he was a target. This could easily be an assassin.

The man had a slight limp as he approached.

The hooded figure stopped just short of the moonlight and tilted his head. “I watched you at the docks. You stood among nobles but wore chains heavier than theirs. You looked like a prince who was not allowed to be a person.”

“Answer me. Who are you? Who sent you? Which house?”

“Names are chains. Houses are cages. Oaths are leashes.” His mouth curled beneath the shadow of the hood. “I broke mine. The one to mortals, at least.”

Azrakel’s grip tightened. “If you’re here to kill me, then do it.”

The man chuckled once. “If I wanted you dead, the guards would already be screaming. I’m here to offer you breath.”

“I already breathe.”

“No,” the man said, stepping forward. “You pant in a collar. They call it training. They call it pride. They call it love. But it’s a leash. Look at your arms—burned from drills that were never meant for your veins. You bleed alone. I’m here to offer you a new place, a new family. One that doesn’t wish you were dead to replace you with your sister.”

Azrakel froze. The words cut too close. “You know nothing of House Drazhal.”

“I know your sister carries Lucifer’s Veins and the court bows before her. I know you split yourself against exercises your blood would never sustain. I know your mother forbids you to speak of pain. Your aunt tells you to stop before you ruin yourself. Your father counts stains on the floor and nothing more. I know you think hard work wins. And I know you are starting to doubt it.”

“Get out,” Azrakel growled.

“You want out,” the man corrected. “You want a world where power isn’t decided by Crystals hoarded by your betters. You want to break the wheel that grinds you under your sister’s glow.”

Azrakel didn’t answer.

“You have two paths,” the man continued, raising two fingers. “Keep bleeding in the marble halls until you die as their spare. Or burn the rules they worship.”

“Spare me riddles,” Azrakel spat.

“Fine.” The man’s tone hardened. “We do not kneel to Skill Crystals. We do not kneel to bloodlines. We do not kneel to academies that brand children with titles and call it destiny. We serve the God who breaks systems that pretend to be gods. We serve Asmodeus.”

The name hit him like a slap.

“Asmodeus?” Azrakel’s voice cracked with disbelief. His sword rose an inch higher. “You dare step into House Drazhal’s tower and spit that name at me?”

The cloaked man did not flinch. Shadows writhed faintly at his fingertips, calm and steady. “Yes. We speak his name. We serve him freely.”

“You’re filth,” Azrakel snapped. Rage burned through his veins sharper than the pain of any failed drill. “Parasites that worm through the cracks of our courts. I should cut you down where you stand.”

“Then do it,” the man said, spreading his arms. “Strike me down. Show me how strong your training has made you. Show me the glory of your bloodline.”

Azrakel’s jaw clenched. His arms shook with fury, but his blade stayed poised.

The man’s smile was thin. “You cannot, because you know I speak truth. Your house starves you and feeds your sister. They praise her flame and call you failure. You think they will ever see you as heir?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“They already believe you half‑dead. Let them believe you gone. Step into the sea, and walk with us instead. You hate us now, but soon you will hate the System more.”

“I will never serve Asmodeus,” Azrakel snarled.

The man’s head tilted, eyes glinting under the hood. “You already serve him, boy. Every time you bleed for a system that mocks you, every time you break yourself trying to catch a sister you will never surpass, you prove his point: that the System is tyranny. You may hate us, but you hate them more.”

Azrakel staggered back a step, his breathing ragged. The words struck too close, twisting the knife in wounds he had tried to hide.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing you do not already crave. Freedom. A chance to fight without playing their rigged game.”

“If I walk out with you, my family will hunt me,” Azrakel said. “They’ll drag me back.”

“They will not hunt a corpse.”

Azrakel stiffened. “What?”

*

That night, Iskara climbed the stairs with a small bundle of medicaments in her hands. She knew her brother would not ask for them, but she’d seen the burns, the tremors, the way he hid the pain.

The wind howled through the open chamber when she entered. Azrakel stood at the window ledge, his back to her, the sea vast and dark below.

“Brother?” she called softly. “I brought—”

He didn’t turn. His hands tightened on the stone sill. For a moment, she thought he’d answer. Instead, he leaned forward, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the night.

“Azrakel!” she cried, rushing forward.

But he was already gone.

The scream echoed against the cliffs, swallowed by waves that showed no trace of him.

House Drazhal believed their firstborn was dead.

But in truth, the boy who bled for every inch walked a darker path. The man at the docks had been waiting. And Azrakel walked now into his shadow.

Chapter 126

Vice Principal Lyanna walks before sunrise because the Academy breathes better when the halls hold fewer feet.

She keeps one thought steady while she walks. Karma turns when you tie yourself to a rising current. It sours when you bind yourself to a stone that sinks. She wants to know which Jacob is.

She’s tied herself to the boy, but she hasn’t had any time until now to check on his progress. 

First Elder Lioren waits in the northern yard. He stands with a stave across his back and he watches junior squads run drills that start and stop with crisp steps. His ears do not miss a cadence. His eyes do not miss a slack grip.

“Elder Lioren of the Admission Department,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“Vice Principal Lyanna, what an honor. I was whipping into shape some of the new people in our department. We have not much on our hands at the moment and they were growing lazy with the paperwork.”

“You seem in a good mood, Elder Lioren,” Vice Principal Lyanna says, looking at the Elder with a twinkle in her eyes. 

“This feels like a good year, Vice Principal. The Generation of Legends must have influenced my mood.” 

“Speaking of which,” Vice Principal Lyanna smiled. “May I get your measure of Jacob Cloud? I hear that you personally administered his entrance test.” 

The old man seems to think for a moment. 

“He is not strong,” Elder Lioren then says at once. “Not in the way that matters in a test of raw force. His aura does not carry weight like any other Champion does. He does not crush. He does not bull through.”

“And yet?”

“And yet he handled his tests in a surprising way,” Elder Lioren says. “That boy understands something.”

“What?” Vice Principal Lyanna frowns. “I don’t follow, Elder.” 

“He’s got something in his eyes. A Skill, perhaps. But also, something else. I wouldn’t bet against him, Vice Principal. I suspect you’re trying to understand if he’s worth the position of Champion. In my opinion, for the little it’s worth it, he is.” 

“I haven’t bet against him, Elder Lioren, nor have I questioned his position. I’m just trying to gauge how far Jacob Cloud’s deeds stretch. And it seems, as far as I can tell from your own words, that they may have left a larger impression than I even imagined.” 

“I put Cloud through unfair tests for his admission,” Elder Lioren says, bowing his head. “When I saw he had been recommended by a Wandering Knight, Sir Renquell, no less, I tried punishing him for it. Yet, he blazed through my tests, milady. Jacob Cloud is a different animal.” 

“You put him through an admission farce,” Vice Principal Lyanna says with a frown. 

“I am guilty of it,” Elder Lioren admits. “He faced a trapped Dungeon that should have killed him. He should have died inside those traps. He did not. He found anchors that older students would have failed to see. He broke a Heavenly Plasma arrangement in front of my eyes. He is not strong, Vice Principal. He is something else.”

“What does ‘something else’ bring us by year’s end?”

“A mess or a marvel,” Lioren says. “He will either force his way to the higher Ranks without the usual dues or he will scatter himself on a wall that he cannot read. It is hard to sit between those two.”

Vice Principal Lyanna nods and looks at the squads training in front of them. 

She thanks Lioren and moves on because she wants to hear more about the nascent legend of Jacob Cloud.

*

Dean Amenotep keeps his office clean enough to shame a vault. The obsidian desk holds only two rods and a file. 

“Dean Amenotep,” Vice Principal Lyanna says, and she sits.

“Vice Principal Lyanna.”

“Jacob Cloud,” she says.

“I spectated to his admission myself before seeing him claim the spot of Champion,” Amenotep says. “Yes. I know him.”

“Your measure.”

“He is not strong from the little I’ve seen of him,” Amenotep says. “You’d find more information about him from my subordinate, Elder Lioren.”

“I’ve visited him already. But you bet on the boy. Tell me more of your own impression since we haven’t spoken about it.”

“He is not even convincing as a threat if you close your eyes and feel the air. But he has a habit of walking into rooms where he should not walk and he has a habit of leaving them with prizes he should not earn.”

“Luck?”

“No,” Amenotep says. “He scouts rules the way some boys scout terrain. He saw how Lioren framed the test and he turned the frame into a ladder.”

“Would you back him with your name again?” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

Amenotep smiles with the flat eyes of a man who kept score for an age. “I would.”

Then, the Dean looks at her knowingly.

“I think your Karma improves if you stand at the right angle to the boy,” Amenotep says. “Not because he is strong. Because there’s some indefinite quality to him. Luck, perhaps. Or maybe just destiny.”

Vice Principal Lyanna rises because she does not like to linger. 

*

The training arena smells like dust and old sweat. Professor Braagh stands by the weapon racks with a slate and a stick of chalk. He sees her and snorts because he does not bother to smooth himself for a Vice Principal when his class file waits.

“Professor,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“Vice Principal.”

“Jacob Cloud.”

“Not strong,” Professor Braagh says. “That will be the first line.”

“And the rest of the lines?”

“He was able to influence Elves who hate him to the core and already made enough progress that I wouldn’t be surprised if he passed the yearly test once he comes back from wherever the Champions have gone to,” Professor Braagh says. “He does not panic, that boy. He’s something else.”

“You’re the third person who said so.” 

“Doesn’t surprise me,” the minotaur shrugs.

Vice Principal Lyanna thanks him. She walks the lane behind the stands and allows herself one quiet thought while the noise of practice fades. Karma likes mysterious people like Jacob Cloud. 

The boy intends to live where stronger things should press him flat. He keeps living—something else that Karma often appreciates… survivors. 

Yet, part of the mystery stains the threads of fate. Threads that stain drag other threads that knot to them. If she knots to him now, the stain spreads to her line. She does not know yet if this stain helps or harms.

*

The Astral Library opens above her with no roof and too much sky. Pale wardens drift. The counter gleams with worn polish where thousands of tokens scraped it. Elder Karl looks up when she sets her hand on the stone.

“Elder Karl,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“Vice Principal Lyanna.”

“You have helped Jacob Cloud in here from what I’ve heard. Have you interacted with him long enough to form an opinion of him?”

“I did,” Elder Karl says. “He came in with eyes too bright and Merits he should not have owned so early. He bought Bronze access. He stayed all night. He bought then Silver at dawn. He walked to Gold while his hands shook from the sleep deprivation.”

“Your measure,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“He is not strong,” Karl says. “I do not care about his blade. I care about his hand with a quill. His eyes are something else. He is something.”

Once again, someone has defined Jacob in the same way, which makes Vice Principal Lyanna think that her own bet wasn’t just smart, it was genius. 

“Does it frighten you?” Vice Principal Lyanna asks curiously feeling a pang of reverence from the Elder.

“It does and it does not,” Elder Karl says. 

*

Professor Veythra receives her in a side room that does not hold student chairs. The air sits cool and dry. Professor Veythra’s eyes track every motion in the room.

“Professor,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“Vice Principal.”

“I want your view of Jacob Cloud.”

“He is not strong,” Veythra says. She does not blink. “He is insolent. He is lucky. He carries a mouth that will buy him enemies he cannot count.”

“And yet you cut a contract for private instruction,” Vice Principal Lyanna says with a raised eyebrow.

“I did not cut it because I like him,” Veythra says. “I cut it because he tempted a risk with terms that did not suit him and he did it with eyes open. He asked for guidance as payment because he understood that his core weakness sits in knowledge and not flame.”

“Did he earn your respect,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“Respect is a wide word,” Veythra says. “If you ask me whether he did a thing in hours that many cannot do in a season, then yes. He solved puzzles that I placed to wound his pride. He also uses that power to run faster than his legs support. That is not strong. That is dangerous.”

“Dangerous for whom,” Vice Principal Lyanna says.

“We’ll see,” Veythra mutters. 

*

Lyanna leaves him and takes the long stair to the hidden gallery where she can look over the lower courts through the quiet glass.

Jacob’s Karma moves like a thin wire through stone. It does not cut. It finds gaps and then it widens them. The wire glows where it touches other wires. Those other wires change color after contact. She has seen that pattern only a few times.

If she binds herself in quiet first, then she keeps her hand free when she needs to cut loose.

She makes her choice.

She sends a runner with three notes while she walks back to her own hall. The first goes to Dean Amenotep.

Change Cloud’s access to the Heartspire and grant him access to the first six floors on my authority. He pays the usual rates. I accept responsibility if the Headmaster asks why.

The second goes to Professor Braagh.

Sign Cloud up to Monster Felling 301. He needs a greater challenge. This is an official order. He’s to be considered promoted from your Class. 

The third goes to Veythra.

I want you to push Cloud’s boundaries harder. I will provide elixirs to heal him were he to be injured by harsher lessons.

She keeps the fourth note in her hand and she carries it down a side stair to the counter at the Astral Library. Elder Karl sees her token and lifts his brows.

“Vice Principal.”

“I know of your conncetions to the Hidden Market,” Lyanna says. “You have now my authority access to it. It’s meant for Cloud, but you may use it too. Do not tell him it was me who granted him access to a wider array of connections. Has he used your access yet?”

Elder Karl shakes his head.

“Good. He won’t have any idea about it, then.” 

Elder Lyanna steps away. 

This won’t influence his Karma because I’m tying his success back to mine and because these are trials, not boons. I wish I could do more without upsetting the threads of fate, but this should be more than enough. I’m providing him more hardships and tests, which will ultimately have him soar higher and higher or crash to the ground. 

But if I had to guess, by the time Jacob Cloud comes back, he’ll have created yet another upset during his mission. 

Chapter 127

The aura they feel is beyond anything they expected. Even for Champions, it is unthinkable to fight someone whose aura has reached Peak Diamond Rank. Even though—when guided by Jacob—they can fight Regional Bosses at Early Diamond Rank and possibly a Dungeon Boss at Intermediate Diamond Rank, this is a whole different matter.

Azrakel is not a monster; he isn’t a mindless bag of flesh and bones that wants to consume everything. Being an Infernal, and a Royal at that, he’s much smarter than any monster they would face in the near future. There’s no way for any of them to fight him. Not without revealing their greatest trump cards.

*

King Baalrek?

He’s Corrupted by Asmodeus’s power, Cloud. He’s stronger than his sister.

King Baalrek’s voice comes low and guttural. There’s anger in it—fury I’ve rarely heard from the Infernal. I suppose that’s not unexpected since Azrakel is a traitor to his race.

Azrakel looks around the wetlands. His gaze sweeps past each Champion as if he weighs their worth and finds none. His eyes stop only for a moment on Iskara, then return to me.

Before anyone can move, his voice cuts through the silence.

“Soul Shock.”

The words carry power. A wave of Soul Magic bursts out from him, invisible yet crushing. My knees almost buckle, and the air grows heavy in my chest. One by one, the others fall. Their bodies slump to the ground, senseless and without strength.

Only Iskara and I remain standing.

“Oh?” Azrakel looks curiously at me. “Who taught you Soul Magic, Fake Champion?”

King Baalrek? I say inwardly, taking a nervous look at every single body on the ground.

I wrapped your soul in a protective layer of Mana, he says. Worry about the incoming fight, Jacob Cloud. This is going to be your greatest test yet.

I look at Azrakel and take a deep breath.

This is an easy fight—not because it will be easy to defeat Iskara’s brother, but because he’s so strong and our options are so limited that there’s only one solution.

Or at least that’s what I think.

“Ugh,” I hear someone groan from behind, and I turn to see Orrivane slowly getting up. His eyes are bloodshot, and there’s a strange hardness in them.

Orrivane is, without a shadow of a doubt, the laziest, most laid‑back Champion in our group. Even Boomgar has a better work ethic than the Void Mage. He’s also the most relaxed—more so even than Asterion. I’ve never seen Orrivane get bothered by anything—not even when we were fighting a horde of Magma Golems during Rafnov’s trial.

“You bastard…” Orrivane’s body shakes and spasms as he gets up. “My soul… you don’t touch my fucking soul. Never… Never again.”

“Oh? You have Soul Magic training?” Azrakel says, almost impressed, yet still bored by Orrivane. “But I don’t care for you. Die.”

Azrakel waves his hand and a projectile of plasma appears in midair, speeding so fast toward Orrivane I can’t even track it.

Orrivane’s disheveled blonde hair starts floating upward as a massive amount of power manifests through the young man.

“Event Horizon.”

A sheet of darkness appears in front of Orrivane and swallows the attack as if it is nothing.

That is a Rainbow Skill, Jacob Cloud, King Baalrek says slowly. One of the most powerful defensive Rainbow Skills I know.

I look closer and find no residue of Azrakel’s attack. It’s as if it completely disappeared into nothingness.

Azrakel, clearly not having caught up with what the Skill actually is, sends a barrage of plasma bolts toward Orrivane. Yet they all disappear into the thin sheet of darkness the Void Mage has summoned, without making a sound.

“Princess Iskara,” Orrivane says, dispelling the curtain of darkness and walking forward, making a now‑wary Azrakel backpedal. “I hope you won’t mind if I kill your brother.”

“Who are you?” Azrakel asks, frowning. “What kind of Skill is that?”

But then, I see a rivulet of darkness appear behind Azrakel’s head and pool around his ear.

“A Rainbow Skill?” the Infernal says, disgusted. “You possess a Rainbow Skill just like my sister? Of course.”

Orrivane takes out a hairpin and ties his blonde hair up as he looks at Azrakel.

“What Skill is it?” Iskara asks.

But I’ve already activated the Grimoire.

[Analysis Completed: Event Horizon]

[Event Horizon (Defensive — Rainbow Skill): Event Horizon generates an all‑swallowing, impassable barrier. The size and shape of the barrier depend on the user’s power.]

Impassable? I ask inwardly. As in, nothing can break it?

Welcome to the world of Rainbow Skills, Jacob Cloud. Rainbow Skills are named so because they transcend Rank. Your Grimoire can analyze any Skill, regardless of its Rank. That is an ultimate Support Skill. Event Horizon is one of several defensive Skills that transcend Rank themselves.

Azrakel’s eye twitches when the analysis finishes. He looks at Orrivane with a stare that holds more annoyance than fear, but I can see his aura shift. He knows the truth of what he just saw.

“Impassable,” Orrivane repeats, almost lazily, as if he heard Baalrek’s words himself. His voice is hoarse, but the hatred inside it makes every syllable sharp. “You tried to crush my soul. You don’t get to walk away after that.”

“Do you think you can stand equal to me?” Azrakel bares his teeth. “You are nothing but a worm with one trick.” His hand glows again, molten light building in his palm.

Orrivane does not flinch. The sheet of darkness reforms in an instant and eats a gigantic plasma lance that Azrakel summons.

Iskara watches, her veins pulsing bright. I can see her jaw tighten, but she does not interfere. Maybe she wants to see which one of them falters first.

I look down at the others, still unconscious on the ground, and then back at Azrakel. He wanted to cut us down without effort, but Orrivane’s barrier is impossible to break.

Baalrek’s voice rumbles through my mind again.

This fight is no longer simple, Jacob Cloud. If you want to win, you’ll have to account for the Rainbow Skills of your allies now.

Rainbow Skills transcend Rank, Jacob Cloud. Baalrek’s voice grows heavier, as if each word is carved into stone. They are not measured by Iron, Bronze, Silver, or Diamond. They do not belong to those ladders. Rainbow Skills bend the system itself. They draw from concepts that cannot be bound to level or tier. When you face one, you do not measure power the way you do with other Skills. You measure possibility.

I keep my eyes fixed on Orrivane’s darkness, which swallows Azrakel’s attacks without sound or effort.

A defensive Rainbow Skill means this: the user has a shield that cannot be broken through normal escalation. Rank, Aura, Attribute—even refinement of Mana itself—cannot pierce it. Only another Rainbow Skill, or an authority on the same level, can meet it head‑on. That is why Rainbow Skills are feared. That is why those who hold them are hunted.

I swallow, my throat tight. So they are absolute?

Nothing is absolute, Baalrek answers, sharp. But for mortals, they are the closest thing. Event Horizon consumes, and what it consumes does not return. You see now why the void is feared.

Before I can ask more, the air in the wetlands fills with another kind of pressure.

I turn to see Iskara stepping forward. Her body begins to glow, light surging through her Infernal veins until it outlines every muscle, every tendon.

Her lips part, and a low chant rolls out in the harsh cadence of Infernal. The sound vibrates against the water of the ponds, making it tremble.

The ripples spread across the surface in sharp lines, as if the chant itself carves into the water.

Steam rises from the edges. Drops lift into the air and hover for a moment before bursting into sparks of light. The smell of sulfur thickens, and the whole wetlands feel like they’re about to tilt and fold toward her voice.

Azrakel’s glare hardens. He recognizes the tongue, and his hands curl into fists.

Iskara does not falter. Her chanting grows louder, her glow stronger. The veins in her arms shine bright red, and the ground beneath her cracks as if it cannot hold the power running through her body.

Orrivane pauses and glances at her, his dark veil hovering but still in place. Even he seems uneasy at the sound of the Infernal words.

What is she doing? I ask King Baalrek. What’s she saying?

Those are Skills enhanced by remnants of Primordial spellcasting in the tongue of Devils. Princess Iskara is NOT a Support as she would like you to believe. And you should know this already.

As soon as he mentions Skills and Support, I understand what’s happening. I’ve read the description of Lucifer’s Veins before, but it takes me a moment to put the pieces together.

Nonetheless, King Baalrek explains it himself.

That is Lucifer’s Veins, Jacob Cloud, Baalrek says, voice weighted. It IS a Rainbow Skill. One of the most feared that ever appeared among Infernals. It voids every debuff—curse, poison, seal. Nothing can weaken her. It is hard to fully integrate in the body without the right knowledge, which is why she had so much buildup of impurities in her veins. But you cleared that for good. And the resistance to debuffs is only the first half of the Skill. More than that, every buff she receives will stack without end, without limit, without reason. Where others reach a limit, she has none. That is why she chose to learn so many support Skills. To others they are scraps, but for her they are the stones of an infinite ladder.

I stare at her body, the light crawling over her skin as her chanting continues, and I finally understand the way she fought in the trials, the way she always leaned on buffs.

It seemed inconsistent with her character that she’d become a Support.

She is not a Support, Jacob Cloud, Baalrek says, his tone sharp enough to cut. She is a Breaker. With that Skill, she can infinitely jump in Rank.

Azrakel lets out a low snarl as the ground shakes under his sister’s growing aura. “So you would bare it here, Iskara?”

Her chant only grows louder.