Chapters 70-72

The next chapter is Book 1's Epilogue.

Chapter 70

The throne pulses and rumbles like a volcano about to blow, the entire summit trembling as if the mountain itself is trying to shake us loose. The black stone beneath Felisia glows with bloody runes, every symbol crackling with raw mana. 

Energy screams into the air, so dense I can taste copper and burnt ash on my tongue. 

My arms shake from the current surging between my body and the throne, and every vein in my body burns as if filled with acid.

*

On the cliff, Lord Clearwater’s knuckles go white on the armrest of his chair. A servant stumbles up behind him, face pale and eyes wild.

“Lord Clearwater,” the servant gasps, “we can’t access the pocket dimension. We have tried opening a portal to the last island, but it’s not working.”

Lord Clearwater snaps around so fast he almost falls from his seat. 

“What do you mean it’s not working?!”

The servant winces. 

“Milord, there’s a disturbance in the mana—whatever is happening with Young Mistress Felisia is interfering with the portals. We can’t breach them.”

All around them, nobles murmur in rising panic. The word passes from mouth to mouth: Felisia’s about to die, they say. The relic has gone mad. Nobody knows how to get inside.

A tremor shakes the ground. The throne’s light flares, and the scrying mirrors flicker with images of Jacob and Felisia caught in the storm.

Sir Renquell, who’s been silent until now, suddenly steps forward and points at the largest mirror. 

“Jacob Cloud is saving your daughter,” he says, voice ringing across the peak. “Look.

Lord Clearwater can only swear under his breath, praying in a voice barely above a whisper. 

“Gods, let that boy save her. Let him save my daughter…”

*

The pain is nothing like the trial with the Black Flame. That pain was fire and razor wire and a test of will. This is body-rending agony—like someone is pouring white-hot poison through my veins, then yanking my bones apart with it. 

I grit my teeth until my jaw feels like it will break. Every muscle locks in place, and the world dissolves into a blur of red, black, and screaming mana.

I want to let go. I want to pass out, fall into the dark, but I know if I do, Felisia dies. I force myself to hold on, to drag every speck of energy from the throne, siphoning it into my battered frame.

*

King Baalrek watches, a voice of smug satisfaction echoing in my mind.

Finally. Jacob Cloud, you’re about to die at last. What a story this will be! All that bravado, all those insults, only to get roasted alive on an old relic meant for true Infernals. This is what happens to mortals who bite off more than they can chew. The throne’s power is devouring you, and you still think you can save someone else? Ridiculous. I always said you had guts, but you never knew your limits. Finally, I’ll provet that only a true Infernal can bear my legacy. 

What do you mean?!

You have been arrogant. You fell for this. Your body is not strong enough to absorb the mana from this relic. But if you can conjure another miracle, why don’t you go ahead? But I seriously doubt you’ll be able to survive this. 

“We’ll see about that,” I say through gritted teeth. 

I tune out the taunt, forcing every ounce of my attention back to the Grimoire. 

Baalrek can’t see it, doesn’t even know it exists, but I see the flaws immediately. 

I see the way the mana churns in my channels, the wrong colors, the ragged edges where the throne’s power tries to burn its way through my system.

There’s something else—a knot of fire deep in my chest, turning darker and darker, like a coal eating all the light around it. 

The Grimoire flashes diagrams and warnings: Veins of Fire—the old Skill, now boiling with unstable energy, on the edge of transformation.

This is it. 

The only path forward is through. 

I take the mana, funnel it with every bit of control I have, and jam it straight into the burning core, guided by the Grimoire. Without it, I’d be toast. It hurts more than anything. My arms lock, my vision goes black, and the world shrinks to that single spark. I push, and something gives way.

The pain turns to ice, then to lightning, then to nothing. A System prompt flashes.

Veins of Fire → Infernal Veins (Platinum Rank)

The agony fades. The throne’s light dims, the runes pulsing softer, the raw energy bleeding away as my body adjusts to the new power.

I look over at Felisia. She’s unconscious, breathing slow and steady, her face peaceful for the first time since we set foot on this peak. Relief washes through me like cool rain.

What happened? I ask, voice hoarse, turning my thoughts inward to King Baalrek.

King Baalrek answers, his tone edged with respect and something like surprise. 

What the fuck?

Well, not exactly respect. More like awe, I suppose. 

Did you just try to fucking kill me?! I shout internally at the Infernal. 

You called me a freeloader! Me! King Baalrek! Do you know how many would kiss my horns in order to receive one-tenth of the guidance and bonos I provide you?!

But you still tried to kill me!

Minor matters. 

King Baalrek shrugs away my complaints. 

With you as a true inheritor of an Infernal legacy, you triggered the relic’s real power. Only a real Infernal would survive that trial, and even then, it takes a strong one. You went through the genuine rite of passage. You were never meant to make it through—mortals usually die here. 

But somehow, you did.

So, what does that mean? 

That’ll I have to think about something way better to kill you off.

Wait what?

Huh? I didn’t say anything. 

*

King Baalrek pauses, reflecting on what just happened. Privately, he thinks to himself, What this idiotic kid just did is nothing short of an actual miracle. He should have died twice today, first when he created the Black Flame and then now, triggering the change in Veins of Fire. He hasn’t realized it, but the throne actually changed his veins. They’re real Infernal Veins now, not just a Skill, but the beginning of a true Infernal’s body. Immature, untrained veins, yes—but real.

And now the real test begins, King Baalrek tells himself.

The first real battle of Jacob’s life is about to start.

*

Strength floods my body, raw and primal. My bones feel lighter, my muscles springier, my senses sharp as broken glass. 

I have more energy than ever, and the world feels a fraction slower.

But the moment of peace ends as Veyl storms onto the summit, looking like death, his fine robes torn and dust-stained, hair wild, eyes bloodshot. 

He sees Felisia draped on the throne, then me, still standing between her and everything else.

Veyl’s lips curl in fury. 

“You cheated. You’re nothing but a peasant. All this time, you’ve been hiding your power. Now you’ve stolen the victory that should have been mine!”

He raises his hand, sparks leaping between his fingers. 

“I’m going to kill you, Jacob Cloud.”

I turn to face him, feeling the new veins throbbing in my arms and chest. 

“You can try. But I think I’m about to kill you.”

Veyl laughs, ugly and high-pitched. 

“You and what pathetic army of peasants?”

I don’t answer. I let the new power surge, channeling it outward. 

My skin glows with dark lines, not the molten  blaze of Veins of Fire, but streaks of midnight threaded with sparks of black flame. They shimmer, crawling up my neck, my limbs, all over my body, lighting it with a spectral shroud.

My bracelet snaps tight on my wrist, mana pouring out as Infernal Veins fully awaken. 

Twin horns—translucent, pointed, flickering with shadow and embers—grow from my forehead.

I snap open my wings. 

This time, Infernal Wings of Ash are not just smoky appendages. The ash fuses and stretches, webbing into batlike membranes between blackened, spined fingers. They spread wide, casting a monstrous shadow across the summit.

Veyl stares with a frown, thunder gathering at his fingertips. 

My own feet lift from the ground, and I feel more alive than I’ve ever been.

Veyl shrouds himself in lightning.

The next moment, we’re charging at each other. 

Chapter 71

At the summit, the air is knife-sharp and crackling with mana. Shadows burn across the ground where I land—where I become something other than human, something new. Black lines shimmer under my skin, webbed with flecks of flame. 

My Infernal Wings unfurl, massive and webbed, their ash-membranes stretching wide. Twin horns arc from my skull, translucent but fierce, and around my shoulders a faint shroud of fire.

For a moment, the world holds its breath.

*

The nobles lining the cliffs stare, some silent, some gasping. Their voices break the silence as shock gives way to awe and terror.

“He’s changed—look at those horns, those wings!”

“Infernal—he’s using real Infernal powers, not just a Skill!”

“What…what is that?” whispers a noblewoman, eyes wide and white.

“He’s…he’s sprouting horns,” says a merchant, voice shrill, “and look at his wings—”

“The boy who killed the Drake and Shellford is an Infernal?!”

Someone in the back lets out a terrified, gasping sob. Another noble leans forward, mesmerized, unable to tear his eyes away from the darkness boiling around Jacob’s form.

Lord Clearwater cannot move. He grips the armrests of his chair so tightly that the wood creaks. His lips move, but no sound comes at first. Then, barely audible, he mutters the same prayer he used the day his wife died. 

His knuckles turn white, and his face is drained of blood.

Even Sir Renquell stands still, eyes unblinking. For once, the old Knight shows real shock. The moment stretches. His jaw clenches, and the hand that rests on his sword’s hilt twitches. 

He doesn’t move, but one can see it in his gaze: the acknowledgment of a threshold being crossed, a power he did not expect to witness.

A chorus of anxious whispers echoes through the crowd.

“Is that…actual Infernal blood?”

“It can’t be… not in Clearwater.”

Guildmaster Dorn stands among them, face pale and sweat glistening at his brow. He remembers every slight, every comment he’s made about Jacob Cloud. 

Now, the memory of every insult returns to haunt him. 

If even a rumor of this gets out, if the boy is connected to the Infernals, he realizes, he could be ruined. 

Worse, he could be dead before the week is out.

*

Veyl surges forward, lightning bursting around him in a storm. I meet him head-on—Hell’s Sword in my right, Dark Blade in my left. 

Fire and shadow spiral together in a corona that sears the ground beneath us.

Our first clash is apocalyptic. 

Lightning collides with Infernal flames. 

The air cracks and the stone shatters beneath our feet. 

We’re moving faster than most eyes can follow. 

Veyl’s blade is a streak of blue light, every strike aimed to kill, every parry desperate and vicious.

I bring Hell’s Sword up, block a downward arc, and the feedback jangles through my arms. My Infernal Veins pulse, soaking up the recoil. 

An opening, I think, as the Grimoire works overtime to expose all Flaws in Veyl’s Skills. But, unlike Adrienne, there are barely a few. 

Dark Blade slashes at his exposed ribs, but Veyl twists, lightning flowing into his armor, and the strike glances off. The world stinks of ozone and burnt stone.

He roars, and lightning erupts from his palms. I raise Fire Shield—channeling mana through Furnace Core, compressing the lattice with Flameform Blueprint so the energy doesn’t scatter. The barrier holds, blue sparks fizzing across a sheet of burning gold. Veyl grits his teeth, pouring more power in, but I let Fire Armor soak the rest. The heat only makes me stronger, feeding mana back through Infernal Thread, reinforcing every Skill in use.

He tries to break my defense with speed, launching forward with a streak of electricity, aiming to blitz my head from my shoulders. 

I trigger Fire Walk and enhance it with Flameform Blueprint, jets igniting beneath my feet, launching me into the air. My wings keeping me above his line of attack.

From above, I drop, Hell’s Sword slamming down, the blade wreathed in fire. Veyl raises a shield of pure force—silver latticework flickering—but I target the flaw the Grimoire highlights, an imperfect node behind his right shoulder.

The blade bites deep, sparks flying, a ripple of flame racing up his back. 

Veyl screams, staggering but not down.

*

On the cliffs, the nobles reel in shock. Some are openly terrified. A few, the ones with backbone, watch with barely disguised excitement.

“That’s not just any normal Skill,” one whispers. “That’s—he’s become something else.”

Guildmaster Dorn clutches the railing, sweat beading on his brow. 

“I didn’t know… No one said… If I’d known, I never would’ve…”

Lord Clearwater covers his face, mumbling a prayer that sounds halfway to a curse. Sir Renquell only watches, his sharp eyes flickering with calculation and something like pride.

A few nobles whisper, “If he wins, what then? What happens if he kills the Elf?”

The nobles exchange a few uneasy glances. 

Some call for mercy. Others cry for someone to stop the fight, warning of diplomatic disaster if Veyl dies. 

More still cheer for Jacob—every underdog, every challenger who ever got stepped on in Clearwater. 

*

Baalrek’s presence sharpens. 

He watches each move, analyzing every flow of mana.

He’s not mimicking, Baalrek thinks, uneasy. That’s real Infernal power. The kid’s not pretending—he’s channeling the Black Flame through those veins. Gods below, he’s not supposed to be able to do that so soon. And he’s yet to use it… 

*

Veyl screams, rage and panic blurring his movements. He calls on every Skill, every drop of mana he has left. Lightning surges into a storm. He strikes at my legs, my wings, my throat, all at once, every attack faster than the last.

I adapt with every move. The Grimoire lets me see the flaws in his attacks. Architect’s Insight helps the overly of his body with lines created by the Grimoire—weaknesses in his footwork, gaps in his defense, instability in his shield when he overextends.

He feints, but I’m already moving. 

Hell’s Sword flashes—Fire Slash launches a searing arc that splits the stone at his feet. He vaults back, but I throw an Hellspire at his feet, making it explode and sending him reeling. 

He screams, armor cracking, skin burning.

“There’s a first time for everything,” I say, activating Ignition Array and surrounding him with flames as I use Fire Slashes to keep him rooted as he slowly gets cooked alive. 

I’m humiliating him, I think to myself. This is for all the smack you talked, you bastard.

He staggers out of the array, unleashing a wild blast of lightning that crashes against my Fire Shield. The barrier holds—barely. I let it drop, rolling under his next attack. Veyl’s movements get sloppy as panic sets in. Every time he attacks, he leaves himself open, and every time, I press the advantage.

He tries to break away, but I chase him down, Fire Walk boosting me with every step. I use Ember Keystone to create a Fire Shield mid-air, anchoring it like a floating platform, leap off it, and slam Dark Blade into his shoulder. The darkness rips through his armor, and he howls in agony.

The Grimoire flashes a warning: his mana reserves are almost gone. 

He’s desperate.

*

Felisia stirs on the throne, half-conscious, eyes flickering open. She tries to rise but slumps back, body too weak. Her gaze finds me, blurry but proud, then snaps to Veyl. She tries to shout, but her voice is nothing but a croak.

*

Sir Renquell makes to step forward, hands clenched. Lord Clearwater catches his arm. 

“Don’t. This is the law of the trial. No one interferes,” he says, voice rough.

Renquell’s face is tight with worry, but he nods. 

“If he kills Veyl, though, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Lord Clearwater doesn’t answer, but his hand stays steady, holding the Elf back.

*

Veyl, wild-eyed, staggers back, blood streaming down his forearms where he’s slashed himself open with his own blade. He mutters something—a forbidden incantation, voice raw with pain. 

Red lightning suddenly bursts from the wounds, arcing up his arms, wrapping his body in a cloak of scarlet energy.

He screams, the sound cutting through everything. 

Veyl’s whole body shakes, red lightning snaking from the cuts in his forearms. It rises in jagged webs, each strand pulsing with an energy that makes the air warp and burn. The glow deepens, flaring up until the very stones at his feet vibrate and crack. 

His eyes blaze with a manic, hungry light, and he throws back his head with a scream that’s more animal than human.

Chapter 72

Sir Renquell’s restraint finally snaps. He shoves a few nobles gathering in front of the mirrors, looking distraught. Then, he goes and grabs Lord Clearwater by the arm, his voice low and urgent. 

“You have to open the gate. That Elf is about to break every code of our dueling law. You know what happens if he unleashes that technique—he could cripple himself. You can’t just stand here and let the High Court blame us when the Elves send someone for knighthood and we send him back in pieces.”

Lord Clearwater watches Veyl’s body, which shakes with surging power, and he barely glances at Renquell. He stands as still as a statue, but his jaw clenches tight enough to crack a tooth. When he finally speaks, his words scrape out cold and even. 

“This is Clearwater’s land. Our customs come before any Elven code. I won’t be the Lord who ended centuries of tradition because the Elf decided to gamble with his life.”

Sir Renquell’s eyes narrow. 

“He’s going to kill the boy. Jacob won’t survive what’s coming and he might cripple himself in doing that. Is that what you want written in the record?”

LordClearwater surveys the nobles crowding behind him, their faces drawn, every eye fixed on the ring below. 

He sees what is plain: nobody is just watching a duel between Jacob Cloud and an Elven Champion anymore. They see a war of Human against Elf, Clearwater against the world. He nods once, grim and resigned, his voice rising enough to carry over the murmurs. 

“The fight stands. No one will interrupt a lawful duel on Clearwater’s soil.”

The nobles hush at that. Some exchange anxious looks, but most accept the ruling. They know what it means if a Lord bends for foreign pressure. They know what it means if the duel ends now. All eyes return to the ring, where Veyl trembles at the edge of madness.

*

Lightning cracks the air. Red arcs of power crawl up Veyl’s arms and crawl across the battered stones. The sky itself seems to ripple above the summit, black clouds warping under the pressure of the forbidden Skill that rips through Veyl’s veins. 

The ground splits, stones bursting outward, earth scorched black where the lightning meets the remnants of flame.

I stand unmoved in the storm. 

Hell’s Sword is steady in my right hand and Dark Blade gleams in my left, their edges bright with a heat that is colder than ice, their weight as familiar as my own heartbeat. 

I watch Veyl scream, his face twisted in pain and fury. 

Blood drips from his arms, and the lightning greedily laps at the wounds. I can feel King Baalrek’s presence, heavy behind my thoughts, his judgment as sharp as any blade.

He’s burning his life away, Baalrek rumbles, voice low as thunder and twice as final. This is no Skill you pick up from a scroll. He’s sacrificing himself. I saw this thousand of years ago. That Elf will burn bright and die empty if he fails. You are in real danger now, boy. If you do not treat him as a true enemy and give everything you have, you will not leave this place alive.

You’re worried now? I ask mentally.

I’d be happy if you died at my hand, failing a trial meant for an Infernal. But to an Elf? After you got our people’s veins? Do NOT disappoint me, boy. 

King Baalrek pauses for a moment.

Give him hell.

“I will,” I mutter under my breath, narrowing my eyes. 

Veyl’s mouth pulls wide. He bellows, voice broken and animal. 

“You’re a fraud! You’re nothing but a thief who stole power you don’t deserve! You’re not even a real Infernal! But you’re about to witness the might of a true Elf!” 

Red lightning bursts from his hands, the first strike thick as a man’s torso, shrieking through the air and lancing straight for me.

I see the path of power the Grimoire highlights, every flaw shining with a hateful light. I dive straight into the bolt, Hell’s Sword burning with Architect’s Insight, and I cleave the red lightning at its core. 

Power screams in my bones.

The heat rushes up my arms and threatens to swallow my mind, but the Grimoire allows me to dispel it. 

But then, something happens.

I feel a terrifying power entering my body, the aftershock.

I try to use the Grimoire, but my mind is now dazzled by the pain caused by that energy. 

Residual lightning is about to enter your veins, King Baalrek says. Redirect your Mana through your Main Heart Veins and then push against it. Circle loops through your spine while you do or his energy will shut your entire system down.

I grit my teeth and follow King Baalrek’s directives. 

My Infernal Veins drink the energy and pulse after I channel the mana through my Heart Veins and create a sort of protective barrier around my spin. 

My horns ache, the flame around my shoulders growing, my vision narrowing until the world becomes a tunnel of violence.

Every step forward feels like wading through the storm that wants to tear me apart, but I push through, step by step, never pausing. 

Each footfall lands with intent. 

I refuse to run or flinch. 

Veyl hurls another blast, this one thinner but ten times faster, a flicker that would have killed the old me. 

I twist my body, let the Grimoire mark the channel of his spell, and drive Dark Blade through it. The lightning shatters on contact, the shards flying harmlessly past me.

*

He’s growing, Baalrek mutters to himself. His Infernal Veins are not just keeping up. They’re expanding, feeding off the duel. He’s using your own attack to fuel his evolution, Elf.

*

Veyl’s face, slick with blood and sweat, twists as he pours out another wave of red lightning. His voice breaks. 

“You’re an abomination! I am the true Champion!” 

He lifts his hands, palms outward, and lightning fans out in a web that blocks out the sun. Every bolt targets a different path—legs, chest, throat, wings. The summit shakes under the force.

I do not yield. I step forward, cutting them down with the Dark Blade. 

I catch the weak points in Veyl’s technique, the imperfect joins between each bolt, and with every swing, I snap the Skill’s channels apart. 

I use Fire Shield as a punt against my back to keep upright. 

I gain more ground on him and his face contorts in disbelief as he realizes he cannot push me back.

*

The nobles fall silent. They see not just a duel but a storm made flesh, two monsters locked in struggle. Some forget to breathe. Sir Renquell stands at the rail, his hands white-knuckled on the stone, eyes fixed on every move. Lord Clearwater does not sit. He stands tall, watching, as the fate of his city hangs on the edge of two blades.

*

The sky boils above the summit. Black clouds twist tighter and tighter as Veyl raises both hands, fingers hooked and bleeding, and the air splits with a sound that leaves every noble clutching their ears. The light that gathers between his palms is not red, not silver, but a dense, pulsing black, so thick it turns the world dim, so intense it makes every torch on the cliffs gutter out. Sparks coil in the air, streaks of lightning racing up his arms and down his chest, veins visible beneath his skin, glowing with a mad, poisonous light.

The storm roars. The cliff beneath us trembles as cracks race outward from Veyl’s feet. The stones themselves vibrate, some splintering, some sinking as if the weight of the power would drive them into the earth.

Above Veyl’s head, the black lightning gathers in a writhing spear, as thick as an ancient pine, so dark that even the shadow it casts seems to eat the sunlight. The air grows thin and cold. My wings fan open, each feather burning with its own fire, my horns shuddering as if the storm tries to tear them from my skull.

King Baalrek hisses, a rare sound of alarm in my mind. 

You need to finish this now, or he’ll burn out half the mountain. If you don’t, you’ll both die. This is your test, boy. Show them who you are.

I feel the heat rising through my Infernal Veins. 

My horns pulse, flame shrouding my shoulders, my wings stretching wide. 

I plant both feet, the ground splintering beneath me. I fuse the two swords, locking them together into one large, long, and heavy blade, much larger than the one I summoned against the snake, the edge dark as midnight and rimmed with Black Flame.

The bolt thickens. The lightning’s surface ripples, crawling with veins of purple and streaks of dull gold, as if the essence of every mana type Veyl ever touched is being burned to fuel this one, final strike. The spear grows, its tip churning, sucking in stray embers and shreds of shattered stone, until the head of it hovers right above his hands. The sky groans with it.

I feel the air being pulled away from my lungs, the pressure threatening to flatten me to the ground. For a heartbeat, I see Felisia slumped at the edge of the cliff, body limp on the throne, hair lifted by static. If that bolt drops uncontrolled, she will burn before she even wakes. I clench my teeth. I will not let her die. I will not let him have this.

I take a step forward. 

The Grimoire blooms behind my eyes—its vision overlays the world, mapping the flow of energy. Lines of force spiral from Veyl’s hands to the base of the bolt. Weak points glimmer in blue and gold, faults in the lattice where his mana control slips, where channels cross and threaten to implode. 

The Grimoire paints the flaw.

[Scan Completed: Mourning Bolt (Forbidden Technique)]

[Flaws have been analyzed.]

The Grimoire shows me that at the very heart of the Mourning Bolt there’s a single, spinning node near the base, flickering with unstable energy, too much mana twisting in a single spot.

The Grimoire also provide the steps to destroy the Mourning Bolt.

Strike the third coil. 

Sever the primary anchor. 

All the force will shatter outward.

I launch myself at high-speed against Veyl, which forces him to cut the casting short and cast the terrifying spell. 

Everything slows. The black lightning carves a path through the air, warping it, devouring light as it comes. I feel the Grimoire’s guidance pulsing in my limbs. 

I channel every last drop of power down the blade. My body locks into perfect position, every muscle aligned, every vein throbbing with Infernal mana.

NOW. Third coil. Primary anchor.

I thrust the blade forward, its edge sliding through the exact point the Grimoire shows. I drive it into the heart of the Mourning Bolt as it forms, before the spell can fully stabilize.

The blade passes through the swirling black lattice. The Mourning Bolt lets out a screech, a sound so sharp the stone cracks at my feet. The coil splits. The anchor shatters.

The Mourning Bolt unravels.

Lightning explodes sideways, bursting into thousands of threads that snap and vanish before they can find a target. The sky flashes, turning day to midnight and back again. Thunder rolls across the mountains, so loud it silences every noble on the cliffs, so powerful it flattens the grass and throws up sheets of dust and pebbles.

Veyl staggers, stunned, staring at his hands, which are now nothing but charred stumps. His face is white with disbelief. He tries to summon another spark, but the lightning is gone, his mana spent, his soul drained by the forbidden Skill.

I stand above him, the fused sword burning in my grip, the Black Flame licking at the edges. My wings spread, flames rippling down their length. The hush that follows is absolute. No one breathes. Even King Baalrek does not speak.

Veyl looks up, jaw working, terror mixing with rage. “You—you can’t—no—how—?”

“It’s over, Veyl. You lost. Surrender, or you’ll die.”

He spits blood and stumbles forward, madness in his eyes. He swings a broken arm at my face, but the blow has no strength.

I grab him by the throat, lifting him so his feet leave the ground. Infernal power floods my arm. The flame crawls up his jaw, heat scorching the skin. I squeeze, my voice cutting through the silence. 

“This is your last chance. Yield.”

He tries to stab me with the last bit of fused metal in his destroyed grip. He barely grazes me. 

He spits in my face, a final insult.

I let the Black Flame surge through me. 

The sword glows darker than the night. 

I drive it through his chest. 

The fire erupts out his back, and for a heartbeat, the flames spiral up, consuming everything. Veyl screams, his voice raw, then breaks into a howl, until even that is lost.

When I drop his body, only a blackened husk remains. 

The summit stands, battered and broken, but Felisia still breathes, untouched at the edge of it.

The silence that follows stretches on and on.

*

Nobody moves among the nobles. 

Lord Clearwater breaks the silence. His voice shakes, but he makes himself heard. “Bring healers. Now. Felisia and Adrienne need aid. The trial is over. Jacob Cloud stands victorious. The results of this duel will be recognized by all, under law and oath.”

The nobles finally stir. 

Guildmaster Dorn bows his head, eyes fixed on the ground, every bit of arrogance burned away. Other lords and ladies follow, some in terror, others in respect.

*

King Baalrek, deep in my mind, gives a grudging nod. 

Now you’re worthy of the name Infernal. But you’ve made more enemies than you can count, boy. You will never return to the world you knew. From this day forward, you walk another road. Remember that.

I stand above the remains of Veyl, the Black Flame sword still held high. The light from the blade casts long shadows over the ruined ring, and for a single heartbeat, I let the world see me. 

I raise my sword above my head and shout, my voice ringing through the shattered summit.

Let them hear. 

Let them know the name of Jacob Cloud.