Chapter 66-69

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Chapter 66

Veyl sits on a jut of stone, arms crossed and face twisted in a sneer. The battered ground where the Casting Monkey fell is already silent, but Veyl’s mind churns with new plans and old grudges. He watches Jacob and Felisia as they stride off toward the summit, their steps too easy for his liking. His lips curl in derision.

“They really think they’re just going to run for the top after that? That idiot’s lost it.” He spits into the dust, lightning still crackling in his hair. “Let them go, let them break themselves against whatever monster comes next. They don’t understand what’s waiting up there. After that monkey, the next one’s going to be a real killer. This is the end of the road for those two.”

Adrienne wipes sweat from her forehead, glaring after Jacob and Felisia. She stands with her arms at her side, breathing deeply. She isn’t ready to move, but she doesn’t let her guard down around Veyl.

“Are you sure about this?” she says, her tone cold and doubting. “We’re just going to let them go? If they reach the throne first, that’s it for us. No chance to catch up.”

Veyl scoffs, shaking his head.

“Woman, you saw what happened in the last fight. They barely did anything. That peasant’s got tricks, but he’s burned. They’ve been coasting on dumb luck. The next monster’s going to eat them alive. We’ll pass them on the way up, step over their corpses, and take the victory like we should’ve from the start. The next monster is going to be level two-hundred if the patterns keeps. Right on the cusp of Platinum Rank. What do you think they could do alone?”

Adrienne’s eyes narrow. She looks at him for a long moment, searching for any hint of reason. 

“I don’t trust your judgment,” she says quietly. “If you want to play games, fine, but you’d better be ready to follow my lead if we hear anything weird.”

Veyl barks out a laugh, then leans closer, lowering his voice to a mocking hiss. 

“You think I’ll listen to you? You got outclassed by your own sister and some dirt miner. Your plan’s not worth a damn. I don’t need a lecture from a spoiled girl who never had to work for anything.”

Adrienne’s mouth opens, but she snaps it shut. She bites back a retort, turns away, and starts picking up her gear in silence. She doesn’t trust Veyl’s arrogance, and now, for the first time, the gulf between them grows wider than ever. She knows that if they stumble here, it will be because Veyl refused to see the truth.

Veyl watches her, eyes glinting. 

He can see the frustration in her clenched fists, and it fuels his contempt. 

“Run after the peasant if you want, Adrienne. I’ll recoup my mana and kill the next monster myself if you need me to.” 

*

Farther up the slope, Felisia and I walk side by side, picking our way through thick underbrush. The trail winds up toward the final plateau. Clouds scud low overhead, and the mountain air stings my skin. Felisia glances at me, worry etched deep across her brow.

She tugs my sleeve, voice low. 

“Jacob, how are we going to kill that beast? There are only two of us now, and you saw what that monkey could do. If Veyl’s right, the last monster is going to be something from a nightmare.”

I shoot her a lopsided grin, doing my best to sound relaxed and supremely confident. 

“We’re not going to kill it. I’m going to kill it. You’re going to run for the top while I handle the dirty work. That’s the master plan.”

She stares, eyes wide, lips parting in disbelief.

“You’re kidding. You really think you can fight off whatever’s waiting up there alone? You’re gonna die!”

I stop, turn to face her, and plant my feet. 

“I’ve got a secret weapon, Felisia. You’ve seen me pull off crazier stuff before. I’ve maxed out almost every Skill I have except Dark Blade and Infernal Wings of Ash—and two that I don’t like. I’m finally Gold Rank. I’ve got tricks left, stamina to burn, and more importantly, I’ve got a great plan. You’re faster than you think, and you’ve grown a lot since we started. I know you can make the final dash.”

Felisia looks unconvinced, her hands clenching at her sides. 

“You’re talking like this is a sure thing, but we don’t even know what we’re facing. What if it’s something like that Drake, but twice as strong?”

I wink. 

“I’ve planned for everything.”

She smacks my shoulder, not hard, but with real exasperation. 

“You’re insane, Jacob. Completely insane.”

I step closer, lowering my voice. 

“Listen. No plan survives the first punch, but I’ll make the opening you need. If anything looks bad, you run. No hesitation. I’ll handle the rest. Trust me.”

She hesitates, then nods, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. “Fine. You’d better not die, or I’ll kill you myself.”

*

High above, the noble gallery leans forward, breath held. They are no longer jeering or scoffing. Fear lines their faces, even among the most battle-hardened.

One nobleman mutters, “What are those two thinking? They’re not even pausing to recover. They’re throwing their lives away.”

A lady with a diamond pendant clutches her chest. “Felisia’s got talent, but the only way they survive is a miracle. Lord Clearwater, can’t you stop this?”

Lord Clearwater, his face grim, presses his hands together. For the first time, his voice betrays anxiety. “This is the rule of the trial. They have to face it themselves. I wish—” He shakes his head, not finishing the thought.

Others watch in tense silence, unable to look away as Jacob and Felisia press on.

*

I take a quick stock of my status as we cross a crumbling ridge. The Grimoire’s virtual pages flicker before my eyes. Infernal Architect—Class Level 102, just barely into Gold Rank, but with stats that would make a proper knight green with envy. Hell’s Sword, Fire Slash, Fire Armor, Fire Walk, and Fire Shield—every one maxed. Meditation? Maxed. 

Dark Lattice? Almost maxed. 

Only two Skills lag behind: Dark Blade, still climbing, and Infernal Wings of Ash, stubbornly stuck below level ninety. Even so, I feel the strength coiled in my veins. My mana runs deep now, the channels tighter and more efficient than ever.

I glance back at Felisia, checking her stance, her breathing. She’s tense, but ready. I draw a long, slow breath. My nerves tingle, my senses sharp. The top of the mountain rises above us, and the next threat waits, coiled in shadow.

A rumble shakes the air. I squint ahead. A patch of brambles and loose stone explodes outward. The ground splits. A massive serpent, scales like burnished gold and eyes like twin suns, rises above the path. Its tongue flicks, testing the air, and wings spread from its back, feathered with gleaming silver.

The System prompt flashes.

[Heavenly Snake Lord — Level 200]

The air crackles with raw magic, the pressure making every bone in my body ache.

Felisia stiffens. I plant my feet and shout over the roar, “I’m making the opening. When I do, you run. Don’t look back.”

She nods, her lips white.

The Heavenly Snake Lord coils, muscles bunched, ready to strike. Its jaws part, showing rows of razor teeth. 

I call on Infernal Wings of Ash and Veins of Fire.

Hell’s Sword gleams in my fist. Mana surges, Dark Blade’s weight burning through my arm as I summon it in my other hand. I draw a deep breath, center myself, and then I dash forward.

The monster lunges. I sidestep, letting its teeth snap shut on empty air. I drive Hell’s Sword into its scales, but then it just bounces off.

The Snake Lord swings its tail in a wide arc. I leap, Infernal Wings carrying me high, and slam down on its neck with Dark Blade. 

That’s not much damage at all, I think, looking at the bleeding gash.

The monster shrieks, rearing up, blinded with rage. I carve a line of fire along its side, and, as it writhes, I bellow, “Now, Felisia! Go!”

Felisia darts past, her feet a blur as she sprints for the throne path. The Snake Lord snaps at her, but I throw a Fire Slash conjured out of Dark Blade between them. Its jaws close on the fire and recoil, scales blackened. 

Felisia disappears around a bend, her shape vanishing into the mist.

The Snake Lord roars, the mountainside shaking. I square up, breath coming fast. My hands grip the hilt of Hell’s Sword and Dark Blade, and I brace for its next assault.

*

Back on the cliff, every noble leans so far forward some nearly tumble from their seats. Their eyes are wide, mouths open in horrified anticipation.

“He said he had a master plan,” one gasps. “Is this it? He’s just fighting it head-on?”

“I don’t see anything clever. He’s going to get torn apart!”

Lord Clearwater stands, white-knuckled. 

“Come on, Cloud. Don’t let it end like this.”

Sir Renquell’s eyes glitter, but even he seems tense.

*

In my head, King Baalrek’s deep voice rumbles, dry as old embers.

Kid, you said you had a master plan. You want to tell me what it is now, or are you just going to get eaten and make me look like a fool?

I cough, ducking the Snake Lord’s tail, flames licking up my arms.

My master plan is you,   Baalrek.

A beat of silence, then King Baalrek snorts.

What do you mean by that?

I launch myself off the monster’s scales, flipping over its head. 

I mean, unless you’ve got pointers, a forbidden move, some crazy Skill only ancient Infernals know, I’m dead. That’s the master plan. If you don’t bail me out, I’m toast. I’m trusting you not to let your investment die here.

The Snake Lord surges at me. I ready my blade and leap, heart pounding, trusting that King Baalrek—and everything I’ve learned—will be enough.

Chapter 67

King Baalrek watches through Jacob’s eyes, a presence heavy and iron-hard behind the curtain of every thought. The old Infernal lord never gets tired of the kid’s reckless, mouthy attitude, but even he finds himself surprised by the raw, stupid audacity on display right now. 

He has watched humans burn bright and then snuff themselves out for millennia, and still, something about this boy keeps him from turning away.

Jacob leaps over a coil of the Heavenly Snake Lord, Hell’s Sword flickering with embers in one hand and Dark Blade drawn from the other. The air crackles with the monster’s anger, and Jacob’s movements, though desperate, have a kind of lunatic confidence. 

King Baalrek, observing from deep within, marvels at the sheer gall.

He almost laughs out loud in the inner void when Jacob, mid-leap, shouts in his mind.

Don’t just watch, King Baalrek! You’ve been squatting in my head since the Dungeon! Either pull your weight or get out! I’m not dying for a freeloader!

King Baalrek is floored. 

No one—mortal or not—has ever spoken to him this way. He has spent centuries as a terror to gods, a legend to monsters, a nightmare in the collective memory of entire empires. 

Yet now, a pup barely at Gold Rank is calling him a freeloader in the middle of a deathmatch with a Platinum-cusp serpent.

The balls on this kid, King Baalrek thinks, equal parts amused and offended.

*

Jacob’s focus sharpens. 

The Grimoire spins pages of insight, veins and flows of mana mapped in glowing diagrams only he can see. The monster’s attacks become mathematical—angles, force, weaknesses all calculated and catalogued. Jacob twists left, then right, dodges a lashing tail, and answers a snapping jaw with a slash from the Dark Blade. The weapon flickers with oily shadow, the edge warping the air as it cuts.

The Heavenly Snake Lord rears back, black blood beading on its scales where Jacob landed a hit. The Grimoire pulses with new flaws: weak joint at the jaw, fragile nerves along the third vertebra, mana channels vulnerable to disruption by shadow.

Jacob presses in, driving the Dark Blade again and again into the monster’s soft spots, all while ducking and weaving, never still for more than a heartbeat.

*

On the cliffs above, nobles lean in so close that a stiff wind could send them tumbling. The fight below has everyone’s attention, every head tracking Jacob as he ducks one massive strike after another, the darkness in his hands burning brighter with each pass.

A heavyset noble in deep blue robes breathes out, “Look at that! He’s dancing around that thing’s attacks, and he’s not even a Platinum Rank!”

Another noble, eyes shining with delight, exclaims, “The Skill—what is it? It’s slicing into the monster!”

The cliff swells with murmurs. There’s no malice now, only awe and disbelief.

Sir Renquell, however, stands with arms folded, a deep scowl on his face. Lord Clearwater turns to him, concern shadowing his eyes. 

“He looks like he’s holding his own, doesn’t he? Those dodges, the counters—could he win?”

Renquell’s jaw tightens. 

“He’s surviving, not winning. You see the drain on his movements? He’s burning too much mana, pushing too hard with every exchange. If he keeps fighting like this, that thing will crush him. Jacob Cloud doesn’t look like a boy with a plan. He looks like someone gambling on a miracle.”

Clearwater frowns, but cannot look away. “What would you do?”

Renquell just shakes his head, not actually having an answer.

“Pray for a God’s help, I guess.”

*

Inside Jacob’s mind, King Baalrek’s attention sharpens. He watches every feint, every block, every reckless attack. 

He can’t deny the kid has guts, and a part of him, the old Infernal pride, wants to step in and see Jacob pull through. Still, he knows the path to real strength is not paved with easy wins. 

If Jacob wants to survive, he needs to start thinking, not just reacting.

King Baalrek leans forward in the void. 

Listen, brat. You’re not going to outslug this thing. Dispelling the Dark Blade and conserving your energy might buy you more time. Focus on defense. 

When you use Dark Lattice, do it in bursts—drain a little, pull back, let the snake waste its own mana and health. 

Stop trying to win with brute force.

Jacob stumbles, barely dodging a fang that would have taken off his head. He grits his teeth. 

I don’t have time to play your slow games! That snake’s getting faster. One mistake and I’m done. I need something! 

King Baalrek’s voice grows harder. 

You want to live? Start listening. You’re running out of options, and that blade is eating you alive. Your style burns too hot. The monster’s waiting for you to slip. Slow down, drain it out.

Jacob ducks, slashes, and barely avoids a sweep that cracks the earth. 

Jacob starts listening, even though every instinct tells him to keep pushing. His lungs ache, and sweat stings his eyes, but he begins to cut his attacks short. He lets the Dark Blade flicker out, then only calls it back for a single feint, a quick slash, or a desperate block. Each time, he pays attention to how much mana leaves him and how much the serpent loses. He sees that King Baalrek is right: every burst of Dark Lattice steals a sliver of power from the beast, but if he overuses it, the backlash starts eating into his own veins.

So he waits, circling, never standing still for long.

This isn’t enough! I need something more. Give me a move—something real, not just tactics!

For a split second, King Baalrek hesitates. The kid is reckless, but his will is steel. King Baalrek knows there is one thing that could work, though it is no gift. 

All right. There is a technique, but it’s not for beginners. Not even for Infernals who haven’t bled and nearly died a dozen times. It’s what separates a real Infernal Warrior from every poser with a bit of Darkness in them. But you— King Baalrek snorts again, half proud, half grim. You want a miracle in a minute? You want to master a true Infernal art with a snake snapping your head off?

The serpent coils, tail whistling down with the force of a landslide. Jacob leaps aside, but not far enough—a fang grazes his shoulder, and he staggers, blood spraying into the grass.

JUST TELL ME!

King Baalrek watches, a strange satisfaction in his voice. 

That’s what you get, kid. You think you can snap your fingers and leap to the top of the infernal mountain? The Black Flame isn’t some party trick. It’s the mark of the masters—the power that’s let my kind burn down armies and raze the gates of heaven. Most who try, even Infernals, die screaming, bodies scorched from the inside out. You want it? You have to take it, knowing you might die just for trying.

He studies Jacob, noting the wild light in his eyes, the frantic, brilliant energy that refuses to give up. 

I’ll say this: you have more guts than sense. You insult me, call me a freeloader, and demand the a technique that’d save you—something that’d take years to master. 

You’ll probably die like a fool, coughing up ashes in the dirt. 

It’ll be a sight to see.

King Baalrek turns his focus inward, sending the memory of black flame through Jacob’s core. 

The Black Flame isn’t just power. It’s the root of what we are. All your fire, all your darkness, the pain you’ve suffered and the will that’s kept you alive—mash it together, squeeze until only the purest essence remains. Then force it out. 

You’ll need to fuse the Hell’s Sword and the Dark Blade—that’s why I summoned it for you. I was waiting for you to get acquainted with it, but it seems you’ll have to work with it not even being at max level before you try out our greatest technique. 

He waits for Jacob to flinch, to hesitate, to balk at the impossible. But the kid just wipes blood from his face and grins.

I’m beaming the diagrams of the vein paths in your mind right now. One major mistake and you’ll die burning from the inside out. One flaw, Jacob Cloud, and you’re dead. 

*

Down in the arena, the nobles have gone silent. Their gazes fix on Jacob as he ducks, rolls, and surges at the serpent. 

The black fire flickers along his blade, at first no more than a spark.

Lord Clearwater leans forward, unable to look away. Sir Renquell’s eyes narrow. 

“Now,” he mutters, “this is a real trial.”

*

King Baalrek expects Jacob to fail. He knows how hard the technique is, how many died before they could even shape a sliver of Black Flame. He is ready to see the boy burn out, ready to watch him fall, ready to watch the snake finish what nature demands. This is how the world works. The strong survive. The unworthy perish.

But Jacob, staring down the gaping maw of the Heavenly Snake Lord, refuses to fold. He draws every ounce of pain, rage, stubbornness, every failure and every victory. He pulls his mana and his life into one burning point, and, instead of shattering under the pressure, he snaps.

In the split second before the snake can close its jaws around him, Jacob howls. 

[Black Flame - Analysis Completed] 

[Path Assist Circulation Activated.] 

[Follow the Channels for Optimal Flaw Reduction.] 

[Skills Fusion Initated]

A black flame explodes from his core—no slow build, no gentle crescendo. 

It tears up his arms, overrides the veins mapped by King Baalrek’s diagrams and follows the ones created by the Grimoire, instantly fusing Hell’s Sword with the Dark Blade. The two powers coil together like twin snakes and then ignite, the shadow drinking in the flame until the sword in Jacob’s hands is no longer red-gold or oily-black. 

Now it burns with a darkness that shines.

Pain floods every nerve. 

It feels like every mistake he has ever made is burning away, every time he was weak in Shit’s Creek, every time he let someone else win. It hurts, but the pain doesn’t matter. He refuses to let go. He clamps down on the power, biting through the agony with a cracked smile.

The serpent senses danger. 

Its eyes widen and the coils pull back, but it’s too late. 

Jacob swings.

Chapter 68

For a heartbeat after the Black Flame rips through the Heavenly Snake Lord, the world stands still. My legs tremble as if the mountain itself is shaking beneath me. The monster, split straight through the core, takes a single blind lunge before collapsing in two clean halves. 

Black flames erupt from the cut, devouring every trace of blood and flesh. 

Nothing remains except scorched bone and a trail of darkness that eats the daylight around it.

I drop to one knee. Sweat drips from my brow. The sword in my hand flickers, the last embers of black fire dying away. For a second, I see nothing but swirling gray. My vision narrows to a tunnel, and my heart stutters in my chest. The Grimoire pulses—my mana is nearly gone, every muscle aches, my soul feels half-consumed by the infernal technique.

The silence doesn’t last. The wind whips through the clearing, stirring ash where the monster used to be. My breathing slows, but I keep my hand wrapped around the sword. No one cheers. There’s just a ringing in my ears and the cold knowledge that it cost everything to make that attack land.

I want to savor the moment. I want to rest, just for a second. But the forest stirs behind me. A flash of blue sweeps through the trees. Adrienne steps out, blade drawn, eyes cold.

She wastes no time. 

I stagger to my feet as she closes the distance, sword tip aimed at my throat.

But the next moment, I see Veyl, shrouded in lightning, running after Felisia. 

“Impressive, Jacob Cloud. I should thank you for doing such a great job. I don’t know what kind of trick you used to win, but I commend your resourcefulness.” Her tone is cold, almost bored. “Sadly, you’re a threat and too much of an influence on my sister. Even if I won, I could see her wanting to trust you over me. That’s why you have to die.”

I grin and tilt my head, planting my feet even though every muscle screams for a break. 

“You ally with that guy and you talk to me about bad influences?” I jerk my chin in the direction where Veyl ran after Felisia.

For a moment, Adrienne’s mask slips. A flicker of disgust creases her face.

“Veyl’s alliance is a matter of convenience. Clearwater and the Elves have traded for a long time. Offending them over one who behaves like him is not wise.”

I cock an eyebrow. 

“You still dislike the guy, though.”

Adrienne’s grip on her sword tightens. 

“It doesn’t matter. Politics are more important.”

I shrug. 

“Why? Clearwater has good access to food, resources, and a pretty big port. I’m sure Elven money helps, but it’s not something you need. Or at least not something you should bear humiliation for. You’re supposed to be the next Duke, right? Someone who lets an idiot disrespect them just to win at all costs? That’s not a ruler, that’s a coward.”

Adrienne’s eyes narrow. 

“Keep talking. It’s not going to save you.”

She raises her sword, the same style Felisia wields—a thin, elegant blade. Frost builds along the edge. With a flick, she slashes forward, conjuring a whirlwind of ice that howls across the clearing. I stumble, barely dodging as razor-sharp icicles slice through the air.

“Truth hurts, milady,” I say, exhaling hard. “I’ll spare your life, though. Maybe you could be reformed. Felisia shouldn’t exile you, but you will need to learn a few lessons—and I’ll be the one holding the first class.”

*

High above, the nobles crowd the rail. Most wear expressions of confusion or worry. The nobles murmur, eyes darting from Adrienne’s glittering sword to the way my knees buckle with each breath.

“Why is he talking so much?” a portly merchant whispers. “He looks half-dead.”

“Doesn’t he know Lady Adrienne’s Skills are all Platinum Rank? He can’t possibly win if he’s this drained.”

A younger noble part of Adrienne’s circle pipes up, “Maybe he’s hoping she’ll collapse from boredom before he does!”

Another laughs, “Maybe he’s just distracting her from his next trick.”

A third suggests, “No, he’s just arrogant. The snake left him cocky.”

“Or he’s buying time for Felisia to get away,” says an older woman.

Lord Clearwater’s brow furrows. 

“He shouldn’t be able to dodge anything at this point.”

*

Adrienne’s attack comes in waves—daggers of ice, spinning lances, arcs of frozen wind. Each step forward she takes, she drives me back, her blade flickering faster than sight. I keep moving, rolling, sidestepping. Every muscle feels hollow. I force myself not to freeze.

The Grimoire and Architect’s Insight are the only thing keeping me alive. 

She thrusts with the tip, sending a scatter of icy needles at my face. I duck, roll sideways, and answer with a feint, just to buy distance. My legs want to fold but 

I grit my teeth and force my body to obey. Adrienne’s sword comes in low, sweeping for my knees, then high—overhead, down in a slash meant to split my skull. I twist, feeling the chill slice through the air.

She hurls a spear of ice, the size of a grown man’s arm. I catch its angle, dodge left, and it explodes into frost against a tree. Her footwork is relentless. She presses in, slicing at my arms, aiming for joints, for gaps in my defense. I parry, only when forced, but mostly I evade. Her breath is steady at first, then it begins to quicken.

I read the pattern. 

She always doubles up after a feint, always leaves her right side open for a second after thrusting left. Her left hand tenses before she releases a big Skill.

She circles, and the temperature drops, breath misting in front of her lips. She swings, and icy wind rakes my skin. Her eyes burn with frustration as I dodge every strike, never quite where she wants me. My vision blurs at the edges, but I keep going.

She shouts, launching a barrage of spinning ice shards that carve up the grass. I leap through, twisting in midair, landing just past her guard. Her sword snaps up, almost catching my shoulder, but I tuck low and stumble out of range.

“How is he still standing?” a noble whispers.

“It’s not possible,” another murmurs. “She’s faster, stronger—he should have dropped by now.”

Adrienne’s breathing is ragged now. Sweat beads on her brow. I can see the tremble in her arms as she presses the attack. She thrusts, I sidestep, her blade whistling past my ear. I keep her guessing, never giving her the rhythm she wants.

She’s still out of Mana from the previous battle. 

She glares, voice breaking. 

“How are you dodging all of this? You should be dead!”

I grin, feeling the fire in my veins. “You don’t have the instincts yet. And you’re tired.”

“Shut up!” Adrienne shouts. Her sword erupts with energy, the ground freezing beneath her feet. She swings with both hands, summoning a dragon of ice that towers above us, scales glittering, breath a freezing wind. The beast lunges at me, jaws wide.

My body screams for rest. I drag every ounce of mana left, ignite the black flame again, and watch as the Grimoire highlights a weak point just behind the dragon’s head. I leap, dodging the monster’s freezing breath, and drive my blade through the glowing spot.

The dragon shatters in a storm of snow and ice. Adrienne collapses to one knee, breath gone, face pale as frost.

I stand over her, my own vision swimming. I let out a ragged sigh.

“It’s a pity that sisters couldn’t love each other more, you know?” I say, cracking my neck and looking up the slope, toward the bundle of light at the peak. “You—”

Adrienne tries to speak, but her voice fails.

“Me? I don’t have brothers. Nor sisters. Nor a mother, really. Sometimes I wish I did.” I stare off into the blue haze, not sure why I feel the ache in my chest. “You do, though, unlike me. So, treasure your sisters. Calantha might be going bald, but she’s not so bad.”

*

On the nobles’ peak, Calantha—who has just arrived, hair sticking up in all directions after escaping the trial—spins and shouts at the assembled crowd.

“I’M NOT GOING BALD!”

*

I glance back at Adrienne, who has fallen forward onto her hands, hair plastered to her face by sweat.

“Felisia is a bit of a brat, you know? I hope once you lose the claim to the dukedom, you’re going to be the big sister she needs.”

Adrienne’s shoulders shake. I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying.

I unfurl my Infernal Wings of Ash, every feather burning with pain. 

I grit my teeth, force my battered body to rise.

“If not—if you ever scheme or plot against her—I’ll kill you. I’ll raze this entire city to the ground if I have to.”

That said, I kick off, launching into the sky. Wind and embers trail behind me as I ascend, the last threads of mana keeping me airborne. The bundle of light at the peak grows nearer. Every muscle in my body screams. My vision swims with exhaustion and triumph both.

I am almost there. One last stretch to the throne.

Chapter 69

I push my wings for everything they have left, the air cold and thin at this height, the trees dropping away beneath us as I climb. Felisia’s arms clamp around my neck and chest, her grip tight enough to cut off my breath. She buries her face against my shoulder, and for a moment, all I hear is the rush of wind and the frantic thump of both our hearts. I scan the sky behind us. Veyl is barely a hundred paces back, lightning spitting from his palms as he vaults from stone to branch, closing the distance with every stride.

I don’t let myself look down. I know what happens if I stop now. The exhaustion in my body is like molten lead, and my mana feels hollow, barely enough to keep my wings burning. I grit my teeth and force them higher, but the energy drains away with every beat. We’re not going to make it like this. Even if we dip down to face Veyl, even if I manage to keep us aloft for another minute, I’m risking everything. If I run out, Veyl can snatch Felisia, toss me off the mountain, and carry Adrienne to the throne himself. If that happens, everything I’ve fought for dies on this peak.

I glance at Felisia, feeling my pulse hammer in my throat. 

“I’m running out of mana,” I shout above the wind. “I can’t keep us up much longer.”

Felisia’s arms tighten. She doesn’t look at me at first. I hear her take a slow breath, steadying herself. 

“I’ll help,” she says, voice muffled.

“How?” I say, trying not to sound desperate as the mana in my core flickers low. My Infernal Wings of Ash are already sputtering. If they cut out now, we both fall.

Felisia raises her head, green eyes bright with determination. 

“Use the Skill on me. The one that heals you.”

“Dark Lattice? Are you insane?” I bark, spinning higher to keep clear of Veyl’s lightning, but every turn bleeds away more of my reserves.

“It’s our only chance,” she says. Her voice is quiet but certain. She pulls back just far enough to look me in the eye, face pale but unyielding. “Do it.”

I curse under my breath. 

“Fuck.” 

She’s right. There’s no other way.

I summon the Grimoire, biting down on the last thread of hesitation, and will the Dark Lattice into existence. A shadowy pattern crawls up my arms and down into Felisia. Instantly, power rushes through me—a flood of raw, unfiltered mana, colder than winter but burning at the same time. My body jolts, veins swelling, energy surging back to full.

Veyl is not far behind, closing the gap with every leap. He flings a fork of lightning that nearly brushes my heel. I shoot higher, pulling even harder on the lattice that links Felisia and me. 

Her face goes paler, but she holds my gaze, shaking her head when I hesitate. 

“Don’t stop. Keep going.”

I want to argue. I want to tell her it’s enough, that I can’t risk her health just for a few more meters of flight. But I can see the certainty in her eyes, the same stubbornness I’ve seen in battle and in training. If I slow now, we both lose.

The world narrows to the sound of her breathing and the beat of my wings. 

I remember the day I met Felisia, back when she was a brat, a real pain, always mouthing off, always wishing someone would come and knock me into the dirt. 

She never missed a chance to remind me I was a peasant. 

I can’t even pin down when she changed, when she stopped wishing for my failure and started fighting at my side instead. Maybe she didn’t change. Maybe it was always there, buried under anger and fear, waiting for someone to draw it out.

Veyl’s lightning fizzles as we rise above the trees. He tries to keep pace, hurling bolts that fall short as we climb higher and higher, the mountain air thinning. 

The power from Felisia is like a lifeline, but I can feel her growing lighter in my arms, her skin turning cold. I almost stop, but then she grabs the back of my neck, fingers digging into my skin, and meets my gaze with a glare as fierce as I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t stop,” she says, teeth clenched. “Keep going. Don’t you dare let me down now.”

I nod, fighting a wave of emotion. 

The summit is so close I can taste the mana in the air.

*

On the noble cliff, the gallery bursts into whispers and coos, all eyes on Felisia and me. There’s none of the earlier scorn or disbelief; this is the sound of fascination, of romance whispered behind fans.

“Look at them—how close those two are.”

“They fight like a pair of lovers.”

A third noble sighs, “I wonder if we’re witnessing the blooming of a great love story.”

Lord Clearwater clears his throat, shooting a glare at the gossips, but even he looks torn between worry and pride. His lips twitch with something like a smile before he masks it.

Guildmaster Dorn scowls. 

“Jacob is a peasant. He could never marry a noble. Not in Clearwater. This is just an infatuation that’ll end badly for her.”

Sir Renquell gives him a flat look. 

“You don’t understand the world you live in. Among Knights, power is what matters. Strong Knights stand above the nobility. Jacob Cloud is going to reach heights you could never imagine. He’s already outclassed half the titled families in the city.”

Guildmaster Dorn blusters, but nobody listens. 

The cliff’s attention stays locked on our ascent.

*

The summit looms ahead, wreathed in mist, crowned by a black throne of polished stone that seems to drink in the sunlight. The moment my feet hit the peak, I stagger. Felisia is barely conscious now, her grip slackening. I break the link, severing the Dark Lattice before it drains her dry, and lower her gently onto the throne.

Her body slumps, breath shallow but steady. I brush the hair from her face and study the throne for the first time—a strange, unsettling shape, cold to the touch, carved with runes that throb with a red-black glow.

The moment Felisia’s body touches the throne, I feel a change in the air. It thickens, saturated with mana, the energy crackling with more force than I’ve ever felt. The stone hums, and I see the mana gathering around Felisia, swirling into her chest and limbs.

King Baalrek’s voice cuts through my daze.

That’s an Infernal relic.

Are you for real? I ask, half-smiling, half-panicking.

Why would I lie to a human kid?

Because you’re an Infernal.

Fair point, Baalrek says. But I’m not lying. It’s a minor relic, but it’s meant to take someone who just underwent great trials and enhance one or more of their Skills. It’s a catalyst, a trigger for Skill evolutions.

That sounds powerful, I reply, watching Felisia’s face for any sign of distress.

It was barely scratching the surface of our power, Baalrek answers, voice soft with memory.

Can I ask…what happened to the Infernals?

No answer comes. The silence is as heavy as the stone under my hand.

Suddenly, the air thickens further. Mana pours into Felisia faster and faster, far beyond what any Skill evolution should require. The throne’s runes flare, and I feel the bracelet on my wrist start to tighten, digging into my skin with a slow, relentless pressure.

Baalrek’s tone changes, urgency flooding his words.

Something’s wrong. The relic isn’t supposed to draw this much mana for a Human. 

It’s spiraling out of control.

This girl’s about to die.

*

Lord Clearwater stands, panic in his eyes as he watches the throne blaze with light. Even the other nobles sense the danger, shuffling to the edge, craning for a better look.

“That throne…is that the same one that gave you your boon?” a noble asks.

Clearwater nods, voice tight. 

“Yes, but this is different. I only received one Skill’s evolution—nothing like this.”

On the arena mirrors, the image flickers. 

A few Knights shift, ready to intervene if the worst happens.

*

Inside, Felisia’s eyes roll back, and her breath goes ragged. The throne hums, drawing energy from the very peak. Baalrek shouts in my mind.

You need to act now! Touch the throne—your presence, as someone with Infernal legacy, has triggered the real effect. If you don’t intervene, the girl dies. If you try to pull her away, the backlash will kill her on the spot. You have to help her absorb the energy or she won’t survive.

I don’t hesitate. I press my palm against the cold stone. Instantly, a torrent of mana floods my veins, fire and darkness mingling, threatening to tear my soul apart. 

The pain explodes in my head, a white-hot agony that almost knocks me flat.

Do it! Baalrek urges. Channel the energy. Guide it. You have to take the overflow. Share the burden, or both of you will be burned out.

I grit my teeth, sweat pouring down my face. I pour my will into the connection, drawing mana away from Felisia and into myself. The power is too much, but I force it to circulate, following the paths the Grimoire opens in my mind. Every second is a fight. My skin burns. My vision pulses with shadow and flame.

Felisia starts to breathe easier. Color returns to her face, and the lines of pain around her eyes soften. I realize that something else is changing deep inside my chest. The mana that pours into me begins to resonate, echoing through the channels carved by every hardship I’ve faced. I feel a new Skill stirring, something massive and wild, a synthesis of all I’ve survived.

I don’t let go. 

I refuse to let the power slip, even as my vision dims at the edges. 

The throne’s runes blaze, the whole peak crackling with energy. The air tastes of ash and metal. I lock my jaw and keep drawing the power, willing myself not to fall, not to fail—not with Felisia depending on me, not with the world watching from below.

And deep inside me, something ancient finally wakes up.