Chapters 53-56

The release rate is the same I follow on RoyalRoad, one chapter a day for now. I just release them in batches as I write. My writing schedule is not one chapter a day. I might spend two days plotting three chapters and then writing them out in one go.

Chapter 54 is the chapter I had the most fun writing, I hope you can appreciate it. Sip some wine while you read it.

Chapter 53

We returned to the manor after the auction. There were a few more interesting pieces, but what I really cared about I got.

The Shadow Lattice Skill Crystal and the Infernal Manual. 

I lift the crystal from its padded box while warm light filters from the Clearwater’s estate tall, rounded windows in my room. 

The moment my fingers close around the shard, the Infernal bracelet tightens on my wrist and sends a jolt through my palm. I do not hesitate. I start the absorption ritual because I want answers and I trust the Grimoire to stop me if I stray.

Shadow Lattice (Gold - Offensive Skill)

Would you like to absorb Shadow Lattice?

“Yes.”

The crystal dissolves into my palm.

A chime rings in my skull.

You have absorbed Shadow Lattice.

Shadow Lattice (Gold - Offensive Skill)

Shadow Lattice - Level 1

I immediately activate the Grimoire. 

Shadow Lattice – Gold Rank – Lv. 1

Mana Cost: 422 MP per second

???

???

???

???

“Question marks?” I mutter, looking through the page that the Grimoire created for me.

That’s new. I’ve never seen question marks.

Then, I look for flaws. 

I scan the top three flaws.

I flip the Grimoire page and stare at the red text that pulses in the margins. 

Three problems jump at me, and each one bites me, not the enemy.

First flaw – Flow-Reversal Mesh: The weave grabs my mana the instant I cast and dumps almost all of it into a dead pocket, so the enemy keeps every drop while I bleed power like a severed hose.

Second flaw – Anchor Drift: The six anchor veins beat out of rhythm with the core, and every off-beat shakes loose nearly a quarter of the mana I should steal, so the lattice hisses and sputters before any real siphon starts.

Third flaw – Caster-Priority Lock: The trigger rune hunts for the closest mana signature, and if no foe stands inside the web it tags me as the target, clamps on my own channels, and locks my limbs until I cancel the skill.

I grit my teeth because, right now, Shadow Lattice is a suicide trap like they had said at the auction hall. 

I need to flip the mesh so it drains outward, I must sync the anchors with the core, and I must force the trigger rune to blacklist my signature. 

Only then will this thing rip mana from enemies instead of gutting me.

But this is great news. The fact that this Skill can actually drain Mana from the enemies and restore mine, all while restraining their movements…

Veyl is not going to know what hit him once we enter the Sky Hunt, I smirk to myself. 

But when I start reading the Grimoire in detail, something makes me frown.

Flip the flow mesh: rotate weave orientation one hundred eighty degrees, then fuse the seam with Darkness Mana so the null pocket points outward.

Resync anchors: pulse Fire and Darkness together in a seven-beat cadence to pull veins into phase.

Rewrite target lock: feed a hostile signature into the primer rune—any foreign spell will do—then overwrite the default with my own core as exempt.

“Fire and Darkness?” I frown. “I don’t have Darkness Mana.” 

The bracelet pulses harder and clamps around my wrist until bone creaks.

[System Notice] – Origin resonance detected.

Shadow Lattice shares astral flux with Dark Blade Shard (1/2).

I tear open the inner pouch at my belt and draw out the jagged black fragment I salvaged from the mimic’s chest. The shard’s throb in time with the bracelet.

Dark Blade Shard (1/2) – Gold Rank – Offensive Skill

“So that’s why you’ve been tugging,” I whisper. I nestle the shard back into the pouch; the glow subsides, as if satisfied.

Is this how I manage to actually pull on Darkness? I wonder. 

The Grimoire hasn't given me any precise instructions on the matter, but it feels like the thing to do here is to use the Dark Blade Skill Shard to feel that kind of Mana inside myself. 

I still have the Infernal Architect Class. That must mean something.

If I have a Class related to Infernals, I should be able to summon some of that Darkness mana.

Is it going to be hard?

My first attempts are not successful because I'm trying to picture the dark, shadows, and a general sensation of cold or void. But it's too fuzzy, too alien to me. 

I never live that kind of darkness. 

But there's a kind of darkness I know very well. 

I close my eyes and picture coal seams that ran deeper than the miners ever dared because the rock breathed poison and the lanterns died.

I recall the taste of that air, gritty and cold, and I let the memory seep down my throat until it settles behind my heart.

The Fire in my core flickers, yet I keep it caged while I hunt for something older, something quieter.

I imagine every tunnel light snuffed and I feel the weight of the mountain above me when no ember remains. A dull pulse answers at the base of my spine, slow and reluctant, like tar that forgot how to flow. I coax it upward with the same rhythm the Grimoire marked for the anchor veins, and I offer a sliver of Ash to smooth the way.

The pulse thickens and crawls through my channels, staining them violet where Fire leaves them clear. My fingertips darken, the color of wet iron, and cold leaks from my nails into the air.

I open my eyes and shadows cling to my palm like smoke that refuses the breeze.

Darkness Mana, crude and scant.

I breathe once, steady, then I let the Fire ignite beside it without either one faltering.

Fascinating, I think to myself, and then get to work. 

I swallow the phantom pain that came with memories and flip the flow mesh of Shadow Lattice a full half‑turn while I pour Fire into the outer weave. Heat swarms my hand, yet this time the drain points away from my core instead of into it.

Next I tap the six anchor veins in a seven‑beat rhythm—Fire on every beat and a hesitant trickle of whatever Darkness I can muster on the half‑beats. Nothing answers at first, but then I remember the lowest tunnel in Shit’s Creek where the lamps died and the air tasted like coal dust. A cold ribbon pushes down my arm, dark as bruised iron, and the anchors lock into phase.

For the last fix I shove a mote of Mana into the primer rune so the lattice tags that signature as enemy, and then I stamp my own aura over the vein to set myself as exempt. The lattice settles and the Grimoire tallies the changes.

[Shadow Lattice – Gold Rank – Lv. 1 → Lv. 5]

Mana Cost (per second): 422 MP → 48 MP Siphon 

Anchor Limit: 1 target 

Mana Drain (per second): 2MP → 7MP

Mana Drain Conversion: 0% → 5%

I flip the Infernal Manual open across my knees, the black plates cold even through my pants. I run my thumb along the scorched-gold script, waiting for the Grimoire to translate, but the page stays dead. I frown and push Fire Mana into the markings—nothing. I feed Ash next, but the script doesn’t shift. Then I steady my hand and add the new Darkness thread, the one I learned to pull after fixing the Shadow Lattice.

The plates shudder. Infernal script crawls along the page, bleeding red and silver. The Grimoire flickers with a single line.

Activation sequence detected.

Manual access requires Infernal Mana signature (Fire, Ash, Darkness).

I press all three types into the cover at once. The manual shivers, plates locking tight. Then the runes flash white and dissolve, unveiling five diagrams in sequence. Each one burns with a different shape, but I can only make out the first one: a sword draw. Four of them remain clouded behind a veil. Only the fifth glows.

Combat Forms Unlocked: 1/5

Unlocked Form: Diavolo Draw (Infernal Blade Technique)

The Diavolo Draw diagram expands. Arrows and small infernal runes walk down the page, showing me the grip, the stance, and the way I have to compress the three Mana types together in the split second before the blade clears the sheath. My fingers tingle. I copy the movement slow, let the muscle memory form.

Notifications ping in the back of my mind.

Diavolo Draw (Gold - Offensive Skill)

Diavolo Draw - Level 1

Diavolo Draw – Gold Rank – Lv. 1

Mana Cost: 986 MP per activation

???

???

???

???

I turn the blade form over and over in my mind, weighing the power behind each movement.

How is this possible? How can I learn a Skill from something other than a Crystal or my Class?

I’m flabbergasted.

The hunger in the manual, the lattice, the blade shard—they all feel connected, like a pulse that’s been waiting for someone with my blood, or at least my kind of luck, to put the pieces together.

Veyl walks through every room with that self-satisfied smile, always the center of attention, always ready with a sneer for every "lesser" in the city. He walks like everyone should bow. Even Felisia keeps her temper in check around him, but I see the way he stares down at her, the way he treats her as if she’s another rung below, just because he has the ears, the name, and the money.

The whole city thinks that the Elves are just superior, slated to win, that it's impossible to even imagine Felisia and I could do something against such a warrior.

I smile.

But they haven’t met a real monster yet.

They haven’t seen what an Infernal inheritance can look like.

He’s proud of being chosen by his court, but I wasn’t picked by anyone.

I crawled out of a hole with nothing but a Rainbow Support Skill.

Everything I have, I have earned. 

Look, I've learned a little more about Infernals during the past few days, as much as you can get to know in a city like Clearwater, at least. 

Veyl thinks he's the one who needs to prove his people's superiority, that he's the only one with something to prove, that he’s the heir to the oldest magics in the world. Let him think that. Let him smirk. I’ll let him make a show of it in front of every noble in the Sky Hunt.

But when the web snaps shut, and he feels his mana draining away—when he realizes there’s nothing he can do to stop my sword—I’ll let him see the real difference between fake power and a true Infernal legacy.

Chapter 54

A Few Days Later

Felisia and I have spent the past days training relentlessly and I've finally brought all my Skills at the level I wanted them. Now, there's two days before the Sky Hunt itself. And tonight, there's a banquet hosted by the Clearwater Family to welcome their extended family, which apparently is going to be spectating at the Sky Hunt, and several other nobles from surrounding regions.

The great hall glitters with cold fire and the faces of Clearwater’s highborn.

Gold shines from every column and light bounces off the chandelier, but the warmth in the room is fake.

I enter at Felisia’s side and we walk toward where her spot is supposed to be.

Every noble scion and merchant heir in the city sits at a white-clothed table.

The main table stretches through the heart of the banquet, loaded with food and flanked by banners showing every house in the Sky Hunt.

I see Felisia’s sisters seated with Adrienne and her retinue, laughing over wine and roast.

Every contender has a spot waiting except for one.

Felisia stiffens when she notices the empty space.

She turns to the nearest servant and demands, “Where is Jacob’s seat?”

The servant bows and glances toward Adrienne, who hides her smile behind a goblet.

Calantha leans in, murmuring something that sets the entire table snickering.

The servant says, “No seat has been arranged for Master Cloud. Only titled contenders and family are permitted.”

Felisia’s mouth hardens and she starts blistering with rage.

“He cleared the Crucible. He has more right to sit here than most.”

Adrienne’s voice rings out, smooth and unbothered, pitched so the whole table hears, “The rules are clear, Felisia. Nobility only. If every upstart adventurer could claim a place, what meaning would bloodlines hold?”

Laughter ripples along the table. The eyes of the crowd sweep over me as if I should feel shame, but I only stand taller.

"Felisia," I say, "go eat. This is a formality; don't worry about me. I'll stand with the rest of the commoners."

I remain at the hall’s edge and chat with a merchant who does not have a noble title. He stands beside me, nursing his drink and shaking his head as he watches the main table. He lowers his voice and says, “Does this not bother you? They treat you like filth, same as they treat the rest of us.”

I shrug.

“It would bother me if their respect meant anything. They all look like miserable bastards to me.”

The merchant gives a sharp nod.

“Miserable, and proud of it. They’d stab each other for a scrap if the old families let them.”

He glances at the main table and jerks his chin toward Veyl.

“What about the Elf? Is he really stronger than you?”

“For now,” I say. “He’s had a head start. That doesn’t mean he’ll keep it."

"They certainly suck up to him," the merchant says, raising an eyebrow.

"They fawn over him, but they do it because they’re afraid, not because they like him.”

The merchant laughs, but there’s no warmth in it.

“You talk like you pity them.”

“I do, a little. You get born lucky and never learn how to fight for what matters. Most of these nobles spend their whole lives terrified someone will take what they never earned. That’s not living.”

The merchant thinks about it, then nods.

“Well, I hope you ruin their night.”

I grin.

“Wait until the Sky Hunt.”

The other contenders glance at me and share quiet jokes.

Every now and then, someone mutters “miner” or “commoner,” and a few braver snobs sneer that trash always floats to the surface eventually.

Felisia refuses to mingle, just glaring at her sisters while Sir Greyson stands behind her. Both him and the black knight are standing while Sir Renquell has been seated at Adrienne's right, with Veyl at her left. Sir Renquell also seats between Adrienne and her father.

Veyl might have the courage to offend a Mithril Rank Knight, but no one else in Clearwater is so foolish. 

Calantha finally leans forward, lifting her glass with an empty smile.

“Don’t cause a scene, little sister. You brought this on yourself, running around with a nameless boy. The whole city is laughing at you. Why not enjoy the night?”

Adrienne taps her knife against her plate.

“You should have chosen allies with pedigree, Felisia. We warned you. Loyalty to gutter rats only drags the family down.”

Felisia stands her ground.

“I would rather stand with someone who earned his power than hide behind a title I never worked for.”

Near Calantha, her cousin Lord Aulus sits with a smirk.

He is the most talented of their generation, and most people expect him to become her husband. His father holds a northern fief, and their house has more dueling champions than any other in Clearwater.

Even Calantha, for all her pride, has never matched his skill, though she tries to match his ambition. Aulus barely glances at Felisia, focusing instead on quiet talk with her father.

A hush falls as the nobles weigh her words. Some smile in contempt. Others just look away, not wanting to get involved.

I do not move from my place at the edge of the hall.

Calantha meets my gaze and I stare back, cold as ash. 

Moments later, she averts her eyes. 

The nobles raise glasses and toast each other, pretending I do not exist. They save their real smiles for Veyl.

Nobles whisper that he is the “certain victor,” a member of the Elven court, the one who will bring glory to Clearwater and Adrienne's reign.

Sir Greyson appears at my side.

He carries his plate and sets it down on a side table, motioning for me and Felisia to join him. He keeps his voice even.

“You did well in the Dungeon. They can’t take that from you.”

Felisia joins us, and a handful of lower nobles—young knights who saw what I did in the Crucible—nod as they pass. They offer quiet words, nothing loud enough for Adrienne to hear.

“Saw you clear that Mimic. Never seen the Guildmaster so red.”

I nod, but I keep my eyes on the main table. Adrienne, seeing the attention, lifts her voice.

“It was all luck. Even the weakest Dungeons spit out rare drops for fools sometimes. Let’s see if he survives a real contest.”

Her friends laugh, not bothering to hide their contempt.

Felisia bristles, and I see the anger simmering in her hands. Calantha catches her glare, walks up to us, leans in, and says, “You’d better not embarrass us in the Hunt, Felisia. Make sure you won't shame the whole bloodline. Don’t drag our name down just because you’re desperate for allies.”

Felisia looks ready to snap.

Her sister tilts her cup and spills wine across Felisia’s sleeve.

“Oh, how careless,” Calantha says, her voice sugary and cold. “Maybe you’ll have better luck in the hunt than at the table.”

Felisia flushes, but I step between them, picking up a napkin and handing it to her before she can retaliate.

“It’s not worth it,” Sir Greyson says, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “They want you angry. Let them talk.”

Calantha narrows her eyes at him and then at me.

The crowd laughs at that until I take my own cup of wine and, very openly, throw it right in Calantha's face.

"Oops, I tripped," I say, palming my forehead. "How clumsy of me. I miss the manners they teach nobles; I can't even hold a cup properly. I'm so, very sorry."

Calantha’s face burns with anger. She turns to her cousin, Lord Aulus Virelli, who sits nearby with the air of someone who expects to be obeyed. He barely glances at me before speaking to her in a bored tone. “If you want, I’ll handle the miner myself tomorrow. It’s not worth letting him make a scene.”

Calantha lifts her chin, proud but rattled. “I’d appreciate it. He doesn’t know his place.”

Roland, who’s been hanging around the edge of their group hoping to catch Aulus’s attention, puffs out his chest. “Allow me, Lord Aulus. For the honor of House Clearwater, I’ll handle him in front of everyone. I’ll make sure there’s nothing left for the gossips to talk about.”

Aulus doesn’t bother to look at Roland, only nods once.

That’s when Roland steps forward, forcing a path through the crowd, and calls out to me.

A young lord—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in Adrienne’s family colors—pushes through the crowd. Roland, whom Felisia immediately describes to my ear as "infamous for bullying weaker contestants and gloating about victories in public," locks eyes with me and smirks.

"He's level eighty, Jacob. Be careful."

"Sure," I smirk. 

“Jacob Cloud,” he calls, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I hear you cleared the Crucible. Impressive, if true. But you offend Lady Calantha with your crude manners. I shall teach you a lesson."

"Shall you, now?" I smile, taking another cup from a servant that stops beside me when I gesture him to. 

"I doubt you did it without help, but perhaps you’d like to prove yourself? Let’s see if you can stand against a real opponent, someone born to this work, not crawling up from the gutters—”

I throw this cup of wine in Roland's face, who inhales some of the wine and starts coughing and spitting in response, bending on his knees and trying to clear his airways from the fruity red wine. 

"Oops," I say, palming my forehead again. "I really don't know how to drink wine. Coming from the gutters, we only drank rat's piss and rainwater. This is all very new to me, I'm so sorry, brother Roland. I offer you my most sincere apologies." 

Roland looks at me with wide eyes, not registering how could I have so much guts to do something like that. 

Now, the whole hall turns to watch. The lords and ladies lean forward, eager for a show. 

Roland is flabbergasted.

"You did that on purpose!" he shouts, tremlbing and pointing a finger at me. 

I gesture for the same servant who can barely hide his laugh as he passes me another cup of wine. 

"On purpose?" I frown. "That is a grave accusation, brother Roland. I would never dare offend a noble such as you. It's just... I really am clumsy. Look, do you see this cup?" 

I move the cup forward a little and cranes his neck, actually believing me. 

I then throw it in his face again and, once again, he inhales the wine and starts choking.

"Like, see?!" I say, indignated. "It's hard to handle these fancy cups! I'm used to wooden utensils! Actually, most of the time I drank from my dirty, coal-ridden hands!"

Roland looks beside himself now, not believing the amount of guts I am putting on display. 

"ARE YOU MAKING FUN OF ME, CLOUD?!" Roland roars. 

"I wouldn't dare, milolrd," I say, rubbing the back of my head sheepishly. "I really don't know how to use the cups."

Before I can even say anything, I find the same servant putting another cup of wine in my hand. 

This time, I bring it to my lips and take a small sip. 

"Yikes, this is too refined for my palate, brother Roland. You're right, I come from the gutters. I really don't know any better."

This display seems to puzzle the noble young man so much he momentarily forgets I threw two cups of wine in his face. 

"Cloud, I still have to teach you a lesson for insulting Lady Calantha!" 

"Insulting?" I say, frowning. "I didn't say anything, though? Did I say that she's wrinkled despite her young age, perhaps? No, right? Did I say that she's been eating a few too many pastries considering her plumpness is already quite visible and not befitting a lady of her station?! I would never! Did I say that her hair is looking very sparse and that she might even go bald and become a creepy uncle?! I would deserve the gallows for such an offense!" 

Everyone widens their eyes, even Lord Clearwater starts choking on his own drink. 

A few people peer over Calantha's scalp to check if she's actually going bald and that makes the middle Clearwater sister lose her marbles. 

"STOP LOOKING AT MY HEAD!" she shouts beside herself. 

I lean back and nod. 

"It's very rude to stare at her head when no one is insinuating she's going bald!" 

Felisia starts laughing uncontrollably when she finally catches on what I've been doing. Sir Greyson coughs behind his armored hand and averts his gaze, trying not to bring offense himself. 

Roland looks back at Calantha and frowns, ready to propose the duel again, but when he turns again, I splash the wine on his face for the third time.

"I'll accept the duel, brother Roland. I'm sure you have a lot to show me. Tomorrow at ten in front of the Clearwater estate? Actually, make it on the beach. I think it'll be a nice day out."

Before Roland can say anything I turn on my heels, snag one last cup of wine, and actually bring it with me outside. 

Sir Roland shouts at my disappearing shadow as soon as he regains his bearings.

“Let’s see if you’ll kneel and beg for mercy once you face a true noble’s blade!”

I don't reply, sipping the cup with a smirk. 

As the banquet breaks up, I hear Adrienne’s final barb—“Enjoy your last night, miner. The Hunt belongs to those who deserve it.”

I say nothing. I save my words for the morning.

The night ends with the hall buzzing about the duel. Some sneer. Some pity. But all of them will watch.

Let them watch.

Tomorrow, I show them exactly what I’ve become.

Chapter 55

The morning sun crawls across the sky, bleeding red over Clearwater Bay. Word spreads before the gulls even take flight—a duel is set, and the beach is already crowded.

Nobles pack the raised pavilions, merchants and adventurers jostle at the edges, while the servants whisper about the miner who dared to humiliate Lord Roland at the banquet.

“That’s the one? The miner boy?” a merchant mutters, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“He looks like he slept in a ditch,” a young noblewoman sneers, fluttering her fan.

“Maybe he’ll dig us a new well after Roland buries him,” an adventurer laughs, elbowing his friend.

“I heard he got his skills from shoveling shit, not training,” another voice jeers, and a ripple of laughter passes through the crowd.

“His only hope is tripping and making Roland laugh himself to death,” someone shouts from the back, earning a few scattered claps.

“Maybe they’ll give him a pickaxe and let him tunnel under the beach when he loses,” another noble chimes in, loud enough for Jacob to hear as he walks onto the sand.

I walk onto the sand with Felisia and Sir Greyson at my side.

I keep my head up. No need to show nerves. Every eye is on me, but I have done harder things than this.

Sir Roland stands in the center, his armor gleaming with his house’s colors, a shield on his left arm and a duelist’s sword in his right.

Behind him, Calantha sits under a white pavilion, still dabbing her scalp and glaring at anyone who even glances her way. Lord Aulus leans back in his seat, bored, but everyone knows he’ll watch every move. Adrienne’s retinue hovers around Veyl, who stands off to one side, not hiding his smile.

Roland’s friends form a row behind him, arms crossed, making a wall between me and the nobility.

A pair of Guild officials in ceremonial sashes step forward and read out the rules so everyone can hear.

The older official lifts his voice, projecting over the sand and surf.

“This is a sanctioned duel. No outside interference, no concealed arms, no enchantments unless declared. The winner is the first to force a yield or incapacitate their opponent. No killing blows—unless both parties escalate by word or action. Should either fighter escalate, lethal force is permitted and the duel continues until death or total surrender.”

The second official locks eyes with Roland, then with me.

“If either duelist crosses that line, the other is free to answer in kind. Do both fighters understand?”

Roland barks, “I’m ready. If the gutter rat escalates, I’ll put him in the ground.”

I meet the official’s gaze and nod.

“I understand the rules,” I say with a smile. 

The older official raises his staff.

“This duel is recognized by House Clearwater and the Adventurers’ Guild. Begin when ready.”

As I step onto the field, Roland throws back his shoulders and grins like he’s already won.

“You can still apologize,” he calls out, his voice carrying over the sand and the shallow waves. “A bow and a few kind words would spare you a beating.”

His friends laugh. The crowd—half hoping I’ll grovel, half hoping for a show—waits for my answer.

I keep my hands at my sides.

“I said I’d duel. No apology. If you wish, though, I could give you a little more wine,” I make a gesture toward a random servant under a pavillion. 

A few nobles snicker. Roland’s face flushes. He draws his sword and slams his shield into the sand.

“Suit yourself, miner. Hope you said your prayers to the gods.”

Felisia catches my arm before I walk forward. Her words are soft but fierce.

“Be careful.”

I nod once. Sir Greyson’s stare meets mine, solid and level.

“If he pushes for lethal, end it fast. You’re better than him.”

Roland might be a noble, but there's a difference between someone with a few levels over me and someone capable of clearing an Elite Dungeon. Honestly, I'm even surprised he's such an idiot to accept being humiliated like this.

Veyl, or maybe Calantha's cousin, Aulus, would be a problem.

This court jester? 

Roland swings his sword through the air, making a show of the blade’s edge. The crowd ooohs, a few even clap.

“Let’s see what the gutter breeds these days!” Roland bellows. He salutes, slashes the air twice, and comes at me with a blinding speed.

I shake my head. 

*

He opens with a string of family techniques, textbook and flashy—overhead slash, shield bash, sidestep and riposte, all delivered with the confidence of a man who’s drilled this since childhood. I backpedal across the sand, not summoning the Hell's Sword.

I flare Veins of Fire, which empowers my body, then I just keep moving my body around while using Echo Pulse to track the attacks and Fire Walk to move faster than Roland. I keep my arms folded for the first three strikes, blocking the fourth with my forearm covered in Fire Armor and letting the fifth nick my shirt. Roland’s friends cheer. The crowd jeers.

“Is that all the Crucible taught you?” Roland taunts, pressing closer, his sword flickering at my ribs. “I thought the miner had tricks!”

I focus on my footing. Roland’s blade slams against my one-handed parries, every impact meant to drive me back, make me look weak.

How can he think he's winning this? Does he have brain damage?

I let him think he’s winning, let the crowd see me giving ground.

“Yield, rat!” he barks, swinging for my head. “You’re outclassed.”

What? Is he serious?

I have the time to turn and several nobles are still cheering for him.

Are they all... stupid?

The sword whistles over my scalp as I duck. I let my heel sink into the sand, draw his charge forward, then sidestep and pivot. Roland barrels past. He rounds on me, anger rising.

“Face me, you rat!”

The crowd laughs, sensing blood. Every eye expects me to fold.

I let Roland come again, shield raised, sword flashing. He slams his shield at my face—I dodge, barely, feeling the wind off the blow. His sword comes low and hard for my thigh. I block, but the shock stings my wrist.

“On your knees!” Roland howls.

I drop to one knee, gathering my mana. 

A wave of jeers breaks out at once.

“He’s surrendering!” a merchant bellows, triumphant.

“Knew he’d fold!” a noble shouts, pumping a fist.

“Go on, grovel!” someone howls from the crowd, and laughter follows.

“That’s it? That’s the Crucible prodigy?” another adventurer scoffs.

“Some hero. Should have stayed in the mines,” an older woman mutters, and a cluster of merchants snicker.

“If he begs, maybe Roland will let him clean boots instead!” a young noble laughs.

I drop to one knee—but not to yield.

I sink into the sand, plant my left hand, and draw every bit of mana I need for the next move.

The Infernal Manual’s diagrams burn in my memory.

Chapter 56

The sand burns under my knees. Roland raises his blade above me, grinning wide, his friends roaring behind him. All I hear is the crowd’s laughter—every noble, merchant, and snot-nosed brat who ever spat on a miner’s boots.

I don’t kneel to yield. I kneel to channel.

My left hand curls into the sand, mana running down every finger. I shut out the noise. The Grimoire overlays the world with lines—fire, ash, darkness, every thread I’ve mastered, woven into a single, blazing circuit. The Infernal Manual’s memory thrums behind my eyes. Diavolo Draw.

Gold Rank.

No one in Clearwater has ever seen it.

Most wouldn’t believe it if they had.

Roland takes two steps back, raising his shield and sword in a champion’s pose.

“See? The miner kneels before his betters! Admit defeat!”

I don’t answer. I press my thumb to the hilt at my hip.

Hell's Sword forms from pure fire, ash, and a knot of darkness so dense it drinks the morning sun out of the sky above us.

There's a different aspect to it now, with a few dark drops of molten magma sliding off its blade. 

A ripple passes through the beach. The temperature suddenly rises. The light bends, like the sun can’t reach the sand.

Even the waves seem to slow, foam curling around my feet as if the bay itself waits for what comes next.

"Shadow Lattice," I murmur.

My shadow splinters and suddenly tendrils of it reach for Roland, stopping him in place. 

Felisia stands at the edge of the crowd, breath caught in her throat, eyes wide. Sir Greyson’s hand goes to his sword, but he does not draw.

Roland hesitates and tries to get free, falling deeper and deeper to the tendrils, getting more and more entangled the more he moves.

"Wait--what the... what is this?!" Roland starts screaming and then he gasps. "My Mana?! What's happening?!" 

I breathe in once. Fire in, ash out.

Darkness, cold and slow, runs through my arm.

Now.

I move. Diavolo Draw.

The blade clears my sheath in a single, fluid arc—fire blasting down my arm, ash spinning around my wrist, darkness clinging to the edge like a living shadow.

The world explodes in color and heat.

A wave of flame rips across the sand, carving a black line from my knees to Roland’s boots.

Ash swirls up in a cyclone, choking every noble and merchant on the first three rows.

The air splits open for a moment—blue fire bursts from the blade’s edge, turning the sand to glass and the ground to molten slag.

Roland tries to raise his shield and sword together, feeling despair at the power of the attack I just unleashed on him.

The blast knocks him flat, shield sent flying into the surf.

His sword, pried from his hand, lands halfway down the beach, hissing and steaming, all bent and burned, as it hits the wet sand.

He skids back, clothes scorched, hair singed, mouth open in a silent scream as a large wound opens diagonally across his chest.

The crowd gasps—no jeers, no laughter now. Just stunned silence.

The blast’s edge stops an inch from the nobles’ pavilion, blue flames reflected in every wine glass and golden cup. A

wave of heat sweeps across the crowd, knocking hats off heads, sending hair and banners streaming.

I rise, steam curling off my shoulders.

My blade, all fire and shadow, burns out in my hand and fades to nothing.

No one speaks.

For a heartbeat, even the sea is silent.

Roland tries to stand, but his knees buckle. He drops back onto the sand, arms shaking, staring up at me like he’s seen a ghost.

I walk toward him. Step by step, through blackened sand and scorched glass, the only sound my boots crunching on the cooling slag.

He flinches as I approach, his face pale, pride shattered.

I stop a foot from him, looking down.

“You wanted a lesson, Roland,” I say, voice low, summoning the Hell's Sword to point it at his neck, “so I gave you one. Look at me like that again, and you're dead. Do you understand?”

The noble nods in a panic, feeling the incredible difference in power between us. 

Felisia’s laughter breaks the silence first, sharp and clean.

Sir Greyson lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

The crowd erupts, half in cheers, half in outraged shouts.

Behind the nobles’ pavilion, Calantha’s jaw hangs slack.

Lord Aulus sits up straight for the first time all day.

Adrienne’s retinue goes silent, while Veyl’s smile finally falters.

I turn away from Roland, not waiting for a reply.

The duel is over.

*

The stunned silence holds for a breath, then shatters. Voices rise all at once—some shout my name, others boo, but nobody dares claim Roland won. The nobles watch with faces pale as chalk. Merchants and adventurers howl with delight, stamping feet and slamming cups on tables.

Roland scrambles on his knees, wheezing. He tries to get up but only manages to kneel, clutching at his burned chest.

Even Roland's backers stare like they've been slapped, their faces pale, and one of them—a skinny lordling in Adrienne's retinue—helps Roland to his feet before they drag him off the sand. The victory hits like a rush of cold water after a long fight, vindicating every insult I've swallowed, and it shatters Roland's pride in front of everyone who thought he'd crush me.

A Guild official steps forward, voice trembling but loud, “Winner—Jacob Cloud, by decisive victory.”

No one argues.

Felisia pushes through the crowd, grabs my arm, and grins at me like she’s never seen anything better in her life. Sir Greyson stands behind us, jaw tight but proud. I nod at him and glance back at the nobles’ pavilion.

Calantha glares at me, face blotched and scalp still damp, but she can’t meet my eyes for more than a second. Lord Aulus studies me, frowning, maybe for the first time realizing that this isn’t a game. Adrienne’s mouth is a flat line, her retinue whispering and refusing to look at her. Veyl only folds his arms, staring.

Adrienne rises and comes down the pavilion steps, every move stiff. She stands before me, forcing a smile that never touches her eyes.

“Impressive,” she says, words brittle as glass. “You handled a lesser dog. Don’t mistake that for true victory, rat. The Sky Hunt will be a different matter.”

I meet her stare, calm and cold.

“We’ll see, Lady Adrienne. I've got more surprises if you want to test them yourself."

Adrienne scoffs.

“Roland was always a blowhard. Maybe next time we’ll have someone competent handle our family’s honor.”

She turns away, pretending not to care.

A young noble—one I don’t recognize—approaches with a stiff bow.

“Master Cloud, House Lorentius sends its regards. We'd like to congratulate you on this win. May luck be on your side during the hunt.”

He glances back at the pavilion, making sure others hear.

Huh? This is one of the first nobles who actually shows any respect.

I see him looking at Felisia, and I understand.

He must have understood that we shouldn't be underestimated. That's why he's so obsequious. 

Whispers spread through the nobles like fire in dry grass, and a minor lord from some backwater house edges closer to me while the crowd mills about. He leans in, his voice low but urgent, and he hints that certain high-born eyes have taken notice of my skill today because displays like this don't go unseen.

"The Queen's agents are watching," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder. "You've made a statement, Cloud. Play your cards right, and it could open doors you never knew existed."

He flashes me a sigil that I immediately recognize, and I feel fire burning in my veins. I grab the man by the collar of his shirt and hiss, "I don't care. Tell them, I don't care. I don't exist for them—I've never had."

The minor noble looks at me apologetically.

"These are just orders, I'm very sorry. I delivered the message. I can go now."

I let him go, and he disappears. 

Then, the crowd stirs as a new commotion starts at the edge of the field. The line of spectators parts, and Veyl arrives, facing me.

"Not bad... for a warm-up," he says with faint sarcasm that drips like poison, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd.

I can see some malice in his eyes, something that tells me that, before him, humanity is nothing.

Before anyone can react, Veyl spots a young servant boy—no older than—who's scrambling to clear debris from the duel site because he's probably terrified of the nobles' wrath. The kid trips over a chunk of glassed sand and drops his basket, spilling tools everywhere, and Veyl's smirk turns cruel as he raises his hand without a second thought.

Lightning crackles from his palm in a casual burst that he aims right at the boy.

The energy lashes out like a whip that singes the kid's tunic while sending him sprawling with a yelp of pain.

The crowd gasps in horror, but Veyl just laughs it off with a wave.

"Clumsy vermin," he sneers, turning back to the distant training dummy as if nothing happened. "Let me show you real power, since you're all so easily impressed."

He unleashes another bolt—this one massive—that obliterates a chunk of the distant cliff.

“Next is you, Jacob Cloud," Veyl says, making me narrow my eyes. “Soon, very soon.”

He turns and gives me his back. Felisia runs up to the kid, checking on his condition.

I grit my teeth. 

He's still stronger—much stronger than me, I realize.