She opened her eyes again.
And led anyway.
"Next, I call upon Shinsho of the Mitsuba Clan for evaluation," Pannival Mahaji Malwai announced, his voice echoing through the ceremonial hall like a ripple of fate.
"Shinsho Mitsuba—step forward," said Angkasa Jayantaka, his tone velvet-smooth, yet hiding a blade of coldness beneath its polished edge.
A hush fell across the chamber as Shinsho rose from his seat. The second-youngest clan head in the history of the Saptavansh, Shinsho was infamous not just for his brilliance, but for his merciless cunning. Revered by some and feared by many, he was known as The Demon of the Saptavansh—a title earned not through brute strength, but by the torment he inflicted upon those unfortunate enough to face him in battle. Where others struck with fists or swords, Shinsho struck with fear, with psychological precision, with a mind that dissected souls before breaking bodies.
Yet the whispers about him were not born from the battlefield alone.
Years ago, the boy named Shinsho was found lying still on a blood-soaked carpet—his parents slaughtered, his younger brother left standing, unblinking, paralyzed by trauma… until his heart simply stopped. Death had taken everyone that night, except him. Shinsho survived—but something in him did not.
He was taken in by Asaya Mitsuba, then the clan head of the Mitsubas. Rumors spread quickly: that the murderer belonged to one of the seven clans; that the Council of Clans covered it up to protect their own. Two years later, the Leader of the Clans was assassinated. Mitsuba Shinsho, then only a teenager, was one of the suspects.
He stood trial for eight months in the Court of the Nation. The verdict: Not guilty. But many believed it was Asaya who tampered with the evidence—shielding the boy he now called heir. Four years after that, Asaya vanished. Some called it a kidnapping. Others whispered darker truths.
No one ever found the body.
In his final act before disappearing, Asaya chose Shinsho as clan head—defying his own bloodline, abandoning the traditional heirs. And so Shinsho led. Quietly. Coldly. Like a shadow wearing a crown.
Now, as he walked toward the evaluation machine, the carpet seemed to shiver beneath his steps. His aura was calm, almost detached—but his presence was unmistakably heavy. He did not walk like a boy. He walked like an echo of something lost long ago. The chamber, sensing the weight of his history, watched in silence.
Shinsho climbed onto the evaluation disk. He placed his feet into the glowing circles and his hands onto the cold obsidian imprints.
The machine hummed to life.
One minute passed. Then came the beep.
888-888
The numbers appeared on the screen above:
816,523 – Raw Strength
987,438 – Mythical Strength
709,634 – Mental Strength
A wave of murmurs rippled through the hall.
While his raw power was not the highest, Shinsho's mythical strength surpassed even Minaki Akatsumi—a revelation that startled many. Mythical strength measured not just supernatural ability, but the quality of one's Naritti, spiritual attunement, and depth of connection with forces beyond human comprehension. Shinsho had always kept his capabilities veiled, unreadable, like a book written in cipher. Now, the machine had spoken. And still, many wondered: Had it truly?
Pannival nodded in solemn approval. "A remarkable display of restraint and potential. You are indeed worthy of the weight you carry, young Shinsho."
Shinsho stepped down, his expression unreadable. But every footfall seemed to carry whispers—of guilt, of vengeance, of hidden truths buried beneath layers of carefully orchestrated lies.
In that moment, many in the hall believed they had just glimpsed Shinsho Mitsuba's full power.
But Shinsho smiled faintly to himself, a flicker of something sharp behind his silver eyes.
They hadn't seen anything.
He was, after all, a master of illusion. A craftsman of deception. The truth about his power, like his past, was never where people thought it was.
"Lysette of the Adamus Clan," Pannival declared, his voice softening with a rare gentleness. "The Seer of the Saptavansh. The woman who has glimpsed all—that which has been, and that which is yet to come—step forward for evaluation."
Beside him, Angkasa Jayantaka repeated the call, his tone sharp and unfeeling.
"Lysette Adamus may inherit the stage."
The hall stirred as she rose.
Lysette Adamus was neither the strongest nor the loudest voice among the Seven Clan Heads. She was not a blade drawn in battle, but a compass guiding through chaos. What she lacked in brute strength, she more than made up for in foresight, clarity, and grace. And now, as Saptara stood on the threshold of a new era, her presence was more vital than ever.
A direct descendant of the Adamus lineage—bearers of time-gifted Naritti—Lysette was only the second in recorded history to possess dual-temporal awakening: the power to traverse both past and future. Her ability, Lingering, allowed her soul to leave her physical body and inhabit key points in time, granting her knowledge that could shape destinies. But it came at a cost. When she traveled, her body remained defenseless, exposed to harm—a fragile vessel for a mind that roamed centuries.
She was a warrior not of might, but of mind.
And though the world revered her as a prophetess, Elva knew her simply as "mother."
Lysette's walk to the stage was measured and poised, yet inside her heart pulsed with a quiet storm. She could feel eyes on her—curious, doubtful, reverent. For a moment, the pressure of judgment pressed against her spirit.
But then she looked up… and saw her.
Elva Adamus, her daughter, her pride, her strength. The girl who had inherited not only her beauty and wisdom, but a glimpse of her rare gift. Elva smiled—softly, encouragingly. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.
Lysette stepped onto the machine's disk. Her hands met the obsidian handprints, warm with the memory of those who had stood before her. She closed her eyes, let go of fear, and whispered a prayer not for glory, but for understanding.
The machine hummed. Time felt suspended.
Then came the beep.
777-777
Raw Strength – 583,987
Mythical Strength – 946,899
Mental Strength – 911,987
The silence that followed was not of disappointment—but reverence.
She had not topped the scores in physical might. Yet her mythical strength rivaled legends, and her mental fortitude surpassed all but the sharpest minds. It was clear: Lysette Adamus was not a warrior of war—but a strategist of destiny.
Applause broke out in respectful waves. Elders nodded. Councilors whispered words of admiration.
But for Lysette, only one approval mattered.
As she descended the platform, her eyes searched again—and found Elva. Her daughter stood beaming, her face radiant with pride. She clapped with the energy of a hundred cheers. Lysette's heart bloomed. That smile was the only victory she sought.
Four years after Elva's birth, Lysette had lost the love of her life—Eden Ilnaris, prince of Justward—during a rebellion that shook their homeland. Since that day, Lysette bore her burdens not only as a seer of the future, but as a single mother navigating a world of war and shadows.
She was a woman of elegance, strength, and haunting clarity.
A mother who had gazed into futures dark and dangerous—and chosen to stay and shape a brighter one.
And that day, in the sacred hall of the Saptara, her strength was no longer a secret whispered by the wise.
It was undeniable.
"Orien Nostrus," Pannival called out, his voice echoing with solemn gravity.
"Step forward. The stage awaits you," Angkasa Jayantaka commanded, his tone as cold and detached as ever.
Orien Nostrus moved with composed assurance. A man of wit, danger, and history, he had once conquered Zolveria, the volatile northeast province of Britannia, not with armies—but with diplomacy. He had stood before kingdoms, courts, and conspirators as the Head of the Foreign Diplomacy Ministry in the Britannian Imperial Government. Among the few who could restart a Holy War with mere words, Orien was a storm hidden in silence.
His power was unlike that of most clans, save for one—the Adamus. The Nostrus Clan had branched from them generations ago, and with that shared bloodline came a shared inheritance: the mind over the blade. Their true strength was subtle, cerebral, and devastating.
The Nostrus legacy was laced with legends. Georgia Nostrus, the iron-willed tactician who assassinated the Danish Viceroy of Greenland. Gorgel Nostrus, Orien's father, who orchestrated the fall of the Fourth Britannian Empire and founded the final one—Britannia.
But Orien's story began elsewhere. His childhood was forged not in palaces, but in the Jail of Maria, where he lived in confinement beside his mother, Elsa Nostrus, during the dying embers of the old empire. From that prison cell, Orien made a vow—not just to dismantle Britannia—but to manipulate the world until it bowed.
Now, as he approached the disk, there was no anxiety in his eyes. No nerves beneath his skin. Unlike others, Orien carried no weight of proving anything. His walk itself whispered defiance—this was a man carved by pressure, not crushed by it.
He stepped onto the disk. The chamber held its breath.
The machine beeped.
777-777Raw Strength – 635,999Mythical Strength – 765,999Mental Strength – 999,999
A murmur ran through the room—respectful, but subdued. For those who knew Orien, it was not a surprise. A perfect mental score was merely an affirmation of what they'd always feared: this man could bring nations to their knees without ever drawing a blade.
But Orien? He simply turned and walked off. No nods. No bows. No gratitude. To him, this was not glory—it was protocol. A step in a larger strategy. A mission.
And then—Awaja Azhura stood.
He needed no summons. No introduction. He was a legend, even among those who had never heard of the Saptavansh.
The hall stiffened.
The Head of the Azhura Clan. The Last Berserker. The War-God of Men. His reputation preceded him like the storm before a battlefield. Born from fire, raised by bloodshed, Awaja was a man of no past—only purpose. He lived for the fight.
When the Second Holy War ended, it should have been a time of peace. But for Awaja, it was suffocating. With no enemies left to slay, no battles left to win, he found himself in a world of politics and patience. A world he loathed.
Only one man ever bested him—Angkasa Jayantaka—and for that, he offered nothing but the deepest respect. Everyone else? Awaja saw them as warm-ups.
He walked to the evaluation platform with a madman's grin and the strut of a beast long caged. His footsteps thudded like war drums, each one echoing with the silent question: "Who will be my next challenge?"
He took his place on the disk, grinning at the machine like it was an opponent.
The device groaned under his presence. Then—beep.
999-999Raw Strength – 988,786Mythical Strength – 777,232Mental Strength – 800,002
Gasps rippled through the room. The raw power—unparalleled.
He didn't wait for praise. There was no joy in numbers. For Awaja, it wasn't about being the strongest. It was about finding someone who could survive him long enough to make the fight worth it.
He looked up, eyes on the stone ceiling above as though peering into the heavens, or perhaps searching for an opponent that fate had yet to deliver.
He descended.
And the hall felt colder in his wake.
[To be Continued in Chapter 40]