The fight had ended.
Not with thunder.
Not with glory.
But with clarity.
Lucavion stood, surrounded by curling remnants of black flame, the battlefield warped beneath his boots—testament to a technique that should not have existed.
And Seran—Reynald Vale—was no longer a hero.
Not in their eyes.
Back in the inn, Valeria said nothing.
The tavern had gone quiet again, but not with reverence. The voices around her were hushed, uncertain, watchful. The projection crackled slightly above the hearth, flickering between broken images of Seran's defeat and Lucavion's final, damning words.
"This is a technique the likes of you can never dream of using."
"You should've submitted."
The mask was gone.
Whatever careful persona Seran had worn—the kind swordsman, the noble soul who rose from nothing—had fractured under black flame and swordpoint.
And worse than his defeat…
…was the truth of what he'd hidden.
"Did you see those runes? That's not common access."
