A burst of energy exploded outward as Niko unleashed a raw Blitz, not as a strike—but as a shockwave expelled from every inch of his battered frame. The ground split, gravel launching in all directions, and Lancer—caught mid-pummel—was thrown back, skidding across the cobbled stone like a ragdoll, air howling behind him as he righted himself in midair.
Niko stood, breath ragged, body trembling. Dust swirled around his boots. Blood slid down from his lip, staining his chin, and yet—he stood. His body hadn't healed fully. It wouldn't. Not in time. But something in him refused to break.
The natural wind picked up, sweeping through the shattered street. It tousled his sweat-matted hair and flicked his torn cloak like a flag of defiance. Lancer glared at him—his expression twisted now. No longer smug, no longer cold. Angry. Uneven.
A far cry from the prince Niko had first met.
Niko spat blood, red and bitter, and locked eyes with the furious son of Dem Oche.
"Why do you seek your father's approval so much?!"
His voice wasn't mocking—it was frustrated. Worn thin. As if the idea of fighting someone over this was absurd. And maybe… maybe it was.
Lancer snapped.
A scream left his throat, strained and cracking.
"What?! Why wouldn't I!?"
He stepped forward as if to lunge, but stopped—shaking, fists balled.
"Without it, I can't become king! I can't become anything! My siblings… they've already received it! They were blessed, one by one—knights in his eyes! But me—!"
His voice cracked again.
"Me… I haven't. I'm still waiting. Still fighting for it. Still nothing."
Niko spat more blood—this time out of revulsion—and made a face as if the taste of Lancer's words was poison.
"Is that your dream?" he said bitterly. "To become king? To reign over this broken world like your father did?"
Lancer's brows furrowed, lips trembling with unspent rage and something deeper—humiliation. That someone like Niko would question his dream.
"Of course it is! Many would kill to be in my place! Even more would die just to be king! You think you know better? You—a nameless nothing?"
There was venom in his voice now. But Niko didn't flinch.
Instead, the wind carried past them again—a long, slow gust. A leaf detached from the highest branch of a tree behind the ruined plaza and drifted lazily downward, floating right past Niko's eye.
He didn't blink.
"My dream," Niko said, voice suddenly low, calm—dangerous,
"—is to escape the House."
Lancer blinked. Confused. But Niko wasn't done.
"I will tear down the very fabric of reality if I have to. I'll burn every rule they wrote. I'll climb through every broken piece of hell they shoved us into. I'll fight every prophet. I'll kill every god."
His voice rose—every word louder than the last.
"I won't yield. I won't surrender. I will never be part of their twisted game!"
His foot slammed forward, a tendril tightening around his sword as the wind screamed around him like a storm answering his will.
"I will escape the House… and I will destroy it!"
The air turned still.
Lancer stared, frozen—not out of fear, but because something in that voice, in those wild eyes, sounded… true.
More than true. Inevitable.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came.
Behind them, Mena watched silently, her pale face unreadable, but her fingers trembled. Not in fear—but in recognition.
"That's the same look," she whispered to herself.
"The same feeling… as Juno."
Hope.
Raw, untamed, bloody hope.
And Lancer—so used to being the strongest in the room—felt it too.
It curled in his gut like a knife.
Because for the first time… he wasn't sure he'd win.
For a moment… Lancer didn't speak.
He just stood there, face blank, eyes unreadable—like the storm inside him had gone quiet.
And in that silence, his thoughts drifted.
A memory.
A marble hall. Cold and spotless.
Huge windows lined one side of it, allowing in blinding daylight—but the warmth never reached the boy standing in its center. He couldn't have been older than six.
Thin arms. Unruly dark green hair. Tense posture. His fingers clenched nervously around a wooden training spear.
Above him sat a throne—not the grand one, not yet. This was smaller, set to the side in the War Chamber, where the heirs were tested.
And on it sat Dem Oche.
Back straight. Hands folded. His gaze like a sword's edge.
"Again," the king said, voice calm but without mercy.
The boy lifted the spear again, already shaking.
Whack.
Whack.
Crack.
He fell on the third strike, the wood splitting on impact with the stone floor. His side ached. His palms bled.
He looked up.
Dem Oche didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"You are the wind," he said simply.
"It moves fast, so you must move faster. It cuts sharp, so you must cut deeper. Weakness is not the gift I gave you."
The boy stood slowly. Wobbly.
"Yes, father."
But Dem Oche didn't reply.
He was already looking away.
Years passed. Siblings came and went. Some from other mothers. Some not human at all. But all of them were paraded. Crowned as knights of the court. Acknowledged.
Not him.
The guards whispered that his ability was unstable. That his contract had flaws. That he was… not what Dem Oche had hoped for.
He trained harder. Fought longer. Bled more than any of them.
And yet—
No title.
No crest.
No love.
Only an endless silence when he entered the throne room.
Like a ghost in his father's house.
Back in the present, Lancer's fists trembled.
He looked up at Niko—this scrawny, beaten kid who shouted about escaping the House like it was possible.
Like he could spit in the face of fate and get away with it.
Why do you get to believe in something so stupid?
Lancer's breathing turned ragged. Not from exhaustion, but from fury.
From pain he didn't have a name for.
"You don't know what it's like," he muttered.
"You don't know what it's like to exist… and still be unseen."
He clenched his jaw, trying not to shake.
"I'll earn his approval. I will. And if I have to bury you to do it…"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then so be it."