The guards opened fire.
Dozens of spells—flame whips, arcane chains, stunning bolts—crashed against the oncoming carriage.
None of them worked.
A shimmering mana barrier deflected them all with insulting ease.
The carriage kept coming.
No driver.
No crest.
No sign of slowing down.
"Milady, MOVE!" her secretary shouted, finally snapping out of his daze.
He grabbed Lysaria's arm and dragged her a few steps before shouting at no one in particular,
"Who the hell is this bastard?! Does he not know who your father is?!"
The carriage didn't care.
Neither did fate.
It came to a hard, screeching stop—dust and mana smoke kicking up around it.
Then the door creaked open.
And out stepped a man—cloaked in black from head to toe, his face completely hidden beneath layers of cloth and hood.
Just shadow and swagger.
The guards lunged at him.
Bad decision.
One went down with a knee to the throat.
Another was flipped over a fruit cart.
