The sky above Nivadreth was still cracked.
Days had passed since the scream of the Threnody Bell — an ancient horn of soul-iron, linked to the life of the Demon Lord, shattered in two, its dying echo crawling through every corner of the demon territories. No one had seen the body. But the bell did not lie.
The Demon Lord was dead.
In the Court of Thorns, beneath the obsidian crown of the palace, the old powers gathered. Thrones in a crescent — all filled with generals, highbloods, and clan warlords. All but one.
The center throne. The Throne of Finality. Vacant.
And beside it, alone: Princess Lilith, Firstborn of the Zeron.
Her hands were bare — no ring, no Eye, no blessing.
The ritual of succession had failed. The Eye of Finality could not be passed down without the host's corpse — and the ring, the Crest of Sovereignty, was missing. Only those two artifacts were needed to sanctify a rightful heir.
Her father's final relics were simply... gone.
And in their absence, the vultures found their voices.
"If there is no corpse, how can we trust he is truly dead?""The Bell broke, yes — but might it not have been deceived?""Even if he died... How do we take care of this problem? Where is the rite of passage? Where is the ring?"
Duke Glagoth slammed a clawed fist onto his armrest. "Enough illusions! The Demon Lord fell like a beast in the dark. No glory. No final will. No legacy. We have followed a dying myth long enough."
High Priestess Nora narrowed her silver eyes. "You dare spit on his memory while his blood stands before us?"
"She stands with nothing," said General Xarnos coldly. "No ring. No Eye. No succession. She is a girl in black, not a Sovereign."
Lilith said nothing.
The chamber trembled beneath the weight of unspoken war.
She could feel it: each of them vying, calculating, measuring how long they had to wait before open rebellion could be justified. A missing body gave them doubt. A missing ring gave them excuse.
They believed the Eye was lost with her father.They did not know he had given it away — in secret — to someone outside the bloodlines. And she also had no idea.
But Lilith knew this much:
The throne would not wait forever. And neither would the knives in the dark.
"You will watch your tongue," she said, voice quiet but laced with power. "My father died fighting the combined wrath of this world's heroes. He did not flee. He protected us."
"Then where is the Eye?" spat the six-eyed noble. "The Eye of Finality must be passed through blood — from corpse to heir. Without it, you are just a girl playing princess."
The chamber buzzed with tension. Half the dukes were silent — watching. Waiting.
Lilith didn't respond immediately. She felt the weight of their gazes, the invisible warlines already being drawn.
They think I'm weak. That my father's legacy died with him.
But they were wrong. She had felt a pulse — just once — on the night the Threnody Bell shattered. A thread of soul-bond left behind. It wasn't much, but it was enough to know one thing.
Even if the Eye had not returned to the Demon Throne.
Someone else has it.
The murmur in the chamber shifted. Voices lowered, eyes darted toward each other.
Duke Glagoth leaned forward, claws tapping sharply on his armrest.
"Our late lord's passing demands respect," he growled. "But our enemies are not idle. The humans who struck down the Lord have not vanished like shadows in the wind."
High Priestess Nora's silver eyes darkened. "Their victory has only emboldened them. Scouting parties have been seen beyond the Blackened Marsh. They gather, preparing for war."
General Xarnos snarled, "We can ill afford another war. Our legions are fractured. Our warlocks distracted. The ground itself seems to weep with blood."
A cold silence fell.
Lilith lifted her chin. Her sharp features and glowing violet eyes held an eerie, otherworldly beauty. Her voice was steady, heavy with urgency.
"Then we must prepare. Not just for the war they bring, but for the chaos here within. Our enemies will exploit every crack in our walls."
The court nodded, some in grudging agreement.
Duke Glagoth's eyes gleamed with hard steel.
So it begins. The war for the Demon Throne... and the war for our very survival.
The Threnody Bell's shattered echoes already faded, replaced by the drumbeats of an inevitable war.
---
Long before the morning haze cleared over Astralis Academy, the report had reached the tower.
"He completed the mission," said Mirelle Thalrune, standing across the polished desk of the Headmaster's office.
Headmaster Eryndor lifted his gaze from the scrolls. "Who?"
"Soren Noctis."
The headmaster blinked. "The blind instructor."
Mirelle nodded. "The Crimson Apostle is dead."
Silence fell. Eryndor leaned back slightly in his chair, the weight of those words settling in the air like dust after an explosion.
"That is... astonishing," he murmured. "And wholly unexpected. I had only recently received an update from the Authority of Measured Might—"
"The Arbitrix Codex," Mirelle supplied.
"Yes. They listed the Crimson Apostle as having reached S-rank status—barely, but officially. I was considering pulling Soren from the mission. That would have meant the mission parameters were catastrophically miscalculated. And now you're telling me he completed it?"
"I received a long-range relay just this morning. It wasn't just him—he was aided, unexpectedly, by Elianne Rosavelle and a single bodyguard."
Eryndor's brows lifted. "Rosavelle? A descendant of Camellia?"
He exhaled, slowly. "Fitting. It was the Crimson Apostle's betrayal that led to Camellia's fall. That girl must carry a heavy weight... But still—she shouldn't yet be capable of standing against an S-rank opponent."
"I thought the same," Mirelle said. "But what stood out to me... was something earlier. I didn't mention it before, but when Soren came to your office to receive your directive, he didn't act like someone desperate. There was no fear, no hesitation. He moved with a kind of quiet certainty."
Eryndor narrowed his eyes. "Confidence. I remember it... that really is unusual."
Mirelle gave a slight nod.
The Headmaster folded his hands in thought. "So. A man hiding his fangs."
"Or a sleeping dragon," Mirelle said softly.
Eryndor allowed himself a faint smile.
"Let's hope it sleeps on our side."
---
Meanwhile, in a chamber veiled with red curtains and old incense smoke, Instructor Vellian sat unmoving, his fingers steepled under his chin. The communication crystal on his desk had dimmed — the message already received.
Soren Noctis had survived. Worse — he had succeeded.
The blind instructor had completed an A-rank mission. No. Not A-rank. S-rank, in all but name.
A low growl escaped Vellian's throat.
He had moved the Academy's council to push that requirement. Had worked behind the scenes, tightening rules, reshuffling mission rosters, manipulating the enforcement council — all to force Soren onto a mission meant to bury him. That cursed clause: all instructors must clear at least one A-rank mission to maintain position. It was supposed to eliminate the outlier. Create a vacancy.
Now?
The outlier had returned stronger than ever.
The door creaked open. A young man stepped in — sharp-eyed, with his coat slung too neatly over his shoulder. His expression was brittle.
"Uncle," Caldus burst in, his voice tight with disbelief. "How is this possible? You said Soren Noctis was weak. A blind cripple clinging to a teaching post. How could he possibly complete that mission?!"
Vellian's eye twitched, but he didn't immediately respond.
Caldus paced in front of the desk, his tone rising. "You promised he wouldn't come back. That he wasn't fit to survive, let alone succeed! That mission should've crushed him—wasn't that the point?"
Vellian finally exhaled, slow and sharp. "It was the point."
"Then explain it," Caldus snapped. "The Crimson Apostle was S-rank! You said yourself the rank office was ready to place update bounty on that thing. And now the reports say he's dead — and Soren's the one who did it?!"
Vellian's face remained unreadable, but behind his eyes, calculations raced.
No. That couldn't have been Soren's doing. Not directly.
"Someone helped him," Vellian said at last, voice flat. "That has to be it. There were... variables. Allies. He's always been good at hiding behind others. Manipulating sentiment. Getting sympathy."
"Sympathy doesn't kill S-rank threats," Caldus muttered.
"No," Vellian said slowly, "but a Rosavelle might."
Caldus blinked. "The Flower Maiden?"
Vellian nodded once. "That explains it. She and her guard must have done the real work. Soren just happened to be around to take credit."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"It changes nothing."
"But the board won't see it that way."
"They won't need to," Vellian said. Then, quietly: "Because he won't return."
Caldus's brow furrowed.
Vellian, without a word, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a sealed black envelope.
Caldus's eyes widened in horror. "That envelope—! Black Vow! Uncle, you're really—?"
Vellian didn't flinch. "Yes."
"But that's a death warrant," Caldus whispered. "No name. No trial. No return. They don't fail."
"That's the point." Vellian held the envelope like a blade, cold and final. "He was never meant to come back. If the mission didn't kill him, this will."
Caldus took a step back. "If the board finds out—"
"They won't. Black Vow don't leave traces. This is a ghost contract. No paper trail. No ties."
For a moment, silence hung between them — heavy, irreversible.
Then Vellian set the envelope down on the desk with finality.
"Deliver it. Tonight."
Caldus hesitated, jaw clenched, then gave a stiff nod. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, Vellian's voice followed him, low and bitter:
"If the world insists on turning a blind man into a hero... then we'll just have to bury him before the legend spreads."