The sound of the slap cracking Iskara’s face resembles lightning splitting a tree.

  The Infernal Princess flew over the obsidian-paved villa that her parents owned close to the Academy. Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal walks over where she just sent her daughter’s body under her Prince-Consort, Kaedor Drazhal, reserved gaze.

  “The Princess—” Veythra Drazhal tries to interrupt but her sister simply burns the objection in her throat with one fiery gaze.

  Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal lifts Iskara by her long, luscious hair, letting the light peering through the stained glass windows reflect many colors on the swollen visage of her daughter.

  “You disobeyed.”

  Another slap turns Iskara’s face so hard it almost snaps her neck. Yet, with her mother holding her by her hair, she stays there in her mother grasp, powerless to do anything but watch the fury of Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal unfold.

  “You lied.”

  Another slap hits Iskara, whose consciousness momentarily slips from the pain and the blood loss.

  “Kaedor, the potion.”

  The Infernal Princess soon feels a liquid trickling through her mouth and her body starting to heal, but she knows this is not for her sake; it’s for her mother’s.

  “I thought you were blessed,” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says in a deep, rumbling voice, “I thought that my talented daughter had found a way to make something of the Mad King’s inheritance!”

  Another slap and Iskara feels her jaw hanging loose now.

  “And yet, you hid it from me! You hid from me that this damned vermin is Baalrek’s apprentice!!!”

  “Mother—” Iskara tries to summon some words, but Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal puts her hand over her mouth, letting go of her hair and holding her by her jaw, cracking it further.

  “You made a mockery of me, Iskara,” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says slowly and with so much poison that if her saliva dropped on the floor it would sizzle. “You made a mockery out of your mother by asking me to give this boy an exemption. And now, now that that foul Headmaster knows, we can do nothing. If we were to hurt the vermin, it would be only too clear that we had a hand in this…”

  Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal puts her other clawed hand under Iskara’s jawline.

  “How could the blood of my blood deceive me, betray me, and make me look like a fool?!” The woman removes the clawed hand from Iskara’s throat before her fury makes her do something she’d regret.

  She lets Iskara fall on the hard ground, half-broken, and then turns away, staring out of the stained windows.

  “You have no idea what this makes me look like in front of the other families—what a weakling, what a pathetic loser the other of Royal blood must think of me. And now, I expect them to be circling me like jackals do with carrion.”

  Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal turns toward her daughter, trying and failing to get up.

  “Kaedor, give her another potion when I’m done talking.”

  Her Prince-Consort husband nods and stays silent.

  “I will take care of the upstarts who’ll try to make a move after this. I have already reports of factions trying to gather more members to oust me.” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal puts a black, obsidian-like boot over Iskara’s neck, pressing down until she starts wheezing and clawing at her mother’s foot.

  “You will be made to swear an oath. The first time around I trusted you because you’re my daughter. I told you to report anything suspicious on the boy, and yet, you said nothing even when word got out about him being Baalrek’s Apprentice—”

  “Our daughter’s not breathing,” Prince-Consort Kaedor points out.

  Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal looks almost regretful in letting her daughter’s lungs taste air again, but then she removes the boot and says, “stand.” She watches as Iskara, with agonizingly slow movements manages to get up. The mother takes in every single second of it.

  “This is an attempt on our lineage,” Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says. “An attempt that will only be stopped by the vermin’s death. From now on, you will be made to swear an oath that binds you to do all that is necessary in order to have Jacob Cloud expelled from Ytrial. Once he’s not under the Headmaster’s protection anymore, you will take his life if you want to keep living. If you don’t, I will take that Rainbow Skill from your body and wear it myself. You clearly don’t deserve it.”

  With that said, Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal slowly closes her fist in front of Iskara, with the space around her daughter starting to compress. One by one, her daughter’s bones start snapping as she shouts in complete silence, completely cut off from the others.

  Moments before it’s too much for the Infernal Princess to take, her mother relents and looks at her husband, giving him a small nod and gesturing at Veythra to follow her.

  As they walk away from the scene, Queen-Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal says, “you will monitor Iskara’s progress and report to me, Veythra. Don’t make me force you under an oath as well.”

  Veythra slowly nods, knowing her sister is not going to accept any other response.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Veythra tried her best to protect Iskara, but once news of Jacob declaring himself the Mad King’s apprentice during the Traps and Cracks 501 course spread, there was nothing she could do for her niece.

  * * *

  Orrivane shoots down with his Void Magic one of Asterion’s orbs, frowning when he finds another one headed toward his face.

  I could shield this away with Event Horizon…

  But Orrivane knows that Asterion himself most likely has a Rainbow Skill of his own. And therefore, with the two still partly suspicious and untrusting of the other, he decides to raise his hands.

  “You got me,” Orrivane says with a sigh. “You have excellent tempo. I couldn’t cast another spell to protect me.”

  “Your magic is terrifying,” Asterion says with a nod, “it makes me sweat every time you attack me, Orrivane. I might be more versatile, but if you struck me with an attack during a real match, I’d be dead.”

  He’s very gracious, Orrivane thinks. There’s no way he’d ever be so slow to get hit.

  Asterion’s combat style is a bit of a puzzle to Orrivane. The Highblood employs a mix of close-combat and mid-range thanks to the orbs he’s mastered. He barely uses the spear when he gets serious, though.

  What a weird man, Orrivaen thinks to himself, yawning.

  “I’m going to sleep this off, I’m all drained up of Mana.”

  “Thank you for the training session,” Asterion says, cupping his hands toward Orrivane.

  “My pleasure,” Orrivane says before walking away from the training ground they borrowed.

  Orrivane walks under the orange sky while thinking of Jacob. The Leader of the Champions is the one who suggested Orrivane spars with the other Champions. Usually, the Void Mage wouldn’t have listened to anyone suggesting he go out and socialize, but Jacob had made a great point: his magic was too straightforward. Even with his Rainbow Skill, Orrivane’s arsenal was very limited. He needs to learn to employ better tactics during a fight, and every Champion has a unique trait that could push Orrivane to learn more.

  Yet, I’m still stuck on Asterion—he just moves too well. He reads our sparring sessions and times my attacks.

  Thanks to the overwhelming power of Void Magic, Orrivane usually doesn’t have to worry about tactics too much. What Jacob criticized as the weakness of his style is also what has made Orrivane so powerful for so long: straightforward annihilation.

  But what Nimirea did to us…

  Orrivane still remembers when the Leader of the Dark Champions humiliated every single Champion at once. That woman put on a performance that made him feel deeply uncomfortable with his own capabilities.

  Yet, she’s still too far. She’s too powerful. I’m not even sure what I’d do to become able to go toe to toe with her.

  Even Asterion, whom Orrivane considered probably the best melee fighter among the Champions, was barely making progress. And, when compared to Nimirea’s power, they were simply too far from it. In a way, Orrivane wondered if they even existed in the same reality.

  I could see myself learning more and challenging Asterion until I win. I can see the path that’d lead me there. But Nimirea? If the Dark Champions are at that level…

  “Hello there,” Orrivane immediately raises a hand when he hears the voice of someone whose Mana signature he didn’t detect. Being a Void Mage with very poor defense capabilities, he’s trained his perception to the extreme. The fact that someone evaded that perception is usually a really bad sign.

  Orrivane stares at a woman with white hair and light-grey eyes, close to white themselves.

  Fuck.

  Orrivane starts backpedalling and raises both his hands, channeling his Mana.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Talia, I’m a Dark Champion—”

  Orrivane discharges a large orb of Void Magic that hits the spot where, until moments ago, Talia had been sitting.

  He turns around, spinning wildly since he once again lost her Mana signature.

  He feels a hand on his neck and freezes.

  “Oh, don’t do that, please. I’m just here to talk. We can’t kill you Fake Champions yet. It’d be bad Karma.”

  I could probably risk my life and take her out. I’ll generate an Event Horizon behind us and—

  “If you use your Rainbow Skill, there’s a good chance I’ll be forced to really hurt you, Orrivane Nyxmoor. Please, just hear me out.”

  Orrivane slowly nods, “I’ll listen.”

  “I’m letting you go. Don’t do anything stupid, please.”

  Orrivane grits his teeth and walks away, turning to face the white-haired woman.

  “What do you want from me?” Orrivane asks.

  “Why are you so defensive? I’m—”

  “You’re a murderer. Your Cult kills swaths of innocents whenever the Academy can’t reach you guys with Knights. And you ask me why I’m not being polite toward you?”

  “It’s war, Orrivane,” Talia looks sad. “In war, there are casualties that involve the innocents, too. We know many don’t choose their side. And, by the way, this is why I’m here.”

  Orrivane frowns.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I’m here to make you a proposal. Join the Dark Champions and—”

  Orrivane raises his hand again and channels Void Magic.

  “I’d rather die right now as a free man than ever even consider joining a Cult again, Talia.”

  The white-haired woman looks peeved.

  “You need power. You’re weak.”

  “I’ll die a weak man with some honor and dignity.”

  “Dead people don’t have neither honor nor dignity,” the white-haired woman replies. Summoning some Mana on her hand that makes Orrivane shudder.

  What kind of insanely powerful Void Magic is that?!

  Talia is a Void Mage, and Orrivane, being a Void Mage himself, can already feel just how much stronger than him she is.

  “Orrivane Nyxmoor, I offer you—”

  “Kill me,” Orrivane says, not lowering his arms. “I’d rather die right now.”

  “You know I’m much stronger than you and I could kill you like a bug.”

  “I do. I can feel it. Whoever you are, you are powerful. But I’m not joining the Cult of Asmodeus.”

  Talia seems to ponder what to do for a moment and then she shrugs.

  “You had some potential. What a pity.”

  The next moment, she’s gone.

  What the hell was that?

  Then, another question pops in his mind.

  Are they approaching anyone else? I gotta tell Jacob.

  * * *

  Asterion looks at a man with a calm demeanor and a pair of silver glasses on his nose.

  “The Dark Champions are not who you think they are, Asterion.”

  “Asterismos,” Asterion says, “where do you come from? I’m not aware of any branch of my enclave. I thought we were all in one place.”

  “There are many things you don’t know,” the other Highblood replies. “And I know how you must feel about Asmodeus given our history. But let me enlighten you. Let me tell you what kind of power you can achieve, the kind of power you’ve always craved.”

  Asterion looks down for a moment and then nods.

  “I’ll hear you out.”