A gentle knock tapped on Azhareth’s apartment door.
Three precise taps. Exactly spaced. No more, no less.
Only one man in the world knocked like that.
Azhareth opened the door.
The butler stood as pristine as ever, holding a silver tray loaded with:
- 10 cans of ice-cold cola
- a full breakfast feast
- a sealed envelope with the Everhart crest
“Sir Azhareth,” the butler said with a respectful bow.
“Miss Rina has been dispatched on an ARES mission this morning.
Thus, there will be no training today.”
Azhareth nodded once, took the tray, and closed the door without a word.
The butler blinked.
He still wasn’t used to being dismissed by a man who treated cola cans like holy artifacts.
Inside, Azhareth set the feast on the table, cracked open a cola, and began eating in cold silence.
Peaceful.
Unbothered.
Utterly unaware that somewhere far from him—
The world was about to wake another ghost of his past.
Rina Everhart’s POV
Her holo-screen blinked with ARES’s urgent red stamp:
[DUNGEON EMERGENCY - HIGH PRIORITY]
Rina tightened her gloves.
“Team, move out.”
Within minutes, their van sped toward one of the oldest Market Dungeons in the region—
a dungeon so peaceful it had tourism pamphlets.
Usually.
But not today.
The ARES officer at the gate rushed to her, pale and shaking.
“Miss Everhart—thank god you’re here. The first A-ranked squad entered hours ago and—”
Rina frowned.
“And?”
“They haven’t come back.”
Rina’s heartbeat froze for a moment.
A-rank hunters don’t simply not return.
She exchanged tense glances with her team—Dael, Kira, Slyeph, Merrin.
Slyeph muttered, “If A-ranks didn’t return, that’s already S-rank danger.”
Rina swallowed.
“Let’s go.”
The moment they stepped in, they felt it.
Silence.
No merchants shouting prices.
No cheerful dungeonfolk offering samples.
No magical fiddle music.
Only trembling whispers.
Lightning crackled weakly through the air—harmless enough not to hurt, but wrong enough to terrify.
Dungeonfolk huddled together, staring toward the center plaza with wide, fearful eyes.
Rina approached one.
“What’s happening?
Stolen story; please report.
Where are the hunters who came before us?”
The dungeonfolk’s finger shook as he pointed toward the plaza.
“There.”
Rina looked.
Her stomach flipped.
Charred corpses.
Several of them.
Still smoking.
Her team recoiled.
Dael gagged.
Merrin looked away.
Kira’s predator sense flared violently.
And then—
They saw him.
At the center of the plaza sat a young man—mid-20s, graceful, composed—
sipping tea from a porcelain cup as though nothing in the world could disturb him.
Lightning-blue eyes.
Silver-blue hair tied neatly.
Ceremonial rapier resting by his leg.
Clothes pressed so perfectly they looked ironed by lightning itself.
A butler stood behind him, hands folded politely.
Rina felt her breath hitch.
Not because of killing intent.
But because of presence.
Old.
Refined.
Like royalty grown in storms.
He set his teacup down with quiet elegance.
“You must be the next group,” he said smoothly, as lightning hummed in the air.
“Tell me—are you the one who killed Gorvath?”
Rina stepped back, her body trembling.
Her chest tightened automatically at the memory of the Titan’s roar—
of her own bones nearly turning to ash—
“N-No… I didn’t kill him.”
He stood.
Lightning rolled across his arms.
“I felt his energy on you. The Titan’s lightning clings to your blood.
You were there.”
Rina swallowed.
“Yes… but someone else delivered the killing blow.”
The man’s expression sharpened, interest igniting.
“…Someone else?”
He stared, not hostile—just intensely focused.
A measured pause.
Then he bowed slightly, hand to his chest.
“I am Flercher Azureveil…”
His voice carried the weight of legacy.
“…the 48th to bear the Sovereign’s name.”
Rina blinked hard.
“F-Flercher…?”
Dael whispered behind her:
“Rina… isn’t that the name written in your skillbook…?”
Kira muttered,
“That’s the name your teacher mentioned, right?
Some ancient lightning dude?”
Rina didn’t answer.
Her mind spiraled.
Why?
Why was the name appearing again and again?
The elegant man continued…
“My clan carries the Lightning Sovereign’s legacy.
We inherit his name to prove we carry even a fraction of his storm.”
Clearly…
He knew nothing about the original Flercher.
Nothing about the Demon Lord.
Only a story passed down through ages.
He lifted his rapier.
“I seek the one who killed Gorvath.”
Slyeph cursed under her breath.
Dael whispered, terrified,
“He wants to challenge that guy…?!
Is he insane…?!”
Rina shook her head quickly.
“You don’t understand.
Whoever killed that Titan… is on a completely different level.”
He stepped closer.
But his aura wasn’t bloodthirsty.
It was resolute.
Convicted.
“I must prove my worth.
The Sovereign’s name is not inherited blindly.
I must challenge the strongest lightning wielder alive.”
Rina froze in place.
Because she realized—
He wasn’t after her.
He wasn’t after Gorvath.
He was after Azhareth.
And he didn’t even know it.
Lightning flared behind the descendant, spiraling up into the air as he pointed his rapier toward the sky.
“Take me,” he said firmly,
“to the one whose lightning shook the world.”
Rina’s legs nearly gave out.
Because she knew exactly where this was going.
And exactly how terrifying the answer was.
The 48th Lightning Sovereign had just declared a challenge…
against the man eating breakfast in the dark with a puppy.