The courtyard was silent now, save for the faint crackle of energy lingering in the air. My followers were alert, breathing heavily, bruised, cut, but alive. The scent of blood and scorched earth lingered like a reminder of the carnage that had just passed.

  Kaelen’s expression hadn’t changed. His eyes still burned with cunning, the sort of cold, calculating fire that came from knowing he still had a chance. Valen, on the other hand, was a mix of rage and exhaustion. The Forbidden Art had driven him past pain, past reason, but even that couldn’t match what I had unleashed.

  Then, a faint click. I didn’t even need to see it. A small sensation prickled along my back—subtle, precise, insidious. I fell to one knee, the poison needle piercing my flesh.

  No one had to speak. Treachery was allowed here. Cunning was expected. And I didn’t blame anyone—not Kaelen, not Valen, not the follower who dared. I only blamed myself for ever thinking I could let my guard down.

  The poison coursed through me, subtle but potent, and yet… I didn’t panic. I never did. My training, my time in the Forest of Forgetfulness, my communion with the Devil’s Heart and the Sword Arts—they all guided me. I could feel the rhythm of life around me, the vibrations of every movement. I could feel the pulse of the courtyard, even through the burning pain.

  Kaelen and Valen lunged, confident, thinking the needle had shifted the balance. Their combined attacks were a blur, a storm of power aimed to end me in a single strike.

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  I gritted my teeth, feeling the poison spreading, but I could also feel my own pulse, steady and unwavering, aligning with the vibrations of Esdeath and the Heavenly Demon Sword Arts.

  It was time.

  I let the sixth technique flow. It wasn’t just a strike—it was judgment. A movement honed through pain, fury, and the rhythm of countless battles. Esdeath spun in my hand, the black blade devouring the air and amplifying my demonic qi, slicing through both space and intent.

  Valen’s head fell first. His eyes, wide with the shock of inevitable defeat, stared at me for the last time. The Forbidden Art faded in an instant, leaving only a husk of what he once was. Kaelen followed. His smirk froze, then dissolved into disbelief as Esdeath’s blade severed him cleanly.

  The courtyard echoed with the impact, a silence so complete it pressed against my ears. My followers exhaled in unison, relief and awe mixing into a tangible force that seemed to hum along with the vibrations I still felt coursing beneath the courtyard floor.

  Kaelric moved swiftly, intercepting the follower of Kaelen who had dared the poison needle. There was no hesitation. The blade cut true, precise, and final. The danger was neutralized.

  I pushed myself up slowly, feeling the poison attempt to crawl further into my veins—but it was already too late for it to matter. My will, my mastery over myself and the battlefield, had outmatched every trick, every treachery, every underhanded move.

  I looked around at my surviving followers: Kaelric, Seryn, Tharos, Liora. Each one carried the marks of battle, the strain, the fear, the exhilaration. Yet, they had survived. And more importantly, they had survived with me.

  I sheathed Esdeath and let a faint, dangerous smile tug at my lips.

  “Treachery is allowed,” I said quietly, almost to myself. “But only if you survive it. And I… always survive.”

  The moonlight glinted off Esdeath’s black blade as I straightened, shoulders square, aura radiating an authority that was both terrifying and magnetic.

  The courtyard was ours. For now.