Darius could barely contain his rage. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were bone white, and his jaw was set with barely concealed fury. The nobles around him, once loud with chatter, had been left in silence.
Their expressions ranged from shock to disbelief, eyes wide, mouths slightly parted as they took in the scene unfolding before them.
Zarot, a guard of the third prince—a powerful warrior in his own right—had just been killed in front of them all, brutally, by a guard of the fourth. The execution had not just been savage, it had been deliberate, a calculated act meant to send a message.
Aric had always been the less intentional, quiet forgotten one, the one no one paid much mind to, but now—now things had changed. That was what unsettled them the most.
This wasn't just disrespect to Darius. It was a declaration. Aric was no longer willing to be ignored, no longer willing to sit in the shadows.
But it wasn't just the brazenness of the execution that disturbed them. There was something far more unnerving beneath it. Zarot had been a seasoned warrior, a man who wielded ki like it were his greatest weapon, and perhaps it was. His power had been unmistakable, and yet Alan—Aric's guard—had utterly destroyed him.
And throughout the entire fight—from the start Alans's display to the very end of it, there had been something missing.
There was no ki.
The martials among the nobles whispered amongst themselves, their voices low, trembling with a mixture of shock and curiosity. They had all felt it—or rather, hadn't felt it. Alan had shown no signs of ki.
The possibility of ki suppression was always there, but such tricks only worked on the weak, the untrained. No one could suppress their ki to the point of fooling the emperor, the first prince, or even the imperial guards—all who had also noticed this fact.
Yet Alan had moved with the precision of a seasoned martial artist, had crushed Zarot with the strength of someone far beyond a normal man, and had done it all without the telltale signature of power.
If Alan had no ki... if he truly had no magic... then what manner of warrior was he?
Darius seethed in silence, his eyes burning holes into Aric, but it was Sylas, the second prince, who broke the tension. His red hair was tied neatly behind him, and his face was an unreadable mask, eyes betraying nothing. He leaned slightly toward Aric, his voice low, but loud enough for those nearby to hear.
"Don't you think your man went a bit overboard?" Sylas asked, his lips curling into the faintest smile.
Aric turned his gaze toward his older brother, his expression as calm and calculated as always. "That's how he's trained...to kill," he replied, voice smooth, almost conversational.
Aric barely blinked, only giving a small sigh as Darius smirked and turned away, heading toward his own estate.
Without another word, Aric and his house exited the colosseum, the long night of blood and spectacle behind them. They boarded the carriages that would take them back to his estate, and as they rode through the streets of the imerial city, Aric's mind wandered.
The estate had been left in the care of two trusted guards—Meholt and Zahai—two years ago when Aric had left for Byzeth. He hadn't seen them since. But as the carriages pulled up to the gates of his estate, it all looked diffrent.
The grounds were pristine. The grass was trimmed to perfection, and the flowers were in full bloom, their vibrant colors illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns. The once-shabby manor, which had fallen into disrepair, now stood tall and gleaming as though it had been rebuilt from the ground up.
Alan was the first to step out, his eyes scanning the area with subtle precision. He walked ahead of the others, searching for Meholt and Zahai. There was no sign of them.
The carriages rolled to a stop at the entrance, and Aric stepped out aswell, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his estate. It had been transformed—just like he had requested, a payment of five million gold was made for that very purpose afterall, but something about it felt wrong.
Too perfect. Too... staged.
Alan reached the door first, his hand resting on the handle for a moment before he pushed it open. The door creaked slightly as it swung inward, revealing the foyer bathed in soft candlelight.
The interior was spotless, every inch polished and shining as though the entire manor had been scrubbed clean.
But as Alan stepped inside, his gaze immediately went to the staircase at the far end of the room.
Hanging from the railing, their bodies swaying gently in the still air, were Meholt and Zahai.
Their lifeless forms were suspended by thick ropes, their faces twisted in expressions of pain and terror. Blood dripped slowly from their wounds, pooling on the floor below them. The estate guards who had served Aric had been turned into nothing but broken, bloodied corpses, left as a grotesque display in the heart of Aric's home.
The air was filled with the stench of death, the silence in the room so heavy it was suffocating.
Alan's hand dropped to his side, his expression unchanged, but his eyes darkened. Aric stood behind him, his gaze locked on the bodies of his fallen men, his face unreadable as the reality of the scene set in.
Darius's "surprise" had been left hanging for him to find.
Aric was prepared, ready for this even. The payment of blood could only be more blood and he understood this, he did not return to the imperial city for no reason, he came prepared for the battle, not the one fought in war with swords and bows, but of politics and blood.