The cheering hadn't stopped. But Clarence Cross knew better than to be comforted by it. He stood alone in the center of the blood-stained Colosseum, sword sheathed, hands still. The liberator. The executioner. The anomaly.
Thousands of eyes watched. Thousands of voices screamed. But none of it felt victorious. As his breath slowed, and his heart found rhythm again—Clarence felt it settle in his gut.
Up in the royal balcony, King Alvaro Atlantes Baron sat with his usual poise—but the glint in his eyes was different now. A deeper calculation. The smile remained… yet it was no longer alive. He didn't blink as he asked: "Your thoughts?" Sir Adel Foster, ever composed, adjusted his golden-rimmed spectacles. "Clarence Cross has just rewritten the laws of power in Heilen. A public massacre of our own guard—by one man. If we act now, rashly, we risk martyring him. The people are watching… and worse, they're cheering."
Beside him, General Jorg Zagyg leaned forward, fists clenched, voice coiled with fury. "And if we don't act?" he growled. "We legitimize his actions. We let an outsider butcher Heilen's elite in broad daylight and simply… tolerate it? Do you expect the nobility to forget that?" His words crashed like steel on stone.
But King Alvaro did not answer right away. He simply watched, eyes fixed on the man below—the man who now sheathed his blade with quiet finality, lifting it once in symbolic acknowledgment to the roaring crowd. Then— "We need time for discussion," the King said finally, his voice cutting clean through the tension like a scalpel.
Sir Adel nodded once. General Zagyg… did not. But he stepped back. For now, it was over. But Clarence could still feel them watching.
Later that night, deep within the marble halls of Wasserkrone Keep, a special council had been assembled. A long obsidian table gleamed under candlelight. At its head sat King Alvaro Atlantes Baron, flanked by his closest circle: Sir Adel Foster, the voice of reason. General Jorg Zagyg, the voice of wrath. Prince Zeliq Barton, quiet but deliberate. Eberhard Blaze, the highest noble of Heilen, still and unreadable. And scattered across the table—elites, nobles, and power players who ruled the realm in shadows and seal.
The air was heavy with consequence. Adel spoke first. "Your Majesty, brute force is no longer a viable path. The Liberation Front may prove… critical to Heilen's future. If we crush them now, we risk closing doors we may desperately need later."
Zagyg slammed a fist on the table. "You look too far forward and trip over the present. What of now? What of this outrage? A revolution brews, and it wears the face of an outsider! Shall we wait until they march through our gates?"
Prince Zeliq's calm voice cut through: "I stand with Adel. Our enemies are watching. If we appear fractured, they'll strike." But the nobles leaned toward Zagyg. Their whispers were sharp, their fear greater than their foresight.
Power was slipping. "Enough." The king's voice cracked like a whip. "We are not here to argue. We are here to decide." Silence fell. Then…
"I have a suggestion," came a voice. Smooth. Calculated. Eberhard Blaze. He raised his hand slowly, eyes never leaving the king. Alvaro raised an eyebrow. "Go on." Eberhard stood, the room still as stone. He smiled. "If we cannot stop Clarence Cross… then we must redirect him." And with that, he laid his plan on the table. A plan that would change everything.
Back in Hohenbrücken, tucked within the winding backstreets of the city, the main warehouse of the Liberation Front buzzed with life. Cheers, laughter, and excitement echoed off the cracked stone walls. "Well done, Lord Clarence! You looked really cool out there!" A dozen TLF operatives had encircled him—grinning, clapping, some even throwing mock punches in celebration. Clarence, ever composed, gave a small wave and a half-smile, trying to slip past the adoration with a nod. But even he couldn't hide the faint upward twitch in the corner of his mouth.
Dawn stood to the side, arms crossed, next to Arlen, who leaned casually against a support beam, his cloak hood half-fallen off. She scowled, or at least tried to. "Look at him. Tch. Getting all the praise. I bet he tried to be extra dramatic just for this." Arlen didn't even glance at her. "You're jealous." "Wha—Jealous?!" she sputtered. "How presumptuous of you, Arlen. I thought you, of all people, could understand me." "Quit your act." His tone was dry, unimpressed. Dawn sighed dramatically, placing a hand on her chest like a theatre performer mid-monologue. "Come on, Arlen. Can't you indulge me in some entertainment? Just this once?" Arlen glanced sideways at her. Then sighed. "Fine. Just this once."
Their shoulders relaxed just slightly, like actors slipping out of character. They watched Clarence from afar, the corner of Arlen's mouth twitching in quiet amusement.
Elsewhere in the warehouse, Lucian stood a little apart from the crowd, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he watched Clarence. There was no tension in his brow now. Only something close to admiration—something rare.
Julius strolled up, bumping Lucian's shoulder with his own. "Our leader's something else, huh?" Lucian didn't answer right away. But then, for the first time in what felt like ages—he smiled. Not bitter. Not tense. Just… genuine. "Yeah," he said quietly. "He is."
Julius exhaled deeply, his earlier grin fading into something more serious. "But don't relax just yet," he said, eyes scanning the room full of laughter and cheers. "This… this isn't the end of our struggle. Not even close." Lucian turned toward him, listening quietly. "To prepare for what's coming," Julius continued, "we all need to get stronger." Lucian nodded, something hardening inside him—resolve, maybe. Or understanding. Or both.
Lucian looked toward Clarence again. "How strong is he, really?" Julius crossed his arms, brows furrowing in thought. "Clarence? Hmm… hard to measure. Objectively, he's already elite—two Behaviours, full mastery over his elemental affinity, and a Major? That's already rare. Majors only emerge when someone transcends their element—makes it an extension of their very will." He hesitated. "But an upper limit…? I don't think anyone knows. Not even him. The only thing I'm sure of—he'll always be the one standing between us and the worst the world has to offer." Lucian absorbed that. Quiet again. But this time, it wasn't awe he felt. It was the burden Clarence carried. And what he himself still lacked.
A shadow loomed suddenly beside them. Dawn. Hands on her hips. A grin that promised pain. "Alright, Lucy-boy. Enough coddling." Lucian blinked. "…What?"
"You'll be training with me," she said, cracking her knuckles. Lucian stared. "…What?" Dawn pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you want me to repeat myself or are you just hard of hearing?" "I—It's just… so sudden…"
"Yeah, well, sorry to break it to you," she said flatly, grabbing him by the collar, "but we don't have time for your internal monologues, poet-boy. I'm gonna man you up."
"Wait—! That's not encouraging—!" She dragged him out of frame. Behind them, Julius raised a hand half-heartedly. "Uh… try not to die, Lucian. Good luck!" Lucian's voice echoed from down the hall. "I did not agree to this—!" Julius laughed. Dawn didn't.