NOVPUBThe courtroom fell into a suffocating silence. No one dared to speak. The council members exchanged glances—each already certain of their verdict.
Alastair of House Azraral, usually composed and reserved, stepped forward. His tone was flat, but his words cut deep.
"Emmet, what you've done is a stain upon the crown."
"You were never meant to hold the throne—not even in His Majesty Claude's absence. You are simply unfit to be King."
His voice echoed, stirring murmurs among the nobles. The unspoken truth had finally been voiced. The council's direction was now clear.
"I stand with Lord Donovan's legacy," Alastair continued, "and his final order was to kneel before the one who bears the Specter of Doom and the Sovereign Orb." He smirked.
"But you can't hold them, can you?"
Emmet's face tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. "So, the quiet one finally speaks—just to see me fall."
He sneered. "Your opinion has always been colored by your bias as you dislike me. Why should your words carry weight?"
Alastair chuckled darkly. "And you think yours do? You're the only one in this room whose vote holds no power—you're not even part of this court."
His sharp gaze locked onto Claude. "So what are you waiting for, Your Majesty? Cut out his tongue. Sever his head. Show them what becomes of those who dare lay claim to what is rightfully yours."
Claude blinked—startled. It was the first time he'd seen Alastair like this: so cold, so ruthless. The quiet man had finally bared his fangs.
Damien Julven, the Minister of Finance, stepped forward next.
"I agree with Alastair. As the man overseeing this kingdom's finances, I can say without doubt—Your Majesty has brought prosperity."
"He's uplifted the common folk, tamed inflation, and stalled the Church's growing influence."
He turned to Emmet with narrowed eyes. "Can you do the same?"
Emmet was cornered. The verdict had been spoken, and the silence of the undecided only confirmed it. No one would ally themselves with a coup this childish… and desperate.
Claude smirked, pride swelling in his chest. He had never doubted his council—but still, their loyalty, this level of support… it moved him. Especially considering how much he demanded from them.
Then Aldrich rose—calm, but stern.
"I never thought you would stoop to usurpation, Emmet." His voice carried disappointment rather than anger.
"It's true—when His Majesty ascended, he was arrogant. Stubborn. He trampled on tradition without hesitation."
"But what good is tradition when everyone suffers under it? Legacy means nothing if it brings only pain."
He sighed, shaking his head. "As your mentor, I'm ashamed of you."
But Emmet didn't yield. Not even now.
"Hah! All of you—traitors!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "Swayed by the lies of an impostor!"
"I was the one who held the court together during the plague! I was the one who kept the kingdom standing when it all threatened to collapse!"
"I protected this realm. I protected its the honorable houses and common folk. Without me—what would you all be?"
Silence fell again. His words, though bitter, rang with truth. For two decades, Emmet had indeed solved the kingdom's crises.
His wisdom had kept things afloat though they didn't expect someone like him to do something desperate like this.
And now, this so-called king would steal it all?
"I don't care if you stand with me or not!" Emmet bellowed, his voice turning venomous.
"I'll drag that impostor from the throne—and I'll do it in the most disgraceful way imaginable!"
His smirk widened with malicious intent.
"I'll start with your heirs… your concubines. You'll watch as they fall before you—lifeless—because of your arrogance."
All eyes turned to Claude.
His smirk vanished.
Llyold's eyes narrowed.
The air grew heavy.
And war—true war—was about to begin.
***
Mahira had known from the start that today's mission would be a difficult one. But the pay was too good to pass up—and she needed the money.
She was a long way from home, a traveler from the Eastern Continent. Swindled and robbed by those who preyed on the desperate, Mahira had lost everything.
This job was her only chance to earn enough to return since this continent was in the middle of plague and she didn't see any future here.
She had wandered into this strange kingdom, where everything seemed deceptively normal at first. But the more she observed its people, the more unsettled she became.
Every single person here possessed mana—even if only a trace.
And then it hit her. It wasn't just mana—it was dark mana.
Just like hers.
She had never imagined a land like this existed. A place where people like her—those cursed or hunted for their affinity—could live in peace without needing to hide.
As she look around the palace, relief filled her when she saw her employer cast a powerful sleeping spell over the castle grounds. Good.
She wouldn't have to fight anyone tonight. All she needed to do was slip in, kidnap the king's heir, and get out.
Simple.
At least, it should have been.
Her steps halted the moment she reached the gates of the harem palace.
There, standing confidently in was a child. Hands planted on her hips, a wide, playful grin on her face—as if she had been waiting for something exciting to happen.
Their eyes met.
Mahira froze.
A wave of suffocating mana crashed over her like a tidal wave.
Dark mana—dense, violent, ancient in feel—radiated from the small girl with such intensity that Mahira forgot how to breathe.
Her limbs locked, her instincts screamed. 'This is no ordinary child. If I fight her, I die.'
Even the summoned monsters trailing behind Mahira recoiled in silent dread.
"Wa—" she tried to speak, to explain, to beg.
But the child didn't let her.
"Let's see how good your skills really are!" the girl declared, her eyes gleaming with wild delight.
"Don't disappoint me, alright? The last toy I played with died in five minutes."
And with that, she raised her hand.
A cascade of glowing, intricate magic circles bloomed behind her—massive, radiant, and deadly.
Mahira knew then—
She was already too late.
Mahira barely had time to shout, "Attack!" before her cacodemons launched forward in instinct.
Twenty beasts—hulking, twisted creatures with eyes like burning coals and mouths filled with jagged teeth—rushed toward the girl, their claws glinting under the moonlight.
Morion didn't move yet. She simply tilted her head.
"Ignis Ruin: Phoenix Spiral," she whispered.
One of the circles flared.
From it, a spiraling vortex of molten flame burst forth—not red, but deep black edged in green, a rare flame that devoured mana itself.
It curved like a serpent through the air, screeching like a banshee as it slammed into the first line of cacodemons.
They didn't scream—they simply vanished, vaporized instantly, their bodies and mana swallowed by the cursed fire.
Mahira's breath hitched. "She's holding that kind of spell in her body?!"
The remaining cacodemons screeched and hesitated, their predatory hunger giving way to something almost human—fear.
They circled Morion, eyes wide, tails lashing the stone.
But Morion wasn't finished.
She raised two fingers, and another spell circle unfolded beneath her feet, etched in shimmering gold.
"Mirage Thorn: Aether Reflection."
Illusions of Morion burst out like petals exploding from a flower—ten, twenty, fifty copies, each radiating mana, each appearing just as real.
The cacodemons lunged in a panic, slashing at phantoms that blinked and reappeared behind them, laughing in unison.
A three-star cacodemon roared and hurled a burst of corrupt flame at her. Morion glanced at it lazily.
"Reverse Veil."
The fire twisted mid-air, turned inside out, and shot back into the beast's mouth. The cacodemon choked, its throat glowing before its chest imploded with a thunderous boom.
"Ehehe~" Morion giggled. "Oops… I forgot to hold back again."
"Ugh, what a disappointment," Morion muttered, watching cacodemons twitch and collapse.
"I thought with two- or three-star evolutions, they'd at least put up a fight."
She let out a dramatic sigh and stretched her arms overhead, yawning as if she were bored at a tea party.
Her crimson eyes then narrowed at Mahira. "But you're a cheater, Beast Tamer woman."
Pointing an accusing finger, she huffed, "Those beasts aren't even yours, are they? Let me guess—hand-me-downs from your parents… maybe even your grandparents. That's why they're so sluggish and dumb."
Mahira tensed, a drop of sweat trailing down her cheek.
She didn't answer—because Morion was right.
Every cacodemon under her control had been passed down through generations, once powerful monsters now dulled by time and repeated bindings.
It was common practice among legacy Beast Tamers, since beasts contract died with their masters unless contracted anew.
But each transfer weakened their vitality, their instincts... even their will.
Morion tilted her head, studying Mahira's silence with mild amusement before something else caught her attention.
A section of the palace wall, cracked from the shockwaves of their clash, groaned and crumbled loudly in the background.
Morion's expression froze.
"…Mama's going to yell at me."
At that thought, she frowned and flicked her hand, casting Hollow Ward, a rare spatial barrier that absorbed all destructive force within a set radius. The palace shimmered faintly behind her, untouched.
The cacodemons that weren't dead began trembling. Some tried to flee—but the shadows at their feet stretched and grabbed them.
Morion raised her hands, grinning ear to ear. "Dance for me—Marionette Grief."
Black threads erupted from the ground and latched onto the remaining cacodemons, forcing their bodies into grotesque, puppet-like poses.
They twitched, eyes wild, as their limbs moved against their will. Some tore at their own flesh, others slammed their heads into the floor in a maddened frenzy.
Mahira staggered back, horrified. "What… is she…?"
As the last cacodemon dropped, eyes wide and empty, Morion turned her gaze on Mahira. "Ohh, you are still alive?"
She tilted her head with childish delight.
"Want to play next?"
Mahira fell to her knees,
her will broken.
She couldn't fight this child.
No one could.
