Asselin drew his sword swiftly, but he had barely drawn an inch when a firm grip stopped his movement. The armor-clad old man was now standing in front of him, looking at him with chilling hostility.

“Know your place boy.” Orym Torfiel berated him coldly. “Not even your father would dare point a sword at me, let alone a brat like you still wet behind the ears.”

“Let me go.” The swordsman snarled as he yanked his sleeve with a sharp tug while retaliating with a front kick.

Asselin managed to free himself from his overcoat, but instead of pushing his opponent with his kick, he toppled backwards as if he had just hit an iron board. Unfazed, the old man looked at the empty sleeve of the coat in his hands, then his anger gone he threw it back to the young man.

“At least the jungle hasn’t dulled your reflexes.” Orym curled his lips, his animosity just an old memory. “Are you still practicing the training techniques I taught you?”

The nobleman’s previously terror-stricken eyes flashed with immense hatred and he slurred between his clenched teeth,

“Don’t act like you’re a good person, you bastard. You think me and my parents don’t know what the Torfiels did to my grandfather?!”

The shriek of rage alerted all the soldiers posted on the walls all around them and many drew their weapons, thinking they were under attack.

“Damn it! I thought the Glenrings were here.” A soldier cursed.

“Crap, I-I think I peed myself a little…” Another panicked.

“Hey kid, this is a battlefield here! Get the fuck home to cry!”

” … “

The cursing and swearing at him went on and the presence of a Magus did nothing to stop it. By the time the soldiers grew tired of insulting him, Asselin was flushed and puffed up from anger and shame.

“Cough, when you get mad, your screams are unnaturally high-pitched…” Ikaris mumbled as he rubbed his sore ears. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch to a career in opera?”

Asselin stared daggers at him. He didn’t know what an opera was, but he could feel the boy making fun of him. The other members of his group were looking away, their mouths twisted as if they were holding back from laughing. Glaring at them in turn, his face twitched and he lamented inwardly that he had such unreliable friends.

However, there was one person who was not in the mood to laugh.

“What do you mean what we did to your grandfather?” Orym frowned. “Didn’t he die of old age?”

For Asselin this was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. With unexpected speed on his part, he lunged forward and thrust his sword straight at the old man’s throat.

CLANG!

The Magus calmly caught the blade with two fingers, his hand fully protected by his golden gauntlet. His frown deepened as he took in the youth’s visceral hatred.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Orym said seriously. “I don’t know what happened to your grandfather, but I can assure you that my clan had nothing to do with it.

Asselin struggled a bit, but upon seeing the Magus’ bright and serene gaze, he became unsure before shouting,

“You’re lying! Gaelin Torfiel was there when my grandfather died. He and some other hooded Magi attacked him as a group like a bunch of cowards in the middle of the night.”

Orym nodded to one of the six bodyguards standing behind him and a soundproof barrier immediately shielded them from prying ears. All of his group was included, except for Zaos, who found himself standing right outside the barrier.

“I don’t trust the Confederation…” The Magus explained coyly. Now listen to what I’m going to say. And you too, listen.” He turned to his companions.

“The Forsaken Lands are in dire straits. If your grandfather, an experienced Magus, was murdered, and by a traitor from my clan, then the Kingdom of Hadrakin is also in trouble. It is no coincidence that the Glenrings decided to attack en masse at this very moment. They could have destroyed the Great Wall at any time but they chose this day.

“Don’t you think it’s weird?”

Ikaris and the others raised their eyebrows, but Magnus concurred with Orym.

“Assassinations of powerful Sorcerers, emperors, kings, and other influential people have been on the rise in recent months and years.” The Vampire telepathically expanded to Ikaris. “Assassinations related to political squabbles and power plays have always existed, but in the last three months the number of unexplained deaths has reached an all-time high. It’s hardly a secret, but nearly 5% of the Forsaken Lands are now leaderless or on the verge of anarchy. Empires like mine may be rotten to the core, but they are much harder to topple. Their foundations are just too deep.”

At this point, Orym made a disclosure that confirmed Magnus’ alarming words.

“… The Torfiel clan has recently lost 9 Third Class Magi and 28 Grandmaster Sorcerers. The Hadrakin clan of the royal family has also lost 20% of its Magi in the space of a year. Your grandfather was a First Class Knowledge Magus, the mage with the highest cultivation in the kingdom. If it weren’t for the limited combat potential of his Arcanum there would be not three, but four First Class Magi running the kingdom.

“Asselin, your grandfather’s death is a disaster for Hadrakin. Our families may have been at odds, but believe me, we would never have committed such a horrible act. It’s just self-sabotaging.”

An uneasy silence hung in the air after these shocking revelations. Asselin had long since sheathed his sword and his face was deeply troubled, beset by a vortex of conflicting emotions.

“You may not be a traitor, but I don’t believe Asselin lied.” Ikaris said in boredom as he ate some jerky to get his stamina back as quickly as possible. “That Gaelin might be a fake, but just to be on the safe side, I’ll be keeping a close eye on him.”

Orym turned to the jet-black haired teen and finally took the time to take a good look at him. Noticing his golden irises, pale skin, black fingernails and the blue-night reflections in his hair his attitude underwent a drastic change.

Like Asselin earlier, he unsheathed his huge sword and aimed it at Ikaris’ throat. Unlike the old man, the boy was unable to react in time and a few drops of purple blood flowed as his skin was pierced by a few millimeters.

“A Crawling-Thrall!” The Magus spat, his killing intent going through the roof.

When that killing intent washed over him, Ikaris felt a sense of helplessness and insignificance like he had never felt in his life. If this old man wanted to kill him, no amount of trying would save him.

Transfixed with terror, he was unable to move. His legs wobbled, his skin became beaded with sweat, and his pupils narrowed to two slits. Just as he thought he was doomed, someone stepped between him and the Magus and the smell of strawberries wafted through his nostrils.

Looking at his savior he recognized the beguiling, but still somewhat immature figure of Malia. He now knew what the young woman was doing with those Heart Strawberries. Apparently curing Grallu was only a small part of their vast array of uses.

“I won’t let you kill him.” Malia proclaimed firmly, her eyes turning crimson red. “Ikaris is different. He’s my hope.”

“I-I won’t let him kill him too.” Ellie stammered as she spread her arms before the boy.

A fleeting hesitation crossed Asselin’s face, but he too finally stepped in front of Malia.

“Grandpa Orym.” The Solostar clan swordsman murmured softly, using the familiar moniker from his childhood. “I’ll vouch for Ikaris. He is indeed a Crawling-Thrall, but he is also an Otherworlder. It would seem that his Soul is strong enough to resist the curse.”

The old Magus did not lower his weapon straight away. He was skeptical.

“How strong?”

‘Magnus?’ Ikaris asked nervously.

‘Tell him the truth. If he’s an enemy then we’re already screwed.’

“My Soul Spark value is 101.” So the boy confessed in the middle of a stifling silence.