Sion knelt beside Janet, whose fragile form trembled in the aftermath. Her dress was torn, her body bruised and bloodied, her eyes wide and lost. As he touched her shoulder gently, she flinched—then slowly looked up to see his face, not of a scared boy, but a raging storm now calmed, just for her.
"Rapheal," Sion whispered, not moving his lips. "Help me. She doesn't deserve this pain."
In a shimmer of soft silver light, Rapheal appeared behind him, wings glowing faintly in the blood-soaked dusk. She nodded, her childlike face unusually solemn. "Use me. Your divine link with Aria allows it now."
Sion placed a hand over Janet's heart, and whispered words not taught, but remembered—etched into his soul by the goddess herself.
"Sanctus Lux: Aetheria Mendora."
A warm, celestial glow surrounded Janet's body. The bruises faded. The cuts vanished. Her breath steadied, and her trembling ceased. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned into Sion's chest, murmuring in a fragile, dream-like voice:
"...Thank you, big brother…"
That single phrase shattered something cold and dead inside Sion.
He stood slowly, cradling Janet on his back, her small arms limp over his shoulders. Her breath was soft and light, like she was finally allowed to sleep.
And as he walked forward through the crimson field, the storm inside him returned—not in action, but in presence.
Every knight who witnessed it stood frozen. Blood clung to Sion's boots like shadows. Body parts hung from the training ground rails like torn banners—legs, arms, heads still rolling, stuck in the mud. The scent was overwhelming—copper, burnt cloth, entrails.
Jerin collapsed to his knees behind him, his lips trembling, his eyes wide. He had never seen death on this scale. Not like this. It was not a battle.
It was a massacre.
And Sion didn't even look winded.
As he passed, every knight drew back. They dared not speak. Some fell to their knees in terror. Others just stared, their eyes filled with questions they wouldn't dare voice.
Then Sion stopped.
He turned his head, gaze sweeping through the field, the knights, the bloodied training ground that once mocked his family.
"I am Sion John Ragnar," he said, his voice booming unnaturally loud, carrying a divine echo with it—one that stilled the wind. "I give you my final warning. Touch my sister… or my mother… and I will make your life a hell that the demons themselves would fear. I will personally drag your souls to the grim reaper and laugh as he claims them."
He turned back toward the estate. "Jerin," he said coldly, "we're going to Janet's room. Lead the way."
Jerin, pale and still shaking, nodded frantically. "Y-Yes, young master!"
As they walked, Sion's aura still roared in silence—unseen, but felt. Even nature seemed to step aside as he passed.
Meanwhile, in the Duke's office, the orb of magical vision faded.
Duke John Ragnar sipped his wine slowly, then set the cup down.
Finally… his son had awakened.
He didn't even need to raise a hand. His enemies had been slaughtered. His daughter protected. Justice, long overdue, had been delivered—not by a knight, not by a court—but by a son once discarded and ignored.
He closed his eyes.
"Finally… my beast has woken up," he whispered.
He turned to Luthor, who stood stiffly nearby.
"I no longer need to dirty my hands with traitors in my house. My son will purge the scum for me—and protect what is mine."
Luthor hesitated. "But my lord… this change. It's not just his strength. He's no longer the same. He's…"
"A force," John finished for him. "A force this family needed."
Then the Duke stood.
"Luthor. Go find Martha, the head secretary of mary . Tell her to arrange a dinner. A family one. I will face my wife and daughter. I will beg their forgiveness."
He paused at the door.
"For too long, I let politics shame me into silence. No more."