As soon as the ceremony concluded, Yohan stepped forward and quietly requested the emperor's permission to depart early. The emperor regarded him for a moment, surprised by the sudden urgency from a man known for unwavering composure, and then gave a silent nod of approval.
Without wasting another breath, Yohan turned and left the palace hall.
Several nobles attempted to greet him along the corridor—some offered congratulations, others spoke empty pleasantries, a few even tried to inquire about Sara's evaluation—but Yohan barely acknowledged them. He gave curt nods to a handful of familiar faces and ignored the rest, which was completely unlike him. Yet at that moment, only one thought thundered in his mind: Reach Ether.
When he finally stepped out into the hallway beyond the ceremonial chamber, his heart clenched.
There she was—Hera—kneeling on the marble floor, arms wrapped tightly around their son. Ether's shoulders trembled as he cried, his face buried in his mother's chest. The tears were silent, but they flowed endlessly, as though a dam had broken inside him.
Yohan stopped. He instinctively moved forward—
—then took a single step back.
He knew. Ether looked up to him more than anyone. To appear now, to allow Ether to see his father witnessing this moment of weakness… it might crush the boy beyond repair. It might be the final blow to his already wounded pride.
So Yohan stayed where he was, half-hidden by a column, watching with aching eyes.
For the first time in his life, he felt a depth of sorrow that made even tears threaten at the corners of his vision. Yet he did not allow them to fall. He simply stood there—restrained, helpless.
Hera, somehow knowing he was nearby—because she always knew—did not look back. Instead, she gently rose while still holding their son against her shoulder. Without even glancing toward the banquet hall where congratulations and festivities were about to begin, she made her way out, taking Ether directly toward the Sephera guest mansion in the capital.
She didn't need to speak.Yohan understood.
Tonight was not a night for celebration.
Even after his wife and son disappeared from view, Yohan remained standing in the corridor for a long, motionless moment. His mind and heart pulled him toward them… yet duty pulled him back.
In the end, he exhaled once, quietly tightened his gloves, and turned away.Rather than following his family, he returned to the banquet hall — now mostly cleared of guests, the golden plates and crystal goblets already being taken away by servants. His presence there was brief and silent; he spoke to no one, staying just long enough for propriety.
Once the banquet was officially concluded, the emperor motioned to him. Together with the remaining six figures of the Seven Great Powers, Yohan followed His Majesty through a side passage and into the imperial chamber — a room reserved only for the highest matters of the realm.
As the doors closed behind them, the emperor took his seat at the head of the stone table. His voice, calm but heavy with authority, broke the silence.
"Let us begin. Tonight, we speak not of celebration… but of potential."
Thus the meeting began — an intense private discussion of the noble children who had shown exceptional talent during the ceremony: the ones deemed worthy of attention, grooming, and investment for the future of the empire.
The discussion went on for hours.
They spoke of many children — dissecting their scores, predicting their futures, and weighing their political usefulness — but one name surfaced more than any other: Sara of Jorem. The emperor seemed particularly intrigued by her, as did several of the others. Opinions clashed, strategies were whispered, and plans were drawn in the air.
Yohan, however, took little part in it.
Ordinarily he was not talkative, but today his silence was heavier and more deliberate than ever before. He spoke only when directly addressed, his answers blunt and brief. None of the men in the chamber commented on it; perhaps they assumed this was simply his usual aloofness. None realized that his mind was far from this table — wandering instead to the image of a boy with tear-stained cheeks and empty eyes.
Once, Yohan might have fought to claim Sara as a student. Her talent had truly been remarkable. But now… he found he had lost all interest.
Eventually, the meeting drew to an end.
The moment the emperor dismissed them, Yohan bowed and spoke quietly, "Your Majesty, I request a month's leave."
The emperor regarded him with surprise, for Yohan was not a man known to ever abandon his duties, yet after a brief pause, he nodded. "Granted."
Yohan then turned to one of the older men standing nearby — a towering warrior with scars down his arms and a sword nearly as large as himself.
Zen of the Fallen.
Once hailed as one of the greatest swordsmen on the continent. A man whose skill was only matched by his staggering debt to Yohan, for long ago, Yohan had saved his life in battle against the Tainted.
"Wait for me," Yohan said simply.
Zen raised a brow, then grinned — sharp and wolfish. "...As you command, Duke Yohan."
The two men left the imperial chamber together, their cloaks trailing behind them as the heavy doors closed with a muted thud. From his seat at the far end of the room, the emperor watched Yohan's retreating back—silent, thoughtful. There was something in his gaze that even he could not name. Perhaps it was caution. Perhaps curiosity. Perhaps both.
But one thing became very clear in the emperor's mind as he stared after the Duke of Sephera:
Whatever that thing was — that disgrace born from Yohan's blood — it would need to be removed. Sooner rather than later.
But beneath that cold disgust, a flicker of something else twisted in the emperor's gut—fear.
He knew Yohan well. The duke was not considered the strongest man in the empire; his name did not shake kingdoms like Zen of the Fallen or the ancient war heroes by his side. And yet… deep down, the emperor understood something the rest of the court often forgot:
Yohan was terrifying.
Not because of raw strength——but because of what he could become when someone threatened the things he held dear.
The emperor was no fool.
He wanted that disgrace erased from the empire...but he also understood that standing against Yohan directly might be the worst mistake he could ever make.
"Would you… teach my son?"
Yohan's voice was quiet — so quiet that Zen almost thought he had imagined it.
They were standing alone in the palace gardens. Neither had spoken in a long while. The moonlight fell across trimmed hedges and white stone, painting everything in a soft, silvery glow. Zen had known Yohan for over two decades — and not once had he ever seen the duke ask anyone for a favour.
It caught him completely off guard.
Zen stared at him for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "You know, Yohan… your boy has less than a grain of magic in his body. Even if I take him under my wing, he'll never be able to reach the next level. Becoming a swordsman is one thing — but becoming a Sword Master requires at least F- class magical resonance. Your son has… almost none."
"I know." Yohan's reply was immediate.
Zen looked at him carefully. He saw no desperation in Yohan's expression — just that dull, heavy sadness he carried since the ceremony. After a few seconds of silence, he finally sighed.
"…I can't visit and teach him myself," Zen said slowly, "but I won't lie — it won't change his magic. Still… I do have one disciple. Someone I trained personally. If you want, I can send him to the Duchy. That boy… can stay by Ether's side. Help him grow. Sharpen him."
Yohan closed his eyes and nodded once — as though simply having someone to guide his son was more than enough for him at that moment,
"Thank you, Zen," Yohan murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Zen gave a rough chuckle and waved his hand dismissively. "It's nothing. Don't act like you owe me," he said, his tone casual — yet there was a rare softness beneath it. "Besides… after what you did for me back then, this is the least I can do."