———
The world narrowed to a single, terrifying point: Elara, crumpled and motionless on the cold mosaic floor. The scholarly whispers, the towering shelves of knowledge, the very air humming with magic—it all vanished from Kael's perception. In the echoing silence after the *thud*, only one thing remained: a cold, crystalline fury that burned away the last of his weakness.
He was at her side in an instant, his own frail body forgotten. The analytical part of his mind, the engineer, was already running diagnostics. Head trauma. Possible concussion. He slid his arms beneath her with a surprising gentleness, lifting her. She was so light, a stark reminder of the quiet sacrifices she made every day.
"Young… Master…?" she murmured, her eyelids fluttering open as he carried her from the library. A trickle of blood traced a path from her temple. "No… it's… it's nothing. Just a stumble…"
"Be silent," he commanded, his voice low and strained, not with sickness, but with the effort of containing the storm inside him. "Conserve your energy."
"Please," she begged, her hand weakly clutching his tunic. "Don't… don't make trouble. It was an accident. We must… keep the peace."
Peace. The word was a mockery. Peace was the blanket under which this rot festered. Peace was what allowed the strong to prey on the weak without consequence. Arga had lived and died in a world that prized a similar, hollow peace.
"They have cracked the foundation, Elara," he said, his voice dangerously calm as he laid her on her own small, neat bed in the servants' quarters. He fetched a damp cloth, his movements precise, efficient. "If the foundation is compromised, the entire structure collapses. And you… you are my foundation."
Her eyes widened at his words, at the raw, unvarnished truth in them. The fear in her eyes was no longer for herself, but for him. "Your body… you'll collapse again! Please, I beg you, think of your health!"
But he was already turning away. Her pleas, meant to anchor him, only severed the last tie holding him back. As he strode from the room, a strange new sensation bloomed in his chest. It wasn't the debilitating fatigue he was accustomed to. It was a seething, volatile energy, fed by his rage. It felt like overloading a circuit, painful and destructive, but for the first time, it felt like *power*.
He moved through the opulent corridors of the Valerius estate not like a sickly boy, but like a force of nature contained in a fragile vessel. His destination was clear: the private wing of his brother, Cassius.
The first line of defense was a pair of guards at the entrance to the wing, their armor gleaming. They crossed their halberds, blocking his path. "Halt! The Young Master Cassius is not to be disturbed."
Kael didn't break stride. A shimmering, invisible barrier of force sprung up between the crossed weapons—a simple "Wall of Force" spell. A week ago, it would have been an impenetrable obstacle. Now, Kael's eyes saw the flow of mana, the interlocking runes of stability. It was a simple pattern, overly reliant on a central keystone rune. He didn't even raise a hand. He focused his will and delivered a sharp, mental *tap* on that keystone.
The barrier flickered and died with a sound like shattering glass. The two guards, their support suddenly gone, stumbled forward, their faces masks of confusion and shock. Kael walked past them without a second glance.
He entered Cassius's antechamber. It was a space of vulgar opulence, filled with trophies and gaudy magical trinkets. Two of Cassius's other lackeys, mage-attendants, were there. They saw him, saw the cold fire in his eyes, and immediately began chanting, their hands weaving spells.
A bolt of condensed fire roared towards him. Kael sidestepped, his gaze locked on the spell's core. He saw the flawed containment field, the unstable mana-to-heat conversion. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the flame. The spell didn't explode; it unraveled, dissipating into harmless warm air.
The second lackey hurled a barrage of psychic needles, invisible to the naked eye but blazingly obvious to Kael's perception. They were a tangled mess of malicious intent. He didn't dodge. He stood his ground, and with a sweep of his hand, he "cut" the threads holding the needles together. They dissolved before they could touch him.
He was a ghost walking through a storm of magic, leaving nullification in his wake. The lackeys stared, their confidence shattered, backing away in terror.
"What is this commotion?!" a familiar, sneering voice rang out. Lysander emerged from an inner chamber, his face a mixture of irritation and then dawning, malicious glee as he saw Kael. "The little defect has come to throw a tantrum? Did your maid finally drop you on your head?"
Seeing him, hearing his voice, was the final spark. The seething energy within Kael ignited.
"You," Kael said, the single word dripping with venom.
Lysander's grin widened. "Me. And I'll finish what this pathetic estate started. I'll grind you into the dust where you belong!" He didn't bother with subtlety. He thrust both hands forward, and a spear of pure, solidified mana—a "Mana Lance"—shot forth, its tip aimed directly at Kael's heart. It was fast, brutal, and lethal.
Kael's world slowed down. He saw the Lance, a masterpiece of destructive intent. But he also saw its flaw. A minute oscillation in its core, a feedback loop that kept it stable. It was a flaw he could exploit, but it was deep inside the spell, moving too fast to simply touch.
He made a choice.
He didn't try to dodge fully. He twisted his body, letting the lance graze his shoulder. Agony, white-hot and searing, erupted as it tore through flesh and muscle. He cried out, stumbling back, blood instantly soaking his tunic.
But his eyes never left the spell. And now, with it anchored in his flesh for a split second, he could see it perfectly.
Through the blinding pain, he lunged forward. Ignoring the shaft of mana dissipating from the lance, his bloody hand shot out and slammed directly onto Lysander's chest. He wasn't aiming for his heart. He was aiming for the brilliant, complex core of the attendant's own mana channels, which glowed in his perception like a tangled, arrogant sun.
He didn't just cancel a spell. He performed a catastrophic systems failure.
He found the primary ley-line of Lysander's magic and pulled.
The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. Lysander's triumphant sneer vanished, replaced by a rictus of pure, uncomprehending agony. A sickening crackle, like snapping bones and sizzling wires, emanated from within his body. His own mana, with no outlet, turned inward. His back arched violently, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he was thrown backwards as if by an invisible giant. He hit the wall with a dull crunch and slid to the floor, lying in a broken, twitching heap, a thin wisp of smoke rising from his chest. The air stank of ozone and burnt flesh.
Kael stood panting, his shoulder screaming in protest, blood dripping steadily from his fingertips to pool on the expensive rug. The cold fury was gone, replaced by a hollow, trembling awareness of what he had just done.
The door to the inner chamber burst open.
Cassius stood there, having been drawn out by the noise. His gaze swept the room: his terrified lackeys cowering, the scorch marks on the floor, and finally, the still form of Lysander. Then his eyes landed on Kael, standing over his broken attendant, bloodied but unbowed.
The lazy, condescending smirk was gone. Every ounce of casual cruelty was burned away, replaced by a pure, undiluted hatred that contorted his handsome features. An aura of raw, crushing power—far denser and more menacing than anything Lysander could ever muster—coalesced around him, making the very air heavy and difficult to breathe.
He took a step forward, his voice a guttural, disbelieving roar that shook the room.
"YOU… YOU A CRIPPLE! YOU DARE?! I WILL OBLITERATE YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!"
Kael, wounded, exhausted, and facing a power he couldn't possibly comprehend, could only brace himself as the heir to House Valerius, his own brother, advanced to kill him.