That afternoon, Baylen finally saw it—the golden thread in the labyrinth.
Days of false leads, surveillance dead ends, and broken expectations had finally aligned. His eyes were bloodshot. His cloak smelled of alley grease and dried sweat. His lips curled into something dangerous.
The bastard was cornered.
Vermillion Grace Hotel. Penthouse Suite. Twelfth floor.
Sleeping.
Sick.
Alone.
Baylen gathered the group: hired blades, rogue mages, and seasoned killers, all standing before him. The best mix of money and desperation he could buy. Eleven of them now, waiting in silence, their attention fixed on Baylen.
"Boys," Baylen said, tone oily with satisfaction, "we finally got him."
A few scoffed.
"Sick again, huh? Shocker. The Ziglar runt is always leaking something."
"Didn't he cough blood just from sneezing last winter?" another snorted.
Someone sneered, "Almost bought those fairy tales—the 'curse lifted,' 'second coming,' whatever. Kid's no storm god. Just hype."
"Ziglar miracle? Just polished horseshit," someone muttered, drawing dark chuckles.
Baylen raised a hand, poisoned silk glinting. Silence crashed. "Keep laughing. I want grins when we cut that prodigy's throat."
Baylen tapped a map of the penthouse layout and explained, "He's locked inside the chamber. There has been no movement for five days since they found him.
The dragon stands watch at the entrance, unmoving. We'll use suppression scrolls—Null Qi Nets, tiered illusions, synchronized entry.
Four of you will crawl through the vents. Two will climb to the balcony. Three will breach via the hallway. One stays below as lookout."
He pointed to the Null Qi Nets and explained how they neutralize energy-based defenses.
He flicked a carved obsidian token across the table. It landed dead center.
"Sever the alarms, poison the mana supply line, and flood the suite with silence arrays. I want his dragon too stunned to yawn."
"And the target?" someone growled.
Baylen's eyes gleamed. "He won't even open his eyes."
Another assassin chuckled. "So, what is this then? Killing Sleeping Beauty?"
Baylen grinned darkly. "Exactly. And after tonight, we go home legends. A prince of Ziglar… dead in his own fucking bed."
The men raised their glasses. Poisoned wine. Irony tasted good.
The plan was brutal. Beautiful. Flawless.
Baylen looked at the floor plan one more time, tapping Charles's location with a single finger.
"You hear that, Lord Charlemagne?" he whispered to the air.
"We're the bad ending of your fairy tale."
Each evening without fail, Micah made her way to Charles's suite.
It had become a quiet ritual. Unspoken, but shared between her and Diana. They rotated vigil in perfect sync. While the others scattered across Velmora, carrying out missions Charles had assigned days ago, they clung to silent purpose.
They were more than subordinates. More than pawns in some great web.
They were his chosen people.
What united them was more than loyalty—it was the shared mantra whispered before dangerous missions and during moments of doubt: 'For the Dream. For the Sovereign.'
It was a pact forged from what they shared: battles fought together, and the belief that their cause is greater than their ambitions.
This belief ran through their interactions like a golden thread. It was a sign of things unseen but deeply felt—a promise echoing in every heartbeat.
Each wanted to prove they belonged at his side.
To be ready for the day their madman sovereign opened his eyes again—blue daggers dipped in firelight, sharp enough to pierce through excuses and half-measures.
To have something to report.
Something worthy of that stare.
Micah stepped into the suite, closing the door behind her as its enchantment clicked softly. The room carried the scents of dried sage, soft rain, and residual mana—familiar comforts she had come to associate with him.
There he was.
Still asleep. Still beautiful. As she watched him, Micah felt anxiety ripple through her. His vulnerability now, recalling his old fragility, sent an unbidden shiver down her spine. Even in slumber, he radiated intimidating power.
She stood at the edge of the bed, folding her hands over her abdomen. For a long moment, she watched him sleep—this war-born prodigy who had once been a sickly, forgotten boy.
His silver hair fanned out on the pillow like moonlit silk.
His breathing was steady now, serene. His face looked oddly peaceful, as if he were dreaming of something beyond screams and broken bones.
She exhaled slowly.
"Don't you dare slack off in there," she muttered.
Her lips twitched. She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, settling in as her shift began.
And if he dared open his eyes and start barking orders, she'd make sure the first thing he saw was her smug smile and a perfectly executed business expansion portfolio in hand.
"You stupid bastard," she whispered. "If you ever do that again without telling me... I'll kill you myself."
She straightened.
"I don't care if you call yourself Charles, Charlemagne, or Shadow Emperor of the Abyss," she said, her voice raw and regal. "Next time you fight, I fight with you."
And somewhere—deep beneath the haze of unconsciousness—A pulse of qi flickered in Charles's chest. A whisper of a heartbeat.
And maybe... just maybe...
He heard her.
Silence filled the suite.
Too silent.
Not the peaceful kind that invited sleep, but the taut stillness of a world holding its breath.
Only the soft flutter of mana-threaded lanterns offered motion. Their glow cast shifting shadows, flickering just slightly off. The stone walls loomed darker, their uneven rhythms hinting at something unsettling in the silence.
While she slept, Micah lay curled protectively toward Charles's bed. Her cheek rested against the mattress, gripping his hand lightly. Even asleep, her other hand hovered above his chest, casting a faint glow of divine frostlight as a protective ward.
Even asleep, she guarded him. It had been five days since Charles fell into his coma.
Tonight, something shifted.
A whisper slithered across the spiritual layer of the world.
"Wake up… wake up…"
It wasn't Charles's voice. And it wasn't hers. The whisper echoed—not aloud, not within—but somewhere between
She knew that voice…
"Elena!"
Micah's eyes snapped open, emerald irises gleaming with sudden clarity.
She felt it before she saw it. A crawl of dread spread up her spine, the primal certainty of danger watching her from just beyond the veil of sight.
Then—a pulse.
The air twisted around her. Lanternlight sputtered out, one after another, plunging the room into half-dark. The walls bent inward, shapes folding like glass under pressure. Blood-red symbols bled across the ceiling and floor, burning into the stone in threads of spectral ink.
A stealth array. High-tier. Purposeful.
Micah's pulse spiked. This wasn't chaos—it was a kill zone.
The chamber itself tightened, air pressing against her ribs until her lungs screamed for breath.
When she exhaled, her breath came out ragged, clouds of white vapor twisting in the stillness that followed. The silence wasn't empty. It waited.
The tang of metal kissed the back of her throat.
Micah did not panic. Instinct took over. Her body shifted into a defense stance practiced countless times. Her movements were smooth, deliberate, and honed for battle, despite the fear and the frigid air.
She released her own version of qi frost. It crawled out from her bare feet, spiraling in white veins across the floor. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Her sword answered.
Frostwhisper appeared in her grasp with a soft, glasslike sigh—almost a breath. The blade gleamed, pale and dangerous. Forged from sky crystal, tempered starlight, its twin edges clear as frozen water.
Along its length, faint runes glimmered and pulsed, each one alive, beating in rhythm like a heart trapped between worlds.
It was more than a weapon. Her inheritance—her mother's final gift. Lady Trelyse's legacy, reborn in her hands.
Frostwhisper. The Silent Fang of Eternal Cold.
A weapon whispered about in ballads and war records. Forged where even gods hesitated to breathe. When drawn, the world froze. When it struck, hearts stopped.
Its core art—Frozen Bloom Severance.
Every swing wove frost through flesh and steel. Movement seized. Weapons shattered. Will froze.
Even a shallow cut left its mark. Fine cracks of ice spread beneath the skin—the slow, merciless promise of death.
Micah's fingers curled tight around the hilt. The sword thrummed softly, restless and aware—far too eager for blood.
The glyphs on the walls flared in sudden light. The air warped, and seven silhouettes stepped out of the distortion, their forms solidifying from shadow to flesh.
Four were already inside—black-cloaked, masked, moving with the clean, quiet rhythm of killers who had done this before.
Three more crouched beyond the balcony, their movements sharp and disciplined as they prepared to strike in perfect sync.
And at the far edge of the runic barrier stood one more figure. The commander. Still. Measuring. Waiting for the moment to end her.
In the corner—
Nimbus struggled.
The small dragon's body was tangled in the cruel shimmer of a Paragon-Binding Seal. The cursed threads cut into her tiny limbs, glowing red with suppression runes. She tried to roar, but no sound escaped—only a small, strangled squeak of pain.
Micah's pupils constricted.
Her hand twitched on the hilt.
They dared touch what was his?
The cold hit her then—not the chill of winter, but something deeper. A silence that killed. A rage that froze the heart instead of setting it on fire.
The first attacker moved, blade flashing toward Charles's throat.
Micah vanished.
"Stillheart Veil."
The world blinked, and she was gone—air collapsing where she had been.
Then she reappeared behind him.
"Frozen Bloom Severance!"
Her sword split the air with a single, perfect motion. Ice bloomed up the man's shoulder, freezing muscle and steel in the same breath. She twisted under his locked arm, stepped in close, and drove Frostwhisper clean through his ribs.
The body didn't fall. The moment it broke apart sounded less like the sharp crash of shattering glass and more like a soft, eerie jingle. Fragments dusted the floor, a silent testament to the eerie destruction.
She turned, placing herself between Charles and the advancing killers, her blade raised, her feet silent on the frost that now blanketed the chamber.
The air thickened.
The glyphs pulsed again as the others arrived. Four stepped through the shadows, their movements coordinated, efficient. Core Realm Rank Three. Maybe Four. And behind them, the next wave came—stronger, heavier.
A hulking brute whose qi hit like a hammer. Rank Six, maybe higher. Every step cracked tile.
Beside him, a lean man danced lightly on his feet, flipping knives etched with killing runes, grinning like this was a game.
The last didn't move at all. He simply stood at the edge of the light, aura too still, too clean. The kind of killer who didn't need to posture.
Seven in total. All lethal. All confident.
One of them gave a snort through his mask.
"They sent a sleeping saint to guard a corpse? Cute."
The knife dancer spun a blade lazily between his fingers. "Think she prays before or after we cut her throat?"
The brute cracked his neck, grinning widely. "After. Let her scream first. I like music. I want to hear her moan in pain."
Micah said nothing. Her breath came out slow, mist trailing in the frozen air. She stepped forward once, calm and deliberate, the frost crunching beneath her toes.
"Ah," Knife Man purred. "She thinks we're joking."
"I am joking," he said with a laugh, flicking a blade and catching it. "She's just the warm-up."
Micah's gaze didn't waver. Her voice came out quiet, colder than her blade.
"Then come warm yourself."
And she moved.
She led with Frozen Bloom Severance, Frostwhisper trailing a crescent of frost as she lunged. Ice bloomed behind her, fractal patterns spiraling out in elegant death.
The next assassin charged, confident—until the floor froze mid-step, locking his legs in a tomb of blue crystal.
He realized too late.
Micah slashed low. His knees shattered. She pivoted, and her blade exploded frost through his chest. He screamed as his torso cracked and froze, encased in glacial splinters.
Two down.
The burly one roared. "Enough!"
He slammed his fists together, earth qi ringing out like a gong. The tiles shattered.
"Stone Serpent Stance – Iron Breaker Surge!"
He launched himself at her like a meteor.
Micah dodged—barely.
Pain detonated through her shoulder as the shockwave blasted her sideways, smashing her into a marble wall. She grunted, ribs cracking. Frostwhisper slipped from her grip and clattered across the ice.
For a fleeting moment, amidst the whirlwind of agony, Micah's mind flared with a bitter thought: How typical of Charles to sleep through the only time she allowed herself to look weak. Her lips twitched in grim amusement, a brief distraction from the knife of fear twisting in her gut.
Yet that familiar stubborn resolve, ever present, reignited within her like a flare in the dark.
Knife Man clapped slowly. "She's got spirit. Think the Young Lord'll weep in his sleep?"
The fourth assassin scoffed, " Doesn't matter. They can continue their honeymoon in the afterlife."
Another assassin—Core Realm Rank 5, twin glaives crackling with storm qi—moved in.
"Stormbite Waltz!"
The first strike shattered her parry. The second tore across her thigh. Lightning danced along her blood.
She dropped to one knee, blood dripping down her lip, her breath jagged with pain. But her cold emerald eyes—her eyes burned with purpose.
"Protect him," she whispered, voice cracking like frost under pressure. "Protect him."
Her fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of Frostwhisper.
Still, she rose. Not gracefully. Not swiftly.
But with the terrible resolve of a glacier refusing to break.
She lunged—one final strike. The blade kissed her enemy's arm.
It was enough.
A web of frost bloomed instantly across his forearm, creeping like a living curse. He screamed as the cold gnawed through leather, flesh, and bone.
But she had no time to savor it.
BOOM!.
A violet-gloved hand struck her from behind—an open-palm blow laced with vicious qi. The impact detonated through her spine like a thunderclap.
She flew forward, slammed into the marble floor, and skidded to a halt in a smear of blood. Her vision exploded into stars.
She choked on her breath, gasping. The suite spun. Her sword slipped from her grasp.
For a heartbeat, the world vanished into pain.
And yet—beneath it all—her soul screamed a single refrain:
Protect him.
"Well, well," a mocking voice oozed from behind a mask. "Didn't think we'd catch a bonus prize tonight."
"The Sorelle heiress, no less. Our payday just doubled, boys."
Three lunged. The fourth held back, analyzing her form. The others approached, silent, efficient, professional. All Core Realm cultivators, their ranks spread between 3 and 6. Fast. Coordinated. Deadly.
"Too bad. We don't have time to enjoy this beauty," lamented the fourth assassin as he leered over Micah's body.
The fifth assassin sneered, "Tsk… a sexy frost sword mage guarding a sleeping prince? What kind of luxury is this?"
Micah said nothing. Her blade moved faster than thought, each swing a flash of precision and rage made flesh. Every clash rang with defiance. She fought like a storm cornered—violent, exact, unrelenting.
But there were too many of them against one. And she was bleeding profusely from her wounds.
A line of red cut across her shoulder, another along her thigh. Her breath came in rough bursts, every inhale burning, every exhale tasting of iron. Still, she refused to fall back.
The frost beneath her boots cracked with each movement, the sharp crunch echoing through the room like the heartbeat of the fight itself. The cold that wrapped around her skin no longer bit—it steadied her, a reminder that pain meant she was still alive.
Her hand shot to the Voxen Plate on her chest. "Emergency—"
Steel flashed.
A blade struck before the signal could finish.
Too late.
It sliced across her upper arm, knocking the Voxen Plate flying. She staggered.
The fifth assassin shattered the plate beneath his boot.
"Shit!" he barked. "Distress signal went out!"
"Then we finish this fast," the leader growled. "Kill her before backup arrives!"
Micah's legs wobbled. Blood soaked her side.
Yet her eyes burned with resolve. She would not fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
Another parried strike, another spin. Her frostblade met firesteel daggers, sparks scattering like fireflies.
"Tch. Weak," the silent one finally spoke, stepping forward.
But his voice cut through the others like a blade. Calm. Final.
"End it."
Micah tried to move. Her fingers twitched.
Nimbus whimpered—frozen under a suppression seal.