Amelia smoothed a nonexistent crease in her robe, her posture poised and attentive as Prince Rhydar climbed the steps back to the elevated gallery. His demeanor remained subdued despite the applause and cheers still lingering in the air. He hadn’t won—that fact was acknowledged in the tight line of his mouth, the thoughtful crease between his brows.

Around the area, the Winter Festival continued humming along, but here in the gallery, a hush settled as the prince rejoined them.

Vaelion greeted her nephew first, smiling warmly. “You did very well, Rhydar,” she said, voice both proud and reassuring. She reached out, clasping his shoulder. Amelia watched the young man’s eyes—focused yet distant, as though still replaying the duel in his mind’s eye.

Standing just a pace behind Vaelion, Victor Seraph spoke with practiced ease. “Indeed, Prince Rhydar,” he said, inclining his head. “You displayed remarkable skill. Levels aren’t the sole measure of strength, as we all know. Compatibility and tactics often overshadow raw numbers.” His tone was smooth, used by someone eager to maintain good impressions. “She was simply lucky that she’s a good match against your battle style.”

Rhydar’s jaw tightened momentarily before he answered, “True, but I’m Fifth Ascension. She’s Third. By all conventional logic, I should have overwhelmed her. Yet I didn’t.” He paused, scanning the spectators below and dispersing for the next rounds. “She’s strong. Very strong. No point in looking for excuses there.”

Amelia remained silent momentarily, allowing the prince to voice his frustrations. She too was impressed by Solara’s performance—fire and flight wielded in pairs matched against Rhydar’s elemental arrows. She couldn’t blame the prince for feeling unsettled.

Vaelion’s eyes shone with gentle understanding. “You haven’t used your full power, dear. You held back, didn’t you?” She arched a delicate brow, her silver-blonde hair catching the light. “You were going easy, knowing she’s a Phoenix. There must have been some respect or caution in that decision.”

At that, Rhydar chuckled, the sound low and dry. “Aunt, I’d lie if I said I fought without restraint. Of course, I saved some of my tricks, but that’s normal for an exhibition. Yet I didn’t exactly go easy on her. That wasn’t a courtesy match. I tested her fully in the ranged contest. She matched me blow for blow; I assure you, she wasn’t using all her strength either. She’s a Knight-type, after all, and I forced her into a long-distance exchange. She adapted just fine.”

“...Really? Interesting.”

He glanced down into the colosseum’s seating area, where Iskandaar sat with Solara. “All his companions are strong, you said?” he looked at Victor, who nodded slowly. Rhydar’s tone carried both curiosity and a hint of challenge. “So all of them can defeat opponents who're far higher levels than themselves? How fascinating. Iskandaar Romani, huh….”

Amelia allowed a subtle smile. Rhydar’s interest wasn’t unexpected. Iskandaar’s circle gradually drew attention, not just from the elves. She met Victor’s gaze briefly. He maintained a polite mask, but a tremor of almost invisible worry flickered in his eyes. The shifting power dynamics were not lost on him, and Amelia suspected he didn’t relish the idea of the elves growing too curious about Iskandaar.

“Eryndor,” Lady Vaelion said, turning to one corner of the room. The warrior-priest was there, he’d been leaning against the wall and watching the match all this time, but he’d been too silent. “No comment for your student?”

“Cough-!” Hearing her, he suddenly coughed, and his breathing grew heavy. He blinked and then swallowed. “S-sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I feel weird, suffocated. I… I’ll go out to get some air,” he said, turning to the door.

“Huh?” Vaelion frowned in worry, “That’s odd.”

“You think so…?” Amelia asked as she held back a frown of her own. Was what Iskandaar worried about coming true already? Amelia pushed herself to stand, but Victor’s voice cut over before she could fully.

“Pardon me if I ask something sensitive,” he began, careful and measured as he cleared his throat, looking at the Prince. “Do you—your people—have any particular history with the phoenix lineage? Lady Vaelion seemed to believe that might influence your choice.”

Vaelion inclined her head, passing the question to Rhydar. The prince’s expression turned contemplative, and he faced Amelia and Victor squarely. “It’s not about the Fenixia Family specifically,” he explained, voice subdued yet firm. “Our elven histories—some call them myths—speak of a distant past. Long ago, before our kingdom settled in Sylvanielle, we lived elsewhere. Nowadays… It's known as the Demonic Continent.”

“....”

“That homeland was destroyed in a forgotten war. In those ancient days, a Great Phoenix aided our ancestor, the first recorded Elven Queen. It sacrificed itself to help us find a new home, lending its life energy so a World Tree might bloom, securing our current lands. Phoenix blood and our people’s fate are intertwined in old stories and prophecies. Meeting a Phoenix now… well, it stirs old hopes and questions.”

Amelia already knew that story but was curious about why Victor was asking. The nobles in the chamber began to murmur to themselves. Solara’s victory, or stalemate at least, had just gained new dimensions. A phoenix’s presence apparently was important to the elves; in that case, since the elves were trying to form good relationships with humans, wouldn’t they first reach out to the Fenifia Family?

Vaelion offered Rhydar a reassuring look. “We won’t discuss that prophecy here,” she said gently. “But suffice it to say, it’s understandable why my nephew was drawn to test her strength.”

Victor maintained a pleasant expression, but Amelia didn’t miss the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. He understood the political ramifications. If Solara and Iskandaar’s group were of interest to the elves, it could complicate his own plans. Amelia filed that observation away for later.

“Interesting indeed,” Amelia said softly, breaking the quiet that followed Rhydar’s revelation. “This festival has brought many surprises. I hope we can navigate them gracefully without any… complicated situations.”

Rhydar nodded, calming somewhat at her diplomatic tone. “We will,” he said. “No need to fret. I’m not planning any rash moves.” His gaze flitted to where Iskandaar sat. “They’ve earned my respect. That doesn’t happen often. Especially him.”

Amelia dipped her chin in agreement. Respect earned through honest skill was a precious currency at Waybound, more enduring than mere reputation or lineage. Iskandaar was doing good for himself.

“Alright then, everybody,” she said, “I’ll be back. I have to take care of something,” she tried to stand, but Vaelion stopped her.

“Oh, come on, another match just started. Watch it with me. I plan to leave after this too,” Vaelion offered, and although Amelia wanted to reject and go, she sighed. It’d be better to leave together anyway, and one match couldn’t be that long.

With an internal sigh, she smiled and returned her gaze to the colosseum’s floor, awaiting whatever unfoldings the day still had in store.

****

I strolled through the festival grounds, holding a skewer of meatballs. Their savory aroma trailed behind me, blending with the scent of roasted nuts and sugar-glazed fruits. They were beyond tasty.

“Lilian would love these,” I muttered to myself. But she wasn’t here, and neither was Solara. After the duels and excitement of the morning, it felt good to roam without my usual entourage.

The crowd flowed around me, and lively chatter and laughter blurred my memory. Banners still rippled overhead, and the warm afternoon light softened the edges of stone and metal. I’d just popped a meatball into my mouth when a familiar voice called out.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” I turned and found the young man. “Been a while.”

Dorian Varn, right? He was a friend from my earlier days at the academy, who was by my side when Prince Orion tried his luck on Nebula. Dark curls framed his face, and he wore that easy grin I remembered well as if no time had passed. We clasped hands briefly, and I chuckled. “Dorian. Good to see you. Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

He looked me over with mock astonishment. “You alone? I’m surprised. Isn’t your group of girls usually glued to you like barnacles on a ship?”

I smirked, rolling my shoulders as if shrugging off invisible weight. “I need space too, you know. Love my circle, but solitude’s a luxury sometimes.”

He stood beside me, and I continued walking. “So, how've you been?” We walked side by side, exchanging casual greetings, occasionally stepping aside to let children chase after floating paper dragons or to avoid a couple deep in conversation. Stalls gleamed with trinkets and potions, their merchants hawking wonders from distant lands.

A few minutes later, Dorian nudged my arm. “That fight of yours earlier was crazy. Impressive movement right there. Word has spread like wildfire, the strongest among first years. You’re giving the city a lot to talk about.”

I chuckled as I finished my meatball skewer, tossing the stick into a small bin. “Ah, quit with the praises. It wasn’t easy, but I’m learning here and there,” I said, and he laughed back.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He'd known me before all the hype, back when my name hardly raised eyebrows. Well, I was still the 2nd highest leveled person back then, but people avoided me.

He and I walked together for a long time, chatting about mundane stuff.

At one point, through a brief crowd gap, I saw more familiar faces. Prince Alaric and his maidservant, Jana. The prince leaned casually against a carved stone pillar, discussing something with a noble. Jana stood slightly behind him, her posture poised and alert.

Dorian’s grin softened into a respectful nod. “That’s Prince Alaric, right? I should say hello and then leave you two. I’m not built for royal chatter.”

We approached them. Alaric noticed us first, lifting a hand and greeting us. “Iskandaar,” he said warmly. “Enjoying the festival?”

Jana inclined her head, a faint smile acknowledging my presence. Dorian made a polite half-bow. “Your Highness, Jana.” He looked at me as if to say good luck, then stepped back into the swirling crowd. One moment he was there. The next, he vanished into the festival’s colorful tapestry.

Alaric’s eyes drifted from Dorian’s departing form back to me. “Congratulations on your duel,” he said, voice sincere. “I’ve been hearing glowing reviews. Seems like you’ve made quite an impression. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see it. I didn’t know you’d be fighting.”

I nodded, allowing a slight smile. “Thanks. It’s all part of the show that I didn’t even know about,” I shrugged, “Chancellor Amelia threw me into it out of the blue.”

The prince laughed lightly, and Jana remained quietly attentive. She said, “You and the Chancellor are really close. How did that happen? It seemed she knew you from before the Academy.”

“Uh, that’s a story for another time, too long,” I said, eager to move away from this. “By the way, how are the sales going?”

He folded his arms, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Why, you already know from your bank statement, no?” He chuckled, “We’ve sold more than twenty thousand units so far. The demand has been more than enthusiastic.”

Twenty thousand. I let out a low whistle. “That’s… more than I expected.”

He nodded, clearly pleased. “Less than what it should have, actually. I am cherry-picking who to sell to since I want it to benefit Roshmar. Otherwise, it’d have sold even more,” he said. “It will be interesting to see how the market stabilizes. Profits should be substantial and only keep growing as word of mouth continues to grow.”

I thanked him, my mind already churning with plans. This was good news. I’d already started working on an item to hide Nebula’s thirst, and the Fenixia mansion was also getting renovated using the same money. Lilian was also out on a dangerous mission, which needed some precautions to prepare and cost money. Without this capital, none of that would have worked.

We began to walk, finding a path through lesser-known vendors and curious onlookers. The festival’s energy ebbed and flowed, and every now and then, someone would come to greet the Prince of Roshmar. I didn’t recall so many people coming to him before, he was not the Crown Prince, after all. But it seems the recent success had helped him too.

While passing through a crowd, we paused because two people came over to greet the Prince. But my eyes caught something odd. He stood slightly apart from the others, walking away, shoulders slumped, a pallor to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.

Eryndor Vaelith, the warrior-priest and teacher to the Elven Prince Rhydar. The host of the demon. He usually looked robust and dignified, but now he looked almost haggard. His robes, though fine, seemed to hang awkwardly, and his breathing, though quiet, looked labored.

That doesn’t look right, I cursed in my head. This shouldn’t happen yet. There should still be time. In the game, I think he lost control during the third night? There should still be time. Where the hell was Amelia? I told her to keep an eye out!

“Ah, it’s him,” the people who’d come to greet Alaric were gone now, and the prince straightened, composing himself with princely decorum as he noticed the warrior elf. Alaric approached the man. “Sir Vaelith,” he greeted, his voice pitching low and respectful. As the Prince of Roshmar, he naturally wanted to befriend a powerful elf. However, he paused when he noticed the oddity.

“You look… Are you feeling alright, Sir?” Jana said politely, but her gaze was alert.

Eryndor breathed out and managed a thin smile and a dismissive wave. “Just a passing ailment, Prince Alaric. The festival’s excitement can be overwhelming.” He coughed lightly into the back of his hand. “No cause for worry. Maybe it’s the human Empire’s weather? I don’t know…”

I watched Eryndor’s face carefully. It wasn’t just fatigue. Something else was gnawing at him, something internal. He excused himself politely and slipped away, blending into the crowd at a pace slightly too quick for an unwell man.

Alaric hummed, brow furrowed. “He appears really sick,” he murmured to me, keeping his voice low to not alarm those nearby. “Should we help him to the infirmary?”

I didn’t respond immediately because I knew better. I knew the truth, I could see it floating over the man whose back grew smaller in the crowd.

[Eryndor Vaelith, Level 149]

– Bccht-!

[As¡¡v¿?k Asura, Level ¿149?]

– Bccht-!

[Eryndor Vaelith, Level 149]

His name was glitching. Eryndor Vaelith hadn’t been fully taken over yet, but no, he wasn’t merely ill either. Something demonic was at play. He was flickering between identities. Given how long it took, his mentality was strong, but even his strength was running out. He was close to being taken over.

The worst part was that it wasn’t happening, according to my game knowledge. There were differences. The demon should be Kazreth the Iron-Horned, but it didn’t seem that way. If the odd name was to indicate anything, it was by some other demon whose name started with “As” and hinted at a race of Asura… It sent a chill through me.

My mind whirled.

This just complicated the matter. How do I deal with him? I couldn’t attack him out of the blue. A high-profile figure like him couldn’t simply vanish without consequence. No, that wasn’t even possible; he was an opponent far above me. Far above anyone.

“Fuck,” I cursed softly under my breath, forgetting myself for a moment.

Alaric turned, puzzled. “Iskandaar? What’s wrong?” I inhaled sharply, tamping down on the panic. I looked at the Prince, recalling how many people were trying to please him these days. His words carried power now. That could salvage this situation, even if by little.

I needed Alaric’s trust and support, so I had a plan—kind of. “Prince Alaric,” I said quietly, “you trust me, right?”

I could feel his confusion, Jana’s curious gaze, and the distant hum of the festival continuing as if none of this worry mattered. But it did. All of this did.

****

Eryndor Vaelith drifted through the thinning crowds as the festival’s day gradually surrendered to dusk.

The once-brilliant hues of crimson and silver banners now deepened in the fading light, and the laughter and music woven through the festival all day took on a quieter, more subdued tone. Merchants closed their stalls or lowered their voices, and warm lanterns began to glow along the walkways, gentle spheres of gold illuminating winding alleys and decorated archways.

He walked with no real purpose—just a man in fine robes, shoulders slumped, eyes distant. Anyone glancing his way would see an accomplished warrior-priest, perhaps weary from the day’s festivities, nothing more. His mind felt muddled as if shrouded by a dense fog that dulled his senses and blurred his thoughts. He had lost track of how many steps he’d taken and faces he’d passed. The crowd became a soft blur, voices blending into a muted hum.

What’s going on? Eryndor asked himself, but even his thoughts felt muted and distant.

As the sun dipped further beneath the horizon, painting the sky in a pale wash of lavender and orange, Eryndor neared a narrow alley between two old stone buildings. Here the festival’s bustle faded into a softer background whisper. He paused mid-step.

Something in his posture stiffened, and in that instant, clarity flooded back into his eyes.

They sharpened, and a ghost of a smile curved his lips. The warm green of his irises took on a subtle, ruddy gleam. It was faint but unmistakably there. His dazed expression grew bored instead.

He sighed, the sound low and almost content, and reached up to rub the back of his neck. A casual movement, yet it didn’t suit him. He tilted his head from side to side, bones cracking softly, then yawned. The exhalation came out as a thin thread of smoke and a brief flicker of flame licking at the corners of his mouth.

As if testing himself, he snapped his fingers, producing a bright spark of fire. It was a call. Immediately, the shape of another elf peeled out of the shadows, swift and dutiful, bowing low as if before a lord. It was a dark elf, also possessed.

The fake Eryndor—no, Ashvarak now—regarded the newcomer with lazy confidence. “Fast as always, Kazreth,” he said, voice tinged with mocking warmth. “How’s the preparation? I’d like to pull off the grand event tonight instead of the planned date. Pointless to waste time when I’m here.”

“So soon, my lord?” The possessed dark elf, Kazreth, straightened slightly, though he kept his head respectfully inclined. “If that’s what you want, we are ready. We can act tonight. Shall we wait until darkness fully takes hold?”

A low chuckle escaped Ashvarak’s lips, and he shook his head. “You think?” His tone suggested mild amusement at the question. “What’s the fun in waiting until they sleep? One of the Demonic Generals stands before you, Kazreth. We do it now. Forget the old plan. No one here can stop me. I’ll keep them busy. You—wreak havoc as I told you to.”

Kazreth hesitated for only a moment. “But the Chancellor, she—.”

Ashvarak scoffed. “A fire-breathing dragon against I, the lord of flames?” He grinned, baring teeth that caught the lamplight oddly. “We’ll see who wins. Ah, and another thing. Find that boy who made Vrakrith flee. Take care of him for me.”

Kazreth nodded, slipping back into the alley’s gloom. Ashvarak, left alone, reached over his shoulder and retrieved a bow that looked elven in make—fussy, delicate craftsmanship. He examined it as though puzzled by its existence.

“What’s with elves and their obsession with bows?” he mused quietly.

He plucked an arrow from an unseen quiver, nocking it smoothly. Then, with deliberate grace, he pulled the string and aimed high toward the newborn stars, the little snow that rained. He let the arrow fly. It soared upward, a spark of flame trailing behind. He smiled.

Halfway to the heavens, it detonated in a shower of embers, exploding louder than anything the festival had seen. A series of shocked gasps followed and poor humans clutched their ears in pain. But that wasn’t the main name, no. The detonation rained down droplets of fire that scattered across the festival grounds below. Cries of alarm followed as stalls ignited, and panic spread like spilled ink through paper.

Ashvarak laughed softly, the sound cutting through the mounting screams. And as he laughed, his appearance twisted. The neat elven robes tore at the seams, revealing skin darkening and splitting, cracks glowing from within as if molten rock lay beneath. Wings unfurled from his back in a hideous, angular spread, each beat sending shockwaves of heat and pressure. He rose into the air with a screech that rattled windows and set flames dancing along rooftops.

The Infernal Mirage Demonic General, one of the four direct generals of the Demon King himself, now fully revealed in all his terrible splendor.

Below, chaos reigned. Above, his voice and laughter twined with the crackle of burning timbers and the frightened wails of festival-goers. The peace and order of the Winter Festival had been ripped away in an instant, and the night sky, lit by distant lamps and flame-touched clouds, bore silent witness to the coming storm.