"So, what do you think of him?"
"If he wants to use me, then I'll simply use him."
A slight smile curved her lips, subtle yet sharp, catching Solomon off guard. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in fascination.
"When the attack happens, the parties inside the dungeon will remain. If they survive, they'll only grow stronger. Even if some fall in the process, the rest will emerge hardened. As for Prince Azriel Crimson... I'm giving him the title of Apex."
"…Huh."
Solomon blinked.
The title of Apex wasn't given lightly. It was reserved solely for the top-ranked student of each academic year. For Freya to grant it to Azriel before the entrance exam was over… it was nothing short of an anointment.
But she didn't waver.
She had no doubt that no one in this year's batch would come close to Azriel—not in ability, not in presence. Even if he held back, the outcome was inevitable. Anyone who had seen the duel would agree.
"You lied to him," Solomon said.
"If he lied to me, then it's only fair I return the favor," Freya replied evenly.
"Besides, naming a Grade 3 Intermediate as the first-year Apex will only motivate the rest. He'll be forced to play his role—lead the students during the attack."
It could be considered reckless. A gamble.
But Freya wasn't chasing stability. She wanted heroes. Stronger ones. The kind the world desperately needed.
And if this worked…
Maybe her long-standing wish would finally be fulfilled.
"…You realize you'll be invoking the wrath of the Crimson Prince," Solomon said, his voice dropping a note in warning.
Freya didn't flinch.
"Prince or not, he's still just a Grade 3 Intermediate. And CASC falls under my jurisdiction. This is my academy—and I speak for the four great clans."
Solomon sighed, rising from his chair and dramatically stretching his arms.
"If that's how you want to play it…"
He turned to leave, intending to grab a last bite from the dessert table. But just as he reached the edge of the sound barrier, he paused without turning back.
"…A word of advice."
He hesitated. Then shook his head.
"No, forget it. Just know this—both you and Azriel are underestimating each other too much."
His voice held no malice. Just amusement.
"…Which is exactly what makes this fun."
*****
The banquet was finally winding down, and the guests were beginning to file out in quiet clusters, the grandeur of the night giving way to soft goodbyes and emptying glasses.
Azriel was no longer in the ballroom.
Instead, he sat in a quiet lounge, slouched slightly on a long velvet couch. Across from him, seated with practiced composure, were his parents—and Ragnar.
They hadn't explained why they'd called him here. Apparently, they were waiting for someone else.
'I just want to sleep…'
Freya agreeing to his plan had lifted a massive weight off his chest. Two months of careful maneuvering—all leading up to tonight—had finally borne fruit.
He'd played the role perfectly.
And while he was physically fine, mentally he felt like a clockwork doll winding down.
His thoughts wandered to the void dungeon.
Each floor was filled with void creatures, and the deeper one went, the more dangerous the world became. Solo-diving into it was considered lunacy. Most would call it a slow suicide.
But to Azriel, the dungeon wasn't a death sentence—it was a blessing.
'How does one truly grow stronger?'
The answer, to him, was clear: the void dungeon.
Few could train in the void realm and live to speak of it. And the void rifts? They weren't nearly efficient enough.
But the dungeon…
It was different. Mysterious, yes, but efficient. Each floor had its own boss, and when void creatures were killed, their bodies disintegrated into shimmering particles, leaving only their mana cores behind.
To a true adventurer, to anyone aspiring to be a hero, the void dungeon was nothing less than heaven.
Then the door behind him creaked open.
Azriel turned to see Celestina entering the room.
'…What is she doing here?'
Before he could speak, his mother's voice chimed in softly.
"Celestina, dear. Why don't you sit next to Azriel?"
'What's going on...?'
A strange unease settled in Azriel's chest. His parents' and Ragnar's expressions gave him no clues.
Celestina, equally confused, moved toward the couch and sat beside him.
Just as Azriel opened his mouth to ask what this was about, Celestina beat him to it.
"…Why were we called here?"
Azriel mirrored her look, turning toward his parents and Ragnar with the same question in his eyes.
The silence hung for only a breath before Ragnar delivered the blow.
"We want the two of you to get engaged."