The capital throbbed with life.
From dawn, IrasVal's avenues surged with people. Silk-draped balconies, flower-strewn streets, and snapping banners created a vibrant spectacle. Bells chimed incessantly, mingling with the scents of incense, polished steel, warm pastries, and burning incense.
Trumpets blared.
The city roared its approval.
Sous Angelus led the procession on a white-maned warhorse, its gold-threaded barding gleaming like a living banner. His red ceremonial coat, trimmed in royal gold, bore the Angelus sigil across his chest. He sat perfectly poised—spine straight, chin lifted, eyes bright. Confidence wrapped him like armor.
Behind him, the Royal Guard marched with disciplined magnificence. Their polished plates caught sunlight in brilliant shards. Spears rose in unison like a forest of silver pines. Every footstep landed on stone as though the city itself had rehearsed this moment alongside them.
"SOUS!"
"FLAME OF GAB!"
"HERO! HERO!"
Children raced along rooftops trying to glimpse him. Vendors abandoned stalls just to cheer. Old veterans wept openly. Women tossed flower petals; men hammered their fists against their chests.
Sous smiled—humble but radiant. He raised a hand, allowing the adoration to wash over him while guiding it, redirecting it, shaping it. Glory was a weapon, and he knew how to wield it without ever drawing blood.
High above, nobles leaned over railings of marble balconies. Some watched with pride.
Some with envy.
Some with cold calculation.
For now, though, all bowed under the weight of his legend.
Then the light dimmed.
A shadow slid across the avenue.
Trumpets faltered. Musicians stumbled. A murmur rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
Heads tilted upward.
Gasps erupted.
A sleek, colossal artificial bird sailed overhead.
An airship.
Ivory and gold hull gleaming. Runic stabilizers thrummed with magic so refined it sounded almost like singing. Its great banners unfurled, catching sunlight in breathtaking arcs—the royal crest blazing bright enough to sting the eyes.
"By the saints…"
"I've never seen one land in the city…"
"They say only three exist…!"
Among the nobles perched along the grand terrace stood Logos.
Clad in black.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes sharper than any blade.
Kleber stood beside him, jaw slack. "Marvelous, isn't it?"
"Reasonably," Logos replied.
"Reasonably?!" Kleber whispered harshly. "That's a floating fortress! It's like seeing something not meant for mortals! Why don't they mass–"
"Too expensive, they say," Logos answered automatically.
Kleber narrowed his eyes. "And?"
"I suspect otherwise," Logos said calmly.
Kleber felt dread bloom. "…You're thinking again, aren't you?"
"I always am."
Mana gathered faintly near Logos' eyes.
Kleber elbowed him—sharply. "No analyzing. Not today. No scheming. No disassembling with your brain. Just watch like a person."
"Trust me," Logos said softly. "It will be—"
"NO."
Logos fell silent.
The airship descended above the royal square, engines whispering rather than thundering—power disguised as grace. Mana steam hissed outward in curling waves of white-gold fog. A boarding ramp unfurled slowly, deliberately, like the tongue of a deity touching mortal stone.
Then he stepped out.
King Helvos Gab.
Crowned.
Mantled in sunlight.
His presence commanded silence.
Thousands knelt as if pulled down by gravity. Even the air paused to listen.
The King raised a hand.
Power threaded through his voice—not just magic, but a lifetime of rule, trust, victory, and ruthless decisions.
"Sous Angelus," he called, voice echoing through enchanted amplifiers. "Step forward."
Sous dismounted, boots striking stone with unwavering certainty. He knelt, one knee down, sword grounded, head bowed.
"For slaying the Crawler Sire," the King proclaimed, drawing a ceremonial blade that had not been lifted in generations, "for breaking the Red Tide… for standing where others fell… I name you Master Swordsman of Gab."
The blade touched his shoulders.
"Youngest in our kingdom's history."
And the city exploded.
Sound became a storm.
Cheers thundered.
Bells screamed with joy.
Sous rose, breath unsteady, but smile unshaken.
A knight crowned by fate itself.
Elsewhere on the terrace, Logos did not clap.
He stood quiet, his black attire swallowing light rather than reflecting it. His presence seemed colder now — a stillness against the roaring sea of triumph.
Kleber leaned in cautiously. "…You alright?"
"No."
"That's not reassuring."
Logos did not look at Sous.
He did not watch the King.
He did not watch the cheering masses.
His gaze locked onto the airship.
Thoughts turning.
Calculations spiraling.
Possibilities forming.
Kleber groaned quietly. "You are not allowed to turn a celebration into an equation."
Logos said nothing.
And that silence?
Was worse than anger.
That silence meant interest.
That silence meant plans.
He folded his hands loosely before him.
Not clenched.
Not tense.
Calm.
Too calm.
Kleber swallowed. "…You're definitely pissed."
Sous basked in glory, waving.
The King raised his hand over the crowd.
The Royal Guard stood like sculpted gold.
The world celebrated peace.
And at the far edge of the square,
unseen,
uncheered,
unnoticed—
A thin figure watched.
Clad in muted gray cloth.
Face half-hidden beneath a hood.
Gaunt. Sharp. Still.
He did not cheer.
He did not kneel.
He did not smile for joy.
He smiled because he understood.
Eyes never left Logos.
Not Sous.
Not the King.
Not the airship.
The boy in black.
The one who did not move like the rest of the world.
The anomaly.
The silent thunder.
The piece on the board no one else realized was the king.
"A crow that teaches itself to stand among phoenixes," he murmured, voice swallowed by the roar of celebration. "How delightful."
His gaze flicked across the city—toward towers rich with plotting nobles, churches murmuring doctrine, merchants whispering prices of ambition.
He chuckled.
"An excellent pawn has entered the stage."
He stepped backward.
Into shadow.
Into the city.
Into the web already spinning.
He vanished.
Leaving only the echo of possibility behind.