Terror had a sound. It was the low, inhuman growl rumbling from the chest of the boy who had been Lancelot. He stood over the mangled corpse of the Huntsman, wreathed in the faint, sickly purple light of the dying ritual runes, his body a horrifying silhouette of black scales and shimmering, blood-drenched claws. The Two-Heart Cadence, the steady, harmonious rhythm that had defined him, was gone. In its place was a single, deafening, roaring beat that seemed to shake the very stones of the Sunken Sanctum, a primal war drum that promised only annihilation.
Seraphina, huddled behind a crumbling pillar with a barely conscious Rolan, felt that beat not with her ears, but in her bones, in her soul. Her Life Sense, which felt the world as a symphony of living energies, was screaming. The vibrant green of her own power, the fading grey of Leo's life force, the weak flickers of Garrick and the Acolytes locked in their distant battle—they were all being drowned out by a tsunami of raw, chaotic, and incandescently furious power radiating from Lancelot. It was the power of a dragon, stripped of all humanity, and it was the most terrifying thing she had ever felt.
The head of the beast lifted. The eyes that found them in the gloom were not Lancelot's. They held no recognition, no empathy, only a cold, predatory assessment, glowing with a faint, internal crimson light. The dragon's gaze swept past the dead Huntsman, past the distant sounds of battle, and settled on the two nearest, most significant sources of Aether. The Master and the Healer. The threats.
Leo, slumped against the pillar, managed to push himself up slightly. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Kid," he gasped, his voice a ragged whisper. "Lancelot… fight it."
The only answer was a low, guttural snarl. The beast that wore Lancelot's face took a step towards them, its movements no longer the fluid grace of a martial artist, but the brutally direct, impossibly fast motion of an apex predator. The sheer pressure of its presence was suffocating, a physical weight that made it hard to breathe. The raw power radiating from its Nascent Expert frame felt… wrong. It was too dense, too efficient. The draconic instincts were wielding the Mana with a primal mastery that felt closer to the crushing weight of a Grandmaster, a terrifying fusion of low-tier potential and high-tier lethality.
It lunged.
It wasn't a technique. It was an erasure of distance, a black-scaled blur of claws and killing intent aimed directly at the wounded, helpless Master. Leo's eyes widened, but he had nothing left. Seraphina screamed, a raw, helpless sound, throwing a desperate, pathetic wall of glowing green Life Energy in its path.
The wall shattered before the beast even touched it.
But it never reached Leo.
In the split second between one heartbeat and the next, something in the cavern changed. The damp, heavy air grew suddenly, unnaturally cold. The faint, purple light of the Void runes flickered and dimmed, as if intimidated by a greater, more fundamental power. A scent filled the air, not of rot or blood, but of winter ozone and night-blooming flowers, a smell of impossible, alien beauty.
And a figure stood between the berserk dragon and its prey.
She had not been there a moment before. She was simply… there. A woman, slim and unnervingly still, clad in simple, dark silks that seemed woven from shadow itself. From her back, four iridescent wings, like those of a dragonfly but crafted from solidified moonlight and twilight, unfolded with a silent, breathtaking grace. They did not flap; they simply hung in the air, distorting the space around them, a beautiful, terrifying violation of natural law.
She looked at the charging, scale-clad monster, and her expression, visible in the dim light, was one of faint, professional disappointment. 'So this is the Captain's pet project,' Nyx thought, her mind a cold, calm ocean. 'He is weak. Uncontrolled. A liability.'
The berserk Lancelot did not slow. It did not recognize this new entity as anything but another obstacle. It swiped with its shimmering claws, a blow that had just torn a Master of the Void Cult to shreds, a strike carrying the raw, physical force of a charging behemoth.
Nyx did not move. She did not raise a shield. She did not parry. She simply lifted a single, slender finger.
"Hush," she said, her voice a quiet, melodic whisper that somehow cut through the roaring in Lancelot's soul and the screams in Seraphina's.
And the world stopped.
It was not a blast of force. It was an imposition of a new rule. A one-meter sphere of absolute, perfect stillness bloomed into existence around Nyx. Lancelot's claw, moving at a speed that tore the air, slammed into this invisible wall. But there was no impact. No sound. No shockwave. Its kinetic energy, its furious momentum, its chaotic Mana—it all just… ceased to be. It was like watching a hurricane crash against a photograph of a mountain. His arm, from the claw to the shoulder, was frozen in time and space, held fast not by a force, but by a concept.
Nyx watched, her senses dissecting the creature before her. 'Nascent Expert,' she analyzed, her professional curiosity piqued despite herself. 'But the power output… the efficiency of the Mana usage… it rivals a Low Grandmaster.' She could feel the primal, ancient blueprint of the dragon's will driving the boy's body, a billion years of predatory evolution compressed into a single, savage vessel. He wasn't just stronger; he was a more perfect weapon than any human had a right to be. 'The Captain was right. This one is… different.' The raw, untamed potential was staggering. He was a walking catastrophe, a nascent god of destruction.
A flicker of a memory, an image from her long watch in the capital, surfaced in her mind: this same boy, sitting at a dusty piano in the moonlight, his music a gentle, empathetic hand reaching out to the most isolated soul in the world. The image of the sensitive musician clashed violently with the mindless, raging beast frozen before her. 'He is not just a beast,' she concluded, a flicker of something other than professional disdain in her thoughts. Kidnapping him now, as per her contingency plan, seemed… crude. And it would displease the Zenith. A complication her Captain would not appreciate.
She made her decision. With her other hand, she reached out and gently tapped the side of Lancelot's scaled neck. The tap was infused with her unique, fairy-derived power—not a blow, but a command, a whisper to his Aether to simply… sleep.
The berserk state shattered. The crimson light in Lancelot's eyes vanished. The roaring beat in the cavern ceased. His body went limp, the scales and claws dissolving back into flesh, and he collapsed to the stone floor in a heap of blood, sweat, and exhaustion, utterly unconscious.
Silence, profound and absolute, fell upon the sanctum.
Nyx looked down at the fallen boy, then turned her calm, unnerving gaze to the terrified, awestruck healer huddled by the pillar. She glided across the space, her wings leaving faint, glittering trails in the air. She stopped before Seraphina, who flinched, clutching a healing poultice to her chest like a shield.
"He is a storm in a teacup," Nyx said, her voice melodic, distant. "And his cup is about to overflow." She held out a small, simple ring of unadorned, matte-black metal. "This will help. A larger vessel. Give it to him when he wakes."
Seraphina stared at the ring, then at the otherworldly woman before her, speechless.
"My Captain takes an interest in him," Nyx added, her voice a little softer, a hint of a warning. "Tell your 'dragon' that he is not the only monster in this world. And that he should learn to control his roar before he draws the attention of those who would cage him."
Without another word, she turned. Her form seemed to flicker, to dissolve into motes of twilight and shadow, and then she was gone. She had not been there at all.
Seraphina was left alone in the sudden, deafening silence, surrounded by the wounded, the dead, and her unconscious lord, the cold, strange ring a heavy, impossible weight in her trembling hand.