Chapter 59 Whose Face Hides Behind that Cheap Illusion?

Verron’s boots barely kissed the stone before he vanished. A fraction of a second later, steel screamed as he reappeared in Hans’s guard, his obsidian-black blade smashing into the old man’s cane-sword like a meteor.

Hans’s boots tore gouges in the floor as he was hurled backward, the shockwave splintering the cavern walls. He didn’t stop at one wall. Verron’s momentum carried him straight through like battering ram, breaking stone like paper screens. One wall, then another, and another — until the two of them burst through into a vast underground chamber, an arena carved of black rock, ringed with torches that ignited at their arrival.

Dust and rocks rained down, cracks webbing through the ceiling, but Hans… Hans was laughing. His body, slammed through tons of stone, was unnervingly unscathed. He straightened his spine, brushing dust from his cloths with mocking slowness.

“Hah! Yes… that’s it. You haven’t lost your touch, my disciple. Good. GOOD! If I am to end you, I want it to be at your best.”

Hans was the first to move, his cane-sword flicking like a serpent. But Verron wasn’t there. A shimmer of black mist, a ripple in the air, and then the old assassin’s blade struck only empty space.

A whisper came from behind him.

“Slower than I remember.”

Verron’s boot connected with Hans’s back, sending him staggering forward. The follow-up slash was merciless, a black arc of steel that tore up stone as it chased Hans across the floor. Sparks showered like fireworks as Hans barely managed to parry, the sheer force blasting him off his feet and slamming him into the arena wall.

“Good! GOOD! But don’t get cocky, boy!”

Verron vanished again.

 From above, Verron descended like a comet, his blade crashing down with the force of a mountain. Hans caught it on his sword, but the sheer impact cratered the ground beneath him, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone floor as if the arena itself were collapsing.

Verron leaned close, his voice low, almost pitying.

“You taught me to be merciless. To never waste movement. To kill before the enemy even understands they’ve been struck. And yet here you are—struggling to even follow me.”

With a brutal twist, he kicked Hans away, sending him skidding across the fractured arena. The old master rolled to his feet, his smile was wide, but there was blood at the corner of his mouth.

 Verron didn't even give him time to talk, his blade already sweeping in a devastating arc. The strike hit Hans’s guard so hard it shattered the stone beneath his feet, launching the old man clear across the arena. He slammed into a column, the pillar cracking apart under the force.

“You’re not the man who trained me. You’re a relic clinging to power that no longer belongs to you.”

Hans spat blood onto the floor, pushing himself upright with his cane-sword. Despite the beating, he smiled through bloodied teeth.

"I told you not to get cocky, boy! You think you got me? You think just because you landed a few hits you've already won? I've known you for a long time, Vex. But I didn't know you were into jokes! Let me tell you. if you think this is all I got, then you haven't seen anything yet!"

He ripped open the inner seam of his cloak, fingers curling around a slender vial strapped to his chest. He didn’t hesitate—slammed it into his own arm.

The effect was instantaneous.

Hans convulsed, veins writhing under his skin like snakes. His thin, withered limbs bulged, tearing through fabric as muscle cords swelled to grotesque proportions. His chest ripped free of his tunic. The veins glowed faintly, black-purple light pumping with every beat of his heart, pulsing with raw, volatile energy.

“You see, Vex… my knights are crude tools. Failures reforged into weapons. But me? I refined the process. I am the perfected version. Strength, speed, intelligence—without losing control.”

He stomped a foot forward, and the shockwave alone sent shards of rock cascading from the ceiling. The ground beneath him cratered, dust spiraling up.

“Now… witness your master’s true form! This time, boy, I’ll show you why even demons should fear what I’ve become!”

-----------

The massive double doors loomed in front of Rein, he stood still for a moment, his hand hovering near the handle. 

Aura stood beside him, disguised as Mira.

“…Great. Storming in to talk down the King. What could possibly go wrong? Okay, let's do this. Here goes nothing.”

He rolled his shoulders, straightened, then shoved the doors open with both hands.

The throne room spread out before him, vast and suffocating in its grandeur—pillars like stone giants, tapestries flowing like rivers of blood-red silk, the throne itself at the far end, gilded and monstrous in its opulence.

“Grandfather! Are you here? I request an audience.”

For a moment, silence filled the empty throne room—its gilded seat vacant. Then, a door to the side creaked open. From the private chambers stepped King Arthur. His expression lit up with surprise, then turned into joy.

“Rein, my boy! What a surprise. You appear without herald or messenger, and yet—ah, it gladdens my heart to see you. For you, my grandson, I have time. Always. In fact, you’ve caught me at the perfect moment. I have just finished addressing the kingdom from the announcement hall. A tiresome duty, but necessary. And now, the rest of my day is free. Well… not entirely free. I am still waiting on Hans. He should’ve been here by now. Old friend is slower every year. I tell him often—his bones ought to be dust already, yet somehow, he clings on. So then—tell me, boy, what is so urgent?”

Rein’s boots echoed against the polished marble as he slowly strode forward. He stopped just shy of the throne, looking up at the man who rules the kingdom.

“Grandfather... I came here to talk to you about the dangers just outside our doors. The other day, I was attacked just beyond the capital walls. Not by bandits or beasts from the nearby woods, but monsters—spawn from the Demon Plains themselves. And they weren’t mindless. They moved like soldiers, controlled… directed.” 

He paused only long enough to let the words sink in, then added, “But that wasn’t all. Among them were men in dark robes, most likely assassins. They struck at me too. Now tell me, Grandfather—how is something like this possible? Monsters acting with discipline, assassins moving within the capital’s walls… what do you make of that?”

Arthur sat in silence, his fingers drumming faintly against the armrest. His eyes never left Rein—hard, weighing, like a man reading through layers of words left unsaid.

At last, he leaned back with a long, weary sigh, the kind that carried both the gravity of age and the fatigue of endless scheming. His gaze shifted, slow as a blade being drawn, settling on the girl standing just behind Rein.

“…And who might this be… standing at your back, grandson?”

Rein gave the faintest glance back at Aura, then returned his gaze to Arthur.

“This is Mira. The girl I saved from the same monsters that attacked me outside the walls. She lost her home to them… nearly lost her life too. She’s been under my watch since. She’s no threat, Grandfather. Just a victim of the monsters.”

Arthur let out a long sigh. 

“Oh, Rein… my dear boy. Let me tell you something about myself... I’ve lived a long life... seen countless people try to deceive me—some clever, good liars, some… even dangerous. Some even succeeded. But you, boy… you are not one of them. Tell me, Rein. What is this really all about? I know you didn’t come here simply to speak of monsters at the walls. So… what is it you intend?”

 “Grandfather, I assure you—I am not here to blow smoke up your—”

“Save it, boy.” Arthur cut him off sharply. 

His eyes locked onto the girl behind Rein. 

“Enough with the act. Who is she, really? Whose face hides behind that cheap illusion?”