The sand trembled beneath his feet.

  Raw Elan, red and black, surged around Kael like a torrent impossible to contain.

  His breathing was slow.

  Controlled.

  Every particle of air seemed to burn as it passed through his lungs.

  He lowered his saber slightly.

  The blade crackled, saturated with energy.

  Filaments of Elan slithered along the metal, devouring the air around them.

  Then his gaze shifted.

  Just a little.

  Toward the Needle-Case Band fastened to his scabbard.

  A piece of white fabric.

  Simple.

  Modest.

  The only fragment of his past that had survived everything.

  Kael stared at it for a long time.

  His heart beat like a funeral drum.

  And in a breath almost calm — too calm — he murmured:

  “I’ve finally reached it…”

  A surge of Elan pulsed, radiating through his arm.

  “…I’ve reached the Velasquez Limit.”

  The Needle-Case Band trembled.

  Very slightly.

  As if it recognized something.

  As if it were responding.

  Kael smiled.

  A calm smile. Cold. Unshakable.

  He raised his saber.

  And the world held its breath.

  Kael did not move.

  His red and black aura continued to vibrate around him, like a cosmic heart beating in reverse.

  The Guardian kept advancing…

  One step.

  Two steps.

  Then he stopped abruptly.

  His pupils contracted.

  A second of incomprehension.

  Then another — of terror.

  He stepped back.

  A real one.

  An instinctive movement.

  Animal.

  “N… no…” he murmured.

  “Impossible…”

  Kael watched him.

  Calm.

  Cold.

  Slowly, the Guardian lifted a hand toward the blade, toward the aura, toward the Needle-Case Band — as if trying to understand a physical anomaly.

  “How… how did you do that?”

  His breath caught.

  He repeated, louder:

  “You can’t! You can’t cross the logic of the world!”

  He placed a hand on his own face, as if trying to flatten reality itself to force Kael back into place.

  He raised a trembling hand toward Kael.

  Toward his aura.

  Toward the Needle-Case Band.

  Toward what he was trying to understand — and could not.

  “You… You shouldn’t…”

  His voice broke.

  “You shouldn’t exist.”

  A monstrous silence fell over the arena.

  The Guardian shook his head, horrified.

  “What you are… What you radiate… It’s an error. An anomaly.”

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  Kael’s aura began to pulse.

  Then swell.

  A red and black surge shot toward the sky, like a column of flame or a tower of storm.

  Althéa immediately raised a hand before her face, crushed by the pressure.

  Her heart hammered in her chest.

  “It’s… it’s impossible…” she stammered.

  “Why does he have access to Elan…? He doesn’t… have a Trame!”

  Her voice rose, broken.

  She turned to Velara, as if she could make sense of what they were seeing.

  But Velara…

  Velara was trembling.

  Not with fear.

  With excitement.

  Her pupils were dilated.

  Her breath short.

  A massive, almost deranged smile twisted her features.

  She inhaled, trembled again… then finally answered, her voice hoarse:

  “…It’s an anomaly.”

  A nervous laugh escaped her throat.

  She covered her mouth, unable to believe her own words.

  “That… that’s not possible. It shouldn’t be possible. Elan… it’s…”

  She searched for words, shaken by the scale of the phenomenon.

  “…too dense… too raw… too… intense.”

  The column of Elan rose higher still, gaining several meters, illuminating the entire arena in red and shadow.

  The Dean, usually unshakable, had gone pale.

  His hands trembled at the ends of his sleeves.

  He muttered, almost to himself:

  “The Trame… The Trame serves as a catalyst… It filters Elan… regulates it…”

  He shook his head, terrified by his own conclusion.

  “But him… he has nothing to contain it. Nothing to channel it. His Elan… is the most raw… the most dangerous… the most uncontrollable imaginable.”

  He placed a hand on the railing, wavering.

  “It’s… illogical. Kael… shouldn’t even have access to Elan.”

  A heavy silence followed.

  A silence devoured by the red-black column that still roared.

  Lucanis said nothing.

  He did not move.

  Not a muscle.

  Eyes fixed on the arena.

  Immobile.

  Intense.

  Like a hunter standing perfectly still,

  like an ancient beast recognizing another beast.

  His gaze held neither fear nor admiration.

  Only…

  …icy lucidity.

  Kael was still staring at the Needle-Case Band.

  For a long time.

  Silently.

  Then he lifted his head.

  His eyes settled on the Guardian.

  And he declared, in a calm, unshakable voice:

  “You’ve already lost. I’ve broken the Ouroboros.”

  The Guardian seethed.

  A vein pulsed on his forehead, stretched like a thread ready to snap.

  A dense, swirling white aura rose above him like a cloud of ash and fire.

  Kael, still as cold as ever:

  “You made a terrible mistake…”

  He slowly raised his hand.

  “…Taking on my mother’s appearance.”

  He drew his saber.

  And without intending it, without controlling it… Elan surged into the blade.

  A pure reflex.

  Unintentional.

  But total.

  The blade ignited with a crimson aura, burning, rippling.

  It vibrated like a scream trapped in metal.

  ((Relic detected… Associated name: The Deluge.))

  The Guardian’s white column of Elan rose to the same height as Kael’s.

  Two pillars of raw energy.

  Two anomalies about to clash.

  Kael still gripped his scabbard firmly.

  The Needle-Case Band vibrated in rhythm with the torrent flooding him.

  He assumed his stance.

  An open guard, flexible.

  Saber held in one hand, slightly angled back — ready to cut in a single motion.

  His entire body was pushed past its limits.

  His breathing heavy, deep, measured.

  So this is Elan… he thought.

  Incredible.

  Each step was fluid, responsive.

  He could trigger a dodge at any instant, meld into the space around him, attack or retreat.

  He felt invincible.

  But.

  He had learned.

  Thanks to Dubium. To all those lost games of chess.

  Never be too certain. Always doubt.

  He inhaled slowly.

  Then exhaled, long and steady.

  To remain focused.

  Present.

  Sharp.

  And he said, in a low voice, almost like a ritual:

  “Once more… The time to react has come.”

  At those words, the Dean allowed himself a faint smile.

  Across from them, the Guardian clenched his teeth.

  So hard that, from the stands, one could almost hear the sinister grinding of his jaw.

  Althéa had not taken her eyes off Kael since the beginning.

  But out of curiosity, she glanced toward the King — her father.

  He had remained marble all this time.

  Glacial.

  Kael’s exit from the Trial? Nothing.

  Lucanis’ miraculous recovery? Not a flicker.

  Even Kael’s colossal fracture had not shaken him…

  But it had made him rise.

  For the first time.

  What is his reaction now? she wondered.

  What can a man who feels nothing feel… when a living shadow steps out of a titanic fracture, without Trame, without reason to exist, and forces the universe to bend?

  What she saw made her shudder.

  The King.

  Her father.

  The one she had never seen smile, never seen laugh, never seen express the slightest emotion contrary to the sacred function of the throne…

  He was smiling.

  Mouth slightly open.

  Fixed.

  Obsessively focused.

  A smile.

  Real.

  Immense.

  Unexpected.

  Almost mad.

  Althéa’s vision trembled.

  “Wha…?” she stammered, voice shaking.

  But a violent crash suddenly echoed in the arena.

  Her attention snapped back at once.

  The mysterious woman was advancing at great speed.

  Toward a perfectly calm Kael.

  Grounded.

  Anchored.

  Velara gripped the railing before her, fingers whitening from the pressure.

  A wild smile twisted her face.

  “I… I won’t be able to wait for him to mature… It’s impossible… I want him now.”

  And the first blow fell.