CHAPTER 67: CHAPTER 66 - A RED THAT LIES

After the laughter and embraces faded, the warmth still lingered in the air.

But now... it was Riven’s turn.

He took a deep breath, gently releasing his hold on his sister. Though his expression remained calm, there was a flicker of hesitation behind his gaze. Seeing Mira’s exceptional talent had made his heart race—not out of jealousy, but because of the invisible pressure now weighing on his back.

All eyes were on him.

His footsteps echoed lightly on the stone floor as he slowly approached the obsidian table where the floating dodecahedral prism hovered, now silent and still.

Riven stopped just a breath away from the crystal’s surface. He glanced at Lyrienne, who stood quietly beside him. Without saying a word, he raised his palm, offering it in silent readiness.

Lyrienne looked at him for a moment, then exhaled softly before drawing a small engraved knife from her sleeve. With practiced precision, she made a shallow cut across his palm. Warm blood began to trickle from the fresh wound.

But within her, a silent question stirred.

"After his sister... what kind of surprise will this man reveal?"

Riven didn’t wait. The moment the blood began to flow, he placed his hand upon the surface of the prism.

And just like what had happened with Mira, as if the object had a will of its own, the floating dodecahedral prism began to throb gently, pulsing with faint light.

At first, the light was dim, but it soon intensified as Riven’s blood was absorbed. Glowing veins lit up along the crystal’s edges, forming lines of deep crimson that looked like living arteries.

Blood from his palm flowed into the prism in a thin stream, merging with its core, then began swirling in a microscopic vortex within.

Riven watched in silence.

His heartbeat seemed to synchronize with the pulsing light. He held his breath, waiting for the first color to emerge. Everything felt like a replay of the earlier scene—but for him, everything now felt so much heavier.

Three seconds passed.

And just like before, the blood flow stopped.

But unlike Mira’s prism, which had immediately radiated a soft, warm red—Riven’s turned a dark red. Heavy and deep, like ancient blood left to oxidize for centuries.

The light pulsed slowly, then began to spin in a spiral, spreading a heavy aura that filled the room.

Riven stared at the object without blinking. His chest rose and fell, but his face remained composed. He waited for the next color... the light that would decide everything.

And then—

DUUM.

The prism pulsed. A deep throb shook the air—not a sound, but a pressure wave. Like an invisible blow rippling outward from the object’s core.

A breeze lifted everyone’s hair. The crimson glow flickered violently.

DUUM.

Again.

The prism looked as if it were about to burst—its glow expanded, like embers straining against a final ignition. Inside, Riven’s blood spiraled rapidly, chaotically, as if under pressure. The dark red light seemed to burn bright, and then...

...it dimmed.

Not because a new color emerged. But because everything calmed.

The pulsing stopped. The pressure faded. And the deep red light...

...faded into ordinary red.

The once-intense crimson became dull, still, and calm. As if the magic that had briefly stirred was only a fleeting disturbance. An illusion. Now, the prism emitted a plain, soft red light—almost tame.

Ashtoria stared directly at the object, then finally spoke, her voice flat as ever:

"Red... Dull."

Silence spread quickly, like cold fog in autumn.

Mira stood behind Riven, eyes wide, unsure of what to say. Lyrienne dipped her head slightly, her expression unreadable—but a faint exhale left her nose, uncertain if it was relief or disappointment.

Riven still stood there, unmoving.

His gaze locked onto the prism. Onto the gentle red color slowly rotating within.

There was no magical pulse. No vibrant spiral. No burst of light like Mira’s.

Only... red.

Still.

Plain.

Riven slowly lifted his hand, removing it from the prism. His palm was still wet with blood, but the pain that crept into his chest was far deeper.

Standing in front of the crystal, he stared at the pale red still turning calmly inside it.

He drew a breath, then looked at the one person who could possibly explain this.

"Ashtoria," he called, his voice calm but heavy. "That pulse earlier... what did it mean?"

Ashtoria looked at him briefly, then turned her eyes back to the prism.

"I don’t know," she replied honestly, her tone unchanging. "I’ve never seen anything like it before."

Riven said nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly. He searched for a meaning, a possibility, a hidden reason—anything. But the red light offered no answer. It only spun, as if mocking him.

"...So," Riven finally said, "...Is my talent really F-Rank? Dull?"

Ashtoria didn’t respond immediately. Her face remained expressionless, but the pause that followed lasted too long to ignore.

Eventually, she gave a slow nod.

A silent nod, but enough to extinguish the last spark of hope in Riven’s heart.

He didn’t speak again.

He simply glanced toward Lyrienne, as if wanting to say something... or maybe hoping. He considered asking to redo the test, but swallowed that thought. If the result remained the same, it would only deepen the wound.

Instead of protesting, Riven took a deep breath... and released it slowly.

He looked at Ashtoria and Mira, then offered a faint smile. It wasn’t one of joy, nor of resignation. It felt more like a quiet pause: a mask of calm shaped by pride and a hope that had never been given the chance to bloom.

.

.

.

Night slowly descended, bringing with it a breeze of cool air and the scent of damp earth after twilight. In the quiet of the backyard, only the sounds of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves filled the stillness.

Riven sat on the grass, his body tired, but his mind unwilling to rest. His breathing was uneven; sweat clung to his brow. Beside him, Crystalis lay silent—like a quiet witness to his relentless training.

’They say Dulls are frail and die young,’ he thought. ’But I’m healthy... I can even absorb mana. That thing must’ve broken—yeah, maybe after testing Mira.’

He tried to calm his thoughts, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars.

But before the stars could answer him, someone else appeared.

Footsteps, soft and quiet, approached from behind. A woman stepped into the moonlight. Her hair, dark and glistening like wet blood, shimmered in the night breeze. Her long dress flowed with the shadows, merging seamlessly into the darkness.

Ashtoria.

She approached without a sound, then quietly sat beside Riven. Not too close, but close enough that he could feel his heartbeat shift.

"You’ve been training since noon," Ashtoria said. Her voice was low, almost like the whisper of dew. "Aren’t you tired?"

Riven turned slightly and gave her a faint smile.

"Tired... but calm," he replied.

He looked down, examining his fingers—cut and bruised. "If I stay still, my mind gets too loud. So I keep moving."

He tilted his head back up, looking to the sky.

The silence between them stretched, comfortable at first... then heavier.

Finally, Riven let out a breath.

Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he asked the woman sitting beside him—the one who had chosen this silence.

"Ashtoria..."

"Hm?"

"If someone had an S-Rank talent... a Fated..."

He turned to look at her directly.

"If someone like that was tested by the prism... what color would it show?"

Ashtoria met his gaze.

Her eyes were calm. But in their depths... something shifted. A flicker of something unspoken.

She didn’t answer right away.

And when the silence lasted too long, Riven began to wonder... had he just touched something he shouldn’t?