CHAPTER 91: WHAT DO YOU MEAN OLD MAN?

The draconian vanished in an instant.

One breath, he was there—hovering like a god of war, winds screaming around him, blood-red hair fanned out like a banner of fire—and the next, only swirling gusts remained where he had stood, as though reality itself had snapped shut to erase him.

The pressure broke like a shattered dam. The suffocating weight lifted from the courtyard, and everyone could breathe again.

Liora stumbled back, her soft slippers scraping across the stone. She instinctively retreated into Daniel’s shadow, eyes still locked on the sky. Her pale fingers twitched at her sides, just once—but it was enough. Enough to betray the pulse of unease threading through her usually serene expression. Her lips pressed tight, the beginnings of a spell held just behind her teeth, never released.

Reyna blew air through her nose and let her hand fall from her sword. "Tch. Coward ran the second things got interesting."

Her words rang hollow in the still air.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the pause between heartbeats. A silence sharp enough to cut—one that suggested the courtyard itself feared that speaking too loudly might summon him back.

Then—

A streak of silver light tore through the sky like a divine spear. It slammed into the center of the courtyard with a sound like thunder cracking open the heavens.

"Ethan!"

Selene’s voice rang out like steel unsheathed. Her silhouette blurred into motion, cutting across the stone like a storm. Her heels struck with clean rhythm, coat flaring behind her in black arcs. One hand hovered near her sword hilt—not drawn, not threatening, just ready.

But she stopped. Abruptly.

Because standing exactly where the draconian had been—feet planted like an immovable monolith, black cloak whispering in the wind—was a man who hadn’t been there a second before.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Not young, not old. Ageless in the way mountain peaks were—etched by time, but unbent by it.

His cloak was the color of midnight, stitched with gold thread in patterns that shimmered like dragon runes when they caught the light. His hair, long and silver, was tied at the base of his neck, and a short, neat beard framed a face built from strength and restraint. His eyes—cold steel under summer light—swept across the courtyard, not like a stranger, but like a man returning to the home he once commanded.

Ethan’s breath caught. His limbs, tense from the previous threat, refused to move.

"...It’s you," he murmured. The words slipped from his lips, half-unbelieving.

The man’s gaze landed on him—and a flicker of recognition surfaced. A small curve touched the edge of his mouth, the kind of smile that didn’t soften the eyes but made them burn sharper. "Long time no see, kid."

Selene’s steps faltered. Her eyes widened, breath caught in her throat. "Grandmaster Vandelion?"

Ethan gave a dry chuckle, voice still rough from adrenaline. "Yeah. It’s been... what? Eight months? Since I came to Graveshallow to get my knight crest."

Vandelion stepped forward. His boots struck the stone with the sound of finality—clean, measured, the gait of a soldier who had marched through both storms and silence. There was no wasted movement. Every step was calculated, assured. Like a general surveying a battlefield already won.

He paused in front of Ethan, his eyes roaming up and down—assessing, measuring. Then he nodded once. "You’ve grown. Stronger than I expected."

Ethan shrugged, trying for casual. "Near-death experiences tend to do that."

Vandelion gave a quiet, almost approving laugh. "You and your smart mouth."

Selene joined them, offering a formal nod. "Grandmaster. It’s good to see you."

His expression softened as he turned to her. "Selene. Still carrying the weight of the southern front?"

"I haven’t dropped it yet," she said, lips curving faintly in return.

His eyes swept beyond them now, to the gathered team.

Daniel stood with his axe resting against his shoulder, brows lowered in a contemplative scowl. Reyna watched with arms crossed, one brow arched in amusement, but her hand remained resting loosely on her sword hilt. Liora, though outwardly composed, kept her gaze slightly lowered—yet Ethan could feel it: the faint pull of magic still humming like a tuning fork inside her.

Even Corvin, who rarely let emotion slip, had a glimmer of surprise in his expression.

"These your team?" Vandelion asked, voice quiet but carrying weight.

Ethan nodded. "Yeah. They’re mine."

There was a quiet pride in his voice—not ego. It came from shared battles, from trust earned and tested.

Vandelion’s eyes lingered on each of them for a heartbeat longer. Then he nodded. "You chose well. There’s fire in them. The kind that shapes the world."

He paused. "Just make sure that fire doesn’t consume each other first."

Ethan gave a small smirk. "No promises."

The grandmaster laughed—an old sound, weary but real. "Still the same."

Ethan tilted his head, casual, but his eyes had sharpened. "You don’t seem like the kind of man to show up right after a draconian does. So, what’s the story?"

The air stilled again.

Not completely—but enough. The wind gentled. Leaves stopped rustling. The world seemed to lean in closer.

Vandelion’s smile faded. His shoulders rolled back slightly. His eyes narrowed, their gleam more calculating now.

Ethan tried again, softer. "Who was he?"

Selene didn’t speak—but her gaze slid to Vandelion, the question mirrored there.

Vandelion turned slowly, walking toward the cracked edge of the courtyard. Dust still lingered in the air, drifting lazily in sunbeams like the last breath of a storm. The distant city behind them—Drakemire—hummed quietly, but even its usual life felt subdued.

"His presence," Vandelion finally said, voice low, "wasn’t cloaked. He didn’t bother to hide it. That tells us something."

Ethan’s expression tightened. "He wanted us to feel it."

"And remember it," Selene added.

Vandelion looked skyward. The clouds were still parting slowly from the path the draconian had vanished through, as if the heavens themselves hadn’t yet dared to seal the wound.

Ethan stepped closer. "So? Who was he?"

Vandelion didn’t answer.

His gaze remained skybound, and his silence grew heavier with every second. It wasn’t ignorance—it was hesitation. As if saying the name might lend it power. Might summon him again.

Finally, Vandelion exhaled, slow and deliberate, and spoke—voice rough as old stone.

"It’s because of..."