CHAPTER 221: THE SHADOW IN THE LIGHT

Chapter 217: The Shadow in the Light

To any other observer—even the S-Rank guards patrolling the perimeter—he looked like a devout keeper of the hall, perhaps cleaning the glass or offering a prayer.

But my eyes saw the truth.

His shadow didn’t match his posture. While the priest bowed his head, the shadow on the floor elongated, stretching like a tendril of oil toward the base of the display case.

Inside that case rested a jagged, black shard. The Horn of Behemoth. A relic from the Second Demon War, severed by the legendary Sword Saint Alaric.

The priest’s hand moved. He didn’t open the case. He pressed his palm against the glass.

Hiss..

A sound barely audible, like water hitting a hot pan. The white light of the Hero Flame seemed to dim for a fraction of a second.

I watched, my eyes narrowing. He wasn’t stealing it. Theft would trigger the wards. He was... infecting it.

The shadow on the floor pulsed.

A tiny, microscopic crack appeared in the glass, invisible to the naked eye but screaming in my mana vision. A wisp of purple smoke—demonic mana—seeped from the priest’s palm, through the crack, and settled into the Horn.

The relic turned a shade darker.

’He’s priming it,’ I realized, a cold chill running down my spine. ’He’s turning a holy relic into a beacon. A summoning anchor.’

If that Horn was activated during the festival, inside the heart of Sky Island’s defenses... the resulting explosion of abyssal energy would shatter the floating city’s gravity wards.

The island wouldn’t just be attacked; it would fall from the sky.

I gripped the hilt of Draken under my coat.

My instincts screamed at me to strike. Judgment Chain. Heaven Splitter. End him now.

But I stopped.

This was Sky Island. Neutral ground. Governed by the Council of Elders. If I attacked a High Priest here, without proof, I wouldn’t be hailed as a hero. I’d be executed on the spot by the temple guardians.

The priest finished his work. He straightened, adjusting his robes, and turned. His face was benevolent, elderly, smiling. But his eyes... for a second, the pupils were vertical slits.

He began to walk toward the exit, moving with a serene grace.

I couldn’t fight him. Not here.

But I could track him.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, rune-etched coin I had swiped from Master Thorne’s workshop—a [Tracking Sigil].

I flicked my wrist.

Using a burst of [Wind] affinity to silence the air, I tossed the coin. It flew in a low arc, skittering across the marble floor just as the priest walked by.

It slid perfectly into the hem of his long, trailing robe, the adhesive rune activating instantly.

[Target Marked.]

The priest paused. He tilted his head, listening.

I froze, merging with the shadow of the pillar.

My [Loki Mask] hummed, erasing my presence.

After a moment, the priest shrugged and continued walking, disappearing into the sunlight outside.

I exhaled slowly.

"Phase one," I whispered. "Now to see where the rats are hiding."

___________

[Sky Island – The Grand Athenaeum]

Miles away from the tension of the Honour Hall, the atmosphere in the Magic Library was one of scholarly peace.

Leon Lionheart walked through the towering shelves, his fingers brushing the spines of books that were older than his family’s kingdom.

The Athenaeum was a labyrinth of knowledge. Books floated through the air on lazy currents of mana.

Golems with spectacles sorted scrolls. The ceiling was a live map of the stars, shifting in real-time.

Leon wasn’t here for tourism.

"Holy Flame... Holy Flame..." he muttered, scanning the shelves of the Divine Arts section.

He was looking for answers.

His defeat in the tournament—Michael’s impossible phase-step, the sheer gap in their understanding of power—had shaken him. He realized that relying on the standard Lionheart forms wasn’t enough. He needed to evolve.

.

He pulled a heavy, leather-bound tome from the shelf: The Codex of the First Flame.

He opened it, flipping through pages of diagrams and ancient history. He stopped at a Chapter titled: The Corruption of Light..

The text described an incident from three hundred years ago.

A hero named Silars William—Eric’s ancestor—who wielded Light but fell to darkness.

"...The Light, when pressed too far without the balance of spirit, becomes brittle. It fractures. Silars sought absolute purity, and in doing so, became blind to the shadows within. His light did not fade; it inverted."

Leon frowned. Inverted light?

He turned the page. There was an illustration. A knight in white armor, surrounded by a halo of black fire.

The image sparked a memory. The sensation he had felt from Michael during the Labyrinth trial. That brief moment when Michael had stepped into the vortex.

It wasn’t inverted light. It was something else. Control.

"Balance," Leon whispered, realizing something profound. "Michael doesn’t reject the darkness. He uses it. He balances the ice and the lightning. The space and the sword."

Leon looked at his own hand. He summoned a small flame. It was bright, warm, holy.

"I’ve been trying to make it brighter," he realized. "I’ve been trying to burn away everything else. But maybe... maybe the flame needs fuel."

He closed the book with a snap.

He didn’t need a new spell. He needed a new perspective.

He put the book back and turned to leave. As he walked toward the exit, he saw a figure standing in the Forbidden History section, a robed scholar arguing with a librarian.

"I have clearance!" the scholar hissed.

"Not for the Abyssal Chronicles, you don’t," the librarian golem droned..

Leon paused. The scholar’s voice sounded familiar..

He narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t place it, but a seed of suspicion planted itself in his chest. The Academy had taught him to trust his instincts.

And his instincts said that Sky Island wasn’t as safe as it looked.

[Sky Island – The Crystal Avenue].

"This is ridiculous," Maria Frostheart said, sighing as she sipped her iced tea.

She sat at a table on the terrace of a floating cafe, overlooking the cloud layer. Opposite her sat Aurelia Miller, who was currently dissecting a complicated looking pastry with a knife and fork.

"What is?" Aurelia asked, not looking up from her surgery on the cake..

"This trip," Maria gestured to the street below, where tourists were buying overpriced mana-charms.

"We just fought for our lives in a dungeon. We exposed corruption. We nearly died. And now we’re... shopping?"

"It’s called decompression, Maria," Aurelia said calmly. "Soldiers do it. Mercenaries do it. Even we need it.".

Maria leaned back, her silver hair catching the sunlight. She looked regal, untouchable, the Ice Princess of the Academy. But her eyes were troubled.

"I can’t relax," she admitted. "Not after... everything."

"You mean after Michael," Aurelia corrected, finally looking up. Her glasses glinted.

Maria flushed. "I do not mean him."

"Please," Aurelia rolled her eyes. "You haven’t stopped looking at your communicator since we landed. You’re waiting for him to message you."

"I am not! I am waiting for... a guild report."

"A guild report on the weekend?" Aurelia raised an eyebrow. "Maria, you’re a terrible liar. It’s cute, but terrible."

Maria scowled, stabbing her straw into her drink. "He’s... infuriating. He creates chaos wherever he goes. He proposes with a rock in a dungeon, then disappears to do ’business’, then shows up and wins the tournament with a move that shouldn’t exist. And now he’s vanished again."

"He’s an anomaly," Aurelia agreed. "My father is obsessed with him. Aegis Holdings has disrupted the entire western market in a week. Do you know how much money moved through Rolune yesterday? Billions. All traced back to shell companies linked to that boy."

Maria blinked. "Billions?"

"He’s not just strong, Maria. He’s building an empire. And he’s doing it right under the noses of the Great Families." Aurelia leaned forward, her voice dropping.

"Honestly? It scares me a little. He plays the game like he wrote the rules."

Maria looked out at the clouds.

"He saved my life," she said softly. "In the Labyrinth. And in the Quarry. He’s arrogant, reckless, and socially inept... but he’s not bad."

"No," Aurelia mused. "He’s not bad. But he is dangerous. And I think he’s planning something big. He didn’t come to Sky Island for a vacation."

Maria tightened her grip on her glass. "Then we should find him. Before he gets into trouble he can’t fix."

"Agreed," Aurelia said, standing up and wiping her mouth. "Let’s go hunt a Monarch."

[Sky Island – The Hall of Heroes]

Eric William stood alone in the Hall of Heroes.

He wasn’t looking at the flame. He was standing in front of a statue in the alcove of the ’Fallen Legends’.

The statue depicted a young man in armor, holding a sword toward the heavens. His face was noble, fierce, and strikingly similar to Eric’s own.

Silars William.

The plaque beneath read: The Light that Burned Too Bright.

Eric stared at the stone face of his ancestor. The great-uncle who had reached S-Rank at twenty-eight. The genius. The tragedy.

"They say you were betrayed," Eric whispered to the stone. "They say you were ambushed. But Father says you were weak. That you let your guard down."

He clenched his fists. The memory of the tournament final burned in his mind. The humiliation of waking up on the stone floor, looking up at the commoner who had bested him not with power, but with a pommel strike.

"I was weak too," Eric admitted, the words tasting like bile. "I let him bait me. I let him break my rhythm."

He touched the cold marble of the statue’s boot.

"But I won’t make that mistake again. I don’t need to be a genius like you, Silars. I just need to be absolute."

A shadow fell over him.

Eric turned sharply, his hand going to his sword.

Standing at the entrance to the alcove was a man in the robes of a curator. He was old, stooped, carrying a feather duster.

"A fine statue," the old man wheezed. "Silars William. A tragic tale."

"Leave me," Eric said coldly.

"Of course, young master," the old man bowed. "But... did you know? The history books are wrong about him.

Eric paused. "What?"

The old man smiled, a toothless, eerie expression. "He wasn’t ambushed by demons. He was ambushed by his own envy. He sought power he couldn’t control. The Void offered him a choice... and he took it."

Eric stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "You lie. My ancestor was a hero."

"Was he?" The old man chuckled. "Or was he just a man who wanted to win? Like you."

The air in the alcove grew cold.

"Who are you?" Eric demanded, drawing his sword.

The old man didn’t flinch. "Just a messenger. If you seek the power to surpass your limits... to crush the commoner who stole your glory... there are ways. Ancient ways."

He dropped a small, black card on the floor. It had no writing. Just a symbol of a jagged, eclipsed sun.

"Think on it, William heir. The Light has limits. The Shadow does not."

The old man turned and shuffled away, disappearing into the shadows of the Hall faster than an old man should move.

Eric stared at the card. He should burn it. He should report it.

But the image of Michael Wilson standing over him, the roar of the crowd chanting the commoner’s name... it clawed at his heart.

Slowly, Eric bent down and picked up the card.

__________

[Sky Island – Lower District Alleyway]

I stood on a rooftop overlooking a nondescript warehouse in the maintenance district of the island.

The [Tracking Sigil] led here.

The priest had entered ten minutes ago.

I wasn’t alone. Nox was perched on the gargoyle beside me, invisible to the naked eye but humming with agitation in my mind.

...Bad smell... rot... void...

"Yeah," I whispered. "I smell it too."

I checked my gear. Draken was ready. My mana was full.

I pulled out my comms-stone.

[Me: Victor. Alert the Academy security. Anonymous tip. Tell them there’s a mana leak in Sector 4.]

[Victor: On it. What are you going to do?]

[Me: I’m going to kick the hornet’s nest.]

I didn’t wait for backup. If the Cult was moving now, they were preparing something for tonight. I couldn’t let them set up.

I dropped from the roof, cloak billowing, landing silently in the alley.

The vacation was officially over.

(To be continued)