Inside Kael’s curtained booth, chaos reigned like a full-blown feast.

  Laughter, shrill squeals, the clatter of glasses, and a roaring tangle of voices merged into one drunken symphony, each sound trying to drown out the next. The women spun about, pouring wine for each other and for the young lords; Arnevir and Aiden were either loudly arguing about magic and duels or laughing and clapping each other on the shoulder, regularly dragging Kael into their conversation.

  But outside, beyond the main hall of the Violet Topaz, the atmosphere was noticeably calmer.

  The magical barrier woven around the booth shut out every sound. Only when the curtain was drawn aside—to bring in another tray of food or another jug of wine—did the roaring noise spill out for a brief moment, prompting the nearest patrons to glance over in mild irritation.

  But none dared complain.

  Everyone knew who sat behind that curtain: Aiden and Arnevir—potential heirs to two of the strongest families.

  ? ? ?

  Hours slipped by.

  Outside, the city drowned in the lights of the night: torches flared on the lower terraces, and the wealthy guests of the Violet Topaz took their time leaving. If anything, the deeper the night grew, the louder the music became.

  On the restaurant’s central floor, couples spun in sensual dances to rhythmic, slightly provocative melodies.

  But inside the booth, the atmosphere gradually quieted.

  Empty bottles lined the table, girls whispered tiredly in a corner. And amid this pleasant disorder, Aiden and Arnevir sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch—drunk but still sharp enough to argue. Their eyes were hazy with wine, yet their voices were sharp, each trying to drown out the other.

  Aiden suddenly laughed, tilting his head back, and with a fox-like grin said:

  “Don’t get your hopes up, shorty. You won’t stand a chance in the upcoming hunt…”

  Arnevir exploded with laughter, slapping Aiden so hard on the shoulder that a drop of wine splashed from his glass.

  “Ha!” he barked with mockery as he sprawled back. “Dreaming of the stars, don’t forget you’re… just a regular piece of shit! Keh-he-he!”

  He had meant to say something reasonable, but he was far too drunk and simply decided to insult his friend instead.

  Aiden smirked, a predatory spark in his eyes. He snapped his fingers—a thin arc of lightning leapt from his fingertips and snapped Arnevir right on the nose.

  “Ow!” Arnevir yelped, grabbing his face. “Damn you, thunder bastard!”

  Aiden laughed, lifting his glass again.

  “Given our specializations,” he drawled, “you’re the one closer to manure.”

  Arnevir blinked in confusion.

  “Why’s that, huh?” he muttered, fighting to keep his eyes straight.

  Aiden sighed like a patient tutor and elaborated, his tone mockingly serious:

  “Well… your magic’s tied to plants. And plants, as we know, are fertilized with animal droppings… and other unpleasant things.”

  Arnevir blinked again, then slowly nodded, as if he had just received profound enlightenment.

  “Hm…” he hummed, looking down. “So… you’re right…”

  “Of course I’m right,” Aiden said, waving him off as he poured himself more wine. “Even drunk, I’m smarter than you.”

  The girls burst into giggles. Kael shot them a brief sidelong glance, hiding a cold, ironic smile behind the rim of his glass. Inwardly, he noted:

  “These two are much closer than I first assumed… The Three Families are far more united than they appear from the outside.”

  He drew a slow breath, grounding himself—in the weight of his body, the marble under his feet, the velvet beneath his palms.

  His mind drifted slightly; alcohol pulsed in his veins, slowing his movements, yet he stubbornly held on to clarity. Drinking alongside the others meant he was no more sober than Aiden and Arnevir.

  “Everything’s swimming… I need to stay focused…”

  His thoughts were abruptly cut off when Arnevir swung toward him.

  The green-haired drunk’s eyes gleamed, his movements loose and sloppy. He barked a hoarse laugh and suddenly thumped Kael in the chest—not hard, but with that rough, drunken “affection” men like him mistake for camaraderie.

  “Hey, smart guy!” he shouted through laughter. “Wanna go hunting with us?”

  Kael swayed slightly, focused on Arnevir’s face, and waved him off.

  “I’ll pass… I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

  “Shame,” Arnevir muttered, clicking his tongue. “It’s fun, you know. And if we catch a valuable beast, we could make some good money.”

  Aiden laughed and drawled with teasing mockery:

  “As if you need money, fool.”

  “Everyone needs money!” Arnevir declared triumphantly, raising his glass. “Even me!”—and immediately spilled half the wine onto his own knees, bursting into loud laughter.

  At that moment, the girls drifted toward the two young lords—as if on an unspoken cue.

  One of the girls softly wrapped her arm around Aiden, another slipped up to Arnevir, skillfully distracting him with jokes and laughter so their next spat wouldn’t turn into a fight. Their voices were sweet, almost melodic, and both young men instantly lost interest in the conversation.

  Aiden smiled, eyes narrowing slightly, and within seconds his hand was resting on the waist of the girl in the silver dress. Arnevir, laughing drunkenly, pulled two girls to himself at once—one settled onto his lap, the other ruffled his green hair.

  The drunken tension melted back into merriment: the table once again filled with laughter, giggles, rustling fabric, and the clink of glasses.

  Kael, sitting slightly apart, didn’t intervene. He offered only a faint smile, his gaze distant and cold.

  Slowly, he turned his gaze to the right.

  The Slug sat motionless—far too motionless, even for a servant. His shoulders slumped, his face hidden by half-shadow, but from the slight sway of his body it was clear: he was drunk as well.

  “Arnevir is exactly the kind of drunk who tries to get everyone else drunk…” Kael thought, recalling earlier moments. “He intentionally poured this poor bastard more than the rest…”

  At that moment, the Slug’s head suddenly tipped forward as he lost balance.

  For an instant, his face slipped out of the shadow.

  Violet eyes—cold and blisteringly sharp even in the dim light—locked onto Aiden. And in them there was no fear, no submission. Only hatred.

  No… not even hatred.

  A pure, deliberate urge to kill burned there.

  Kael froze. His drunken mind seemed to sharpen for a heartbeat, and a keen, almost predatory thought flashed within:

  “Ooooh… now that’s a look…” he murmured inwardly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a silent smirk. “I like this one… heh-heh.”

  A moment later, the Slug jerked—he had felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Kael, swaying slightly, steadied himself against the boy and asked plainly:

  “What's your name?”

  The boy instantly paled. Fear flickered in his eyes, smothering the hatred that had flared there just moments ago.

  He swallowed hard, his gaze darting toward Aiden as if checking whether he was allowed even a shred of his own will. Aiden was laughing with Arnevir, not paying attention to anything else.

  “S–Slu…” he began quickly, stammering.

  But Kael cut him off at once:

  “No. I’m not asking for your nickname. I’m asking for your real name.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, looking directly into the boy’s violet eyes. “I don’t like calling you that.”

  The Slug blinked in confusion. For a heartbeat, something almost like surprise flickered across his face—as if, for the first time in a very long while, someone were seeing a person in him at all.

  Catching that reaction, Kael smirked faintly, then added in a lower voice, soft enough that no one else would hear:

  “I’m a lot closer to your position than to theirs…” His words slurred slightly, but a strange, drunken sincerity lingered in them. “If not for my talents… Aiden would've beaten me… hic… half to death back then.”

  He hiccuped, covering his mouth with a hand, and whispered:

  “I understand that perfectly…”

  The Slug froze.

  For the first time that evening, his gaze changed—not with rage or fear… but with cautious interest mixed with confusion. As if he were trying to decide whether the boy speaking to him was being honest… or weaving some clever mockery.

  He glanced past Kael’s shoulder—at Aiden and Arnevir, who were swaying, loudly laughing and arguing, oblivious to the rest of the world. Seeing they were completely distracted, he whispered, barely audibly:

  “My name is… Girren.”

  Kael nodded, the corners of his lips lifting in a light, almost friendly smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Girren.”

  He rested an elbow on his knee and leaned forward slightly, careful not to get too close, so as not to alarm him.

  “Forgive the bluntness… hic… but I heard you’re Aiden’s half-brother. So why do they treat you like this?”

  For a moment, Girren’s violet eyes flared with a sharp, predatory light, but he quickly looked away, forcing his voice to stay steady.

  “I’m not a half-brother,” he said quietly, choosing his words. “I’m adopted.”

  The phrase sounded simple, almost dry, yet it carried far too much—restrained bitterness, exhaustion, and something like contempt, aimed not at Kael but at the very fact of his existence beside Aiden.

  Hearing this, Kael raised a brow slightly, his voice touched with genuine surprise:

  “Adopted? They can just take someone into the main branch of the Vengeful Thunder Family like that?”

  Girren slowly shook his head. A shadow of old pain crossed his face—the kind that doesn’t fade no matter how many years pass.

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  “It’s because of my father…” he said softly.

  Kael didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded, showing he was willing to listen without prying.

  Girren hesitated for a moment—as if deciding whether to speak of something usually left unsaid. But upon seeing no mockery in Kael’s eyes, only calm attention, he continued.

  “My father, Darskar, was a genius…” he said after a short pause. “Even though he belonged to a lesser branch of the family, he rivaled Kargos himself—Aiden’s father and the current head of the clan.”

  These words made Kael blink in astonishment. He had not expected such a revelation and even leaned forward slightly.

  “They said he managed to alter and refine one of our lineage’s main Magic Canons,” Girren continued, and a thin, almost childlike pride crept into his voice. “He had every chance of becoming a Jade Mage…”

  He fell silent, gaze lowering for a moment. His fingers curled into a fist, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, strained with emotion:

  “But when I was a child, he fell gravely ill… and died.”

  The last words came nearly in a whisper—as if Girren still didn’t want to believe them.

  Kael narrowed his eyes but offered no comment. He simply nodded, letting Girren continue.

  “After he died,” Girren said quietly, staring at the floor, “the family decided that I might have inherited his talent. And Kargos, the head of the clan, took me in.”

  He let out a bitter, mirthless laugh—a smile with no hint of joy.

  “Except even with the clan’s best Magic Canons, I produced only mediocre results. Even now, I’m just a Steel Mage.”

  “So after that, you fell out of favor?” Kael asked calmly, tilting his head slightly.

  Girren pressed his lips together, as if trying to hold the answer back, but finally said:

  “No. They simply made me Aiden’s personal attendant.” He gave another short, joyless chuckle. “And his temperament… can be rather sharp.”

  Kael’s eyes narrowed in a mocking squint.

  “‘Rather sharp,’ right…” he thought. “One look is enough to see they torment you daily.”

  He glanced at the wine glass, already making him nauseous.

  “And the thing about his father is suspicious… A Gold Mage suddenly falling ill and dying? Ridiculous.”

  “You must have had a hard time,” Kael said quietly, inclining his head. “My sympathies.”

  After a brief pause, he added, as if casually:

  “Maybe you simply needed to try using the altered Canon your father created?”

  Girren shook his head, and bitterness resurfaced on his face.

  “Unfortunately,” he replied, “he never had the chance to pass it on. That knowledge died with him.”

  At those words, a faint, calculating shadow flickered in Kael’s eyes. He lowered his gaze, and with a subtle inward smirk thought:

  “So either the Vengeful Thunder Family already obtained that knowledge… or they wanted to, and Girren’s father chose to take it to the grave. A stubborn man worthy of respect… or a fool?”

  He drew a slow breath, masking his sudden interest, and casually patted the boy on the back.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly.

  Girren raised his brows in surprise, not immediately grasping the meaning. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, as though he expected a trap.

  Kael smirked faintly and added more quietly, almost in a whisper:

  “Your company is far more pleasant to me than the company of young lords…”

  The words caught Girren off guard. His fingers tightened on the edge of his clothing, as if clinging to something familiar and safe. For just a moment, a deep pain flashed in his violet eyes—carefully hidden beneath the mask of obedience.

  But a second later he lowered his gaze and murmured quietly:

  “It’s… nice to hear that. Thank you.”

  His voice was hoarse, as if the words cost him effort—not from shame, but from the simple unfamiliarity of hearing sincerity directed at him.

  Kael simply gave him a kind smile, then leaned back against the cushions. His head swayed slightly, and he forced himself to focus—on his breath, on the pressure of the pillows against his back. The wine tugged him toward oblivion, but he stubbornly held on to his clarity.

  “The son of the former rival of the current clan head, is he…” he thought, lazily closing his eyes. “An interesting turn of events.”

  A faint, predatory smirk ghosted across his lips. A few ideas and plans regarding Girren were already taking shape in his mind.

  “Given his life, he’s unlikely to trust anyone easily. I need to be cautious with him… and not push.”

  But he didn’t have time to think further.

  A loud, drunken shout from Arnevir shattered the air:

  “What?! Don’t spout nonsense!”

  Kael flinched, and before he understood what was happening, Arnevir yanked him by the sleeve, nearly knocking his glass over.

  “Hey, smartass! You know how to test a mage’s level?!” he bellowed, his voice slurred but energetic.

  Kael blinked, trying to focus his gaze, and rasped:

  “Well… yes…”

  “Excellent!” Arnevir roared with a pleased grin. “Then you’ll be the judge!”

  Aiden, watching from the side, threw his head back in laughter, “This idiot thinks his level is higher than mine.”

  Arnevir snorted loudly, set aside his glass, and staggered slightly. Then he grabbed his collar and yanked his shirt open with a sharp motion, puffing out his chest with smug pride.

  “Check me first!” he drawled with a crooked grin. “I won’t resist, so don’t be scared, khe-he!”

  Kael froze, blinking as though unable to believe what he’d just heard.

  “He’s going to let me channel mana into him without resistance?” he thought, narrowing his eyes coldly. “Is he an idiot?”

  For a brief instant, something dangerous flickered in his thoughts—something almost predatory:

  “If I wanted to, I could do him serious harm… maybe even something irreversible.”

  But Arnevir clearly saw no threat. He spread his arms, smiling even wider, and shouted:

  “Come on! Start already!”

  Outwardly, Kael only nodded, keeping his expression calm. Slowly, he extended his hand and placed his palm against Arnevir’s chest.

  “Well,” he mused with a hint of mockery, “I don’t mind examining Lasthold’s so-called prodigies.”

  He closed his eyes and gently sent his mana forward, letting a thin wave of energy flow into Arnevir’s body.

  The world around him seemed to dissolve. A clear projection rose in Kael’s mind: Arnevir’s heart, and the sphere of greenish light around it—his mana core. From it radiated dozens of mana channels, running along veins and arteries.

  Kael immediately noticed two things—clear even through the haze of intoxication.

  First—the mana core and part of the mana channels were marked with rune seals, fine magical patterns woven in strict arrangements. This indicated the stage of a Silver Mage—or, as Kael called it, the Marked Mage.

  Second—far more curious. Not the entire vascular system was intertwined with mana channels. Only part of the veins and arteries were covered; the rest remained… bare. Just bare vessels, carrying nothing but blood.

  Kael frowned.

  “What shoddy work…” flashed through his mind.

  He slowly opened his eyes and, withdrawing his hand, rasped:

  “Why are your mana channels incomplete?”

  Arnevir smirked with self-satisfied pride.

  “Ha!” He lifted his chin proudly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I’ll tell you a secret, Kael… If you form only the channels needed for the Magic Canon that suits you, your development goes much faster than everyone else’s.”

  Kael froze for a moment, blinking as though he’d heard something utterly absurd. A mix of disbelief and astonishment sparked inside him.

  He turned to Aiden and asked, openly doubtful, “Is that true?”

  Aiden nodded with a faint, amused smile.

  “Partly,” he replied calmly. “It depends on whether you’ve found the perfect Canon for yourself. If you have, there’s no reason to waste time forming extra channels. You won’t use them anyway.”

  He took a sip of wine and added casually:

  “Though this path is for those absolutely certain of their Canon. In practice, it’s something noble families do—those with vast archives of established development paths.”

  Kael pretended to be genuinely stunned by the revelation. He even parted his lips slightly, as if processing this “precious” secret offered with such pompous pride.

  But beneath the expression, cold mockery simmered.

  “Idiots…” he thought, barely suppressing a smirk. “Maybe it sounds logical to you now, but without a complete mana-channel system, you will never surpass the Jade Mage stage. You simply won’t have the structure to withstand higher-tier flows. How did such a delusion take root among the so-called strongest families?”

  He shook his head subtly, disguising the motion as a drunken sway.

  Meanwhile, Arnevir—growing impatient—shouted:

  “So?! What’s my stage, then?!”

  Kael raised his gaze, pretending to choose his words carefully. He mentally reviewed what he had seen—the core, the network of channels, the extent of the marked segments—and finally said:

  “You’ve transformed your mana core and about fifteen percent of your channels. Roughly that portion of your foundation is marked with mana patterns.”

  “What?!” Arnevir jerked upright, slapping his own chest. “Fifteen? There’s definitely more!”

  But Aiden waved him off with a groan.

  “Stop yelling, my head’s already splitting…” he muttered, setting down his glass and lazily loosening the collar of his shirt. “Now check me, Kael.”

  At those words, Kael’s heart stuttered—a sharp gleam flashing in his eyes.

  “If I rupture the channels feeding his heart…”

  The thought came cold and clear, like a blade. He could almost feel how easy it would be—a light push of mana, and Aiden’s life would crumble.

  But a moment later Kael dismissed the impulse.

  “What am I thinking… If I kill Aiden, I’ll doom myself and everyone close to me.”

  He exhaled slowly, regaining his calm, and said aloud:

  “Alright.”

  Aiden grinned as he squared his shoulders. Kael placed his palm on his chest, closed his eyes, and directed mana inward.

  Faint pulses rippled through Aiden’s body, and in Kael’s mind the projection formed once more. He saw the blue mana core and the channels—some marked with mana seals—slightly different from Arnevir’s.

  He understood immediately: Aiden, too, developed only part of the system. The structure looked cleaner, denser—yet still incomplete.

  “Hm… so he’s no exception,” Kael thought with a quiet, inward smile. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

  He opened his eyes, withdrew his hand, and with an intentionally friendly laugh said:

  “Sorry, Arnevir, but Aiden wins—though not by much. If you have fifteen percent, he has about sixteen.”

  Aiden smirked proudly, lifting his chin as he lounged back on the couch.

  “Ha! Told you!” he declared with a victor’s grin, clearly savoring the moment.

  Seeing Aiden’s smug smile, Kael couldn’t help but smirk as well.

  A thought flickered through his mind: “What are you so happy about, you bastard? Once I’m strong enough, I’ll reveal to Lasthold truths about mage development you can’t even imagine. And you… with mana channels like that, you’ll be left far, far behind,” flickered through his mind.

  But Arnevir immediately caught Kael’s smile and jerked upright, shouting loudly, almost challengingly:

  “And what are you laughing at, huh?!” He lurched forward, jabbing a finger at him. “Come on, let’s check your level too!”

  “What…?” was all Kael managed to say.

  Before he could finish, Arnevir grabbed him by the collar with drunken enthusiasm, yanked him closer, and slapped his open palm against Kael’s chest.

  A burst of mana slammed into him, flooding through him. The surge of foreign energy rushed through Kael’s mana channels, making his muscles twitch. He’d been standing too close—and the heavy intoxication had dulled his reflexes.

  “Oh, hell!” was all he managed to think.

  Too late.

  Arnevir was already pulling his hand away, leaning back with a wide, roaring laugh.

  “All right then!” he said with a satisfied snort and gave Kael a friendly punch to the shoulder. “I thought you’d be weaker!”

  He spun toward Aiden and shouted with a sly grin:

  “So why were you belittling our friend Kael’s achievements, huh? Afraid he’s gonna surpass you?”

  Aiden lifted a brow, peering over the rim of his glass.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kael realized something very unwanted was about to begin. He opened his mouth to intervene, but didn’t get the chance—Arnevir spoke again, shouting over everyone:

  “He’s already started growing his mana channels!”

  The words hit like thunder.

  Arnevir turned back to Kael and added in a drunken but oddly instructive tone:

  “But hey, you’re growing all your channels at once, right?” He poked him in the chest, swaying. “You’d better listen to our advice! Only develop the ones you need. If you’d done that from the start, you’d already have a quarter of your network grown by now!”

  Kael stood there, irritation and cold calculation forcing their way through the haze of wine.

  He suddenly burst out laughing—loudly—trying to smother the situation, and said with exaggerated cheer:

  “Ha-ha! Looks like you’ve had way too much! There aren’t any channels—just… tiny sprouts!”

  He deliberately emphasized “sprouts,” steering the whole topic toward a joke.

  Fortunately, Arnevir took the bait. He snorted loudly and, throwing back his head, announced:

  “And I’ll drink even more!” He then drained his glass in a single gulp and waved for Girren to pour more wine.

  Aiden laughed as well, playing along with the restored cheer—but for a fleeting second, a strange, cold glint ran through his eyes.

  He raised his glass as if in a playful toast, yet in his mind a quiet, razor-sharp thought took shape:

  “Even drunk, Arnevir is still Arnevir. He couldn’t have been mistaken about that… and Kael rushed to bury the topic far too quickly…” With a smiling glance at Kael, the thought twisted further: “But how? Not long ago, this boy couldn’t even absorb mana…”

  The idea spun tighter and tighter in his mind. Something about Kael’s behavior now seemed suspicious.

  But outwardly Aiden hadn’t changed. He still smiled, and with a lazy lift of his glass said:

  “All right! Let’s drink! The night’s still young!”

  “To the evening!” Arnevir bellowed, and laughter filled the space once more.

  Glasses clinked. Merriment returned to the tent, drowning the earlier tension.

  But when Kael emptied his glass, the intoxication vanished in an instant. His amber eyes sharpened, his thoughts cutting cleanly through what remained of the haze.

  “Damn…” he exhaled inwardly. “Just what I needed.”

  His mind screamed the warning: Aiden would not forget this.

  And yet, outwardly, the evening flowed on—laughter, clinking glasses, flirting girls, the scent of wine and perfume. It almost looked as though they truly were becoming closer, like genuine friends.

  But Kael understood perfectly: beneath this warm, drunken haze, something far more dangerous than friendship was quietly forming.