The atmosphere was tense as the final coin dropped into Arthur's account — 10,000 gold crowns, the reward from their third and final bet.
Arthur stretched his shoulders slightly, his calm voice breaking the silence.
"Now, if you'll excuse us."
Veylan gave a nod, a faint, unreadable smile curling at his lips.
"We'll meet again… in Round 3."
"Yes," Arthur replied simply.
As Arthur and his companions exited the room, Veylan remained behind. The moment the doors shut, the smile on his face faded into a quiet smirk before he vanished into the shadows.
Not long after, Veylan reappeared in a private lounge, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
"Did you find anything? About his strength… or his background?" he asked calmly.
His attendant knelt beside him, bowing low.
"I apologize, Young Master. My Unique Skill didn't work on him. It worked on the two kids with him… and everyone else, are stronger than me that's why it don't work but that kid"
Veylan narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Your skill only works on people your rank or lower, right? You're Rank 3."
"Yes, Young Master. But… I still don't understand. Even when I use it on Rank 4s, I get at least partial data. But with that boy… it was just nothing. A void."
Veylan fell silent, his mind turning.
He hadn't told anyone, but his own Unique Skill let him see through individuals up to two ranks above him.
And yet… Arthur Valerian had remained a complete mystery.
The two kids beside him? He had seen their stats clearly — high potential, well-trained, but still servants in his eyes. That boy, Arthur, was on a different level.
Unacceptable.
Veylan clenched his fists. He was the reincarnation of a Demon Prince, a being once feared in an age long forgotten. In his past life, he had been betrayed, yes — but not defeated in power. He had been born again in this world, as a human, and he would rise above them all.
His pride, his instinct, everything within him screamed one truth: he was destined to dominate this generation.
His past life's memories, his awakened demonic power, and his ambition fueled him. He would crush anyone in his way.
But now… in Round 2, four figures had emerged.
All of them… stronger than him.
It gnawed at him.
No, it enraged him.
"Crush all who stand before you," his grandfather had once said.
His father, in that previous demonic life, had echoed the same.
Veylan's eyes gleamed red for a moment.
"No exceptions."
⸻
Meanwhile, in a luxurious estate far from the betting chamber, laughter rang out from Arthur's room.
Sprawled on his bed, Arthur chuckled to himself.
"That 'main character' thinks he can see through me. Poor guy."
Elaris soft voice answered, a trace of amusement in her tone.
"I've already cloaked your entire being in concealment. As long as no one with the same core level as you appears… no scan, no skill, no perception will see through you."
She hovered beside him in her spirit form, a gentle glow around her.
"And since I'm an ultimate skill — created by that entity — even a Rank 9 wouldn't be able to fully see you."
Arthur yawned, stretching as he tossed aside the soft outer robe and flopped into bed.
"Well… time to sleep. Thanks for today, Elaris."
A warm, silvery glow shimmered beside him as Elaria appeared in spirit form, her voice sweet and teasing.
"You're welcome, Master. As a reward, how about… letting me watch you during your next bath?"
Arthur rolled over, groaning.
"No, you don't."
"Please?"
"No. Shut up."
"Just a peek—"
"I said shut up. We're meeting the Emperor tomorrow. So shut it and let me sleep."
Before she could make another sly remark, Arthur was already fast asleep — breathing evenly, completely gone.
Elaria pouted in the air above him, arms crossed.
"Tch. So stingy…"
But she smiled all the same.
The moonlight filtered through the curtains, and the estate fell into peaceful silence.
Tomorrow, the court awaited.
Tonight, the trickster slept.
............
The morning sun bathed the Valerian estate in gold, its rays slipping through the high windows like blessings from the heavens. In Arthur's private chamber, the air carried the faint scent of black tea and blooming frost lilies. After breakfast, a group of handpicked maids moved in silence, like shadows trained in ceremonial precision, preparing him for the day ahead.
Arthur sat before a grand mirror as one maid carefully buttoned his midnight-black shirt, the fabric soft and fine like woven mana. Over it, he donned a sleek black overcoat, trimmed with subtle golden embroidery that caught the light with every motion, glinting like starlight on the edge of night. Slim black trousers fit seamlessly, tucked into polished boots lined in gold, the perfect blend of nobility and quiet danger.
On his chest gleamed a golden brooch, the emblem of House Valerian — a sword piercing a crown — pinned with silent pride. From his pocket peeked the same sigil again, stitched into his coat with threads only a master artisan could have handled. It wasn't simply clothing. It was a declaration: A lion does not roar — it walks.
His maids moved to his hair next. With delicate fingers, they parted it slightly to the side, combing it into a style both regal and relaxed. The cut sharpened his features, while thin crimson streaks, once faint, were now dyed jet black, giving his hair a mysterious, mirror-like sheen under the morning light.
As the final touch, Arthur's hand moved to the pedestal where his sword rested — Ashbreaker.
Ashbreaker's sheath was a masterpiece of silent power — crafted from obsidian-black leather with crimson runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Dark silver filigree traced its edges in the shape of wings and fire, while a golden inlay of the Valerian sigil — a sword piercing a crown — gleamed near the top.
At his side, the sheath curved with his stride, the blade resting with regal weight. It didn't hang — it belonged, like a crown to a king, or storm to a Arthur stood and faced the mirror.
What looked back was not a boy, nor just a noble heir.
It was a vision.
A being carved from myth — tall, poised, impossibly beautiful. His face carried the elegance of royalty, yet there was something darker, deeper beneath the surface. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, held the quiet power of someone who had seen the storm… and had become it.
With the light catching the golden trim of his coat and the cold gleam of the sword at his hip, he looked like a walking calamity — composed destruction draped in elegance. A beauty not meant to comfort, but to intimidate, captivate, and rule.
Even the maids, trained to remain stoic, found themselves stealing brief glances, breath caught in their throats.
Arthur tilted his head slightly, inspecting himself with a faint smirk.
"Hm. Passable."
But even he knew — this was more than just passable.
It was the image of a sovereign yet to be crowned.
And today, he would meet an emperor.