The warmth of the dinner gathering had faded, replaced by the quiet stillness of the royal palace halls. After a long and chaotic day, everyone retired to their rooms. But Sion Ragnar—warrior, heir, and now the favorite target of two very persistent women—was not at ease.
He collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh. "I've fought wars, seen blood spill like rivers, but nothing… nothing prepares you for Sara and Katherine teaming up," he muttered, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
"This is new," Raphaël's voice echoed in his head with amused delight. "I never thought I'd witness the mighty Allen—once King of Valor—reduced to a cornered rabbit by two teenage girls."
Sion didn't even respond. He turned his head and pulled the pillow over his face, muffling his cry of despair. Raphaël just laughed harder.
Morning came too fast. And with it, footsteps—light, graceful, but dangerous. Sion's senses flared. He could feel them—Sara and Katherine, approaching in sync.
"Oh no…" he muttered, already standing. Like a trained assassin, he opened the window and slipped out without a sound.
In the corridor, John was walking toward Sion's room with a scroll in hand when he heard a knock. Opening the door, he froze. Sara and Katherine stood there, smiling—but there was a certain dark glint in their eyes.
"Where is Sion?" they asked sweetly, in unison.
John blinked. "He… um… ran away. Through the window." He pointed sheepishly.
Both ladies stared blankly, then turned, their smiles vanishing. John could feel the temperature drop as they marched off, fury rising with each step.
Elsewhere, Sion was crouched behind a training dummy at the palace's outer training grounds. Sweat trickled down his brow—not from training, but from survival.
"You nearly escaped, my boy," Raphaël sang in his mind, laughter ringing, "but even you cannot hide forever."
"Shut up, you damn shorty angel…" Sion growled, casting purification magic on himself in frustration. Raphaël nearly rolled on the floor laughing.
By midday, Sion had made his way into the inner chambers of the palace, meeting with King Nathan.
"I'm moving tonight," Sion stated without hesitation. "The Avalon Merchant Group—one of their key branches operates under the shadow of the nobles here. I'm going to wipe it out, collect evidence, and kill the ones involved. No witnesses."
The King's expression hardened. "Alone?"
"Yes. I want the message to be clear and personal."
Nathan was silent for a moment, weighing the aura behind Sion's words. He simply nodded. "Do what must be done."
The day passed with Sion sharpening his weapons, meditating to reinforce his magical core, and refining his swordsmanship. His focus was razor-sharp, his mind prepared for blood.
And when night fell—he vanished into the dark.
The mission was swift, brutal, and absolute. Sion moved like a ghost in the shadows, cutting down corrupted knights, rogue merchants, and nobles drunk on greed. Not one soul survived.
Eighty bodies lay scattered by dawn. A fire burned where the branch once stood, reduced to ash and ruin.
As the stars faded and the palace lights flickered to life, Sion returned—blood on his gloves, soot on his cloak, and a cold message sent across the kingdom:
The King has returned—and this time, he brings vengeance.