The throne pulses and rumbles like a volcano about to blow, the entire summit trembling as if the mountain itself is trying to shake us loose. The black stone beneath Felisia glows with bloody runes, every symbol crackling with raw mana.

Energy screams into the air, so dense I can taste copper and burnt ash on my tongue.

My arms shake from the current surging between my body and the throne, and every vein in my body burns as if filled with acid.

* * *

On the cliff, Lord Clearwater's knuckles go white on the armrest of his chair. A servant stumbles up behind him, face pale and eyes wild.

"Lord Clearwater," the servant gasps, "we can't access the pocket dimension. We have tried opening a portal to the last island, but it's not working."

Lord Clearwater snaps around so fast he almost falls from his seat.

"What do you mean it's not working?!"

The servant winces.

"Milord, there's a disturbance in the mana—whatever is happening with Young Mistress Felisia is interfering with the portals. We can't breach them."

All around them, nobles murmur in rising panic. The word passes from mouth to mouth: Felisia's about to die, they say. The relic has gone mad. Nobody knows how to get inside.

A tremor shakes the ground. The throne's light flares, and the scrying mirrors flicker with images of Jacob and Felisia caught in the storm.

Sir Renquell, who's been silent until now, suddenly steps forward and points at the largest mirror.

"Jacob Cloud is saving your daughter," he says, voice ringing across the peak. "Look.

Lord Clearwater can only swear under his breath, praying in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Gods, let that boy save her. Let him save my daughter…"

* * *

The pain is nothing like the trial with the Black Flame. That pain was fire and razor wire and a test of will. This is body-rending agony—like someone is pouring white-hot poison through my veins, then yanking my bones apart with it.

I grit my teeth until my jaw feels like it will break. Every muscle locks in place, and the world dissolves into a blur of red, black, and screaming mana.

I want to let go. I want to pass out, fall into the dark, but I know if I do, Felisia dies. I force myself to hold on, to drag every speck of energy from the throne, siphoning it into my battered frame.

* * *

King Baalrek watches, a voice of smug satisfaction echoing in my mind.

Finally. Jacob Cloud, you're about to die at last. What a story this will be! All that bravado, all those insults, only to get roasted alive on an old relic meant for true Infernals. This is what happens to mortals who bite off more than they can chew. The throne's power is devouring you, and you still think you can save someone else? Ridiculous. I always said you had guts, but you never knew your limits. Finally, I'll provet that only a true Infernal can bear my legacy.

What do you mean?!

You have been arrogant. You fell for this. Your body is not strong enough to absorb the mana from this relic. But if you can conjure another miracle, why don't you go ahead? But I seriously doubt you'll be able to survive this.

"We'll see about that," I say through gritted teeth.

I tune out the taunt, forcing every ounce of my attention back to the Grimoire.

Baalrek can't see it, doesn't even know it exists, but I see the flaws immediately.

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I see the way the mana churns in my channels, the wrong colors, the ragged edges where the throne's power tries to burn its way through my system.

There's something else—a knot of fire deep in my chest, turning darker and darker, like a coal eating all the light around it.

The Grimoire flashes diagrams and warnings: Veins of Fire—the old Skill, now boiling with unstable energy, on the edge of transformation.

This is it.

The only path forward is through.

I take the mana, funnel it with every bit of control I have, and jam it straight into the burning core, guided by the Grimoire. Without it, I'd be toast. It hurts more than anything. My arms lock, my vision goes black, and the world shrinks to that single spark. I push, and something gives way.

The pain turns to ice, then to lightning, then to nothing. A System prompt flashes.

Veins of Fire → Infernal Veins (Platinum Rank)

The agony fades. The throne's light dims, the runes pulsing softer, the raw energy bleeding away as my body adjusts to the new power.

I look over at Felisia. She's unconscious, breathing slow and steady, her face peaceful for the first time since we set foot on this peak. Relief washes through me like cool rain.

What happened? I ask, voice hoarse, turning my thoughts inward to King Baalrek.

King Baalrek answers, his tone edged with respect and something like surprise.

What the fuck?

Well, not exactly respect. More like awe, I suppose.

Did you just try to fucking kill me?! I shout internally at the Infernal.

You called me a freeloader! Me! King Baalrek! Do you know how many would kiss my horns in order to receive one-tenth of the guidance and bonos I provide you?!

But you still tried to kill me!

Minor matters.

King Baalrek shrugs away my complaints.

With you as a true inheritor of an Infernal legacy, you triggered the relic's real power. Only a real Infernal would survive that trial, and even then, it takes a strong one. You went through the genuine rite of passage. You were never meant to make it through—mortals usually die here.

But somehow, you did.

So, what does that mean?

That'll I have to think about something way better to kill you off.

Wait what?

Huh? I didn't say anything.

* * *

King Baalrek pauses, reflecting on what just happened. Privately, he thinks to himself, What this idiotic kid just did is nothing short of an actual miracle. He should have died twice today, first when he created the Black Flame and then now, triggering the change in Veins of Fire. He hasn't realized it, but the throne actually changed his veins. They're real Infernal Veins now, not just a Skill, but the beginning of a true Infernal's body. Immature, untrained veins, yes—but real.

And now the real test begins, King Baalrek tells himself.

The first real battle of Jacob's life is about to start.

* * *

Strength floods my body, raw and primal. My bones feel lighter, my muscles springier, my senses sharp as broken glass.

I have more energy than ever, and the world feels a fraction slower.

But the moment of peace ends as Veyl storms onto the summit, looking like death, his fine robes torn and dust-stained, hair wild, eyes bloodshot.

He sees Felisia draped on the throne, then me, still standing between her and everything else.

Veyl's lips curl in fury.

"You cheated. You're nothing but a peasant. All this time, you've been hiding your power. Now you've stolen the victory that should have been mine!"

He raises his hand, sparks leaping between his fingers.

"I'm going to kill you, Jacob Cloud."

I turn to face him, feeling the new veins throbbing in my arms and chest.

"You can try. But I think I'm about to kill you."

Veyl laughs, ugly and high-pitched.

"You and what pathetic army of peasants?"

I don't answer. I let the new power surge, channeling it outward.

My skin glows with dark lines, not the molten blaze of Veins of Fire, but streaks of midnight threaded with sparks of black flame. They shimmer, crawling up my neck, my limbs, all over my body, lighting it with a spectral shroud.

My bracelet snaps tight on my wrist, mana pouring out as Infernal Veins fully awaken.

Twin horns—translucent, pointed, flickering with shadow and embers—grow from my forehead.

I snap open my wings.

This time, Infernal Wings of Ash are not just smoky appendages. The ash fuses and stretches, webbing into batlike membranes between blackened, spined fingers. They spread wide, casting a monstrous shadow across the summit.

Veyl stares with a frown, thunder gathering at his fingertips.

My own feet lift from the ground, and I feel more alive than I've ever been.

Veyl shrouds himself in lightning.

The next moment, we're charging at each other.

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