At the summit, the air is knife-sharp and crackling with mana. Shadows burn across the ground where I land—where I become something other than human, something new. Black lines shimmer under my skin, webbed with flecks of flame.

My Infernal Wings unfurl, massive and webbed, their ash-membranes stretching wide. Twin horns arc from my skull, translucent but fierce, and around my shoulders a faint shroud of fire.

For a moment, the world holds its breath.

* * *

The nobles lining the cliffs stare, some silent, some gasping. Their voices break the silence as shock gives way to awe and terror.

"He's changed—look at those horns, those wings!"

"Infernal—he's using real Infernal powers, not just a Skill!"

"What…what is that?" whispers a noblewoman, eyes wide and white.

"He's…he's sprouting horns," says a merchant, voice shrill, "and look at his wings—"

"The boy who killed the Drake and Shellford is an Infernal?!"

Someone in the back lets out a terrified, gasping sob. Another noble leans forward, mesmerized, unable to tear his eyes away from the darkness boiling around Jacob's form.

Lord Clearwater cannot move. He grips the armrests of his chair so tightly that the wood creaks. His lips move, but no sound comes at first. Then, barely audible, he mutters the same prayer he used the day his wife died.

His knuckles turn white, and his face is drained of blood.

Even Sir Renquell stands still, eyes unblinking. For once, the old Knight shows real shock. The moment stretches. His jaw clenches, and the hand that rests on his sword's hilt twitches.

He doesn't move, but one can see it in his gaze: the acknowledgment of a threshold being crossed, a power he did not expect to witness.

A chorus of anxious whispers echoes through the crowd.

"Is that…actual Infernal blood?"

"It can't be… not in Clearwater."

Guildmaster Dorn stands among them, face pale and sweat glistening at his brow. He remembers every slight, every comment he's made about Jacob Cloud.

Now, the memory of every insult returns to haunt him.

If even a rumor of this gets out, if the boy is connected to the Infernals, he realizes, he could be ruined.

Worse, he could be dead before the week is out.

* * *

Veyl surges forward, lightning bursting around him in a storm. I meet him head-on—Hell's Sword in my right, Dark Blade in my left.

Fire and shadow spiral together in a corona that sears the ground beneath us.

Our first clash is apocalyptic.

Lightning collides with Infernal flames.

The air cracks and the stone shatters beneath our feet.

We're moving faster than most eyes can follow.

Veyl's blade is a streak of blue light, every strike aimed to kill, every parry desperate and vicious.

I bring Hell's Sword up, block a downward arc, and the feedback jangles through my arms. My Infernal Veins pulse, soaking up the recoil.

An opening, I think, as the Grimoire works overtime to expose all Flaws in Veyl's Skills. But, unlike Adrienne, there are barely a few.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Dark Blade slashes at his exposed ribs, but Veyl twists, lightning flowing into his armor, and the strike glances off. The world stinks of ozone and burnt stone.

He roars, and lightning erupts from his palms. I raise Fire Shield—channeling mana through Furnace Core, compressing the lattice with Flameform Blueprint so the energy doesn't scatter. The barrier holds, blue sparks fizzing across a sheet of burning gold. Veyl grits his teeth, pouring more power in, but I let Fire Armor soak the rest. The heat only makes me stronger, feeding mana back through Infernal Thread, reinforcing every Skill in use.

He tries to break my defense with speed, launching forward with a streak of electricity, aiming to blitz my head from my shoulders.

I trigger Fire Walk and enhance it with Flameform Blueprint, jets igniting beneath my feet, launching me into the air. My wings keeping me above his line of attack.

From above, I drop, Hell's Sword slamming down, the blade wreathed in fire. Veyl raises a shield of pure force—silver latticework flickering—but I target the flaw the Grimoire highlights, an imperfect node behind his right shoulder.

The blade bites deep, sparks flying, a ripple of flame racing up his back.

Veyl screams, staggering but not down.

* * *

On the cliffs, the nobles reel in shock. Some are openly terrified. A few, the ones with backbone, watch with barely disguised excitement.

"That's not just any normal Skill," one whispers. "That's—he's become something else."

Guildmaster Dorn clutches the railing, sweat beading on his brow.

"I didn't know… No one said… If I'd known, I never would've…"

Lord Clearwater covers his face, mumbling a prayer that sounds halfway to a curse. Sir Renquell only watches, his sharp eyes flickering with calculation and something like pride.

A few nobles whisper, "If he wins, what then? What happens if he kills the Elf?"

The nobles exchange a few uneasy glances.

Some call for mercy. Others cry for someone to stop the fight, warning of diplomatic disaster if Veyl dies.

More still cheer for Jacob—every underdog, every challenger who ever got stepped on in Clearwater.

* * *

Baalrek's presence sharpens.

He watches each move, analyzing every flow of mana.

He's not mimicking, Baalrek thinks, uneasy. That's real Infernal power. The kid's not pretending—he's channeling the Black Flame through those veins. Gods below, he's not supposed to be able to do that so soon. And he's yet to use it…

* * *

Veyl screams, rage and panic blurring his movements. He calls on every Skill, every drop of mana he has left. Lightning surges into a storm. He strikes at my legs, my wings, my throat, all at once, every attack faster than the last.

I adapt with every move. The Grimoire lets me see the flaws in his attacks. Architect's Insight helps the overly of his body with lines created by the Grimoire—weaknesses in his footwork, gaps in his defense, instability in his shield when he overextends.

He feints, but I'm already moving.

Hell's Sword flashes—Fire Slash launches a searing arc that splits the stone at his feet. He vaults back, but I throw an Hellspire at his feet, making it explode and sending him reeling.

He screams, armor cracking, skin burning.

"There's a first time for everything," I say, activating Ignition Array and surrounding him with flames as I use Fire Slashes to keep him rooted as he slowly gets cooked alive.

I'm humiliating him, I think to myself. This is for all the smack you talked, you bastard.

He staggers out of the array, unleashing a wild blast of lightning that crashes against my Fire Shield. The barrier holds—barely. I let it drop, rolling under his next attack. Veyl's movements get sloppy as panic sets in. Every time he attacks, he leaves himself open, and every time, I press the advantage.

He tries to break away, but I chase him down, Fire Walk boosting me with every step. I use Ember Keystone to create a Fire Shield mid-air, anchoring it like a floating platform, leap off it, and slam Dark Blade into his shoulder. The darkness rips through his armor, and he howls in agony.

The Grimoire flashes a warning: his mana reserves are almost gone.

He's desperate.

* * *

Felisia stirs on the throne, half-conscious, eyes flickering open. She tries to rise but slumps back, body too weak. Her gaze finds me, blurry but proud, then snaps to Veyl. She tries to shout, but her voice is nothing but a croak.

* * *

Sir Renquell makes to step forward, hands clenched. Lord Clearwater catches his arm.

"Don't. This is the law of the trial. No one interferes," he says, voice rough.

Renquell's face is tight with worry, but he nods.

"If he kills Veyl, though, there'll be hell to pay."

Lord Clearwater doesn't answer, but his hand stays steady, holding the Elf back.

* * *

Veyl, wild-eyed, staggers back, blood streaming down his forearms where he's slashed himself open with his own blade. He mutters something—a forbidden incantation, voice raw with pain.

Red lightning suddenly bursts from the wounds, arcing up his arms, wrapping his body in a cloak of scarlet energy.

He screams, the sound cutting through everything.

Veyl's whole body shakes, red lightning snaking from the cuts in his forearms. It rises in jagged webs, each strand pulsing with an energy that makes the air warp and burn. The glow deepens, flaring up until the very stones at his feet vibrate and crack.

His eyes blaze with a manic, hungry light, and he throws back his head with a scream that's more animal than human.

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