Episode-220

Words : 1623 Updated : Sep 29th, 2025

Chapter : 439 Victor, who had been basking in the sound of his own venomous insults, suddenly felt a jolt of ice-cold dread snake its way up his spine. The satisfying rush of his rage evaporated, replaced by a primal, instinctual fear he had never felt before. He had expected a shout, a lunge, a clumsy, emotional response he could easily counter. He had not expected this. This quiet, calm, and utterly, comprehensively, terrifying emptiness. He saw the shift in Lloyd’s eyes, and for the first time in his arrogant, pampered life, he understood the difference between a rival and a predator. He had just made a fatal, category error. “You have a very poor sense of self-preservation, Victor,” Lloyd’s voice was a low, quiet murmur, utterly devoid of inflection. It was not the voice of the awkward heir, nor the confident lecturer. It was the voice of the Major General, the cold, clinical tone he used when analyzing a target for neutralization. It was the voice of a man making a final, dispassionate assessment before pulling a trigger. Before Victor could stammer a response, before he could even think to raise a hand in defense, before Princess Isabella could utter the sharp, commanding word that was forming on her lips, Lloyd acted. He didn't move his feet. He didn't lunge. He simply... raised his hands, palms open. The air in the room ripped apart with a sound like a thousand metallic whispers. From the floor, from the walls, from the very air around Victor, they erupted. Gleaming, solid chains of polished Ferrum steel, each link perfectly formed, impossibly strong, burst into existence. They were not ephemeral energy constructs; they were tangible, real, and humming with a contained, terrifying power. They moved with the silent, inescapable speed of striking vipers. One chain shot up from the floor, coiling around Victor’s ankles, yanking his feet out from under him with a brutal, irresistible force. He cried out in shocked surprise as his world tilted, his balance gone. But he didn't hit the floor. Another chain lashed out, wrapping around his waist, arresting his fall, holding him suspended, helpless, a few inches above the ground. Two more chains shot forward, binding his arms from wrist to shoulder, pinning them to his sides, rendering him utterly immobile. A final chain, smaller, more delicate, slithered up and coiled gently, almost mockingly, around his throat, not choking him, but resting there, a cold, metallic promise of what could come next. The entire event, from the eruption of the chains to Victor’s complete, humiliating incapacitation, took less than a single, breathtaking second. He hung there, a trussed-up puppet in a web of gleaming steel, his face a mask of shocked, terrified disbelief. The students gasped, a collective, sharp intake of breath. Borin Ironhand, the blacksmith’s son, stared at the chains, his jaw slack, his professional mind struggling to comprehend their impossible creation. The metal... it hadn't been forged. It had been... willed into existence. Princess Isabella’s own face was a pale, frozen mask of astonishment, her icy-blue eyes wide with a dawning, almost fearful, understanding. This was not the clumsy Iron Blood of the cadet branches. This was something else. Something older. Something far, far more potent. This was the true, legendary Steel Blood of the main line, a power she had only ever read about in the most secret, restricted royal chronicles. And it was being wielded with a terrifying, effortless mastery. Lloyd stood before his captured, helpless rival, the ends of the chains seeming to flow not from his hands, but from the very space around him, a testament to his absolute control. His cold, empty eyes were fixed on Victor’s terrified ones. “Let me offer you a lesson, Victor,” Lloyd’s voice was still a quiet, chilling murmur. “A lesson in consequence. The first part of your lesson is this: an insult to me is a personal matter. Annoying, yes. But ultimately, insignificant. I am, as you so helpfully pointed out, a unworthy son.” He paused, letting the words hang in the silent, charged air. “But an insult to my father, the Arch Duke of this realm... that is not a personal matter. That is a political crime. An act of sedition. An insult to my mother, the Duchess, is an affront to the honor of not just one, but two great houses.” He took a slow step closer, the chains humming softly, tightening almost imperceptibly, causing Victor to let out a small, choked gasp. “And this brings us to the second part of your lesson, Victor,” Lloyd continued, his voice dropping even further, becoming a sound of pure, cold, pedagogical menace. “It is the lesson of power dynamics. You believe power is the ability to swing a sword, to cast a spell. You are a child, playing with a child’s toys.” Chapter : 440 He focused his will, not on the chains, but on the bond with Fang Fairy, the quiet river of lightning that was always present now, deep within him. He drew upon a tiny, infinitesimal fraction of that power, not enough to form a spear, not even enough to create a visible spark. Just... a current. A low, controlled, invisible flow of pure energy. And he channeled it, with a thought, into the steel chains that bound Victor. Victor’s body did not convulse violently. There was no flash, no sound. There was just a sudden, absolute, and silent, locking of every muscle in his body. His eyes widened in a silent scream of pure, unadulterated agony as a low-voltage, high-amperage current coursed through him. It wasn't the searing, burning pain of a lightning strike. It was a deeper, more insidious agony, the feeling of every nerve ending being set on fire simultaneously, a silent, internal electrocution that was completely invisible to the onlookers, but was, for Victor, a private, personal, and absolute, hell. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. He could only hang there, his body rigid, his face a contorted mask of shocked, silent torment, a low, gurgling sound escaping his paralyzed throat. “True power, Victor,” Lloyd whispered, his cold, empty eyes fixed on his rival’s agonized ones, “is not about winning a duel. It is about control. Absolute control. The ability to inflict consequence, precisely, silently, and with an undeniable, unforgettable finality.” He held the current for another long, agonizing second, searing the lesson not just into Victor’s mind, but into his very soul. Then, as quickly as it had begun, he released it. The current ceased. The chains went slack, dissolving back into nothingness with a faint, whispering hiss. Victor collapsed to the floor in a boneless, whimpering heap, his body trembling uncontrollably, a thin line of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. He was not physically injured, not in any way that would leave a visible mark. But he was broken. Utterly, comprehensively, broken. The arrogant, confident Viscount’s heir was gone, replaced by a terrified, shuddering boy who had just been given a glimpse of a power so far beyond his comprehension that it had shattered his entire world. Lloyd looked down at him, his expression once more a mask of cool, emotionless neutrality. The lesson was complete. The aftermath of the lesson was a silence so profound it was like the air had been stolen from the lungs of the world. Victor lay on the floor, a crumpled, shuddering testament to the difference between schoolyard bullying and the cold, hard reality of political consequence. His two cronies, who had been frozen in place since the chains first appeared, now looked as if they might actually faint from sheer, second-hand terror. They stared at their fallen leader, then at Lloyd, their faces pale, slack-jawed masks of pure, unadulterated fear. The other students were in a similar state of shock. Borin Ironhand, the blacksmith’s son, was staring at the spot where the chains had vanished, his hands trembling slightly, his mind clearly struggling to process the impossible metallurgy he had just witnessed. Pip the gnome had dropped his clockwork dragonfly, which now lay twitching on the floor, forgotten. Nira of Silverwood’s usual serene composure was gone, replaced by a look of wide-eyed, almost fearful, awe. They had all felt the shift in power, the cold, absolute authority that had emanated from their new professor. They had come to this class expecting an eccentric. They had found a predator. A quiet, polite, and utterly, terrifyingly, dangerous predator. Lloyd ignored them all. He calmly walked back to the lectern, picked up his charcoal stick, and turned to face the blank slate board. As if nothing had happened. As if a man wasn't currently whimpering on the floor a few feet away. “Now,” he said, his voice once more the calm, level tone of a teacher, though now imbued with an undeniable, chilling authority that had not been there before. “As I was saying before we were so... boorishly... interrupted. The economics of power.” He began to sketch on the board again, his hand perfectly steady. “Let us return to the logistical challenges of arrow fletching...” He was deliberately, calculatedly, demonstrating that the entire, terrifying incident had been nothing more than a minor interruption to him. A piece of dust to be flicked from his sleeve. An annoying fly to be swatted. The psychological impact of this casual, contemptuous dismissal was, in its own way, even more devastating than the physical one had been. It cemented his position not just as a teacher, but as a being operating on a level so far beyond them that their own petty squabbles were utterly, completely, insignificant.

Episode-220

Comments (0)