Episode-280

Words : 1555 Updated : Oct 5th, 2025

Chapter : 559 The training ground was a canvas of elemental chaos. The constant, concussive BOOM of Iffrit’s flaming greatsword against Roy’s chain defense was the deep, brutal percussion of their duel. The high-pitched, electric ZZZ-T of Fang Fairy’s lightning darts was the sharp, melodic counterpoint. The air was a thick, almost unbreathable soup of superheated metal, ozone, and the raw, tangible pressure of three immense, warring powers. Lloyd stood at the nexus, the eye of his own self-created storm. He felt like a master weaver, his will the loom, the powers of his two spirits the threads, creating a complex, violent, and beautiful tapestry of coordinated destruction. The drain on his unified core was immense, a constant, massive outflow of energy that left a deep, resonant ache in his very soul. He could feel his reserves, vast as they now were, being steadily, relentlessly, depleted. He knew he could not maintain this level of offensive pressure indefinitely. This was a battle of attrition, and despite his two Transcended spirits, he suspected his father’s personal reserves, honed over a lifetime of war and rulership, were still deeper, more profound, than his own. But the strategy was having an effect. Roy was no longer a static, immovable fortress. He was a dynamic defender, his expression now one of absolute, unwavering concentration. His dark, impenetrable chains flowed and reformed with a liquid grace that was terrifying to behold, a constantly shifting shield that anticipated and neutralized every attack with a flawless, almost prescient, efficiency. A section would thicken, bracing for the cataclysmic impact of Iffrit’s zanbatō, then instantly thin and whip outwards to swat one of Fang Fairy’s lightning darts from the air. He was a master, a grandmaster, of his art, his control so absolute, so refined, that it was a thing of terrifying, almost abstract, beauty. He was not under pressure in the sense of being overwhelmed. He was not being driven back. But he was being contained. His entire focus, his entire power, was dedicated solely to defense, to weathering the relentless, two-pronged storm his son had unleashed. He could not counterattack. He could not seize the initiative. He was trapped within his own perfect, unbreakable defense, a king besieged in his own fortress. And Lloyd, the strategist, knew that a fortress under constant siege, no matter how strong, has a weakness. Not in its walls, but in its master. Fatigue. A momentary lapse in concentration. A single, fractional miscalculation in the face of a relentless, chaotic assault. That was the opening he was waiting for. Faster, Fang Fairy! his mental command was a sharp, insistent spur. More erratic! Don’t let him predict your vectors! Iffrit! Wider arcs! Aim for the base of his shield, then his flank! Force him to move, to reshape his entire defense with every blow! The assault intensified. Fang Fairy became a dizzying, almost invisible, blur of azure light, her lightning darts no longer just harassing probes, but a constant, disorienting, multi-directional barrage. Iffrit’s swings became wider, more brutal, the roaring, flaming arc of his blade forcing Roy to constantly shift the very foundation of his chain fortress, to flow his power from one side to the other to meet the relentless, hammering blows. It was a beautiful, terrifying dance, a high-stakes, cosmic ballet of power and will. And Lloyd, for a fleeting, exhilarating moment, felt a surge of pure, triumphant joy. He was doing it. He was holding his own against the Arch Duke of Ferrum, the most powerful man he had ever known. He was pushing him, testing him, forcing him to reveal the true, breathtaking depth of his mastery. But Roy Ferrum was not just a master. He was the mountain. And the mountain was patient. He weathered the storm, his face a mask of calm, absolute concentration, his defenses flowing, adapting, never breaking. And he was waiting. Waiting for his son, for the young, powerful, but ultimately less experienced, commander, to make a mistake. The mistake, when it came, was a small one. A fractional miscalculation, born of ambition and a momentary lapse in discipline. Lloyd saw a pattern. Roy’s defense, while flawless, was reactive. He would shift his chain wall to meet Iffrit’s blow, creating a momentary thinning of the shield on the opposite flank, a window of opportunity that was open for less than a tenth of a second before it was sealed again. It was a tiny, almost insignificant, opening. But Lloyd, his mind buzzing with the thrill of the battle, thought he could exploit it. He formulated a new, complex, and deeply, profoundly, arrogant plan. A feint, followed by a simultaneous, perfectly timed, pincer strike. Chapter : 560 Iffrit! his command was a flash of pure, tactical brilliance, or perhaps, hubris. Feint high, to his right! Draw his shield upwards! Fang Fairy! The moment the shield moves, you strike! Thousand Chirp Strike! Not at the shield, but at the ground beneath his feet! Undermine his stance! Break his foundation! It was a brilliant plan. A classic military feint, designed to create a moment of vulnerability, followed by a decisive, destabilizing blow. It was also the mistake Roy had been waiting for. The two spirits moved as one, a testament to Lloyd’s absolute control. Iffrit roared, his flaming greatsword swinging upwards in a high, arcing feint towards Roy’s right shoulder. As predicted, Roy’s chain defense flowed upwards to meet the apparent threat, a massive shield of interlocking steel rising to intercept the blow. And in that instant, the base of his defense, the chains anchored to the ground on his left, thinned for a fraction of a second. Now! Fang Fairy moved, a streak of pure, divine judgment. The air ripped with the shriek of a thousand birds as she unleashed the full, untamed power of her Thousand Chirp Strike, not at Roy, but at the cracked, superheated stone floor beneath his feet. But Roy Ferrum was not looking at Iffrit’s feint. He was not looking at Fang Fairy’s ground-shattering strike. His dark, intelligent eyes, which had been a mask of calm, defensive concentration, were fixed, with a new, sudden, and terrifyingly sharp, predatory intensity, directly on Lloyd. He had not been reacting to the spirits. He had been watching the commander. He had seen the flicker of intent in Lloyd’s eyes, had felt the subtle shift in the flow of his will through their shared bloodline, and had anticipated the entire, complex maneuver before it had even begun. He had not been defending against the storm. He had been setting a trap for the storm’s master. The rose garden of the Ferrum Estate was a world away from the scorched, violent reality of the training ground. Here, the air was a soft, warm perfume of a thousand blooming flowers, the only sounds the gentle drone of honeybees and the soft, musical splash of a nearby marble fountain. The late afternoon sun slanted through the ancient, trellised archways, painting the stone pathways in dappled gold. It was a place of peace, of beauty, of a quiet, cultivated serenity that felt like a different universe. Faria Kruts sat on a simple, white stone bench, a sketchbook open on her lap, a stick of charcoal held loosely in her fingers. She was supposed to be capturing the breathtaking beauty of a rare, deep-purple rose that her mother, the Marquess-Consort Joynab, had so admired. But her gaze was distant, unfocused, her hand still. The vibrant colors of the garden, the perfect, silent beauty of the flowers, held no interest for her. Her mind was elsewhere, trapped in a chaotic, stimulating, and deeply perplexing, memory of a dusty, repurposed mill and the scent of rosemary. She sighed, a long, frustrated sound, and let the charcoal stick drop onto the open page of her sketchbook, leaving a small, dark smudge. It was useless. She couldn’t focus. Ever since her return from the Ferrum capital, her mind had been a restless, turbulent sea. The quiet, predictable rhythms of her life at the Kruts estate, which had once felt so comforting, so familiar, now felt... dull. Stagnant. Lacking a certain... intellectual fire. She thought of him. Again. Lloyd Ferrum. The paradox. The enigma. The soap-making, art-critiquing, dragon-in-disguise. Their collaboration on the AURA painting had been the most intense, most challenging, and most exhilarating, creative experience of her entire life. He had pushed her, he had challenged her, he had forced her to see her own art, her own world, through a new, sharper, and more pragmatic, lens. He had been infuriating. Arrogant, in his own quiet, maddeningly logical way. And he had been... brilliant. She remembered the easy camaraderie they had shared, the shared laughter, the passionate debates that had stretched late into the night. He had treated her not as a Marquess’s daughter to be flattered, but as a professional, an equal, a colleague. He had seen her mind, her talent, not just her face or her title. It was a new, strange, and deeply, profoundly, addictive feeling. And now, he was gone. Back to his own world of commerce and politics, of his powerful father and his strange, icy wife. And she was back in hers, a world of quiet gardens, of polite courtly society, of a deep, abiding, and now suddenly almost unbearable, sense of... boredom.

Episode-280

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