Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 129: The Storm Behind

Chapter 129: The Storm Behind

The front gates groaned open beneath Lionel Xavier’s touch, not from age, but from deliberate design—reinforced hinges molded from iron and bone, etched with markings too ceremonial to be practical. He stepped out without urgency, boots brushing against the blood-streaked stone, his coat swinging just behind his stride like it hadn’t known hesitation in years.

The air was still carrying death.

But he didn’t flinch.

Ahead, in the dim halo of the courtyard torches, five figures stood spaced but unified—Amari at the front, Kusarigama tucked loosely behind his back; Maverick, shoulders cocked, tonfa gleaming faintly beneath cloth wraps; Kenneth upright, staff leveled across his spine; Johnny loose-limbed and sharp-eyed beside Milo, who held his sais with unspoken intent.

Lionel didn’t slow.

Didn’t raise a blade.

Didn’t summon anyone.

He simply smiled—a thin sliver of expression that spoke more to boredom than malice.

"Well," he drawled, voice echoing slightly off the stone. "Either I’ve forgotten an appointment, or someone’s here to ruin my evening."

No one answered.

He stopped just at the edge of the firelight.

"And tell me," Lionel continued, eyes narrowing slightly, "who paid for your march? A kingdom with a grudge? A rival with poor memory? It’s usually one of the two."

Amari didn’t blink.

"We’re not here for you."

Lionel laughed once, short and sharp. "Of course you are. Everyone’s here for me eventually."

"No," Amari replied. "Not this time."

Lionel’s grin twitched. He adjusted his coat.

"You don’t look like bounty hunters," he said. "Too organized. Too quiet." Then his voice dropped. "So, you’re after merchandise? Sorry to disappoint—I don’t keep slaves. Too messy. They bleed on my upholstery."

Something in his tone shifted then. A pause in breath. A flicker in instinct.

He watched Amari’s face.

Then laughed again. This time louder.

"Ah," he said. "Now I see it. You’re here for her."

The others remained still.

Lionel Xavier raised his brows, mock surprise flooding across his expression like wine spilled on silk.

"You came for Zafira."

No one denied it.

He didn’t wait for explanation.

"Bold move," he said. "And suicidal."

Lionel stepped closer, now half-visible in the torchlight, face carved with experience, hair braided into shoulder knots, fingers resting casually near his dagger hilt.

"She’s not just my daughter," he added. "She is the strongest individual in this kingdom. My men answer to me. But they fear her."

He glanced across the group.

"And you think five half-healed mercenaries are going to lift her out of here without losing something permanent?"

His grin widened.

"She could dismantle you all before her breakfast gets cold."

Maverick tilted his head.

"Well, then," he said, mock thoughtful, "I’m grateful for the warning. Truly. But we’ll still be killing you."

Lionel blinked once.

Then laughed again, not in shock or disbelief—but in thrill.

"You want to take the girl and erase me?"

"Loose ends," Maverick said. "They tend to shout after the credits roll."

Lionel’s grin returned.

"I accept."

Upstairs, the silence had shattered.

A single breath.

Then motion.

Shylo had barely adjusted his stance, rope dart sliding into his grip with practiced fluidity, metal coiled and held just below his pulse—when Zafira moved.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t flinch.

Her body twisted from the edge of the bed like wind summoned into shape, feet never fully touching ground, hair rising slightly as the Unco took root, as whatever restrained gravity in this kingdom surrendered to something stronger. Her hand arced sideways—not for a weapon, not for defense, but for a raw burst of energy pulled straight from the marrow of bone.

Then—

The explosion.

Stone cracked outward in a column of pale flame, glass detonated in shards, curtains ripped from hinges in a wave of untraceable motion.

Down below, the courtyard flinched with noise—each boy instinctively turning toward the sound as debris rained from the upper floor. Dust swirled. Smoke billowed. And then—

Shylo flew through the window.

Not fallen.

Thrown.

His body curved through open air like a broken blade mid-swing, limbs outstretched, breath stolen, crashing hard against the pavement just shy of the courtyard fire ring. He rolled once. Then twice. Then stopped.

Lionel didn’t react with concern.

He didn’t even reach for a blade.

He smiled—wide, slow, pride-stung.

Like a father watching his daughter succeed.

"She’s awake," he said simply, eyes still on the shattered window.

Smoke poured outward. Then cleared.

And she appeared.

Descending without stairs, hovering just above ground, cloak still intact, face untouched. Zafira floated downward on a radiant wind that shimmered like threads of molten gold—her Unco, Seraph’s Breath, forged through ancient rite in her bloodline, a myth-born airforce tethered directly to soul and dominance.

Her eyes pulsed faintly.

Silver. Unwavering. Calm.

She didn’t land.

She hovered—skin flickering softly with kinetic imprint.

No markings.

Just power.

Amari stepped forward instinctively, Kusarigama already drawn.

But Zafira didn’t acknowledge him.

She kept her gaze on Shylo, who groaned once—barely—then pushed his weight up with the slow tenacity of someone who’d been launched across architecture and still refused to stay down.

Milo watched the whole scene unfold, expression blank before it cracked with dry amusement.

"Well," he muttered, "so much for an easy one."

He looked at Amari. "You really know how to pick ’em."

Maverick snorted. "Remind me next time to sabotage your kingdom research."

Lionel exhaled slowly, face still lifted to the debris cloud above.

"You’ve made a mistake," he said, tone not mocking—but measured. "A bold one. And costly."

He turned fully now, facing them with hands open, no weapon drawn, posture relaxed like this wasn’t battle—but closure.

"I know who you are," Lionel said. "All of you."

His eyes moved across each mask. Each stance.

"Demon Six," he said. "Masked reapers. Trained outside border law. Carved into rumor before titles were even issued."

The others didn’t confirm it.

They didn’t need to.

"You’ve done good work," Lionel added. "Brutal. Efficient. I admired it once."

He stepped toward the flame basin near the center.

"But admiration only stretches so far when you storm my house and threaten my bloodline."

He paused.

Then turned again.

Face lit orange beneath firelight.

"I thought we might work together someday. A deal. A shared offense. But that was then."

Kenneth didn’t wait for more speech.

He stepped forward, adjusted his grip, staff sliding into full extension with a clean hiss of blade against air.

"Are we fighting or not?"

The fire cracked once, like it had heard him.

And Zafira lowered herself—just slightly—touching one toe to the ground.