Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 130: Storm Silence

Chapter 130: Storm Silence

Zafira touched the stone with one toe.

That was all it took.

The ground responded with recoil, a pulse of air surging outward like the terrain had registered her presence and panicked. Shylo braced himself first, knees bent low, rope dart extended, one breath away from counterstrike. But Kenneth was already beside him, staff drawn, eyes alive with something rarely seen—anticipation.

"She’s strong," he said, voice low but hungry. "I want this one."

Zafira didn’t answer. She didn’t posture. She simply rose again—hovering half a meter above ground, cloak curling against wind she hadn’t summoned, silver eyes scanning the two of them with detached precision. And then she moved.

What followed wasn’t an attack. It was a revelation.

She surged forward in a blur, air splitting beneath her like a divine roar muffled in mortal bones. Kenneth met her first, staff rotating in a high arc to catch her descent, but she folded mid-air, dipped sideways, and twisted the velocity with raw Unco force. Shylo cut across, rope dart unfurling in a whip-crack snap that latched onto the corner of her cloak. He yanked.

She spun in midair—graceful, predatory—and flung both hands wide. A cyclone burst erupted outward, sending dust into the sky and breaking the rooftop edge behind them. Kenneth slid back, heels digging into stone. Shylo crouched into the blast—silent, calculating.

The fight had begun.

Below, the kingdom stirred.

Alarms belted from the northern towers—sharp, brassy howls that signaled intrusion not from the outside but deep within. Doors slammed open. Barracks emptied. Warriors spilled from shadow, some half-dressed in armor, others still holding plates from interrupted meals. They came in waves—men and women scarred with survival, armed not with military formality but weapons grown from instinct.

And Lionel watched it all.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t raise a blade.

He simply turned, slowly, toward Amari, Johnny, Milo, and Maverick—expression unreadable, the edge of mockery rising beneath his grin.

The first wave rushed forward.

Johnny dropped into motion immediately, rods spinning wide, catching the first with a snap to the jaw, then splitting into twin sweeps that knocked two more into the ground. Milo stepped sideways, sai flashing, slicing a thigh artery and spinning behind a shielded attacker to strike twice in the ribs. Amari moved low, chain trailing across the dirt, using the weight of his Kusarigama to deflect then pull—the first blade catching the neck, the second slicing clean across the shoulder before the guard hit stone.

And Maverick exhaled.

Louder.

His voice sliced the air.

"Feint."

Half a dozen guards stumbled, arms convulsing mid-strike, knees buckling as their bodies obeyed before thought could rebel.

Lionel raised an eyebrow—mockingly impressed. "Voice of Command," he said. "Beautiful. I hoped I’d see it in real time."

Maverick grinned.

"Amari," he barked.

Amari pivoted toward him.

"Jump."

And Amari did.

But Maverick wasn’t finished.

"Launch."

His Unco surged forward, power laced through command, and Amari’s body accelerated unnaturally upward—arc shifting, breath locked, blade already pulled mid-air. The jump turned into flight. The momentum felt like borrowed fury. He rose, twisted, and aimed downward toward the stone throne where Lionel still stood, cape curled, dagger sheathed.

Amari struck downward.

The Kusarigama sliced first—a twin arc of steel ripping past wind as he landed in a three-point crush, sparks kicking upward as chain dragged across polished stone. Lionel leaned back just enough, one elbow raised to deflect with unnatural reflexes, the dagger unsheathed in a flash that clashed against the descending blade.

Lionel met Amari’s blade mid-air with a shift of stance so fluid it felt rehearsed in older wars. The dagger twisted against chain, sparks crackled against steel, but Amari dropped low, pivoted, then spun his Kusarigama into a flanking whip—one blade curving across the back, the other lunging forward like a beast uncoiled.

Lionel dodged backward—but something moved with him.

For a split-second, Amari saw two Lionels.

The second shimmered like dust caught in torchlight, mirrored the first’s movement with a slight distortion in timing—and then vanished as the blade passed through it.

Lionel smiled.

"Crown of Mirrors," he said. "A gift the gods whispered into my chest."

His Unco activated again—two sets of steps echoed across the courtyard, but only one held weight. Illusions rippled around Amari, mimicking real motion, distorting distance, bleeding confusion into the fight. Amari’s blade caught the edge of a copy—then Lionel lunged from the opposite flank, dagger arcing toward his ribs.

Amari blocked just in time.

The chain coiled across Lionel’s wrist, and for a moment, both locked eyes.

Then they broke.

Amari twisted, dragging the Kusarigama downward, forcing Lionel to duck beneath the arc—but Lionel surged forward, grabbed the chain, and pulled, flipping Amari off-balance. Amari landed on his shoulder, rolled, recovered mid-slide. The dagger cut past his cheek—clean, shallow, like it had asked permission first.

Lionel laughed—not cruelly, not loudly. Just with the sound of a man reminded why he liked war.

"You’re faster than rumor claimed," he said, stepping sideways as another chain strike curved toward his thigh. "You’ve lived longer than anyone without an Unco should."

Amari spun the Kusarigama wide, caught the dagger edge, dragged it across Lionel’s sleeve and split fabric. His breath stayed steady.

"I don’t need it."

Lionel stopped—just for a beat.

Then his voice deepened.

"Everyone needs it."

He moved again—mirror illusions surging into being, half a dozen ripples blooming outward, each one echoing his posture. Amari backed up, eyes narrowing, chain sweeping defensively to clear phantoms—but Lionel didn’t attack.

He spoke.

"You fight hard, Amari. With pain in your chest and ghosts at your shoulder. You fight like the weak do. Out of necessity."

Amari didn’t respond.

Lionel stepped closer.

"The weak weren’t made for this world. They weren’t shaped by fire. They burned and broke. And the strong—we—reign afterward. That’s the cycle. That’s how it stays clean."

His illusions faded.

Just him now.

And his voice.

"But you... you were weak. And you became something else. That strength—that transformation—is sacred."

Lionel lowered his dagger.

"I can make you more. Whatever you want. Name the shape. Kingdom. Myth. You earned it. Just join me."

Amari stood still.

His face wasn’t angry.

It was calm.

His grip tightened slowly across his blade.

"No."