Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 138: Found Nothing

Chapter 138: Found Nothing

(Present day)

The wind had changed.

But the courtyard hadn’t.

Lionel stood opposite Amari—posture loose, gaze unreadable, the same grin carved lightly across his face like no blade had dared scrape it off. The man who had once built a kingdom from dust and divine departure didn’t look tired. Didn’t look afraid. He was moving fast, striking clean—but not seriously. Not yet.

And Amari knew it.

Every time their blades clashed, every time the Kusarigama hissed through air and Lionel redirected the arc with wrist and shoulder alone, it wasn’t just defense. It was evaluation.

Behind them, the orchestra of war kept playing—

Milo froze time again—twice in quick bursts—stacking clone formations around collapsing soldiers.

Johnny deflected another spear barrage with rod sweeps that bent physics in bursts.

Maverick issued commands that cracked through skulls and folded lungs into silence.

But the battle hadn’t tipped yet.

Because the storm had a center.

And that center was still waiting.

At the northern ridge—

Kenneth panted.

Shylo crouched.

And she—the daughter of Lionel Xavier—stood barefoot on fractured stone, smiling like mercy was a lesson she wasn’t interested in teaching tonight. Her golden-trimmed cloak whispered against the wind, long black braid trailing with amusement, her fingers never touching the twin blades hanging from her back.

"You’re both very sweet," she said, voice soft enough to sound friendly, sharp enough to echo like threat. "But I did say I was losing patience."

She winked at Kenneth.

"You could do better than that. Or I’ll stop pretending you have a chance."

Shylo hissed—low, fast—

"Kenneth, don’t—"

But Kenneth had already moved.

He lunged forward hard, staff whipping sideways into a vertical arc, blade edge spinning toward her torso with full-body acceleration—no feint, no disguise. Just rage. The strike cracked through wind like it wanted to rewrite the air.

She stepped past it.

Not away.

Past.

Her body didn’t retreat—it folded in. Twisting half a meter forward into the arc, head dipping low, foot sweeping across the stone with just enough friction to catch Kenneth’s forward momentum and press it into imbalance.

The staff struck nothing.

The ground behind her splintered instead.

She tilted her head mid-spin.

"You’re fast," she said softly.

Then her elbow snapped backward—

and missed nothing.

It hit Kenneth in the ribs before he could recover. He folded instantly, breath expelled, grip faltering.

She didn’t wait.

Her left knee rose, struck his jaw—

Once.

Twice.

Then a backward pivot brought her full rotation across his front, heel snapping high, knocking his temple just shy of blackout.

He stumbled—

swung again—

wildly.

Staff in both hands, blade screaming through the wind with desperation dressed as vengeance.

She ducked.

Twisted left.

Then surged forward without lifting her feet.

The wind seemed to carry her, not through flight—

but anticipation.

He missed again.

Again.

Again.

Her body moved before his arms did, reading the tension in his shoulders before the strike formed, slipping between intervals like she’d been taught rhythm instead of defense.

He collapsed to one knee, panting, staff dragging across stone like it had forgotten its purpose.

She stepped toward him slowly.

Smiling.

Not wicked.

Just amused.

"I warned you," she said. "I don’t like slow dances. They make me lose patience."

She glanced at Shylo, then back to Kenneth.

"You want me to take you seriously?"

Her hand touched the hilt.

Then paused.

"I’m trying. But you have to earn it."

The wind stilled—just barely.

Lionel lowered his blade, though his stance held. No exhaustion, no weakness. Only a quiet, deliberate shift in tempo, like he was pausing the melody before deciding whether to cut the final note.

"You’re strong," he said, voice low. "Not finished. Not reckless. That’s rare."

Amari didn’t speak.

He didn’t lower his Kusarigama.

Lionel stepped forward, slow, open-palmed.

"I’ll make you an offer," he continued. "If you retreat now—if you walk away—I’ll give you something. Someone. Not my daughter. But something else they’ll want."

Amari’s jaw tightened, his grip unreadable.

Lionel’s voice remained smooth, without rage.

"There’s a girl," he said. "And a boy. Twins. Born to a prophecy older than my kingdom. Names not spoken yet because the universe hasn’t chosen the language to contain them."

He paused.

"They will shape what’s coming. Not just battle. Not just order. The future—all of it. And the ones who want my daughter... they’ll take the twins gladly. Happily."

Amari narrowed his eyes.

He hadn’t blinked.

Lionel let the words settle before slicing the air once more—

"Choose," he said. "Take my offer. Or fight me until you’re dust under torchlight."

A long breath.

Amari’s voice finally cut through.

"What do you gain?"

Lionel’s gaze sharpened.

"I keep my kingdom intact. My people whole. My daughter away from chains. And you—you walk away knowing I don’t forget. I don’t forgive. If I ever see you outside these walls again—outside diplomacy, outside truce—I will kill you."

No shake in his tone.

No hesitation.

Just memory, forged into intent.

Amari rolled his shoulders once, weight of the offer pressing into him like the war didn’t end, it just folded.

He exhaled.

"I should kill you," he said.

Lionel didn’t blink.

"I know."

"But this isn’t about ego."

"It rarely is."

Amari’s gaze drifted toward the flames behind them—Maverick still clashing, Milo flickering, Johnny bruised but breathing.

Then back to Lionel.

"If the twins are real," Amari said slowly, "and if they shift fate the way you claim... I’ll take them.’’

The wind surged once, then pulled back— not with rage. With anticipation.

Lionel moved first.

Not because he wanted the fight. Because he knew the conversation had ended.

His blade cut wide—not reckless, not showy. A horizontal arc shaped like a warning taught across kingdoms. Amari ducked clean beneath it, chain snapping into a diagonal whip that wrapped across Lionel’s flank. No damage. Just control.

Lionel twisted into the wrap. Amari spun with him. Momentum became choreography.

Lionel’s elbow cracked toward Amari’s temple—Amari leaned back, missed by inches, flipped the chain over his shoulder and pulled. Lionel staggered. Not broken. Returned with a pivoting slash that touched Amari’s boot and flattened a section of stone beneath them.

Both reset.

No words.

Just breath.

The fight didn’t unfold—it wrote itself.

Amari struck high, Kusarigama chain looping twice around the battlefield air, weight aiming for throat tension.

Lionel stepped inside the loop, blade tip upward, and pivoted shoulder-first, parrying it without cutting the thread.

Amari smiled—barely—before launching a grounded sweep.

Lionel caught it with a sidestep, blade now reversed, tapping Amari’s knee.

No pain.

No blood.

Only rhythm.

They circled.

Breathing sharp.

Eyes carved into each other’s past.

Lionel slashed down hard, dirt cracking with the force behind it—Amari leapt mid-air, chain aimed like a spear, but Lionel caught it mid-flight, slammed the weight into the ground. The tiles buckled. Amari rolled free.

Then again.

Then again.

Each movement faster.