His fingers absentmindedly found his mouth as he bit down in frustration, lost in thought. “Who was it?”

  Mel's eyes widened as he glanced down, spotting Bimoth towering over the crowd, his gaze fixed upward.

  "Him!" The realization hit Mel like a bolt of lightning. Bimoth’s uncle had been one of the last Arcanus Titans, locked in a legendary stalemate against Merlin Shadowbane. But Bimoth himself had no knowledge of his lineage—no idea what an Arcanus Titan even was.

  Mel turned sharply to Varziel, whose expression twisted into fury as he locked eyes with Bimoth.

  "That’s one of them! Except… he’s a human hybrid?!" Varziel spat in disbelief before rocketing toward Bimoth with murderous intent.

  With lightning speed, he swung a devastating axe kick down toward Bimoth’s skull. Gasps rippled through the crowd as an explosion of dust consumed the field.

  For a moment, silence. Then, as the dust settled, the crowd saw Bimoth standing firm, his massive forearm raised in effortless defense. Not a single scratch on him.

  Varziel’s eyes narrowed. "Who are you? Your strength is nearly on par with Melanthius…" His voice trailed off as he studied Bimoth, his confusion evident. "I doubt you’re smart enough to know my weakness, though."

  Bimoth’s arm suddenly pulsed with a vibrant green glow. Without hesitation, he drove a crushing backfist into Varziel’s chest, sending him hurtling toward the ground with a thunderous impact.

  Bimoth’s gaze swept over the crater where Varziel had supposedly crashed, but as the dust settled, a chill ran down his spine—Varziel was nowhere to be found.

  A sudden shift in the air.

  Before Bimoth could react, Varziel materialized behind him, his chest streaked with blood from the impact, his expression twisted with anger. Bimoth turned his head just in time to see the incoming strike, but before he could brace himself—

  A storm cloud materialized between them.

  Varziel’s blow slammed into the dense vapor, the force dispersing harmlessly. Althara hovered in front of Bimoth, her hands crackling with energy, her expression fierce.

  “What’s the situation?” she demanded, her voice tight as she held the barrier in place, feeling the sheer weight of Varziel’s power pressing down.

  Without hesitation, Bimoth grabbed her by the waist and swung her aside, his massive leg lashing out in a brutal kick. His foot connected with Varziel’s side, sending the boy skidding through the air. Yet, even as he was knocked back, Varziel twisted midair and landed effortlessly, his wings outstretched to steady himself.

  Althara floated beside Bimoth, her eyes locked on Varziel, while Mel descended smoothly to join them. The three stood together, facing their opponent as the tension in the air thickened.

  Varziel’s gaze flickered over them, scrutinizing each one carefully.

  He lingered on Bimoth, eyes narrowing. “So, the blood of an Arcanus Titan runs through you. You’ve already surpassed the middle ranks of your kind… impressive.”

  Then, his attention shifted to Althara. “The Shadowbane Medallion? Hmph. You carry more weight than you realize.”

  Finally, his gaze settled on Mel. His expression grew more contemplative, his voice dropping to a murmur. “A natural-born leader… I see traces of Merlin’s power in you. And the black lightning wielder’s too.” His brows furrowed. “But not mother’s?”

  He flexed his fingers, watching as void energy crackled along his palm, its pulse faint—restrained. His jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t reach them anyway. My magic is still sealed.”

  Then, his sharp gaze snapped back to Bimoth. He pointed a finger at him, his voice filled with warning.

  “You, Arcanus Titan—be ready. I can feel their return approaching.”

  With that, he crouched, then launched himself into the sky. His wings spread wide, the sheer force of his ascent creating a gust that rippled through the city below. The trio watched as Varziel disappeared into the clouds, his ominous words lingering in the air.

  King Percival stepped forward, resting a firm hand on Mel’s shoulder. His voice was steady but carried a weight of urgency. “We need to talk.”

  Mel turned to face him, nodding slightly before following him out.

  Moments later, in the grand throne room, Mel sat across from the king, arms crossed as Percival took a slow sip from his cup. The tension between them was thick, unspoken thoughts hanging in the air.

  “You’re learning more about your lineage by the day, huh?” Percival mused, setting his drink down. “An Elderborn. If Triton hadn’t existed, I’d have never believed it.”

  Mel exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… I think so. But this goes way beyond the Seven Deadly Kingdoms.” He leaned in, pouring himself a cup of juice. “At this point, I don’t care what they do anymore. I need to figure out who I am. What my father truly was. And who—” his grip tightened around the cup, ”—who made me immortal.”

  His gaze darkened. “I’m not going to live forever just watching everyone around me die.”

  Percival listened, nodding as he took another sip of his drink. “So you want to get involved with the Seven Deadly Kingdoms? Wrath, in particular?”

  Mel nodded. “It’s the only way forward.”

  Percival sighed, setting his drink aside. “When we were in Pride, all we found were a few weapons. No rulers, no real power. But if you’re serious about getting the attention of the Seven Deadly Kingdoms, you need to start thinking like them.”

  He leaned forward. “Atlantis produces that potent sugar they use for baking, right?”

  Mel raised a brow. “Yeah?”

  Percival smirked. “Then expand on it. Just enough to get the other kingdoms to take notice.”

  Mel’s expression twisted into disbelief. “So what? I’m supposed to become some kind of drug lord now?”

  Percival shook his head, chuckling. “Sugar isn’t a drug. It’s addictive, maybe even harmful in excess, but compared to what the other kingdoms deal in? You’d be selling baking ingredients, not poisons.”

  Mel exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the table. “This is insane.”

  “No,” Percival corrected, eyes sharp. “This is strategy. If you want a seat at the table, you need to bring something they want.”

  Mel exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair as Percival poured himself another drink. The king’s gaze was steady, his words deliberate.

  “You need loyal people. The kind who won’t ask too many questions. Who can sell well and stand strong. And most importantly, you need a kingdom that can back you up. Can you handle that?”

  Mel tapped his chin in thought before nodding. “I can.” He pushed himself up from his seat. “I’ll expand Atlantis—just enough to gain recognition. But the Atlanteans can keep the money. I don’t want it.”

  Without another word, he turned and strode out of the castle.

  —

  The sun hung low over Atlantis as a crowd gathered near the city’s main plaza. Bimoth and Althara stood at the forefront, facing a squad of Atlantean knights. The air buzzed with murmurs, uncertainty hanging between them.

  Goda, rubbing his scaly arm, stepped forward. “Bimoth, why’d you call us out here?”

  Bimoth simply raised a finger. “Patience.”

  Just then, a shadow passed overhead. The murmurs quieted as Mel descended gracefully onto the stone floor before them. A heavy bag slung over his shoulder, he knelt and began sorting through an array of weapons.

  From the back of the crowd, a young Atlantean knight muttered under his breath. “Damn… that’s him, huh?”

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  A larger knight beside him elbowed him sharply. “Show some respect. That’s the king.”

  The murmurs grew, rippling through the gathered soldiers as they watched Mel work.

  Mel pushed off the wall and took a step forward, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled knights. “Alright, listen up.”

  The crowd straightened, eyes locked on him.

  “Starting now, I’ll be spending more time in Atlantis,” he declared. “I told you all before—I’d never ask you to sell Atlantean powder outside of Atlantis. It’s pure, it’s ours, and it’s only grown here. But things are changing. If we want Atlantis to grow, we need to expand. That means selling everywhere.”

  A few knights exchanged glances, uncertain. One of them, a young man with webbed fingers, raised his hand hesitantly. “But… won’t that make us criminals? What if other kingdoms see it as illegal?”

  Mel smirked. “Illegal? For selling dry cake batter? Who’s getting arrested over ingredients?” A few chuckles rippled through the crowd. “They’ll call us silly, goofy even, for peddling baking supplies. Let them. We’ll be the ones making money while they laugh.”

  A knight with coral-colored scales stepped forward, arms crossed. “And what about competition? Other kingdoms already have their own supplies.”

  Mel nodded. “We’re not competing. We’re supplying. Our batter is better, and we’ll brand it as uniquely Atlantean. Every bag we sell will have our mark—an Atlantis seal. Restaurants will know they’re getting the best.”

  The murmurs grew, a mixture of excitement and skepticism. Another knight, older and broader, tilted his head. “And what about safety? If we’re moving into other kingdoms, things can get dangerous.”

  Mel gestured toward Althara. “That’s where she comes in. Althara’s going to train you in the business. She knows how to negotiate, how to read people, and most importantly—how not to get cheated.”

  Althara smirked, cracking her knuckles. “You’re all about to get a crash course in selling smart.”

  Mel then turned to Bimoth. “And if things do get dangerous, Bimoth will make sure you know how to handle yourselves. He’ll train you how to fight, how to protect your product, and how to walk into any kingdom with confidence.”

  Bimoth folded his massive arms. “You’ll be strong enough that no one will dare mess with you.”

  Mel clapped his hands together, drawing everyone’s focus back to him. “And me? I’ll be leading by example. I’ll openly sell to restaurants myself, so they know this isn’t some back-alley operation. Atlantis is going to grow, and we’re going to do it the right way.”

  The crowd broke into murmurs again, this time with more enthusiasm. A few knights nodded, others whispered among themselves. Slowly, smiles started forming.

  Mel crossed his arms. “So, are we in?”

  A moment of silence—then one voice called out. “For Atlantis!”

  Another joined. Then another. Soon, the knights were cheering. Mel allowed himself a grin. Things were finally moving in the right direction.

  A few days later, Mel stepped into a dimly lit restaurant in a kingdomless town, a black bag slung over his shoulder. The scent of warm pastries and spiced meats filled the air, but he wasn’t here to eat. He moved straight to the back, where the manager sat behind a cluttered desk, counting coins.

  The man looked up, his brows raising in recognition. “King Melanthius, what brings you to my little establishment?” he asked with a casual smile.

  Mel dropped a bag of Atlantean powder onto the desk, his gaze scanning the room. “You know why.”

  The manager chuckled, picking up the bag. “Relax, kid. You act like this is some shady drug deal.”

  Mel remained standing. “When business is this good, people get greedy. I have to make sure no one tries to steal from me.”

  The manager smirked and reached into his desk, pulling out a heavy sack of coins. He tossed it onto the desk, the metal clinking together. “Take a look.”

  Mel opened the bag, his eyes widening at the sheer amount inside. “This is too much. One bag is 200 knightcoins.”

  The manager grabbed a plate and slid it toward him, revealing a rich, chocolate cake. He cut a slice, lifting it with a fork. “This is the top-selling item on the menu. I used your batter. It’s flying off the shelves like it’s illegal.” He laughed before taking a bite.

  Mel exhaled, shaking his head. “Damn…” He eyed the overflowing bag of money. “Still, why so much?”

  The manager leaned forward, licking frosting off his fork. “Because whatever you’ve got left—I want all of it.”

  Mel glanced down at his bag, packed with more dry batter. He shook his head, zipping it shut. “Nah, I’ve got other orders to fill.” He turned to leave, but the scrape of a chair against the floor stopped him.

  Before he could react, an arm locked around his neck, cold steel pressing against his skin.

  “I wasn’t asking.” The manager’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “You’re not leaving with that bag.”

  Mel raised his hands slightly, tilting his head. “You can’t kill me.”

  The manager let out a dark chuckle. “Why not? Because you’re just a kid?”

  Mel’s foot shot up in a sharp, hidden cloud kick, striking the man square in the face. The manager flew backward, crashing into a stack of crates. He groaned, clutching his jaw.

  Mel dusted off his coat and slung the bag over his shoulder. He grabbed the sack of coins and slung it over his other arm. “Hazard pay. I was almost hurt.”

  With that, he walked out of the restaurant, leaving the manager groaning on the floor.

  Mel stepped out of the restaurant, adjusting the strap of his bag, when Sheika appeared beside him with a smirk.

  “Not gonna lie, that was badass.”

  Mel, however, shivered and hugged himself, his confidence from earlier completely gone. “How do people do this? That was terrifying!” He bit his fingernails, eyes darting around as if expecting another ambush.

  Sheika groaned, smacking him lightly on the back of the head. “Idiot.”

  Shaking off his nerves, Mel made his way to the docks. His gaze swept over the bustling scene—Atlantean fishmen loading crates onto ships, merchants haggling, and workers hauling supplies.

  “The fishmen are keeping trade flowing, Bimoth’s still protecting Atlantis, and Althara is managing the distant routes,” he muttered, mentally checking his progress. He exhaled, steadying himself.

  “Just a few more deals, and I’ll have enough leverage to get in contact with Wrath.” His lips curled into a small smile. “Nothing can stop this harmless little business.”

  Sheika raised an eyebrow. “You just got held at knifepoint.”

  Mel waved a dismissive hand. “Details.”

  Meanwhile, in the heart of the Pride Kingdom, deep within the infamous Red Tavern Coliseum, the air pulsed with raw energy. The massive underground arena, dimly lit by flickering torches and chandeliers, reeked of sweat, blood, and expensive perfume.

  A sea of spectators, clad in extravagant robes and golden masks, filled the tiered seating, their faces obscured but their voices loud. Some leaned forward eagerly, while others lounged back in their private booths, sipping exotic wines.

  The sound of clinking coins and shuffled betting slips filled the space as gamblers placed their wagers, eyes locked onto the arena floor below.

  Beneath the towering arches of the Red Tavern Coliseum, a monstrous, bear-like beast loomed over a lone figure—Elowen Pendragon. The creature’s hulking form nearly scraped the ceiling, its fur matted with sweat and grime, its jagged teeth glistening under the dim torchlight.

  Elowen stood firm, her golden eyes burning with defiance. She was clad in a simple, tattered toga, her once-flowing hair now cut short, exposing fresh scars crisscrossing her arms and legs. The brutal fights had taken their toll, but her spirit remained unbroken.

  With a deafening roar, the beast swung its massive paw down, aiming to crush her into the bloodstained ground. The impact sent Elowen hurtling across the arena, her body colliding against the stone wall with a sickening crack. The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps—many expecting her to stay down.

  But before the dust could settle, she flipped midair, landing gracefully on her feet. Electricity crackled at her fingertips as she stretched out her palm. A blinding bolt of lightning erupted from her hand, slamming into the beast’s chest. The monster let out a tortured howl, its massive frame convulsing violently, muscles spasming under the sheer force of the attack.

  Elowen didn’t hesitate. In a flash, she lunged forward, twisting her body in midair. With a final, bone-shattering kick to its skull, the beast’s head detonated in an explosion of blood and bone, spraying the coliseum floor. The lifeless body teetered before collapsing with a thunderous crash, shaking the very foundations of the arena.

  The crowd fell silent for a moment—then erupted into a deafening roar.

  Above the roaring coliseum, a teenage boy lounged on a lavish throne, clicking his teeth in irritation.

  “Damn,” King Carter of Pride Kingdom muttered, watching the bloodstained arena below.

  From the shadows, King Liam approached, a smirk playing on his lips as he tossed a heavy bag of diamonds between his hands. “Much appreciated, King Carter,” he chuckled, shaking the bag before casually tossing it to Bruno, his ever-loyal enforcer. Bruno caught it with ease, his expression unreadable as he stepped back.

  Carter exhaled sharply, resting his elbow on the armrest as he stared down at the battlefield. “I heard King Melanthius is back.”

  Liam settled into a seat beside him, leaning back with an air of amusement. “You heard right. Althara Shadowbane is with him now.”

  At the mention of her name, Carter’s jaw tightened, his pride stung. With a huff, he pushed himself to his feet, unwilling to sit at the same level as anyone else. “Althara Shadowbane. Fuck her. I need a fighter strong enough to rival your sister—the one you kidnapped. How the hell is she stronger than my bears?”

  Liam shrugged, completely unfazed. “Arthur Pendragon’s blood runs through us, I guess.”

  Carter’s gaze sharpened, his golden eyes scrutinizing Liam. “Or maybe you’re cheating.”

  Liam stood, turning to face him directly, his presence imposing. “No one ever taught you to respect your elders?”

  Carter scoffed as his body rose effortlessly into the air, ensuring he was still looking down at Liam. He clapped a hand on the older king’s shoulder, his voice dripping with mockery. “Please, as if you’d be smart enough to cook up some steroid that makes her stronger.” His tone was pointed, deliberate.

  Liam’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Without another word, he turned on his heel, striding down the grand staircase. “I’ll see you next time, Carter.”

  Carter watched him leave, his fingers twitching with restrained frustration. As soon as Liam was gone, he snapped his fingers, summoning a stack of files into his hands. He flipped through them quickly, muttering under his breath.

  “Weak.” Swipe.

  “His magic sucks.” Swipe.

  “I thought he was dead.” Swipe.

  His hand froze over one name—Dragon Case. A slow smirk curled onto his lips. “Dragon… Magnus talked about him a lot. Some teen who thinks he can take over the world with Wing Chun. Maybe I should scout him out.”

  Setting the file aside, Carter grabbed another—this one marked with Atlantis’s crest. His eyes scanned the reports, his smirk quickly turning into a sneer.

  “How the hell has Atlantis been gaining so much recognition? Has King Melanthius turned to a drug business?” He scoffed, leaning back in disgust. “Never seen him in real life, so I can’t scout him out. But he’s selling more than us… that’s a disgrace to my pride.”

  His fingers curled around the parchment, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet fury.