Mael walked toward the pavilion with an unhurried step, as if he had always belonged there. The garden light brushed against his figure as he emerged fully from the shadows, and that was when Lyra frowned, watching him with growing attention.
"Grandfather…" she said, pointing at him without hiding it. "That's not the waiter."
She turned her head from side to side, confused.
"How did he come out of the shadows?"
Her amazement was genuine, almost childlike.
Daverion let out a brief, low laugh, contained, as if the question amused him more than it surprised him.
Theron opened his mouth to answer, but no explanation felt appropriate. He hesitated for a moment.
It was Therion who spoke instead.
"That's how waiters are these days, Lyra," he said with absolute seriousness… or at least he tried to.
As soon as he finished, he turned his face away and covered his mouth, hiding a smile that threatened to betray him.
Mael reached the pavilion and stopped beside Theron naturally.
"How have you been?" he asked.
Theron glanced at him sideways.
"Fine… until you arrived."
He let out a soft laugh, then turned toward Lyra and added in a deliberately mocking tone.
"Well, Lyra. This is today's waiter. He'll be serving the tea."
Mael raised an eyebrow slightly. He was about to reply when something changed.
The first sound was dry.
A footstep.
It echoed through the garden with unnatural clarity, as if the ground itself amplified the contact. Then another. And another.
Each step was louder than the last, forming a heavy, constant rhythm impossible to ignore. The sound traveled between the trees, bounced off the columns, cut through the murmur of the fountain.
The atmosphere tightened instantly.
Everyone was unsettled.
Everyone except one.
The designated leader spun around, adopting a defensive stance, searching for the source of the sound in every direction.
Mael's friendly expression vanished in an instant. The softness of his face hardened, his eyes turning cold and calculating. His body adjusted, ready to react.
Therion shed all traces of relaxation. His gaze sharpened.
Theron frowned, focusing forward.
Daverion, on the other hand, smiled.
"Earlier than I expected," he murmured.
He turned his head.
One by one, the others followed his gaze.
In the distance, walking along the garden path, appeared a man with striking features. His skin was pale, almost luminous under the filtered light of the glass ceiling. His black hair fell without order, like a moonless night, and his eyes, even darker, seemed to absorb the light around him.
He walked calmly, unhurried, enjoying the scenery as if the place were not steeped in tension. Each step resonated with the same deliberate weight as before.
Step.
Another step.
The sound filled the entire garden.
Theron watched the man, then looked at Daverion. He felt something familiar, a resonance difficult to explain, as if the air around both of them obeyed the same logic.
Lyra paid no attention to the newcomer. She was completely absorbed by a small black lizard resting on the man's shoulders, watching it with a delighted smile.
The designated leader had not noticed the man until Daverion fixed his gaze on him. Then his attention locked on immediately, assessing him with caution.
Lila remained confused. Each new presence was stranger than the last.
But the most drastic change came over Mael.
Terror appeared on his face without restraint.
The shadows around him stirred, restless, losing cohesion. For a moment, it seemed they would swallow him whole. Mael took a step back, clearly on the verge of disappearing.
His gaze shifted toward Daverion.
The Seventh.
Every time he encountered someone powerful, and very few existed in that league, it ended in battle.
And the aftermath was always the same.
A planet reduced to ruins.
Life erased.
Mael hesitated.
He studied the newcomer more carefully. His posture. His rhythm. His expression. He sensed no immediate intent to attack. Not a blow meant to destroy everything.
The shadows slowly calmed.
Theron noticed the change and relaxed as well.
The garden returned to its apparent silence.
But nothing there was truly calm.
The Seventh reached the pavilion without hurrying. Each step was measured, not out of caution, but intent. The air grew dense, expectant. Everyone tensed instinctively.
Everyone except Daverion.
He remained calm, watching him approach as one waits for the inevitable.
Then, without any visible transition, the Seventh's presence changed.
It was not dramatic. It was subtle. The pressure he radiated softened, as if he had chosen to restrain it. His posture relaxed slightly.
Then he spoke.
"Hi," he said in a surprisingly light, friendly voice. "I didn't mean to interrupt… but it looks like you're serving tea."
He paused briefly.
"I can't miss that."
He touched the bridge of his nose casually and let out a short, sincere laugh.
Mael froze.
Daverion replied calmly.
"Of course. The more, the better."
He sat down without ceremony.
Mael stepped forward, retrieved three chairs from his spatial ring, and placed them around the table.
The Seventh sat across from Daverion.
He placed a dark, irregular fruit on the table.
The black lizard leapt from his shoulder and began devouring it enthusiastically.
Lyra couldn't look away.
The others took their seats.
Lila served the tea.
Therion spoke.
"Grandfather. Aren't you going to present yourself at the celebration?"
Theron watched the steam rise.
"I will, eventually. For now, your father will handle it."
Mael held his cup without drinking.
Theron spoke.
"During the last war between the two dynasties, there was a general who thought he understood us."
"He fortified his territory. Closed routes. Showed his fangs."
"He lasted longer than expected. But he fell. And with him, the land."
Mael set the cup down.
"That's what I don't understand. Why play with the others?"
"Because those who move straight ahead become the center of every gaze."
"And that's a problem?"
"Always."
"It's not fear. It's understanding."
"A power revealed too early forces the world to react."
"We claimed the territory before they realized it was the beginning."
"So the celebration is a curtain."
"A necessary one."
The celebration continued.
The Seventh understood everything in a single heartbeat.
He did not need more words, nor more gestures. The conversation itself, Theron's measured tone, Therion's still-incomplete caution, the way Mael threw questions like invisible blades… everything aligned immediately.
A powerful dynasty was advancing.
Not with thunder, not with open conquest, but with patience, with celebrations that concealed movement, with territories taken without the world raising its voice. And that advance would inevitably collide with the Celestial Court of that planet.
It was not a possibility.
It was a trajectory.
Just as the conversation seemed about to deepen even further, the Seventh shifted his gaze.
His eyes settled on Daverion.
The young man was drinking his tea calmly, as if none of it concerned him. As if the tensions, the strategies, the future conflicts did not even brush against his table. That contrast was what caught the Seventh's attention. Not indifference… but naturalness.
Then he spoke.
"I'm curious," he said.
His voice was soft, almost light, but the atmosphere changed the moment he finished speaking.
"Who are you?"
There was no real doubt in his expression. None. A brief laugh escaped his lips, more an act of irony than humor.
"The Seventh is clearly not me," he continued.
"The Sixth and the Fifth I don't know well enough to consider them."
He paused precisely, letting the silence work for him. It was not an empty pause, but one that demanded attention.
"So that leaves only the first four."
His fingers brushed the table lightly.
"The First and the Second are primordial sovereigns… it's unlikely you're one of them."
His gaze sharpened slightly, like a blade finding the right angle.
"Which means only the Third… and the Fourth remain."
Daverion did not answer immediately.
He finished his tea. Placed the cup back without haste. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost casual, as if the deduction did not deserve much attention.
"And what do you think?"
The Seventh observed him closely.
He was not searching for an obvious reaction. He was measuring its absence. The rhythm of Daverion's breathing. The way his presence did not shift in the slightest.
Only a few moments passed.
"The Third…" he finally said. "You could be the Third."
He did not say it solemnly. He did not say it as a revelation. He said it the way one recognizes the correct piece on a board he already understands.
And in that moment, without anyone else noticing, the Seventh knew he was not facing someone ordinary.
Those seated around the table grew uneasy as they listened.
Not all in the same way.
Theron and Mael were the first to feel it clearly. For them, every word spoken by the Seventh carried more weight than it seemed. They knew that the greater someone's power and knowledge, the greater the fear they inspired. Not an irrational fear, but a lucid one, born from understanding too well what was at stake.
That was the true punishment of understanding.
And also its burden.
At the other extreme lay ignorance. There, where the full depth of the abyss could not be seen, lived calmness and a simple kind of happiness.
That contrast was evident at the table.
Theron and Mael understood everything. Or almost everything. That was why they remained silent, attentive, measuring every gesture, every pause. There was caution in them, a constant vigilance that did not relax even in a moment that appeared peaceful.
Between those extremes were Therion and the designated leader. They understood only halfway. They knew that immense figures were being discussed, names that weighed upon history, but they did not truly know the sovereigns. That lack of context kept them tense, suspended between awe and unease. They knew they were seated beside great beings, and yet they could not fully believe it.
And finally, there were Lyra and Lila.
They did not perceive the danger. They did not feel the weight hidden behind the words. To them, what lay at the table was not threat nor strategy, but something almost admirable. In their ignorance there was curiosity, a mixture of admiration and doubt, without true fear.
Thus, in a single place, three distinct states coexisted.
Fear and caution in those who understood too much.
Tension and awe in those who were beginning to understand.
And tranquility in those who did not yet know enough to fear.
The Seventh spoke as if reciting an ancient record, something that did not require names to exist.
The fight between the Third and the Fourth.
"It wasn't a dispute over territory… nor over doctrine," he said.
"It was over a number."
He lifted his gaze, not toward Daverion, but toward memory.
"The Third held his position with the certainty of one who had never been questioned. The number belonged to him. The place as well.
And then the Fourth appeared."
A brief pause.
"He didn't ask for power.
He didn't demand recognition.
He simply claimed the Third position… because he wanted it."
The beginning of the battle was exact. Neither dominated the other.
"At first, they were evenly matched," the Seventh continued.
"Strength against strength. Authority against authority.
Every advance met a response. Every technique was countered by another of equal weight."
His fingers slowly curled.
"But the Third was angry.
Not because of the danger… but because of the very idea that someone would desire his number."
The battle grew denser. More tense.
"He fought to defend what he already had.
The Fourth… to understand it."
The Seventh released a slow exhale.
"That's where everything changed."
The balance broke without warning.
"The Fourth didn't win because he was stronger," he said.
"He won because he adapted.
Every response from the Third taught him something… and he used it in the next exchange."
His gaze returned, this time directly to Daverion.
"He repeated what had always worked.
The Fourth stopped doing that."
The end was not explosive. It was final.
"When the Third fell, the number no longer belonged to him as before.
It didn't change hands… but it was marked."
Silence settled.
"That is why the order decided this way:
Fourth in position.
Third in power."
The Seventh tilted his head slightly.
"Since then, 'three' stopped being a certainty.
It became an open wound within the hierarchy."
One final pause.
"And every time someone desires it…
the system remembers that fight."
"So then… who are you?"
The question fell onto the table like a stone into still water.
All eyes turned to Daverion at once. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the air seemed to hold itself, waiting for the answer.
Daverion showed no haste.
"The Fourth," he said at last.
Just two words.
The Seventh stared at him for a heartbeat… and then could not contain himself.
A wide smile spread across his face, heavy with anticipation.
"So you belong among the first three…" he murmured. "Let's see if history repeats itself."
In the next instant, the atmosphere changed.
Lightning began to crackle around the Seventh, emerging from his body as if the sky itself were responding to his presence. The energy hissed, violent and untamed. Through the glass ceiling, clouds darkened rapidly, piling atop one another, and a distant thunderclap echoed.
Daverion raised an eyebrow, more intrigued than alarmed.
"As far as I know, it's not time yet," he said calmly. "Wait."
Before the tension could break, a voice suddenly rang out, clear and urgent, as if it had pierced through layers of space.
"Great Emperor, the official words conclude in ten minutes. Please be ready."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Had the person who delivered that message been present, they would never have dared to make a sound there—not with the Seventh surrounded by living lightning.
Theron was pale. He seized the instant before the situation overflowed.
"Why don't I invite everyone to the event hall?" he proposed immediately. "We can go together."
Daverion nodded calmly.
"That sounds fine."
The Seventh clicked his tongue softly. The lightning withdrew one by one, like serpents returning to their nest, and the clouds above the ceiling began to disperse.
"After all this is over, we need to talk," he said, making no effort to hide the intent behind his words.
"I'm not interested," Daverion replied.
The lightning surged again.
The pressure returned, stronger than before.
Mael felt a chill run down his spine. If this continued, it would not end well. He stepped forward and spoke quickly, weighing every word.
"Why don't you… have a different kind of fight?" he proposed. "Just martial arts. No cultivation. Only technique and physique."
The Seventh tilted his head, considering.
"I have no problem with that."
Daverion, however, showed no immediate reaction.
Mael swallowed and continued, knowing he needed to capture his attention.
"It's said that the Seventh created a completely innovative martial art."
That was enough.
Daverion's gaze changed. It was no longer disinterest. It was genuine attention.
"When it comes to martial arts," Mael added, "it's said he's the best."
Daverion smiled.
"If he truly is the best," he said, "he shouldn't mind betting with me."
The Seventh watched him intently.
"If I win, I want your martial art," Daverion continued. "And if I lose…" he laughed softly, "your prize will be having been able to fight me."
The tension rose once more.