The air in the alleyway turned heavy, thick as swamp water.
The Captain of the Silver-Guards didn't move, but his shadow did. Under the intense, neutral light of the Low Sector, shadows were supposed to be flat and obedient. But as the soldier reached for Zeki's cloak, the darkness beneath the Captain's feet stretched and coiled like a serpent sensing a kill.
"I said strip him!" the Captain barked, his voice cracking the silence.
The soldier grasped the edge of Zeki's oil-stained cloak. He pulled.
Rip.
The blood-soaked fabric tore away, revealing the grey-stained bandages Nara had wrapped around Zeki's chest. But the blood of the Kansei wasn't thick enough to hide the truth. Beneath the grime, a pulse of pure, rhythmic white light throbbed. It was a heartbeat made of electricity, glowing through the cloth with a terrifying, steady cadence.
The soldier froze. His breath hitched. "Captain... this... this isn't mana."
"Move aside," the Captain hissed, shoving the soldier away. He stepped into Zeki's personal space, the tip of his spear now resting directly against the boy's sternum. With the edge of the blade, he sliced through the bandages.
The Seventh Seal was revealed.
It wasn't a tattoo. It was a jagged, crystalline fracture in reality itself, etched into Zeki's skin. It looked like a crown made of lightning, and it was bleeding a dark navy smoke that smelled of ancient ozone.
The Captain's face went from arrogance to a mask of pure, primal horror. He recognized the geometry of that mark. Every noble of the Pentarchy was taught to fear it from birth.
"Zenon," the Captain whispered. The word was a curse. "A survivor. A filth-born Prince."
"Lord, please!" Nara screamed, throwing herself at the Captain's feet. "He's just a boy! He doesn't know what it is! We found it in the—"
The Captain didn't even look down. He swung his heavy metal boot, catching Nara in the ribs. She was sent tumbling across the jagged stone, a cry of pain stifled by the dust.
Zeki's head snapped up.
The flat, dead look in his eyes was gone. In its place was something cold—something that had waited fifteen years to breathe. The icy-blue nebulae in his pupils began to spin, faster and faster, until his entire eye socket was a void of frozen light.
Kill him, the voice in his head roared. This time, it wasn't a whisper. It was a command that shook his marrow. The blood of the King does not kneel to a lapdog.
"You shouldn't have kicked her," Zeki said.
His voice didn't sound like a boy's. It sounded like two tectonic plates grinding together.
"Silence, ghost!" the Captain roared, his fear turning into lethal aggression. "By the decree of the Pentarchy, all remnants of the Zenon bloodline are to be purged on sight. Die in the mud where you belong!"
The Captain thrust his spear.
The Aura-Glass tip screamed as it cut through the air, aimed directly at Zeki's throat. It was a strike meant to decapitate. The other five guards didn't even move; they expected a spray of red and a head rolling in the dirt.
But the spear stopped.
It didn't hit a shield. It didn't hit a blade. It stopped an inch from Zeki's skin, held in place by a hand made of solid shadow.
The darkness from the crater had risen. It had formed a clawed, ethereal hand that emerged directly from Zeki's own shadow, gripping the spear with enough force to make the Aura-Glass groan.
"What... what sorcery is this?" the Captain gasped, pulling back on the weapon. It wouldn't budge. It was like trying to pull a mountain.
Zeki stood up. He didn't use his hands. He simply rose, his body lifted by the sheer pressure of the navy aura erupting from the ground. The mud around him began to hover, swirling in a perfect circle.
"You speak of decrees," Zeki said, stepping forward. Each footfall sent a shockwave through the alley, cracking the stone. "You speak of bloodlines. But you forget who built the walls you hide behind."
Zeki reached out and grabbed the shaft of the spear with his bare hand. The silver metal turned black where he touched it, the "Cold White" aura eating through the enchantments like acid.
"My father called this the Seventh Seal," Zeki whispered, leaning in so close the Captain could see the frost forming on his own eyelashes. "Do you know why it's the seventh?"
The Captain couldn't speak. His jaw was locked by a weight that felt like ten atmospheres.
"Because the first six..." Zeki's grip tightened. C-crack. The spear shattered into a thousand shards of glass. "...were just for the servants. This one is for the Kings."
Zeki didn't punch. He didn't kick. He simply released a fraction of the pressure.
BOOM.
An invisible hammer struck the Captain. He was launched backward, his silver armor crumpling as if a giant had stepped on it. He smashed through three brick walls, disappearing into the darkness of a collapsed warehouse.
The other five soldiers stood paralyzed. They looked at the boy in the mud—this scavenger, this rat—who was now wreathed in a swirling storm of obsidian smoke and icy light.
"The Dragon," one soldier stammered, dropping his sword. "He has the Eye of the Dragon!"
Zeki turned his gaze toward them. He didn't feel pity. He didn't feel rage. He felt an immense, hollow hunger.
"Run," Zeki commanded.
They didn't wait for a second invitation. They scrambled over the rubble, leaving their weapons behind.
Zeki's aura flickered and died. He slumped forward, his knees hitting the mud. The mark on his chest turned back to a dull, painful scar. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of dark, metallic blood.
Nara crawled toward him, her breathing ragged. She grabbed his face, her hands shaking. "Zeki... we have to go. They'll send the High-Knights. They'll send the Paladins. We can't stay in the slums anymore."
Zeki looked up at the Floating Palace. For the first time, it didn't look far away. It looked like a target.
"We aren't staying in the slums," Zeki said, his voice returning to a whisper. "We're going to the Dragon's Graveyard. I need to wake him up."