"They have left the academy," Yue’s voice cut through the charged silence with a weight that made everyone present instinctively tense.
For a brief mont, no one spoke. The aning of her statent hung in the air, and everyone needed ti to truly absorb what she had just said.
Then Lord Ravenclaw reacted, his composure cracked in an inelegant way.
"How is that possible?" he questioned in a strained voice. "Leila said she would wait for ."
The way he spoke made it sound less like confusion and more like a personal betrayal, as though he had been deliberately misled.
Klaus, who had been standing beside him the entire ti, let out a slow, tired sigh and placed a steady hand on Ravenclaw’s shoulder.
"I think," Klaus said evenly, "that she sensed your lies and tricked you the sa way you were trying to trick her. The only real difference is that her tricks worked, while yours didn’t."
Klaus glanced sideways at Ravenclaw’s pale face, noting how close the man looked to coughing up blood on the spot. Internally, Klaus could not help but click his tongue in irritation.
Tch... such a daughter-con, he muttered silently, equal parts annoyed and unsurprised.
Before Ravenclaw could respond, Andrea felt a sudden prickle run through her senses, like an invisible pressure brushing against the edges of her perception.
Her expression sharpened instantly as she turned her gaze toward the academy gates.
From the open sky beyond, a tall figure descended; his presence was impossible to ignore.
The Titan Emperor approached the group while floating in the air a few feet above the ground, his towering form cast shadow across the ground below.
Andrea felt a dull headache bloom behind her eyes as her nerves tightened. Why, she wondered bitterly, was every race’s leader choosing this exact mont to appear?
Despite that, she kept her posture straight and her expression neutral as the Titan Emperor landed before her.
He did not bother with pleasantries.
"Why did my son just leave the academy premises?" he voiced out his question coldly.
***
Celestial Army Main Headquarters..,,
A few miles away from the academy premises in another floating island, within the fortified heart of the Celestial Army headquarters, a massive auditorium stood.
Rows upon rows of soldiers sat in disciplined silence, each one dressed in a blue ceremonial uniform reinforced with white-silvery tal trims.
They belonged to the Abyssal Extermination division.
This division was infamously known for its destructive efficiency and unapologetically ruthless thods, it was regarded as one of the most elite and dangerous branches of the Celestial Army.
These were not soldiers trained for defense or fighting classic wars. They were weapons, honed for one purpose alone, and that was to butcher demons and erase threats without hesitation.
The officers sat with rigid and straight backs with their chins lifted.
Many of these faces bore scars that should have long since faded with proper healing techniques.
Yet none of them had chosen to erase those marks. Within this unit, scars were not considered blemishes; instead, they were decorations, visible proof of survival and unwavering loyalty to the motherland, Aris.
Upon joining the Abyssal Extermination Unit, every officer took an oath on the na of the motherland of Aris.
They vowed that their scars would only disappear once the scars inflicted upon Aris itself were gone.
Those scars were the Abyss, the Demons, and the Cults, and until they were eradicated, the warriors would carry their scars with pride.
As Damian Cross ca into view, footsteps resounded across the stage in front of the auditorium.
Among the leaders of the Celestial Army, he was unique in that he was a human.
A long scar ran down one side of his pale, stern face, frad by black hair, as if a claw had once co dangerously close to tearing it apart.
He carried a blue tallic cane that moved with every step Damian took, and he was covered in a deep blue coat lined with thick fur.
Humans were inherently weaker in terms of mana and physique compared to other races, and the Celestial Army valued strength above all else.
Damian Cross’s incredible talent was made clear by the fact that he was standing here, leading one of the most formidable divisions in the world.
Even dragons and phoenixes found it difficult to gain command of such a unit, but Damian had done so by pure rit.
At sixty years of age (he was considered young by the standards of this world), the aura he carried was anything but inexperienced.
He ca to a stop in the middle of the stage, his eyes slowly scanning over the gathered officers as both of his hands rested on the cane that now stood in front of him against the stage floor.
When he spoke, his voice rang through the auditorium like a command etched in stone.
"STAND."
Every officer rose instantly; their movents were synchronized and flawless.
"REMOVE YOUR UNIFORMS. TURN AROUND."
There was no hesitation. Even the won complied without pause, removing their uniforms and turning their backs to the stage.
On a few individuals, beads of sweat appeared along their necks and shoulders, and other subtle signs of tension that did not escape Damian’s attention.
As rows of scarred backs filled his vision, Damian moved.
In the blink of an eye, he vanished from the stage and reappeared behind a phoenixkin woman.
She stiffened imdiately, and a cold sensation crawled up her spine as she felt his presence directly behind her.
His breath brushed her nape. Damian spoke in a deep, gravelly voice, "Miss Celera, will you light it up for ?" as sections of her skin contacted his uniform and his face ca forward.
A cigar appeared between his lips as if conjured from thin air.
He had stepped closer to her, dangerously close, his scarred face was hovering just within her peripheral vision.
Celera trembled as sweat ford along her temples.
None of the other officers dared to move, as though an invisible blade hovered above their necks.
With a shaking hand, Celera summoned a small fla on her fingertips and carefully lit the cigar.
Damian’s predatory and unblinking eyes followed her every mont.
He took a slow puff before stepping around to face her, puffing smoke directly into her face.
"Tell , Miss Celera," he murmured, "how does a woman of such grace co to bear a scar so shadowed upon her elegant back?"
Celera’s breathing quickened. "C-Commander... I-I got it... on my l-last mission."
Damian released another plu of smoke, making her cough, his tone dropping lower. "Then why is it that I can feel sothing demonic stirring from that scar of yours?"
"I-It’s... a curse," she stamred, her voice barely was now barely holding.
"A curse," Damian repeated, as though weighing the word. "How convenient."
Damian took the cigar out of his mouth, keeping it between his fingers. He reached out and cupped her face gently and almost affectionately.
"Miss Celera," he murmured, "The thing I loathe most of all is demons and the filth that worship them. The other category is traitors, those who sell their kin for convenience. The final type includes liars, who insult my intelligence while doing so.
Without warning, he slowly pushed the flaming tip of the cigar against her naked skin near the edge of her corset bra.
"Aaahh!" Celera scread as a light burning pain registered.
"And you," Damian remarked coldly, slowly rolling the cigar’s tip across her chest before blowing it out, "seem to fit all three categories."
Celera’s eyes dilated in surprise, and tears stread as she desperately tried to save the situation.
"Commander!! "You are mistaken..."
Her comnts resonated faintly across the auditorium, leaving the rest of the division transfixed, well aware that this was only the beginning for her.
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