Chapter 22 Threads of Fire and Starlight

Aurelia

I stood barefoot on the cold stone floor of my suite, arms crossed, staring at my reflection as if it owed me answers. Outfit number five was a slate-gray combat dress—high collar, fine tailoring, subtle enchantments traced through the seams. It was sharp. Authoritative. Slightly aggressive. Nearly perfect. Until I turned.

“Too formal,” I muttered. “He doesn’t do formal. He’s a scholarship student. He probably hates formal.”

With a flick of my fingers, the spellglass shimmered. The dress unraveled into mana-thread and reformed into a crimson tunic with black riding pants—clean, understated. My silver hair fell behind one ear, a hint of casual elegance. It looked good. It fit well on my backside and hips, helping show off my long torso.

“But it’s too—fancy. Are we hanging out at a riding club? Zane won’t be able to relate.”

Another gesture summoned a cropped jacket, high boots, combat leggings, and a fitted tank. Better. It said confidence without effort. Strength without trying to intimidate. But still seemed wrong.

None of it mattered. Zane wasn’t the kind of person who cared about stitched cuffs or mana-thread embroidery. He barely looked at the uniforms the instructors wore, let alone who designed them. From the little I knew about him, he cared about people. His people. So if I wanted him to care about me, I needed to be one of his people.

I pictured Zane’s face. Who was this guy, really? He chased power, that much was obvious, but not in a way most people do. He wanted power, but not prestige or notoriety. I’d never seen someone so focused on the sword, maybe excluding myself. Swordwannabe was obsessed. Where did that come from? What magic swordsman didn’t crave reputation? What kind of commoner didn’t bow to lineage or legacy? None of his actions made any sense to me, which made him difficult to predict. And even more importantly, impossible to ignore.

[Allan: He seemed to like your skirt picture.]

“Quiet,” I snapped. “I’m not talking to you remember.”

Pause.

Then—

“Wait. What skirt picture? How do you even know that?”

The AI, Allen, dimmed slightly, but I could still feel its smug digital silence.

I glanced at my reflection again and brought back my school uniform with black stockings. I was only momentiarly embarrassed by the fact that I actually sent him a picture of my legs.

I shifted my weight, adjusting the hem my blouse. I gave a little spin in the mirrior.

“He likes legs?” I muttered. “Seriously?”

No answer. Just that quiet hum of artificial patience.

I considered it. Zane Myles. Sword-obsessed, honor-driven, mystery of a commoner.

And apparently... he likes my legs.

Good to know.

A soft chime interrupted my thoughts. A system flag pulsed in my vision: [High-Priority Incident – Emergency Broadcast.] I swiped to open.

[Rift Incursion Confirmed: Wild.]

[Level Unknown. Verge Market District – Civilian Casualties]

[CEU Strike Teams En Route]

My breath caught. Zane lived near the Verge. So did his siblings. My heart thudded once. Hard. I didn’t wait. I opened the drone feed.

The footage flickered into focus—grainy, high-altitude, barely stabilized. But I didn’t need clarity. I saw him immediately. Zane standing at the center of it all. While civilians ran. While drones burned and glyph walls cracked and the perimeter flashed red, he moved toward the Rift. Not away.

What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Who runs at a Wild Rift? You don’t know what is coming out? You don’t have backup? Are you trying to get yourself killed?

Zane couldn’t hear me, obviously. He was simply moving, like a man possessed. He was pulling people out of the path of the first wave. I watched as his fighting style completely changed from anything I had seen from Swordwannabe. He moved like a whirlwind of destruction, jumping, flipping, sending raw daggers and knives at high speed while a layer of liquid metal moved with him through the chaos and the monsters attacking the people.

The creatures quickly noticed him and surged. Ugly little bastards—twisted, bone-masked horrors. More animal than anything deadly, and fast. Zane didn’t blink at the onslaught. He kept moving. Saving citizens, slashing, stabbing, cutting, and cleaving monsters. It was one of the most graceful and disconcerting things I had ever seen. He continued his deadly work; he flipped, he moved, kicked, and threw. He moved cleanly, like an acrobat on delirium drugs. It was insane. Beautiful. Deadly.

There were dozens of the beasts down in seconds. His footwork, if you could call flipping through the air that, was so fluid. Every motion redirected force. He used the terrain like it was designed for him. A collapsed fruit cart became a springboard. A support pillar gave him high ground. He pivoted mid-air to control his descent—

Skycoil, I realized with a jolt. He was using Skycoil against a Rift surge.

Seven styles—holy freaking shit. Those were real? He actually designed SEVEN different styles? I thought you were kidding!

I didn’t even have time to feel incredulous. The skeletons came. Not beasts. Undead soldiers, armored and armed, who looked like Zane had personally orphaned their mother. Runes etched into black plate. Their movements were coordinated, their formation tactical. I leaned closer to the projection, my heart drumming behind my ribs. Zane didn’t cast wide spells, which would have been the smart thing to do. He didn’t even fall back. He adjusted.

And he switched Styles, to one I knew.

Stonewake. It was his main fighting style. I had seen him use it dozens of times. This I recognized; this was familiar. What I did not expect was for him to grow a sword, out of nowhere, the size of his entire body, and then wield it like a rapier.

Zane crushed his attackers. Each step measured. Each angle calculated. He moved like someone solving an equation at swordpoint. And I understood, with awful clarity, that he had done this before.

Then he used it—Veinwalker Step. I recognized his main movement skill. It was even cleaner than the last time I had seen it. Zane jumped in front of a child, shielded the girl who was about to be hit by a skeleton. He disarmed a skeleton and shattered it in the same breath.

In one fluid motion, he was able to pick the child up, cast a spell, and toss her far enough away to waiting townsfolk. It was so fluid he didn’t even have to check on her.

He was protecting the city. And he was doing it alone. For a terrifying moment, I believed he might actually survive it.

Then the Rift pulsed. And everything changed.

A figure stepped through. Towering. Armored. War-etched and rune-burned. I didn’t need the System tag.

Death Knight. S-Class. The kind of thing CEU teams were trained to delay, not defeat.

I sat down. Not from fear. From the weight of understanding.

Zane didn’t run. He didn’t even hesitate. I watched, with probably the rest of the Kingdom, as Zane Myles bowed to a Death Knight, and the bloody freaking monster bowed back!

The drone zeroed in on Zane.

He dismissed his blade, letting the last of its light flicker into the dust. Then he raised his hand. The air collapsed inward—dense, silent, absolute. Even the drone’s lens jittered. And then the sword formed. It materialized into existence. Silver. Black-edged. Runed in a language I didn’t recognize. Balanced to the breath. The longsword thrummed with power. This was no ordinary blade.

Zane adjusted his feet and his stance and took up a high guard. The Death Knight did the same, adjusted his stance, and took a low guard. And I felt the shift. The duel began.

The drone had problems tracking them. The feed stuttered, skipped entire exchanges. But I didn’t need the blow by blow. I could see the aftermath. Stone cracked in perfect arcs. Air rippled seconds after each strike. At one point, the Death Knight swung—and missed—but the wake of the blow warped the space behind Zane, as though time itself stuttered to catch up.

And Zane? Zane moved with focus with yet a DIFFERENT style and a power that I recognized.

True Edge?

This man and his secrets.

This style was focused on dueling that much was clear. It was obvious as each step bled control. His sword didn’t scream. It hummed—clean, perfect, quiet. He found a gap. Exploited it. Again. And again. The Death Knight staggered. It didn’t bleed. But it slowed.

And then it looked at him, and then I watched something I’d never heard of. I watched a Death Knight bow. The Knight dropped completely at that point. Then it crumbled to ash.

The feed cut out.

I sat there for a long time, my hand still raised toward the empty screen. My pulse raced, but the rest of me was cold. He didn’t overpower it. He didn’t win because of lineage or legacy. He rewrote the fight. He redefined what the system thought was possible.

“He’s been holding back,” I whispered. My voice sounded strange in the silence.

But more than that, the whole world just watched him do the impossible.

Things were going to get out of hand really quickly.