Those crimson eyes were so frigid that Azriel felt himself sinking to the lightless floor of an ocean.
'Don't back off now.'
He tightened his fists beneath the table.
"Why are you really still here? Praise and rewards mean nothing to you, and you've already proved my talent long ago."
Solomon—unlike Ragnar, who stayed close to Joaquin—owed allegiance to no one and sought nothing in return.
"Heh. Something tells me you already know the answer."
Azriel did, yet he needed to hear it aloud.
"…You want to fight me, don't you?"
Solomon leaned back, eyes half‑lidded.
"Correct. I want an opponent who won't run after the first exchange. Sylius would have obliged, but he disappeared into the Void Realm a year ago. No word since. Tch."
Anyone else would have blanched: Sylius Gale, the strongest Grade‑1 Saint alive, was the sole fighter who had dared spar with Solomon. Now the world's greatest had been missing for a year, and no one knew.
Solomon reopened his eyes—no longer cold, merely amused.
"You'd be amazed what another world can teach," Azriel replied, unfazed—he already knew Sylius wasn't dead. After the Academy festival, the North‑American prodigy would resurface, stronger still.
"You should be a Void archaeologist," Solomon joked.
Azriel shrugged.
"So, with Saint Sylius gone, you want me strong enough to be your sparring partner?"
"Ding‑ding—one thousand points!"
"Why me? If other Saints refuse, dive into the Void Realm and test yourself against Titans or Leviathans."
Solomon shook his head.
"Even for me, fighting those nightmares alone is suicide."
"If someone can trade blows with me," he continued, "he can stand beside me against the horrors."
So Solomon wanted more than a sparring partner—he wanted an ally. That could help Azriel… or kill him. Only one way to know.
He met Solomon's gaze.
"If it were only a duel, you could always challenge… them."
Solomon's smile died; the air grew glacial.
"Them?"
"The sovereigns."
Solomon's eyes widened.
"Azriel—did your father tell you about them?"
"He did." A lie, but Solomon needn't know. What mattered was that Azriel knew.
Four sovereigns ruled Asia's clans—Elizabeth Crimson, his grandmother; Catherina Frost, Ragnar's aunt; Solarin Nebula; Valerion Dusk. North and South America each held another, six in all upon Earth.
'Upon Earth—but not in the Void Realm.'
A seventh sovereign—Vaelith—worked alone, a secret shared only by the six, Sylius, Solomon… and Azriel.
"Ugh, I hate those ancient bastards," Solomon muttered. "Your grandmother's a witch—actually tried to seduce me into serving the Crimsons!"
Azriel blinked. '
Seriously?' The image of his doting grandmother cracked.
"And don't get me started on the Frost hag," Solomon went on, scowling.
Good. He bore no love for the sovereigns. Azriel allowed himself a breath of relief.
'All I must do now is steer him—and keep Asia standing.'