This revelation caused the others to scrutinize the body even more closely, and soon shock gasps erupted around the room. Samson, Ollie, Phillip, and Gaven all paled simultaneously.
Why? How? When?
In their minds, a torrent of disbelief erupted. Xavier had been a full-fledged king to emperor level skill holder—one capable of defeating all of them!
How? When? He was supposed to be locked away in the basement as usual, enjoying his time tormenting the slaves! If he was here, where the fuck were the slaves!?
The dukes, who were all far weaker than Xavier, turned even paler in fear. Phillip noticed the collective panic, then he turned to his fellow Archdukes. They were all known for their keen intellect; hence they exchanged troubled glances. They knew things were bad, Afterall , among the Archdukes, they were literally the weakest, their strength was by no means true archduke level.
In the Sandrian Empire an Archduke was a prestigious title that was earned, either through great strength or by inheritance, they unfortunately were the latter. They were dukes because of bloodline, but to say they had the power equal to the general Archdukes would simply be a lie.
It was precisely for this reason they were looked down upon by the Royal Faction nobles , that's why when given an opportunity to be backed by a Grand Duke, one who's power was something they could only dream of having they took the opportunity. Hoping one day they would shame all those who looked down on them. Yet, Xavier, a Man close to reaching that desired Level, the Legendary tier, was helplessly dangling, bleeding, and none knew when or how. Was this child's power so great, if this truly was the emperor's child it meant one thing. He must have a Mythical Skill or Legendary one. Either way they were doomed!
They were not silent without reason, before Dante made a move the moment he entered, they all just silently observed, they weren't dumb enough to speak , after all— they needed answers. For example, how had these intruders entered? Why hadn't anyone heard them before they stepped into the room? Where were the rest of the guards? As much as they had questions, most these questions were answered the moment they witnessed his clash with Samson, then they were fully put to bed when they saw Xaviers body.
It wasn't that they were stupid, he was indeed far from reaching the legendary tier. However, to elves , who had time to spare, it was certain he would make it to the legendary tier.
So with so many questions remained unanswered, all eyes turned toward Samson— the oldest and strongest among them. They had pinned their hopes on him, as his level
(8 In the Epic tier) dwarfed those of the others (5, 4, and 3), and they believed his overwhelming advantage would be enough to intervene.
But even he was blown back. This brutal display left them with the grim realization that they stood no chance. This was cemented further by the sight of Xavier's broken body. It seemed his body was somehow flattened as if he was forced in between two great forces that rendered him immobile and crushed his body, while not fully, he was bleeding all over , most of his body had broken exposed bones and shattered limbs.
Phillip's confusion deepened. Tentatively, he spoke, "My Lord, might you be… Dante Isiah? The… nephew of the grand concubine?"
In that instant, every eye in the room widened in shock. The one we were investigating now? How? Why is he here? What in the fuck was happening?!
Dante merely nodded, then corrected him with a dry smirk, "Correction: son of the grand concubine."
Silence fell like a guillotine. Even Vexion's eyes grew wide with disbelief. The son of the grand concubine?! After that initial surprise her brain worked overload as she finally realised something she had overlooked with not much importance.
Is this why he offered me a reward in the form of answers?
Her mind seemed to realize why he was simply so powerful, though she had seen only a few fights he had fought in, if one could even call a three to 5 min one sided beat down a fight, they all were so effortless and easy, he never looked bothered or fearful as if no one could oppose his might .
A child born of such high-level, powerful blood would naturally be gifted with immense talent. But wouldn't that complicate things for him if he took me in as his subordinate? What is the young lord thinking?
She pushed the thoughts aside as she simply chose to go with the flow, after all he had promised her answers, this meant she just simply had to do her best to fulfil his orders and just ask after. To the side the conflict of the Archdukes and Dante continued.
Dante chuckled, a dark note in his voice. "Come on, man—you were just confirming it. No need to act all surprised." A chill ran up the spines of the nobles as they wondered for the millionth time.
How did he know!?
He leaned in, his tone brisk as he addressed the room. "Listen, three minutes are up. I can't waste any more time—and my subordinate needs to showcase her abilities. Let's end this quickly, okay?"
With narrowed eyes, Dante advanced.
In the blink of an eye, he materialized right in front of Samson. The latter tried to raise his defences, but before he could even react, his body was hurled backward at a speed that defied comprehension. Desperation flickered across his face as he attempted to activate his skill; however, his limbs refused to obey.
The uncontrolled burst of force sent him crashing cleanly into the wall, which began to crack under the impact. Samson's mouth opened in a silent scream as he spewed blood, his strength rapidly failing him.
Off to the side, Gaven turned to the door, then exchanged a look with the other three. In that shared glance, they silently deduced that if this boy was here, one of three things must be true:
One. The emperor had discovered that they were secretly investigating the child and had chosen to eliminate them. Yet they doubted this, because the Emperor had subordinates at the level of sages. If those sages had acted, they would have all been slaughtered without resistance or hope of escape—why, then, send a child?
Two. The emperor was investigating them and somehow learned of their illegal slave trade. But this, too, made little sense. Again, why dispatch a child?
Third. The child was bluffing—that he wasn't the Dante they had been tracking. But then, why would such a little boy storm into this room? And Phillip, in his silent calculation, knew deep down that the child was most definitely the young boy he had met years ago. If it truly was him, it still didn't make sense for him to be here alone.
In any case, two of their strongest combatants were effectively neutralized—one dead, and the other barely clinging to life. With their position crumbling, all they could do now was run.
Their illegal slave trade had been exposed, and the grand duke behind them was surely preparing to silence them personally. There was no choice but to flee and start anew.
Like a wild pack of cornered dogs, they began to make a break for it—until the body of Samson crashed to the floor before them. He looked utterly pitiful: his once-handsome visage was now marred by a thick sheen of blood. Desperation filled his eyes as he tried to speak, but all that emerged was a ragged cough, choked with blood. The sight froze everyone in abject terror.
Then the little boy—that is, Dante—appeared before them with an almost eerie calm, his hands tucked casually in his pockets as if he were arriving for a stroll rather than a battle. He fixed his steely gaze directly on Phillip. In that single moment, the poor archduke realized that any hope of escape was slipping away; they were utterly doomed.
Phillip, desperate and clinging to his dwindling options, activated his ability. Almost instantly, his body began to dissolve into a swirling mist—a final, risky maneuver he typically reserved for covert operations where silence was key. In this state, Phillip's form was barely tangible, his outline blurry against the ornate backdrop of the noble hall. But he knew all too well the drawback: while this mist form could help him slip away unnoticed, it left him defenseless and painfully slow.
Dante observed the transformation with a quiet, almost detached amusement. It's almost beautiful in its weakness, he mused internally, his eyes narrowing as he watched the almost unseen vapour disappear. Slowly, as if time itself obeyed his will, the drifting mist halted. It began to condense, gathering itself into denser clusters. Then, as if pulled by an invisible magnet, the mist surged back with alarming speed—coalescing right before Dante's eyes.
He allowed a low chuckle to escape as he began a deliberate countdown, his voice measured and mocking, "Three… two… one…" In that split second, Phillip's body reformed, solidifying into flesh and blood as if nothing had happened. Yet the damage was already done.
Dante's mind raced with dark observations. Epic-tier skills truly aren't on the same plane as Legendary or Mythical ones. The limitations… the pathetic drawbacks—they're laughable, if you ask me. How can one expect to fight when the very nature of your ability sets you up to such vulnerability? Being born with pathetic not combat skills is hard fate to accept.
He noted, that mist was easily disrupted by water, fire, gravity—even basic matter manipulation. And the fact that Phillip was left unable to combine this skill with any other ability? Utterly pathetic.
Now suspended in a web of unseen forces, Phillip struggled desperately against his restraints.
To his Horror, a sharp, bone-chilling snap rang out , each limp was being bent snapped and broken as his body was held firmly by a force greater then he could ever understand , he attempted to scream, but his voice was strangled in his throat. Another snap echoed, and his leg contorted in an impossible, grotesque angle. Phillip's eyes filled with tears of pain as he realized that his efforts were futile—each cry for help was swallowed by the oppressive force choking out any attempt to shout.
Pain, immense pain. The sound, combined by his own eyes wide as he saw his outstretched arm being bent in three different angles and sections across its entire length. Dante, as if Phillip's body was just a toy, a puppet he was "controlling" for the first time , watched with satisfaction at his handiwork.
Dante was by no means, merciful, however, as unfortunate as it was , he deeply loved his mother. He remembers to this day the immense pain in her heart born from the day this fool decided to seek attention, and curry undesired favour from the royal family. To say nothing of the quiet sobs she shed. Dante was quite pissed of something he was annoyed at.
'To think a day would come when I'd be this emotionally tied to a person'
Across the hall, roughly thirteen elves stood frozen in horror. Their eyes darted from Phillip's contorted form, who's body was slowly being shifted into something unrecognizable, even his facial bones were popping out, he was dying in the slowest cruelt death possible. They looked to each other, sharing unspoken terror. Gaven, who had been watching with an expression of stunned petrified fear, finally managed to stutter out, "M-my lord, may I also challenge your subordinate?"
At that, Dante's attention snapped to Gaven. A sardonic smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Oh?" he drawled, clearly amused by the suggestion. "So, you wish to place a demand—maybe a condition that you'll be allowed to escape if you win?" His tone dripped with mocking sophistication.
The nobles' expressions shifted into fear, and utter bafflement. Their eyes couldn't understand where such a little boy, who seemed to delight in calmness to the vile and disgusting violence appeared from. Where was this desire to do such things born from? This youth, was both terrifyingly powerful and utterly merciless. In their minds, he was the embodiment of evil..
As Gaven waited for a response, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier, as though the very air was thick with despair. The once-grand hall, with its lavish décor and ornate details, now felt oppressive and sinister. Every whispered murmur, every shuffled step, was soaked in dread. It was as if the room had been plunged into a void where hope was nothing more than a memory.
Phillip remained suspended in mid-air, his limbs twisted in unnatural contortions, a living testament to the boy's cruel power. Those gathered could hardly believe their eyes; they had all assumed that such a young boy was incapable of inflicting such horror. Yet, here before them, the unmistakable signs of true brutality were undeniable. Phillip's once-proud visage was marred by pain and humiliated expression, a reminder that in this realm, age and status meant nothing against overwhelming power.
Dantes couldn't help but look at all this with a quiet amusement. How delicate the balance of power truly is… A skill's tier may be its most advertised quality, but the true measure lies in its application.
Then, Dante stepped forward. His eyes, gleaming with cold, calm indifference, locked onto Phillip. In one swift, motion, a force surged upward pulling Phillip towards the ridiculously high ceiling of the mansion. The archduke's body was hoisted high above the ground—a brief, agonizing moment of weightlessness before the same force abruptly reversed its course. With a forceful jerk, Phillip was pulled downward, his body hurtling face-first into the hard floor.
A deafening impact followed as his body collided violently with the ground. The reverberation of the collision filled the silence that had momentarily held the room captive. Blood gushed freely from Phillip's deformed form. His ribs jutted out a display of broken bone, his shoulder blade was laid bare, and the arm he landed on was shattered beyond repair. Every noble looking shuddered as if they themselves were the receiving end of that painful impact the horror in their eyes was unmistakable.