Eron stood there, his gaze fixed on Lucian's back.
The dust was still hanging in the air, the ground still steaming from the heat Karl had poured into it. The crowd's noise—hunters, soldiers, and survivors—was like a distant hum in his ears. None of it mattered.
What mattered was the boy standing in the middle of the ruin.
Lucian.
Eron had fought his way to the top for years, carrying the weight of being called the strongest human. It wasn't just a title—it was the one thing that proved he'd survived what others hadn't. The one thing that set him above the rest.
And yet… watching Lucian just now, bending space and time like they were his personal tools, defeating a Rank X dragon as if it were training… Eron knew. Deep down, in that place inside where pride turns to something sour—he knew.
He wasn't the strongest anymore.
