The quiet beneath the surface of the Inner World was profound, save for the dark water shifting around Albion's ankles.
He looked down at his reflection on the ink-black floor. Not long ago, his thoughts had been rigid, defined by statements and self-imposed isolation.
"If I never challenge myself… if I never stand against people stronger than me… then I'll never change."
"Don't you understand?! I need this power! The power to protect myself. The power to protect the things I care about. The strength to keep moving forward no matter what stands in front of me. And I accept every risk that comes with it!"
He remembered saying those words. At the time, he believed he meant them. He had convinced himself he was willing to suffer any consequence to grow stronger. But he had been naive about what "every risk" actually meant.
Power gained by stepping on others wasn't growth, it was degradation. If he used people who had done him no harm just to ascend, he wouldn't be evolving into a better version of himself, just a more dangerous one. He would be no different from the mother who abandoned him, or the dark entity standing across from him now.
It was an act of delusion to call that strength.
He remembered the exchange that followed, echoes of a past conflict resonating in the mind.
"If I help you, it won't be out of kindness," Amon had told him then. "Part of me simply wants to grow stronger. As you evolve… so do I."
"I don't care," Albion had replied without hesitation. "I already told you. I'll use everyone to ascend. Your power. Your hatred. Your darkness. Give me all of it to devour."
"You asked what I will do. It is simple. I will keep moving. I will never let you have this seat. If you try, I will consume you. No one controls me. Anyone who tries will receive no mercy."
"Do you have the resolve to back those words?"
"Yes. To decide my own fate, everyone else must fall."
Back then, "devouring" was just a word to him—a dramatic declaration of intent. He hadn't understood what Amon truly was, nor had he understood the weight of his own declarations.
Now, he knew better. He didn't want to leave a trail of ruined people behind him. He didn't want to live as a weapon, a king, or a monster. He wanted connections. He wanted to understand people, to have friends, to exist as himself without resorting to cruelty for the sake of power. He could not reach Amon with words. He understood that now. Rejection had swung to the other side; where Albion once denied Amon's existence, Amon now rejected Albion's extended hand.
Yet, Albion refused to kill him. And he refused to remain a punching bag. He didn't need to destroy others to gain strength. He had his experiences. He had the people he had met.
Gajeel Lionheart was stronger than him, faster, more brutal, and far more experienced in close-quarters combat. Albion lacked Gajeel's natural athleticism, but his memory was precise. He recalled every strike, every shift in stance, every fraction of a second from their clash in the guild hall.
Through that precise recollection, Albion didn't copy Gajeel. He processed the core of how Gajeel fought, integrating that understanding into his own mind. He adapted to it. He reflected on the experience, allowing it to refine his own movements.
The Inner World responded. It was not a static space. Because it was the realm of Albion's mind, the environment reacted directly to his internal state. Thoughts, intent, and memory were tangible here. They were not simple illusions, they were real, temporary constructs that could be touched, used, and broken before dissolving back into the dark water.
Albion held his right hand open above the surface. The dark water rippled, parting as a long, solid iron pipe rose smoothly into his grip. Cold, heavy, and real.
Amon stared, his eyes narrowing as he took in the change in Albion's posture.
"Back in the corridor," he said softly, his voice calm and measured, " I explained how my magic works to Juvia and Sheila. I used a metal pipe identical to this one to show them."
He shifted his grip slightly, his expression focused and deliberate.
He revealed only what was necessary, keeping the true identity and name of his magic hidden, ensuring no additional leverage was handed to the entity before him.
"It is an information-based Caster Magic," Albion continued, looking directly at Amon. "It centers on understanding the structure of the world. The key rule is simple: the deeper my understanding of a target, the greater the influence I can exert over it."
He raised the pipe slightly.
"Information isn't the source of power. It is the cost. When I make contact with an Information Thread, I don't receive words or spoken explanations. It arrives as immediate comprehension. I instantly know the material, the weight, the structural integrity, and the flaws. Once processed, that knowledge is permanently stored."
Albion met Amon's gaze without flinching.
"Knowledge alone isn't mastery. Understanding how a sword is forged doesn't automatically make someone a swordsman. It accelerates learning, but it doesn't replace the physical necessity of practice. Once something is fully processed, it becomes registered. After that, I no longer need to analyze it from scratch. The connection can be re-established through memory, reducing the mental burden."
He lowered his hand slightly, the iron pipe steady in his grasp.
"In the outside world, there are limits to what I can manifest based on those principles. But here, inside this space, physical laws don't apply the same way. What requires effort out there can be brought forth here simply through complete understanding."
Amon's expression flickered. For a second, his composure changed.
'When did he become this calm?' Amon thought, his mind racing as he stared at the boy before him. 'This isn't how he thought. This isn't how he spoke. When did he grow this much?'
Though both still bore the physical proportions of five-year-olds—forcing them to rely on weapons and close proximity—Albion's posture no longer carried the hesitation of a child. His physical capabilities had heightened ever since he claimed his seat as king. but he set those lingering questions aside.
Speculation didn't matter right now. What mattered was the present.
Albion raised the iron pipe, pointing it directly at Amon like a drawn blade. His eyes were clear, steady, and free of malice.
"I'm not going to be your punching bag anymore, Amon," Albion said, his voice quiet and firm "I'm going to pull you out of this cycle, even if I have to beat you to do it. You can call yourself a king here all day long. But this world belongs to my mind. And I won't let you tear it apart."
The dark water swirled around their feet as Amon braced himself, the tension between them snapping tight.
Sheila had once believed that Albion possessed a rare talent for magic—one that might eventually rival Juvia Graywater, the prodigy of the Sky Water.
She had been wrong.
His talent had not merely rivaled her. In the quiet depths of his own mind, through sheer analytical depth and an evolving spirit, Albion Ebonveil was proving to be something far more dangerous. A true child genius of magic.