The day was nothing short of a whirlwind. Following their time at the boutique and the encounter at the wand shop, the Crowns and Leones retreated to a renowned restaurant within the mall.
Peace, however, was not on the menu. Sophia and Costoria remained locked in a state of passive-aggressive warfare, their friction fueled by a shared obsession with Amon.
Costoria leaned into her role as the provocateur, her flirtations sharp and deliberate, while Sophia met every advance with a frigid retort. Their bickering eventually escalated into a full-blown "catfight," drawing curious stares from other patrons. While Arnold offered a weary apology to the restaurant owner, Alexia merely watched the chaos with an entertained glint in her eyes.
The food was exquisite, but the flavour was lost on Amon. Wedged between Sophia's icy glares and Costoria's relentless attention, he found himself more exhausted than hungry. He wondered how a nine-year-old was even capable of such calculated flirtation until his skill, [No Longer Human], provided the answer: Instinct.
The Leone bloodline was biologically hardwired to seek out the strongest possible mates. To Costoria's primal senses, Amon radiated power. Her behaviour was a collision of familial survival instincts and a burgeoning, singular obsession.
The group eventually moved on to the mall's arcade, where the rivalry took a digital turn.
A fierce gaming competition broke out between the two girls, each desperate to outshine the other. The match ended without a victor, however, as Amon finally intervened to prevent another public scene. Meanwhile, Alexia continued her assault on Arnold's composure, weaving teasing remarks with nostalgic stories from their academy days.
Despite the headaches, the day left a mark on Amon. It was his first true outing with his family since his reincarnation—a chaotic, noisy, and strangely warming reminder of the life he now lived.
. . .
The following days bled into years, a decade passing in a heartbeat. Throughout those ten years, Amon adhered to a rigid discipline of study and combat training, a routine he refused to break even as he matured.
Today was Sophia Von Crown's twentieth birthday. By all accounts, Amon should have been submerged in the frantic preparations for her evening gala, but he was nowhere near the family estate. He had a more pressing appointment to keep—one that would change a lot of things.
He steered a low-slung, blood-red sports car into the lot of a sleek, twenty-two-story skyscraper. A massive, holographic sign shimmered across the glass facade: Magic Administration Bureau. This was the organisation his father directed, and Amon had come to give an important exam here.
Stepping out of the vehicle, Amon adjusted his attire. He wore a crisp white shirt under an unbuttoned black blazer, accented by a deep purple tie and stark white jeans. His shoes were polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the midday sun. Most striking, however, was the crimson blindfold tied firmly over his eyes.
His hair, once pale and ethereal, was now a deep, ink-black. It was a subtle manipulation of magic—a return to the original colour he had worn before the kidnapping changed everything.
Amon approached the elevator and tapped the holographic call button. Within seconds, the doors slid open, and he stepped inside to select the fourth floor.
"According to Masha, the Stream should've launched today", he thought. She had summoned him at dawn to brief him on the broadcast schedule, yet his own interface remained silent. No notifications, no alerts—nothing to indicate the transmission had begun.
The elevator chimed, and the doors parted to reveal a floor buzzing with activity. Amon stepped out into a hallway teeming with life; high-ranking officials in sharp uniforms brushed past civilians with hurried expressions, their footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
The Magic Administration Bureau was one of the beating hearts of the Riversong Empire. Because, along with technology, magic also governed every facet of daily existence—from lighting the streets to powering industry—the Bureau's influence was absolute.
Amon navigated the crowded hallway with fluid ease. He veered left into a secondary corridor where the air grew quieter; the throng of civilians vanished, replaced by the rhythmic pace of focused officials.
He drew a trail of curious glances. It was only natural—a young man striding through a complex government hub with impossible confidence, all while wearing a stark crimson blindfold, was an arresting sight.
As the corridor thinned out, the calibre of the personnel shifted. The officials here carried themselves with the heavy gravity of high-ranking authority. Noticing his approach, a woman stepped forward to intercept him.
"What business do you have here, young man?" she asked, her expression unreadable but calm.
"I am here for my ToW Exam," Amon answered, his voice ringing with absolute clarity.
"Are you Amon Von Crown?" The official's curiosity piqued, her eyes scanning his face.
"I am," Amon said, a slight, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"In that case, follow me." She gestured for him to keep pace and turned down the hall.
The Bureau's uniform was a masterclass in dramatic authority: a crisp white dress shirt and black necktie layered under a tailored, two-buttoned black vest. On the right chest sat the Bureau's insignia—a decorative red brooch draped with fine metal chains. The colour of these links dictated the wearer's standing. While black chains marked an average officer, the woman escorting Amon wore silver—the hallmark of a high-ranking official.
"I was briefed an hour ago that you would be arriving to take the ToW exam," she said, her tone softening into a friendly conversational clip.
"I found it hard to believe," she continued with a light chuckle. "An eighteen-year-old aiming for one of the most elite circles in the Empire. Then again, the current generation of Prosecutors seems to be getting younger by the day."
In the Riversong Empire, the title of Prosecutor was reserved for the exceptional. Revered as those "chosen by the Heavens," they were the final arbiters of peace and held authority that could silence noble houses. To join their ranks, an applicant had to either present a history of ground-breaking achievements or survive the "Trials of Worthiness"—the ToW.
"You shouldn't find it so hard to believe," Amon said, his tone steady and cool. "I am a Crown, and we are known for pursuing the impossible."
"Confidence suits you," the woman remarked. A small smile played on her lips, softening her sharp features. She was striking—fair-skinned with flowing brown hair and piercing green eyes. Her tall, athletic physique filled out the Bureau uniform with an elegance that was nothing short of breathtaking.
"Naturally," Amon replied with a nonchalant shrug. "If I lacked even basic confidence, I would be unworthy of being a Crown."
They came to a halt before a heavy door labeled Director of Magic Research. "Your exam will be conducted under the magic research director's personal supervision," the official explained, stepping aside. "This is as far as I'll escort you."
"Understood." Amon reached for the handle.
"Good luck, Amon Von Crown," she said, offering a genuine smile before turning to vanish back into the corridor.
The Stream has commenced. Please stand by.
The interface flickered into existence, suspended in the air before Amon's blindfolded gaze. He froze mid-step, his hand hovering over the door handle.
"Now?" he murmured, eyes—or rather, the blindfold—fixed on the glowing text.
A thousand viewers have tuned in.
Another pane slid into view. Amon felt a flicker of surprise; a thousand viewers for a debut broadcast was statistically improbable. He quickly deduced it was the handiwork of Masha. She had talked about her "sufficient marketing," but her definition of sufficient leaned toward the overkill.
VillainEnjoyer: "Tuning into the stream!" |
DraconicSoul: "Tuning into the stream!" |
A cascade of similar notifications flooded his peripheral vision. Feeling overwhelmed, Amon adjusted the interface.
With a mere thought, he shifted the cascade of notifications to the periphery of his sight, ensuring they wouldn't clutter his vision during the exam. Handling it mentally was a necessity; physically swatting at thin air would have looked far too eccentric and embarrassing.
VillainEnjoyer: "Streamer, why the blindfold? Is it power-related?" |
ForestHuntress: "I'm more interested in the premise. Masha's ads said this was about a guy reincarnated as the final boss of a yuri novel." |
FangirlingIsMyPassion: "Ugh, yuri..." |
RandomCroissant: "Sounds generic as hell. I was sceptical, but if Masha is administering this, it's worth a look." |
The comments continued to scroll in the corners of his gaze, readable yet unobtrusive.
"Well, you aren't wrong about the generic part," Amon remarked casually as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
To an outsider, he was speaking to an empty room, but Masha had assured him that his interactions with the Stream were private—invisible and inaudible to those around him. It was a relief; the last thing he needed was to look like he'd finally lost his mind.
"But it's only generic if I play the part, isn't it?" Amon added, his mental voice dripping with a casual confidence.
The office was a masterclass in extravagance—immaculate, opulent, and suffocatingly intense. The pressure in the air was thick, radiating from the three individuals anchored within the room. Among them was a face Amon was both relieved and surprised to see.
"It's good to see you, Mother," Amon said, his tone mild and respectful. "But what brings you here?"
"How could I miss this?" Emilia chuckled, sauntering toward him to affectionately ruffle his hair. "My boy is sitting for the Trials to become a Prosecutor; I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else."
Emilia Von Crown remained a vision of timeless beauty. She wore a black dress suit stitched with pure gold embroidery, the high-collared jacket opening to reveal a ruffled white shirt. Paired with a black calf-length skirt and thigh-high white boots, the ensemble accentuated her mature, striking physique, lending her an aura that was as intimidating as it was elegant.
"Your Highness, I admire your faith, but he doesn't look like much," a sceptical voice cut in.
The speaker was a young woman, likely in her early twenties, with tan skin and an innocent charm in her dark eyes. Her tall, striking frame was showcased by a light grey shirt with rolled sleeves under a light blue V-neck vest and high-waisted jeans. Despite her casual attire, she carried the unmistakable air of someone who belonged in this room.
"Khalia, I would appreciate it if you kept such remarks to yourself," Emilia said. She continued to ruffle Amon's hair—much to his quiet embarrassment—but her voice now carried the weight of absolute authority.
"Your Highness, you must understand," Khalia persisted, rising from her desk. "The Trials are no laughing matter."
"Khalia, mind your tongue when addressing the Grand Duchess," a man beside her interrupted, his voice cold and calculated. "It is an honour that she requested us to oversee her son's examination personally. Do not mistake her grace for an invitation to be insolent."
"Fine, Velzoyr, I get it," Khalia sighed wearily. She turned back to Emilia with a shallow bow. "My apologies for the remark, Your Highness."
"It is good that you understand, Khalia," Emilia said, turning toward them with a thin, sharp smile. "And I apologise for intruding upon your time, Minister," she added, her gaze shifting to Velzoyr with practised politeness.
"Please, Grand Duchess," Velzoyr replied, his composure faltering into a moment of visible awkwardness. "I am merely fulfilling my duty."
Velzoyr stood tall, a man in his mid-twenties with short, lustrous silver hair and piercing blue eyes. His athletic frame was draped in a black turtleneck beneath a tailored light blue business suit, rounded off by gold-trimmed white shoes. He carried the polished, effortless charisma of a high-stakes businessman.
VillainEnjoyer: "Whoa, the aesthetics in here... especially that tan-skinned girl. I've always had a type, but she might be the one." |
AvatarDude69: "Man is already falling in love, lmfao." |
ForestHuntress: "He isn't wrong. Everyone in this room is gorgeous—look at Velzoyr. The fanservice in this stream is genuinely unreal." |
CatnipIsDelicious: "Truth. Even if the premise is generic, the visuals are top-tier." |
FangirlingIsMyPassion: "Y'all are distracted by the looks, and I'm just trying to figure out why the Streamer is even here..." |
"Have a little patience, my dear viewer," Amon projected mentally, his tone casual and reassuring. "It's better to see it for yourself than to endure a tedious explanation."
. . .
Amon sat centred in the sterile expanse of the room, the opulence of the office from before replaced by a cold, clinical white. Before him sat a professional-grade wooden chess set, its pieces carved with sharp, uncompromising lines. Beside it rested a canister, pulsing with a rhythmic, dark red glow that seemed to mimic a heartbeat.
"Amon, open the canister and allow the substance to enter your system," Khalia's voice crackled through a corner speaker, detached and echoing. "Once inside, you must resist its hallucinatory influence and defeat the entity in a game of chess."
The speaker hissed before she added a final, cold caveat. "Your magium has been neutralised. No magic, no skills. This is a pure test of willpower and intellect. Pass, and we move to the second phase. Good luck."
The silence that followed was heavy. Amon leaned back, studying the glowing sludge and the sixty-four squares of the board.
"Hallucinations? No, it's more sinister than that," Amon thought. "It's a parasitic intellect designed to melt my cognitive functions and drive me insane. Khalia didn't create a hurdle that could be overcome; she created an impossible scenario."
VillainEnjoyer: "This isn't an exam anymore. This is a survival horror segment." |
FangirlingIsMyPassion: "If that parasite plays at the level of a chess engine while shredding his sanity, he's done for. No human can beat a chess engine while their brain is melting." |
RandomCrossaint: "Generic? I take it back. The stakes just hit the ceiling. This is getting dark." |
Amon watched the text scroll in the corner of his vision, then shifted his gaze back to the canister. A sharp, jagged smile pulled at his lips.
"I have to commend her", he thought, his hand closing around the cold metal of the canister. "She did her research. She tailored this nightmare specifically to break me. But she made one small miscalculation."
He twisted the cap, the seal hissing as the dark red glow intensified.
"She underestimated my ability to ruin people's days with my capabilities."
Emilia, Velzoyr, and Khalia stood within the observation deck, shielded behind a one-way mirror. The atmosphere in the small room was rapidly dropping toward sub-zero; Emilia was radiating an aura so frigid and overwhelming that it threatened to frost the glass.
"Khalia," Emilia began, her voice a low, dangerous velvet. "Explain why you have an Aimus mind-corruptor. A high-grade specimen, no less."
"I wanted a proper examination, Duchess," Khalia replied, her expression unbothered as she stood her ground against the mounting pressure. "I refuse to waste time on a written test he would obviously ace. I've reviewed his record in its entirety."
She gestured toward the monitors. "He dismantled an Aimus stronghold at eight years old. He took top honours in the OKE competitions at fourteen—exams that are so notoriously absurd and theoretical that most scholars fail them. By eighteen, he's already managing a massive stock market portfolio and several insurance conglomerates. His intellect is on a different plane of existence."
"Khalia, using such a measure pushes the boundaries of the ToW protocol," Velzoyr remarked, his voice a sharp, calculated chill. "I understand the necessity of a challenge, but I cannot approve of this method."
"Velzoyr, you really have zero faith in me, do you?" Khalia turned to him, letting out a weary sigh. "Nothing will happen to him with us standing right here. And even if he somehow dies—"
She never finished the sentence.
Emilia's movement was a blur. Before Khalia could blink, she was hoisted off her feet by the throat and slammed against the glass observation wall. The impact rattled the reinforced pane.
"If so much as a hair is harmed on my son's head," Emilia whispered, her voice vibrating with a murderous intent so thick it felt physical, "I will mangle your corpse and feed the remains to rabid street dogs, Twilight Silverstone Khalia."
The temperature in the room plummeted. Even Velzoyr felt a shiver trace down his spine as the Grand Duchess's mask of nobility vanished, replaced by the raw instincts of a mama protecting her cub.
"Rest assured... Your Highness..." Khalia's voice was a strained rasp, her face pale as she clawed weakly at Emilia's iron grip. "Nothing... will happen to him..."