The Celestial Estate was in chaos.

It wasn’t the turmoil of battle, but the frantic energy of a dozen servants darting through halls with armfuls of silk, jewelry boxes, and trays of untouched food. Voices echoed from every corner, calling out for missing cufflinks or the specific shade of lipstick that my mother was now convinced had been stolen by a rival house.

Why would it not be chaos?

After all, it was the day of the Gala, and there were only a few hours left before the event would begin in the Imperial Capital.

The journey itself would take time, and the preparations had been ongoing since dawn, with every member of the Celestial family being primped and polished and dressed within an inch of their lives by servants who took their jobs very seriously and tolerated no complaints.

I stood in my room, staring at my reflection in the tall mirror that had been in my family for generations. It’s been a few days since my spar with Sylvia and things were really chaotic. I hastily crashed out and made the relation bad and even blurted out a few things about my trial.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say things between me and Sylvia are bad, but they aren’t that good either. If I put our relation in one word, it’s quite twisted. Besides that, Mom and Dad started to care for me—at least they don’t leave me alone. And why would they not?

When their son said so many hateful things?

I really felt like dying.

I still haven’t told them complete things, just thinking about it left a bitter taste in my mouth. I left them with the pieces they had heard, and again they didn’t push me and ask for answers. Other than that, Seris stayed at our home. I rarely saw her after that day, and not that I care about it.

Anyway, here we are now again, and today is Gala day. I stared at the mirror and barely recognized myself.

The white hair that had been loose and wild for so long was now tied back in a low, elegant ponytail that fell past my shoulders, with a few carefully placed strands left loose to frame my face.

The style was simple but refined. My ocean-blue eyes, sharp and clear, caught the light from the window and seemed to glow with an intensity that made me look almost otherworldly.

But it was my clothes that truly transformed me.

I wore a high-collared black jacket with subtle silver embroidery along the lapels and cuffs, the threads catching the light and shimmering like stars in a night sky. The jacket was tailored perfectly to my frame, broad across the shoulders and tapering at the waist, emphasizing the lean muscle I had built over time.

Beneath it, a deep navy-blue vest hugged my torso, with a line of silver buttons that gleamed like polished mirrors. My pants were dark and fitted, tucked into knee-high black boots that added an inch to my height and made me look even more imposing.

Around my neck, a silver chain held a small pendant shaped like a lightning bolt—the symbol of House Celestial, passed down from my grandfather to my father and now resting against my chest.

But this was not just a piece of jewelry.

My father had given it to me when I came back from the trial, pressing it into my palm with a look that said more than any words could. It was an artifact, one of the few that the Celestial family kept hidden from the outside world, and its purpose was simple: it was an emergency beacon.

If I ever found myself in a situation where I was outmatched, surrounded, or dying, I could channel my mana into the pendant, and it would send a silent alert to my father. It’s like a pulse of energy that only a Celestial could feel, a vibration in the blood that said your son is in danger, come now.

My father would know my location, would feel the urgency in the pulse, and would move. He would not hesitate. He would not wait for reinforcements or backup or permission.

He would come.

[It is a wise precaution,] Nova observed. [Your father may be many things, but he is not careless with the lives of his children.]

I know, right,I thought, touching the pendant with my fingertips. He gave one to Sylvia too when she left for the academy. And Mia has one as well, though I hope she never has to use it.

Sylvia’s pendant was a small crescent moon, elegant and understated, hidden beneath her gown where no one could see it.

She had complained about it at first, called it a leash, a sign that Father didn’t trust her to handle herself, but she still didn’t go against him and wore it.

And Mia’s pendant was a tiny star, no bigger than a coin, sewn into the hem of her dress where she would never have to think about it.

She didn’t even know it was there. That was the point.

She was too young to understand what it meant, too innocent to carry the weight of knowing that her father had placed a silent alarm on her person because the world was dangerous and he could not be everywhere at once.

We were all marked, in our own way, watched and protected.

Bound together by silver chains and lightning bolts and the unspoken understanding that no matter how far we wandered, we would never be truly alone.

[It is not a cage,]Nova said quietly.[It is a promise.]

Yeah, I thought, letting my hand fall away from the pendant. I know.

"But something was wrong," I said, looking at my reflection.

I frowned at my reflection and tugged at the collar of my shirt. The tie, a sleek black cravat that was supposed to be folded and pinned in a specific way, hung loosely around my neck, the folds uneven and the pin sitting crooked. I had tried to fix it three times already, and each attempt had somehow made it worse than before.

"Fuck this," I muttered, tugging at the fabric again.

It didn’t help. The cravat twisted even more, and I felt a vein throb in my forehead.

[You are struggling. Perhaps you could ask someone for help?]

"No shit," I said through gritted teeth, staring at my reflection with mounting frustration. "I am a grown man. I should be able to tie my own tie."

[...And yet, here we are.]

I glared at my reflection. The cravat stared back at me, mocking my incompetence.

"I don’t know how to tie this thing," I admitted finally, my voice low and embarrassed. "...In my last life, I never had to wear anything like this. It was just shirts and jeans and the occasional hoodie. No one taught me how to do this."

[There is no shame in not knowing something. The shame is in refusing to learn.]

"Did you just quote a proverb at me?"

[I am full of wisdom.]

"You’re full of something."

I sighed and tried again.

My fingers fumbled with the fabric, folding and twisting and pinning in what I hoped was the right order, but when I stepped back to look at the result, the cravat was still crooked, the folds uneven, the pin sitting at an angle that made me look like I had dressed myself in the dark.

"Damn it," I said.

A knock came at the door. I didn’t turn around. "Come in."

The door opened, and Lyra stepped inside.

She was dressed in her usual maid uniform, black dress, white apron, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. I turned to face her, a grin spreading across my face. "So," I said, spreading my arms wide. "How do I look?"

Lyra didn’t answer immediately. "You look... acceptable," she said finally.

I laughed. "Acceptable? That’s all I get? I spent twenty minutes in that chair while the head maid fussed over my hair, and all I get is ’acceptable’?"

Lyra’s lips twitched. "You look beautiful, young master. But your tie is crooked."

I looked down at the cravat and sighed. "I know. I’ve been trying to fix it for ten minutes."

Lyra walked toward me without a word, her footsteps silent on the wooden floor. She stopped in front of me. Her fingers were deft and practiced, folding the fabric with quick, precise movements that made my own attempts look like the work of a child.

Within seconds, the cravat was perfectly tied, the folds even, the pin straight, the whole thing sitting against my collar like it had been crafted there.

"There," Lyra said, stepping back. "Now you look acceptable."

I touched the cravat, surprised by how different it felt now that it was properly tied. "Thanks, Lyra. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"Probably walk around looking like a fool."

"Probably," I agreed. I looked at her reflection in the mirror, then turned to face her fully. "Is everyone already outside?"

Lyra nodded. "They are waiting for you. Your mother has been ready for an hour. Your father has been pacing. Your sister has threatened to leave without you twice."

I winced. "Sylvia or Mia?"

"Both."

"Ah..." I sighed and straightened my jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I should probably go, then. I don’t want to be the reason we’re late."

I walked toward the door, then paused with my hand on the handle. I looked back at Lyra, who was standing in the middle of my room, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression as neutral as ever.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you with me," I said. "The invitation was for family only. I tried to—"

"It is okay," Lyra said, cutting me off. "I understand."

I looked at her for a long moment. "I’ll bring you something from the capital."

Lyra was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Then bring me something sweet."

I grinned. "Deal."

I left the room and walked down the corridor toward the main entrance, my boots echoing against the marble floors. The estate was still chaotic, servants rushing past me with armloads of luggage and last-minute adjustments, but I moved through it all like a ghost, my mind already focused on what was to come.

The Celestial family’s private jet sat on the landing platform at the edge of the estate, its sleek black surface gleaming in the afternoon sun. The engines hummed softly, ready for takeoff, and the pilot was already in the cockpit, running through the pre-flight checks.

The family stood at the base of the boarding ramp, waiting.

My father, Noah von Celestial, was dressed in a deep blue military-style coat with gold epaulets and a row of medals across his chest that he had not earned in any war but had been awarded for his service to the Empire. His hair was neatly combed, and his eyes were sharp and alert as he scanned the horizon.

My mother, Isabella, was a vision in silver and white. Her gown was flowing and elegant, with delicate lace sleeves and a train that pooled behind her like a river of moonlight.

Her platinum-silver hair was braided and pinned up, with small diamonds woven through the strands that sparkled every time she moved. She looked like a queen from a fairy tale, and I felt a surge of pride knowing that she was my mother.

Sylvia stood beside her, dressed in a deep crimson gown that hugged her figure and flared at the hips. Her black hair was loose, falling in waves past her shoulders, and her ocean-blue eyes were bright with excitement and nervousness.

She looked beautiful, not in the soft, elegant way that our mother did, but in a sharp, fierce way that promised trouble to anyone who crossed her.

Mia was bouncing on her heels, her small hands clutching the skirt of her pale pink dress. Her black hair was curled and pinned with tiny silver butterflies, and her ocean-blue eyes were wide with wonder as she looked up at the massive jet.

...And standing slightly apart from the family, looking like she wished she was anywhere else, was Seris.

She wore a simple black dress that fell to her knees, with long sleeves and a high collar that covered most of her neck. Her black hair was straight and shining, falling past her shoulders like a curtain of ink, and her crimson eyes were fixed on the horizon with an expression that gave nothing away.

She was beautiful in a cold, distant way that made people look twice and then look away, as if they were afraid of what they might see if they looked too long.

I walked down the path toward them, my boots crunching on the gravel, and everyone turned to look at me. Mia was the first to react. She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Leo! You look like a prince!"

I grinned and ruffled her hair, careful not to disturb the silver butterflies. "I am a prince. The prince of being handsome."

Sylvia looked me up and down, her eyes narrowing. "You clean up well, little brother. But don’t push it."

My mother walked toward me. "You look so handsome, my son. Your grandfather would be proud."

I felt something warm spread through my chest. "Thanks, Mom."

"You look good, son," my father said, nodding in approval. "Now let’s not stand around staring at each other. We have a gala to attend."

We climbed the boarding ramp in an orderly fashion, first the knights who would be accompanying us as security, then the servants who would handle our luggage, then the family. I paused at the top of the ramp and looked back at the estate one last time.

Lyra stood at the edge of the platform, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on me. I nodded at her. She nodded back.

Then I turned and walked into the jet.

The interior was spacious and luxurious, with leather seats arranged in clusters around small tables, soft lighting that mimicked the warmth of the sun, and a bar in the corner stocked with drinks that no one would touch until we were in the air.

I settled into a seat by the window, and Sylvia sat across from me, her crimson gown pooling on the seat beside her.

Seris sat in the corner, as far from everyone as she could manage, her eyes fixed on the window. She hadn’t said a word since I had appeared, but I could feel her gaze on me every few seconds, quick and sharp, like she was studying me.

Mother sat beside father, her hand resting on his arm, her emerald eyes soft. Mia was already asking the pilot when we would take off, her voice high and excited.

The engines hummed louder, and the jet began to taxi toward the runway. I looked out the window at the estate growing smaller in the distance. The gala was about to begin. I had no idea what was waiting for me.

But I was ready to find out.

_

The afternoon sun hung low over the Imperial Capital, casting long golden shadows across the sprawling platform where the most important families of the Empire were beginning to gather.

The palace loomed in the distance, its white stone spires reaching toward the sky like fingers grasping at the clouds, and the banners of a hundred noble houses fluttered in the warm breeze. The air was thick with the scent of flowers from the royal gardens and the low hum of conversation from the clusters of dignitaries who had already arrived.

A sleek white and gold jet bearing the crest of the Holy Kingdom descended from the clouds and touched down on the far end of the platform with a soft hiss of hydraulics.

The engines whined as they powered down, and the boarding ramp extended to the ground with mechanical precision. Servants in crisp uniforms rushed forward to receive the arriving guests, but they stopped short when the first figure emerged from the aircraft.

Arthur Vale stepped out into the sunlight and immediately wished he was anywhere else.

His jet-black hair was neatly styled, swept back from his face, and his golden eyes, the mark of the Goddess’s blessing impossible to hide and impossible to ignore seemed to glow in the fading light of the afternoon.

He wore a formal white coat with gold embroidery along the lapels and cuffs, the fabric rich and heavy, tailored perfectly to his lean frame.

A high collar framed his neck, and a ceremonial sword hung at his hip, its hilt inlaid with gold filigree and a single white gem that pulsed faintly with energy. He looked like every painting of a hero that had ever been created, like a figure from legend brought to life.

He looked miserable.

Amelia Nightshade appeared at his shoulder a moment later, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her midnight-blue hair was pinned up in an elegant twist, with a few loose strands framing her face, and her silver-violet eyes were bright with amusement at his discomfort.

Her gown was a deep shade of blue that matched her hair, with silver embroidery along the bodice and a flowing skirt that brushed the ground as she walked. She looked beautiful.

"Smile," she whispered, her lips barely moving. "You look like you’re about to attend your own funeral."

Arthur’s jaw tightened. "I might be."

"Then smile anyway. It’s bad for morale if the hero looks like he wants to jump back on the jet and fly home."

Arthur forced his lips into something that resembled a smile. It came out looking more like a grimace, and Amelia sighed.

"We’ll work on it," she said.

Behind them, the rest of the Holy Kingdom’s delegation descended from the jet, priests in flowing white robes, knights in gleaming silver armor, diplomats with perfumed handkerchiefs pressed to their noses as if the air of the capital was beneath them.

Arthur ignored all of them. His eyes were fixed on the palace in the distance, on the windows that caught the sunlight and threw it back like scattered diamonds, on the doors that would soon open to swallow him whole.

A group of Nightshade family members approached from the side, having arrived earlier on their own jet.

Amelia’s father, Lord Alistair Nightshade, was a tall man with the same midnight-blue hair as his daughter and sharp silver-violet eyes that missed nothing. He wore a dark blue coat with silver trim, and his expression was calm and controlled.

Beside him stood Amelia’s mother, Lady Rosalind Nightshade, a woman whose silver eyes were softer but no less sharp. Her gown was pale blue, simple and elegant, and her silver-streaked hair was pinned up in a style that matched her daughter’s.

"Arthur," Lord Alistair said, his voice low and measured. "You look well."

Arthur bowed his head respectfully. "Lord Nightshade. Thank you for allowing Amelia to accompany me."

"It was her choice," Lady Rosalind said, and there was something in her voice, a hint of warmth, a touch of approval that made Arthur’s chest feel lighter. "She’s stubborn that way."

Amelia smiled and squeezed Arthur’s arm. "I learned from the best."

Before anyone could respond, the sound of engines filled the air again, louder this time, deeper. Another jet was descending toward the platform, its sleek black surface gleaming in the afternoon light.

The crest on its side was unmistakable — a silver hammer crossed with a sword, the symbol of House Ashford, one of the Four Great Houses of the Empire.

The jet landed with a soft thud, and the boarding ramp extended. The first man to step out was not young.

He was look like in his fifties, perhaps, with a thick beard streaked with grey and a face that had seen more battles than most soldiers would see in a lifetime. His shoulders were broad, his stance was solid, and his eyes — steel-red, sharp as a blade swept across the platform with the easy confidence of a man who had nothing left to prove.

He wore a simple dark coat with no decorations, no medals, no insignia, but everyone who saw him knew exactly who he was.

Grand Duke Orion Ashford.

One of the few Sovereign rankers in the Human Domain. The founder of the Number One Guild. A man whose name was spoken in whispers by those who feared him and in prayers by those who owed him their lives.

Behind him, a young man descended the ramp.

Riven Ashford.

He possessed a lethal elegance that felt both refined and threatening. His ash-blonde hair was swept back from his face, emphasizing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his features. But it was his eyes that truly drew the attention — a piercing steel-red, identical to his grandfather’s, which scanned the crowd with a heavy, bored arrogance.

He wore a deep burgundy coat with gold trim, fitted perfectly to his lean frame, and he moved with the easy grace of someone who had trained in combat since he could walk. His gaze lingered on Arthur for a moment longer than was polite.

Then Arthur’s attention shifted to the old man, Grand Duke Orion Ashford, who was walking toward them with the slow, deliberate steps of a predator who had no need to hurry. His steel-red eyes swept across the platform, missing nothing, and when they landed on Arthur, Arthur felt something brush against his mind.

A voice, soft and ancient, spoke from somewhere deep inside him, from the System the Goddess had given him.

That old man is strong.

The voice was familiar. It was the Goddess — or at least, a fragment of her consciousness that had taken up residence in his soul. She rarely spoke, and when she did, it was always in moments like this, when Arthur needed to know something that his own senses could not perceive.

He is a Sovereign, the voice continued. Do not make an enemy of him.

Arthur kept his expression neutral. I wasn’t planning on it.

Good. He is watching you, trying to measure you, deciding if you are a threat or an asset.

What’s the verdict?

The voice was silent for a moment. Then: He does not know yet.

Before Arthur could respond, one of the palace knights stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his expression stern. "Halt. State your business."

Grand Duke Orion Ashford stopped walking. He looked at the knight, and the knight took an involuntary step back. There was no threat in the old man’s gaze, no anger, no malice, just the weight of a presence that had crushed armies and shattered mountains, condensed into a single, unremarkable-looking man.

"I am here for the gala," Orion said, his voice calm and deep. "Same as everyone else."

The knight swallowed. "I... I need to see your invitation, my lord."

Orion raised an eyebrow. "Do you know who I am?"

"Y-yes, my lord. But the rules are—"

"The rules," Orion said slowly, "are for people who need them."

He did not raise his voice. He did not flare his aura or summon his power or do anything that could be construed as a threat. He simply stood there, looking at the knight with those steel-red eyes, and the knight turned pale.

"My lord, I—"

"He is Grand Duke Orion Ashford." Another voice cut through the tension — lighter, younger, but carrying its own weight. Riven stepped forward, a small smile playing at his lips. "And I’m his grandson. Move quickly, unless you want to explain to the Emperor why you delayed his guests..."

The knight stepped aside. "Please, enjoy the gala, my lords."

Orion nodded once and continued walking. Riven fell into step beside him, his steel-red eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Arthur again. His smile widened, just slightly, and Arthur had the distinct impression that he was being sized up like a piece of meat at a market.

Amelia noticed too. Her hand tightened on Arthur’s arm. "That’s Riven Ashford, from House Ashford, one of the Four Great Houses," she said quietly. "He is the sole heir of House Ashford and the grandson of Grand Duke Orion Ashford. His family owns the Number One Guild."

"I know who he is," Arthur said.

"Be careful around him. He’s competitive and annoying."

Orion and Riven approached the group, and Arthur felt the weight of the old man’s gaze settle on him like a physical thing — not hostile, just assessing.

"...Arthur Vale," Orion said. It was not a question.

Arthur met his gaze. "Grand Duke Ashford."

Orion studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, short and sharp. "The Goddess chose well. You have good eyes."

Arthur wasn’t sure how to respond to that. "Thank you, my lord."

"Don’t thank me. I haven’t decided if I like you yet." Orion turned to look toward Amelia, his eyes softening just a fraction as they landed on her face. "Daughter of Nightshade. The last time I saw you, you were throwing a tantrum because Riven broke your favorite toy. You’ve grown since then — and quite well, I might add."

Riven stepped forward, his smile widening as he inclined his head toward Amelia in a gesture that was almost respectful but not quite. "Lady Amelia. It’s been a while. Last time I saw you, you were still following your former fiancé around like a lost puppy."

"Lord Riven," Amelia said, her voice cool and polite and utterly without warmth, "I see you’re still..." She paused, tilting her head slightly as if searching for the right word, her eyes glinting with something that looked like amusement. "Competitive, I should say."

"I prefer the word ambitious," Riven corrected smoothly, his eyes never leaving her face. "There’s a difference, Lady Amelia. One is about winning. The other is about being the best."

"Is there really a difference?" Amelia asked, her eyebrow arching just slightly. "Both seem equally exhausting to be around."

Riven’s smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes that seemed like genuine amusement. He turned his attention to Arthur then, his gaze sharp and assessing, like a merchant weighing the value of a piece of goods. "And you must be the famous hero. Arthur Vale, isn’t it? The Goddess’s Chosen One. The Savior of the masses. I’ve heard a lot about you."

Arthur forced himself to stay calm, to keep his expression neutral. "All good things, I hope."

"Some of them," Riven said, and his smile widened but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes remained cold and calculating, measuring and weighing, trying to decide if Arthur was worth his time or just another disappointment waiting to happen. "I look forward to seeing if you live up to the hype."

Arthur met his gaze without flinching. "I’ll try not to disappoint."

Riven’s smile flickered for just a moment. "I’m sure you will," he said, and there was something in his voice that made it impossible to tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic.

Riven turned and walked toward the palace entrance, his grandfather following a step behind. Orion paused at the threshold and looked back at Arthur one last time.

"The boy has potential," he said, speaking to no one in particular. "But potential is just potential. We’ll see what he becomes."

Then they were gone, swallowed by the shadows of the palace doors.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. "I hate that family. Riven is insufferable."

"They’re not all bad. His grandfather seems... interesting," Arthur said.

"’Interesting’ is one word for it." Amelia shook her head. "Come on. Let’s get inside before someone else tries to intimidate you."

They walked toward the palace entrance, the knights and priests and diplomats falling into formation behind them. The herald at the door straightened as they approached, his voice ringing out across the courtyard.

"Presenting the delegation from the Holy Kingdom — Arthur Vale, the Goddess’s Chosen One, and Lady Amelia Nightshade of House Nightshade!"

The doors began to open.

_

Meanwhile, the Celestial jet had just touched down on the far side of the platform.

Leo stepped out first, and the afternoon light caught his hair, making it shimmer like silver in the fading sun. His eyes swept across the crowd of dignitaries and nobles and servants, taking in everything and everyone with a calm that he did not feel.

His black jacket with silver embroidery fit him perfectly, and the pendant around his neck caught the light and threw it back in small, bright flashes.

"...Well," he said to no one in particular, "here we are."

Sylvia appeared at his shoulder, her crimson gown flowing behind her like a river of blood. "Try not to embarrass us."

His mother and father descended behind them, and Mia bounced down the ramp with barely contained excitement, her small hands clutching the skirt of her pink dress. Seris brought up the rear, her black dress simple and elegant, her crimson eyes fixed on the palace ahead with an expression that revealed nothing.

Leo looked at the palace, the doors that had just closed behind the Holy Kingdom’s delegation, and the banners that fluttered in the warm breeze. He felt something shift in his chest.

The gala was about to begin.

And he had no idea what was waiting for him inside.