Inside the vast campaign tent, mana-lamps burned along the support poles, casting a steady glow across velvet-draped walls. At the center, floating panels of condensed mana projected the hunt in real time, their light reflecting on the stern faces of lords and ladies gathered to watch.

The feed froze for a moment on scorched stone, drifting ash, and the empty space where a Duskwraith Ape had once stood. No corpse or blood. Nothing left.

The silence was suffocating. Even the low hum of the mana projectors seemed loud.

Then the murmurs began.

"An Elite Adept beast… gone in seconds."

"He didn't even stagger."

"It was an execution."

The feed froze for a moment on scorched stone, drifting ash, and the empty space where a Duskwraith Ape had once stood. No corpse. No blood. Nothing left.

The silence was suffocating. Even the low hum of the mana projectors seemed loud.

Then the murmurs began.

"An Elite Adept beast… gone in seconds."

"He didn't even stagger."

"That wasn't a fight. It was an execution."

Their words weren't focused on the spell alone, but the way Noel had handled every encounter since entering the mountains. Boar, hawk, ravager—each an Adept-ranked monster, each dispatched cleanly, decisively, like a man brushing dirt from his boots.

One noble leaned forward, voice hushed. "He's treating Elites like fodder. Do you realize what that means?"

The name rose like smoke, heavy and impossible to ignore:

"Ascendant."

The title carried weight. It shifted the air inside the tent, left lords and ladies exchanging uneasy glances. For years, Noel Thorne had been dismissed as a background figure—overshadowed by siblings, unremarkable among the younger generation.

Now, with a single display, that image had shattered.

The screens replayed the moment his Dark Sun consumed the ape. The implosion, the burst of heat, the way it erased the creature without resistance. Gasps echoed quietly across the noble rows.

Lord Albrecht Thorne sat rigidly at the long central table, his hands clasped over the carved armrest of his chair. The mana screens reflected in his eyes, flickering images of his son tearing through monsters with ease. His expression never shifted, as if carved in stone.

But his mind was far from still.

'Ascendant… before twenty-five.'

His gaze lingered on the image of Noel's last strike. Dark Sun taking down the Duskwraith Ape.

'No. Not even twenty. Barely past seventeen. This is madness.'

Around him, nobles whispered, their voices dripping with disbelief and curiosity. Albrecht ignored them all. His thoughts pressed harder.

It should have filled him with pride, with warmth even—but Albrecht was not a man of warmth. That luxury belonged to others. To men like Thalanor von Lestaria, who could laugh and smile even while watching their children fight. Albrecht had envied that once. Still did, though he'd never admit it.

But he could not allow himself such softness.

His grip tightened subtly. 'This strength… maybe it means I won't have to bear it alone forever. Maybe he is finally prepared.'

The flicker of hope was there, brief and sharp, before he crushed it under his usual iron discipline. Albrecht straightened, face blank, his aura cold enough to quiet even the whispers around him.

On the screen, Noel moved on, already scouting higher ground. Efficient. Relentless. Strong.

Albrecht leaned back, exhaling silently. To the rest of the tent, he looked as he always did—stern, unreadable, unshaken.

But inside, the words echoed like a drumbeat: 'Ascendant before eighteen… this is beyond reason.'

On the left side of the long table, Lady Mirelle sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, posture perfect as ever. Her sharp eyes didn't leave the glowing panel that showed Noel's movements in the mountains. For once, the cool calculation in her gaze faltered.

Beside her, Lady Serina leaned forward slightly, lips pressed into a thin line. She was the first to break the silence between them.

"…He makes it look easy."

Mirelle's eyes narrowed faintly. "Too easy. I always thought him… passable at best. Nothing more."

Her words were quiet, but the admission itself was staggering—Lady Mirelle, who rarely conceded anything, much less praise.

Serina glanced at her, a touch of dry amusement flickering in her green eyes. "You're not alone in that. I thought the same. Seems we were all wrong."

On the screen, Noel leapt across a ridge with fluid precision, his blade flashing briefly in the sun. The movements weren't desperate, weren't strained. They were controlled. Dominant.

Mirelle's fingers tapped once against her armrest. "He should not be able to cut down Adept Elites like this. Not unless…"

"…Unless he's Ascendant," Serina finished for her.

Both women fell quiet, the weight of that truth sinking in.

After a pause, Serina spoke again, softer this time. "I wonder how Damon is faring. Or Sylvette."

Mirelle's lips curved faintly, though it was more calculating than kind. "Yes. If Noel has reached this height already, it puts the others in… an awkward light."

The two women sat in silence after that, their eyes never leaving the glowing projections.

In that silence, the truth pressed harder: Noel, once overlooked, had just changed the balance inside House Thorne.

The mana screens flickered, shifting away from Noel's climb across the cliffs. The view swept east, focusing on two other figures moving through the forested ridges.

Damon Thorne charged first, his blade already drawn. A hulking Ironhide Lizard lunged from the brush, its scales gleaming like dark bronze. Damon swung with raw power, steel ringing against scale, but the strike barely cut. The beast hissed, tail whipping around. Damon caught the blow on his forearm guard, teeth gritted, the impact forcing him back several steps.

"Damn thing's tougher than it looks," he muttered, shoving forward again. His movements were brash, strong, but lacked Noel's precision.

Beside him, Sylvette moved like a shadow. Her dagger flashed once, slipping between plates of the creature's armor. She sidestepped its retaliation with graceful ease, skirts brushing the dirt but never catching. When she struck again, it was sharp and deliberate, each blow targeting weak points Damon's brute force ignored.

The nobles in the tent murmured at the sight. Damon looked strained, every motion a contest of strength against strength. But Sylvette—her strikes seemed effortless, every dodge poised, every counter laced with a cold elegance.

Still, the fight dragged. Unlike Noel, who dispatched Elites like they were nuisances, Damon and Sylvette worked hard for every advantage. Their progress was steady, but it showed sweat, grit, and small mistakes that would have been fatal without the drones watching.

At last, Sylvette slashed deep across the lizard's throat, the beast collapsing with a guttural hiss. She straightened, brushing her hair back with an almost careless flick, as if the effort hadn't touched her. Damon exhaled heavily, shoulders tense.

The screen froze on their image, the contrast sharp: one sibling graceful, another forceful—but neither anywhere near Noel's terrifying ease.

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