Chapter 198: The turning point

[25 August: 23:42 Post Meridiem]

[Galadriel: Capital City]

[Castle main lobby]

Time had passed. The night deepened, yet the festival had only grown in intensity.

Now, in the heart of Galadriel, where the grandeur of the kingdom reached its apex, the highest echelons of nobility, warriors, and foreign dignitaries had gathered for an unparalleled spectacle—a celebration unlike any other, held within the resplendent walls of the Royal Castle.

Unlike the revelry in the city streets, which roared with the unrestrained joy of the common folk, this was a display of absolute magnificence. The moment one stepped into the Grand Hall of the castle, it was as if they had entered a world crafted by the hands of divine beings.

The ceiling stretched impossibly high, painted with a masterpiece that shifted—an enchanted mural of Octavia's greatest battles, each stroke of divine artistry depicting legions of warriors clashing beneath an endless sky, their blades singing in reverence to the Goddess. The chandeliers were not mere ornaments of metal and glass, but floating orbs, suspended in the air like miniature moons, bathing the hall in a soft, golden glow.

The banquet tables, adorned with lavish tablecloths of the finest silk, were lined with exquisite delicacies from every corner of the world—roasted meats with honeyed glaze, marbled cuts of elk, golden apples plucked from groves, and wines so rare that their very names were whispered in awe. Each dish was a work of art, prepared by the finest chefs, enchanted to maintain its warmth and aroma at the peak of perfection.

Servants, dressed in elegant uniforms embroidered with the royal insignia of Galadriel, moved gracefully through the crowd, their motions fluid as they poured drinks from vials of liquid sapphire and offered delicacies.

The guests were a mixture of Galadriel's most powerful and influential figures, as well as foreign emissaries and renowned warriors who had come to witness the festival's participants.

Nobles adorned in garments of woven with fine materials moved through the hall, their attire shifting in hue under the candlelight.

There was an air of intrigue as contestants from Verdantis and Vel'ryr stood among them. Some stood proudly, basking in the attention of gathered nobles, while others observed in silence, studying their potential victims. 

No festival of this scale would be complete without a spectacle to match its grandeur.

At the center of the Grand Hall, an elevated arena of marble and ethereal glass stood as the stage, surrounded by rings of golden steps where the audience could observe in comfort.

Dancers, clad in flowing garments infused with luminous runes, moved with grace, their movements conjuring illusions of Astrothians—phoenixes soaring through the air, leviathans twisting beneath an invisible ocean, wolves of starlight howling into the endless night.

Magicians, their robes billowing with hidden enchantments, performed symphonies, bending the elements into breathtaking displays—torrents of fire twisting into sigils, spirals of ice forming crystalline lotuses, and winds imbued with astral light painting entire constellations in midair.

The performance was not merely an act—it was a ritual, a tribute to Octavia herself, a reenactment of her legend told through dance, magic, and melody.

And when the final crescendo of the performance reached its peak, the ceiling itself parted like the gates of the heavens, revealing a night sky unlike any other—an expanse of swirling nebulae and celestial formations, an illusion so perfect that for a moment, one could believe they were standing at the edge of the cosmos.

As the performance concluded, the King of Galadriel, Thordan himself stood upon the raised platform at the far end of the hall, adorned in royal armor only now woven with the sigil of Octavia. With a goblet of liquid in hand, he raised it high, his voice carrying through the hall with the weight of a ruler behind it.

"Tonight, we do not merely feast, nor do we merely revel. We honor the Goddess of War, Magic, and Navigation. We honor the ones who came before us, the ones who fought so that we may stand here today. And we honor those who will carve the path ahead."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling deep.

And then, in unison, the gathered nobility, warriors, and contestants raised their goblets high, voices ringing out in a thunderous declaration.

"To Octavia!"

And with that, the festivities roared back to life.

But among them all, there were those who did not merely celebrate.

They watched. They waited. They prepared.

For the true festival had yet to begin.

Mikoto exhaled slowly, shaking his head. The sheer extravagance of it all was almost laughable. If he actually cared, he might have felt underdressed for the occasion, still clad in his ominous black armor, standing like a shadow in the glittering nobility. But he didn't care. Not even a little.

Leaning against a marble pillar, arms folded across his armored chest, he observed the shifting sea of guests, noting how some nobles hesitated to approach him. They must have recognized him as a contestant, but the foreboding air he exuded kept them at bay. His hidden crimson gaze swept across the hall, locking onto figures of interest.

First, he spotted Isabella, the spawn of that songstress Goddess, dressed in an extravagant white gown that made her salmon-colored hair even more striking. Beside her stood a young man he vaguely recalled—aqua-colored hair and eyes, garbed in a refined blue uniform that accentuated his regal demeanor. A third girl was with them—short red hair, golden eyes, tanned skin, dressed boyishly. They were deep in conversation, but Mikoto didn't care enough to tune in.

His gaze shifted again.

A tall girl with white hair and blue eyes, elegantly draped in blue, stood beside a young boy with a matching color scheme. Nearby, a reddish-haired man in a simple black suit exuded a quiet, simple presence. A young man draped in black seemed to watch everything idly from nearby.

Then, there was Rowena—the woman he had encountered during the Ancestor attack in Galadriel. Her teal-colored eyes were as impassive as ever, her stance unreadable. But the one beside her was even stranger. A girl in a simplistic white dress, her yellow eyes unsettlingly vacant, filled not with thought but with pure, predatory instinct.

("A total of ten Inheritors? Was Verdantis stockpiling them or something?")

And then his gaze landed on that familiar figure, Rhiannon.

She dwarfed every other woman in the hall in sheer, unearthly beauty. The red dress, extravagant beyond reason, clung to her generous curves, emphasizing the sinuous elegance of her figure. Men stared openly, bewitched, yet she spared them not a single glance.

Her focus remained entirely on the one standing beside her.

Dante.

Unlike before when Mikoto first met him, he was now clad in pristine white armor, a flowing white cape draped over his shoulders. His presence was like a contrasting force to Rhiannon's.

His attention shifted—his gaze now settling upon Vel'ryr. Even within a crowd of countless warriors, nobles, and warriors, there were those who stood out, those whose presence commanded attention.

His eyes landed on Amaury. She had made zero effort to dress up for the occasion—no elaborate gowns, no jewelry, nothing to indicate she had even considered the idea of celebration. Her expression remained as unreadable as ever, an aura of disinterest radiating from her as she strode through the area.

But it wasn't just her.

Beside her stood another girl.

Shorter, her black hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, but with the same unmistakable red eyes that immediately drew attention. Draped in a red dress, those crimson irises stood out all the more, sharp and intense. Another sibling, no doubt.

Even in their stillness, they drew eyes—both of them did.

Mikoto observed them for a moment longer, but then—

He saw her.

A stupid-looking girl.

Silver hair. Green eyes.

Her gaze was fixated not on the festival's attractions, nor on the grand displays of skill or performance, but on—

The breasts of passing women.

Mikoto blinked.

She clicked her tongue, a visible pout forming as if disappointed.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Who the hell was that?

Before he could even dwell on it, his gaze was pulled elsewhere—to another figure, standing slightly apart from the rest. Taller. More imposing. Another sibling of Amaury?

Her red eyes were not on the festival. Not on her surroundings.

They were locked on Dante.

Mikoto frowned slightly, tucking that observation away for later. There was something odd about the dynamic between these people.

But none of them commanded his instincts.

Not like the last figure he noticed.

At first, he had simply been another presence within the crowd—a figure clad in elaborate black armor, a cloak draped over his frame, his face obscured much like his own. But Mikoto's instincts flared the moment his gaze landed on him.

It was different from the unease that Selwyn had given him.

More intense.

Like something deeply buried in his subconscious had recognized the man before his conscious mind could fully process it. The figure had long, wild, vibrant hair spilling from beneath his helmet. His posture was relaxed, but it did nothing to diminish the aura radiating from him.

And then—

The man turned.

For a brief moment, their gazes met.

A silent, unspoken exchange.

He looked away.

Not out of intimidation.

But because he couldn't be bothered. He had no interest in sizing up another opponent tonight. Not when his mind was already occupied with the only battle that truly mattered—

The one that would take place tomorrow.

He exhaled softly, flexing his fingers beneath his gauntlets.

There were a lot of powerful contestants here. That much was undeniable.

But it didn't matter.

Because no matter who stood in his way—

He was going to win.

"Hm?"

A small commotion stirred at the entrance to the hall. The soft rustling of silk, the rhythmic clicking of ornate heels against polished marble, and the hushed murmurs of onlookers signaled their arrival.

A group of beauties, each dripping in elegance, gracefully entered the hall, their very presence shifting the air. The sheer radiance of the collective ensemble turned heads, silenced idle gossip, and even caused a few envious stares from noblewomen who were now suddenly reconsidering their own outfits.

Mikoto recognized them instantly.

("Oh, there they are.")

Victoria led the pack, her golden-blonde ringlets bouncing with each graceful step. She wore an elaborate blue dress, its deep sapphire fabric woven with golden filigree that shimmered under the light of the floating chandeliers. The bodice accentuated her slender frame, the delicate ruffles at the hem swaying as she moved with effortless grace. Her baby-blue eyes, sharp, landed on him almost immediately.

Next was Agatha, her flowing golden hair cascading down her shoulders, unbound and wildly elegant. She wore a black dress, subtly detailed with white silk threads that gave it a shimmer. Her green eyes, locked onto him with a familiarity.

Then came Mirabella. Unlike the others, she was visibly flustered, her dark blue hair styled neatly for once, though she seemed almost self-conscious about it. Her matching blue gown, modest yet undeniably graceful, blended with her hair, creating an almost ethereal effect. But the clear discomfort in her blue eyes betrayed her usual confidence.

Her older sister, Astrid, walked beside her with ease, the contrast between the two almost comical. While Mirabella was practically squirming, Astrid remained composed, her blue braid draped over her shoulder, her dress practical. A small, smile played on her lips as she seemed to delight in her younger sister's embarrassment.

Fiona followed close behind, as effortlessly striking as always. Unlike the others, her dress was black, a shade that matched her combat armor, though this gown was far more detailed. Its fabric was adorned with delicate silver embroidery, reflecting the light in soft, gleaming waves. Her lush pink hair, along with her vibrant pink wolf ears, stood out even more in contrast to the dark fabric.

And finally—

Lucinda.

Her dress was modest, a deep crimson that clung gently to her slender frame. It was simple compared to the elaborate frills of the others, yet somehow, it made her stand out even more. Her snow-white hair cascaded freely down her back, clashing brilliantly against the scarlet fabric. However, her crimson eyes, while still beautiful, darted around apprehensively—as if she was acutely aware of the many eyes on her.

It was no exaggeration to say that this small gathering of women had monopolized the attention of half the room.

Mikoto folded his arms, shifting his weight slightly as he regarded the group of elegantly dressed women before him. Their beauty was only further enhanced by their finery, and the way they seemed to naturally draw the attention of every passerby was almost comical. It wasn't just because they were stunning—though that was certainly a factor—it was the sheer presence they carried. Each of them, in their own way, exuded a charm that made it impossible to look away.

And yet, despite their overwhelming radiance, Mikoto merely snorted. "What the hell are you guys wearing?"

The bluntness of his tone shattered whatever tension might have lingered in the air.

Victoria let out an exaggerated sigh, placing a delicate hand over her chest. "Not the reaction I was expecting," she murmured, tilting her head in mock disappointment. "I was hoping for something a little more flattering."

Mikoto raised an eyebrow at her. "What, you expect me to start throwing out poetry about how stunning you all look?"

She smiled. "It wouldn't hurt."

Mirabella, still visibly uncomfortable in her dress, huffed and crossed her arms. "That should be our line! Who the hell shows up to a festival in full armor?"

"Hey, hey," Mikoto lifted a gauntleted hand as if to calm her down, "Don't diss the style, Mira. I gotta keep my whole 'cool, mysterious guy' aesthetic."

Her eye twitched at the nickname. "Tch. You and your stupid 'mystery man' act."

Fiona exhaled sharply, eyes drifting toward the passersby. "Well, it seems you're getting your wish."

Mikoto followed her gaze, noting the wary stares he was receiving from the those around them. It wasn't outright fear, but there was something undeniably uneasy about the way some people glanced at him before quickly looking away.

He smirked beneath his helmet. "Hah. Guess my reputation precedes me."

Astrid observed him for a moment before smiling softly. "A shame. I think you'd look rather dashing in a suit."

Agatha tilted her head slightly, minute amusement flickering in her emerald gaze. "Even though he'd undoubtedly keep his face hidden?"

Mirabella, seizing the moment, smirked. "Yeah, ain't you at least gonna lose the helmet? What's the point of dressing up if you're still gonna look like you're about to charge into battle?"

Mikoto scoffed, waving her off. "Hell naw. Helmet stays on."

Lucinda had been quiet up until now, her crimson eyes darting between the group before finally letting out a small chuckle. The sound was soft, barely noticeable, but Mikoto caught it.

His gaze shifted to her. "What's with you? Not enjoying the festive atmosphere?"

She shook her head, a wistful smile forming on her lips. "No, it's not that. I suppose I'm just… a little nervous for tomorrow."

He knew exactly what she meant. The celebration was merely a brief moment of reprieve before reality came crashing back in. The upcoming event loomed over all of them, inevitable and inescapable.

Victoria folded her arms, her expression turning thoughtful. "It is the last festival before everything changes. Everyone is giving it their all." She glanced around, taking in the vibrant displays, the grand statues of Octavia standing tall amidst the crowds. "We must spare no effort either."

Astrid nodded. "Indeed. I shall be sure to count on you all."

Mirabella, however, didn't seem convinced. She let out a scoff, her arms still folded. "You're way too trusting."

Astrid simply chuckled. "Come now, Mira~ It won't do to be pessimistic." She reached out, gently poking her younger sister's cheek. "Besides, why are you still blushing? You look beautiful."

Mirabella's entire face turned red. "I—I ain't blushing! And I don't look beautiful!"

Victoria, sensing an opportunity, smirked. "Perhaps we should get a male perspective, then? Mikoto?" She turned to him with an expectant gleam in her eye.

Mirabella's expression immediately twisted into one of horror. "Blondie, you—"

Mikoto took his time, crossing his arms as he gave her a long, exaggerated once-over. He tapped a finger against the chin of his helmet, as if contemplating something deeply profound. "You look pretty… goofy in a dress."

Mirabella physically recoiled. "Gah! You absolute bastard—"

Mikoto snorted. "Relax, I'm kidding. You look… pretty decent."

Mirabella turned away with a huff, still muttering under her breath.

Fiona, watching the scene unfold with clear amusement, smirked. "Oh? Do the rest of us not get compliments?"

Mikoto waved a hand dismissively. "Sorry, that was my last one. Gotta save the others for myself."

Lucinda let out a giggle, while Victoria sighed dramatically. "Truly, your generosity knows no bounds."

As the conversation continued, Mikoto found his mind drifting as the festival roared on around them—music spilling from nearby performances, bursts of laughter ringing through the air, and the occasional flicker of fireworks illuminating the sky above. The energy of the night was infectious, but here, within this small gathering of Mikoto and them.

Mikoto could feel their eyes on him—some amused, others expectant. He could practically hear the gears turning in their heads as they awaited his next words.

But his mind kept flickering back to tomorrow.

To the phase.

To the inevitable shift that would come with it.

For a brief moment, he wondered if any of them could sense it—the weight pressing at the back of his skull, the constant itch of an unknown future creeping ever closer.

But instead of voicing any of those thoughts, he snorted.

"Alright, fine. If you all are going to keep staring at me like a pack of hungry wolves, what do you want? Validation? Praise? A sonnet about your beauty?" He placed a gauntleted hand over his heart in an exaggerated display of sincerity. "Oh, fair maidens, never have my unworthy eyes beheld such radiant splendor—truly, I am but a mere shadow in your presence."

Victoria smirked, clearly entertained. "Now, that is the reaction I was expecting."

Agatha gave a ghost of a smile, her arms crossed. "Oh? So he is capable of words beyond sarcasm."

Mirabella, still fuming from his earlier teasing, shot him a glare. "Yeah, yeah, real funny. I notice you didn't actually say we looked nice."

Mikoto shrugged. "I thought that was implied."

Astrid, tilted her head. "You do seem oddly resistant to compliments, Mikoto. Are you simply incapable of being earnest?"

Mikoto scoffed. "Oh, I can be earnest when it counts. But let's be real, if I genuinely started complimenting all of them, I'd just be accused of playing favorites."

Fiona smirked, her fluffy pink ears twitching slightly. "Oh? And which one of us would you play favorites with?"

That made him pause. His eyes flickered to her, then to Lucinda, whose crimson gaze had been darting around the crowd, only to quickly land back on him when she realized she was being observed. Then to Victoria, who was watching him expectantly. Then to Mirabella, still scowling, and Agatha, who seemed more amused than anything else.

Mikoto narrowed his eyes. "None."

Lucinda let out a soft laugh, the sound barely audible beneath the noise of the festival. "A wise decision."

Victoria hummed. "A shame. I do wonder, though… does our dear Mikoto even have a preference? Surely among all of us, someone must have caught his eye."

Mikoto arched a brow. "Why do I feel like this is leading to some kind of elaborate setup?"

Agatha hummed. "Because it probably is."

Mirabella crossed her arms. "We're just curious."

"You're being nosy," Mikoto corrected.

"You're avoiding the question," Victoria countered.

Mikoto exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. I show up here, looking incredibly fly in my battle-ready armor, and instead of showering me in admiration, I get interrogated."

"You're not 'fly'," Mirabella deadpanned, she had no clue what that even meant.

"Yeah? Well, you're still blushing. Mira."

Mirabella let out an indignant noise, cheeks flaring once more. "I AM NOT!"

Astrid gave her younger sister an amused glance before turning back to Mikoto. "Come now, you must at least have an opinion on their outfits. Even if it's not too sentimental."

Mikoto shrugged, shifting his weight. "Fine, fine. You all look... decent."

That earned him a chorus of unimpressed looks.

Fiona placed a hand on her hip. "Decent?"

Agatha cupped her chin. "Decent," she echoed.

Victoria let out a theatrical sigh. "How utterly poetic of you, Mikoto. Truly, we should all be honored by such generous praise."

Lucinda chuckled softly, shaking her head. "I believe what they are trying to say is that you could put in just a little more effort."

Mikoto exhaled through his nose, but there was a small smirk tugging at his lips. He eyed them all for a moment, considering, before speaking again.

"Fine," he said. "You all look... good."

Mirabella narrowed her eyes. "That's it?"

"You want a sonnet?"

"You promised a sonnet earlier."

Mikoto sighed, rubbing the back of his helmet. "Greedy."

There was laughter among them, the tension easing into something more comfortable. The festival continued around them, voices mingling. And for just a moment, Mikoto let himself be here—standing among them, teasing, being teased, existing in this space.

But beneath it all, the thought of tomorrow lingered.

Of what would happen when the 'phase' began.

Of who he would be once it was over.

Would they still be here, laughing like this?

Would he still be the same person standing in front of them now?

For now, he chose not to think about it.

For now, he let them pull him back into their banter.