At the Precipice

At the Precipice

"Hah? Ha! Hahaha! Hahahaha!"

Theron burst into laughter.

Between chuckles, he tore into the skewer on his plate and tapped the tip of Marcus's drawn sword with the wooden stick.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I don't need a sword for you, Marcus."

"I know."

"This wooden skewer should be more than enough."

"Is that so? Then I'll take at least two of your fingers."

A fierce battle of wills unfolded between them.

If Theron unleashed his full inner energy, the match would be over in an instant. Yet he didn't.

Because for the first time in his life… he was intrigued.

It wasn't pity that held him back but genuine curiosity.

Never before had he encountered someone so weak yet so stubborn.

Within the Akrest Clan, he was a peerless, untouchable existence—the Heir Apparent and a genius acknowledged by the Sword Sovereign himself.