Triumph Ceremony (Final)

Staring at Kael Lohars was like staring at darkness itself.

Skaradrik was not speaking metaphorically or rhetorically; he truly thought so. And before he finally established this thought in his mind, he had considered it back and forth at least ten thousand times.

He thought: Had this idea been influenced by my blood? Did it come from the power I inherited?

It had always influenced me. It made me bloodthirsty, violent, and manic, forever craving slaughter. It made my thoughts perpetually linger within that coldness people feared to speak of, or even imagine for a single instant.

When I saw children, I thought of their abandoned corpses. When I saw parents, I thought of them sleeping back-to-back, hating one another. When I saw a knife, I immediately felt the urge to use it to kill someone—I am a monster, and this power made me one.

The more outstanding I became, the stronger I grew, the more achievements covered my body and glory bathed me, the stronger it became as well. It was my origin, and also the curse I could never escape in all my life.

But had it influenced me in this matter?

Skaradrik's final answer was: no.

A single decisive word—no. Bold, capitalized letters floated in his heart and mind before finally emerging at his lips. He breathed the two letters in an almost inaudible murmur—no.

And so the thought was established. And so the true influence began from that moment onward.

At that moment, he stood inside Kael Lohars's Aquila-pattern shuttle. The pilot had long since been politely asked to leave by Jago Sevatarion, leaving only the five of them behind.

Himself, Jago Sevatarion, Hunter, Shekher Cold Soul, and Kaul Sahora.

He did not know what the others were thinking, nor was he interested in prying into