Moon blessed

Leon harbored his doubts, but he kept them to himself, his mind tirelessly processing every detail as he scrutinized the recording on the enchanted scroll. His eyes flickered with calculation, noting every movement, every subtle decision made by the cloaked figure in battle. He was reluctant to dismiss any possibility, no matter how improbable.

As they continued to observe the unfolding confrontation, Leon's gaze narrowed with intense concentration. The figure, draped in a crimson cloak, moved with an uncanny efficiency, avoiding the Wyvern's barrage of spells without wasted motion. His footwork was deliberate, his reactions eerily precise. The massive beast unleashed a volley of searing flames, but the man twisted and weaved through them with a practiced ease that defied explanation.

Leon leaned forward, his voice thoughtful yet laced with curiosity. "He isn't using flight magic," he murmured. "Even when it would be the most convenient way to evade those flaming orbs."

Teress, seated beside him, arched a finely sculpted brow, her interest piqued. "Are you suggesting he lacks the ability? Or that he doesn't know the spell?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her tone.

Leon remained silent, his focus unbroken, but Teress was undeterred by his lack of immediate response. She studied him for a moment before speaking again, her voice carrying an edge of skepticism. "Are you seriously suggesting that a mere Silver Core mage single-handedly slew a Wyvern? That's preposterous."

Common knowledge dictated that only mages who had reached the Radiant Silver mana core stage could wield flight magic, a hallmark of their rank. It was widely accepted that the mastery of flight marked the transition into a true Radiant Silver mage.

Leon finally broke his silence, his tone measured and thoughtful. "No," he said, his gaze never leaving the battle playing out on the scroll. "Quite the opposite. Firstly, his ability to evade the Wyvern's magic with minimal movement suggests a level of skill far beyond that of an ordinary combatant. It's unlikely he would disregard an advantage such as flight unless he had a reason. Secondly, the sheer amount of mana he expended to quell the infernos consuming the buildings—any Silver Core mage would be nearly manaless by now."

Teress frowned, her amusement fading into contemplation. Leon pressed on. "So no, he's not a mere Silver Core mage. Nor is he an ordinary Radiant Silver. If anything, he's deliberately concealing his true strength. And that makes him far more dangerous than he appears."

Silence stretched between them, the weight of Leon's words settling in. Teress exhaled slowly, her expression hardening. "If what you say is true, then we are dealing with an opponent of considerable cunning. One adept at masking his capabilities."

Leon nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line. "Exactly. His actions aren't just those of a powerful mage—they are the marks of a strategist. He isn't simply dodging the Wyvern's attacks; he's studying them. Learning its patterns. Exploiting its weaknesses."

Together, they turned their attention back to the scroll. The mage in the crimson cloak continued his intricate dance with the Wyvern, his movements precise, his counters devastating. Every strike he landed was calculated, every feint a deliberate deception. He was toying with the beast, drawing out the fight while revealing as little of his true power as possible.

"He could easily be counted among the Empire's most formidable Radiant Silver mages," Teress remarked at last, though her expression darkened as the battle took a sudden and horrifying turn.

The Wyvern let out an ear-splitting roar, its body convulsing as its form began to shift. Its scales darkened, a crimson glow pulsating beneath them, and its once-golden eyes burned a violent shade of violet. The air trembled with raw magical energy. The beast was transforming.

Leon and Teress stiffened. They had seen this before. They knew what was coming.

"Dragon Tongue," Teress muttered, her voice laced with apprehension. "Damn it."

Leon's fingers curled into a fist. Wyverns were already formidable foes, but those that could invoke Dragon Tongue—an ancient draconic magic—were far more dangerous than their ordinary kin. Even Thrones such as themselves treaded carefully when dealing with them.

Yet, something else caught their attention.

The cloaked figure did not hesitate. He did not retreat or attempt to circumvent the Wyvern's newly enhanced state. Instead, he advanced, his stance shifting into one of pure aggression. The calculated precision of his earlier tactics melted away, replaced by sheer, unrelenting ferocity. He no longer avoided the Wyvern's claws and flames—he met them head-on. His blade cut through the air in flawless arcs, his strikes aimed with lethal intent.

He was done holding back.

Leon inhaled sharply. The masked warrior fought as if the consequences no longer mattered. He took minor wounds without flinching. He pressed into direct combat, his attacks relentless, his movements a fluid blend of offense and defense that rivaled even the elite knights of their personal squads.

But then, the moment of revelation struck. He was fallen in a trap, surrounded by falming orbs of wyvren with no escape.

The Wyvern, its body coiled and hurled them to him, but before it can reach him, The surging magic within those flaming orbs sputtered out as if an unseen force had severed its connection to the wyvern. And in that instant of vulnerability, the cloaked warrior drove his blade deep into the beast's skull.

A chilling silence followed.

Then, chaos.

Leon shot to his feet, his hands crashing onto the table before him. The impact sent a deep fracture splintering through the wood, splitting it in half with the sheer force of his reaction. His breath came sharp, his golden eyes ablaze with realization.

"I knew something was wrong." His voice was laced with a mix of horror and vindication. His fists clenched at his sides as he stared at the frozen image of the masked warrior on the scroll. "They've reappeared… after all this time."

As soon as he spoke those words, a surge of raw mana erupted from the other side of the room. Teress trembled with barely contained fury, her presence a storm of unbridled rage. The sheer force of her power distorted the air, sending papers scattering and glasses toppling over. A palpable energy crackled around her, like an impending tempest ready to be unleashed.

Her voice was a seething whisper, deadly and venomous. "The Wyvern's magic… it didn't fade naturally. It was dispersed before he struck." Her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. "He's one of them."

Leon's voice was firm, unwavering. "Yes. One who can unravel any form of magic." His gaze darkened. "A mage carrying the blessing of the moon."

Teress spat the words like a curse, her expression twisted in hatred. "The Moon Blessed."

A dangerous stillness filled the chamber, the weight of their realization settling upon them like an omen of things to come. The masked warrior's victory was no longer just a display of skill—it was a declaration. A sign that the Moon Blessed, those who had once been eradicated, still walked the earth.

Teress's fury threatened to boil over. The wind howled around her, the very foundations of the room trembling under the raw magnitude of her wrath. Across the city, people shivered as a sense of unease rippled through the air, mistaking her outburst for the heralding of another invasion.

"TERESS!"

Leon's voice thundered through the chamber, shattering the storm of mana with sheer authority. The power in his words halted her fury in its tracks, pulling her back from the precipice of destruction.

A tense silence followed, broken only by the sound of ragged breaths.

As Thrones, they had long believed the Moon Blessed to be nothing more than ghosts of a bygone era. But now, as they stared at the masked warrior's image, they knew the truth.

The past had returned. And with it, a threat unlike any they had ever faced.