Man in red

The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide with awe and disbelief. Whispers rippled through the gathered citizens like wind through autumn leaves. The sight before them was one they had only ever heard about in stories—one of the Seven Thrones of the Empire, the legendary knights said to stand above all others. Here, in their quiet city, far removed from the capital's grandeur, the presence of such a figure felt unreal.

Leon Adair, the Brown Throne, paid no heed to their astonishment. His gaze was sharp, scanning his surroundings with an intensity that seemed to cut through stone and flesh alike. In the depths of his brown irises, a flicker of light surfaced—a brief pulse of earth magic—before vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. His heightened senses stretched outwards, his mana intertwining with the very fabric of the land, feeling every vibration, every shift in the energy around him.

Then, his focus narrowed.

His attention locked onto a singular point—the place where the wyvern had met its end. The remains had long since been cleared away, yet the disturbance in mana lingered, like a scar upon the land. A hint of frost still clung to the edges of the cobbled street, betraying the unnatural nature of the battle that had unfolded. His expression remained impassive, but a whisper of thought crossed his mind. *This is not normal.*

A knight approached and saluted crisply before reporting, "Sir, the captain of the city guards is here."

Leon barely acknowledged the announcement, yet the captain, recognizing the gravity of the moment, wasted no time. Stepping forward, he executed a deep, reverential bow before beginning his report.

"Your Grace," the captain started, his voice measured but burdened with the weight of what he had witnessed. "The wyvern went berserk without warning. It descended upon the city center, laying waste to everything in its path. We sent an urgent call for reinforcements. A response was received immediately, but as time passed, no aid arrived. We held out as long as we could, but—" he hesitated, his throat constricting, "—hundreds lost their lives due to this... failure of response."

Before Leon could respond, a sharp voice cut through the uneasy silence.

"And now you come, when the beast is already slain!"

The words came from an elderly man near the front of the crowd. His face was lined with age and hardship, his eyes burning with fury. In his gnarled hand, he clutched a wooden cane—though in that moment, it seemed more like a weapon than a tool of support. With a sudden, forceful motion, he hurled a stone toward the knight.

Leon caught it effortlessly, his fingers closing around the rough surface before it could strike his chest. The old man's breath came ragged, but he did not waver.

"Where were the Thrones when we screamed for help? Where was the Empire when our children burned?" His voice cracked, raw with grief. "Now you stand before us, proud and unscathed, as if we should bow in gratitude!"

A murmur spread through the crowd, some stepping back in fear, others nodding in quiet agreement. The captain of the gaurds stiffened, his hand inching toward his sword, ready to upper hand the old man at thrones signal.

Leon, however, merely studied the man. He felt no anger at the outburst—only a cold, quiet understanding.

"The delay was due to an issue with the dimensional gate," he stated, his voice calm yet unwavering. "That is why I am here now."

The old man spat on the ground. "Excuses. The dead don't care for excuses."

Leon did not answer. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the captain. "Continue."

The captain exhaled in relief, wiping sweat from his brow. He quickly gathered himself and resumed, "The hunters—those who should have aided the citizens—failed to act. They hid, leaving the evacuation to us. We tried to lead the people to the city's edge, but the wyvern pursued them, unleashing its flames upon those who fled. Just when all hope seemed lost..."

Captain hesitated, glancing at Leon for reassurance before continuing. "The flames vanished, replaced by ice. A red-cloaked figure appeared, masked in white. Alone, he faced the beast. We thought him a fool, yet—"

Leon's gaze sharpened. "Yet?"

"Yet he slew the wyvern with his own hands."

A heavy silence followed.

Leon's expression betrayed no emotion, but inwardly, his thoughts churned. A wyvern was not a mere beast; it was a predator of the highest order, a descendant of dragons. Even a high-tier radiant silver mage would struggle against such a creature, and only those who had attained a white core could hope to slay one without suffering grievous wounds.

"You are certain?" Leon asked, his tone laced with a subtle edge.

"I swear it, sir." The captain's voice carried the weight of certainty. "None saw his face, only the red cloak and white mask. But one of the hunters managed to capture fragments of the battle within his magic scroll."

Leon extended his hand, and the captain quickly retrieved the scroll from his dimensional ring, offering it with both hands.

Leon accepted it without a word. A subtle wave of his fingers signaled for one of his knights to take the captain away for further questioning. Then, without another glance at the gathered citizens, he turned and strode toward the city guards' building, the scroll secured within his grasp.

Once inside, he entered the captain's office and closed the door behind him. The room was modest but functional, devoid of unnecessary decoration. Leon took a seat at the desk, placing the scroll before him. For a moment, he studied it in silence, his fingers brushing over the parchment's surface. The answers lay within.

"Let's see what this red-cloaked man has to show."

Murmuring to himself, he channeled his mana into the scroll. The intricate sigils along its edges flared to life, unfolding the arcane imagery stored within.

Yet, before the vision could manifest, Leon's instincts flared—a warning, sharp and sudden.

In a split second, his body moved on its own. His hand shot up, catching a spear mid-flight, its steel tip mere inches from his forehead. The force behind it vibrated through his palm, but he did not flinch. His fingers tightened around the shaft, his gaze shifting toward the open window where the attack had come from.