Arayn’s finger hovered over the glowing options before he clicked on [Mana Reduction]. His reasoning was clear. [Cursed Fang] was already devastating—an ability that exploded upon impact didn’t need poison or curses to enhance its lethality. What he needed was efficiency, the power to conjure more fangs without the constraint of his mana reserves.

  As the selection locked in, a surge of energy rippled through his body. The system notification flashed before his eyes.

  [Ability Upgraded: "Cursed Fang" has ascended from Rank D to Rank C. Mana cost permanently reduced.]

  He flexed his fingers, conjuring a single fang into existence. Its edge appeared sharper, its surface darker, pulsing faintly with condensed power. A smirk crossed his lips.

  "More fangs, more devastation," he murmured.

  Alice turned to him. "Are you done?"

  Arayn’s lips curved into a faint smile. "Not bad," he said. His ability had been upgraded. Success.

  Alice watched him for a moment, then shook her head. "You really would do anything to enhance your demonic power, wouldn't you?"

  Arayn met her gaze. "It’s only natural. I plan to be the paragon of demonic power. To do that, I must be the most worthy user."

  She chuckled, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Yes, yes, we get it. Now, let’s go. Father is waiting."

  Arayn followed Alice through the twisting halls of the Bastion. The scent of incense filled the air, and the soft murmur of voices echoed around them. Cult members in dark robes stood in their paths, offering silent nods of respect.

  They reached the Hall of Whisper. The heavy doors creaked as they opened, revealing Malrik Azael sitting at the head of a giant Infernal Council. He was guarded by his personal aides, all waiting for something.

  Arayn scanned the room, briefly meeting the eyes of the five candidates. One of them caught his attention—a survivor from the Pit, the cult's most brutal training ground. The person’s gaze was sharp, a look of someone who had been through the worst.

  Arayn’s gaze lingered on the candidate he recognized. It was Saria. A smirk spread across her face as she locked eyes with him. "Well, well, the great Arayn finally shows up," she mocked, her tone dripping with contempt. "I always thought someone with your bloodline might at least be on time. But I suppose you're not worthy of it."

  Arayn’s lips curled into a cold smile. "Worthy?" he echoed. "Listen, Worm. I am everything your bloodline could never dream of being."

  Saria sneered, her eyes narrowing with contempt. "You really think you're better than me, don't you? Just because you’ve got some fancy bloodline?"

  Arayn’s gaze never wavered. "Bloodline? For me, that's worth a fly buzzing around scrap." He stepped closer. "Unlike you, I don’t hide behind talent and bloodline. I forge my own path."

  Saria’s lips curled into a vicious smile. "Forge your own path? You’re nothing but a fool who’s too arrogant to see his own limitations."

  Arayn’s expression remained unchanged, a flicker of amusement barely visible. "And you’re a fool who thinks insults can make her stronger. How pathetic." His words stung like ice, each syllable meant to cut her down.

  Her fists clenched at her sides, fury burning in her eyes. "I’ll show you what real strength from bloodline looks like."

  Saria’s hand moved for the wand at her side, her anger boiling over.

  Arayn didn’t flinch. "Try me, Worm."

  But just as she made her move, a sudden pressure filled the room. The air grew heavy, as if the very atmosphere had been crushed under its weight. Saria froze, her body locked in place, unable to move.

  "Confrontation is forbidden. Do I need to punish you, the Daughter of Kaelthara?" Malrik said, his gaze a silent command that crushed the confrontation in an instant.

  Arayn leaned back slightly as he delivered one last taunt. "How pathetic. Perhaps your training wasn't as thorough as I thought."

  Saria's glare burned through him, humiliation etched on her face as she struggled against the invisible force holding her in place. Her pride shattered.

  Malrik’s voice suddenly cut through the room. "Arayn," he said, "don’t engage with the other candidates here."

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  Arayn’s sharp eyes flicked toward him. With a slight nod, he replied, "Fine. But I want the full details of the deathmatch."

  Malrik leaned forward. "It’s a battle to the death. The winner claims the Primordial Crystal, which holds the Heavenly Demon class. They will become the next Scion of the Crimson Sun. And..." He shifted his gaze briefly to Alice. "They will also become Alice Azael’s fiancé."

  Alice’s eyes widened, her voice rising. "Father," she said, her tone demanding, "what is the meaning of this?"

  Malrik didn’t acknowledge her directly. Instead, he turned to the candidates in the room. "If any of you have questions, ask them now."

  A candidate, Lyssa, raised her hand. "If a woman wins, will she become Her Highness Alice’s fiancé as well?"

  Malrik’s response was curt. "It doesn’t matter."

  Lyssa stole a glance at Alice, her face reddening. Arayn noticed. Amusing. She couldn’t hide her thoughts so easily.

  Valen Valehn, another candidate, spoke up. "What are the rules, Your Majesty?"

  "The ritual will take place in Duskwatch Town next week. Before then, each of you must summon a demon from the netherworld, defeat it, and extract its catalyst. Fail, and you’ll face execution. Your families will take the demon's place as catalysts."

  The candidates stiffened after hearing that. But Malrik didn't care and continued. "Once the ritual begins, you’ll need to meet and gather the catalysts to activate the Primordial Crystal. One day later, you may kill each other. Only one will remain. The ritual won't be over before one candidate remains."

  Arayn raised his hand. "Hey," he asked, his voice cutting through the tension, "if I fail to defeat the demon, does that mean you’ll be killed?"

  The room shifted. Malrik’s aides shot him sharp glares, and one of them snapped, "How dare you even think such a thing? You’ll be punished for that!"

  Before things could escalate, Malrik raised his hand, halting his aides. His eyes, cold as ever, focused on Arayn. "For someone without family," he began, his voice clear, "you’ll be crippled and thrown into the Pit, where you will rot forever."

  Arayn’s lips curled into a grin, his tone almost mocking. "Someone without family, huh? Heh." The irony amused him, even as the others stiffened at his audacity.

  Malrik talked about some things before concluding the meeting. After that, Arayn and Alice left the Hall of Whispers in silence.

  Ahead, the Abyssal Spire rose into view. It dominated the heart of Bastion, a massive tower carved from dark stone. Shadows clung to its jagged surface, giving it an aura of power. High-ranking members lived here. For Alice, this place was home, a privilege earned through her status. For Arayn, it was foreign. He had spent his years in the Shadow Dormitories, far from the halls of the Spire.

  The closer they drew, the more imposing it became. Arayn glanced up, his expression unreadable. He didn’t linger.

  Inside, the silence deepened. The cold stone walls seemed to absorb every sound, leaving only the faint noise of their movements. Alice walked ahead, her shoulders tense, her pace brisk. She looked around often, as if searching for unseen eyes.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  She led him through corridors, past doors and halls. Finally, she stopped. Her eyes darted to the shadows. “To my room. Quickly. And say nothing.”

  Arayn hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He didn’t ask why. Alice’s unease was clear, and for once, he allowed himself to wonder. What had unsettled her so deeply?

  Alice shut the door behind them. She turned the lock with a soft click, then stepped back, her gaze sweeping the room as if to confirm no one else was present.

  “They could be watching,” she said. “The backers of the candidates… they have their ways. I had to be sure we were alone.”

  She folded her arms, her unease evident in the slight tension in her posture. “This tower isn’t as secure as it seems. Too many eyes, too many ears.”

  Arayn leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable as he watched her. “And what makes you think they’re interested in us?”

  Alice met his gaze. “If you are going to survive this, you can’t afford to let your guard down—not even here.”

  She moved closer, her voice softening. “I’m trusting you with this, Arayn. Don’t make me regret it.”

  “Does that mean you’re supporting me?” Arayn asked.

  Alice crossed her arms. “Didn’t I tell you? I’d rather see you become the successor than let some random people take the position.”

  Arayn’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “That means I’d have to become your fiancé, though,” he teased, his tone light but probing.

  “You can break the engagement once you become the successor,” Alice replied.

  “I don’t want to,” Arayn said flatly.

  Alice blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

  “Don’t misunderstand, fool,” he added quickly, his expression twisting into mock disgust. “The very thought of being engaged to you, even for a second, is revolting.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then what’s your brilliant idea?”

  Arayn leaned closer, his voice dipping low. “A better plan—one that doesn’t involve humiliating myself with a sham engagement. Are you interested?”

  Alice tilted her head, curiosity flashing in her gaze despite her irritation. “I’m listening.”

  "You’ll become the successor of the Crimson Sun."

  Alice stared at him, disbelief written across her face. "What?" she blurted out. "That’s impossible. Only members of the cult who inherit the chosen class can become the successor. And last I checked, I’m not one of them."

  Arayn smirked, unbothered by her doubts. "Impossible? For you, maybe. For me? Nothing is out of reach. If you want that title, I’ll make it happen."

  Alice crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. "And why would you go out of your way to do that? What’s in it for you?"

  "Simple. If I help you, you help me. I don’t do favors for free, Alice."

  She frowned. "Help you how? You know I can’t officially support you. I have to remain neutral in the cult’s politics."

  Arayn’s smirk widened, a glint of amusement playing in his eyes. "Neutral or not, you still have your backer. Introduce me to them."

  Alice hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against her arm. "My backer doesn’t like you," she said finally.

  "That’s because they don’t know me," Arayn shot back smoothly. "Let me talk to them. Once they hear me out, they’ll see my charm."

  Alice raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You’re insufferably narcissistic, you know that?"

  "Confidence," Arayn corrected with a grin. "Now, do we have a deal?"

  With a reluctant sigh, Alice relented. "Fine. I’ll arrange a meeting. But don’t blame me if they still hate you afterward."

  Arayn straightened, his expression smug. "They won’t. Trust me."