The Invincible Young Master

In the dark chamber, deep within a hidden stronghold far from the bustle of the Jul Empire, shadows danced against the cold stone walls.

A few scattered candles, their flames flickering, barely illuminated the room, casting long, twisted shadows of the figures gathered in the hall etched with strange, pulsating runes.

Darkness ripple of energy obscured their faces, and their voices murmured in whispers, echoing through the still air like distant threats.

The silence was broken by one of the figures cloaked in heavy robes. Deep and dripping with satisfaction, his voice sent a faint shiver through the room. "With this, he should be on that forsaken continent by now."

His tone was low, but brimming with dark amusement. Though his expression was hidden by shadow, his smirk could almost be felt. "Far from his empire's protection. Those brutes won't hesitate to kill him."

"But will it be enough?" Another asked quietly, the skepticism clear despite the softness of their tone. "He's not an ordinary target. Killing him won't be as simple."

The first figure leaned back in his chair, the flicker of the candles casting his vague form into something menacing. His lips curled further, a smirk of dark confidence.

"Perhaps not," he conceded, his voice dripping with venomous certainty. "But even for him, it won't be easy to survive that continent. Those brutes… they are relentless. They'll fight him to death."

His words hung in the air like a curse, and for a moment, the others were silent, as if absorbing the inevitability of what was to come.

The second figure tapped their fingers against the surface of the table—a soft, rhythmic beat, betraying their unease.

"And yet," the voice began, laced with an unmistakable edge of doubt, "he has escaped worse fates before. More than once, we thought we had him cornered, and still… He has a way of… slipping through the cracks."

The first figure let out a low, dismissive scoff, his tone dripping with contempt.

"Let him try all he likes," he sneered. "Even if he somehow survives that place, he'll be stranded—isolated with no way out. There's no teleportation altar there. It will take him months, perhaps longer, to even attempt to find a way back."

His words cut through the air with sharp finality, but then he added with a more measured tone, "As long as he's out of the way, far from here, he can't interfere with our plans. The timing of our lord's awakening must not be disrupted. So long as he remains isolated in that forsaken land, we can proceed unhindered."

The second figure nodded, though the worry still lingered in their eyes.

"Yes, as long as he's far from here…" his voice trailed off, filled with an uneasy hope, as if they dared not fully trust in their own words.

A dark chuckle rippled through the group, the sound blending with the crackling of the candles. The third figure nodded slowly, their expression hidden beneath their hood, but their words sharp with caution.

"Even so," the figure said quietly, "we shouldn't underestimate him. Prepare the next steps. If he somehow survives… we will need to be ready."

Silence fell again, heavy and oppressive. The conspirators sat, lost in their thoughts, each plotting their role in the downfall of their distant enemy.

The flickering candlelight cast eerie, dancing shapes against the stone walls—phantoms of their malice, restless and waiting.

As the group resumed their whispered plotting, a figure leaned forward, the shadows falling away just enough to reveal a glint of impatience in their eyes. Their voice cut through the low murmurs like a blade.

"Why aren't we ambushing him ourselves?" asked the figure, sharply, the question filled with challenge.

The room fell into an icy stillness. The candles seemed to dim, their light flickering dangerously as though responding to the sudden tension. Even the shadows seemed to freeze in place, the air thickening with an unspoken threat. Continue your saga on m|v-l'e m,p| y- r

The figure at the farthest, covered in the darkest cloak, remained motionless. The weight of his presence was palpable, and for a long, agonizing moment, no one dared to speak.

Then, finally, that farthest figure, the leader's voice broke through the quiet—a voice cold as winter's breath, sharp as a finely honed blade. "Have you forgotten how he erased the Seventh?"

The mention of the 'Seventh' sent a ripple of unease through the room. The one who had spoken out shrank back visibly, their earlier bravado crumbling under the sheer weight of the memory. The shadows around them seemed to grow darker, more oppressive as if the ghost of that name still lingered in the room.

The Seventh—once one of their most formidable and feared members—had been annihilated, utterly erased, in a single violent clash with Spark.

His downfall had been swift and merciless, the result of his arrogance and impatience. In his eagerness to prove his strength, he had underestimated the power of his opponent and acted without the caution or unity demanded by such a threat. It had cost him everything.

No traces of that fateful battle remained—no scars on the land, no remnants of magic, not even whispers of the clash itself. It was as though the confrontation had never occurred, its aftermath swallowed whole by some unspeakable force. The only thing known with certainty was the grim outcome: the Seventh had been utterly obliterated,

"Do you want to experience that for yourself?" Their leader let the question linger, poisonous and slow, seeping into the air like venom. It was not a question anyone dared to answer.

The group shifted uncomfortably, a murmur of discomfort passing through them. The memories of the Seventh's downfall were still too fresh, too raw. None of them met the leader's gaze; none of them dared.

The one who had questioned the plan swallowed hard, his voice quieter now, all traces of confidence gone. "No… of course not. I simply thought it would be more effective… if we ensured the job was done."

The leader's eyes gleamed from beneath their hood, cold and calculating. "We don't know if he still has his powers—or if he's lost it. Until we can confirm, with absolute certainty, we are not risking our exposure. The Seventh made that mistake… and you all know the cost."

The room remained silent, each figure retreating into their thoughts. The weight of the leader's words hung over them, chilling them more than the cold stone walls ever could.

The leader leaned forward slightly, their voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "We will not move until we are certain. Let the brutes of that land test him first. If he still holds his power, we will know soon enough. And then."

Their leader paused, his words thick with malice, "We will strike when the time is right."

No one dared to argue. The figures sat in the heavy silence, shadows flickering eerily on the walls, each one waiting—biding their time like serpents coiled in the dark.