You Lot Better Read the Notice I Just Made, but This Is Also a Normal Chapter

Ooooh, you hear that accusation? Gyattdayum, another smear on our boi’s name.

Well, can you blame them, though?

Aaahh, you can hear the collective gasps rippling through the gathered nobles.

Yvain flinched, the shadows cast by his swirling mana momentarily darkening his expression, which twisted into pain.

Oh, fuck you, Velaryon. He barely got to place his trust in Burn! Come on… you ruined it! I mean, could you wait until later to tell him? Like… until the witch is found?

The murmurs began almost immediately.

"I, despite everything, am still your family! Your uncle, the older brother of your dear mother! And yet, you choose him? A stranger, a villain who planned the demise of your parents?!" Velaryon's voice broke, pitching higher in his desperation.

"Don't you see? Your father died on his return from Burn's coronation seven years ago! It was no coincidence!"

Now, noble after noble recoiled, voicing and expressing their shock and betrayal. But which were genuine was still a point of question.

Marquis Reune stepped forward, outraged, "Can this be true? An act so vile… and now he’s trying to take our land…!"

Duke Merweather, his hands clenched into fists, added fiercely, "Such a conspiracy, if true, demands justice! Not this treachery!"

"And you," Duke Eldric's voice thundered, directed at Velaryon but loud enough for all to hear, "you dare use such a claim now, as a shield for your own rebellion? Shame on you! And more if you lie!"

Yvain, amidst these voices, no matter how true or hypocritical, remained silent. He was clearly still tormented and wrathful, his mana fog now turned tempestuous, reflecting what was within.

Velaryon pressed on, his voice sharpening. "Think about it, Yvain! During his coronation, Burn singled out your father from all the other global dignitaries present. Why engage exclusively with him? It was a setup!"

"Consider the possibility," he continued, accusing, bitter, "was it sheer arrogance, or a calculated insult that he only truly acknowledged your father that night? And then, what a coincidence, only your father never made it home alive!"

There was no stopping it. The nobles' shock filled the hall, evolving into a frenzy of accusations and conspiracy theories. Ahh, what a common occurrence when people are discussing Burn. Such a classic.

“Fine! Child, you can hate me, you can punish me all you want! But how could you do this to yourself? To your late parents?! How could yo—”

BLAST!

The word was cut off as sharply as it had begun. An abrupt silence followed.

"Huh?"

The assembly watched in horror as Velaryon slowly looked down, his eyes widening in disbelief.

There, right through his torso, was a hole so perfectly circular it seemed almost artistic. A window you could see clear through his body. The edges were so clean, so precise, that for a moment, reality itself seemed to pause in confusion.

Then, as the gravity of the situation, and literal gravity itself, settled in, Velaryon's legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed to the ground, his body hitting the marble with a thud. His lifeless eyes stared up at the ornate ceiling.

The nobles didn’t even dare to gasp now. They stepped back instinctively as they finally processed the reality of what had just happened.

Velaryon was dead. He was struck down by an unseen, unfathomable force…

…before they realized… it was Yvain.

***

[3 Days Ago]

CRAAAAAASH! CRACKLE! RUMBLE…! CRACKLE–CRACKLE!

“I can’t… do this… why is this so hard…? I’m at my limit…!”

Three days ago, on the military training grounds near Edensor Palace, someone was finally done fighting for his life.

It was almost like the aftermath of a mechanical massacre.

Battle mech armors and guard mechs lay scattered on the ground. Heh, look at them from a different angle and they were almost like the discarded toys of a giant, dented and scrapped, their metal carcasses smoldering under the indifferent sky.

Amidst this chaos of twisted steel and black smoke, 12-year-old King Yvain was sprawled on the earth. His chest heaved in ragged breaths. Awwe, he had single-handedly turned these towering behemoths into an exhibition of modern art titled "Defeat." Awwe. They grow fast…

Standing a mere few paces away was Emperor Burn. But… ahem, Burn, your face. School your face, buddy.

“Why?”

I forgot it’s your default face. Fine.

It was his signature unimpressed sneer.

"Is this all you've got? Pathetic," he declared.

Aaah, the condescension… it was so thick it could be used to grease the gears of the fallen mechs.

“Is this the rumored ‘Little Merlin’? The sole disciple of the great Infinite Witch, Morgan Le Fay?”

Just ignore his words, man. Just see it as added pollution that was somehow more toxic than the plumes rising from the smoldering machines. Don’t be discouraged! You can do it! I’m looking at the camera here. You can. You can, baby girl.

“Shut up. You’re too dominant in this chapter.”

Oops. Well, it’s to distract the readers from the fact that you’ve killed the boy’s parents, y’know. I gotta be funny to save this story.

“...” Burn sighed. “Who said I killed his parents?”

You're just asking who said it! That's not denying it! Did you? Spit it oOOOOut!

He turned to the boy on the ground and shook his head. “I guess I overestimated you.”

Yvain tried to push himself up, his arms shaking from the exertion and the irritation of being so belittled.

“Shut up…!”

Here he was, having danced a deadly ballet with machines of war, and all Burn could do was offer critique. He wasn’t a good teacher, that was for sure.

Burn, though, saw this as a lesson in humility. Or… humiliation, depending on which side of his sarcasm one was standing.

To him, every dent in the mechs was a missed opportunity, every scrape a tale of inefficiency that Yvain had yet to learn to correct.

In Burn’s eyes, the battlefield was not just a test of strength but a forge for the spirit. And from the looks of it, Yvain’s spirit was still very much in need of some hammering. Whatever that means.

“I’m not a monster like you! I’ve only been studying magic for... e-eight years!” Yvain yelled.

Burn raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face. "Eight years, huh? But wasn’t your tutelage under Morgan Le Fay cut short at four years, at most? Two years before you ascended to kingship, and two years before her disappearance?"

Yvain bristled, drawing himself up with all the dignity a winded twelve-year-old could muster.

“My time with the master was brief, true, but learning didn’t stop when she left. She entrusted me with her books, her research, even her margin notes. All the tools to fend for myself,” he retorted, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and sorrow.

The young king's eyes then took on a faraway look, his sudden loneliness was a contrast to his words of self-sufficiency.

“Have you not learned your family’s force magic?” Burn asked.

Yvain raised his face, surprised.

“T-that… ugh… I-I…” Yvain couldn’t answer that.

In Nethermere, magic was a dichotomy of existential philosophies, neatly divided into Vision and Force.

Vision, the darling of the magical elite, was as much an art as it was a power. It was the manifestation of Mana into shapes, elements, and even whimsical concepts.

This magic was intimately linked to the mage's soul that was granted directly by God to each and every creation. Only few could awaken and dive deep into the soul's murky waters, wrestle with destiny, and align it with personal goals and growth through years and years of research and meditation.

But don’t get me wrong. Everyone can learn Vision. As long as you have a soul, that is.

Vision was not for the faint of heart, though. Its users often yearned for death. For morbid fascination? Yes, partly, but also as a means to escape their mortal shackles.

They believed that dying would spring them into a state of pure enlightenment, achieving immortality in its pure perfection. Still a damned bizarre concept though.

On the flip side, Force was the manual worker of magical types. Unpretentious and robust, it dealt with the enhancement of the physical or, as the philosophers liked to say, the "mortal, tangible self."

Force users earned their power through sweat, blood, and the occasional tears. These mages were the gym rats of their world, training their bodies to the brink of impossibility.

They sought not to ascend to some higher existential plane but to hammer down, building their self-made destinies like a do-it-yourself furniture project without the instructions.

Their magic came by force, pun gloriously intended, pushing physical limits until they could bend Mana to reinforce their bodies and extend their lifespans.

Some even achieved immortality through sheer willpower and stubbornness, proving that sometimes, the body could be just as stubborn as the spirit.

But, some said that not everyone can be talented at Force Magic, or even awaken at all. It too depends heavily on the physique you were born in. 

Thus, while Vision users flirted with existential crises and afterlife ambitions, Force users kept their feet, and their hopes, firmly planted on the ground.

In this world, where most folks were happy to get either their souls or bodies into magical shape, there were some real overachievers, or as the local taverns whispered over their third round of ale, “the crazy bastards.”

These rare individuals weren’t content with mastering just Vision or Force, no, they had to go for the magical equivalent of a double major in existential powerlifting and metaphysical marathon running.

Achieving enlightenment in both Vision and Force was like trying to bake a soufflé during an earthquake. Nearly impossible, and honestly, a bit of a show-off move.

Yet, history had recorded not one, but two such luminaries.

First, there was the Dragon from the East, an enigmatic creature who presumably had nothing better to do after a few millennia. 

This dragon managed to combine the introspective soul-searching of Vision with the brute physicality of Force, probably because it got bored of terrorizing locals and hoarding gold.

Then, there was the Vampire from the West, who had all the time in the night to ponder over existential dilemmas while also hitting the supernatural gym.

This vampire had mastered both arts, which was a handy party trick and a useful way to one-up any rival at those endless undead banquets.

Well, although they were enlightened in both, they still wouldn’t be able to use it simultaneously, though. That was a different kettle of fish.

It required balancing the serene, soulful dive into Vision with the grueling, sweat-drenched climb of Force. A spiritual biathlon, if you may, demanding you meditate like a monk and lift like a blacksmith.

In the end, those who walked both paths were the ones truly living on the edge. Because when you play the game of souls and sinews, you win or you... well, you turn into a very enlightened pile of magical dust.

Moderation was key, though. While practicing for Force, one must try to also look into a little bit of Vision theories to strengthen the mind soul. That, and vice versa. NOT doing both simultaneously. Crazy bastards…

“You chose the path of Vision like Morgan Le Fay, but you know you must’ve learned about your Force to maintain your physical strength and stamina, right?” Burn asked.

“That’s… not it,” Yvain sighed. “My father… I was too small… He hadn’t had the chance to train me with Edensor Force Art…”

Yvain grimaced. His father had intended to train him, but he had shown a keen interest in Vision from an early age. At just four years old, he was so captivated by Vision that his father decided to postpone his training in Force.

Unfortunately, his father passed away before he could revisit this decision.

“Then, should I teach you?” Burn offered.

“Your force? I-is that okay? Isn’t that supposed to be Soulnaught’s Royal Family’s Force Art?” Yvain asked.

“My force art is not Soulnaught’s Royal Family’s. It’s also not compatible with your body. Why not learn your own Edensor Force Art?” Burn shrugged, explained.

Yvain furrowed his brows. A suspicion rose. “How did you know about my family’s Force?”

Burn noticed the uncertainty flicker in the young boy's eyes. So, a sly grin spread across his face. It was easy to detect the implication behind Yvain's question.

"What's the matter? You think I had a hand in your father's death?"