NOVEL NEXT Chapter 46: Unexpected Love rivals
Thick silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken hostility, like an invisible veil. The two teams stood glaring at each other, their gazes crackling with unveiled hostility. The leader of the opposing team, with hair like smelted embers, short yet wild, and muscles chiseled as from forged steel, stood with a grip clamping down on the hilt of his sheathed dark sword. His fiery eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Nyxander, aflame with an unbearable rage that was tearing him asunder a thousand times within his mind.
From the opposing ranks, a subordinate stepped forward, his crimson hair matching his leader's, though marked by a jagged scar cutting across his forehead. A huge blade rested against his back, its weight seemingly effortless in his possession. He broke the tense silence with a smirk, his voice dripping with mockery.
"Look who we have here, our esteemed team leader's mistress," he sneered. The rest of his comrades went into a burst of laughter as if a murder of crows had cawed over prey.
The team of Lumina went stiff, all with defensive postures, but nobody dared raise their voice against such a mocking chorus. The subordinate with red hair, seeing all his comrades erupt into laughter, continued to taunt them. "We can't wait to see the two of you getting engaged, carrying the young master in your arms. What a spectacle that would be!" The sneer lengthened on his face as his words caused his companions-even his leader-to show amusement.
Nyxander, unbothered, waved a hand in front of his nose, feigning irritation. "Ugh, the atmosphere turned foul the moment someone opened their mouth," he said, his tone laced with playful disdain. "Honestly, I'm surprised your teammates can tolerate the stench."
The comment cut the laughter on the side of Lumina, replacing it with sly, sinister chuckles; the expression of the red-haired subordinate changed to one of embarrassment, his eyes darting to his comrades for support.
Nyxander wasn't through. "Wait, if they're cool with that, that would mean all of them carry the same scent. Birds of a feather, as they say," he added, stepping in with a knowing smirk. "No wonder they're all pointed in one direction; it means they walked into the wrong road, together, and no one came up with enough sense to make a turnaround."
Every word bit deeper into them like a barb, deflating their pride with each moment. Laughter gave way to cold, brooding silence; the scar-faced subordinate's veins bulged with anger. "Who do you think you're talking to? Aren't you afraid of losing your head?" he growled, his finger lashing out at Nyxander.
Putting on an air of innocence, Nyxander turned his head, feigning forgetfulness. "Well, where are my manners? I should've introduced myself. I would've called myself her fiancé, but it is up to a lady's acceptance, so to speak. Let us just put it this way for now-Nyxander, companion to Lumina. Her boyfriend.
His words dropped like a boulder. The eyes of his opponents widened, their leader's fist clenched, quivering upon the hilt of his sword, as the weight of Nyxander's claim made his blood boil at the bitterness that was almost unbearable.
Unable to restrain himself, the scar-faced minion whisked his sword out in a flash, a threatening point levelled at Nyxander: "You should not have spoken such words," he snarled, his trembling voice low and husky with pent-up rage.
Nyxander did nothing but tilt towards him; he neither stumbled nor fell-the implication of imminent collapse-but, crossing his arms, leaned back. Indeed, his ease was an invitation to an attack. Thus, his gestures seemed to invite it, waiting for the fight.
Before the subordinate could act, his leader's voice cut through the tension. "Stop," he commanded, his tone firm but tinged with the anger that simmered beneath his surface.
"But, leader, let me."
"No," the leader interrupted, his tone sharpening. " Don't let him get to you. We're leaving. Head back to Flame Station."
Muttering, the subordinate complied, sheathing his blade and retreating with his comrades. The opposing leader remained for a moment, his back to Nyxander, his head turned slightly over his shoulder. "I hope you have something to back those words up," he said, his voice low, a promise of reckoning.
Nyxander did not utter a single word but just smiled-the most infuriatingly brazen smirk. His contrary team's leader clamped his jaw and turned away, following his team, their departure marked by the weight of their embarrassment.
Behind Nyxander's back, a tender, rare curl of her lips into a ghostly smile escaped Lumina, like the first bloom of spring in a landscape of frost. For the first time, she saw the opposing team so utterly flummoxed, and the spectacle gave her quiet satisfaction. Her subordinates, who managed to catch that fleeting smile, froze in incredulous stares, looking at her as though some kind of miracle was taking place before their very eyes.
Realizing their stares, Lumina sharply cleared her throat, her face returned to its cold countenance. "Hmph."
Nyxander turned back toward her, missing the rare display that left him unaware of the moment.
"Let's move," she ordered, her voice crisp with command. The group stepped out of the garage, the night settling around them like a dark cloak. The air cooled with the encroaching darkness, but the fire sparked by Nyxander's defiance lingered, lighting their path as they made their way toward the heart of the station.
As they entered the territory under their jurisdiction, the air seemed to shift, imbued with a sense of calm authority. Lumina turned to her team, her piercing gaze embodying the weight of leadership. The group stood in disciplined silence, their focus entirely on her, awaiting her words.
"Everyone," she began, her tone firm yet carrying an undertone of gentle care, "go straight to your rooms and rest for the night. I don't want to see anyone wandering around. You'll need your energy; work resumes tomorrow." Her words, though cold in delivery, bore a subtle warmth, the kind that hinted at her genuine concern for their well-being.
"Yes, ma'am!" they responded in unison, their voices resolute, echoing through the stillness of the night.
Satisfied, Lumina shifted her attention to Beorn. Her commanding presence did not waver as she pointed toward Nyxander. "Take him to Maxil's room," she ordered without further explanation, before turning away.
Nyxander, watching her retreating figure, raised a hand, his voice softening with a tinge of playful affection. "You should rest early too, once you're done with your work." His words carried the sincerity of a caring lover, underscored by a light-hearted wave.
Lumina, walking away, pretended not to hear him, though a fleeting smile graced her lips—a rare, almost imperceptible expression. "Sure, idiot," she murmured under her breath, her tone betraying an affection she wouldn't dare show openly. Her steps carried her toward the heart of the Celestial Station, her figure melting into the shadows of the evening.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Lumina arrived at a building unlike any other within the station's walls. Its structure was striking, painted in a deep crimson hue that seemed to pulse with an unspoken power. The roof extended outward, held up by four polished wooden poles—two on each side of the entrance. Between them stood a glossy wooden door, its surface gleaming as if freshly oiled, a silent invitation and a stern warning all at once.
Lumina pushed the door open and stepped inside, her boots clicking against the smooth granite floor. The room exuded an air of primal strength and ancient history. A woman stood to the left, her attire fierce and raw—a tiger-skin skirt hugging her hips, paired with a tightly wrapped fabric that accentuated her curves, her C-cup chest outlined with unapologetic confidence.
To the woman's right were two young men. One was Beorn, the vassal Lumina had encountered earlier, standing with quiet discipline. The other was a figure with dark, short-cropped hair, his gray eyes shimmering like molten silver. He wore a pristine white suit that clung to his form, covering everything but his hands and head, giving him an almost ethereal appearance.
At the center of this tableau sat a man in his early forties, his posture commanding, though his seat was a simple, hand-carved wooden chair. His presence dominated the room, emanating the aura of a seasoned general who had seen the rise and fall of empires, his very existence steeped in the blood and glory of countless battles.
Lumina's presence was immediate and commanding. She stepped forward, her left fist crossing her chest in a salute, her right arm rigid at her side. Bowing slightly, her voice rang clear and steady. "Greetings to the North Celestial Lord."
The man raised his gaze, his eyes like storm-forged steel, and nodded slowly. His voice, deep and resonant, sliced through the room like the first clash of blades in battle. "You're here, Lumina."
"Yes, as soon as I arrived," she replied, her tone unwavering, the weight of the exchange heavy with unspoken intent.
With a flick of his hand, he gestured for her to rise. The motion was simple, yet carried the authority of one who commanded legions. Lumina straightened, standing tall and resolute under his scrutinizing gaze.
The room fell into a silence that felt alive, charged with expectation. Each breath seemed measured, every movement deliberate, as though the very air acknowledged the gravity of the gathering.