EVEN AS A SLAVE, THE HEAVENLY DEMON’S MIGHT SHALL TAME THE BEAUTIES

The others laughed. Fern cracked his knuckles. Theron eyed her like a trophy already won.

Aeloria's breath came in ragged bursts. Her pride held her upright, but the edges of her mind began to fray. The restraints burned her nerves with each pulse. Every heartbeat was a war. Her eyes darted to the mages behind, surely one of them would intervene?

But the women said nothing.

Mephina looked away. Lysander smirked behind his veil. Morgana's jaw tightened, but her silence said everything. They weren't here to help. They were here to watch.

This wasn't a simple ambush. It was a show of dominance. And Aeloria was the stage.

From her concealed position among the tall grass, Evangeline Morwyn observed the proceedings with the analytical fascination of someone witnessing an experiment of unprecedented scope. Her research into mana disturbances had led her to this confrontation, though she hadn't anticipated discovering anything quite so dramatic.

The unusual concentration of hostile magical energy had been impossible to ignore for someone of her theoretical sophistication. Now, watching as the pieces moved into position, she found herself simultaneously terrified and intellectually intrigued by what was about to unfold.

A sudden stillness crept through the old training grounds.

It wasn't the evening wind dying down. It wasn't magical interference. It was something... wrong. A wrongness that made the air itself feel heavier, like the moment before lightning strikes.

Stonefist felt it first, a prickle at the base of his neck, like something ancient and predatory had just opened its eyes behind him. His earth magic stirred restlessly, responding to instincts older than conscious thought. He shifted uneasily, scanning the perimeter they had so carefully secured.

Theron Bloodaxe stopped mid-pacing, his fingers tightening on his weapon's hilt as warrior instincts screamed warnings he couldn't identify. The legendary axe that had served his family for generations suddenly felt inadequate in his grip.

Daemon Will's confident smirk faltered, his practiced bravado dying as something primal in his hindbrain whispered that they were no longer alone. The magical energies he had been casually channeling flickered and wavered like candle flames in a sudden draft.

None of them heard footsteps.

And yet, from somewhere behind their carefully arranged formation, a voice cut through the tension like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You're all too loud."

The words were soft. Calm. Conversational, even. But they struck the assembled nobles like thunder in a clear sky, each syllable carrying weight that seemed to press against their very souls.

They turned as one, movements sharp with sudden panic.

And there he was.

Yomi.

Standing just a few paces behind their tactical formation, hands at his sides, expression carrying mild interest as though he had stumbled upon an entertaining street performance. No spells cast. No protective wards triggered. No sound of approach. Just there, like he had always been part of the landscape they had failed to notice.

Not a single one of them, warriors and mages trained in the finest academies, heirs to noble houses with centuries of martial tradition, had sensed his approach.

Morgana Thornspell gasped audibly, her combat magic flickering as concentration shattered. Mephina Voidcaster stepped backward involuntarily, her mastery of shadow magic suddenly feeling insignificant compared to the darkness that seemed to gather around his presence. Lysander Shadowweave's carefully constructed illusions shimmered and wavered, responding to his creator's spike of fear.

Daemon's eyes narrowed as he fought to regain his composure, but his earlier smirk had vanished entirely. "Impossible," he breathed, his voice carrying none of its previous confidence.

Fern's feet slid apart into combat stance, earth magic coiling around him like protective armor. "How did you get behind us?" His question carried the desperation of someone whose fundamental understanding of tactical superiority had just been shattered.

Yomi didn't answer immediately. His storm-grey eyes swept across them with the kind of clinical assessment that cataloged weaknesses rather than acknowledging threats. The silence stretched, heavy with implications that none of them wanted to contemplate.

He didn't need to explain how he had circumvented their preparations. The truth was written in the ease of his positioning, the casual confidence of someone who had evaluated their ambush and found it adequate for his purposes. The residual Ki he had shared with Aeloria during their previous session had created a connection that transcended physical distance, allowing him to track her location with supernatural precision while rendering their tactical advantages meaningless.

Even Aeloria, bound and defiant at the center of their formation, twisted her head toward his voice, her breath catching when she saw him. Alive. Unharmed. Here. The relief that flooded through her was so profound it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

And just like that, the dynamic shifted.

The hunters realized with dawning horror that they weren't in control anymore.

"The infamous Dra'kesh," Daemon finally managed, his voice carrying forced menace that couldn't quite mask his unease. "You will submit to noble justice for your crimes against proper order."

Yomi's response was to smile, a slight curve of his lips that somehow managed to be more terrifying than any snarl could have been.

His gaze found Aeloria first, the Ki connection confirming not just her location but her physical and emotional state. She was frightened but unharmed, defiant despite her restraints, exactly as he had expected. Only then did he shift to catalog his opponents with the clinical assessment of someone evaluating tools rather than threats.

"Unbind the girl. I've no desire to paint this soil with your entrails, crippling you will suffice."

The response drew nervous laughter from several of the assembled students, though their mirth carried an edge of uncertainty that suggested they recognized something unsettling in his complete lack of concern.

It was then that Yomi's fighting presence began to manifest, not the controlled pressure he had shown during academy demonstrations, but the full, terrifying weight of someone who had earned supremacy through methods that transcended civilized understanding. The air around him seemed to darken, shadows gathering despite the evening light, while an oppressive aura settled over the training ground like the promise of a coming storm.

Evangeline felt her breath catch as she witnessed the transformation, her academic mind struggling to process the theoretical implications of what she was observing. This wasn't just enhanced magical pressure, it was something that existed outside conventional understanding, power that seemed to reshape reality through will alone.

"Last chance," Yomi said, his tone unchanged but somehow carrying exponentially more menace than before.