Hollow Crown: SSS-Ranked Godslayer’s Rise

Veyron steadied himself with a long, deliberate breath. The twitch of anger smoothed into a cold sneer as he spoke again, voice laced with superiority.

"You say I shouldn't touch what doesn't belong to me... on that much, I agree. But who said she doesn't belong to me?"

His gaze sharpened like a blade, the words dripping with possessive malice.

Ethan tilted his head, utterly unshaken. A slow, almost amused exhale left him before he replied with casual venom.

"Ah... so it's that. A disease." He tapped his temple mockingly. "A disease that makes people think everything they see suddenly belongs to them. Nasty thing and dangerous too. Some poor fool might even get beaten senseless if they ran into the wrong person."

The nearby adventurers bit their tongues, shoulders trembling with restrained laughter. No one dared to openly mock a noble, not unless they were suicidal.

Veyron's jaw tightened, his patience fraying. His tone grew sharp, almost snapping.

"You talk well for a stray. Then tell me—what makes you think she doesn't belong to me? From where I stand, she'd kneel if I so much as commanded it."

At his words, Lirael's chest tightened. A flicker of panic rushed through her veins—Veyron's power was undeniable, and she feared what he might do to Ethan. Her lips parted, trembling—

"E–"

—but Ethan's voice brushed into her mind like steady flame.

Don't worry. He can't touch me. Just play your part.

She froze, then saw the calm certainty etched across his expression. It was unyielding, unshaken. That serenity bled into her, steel replacing her fear as she straightened, awaiting her moment.

Ethan finally spoke again, his words deliberate, every syllable like a nail driven into Veyron's pride.

"Maybe once, that was true. Hard to believe, but possible. But now?" His gaze cut through the elf, merciless. "Now you have neither the power nor the right to even look at her that way."

The field seemed to still. Even the faintest shuffle of boots quieted.

Veyron chuckled darkly, though the sound carried strain.

"Power? Reason? Do you even know who you're speaking to?" He spread his arms with mock grandeur. "We are the Thalmyr family of Thorneveil. One of the great pillars of the Kingdom—and feared even across its borders. Power? We have more than enough." His finger leveled toward Lirael, almost like a verdict. "And reason? She is of our family member. She is ours."

The weight of his claim crashed through the air. Some adventurers' eyes widened—blood ties to Thalmyr were not spoken of lightly.

But Ethan didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head again, voice dipping into disdain.

"A member? Perhaps that was true... once. But now?" His lips curled into a razor-thin smile. "Now she's mine."

The words hung, electric. Not shouted, not forced—simply stated, as though it was a fact.

Veyron's lips curled into a grin that didn't quite mask his irritation. He gave a short, almost mocking laugh.

"Mine? Ha! You claim that tossing pocket change to employ a maid makes her yours? And you call me diseased?" His grin widened, venom seeping into his voice. "Sounds like you're the one with the sickness."

A few of the adventurers couldn't hold it back this time—suppressed chuckles slipped out, muffled into smiles and sleeves. To them, this was a show, nothing more—a noble and a stranger throwing barbed words.

But Ethan only arched a brow, his amusement sharper than a blade.

"An employee?" He let the words hang, tone dripping with disdain. Then, with a single spit of scorn, "You truly are sick. Who said I employed her?"

That casual dismissal carried more weight than shouting ever could. The open air tightened; Veyron's smile stiffened.

His patience, already fraying, finally tore.

"What do you mean?"

Ethan's gaze hardened, amusement gone. His words came slow, deliberate—hammer strikes echoing in silence.

"I mean exactly what I say." He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering but cutting through the room. "I. Own. Her."

The syllables fell like chains snapping shut.

"Surely even through your festering delusions, you understand that. Unlike your flimsy excuse of family—" his eyes flicked briefly, coldly toward Lirael, "which she clearly isn't—I hold legitimate claim. Your diseased eyes should notice the accessory around her neck."

Veyron turned sharply, sneer faltering.

And then he saw it.

A shimmer of gold around her neck, subtle yet unmistakable once seen. What he had dismissed as a trinket, a piece of ornamentation to suit her attire—was in truth something far darker.

His breath caught. "…A slave collar?"

The realization struck harder than a blade. His expression froze, the grin breaking into a brittle mask as the implications unfurled.

The area, once brimming with stifled giggles, fell into a stunned hush. Adventurers' eyes widened, darting between Ethan, Lirael, and Veyron. What had been an entertaining spat was no longer just words—it had turned into a declaration of ownership backed by undeniable proof.

"Hehe...this is going to be fun" an adventurers mouth slipped.

Veyron shot a predatory glance at him and he scurried away into the crowd.

And for the first time that evening, unease crept into Veyron's stance.

"…Damn." The thought flickered behind his eyes. "This just became troublesome."

Ethan's gaze never wavered, his voice low but edged with steel as he stepped into the silence.

"Now tell me, Veyron Thalmyr… what do you call a man who forces himself onto something that isn't his?" His hand lifted, casual yet accusatory, pointing at Lirael's arm. The skin was still faintly reddened where Veyron's grip had been. "Touching what he shouldn't, leaving marks, trying to break what isn't his to claim. A sickness, no?"

His words slid through theopen air like venom, making every listener glance instinctively at the faint bruise, then at Veyron himself.

Veyron's eyes burned red with fury, his breath sharp, shoulders taut as if ready to lunge. The vein at his temple throbbed, rage pressing to the surface. His teeth ground together as he hissed beneath his breath:

…My songbird… belongs to someone else?

The words cracked with disbelief, as though the very idea was poison. "Not mine—but a slave… to another?"

The air around him seemed to vibrate with his suppressed fury, his entire frame trembling. Adventurers shrank back instinctively, sensing the storm behind his glare.

Then, abruptly, he inhaled—deep, slow, forced. His chest rose and fell as he wrestled himself down, the vein at his temple still pulsing but his face smoothing into something colder, more controlled.

He straightened, lips curling into a stiff smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"…I see."