Chapter 489: Regret
(Sunsteps Market, The Twelfth Elder’s POV)
There are moments in one’s life where they wish they could go back and do things differently.
Moments they obsess over quietly, wondering what might have changed had they reacted faster, fought harder, or simply chosen another path.
And then there are moments in one’s life which they spend years preparing for, mentally rehearsing every word, every motion, hoping that if fate ever brought the scenario back around, they would get it right this time.
And this right here, was one such moment for the Twelfth Elder.
Ever since Noah’s death, he had replayed that day endlessly, haunted by the image of his best friend staying behind while he fled.
Back then, he had no answers, no strategy that could have saved them both. But things were different now. Because now… Dupravel had a glaring weakness that everyone in the universe knew about.
His son, Darnell.
And that was the one card he did not have thirty two years back, when Dupravel was at his savage best.
*Shift*
In an instant, the Twelfth Elder altered his appearance, transforming into a near-perfect replica of Darnell Nuna, down to the trembling lips and anxious frown.
“Dad… are you here to save me?” he asked, voice shaky and laced with panic, mimicking Darnell’s tone with terrifying precision.
As watching his face, Dupravel froze.
Despite having witnessed the transformation, despite knowing with absolute certainty that this could not possibly be his son, that voice and those eyes still landed like a blade between his ribs.
“Dad… they put me up there. They tied me beside the Dragon like some sort of meat shield. These Cult members… they’re cruel,” the Twelfth Elder whimpered, layering desperation over every syllable.
And Dupravel hesitated.
Not because he believed it. Not at all.
But because in that one-thousandth of a second, where logic collided with memory, and instinct was overrun by paternal fear, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of possibility, the sliver of doubt, that this might be some sort of elaborate ruse set up by the Cult to have him kill his son with his own hands.
*Grip*
His fingers tensed around the hilt of his blade, eyes narrowing in conflict.
He knew it wasn’t real.
He knew it was bait.
And yet… he couldn’t strike the twelfth elder.
So he turned his back on the impersonator and lunged for Veyr again, his form disappearing in yet another puff of smoke, as he appeared from irrational pockets of space all around Veyr.
*Shing*
*Block*
*Block*
To his credit, Veyr managed to hold his ground perfectly.
Having recently fought a speed demon like Leo, he had been made aware about the lapses in his own defence, and had improved slightly since that bout.
And although Dupravel came crashing down on him with immense strength, somehow, the force felt manageable to Veyr, as if he were fighting against another Transcendent Tier opponent, and not a Monarch.
*Clash*
*Strike*
*Parry*
Over the next ten seconds, their blades collided again and again, metal screaming against metal as Veyr held his ground, deflecting each of Dupravel’s precise strikes with a calm focus.
The market square had become a warzone, with cracked stone underfoot and a haze of smoke curling through the air like serpents on the prowl.
Dupravel fought with the cold ruthlessness of a killer, his blade moving with an eerie grace that made him seem less man and more phantom.
He blinked through patches of distorted space, closing gaps and reappearing mid-swing, his short sword singing arcs of death in the air.
Yet Veyr matched him, barely a step behind, relying not on speed, but on prediction and timing. He didn’t need to outspeed Dupravel, only to stay alive long enough for the reinforcements to arrive.
*Whizz*
*Boom*
A sudden [Wind Shot] crashed into the stone by Dupravel’s feet, narrowly missing his leg.
The Twelfth Elder, still in Darnell’s form, stood a distance away, his palms glowing with residual mana as he hurled another strike toward the Monarch, hoping to create just enough distraction for Veyr to get in a kill shot.
*Crack*
*Deflect*
“Persistent little rat,” Dupravel muttered, glancing toward the Elder without breaking his rhythm, as he spun mid-air to redirect a falling strike toward Veyr’s left.
“You too shall die soon enough.” Dupravel claimed, yet he made no move to eliminate the Twelfth Elder outright.
Instead, he focused entirely on Veyr, trying his best to somehow decapitate the Dragon, yet just as he began to fall into a rhythm, he felt another shot coming for him from the side.
*Dodge*
*Swoosh*
The Twelfth Elder’s constant interference made it difficult for him to overwhelm Veyr’s defence, but that wasn’t the only reason he struggled.
He could feel it. The weakness in his muscles…..
His breathing felt too shallow. His arms ached more than they should. His strikes didn’t carry the bone-breaking weight of a Monarch’s blow.
At this moment in time, he was no stronger than a peak Transcendent Tier warrior, as despite drinking the potion and initially feeling a surge of strength rushing through his veins, it never actually materialized to him returning to his peak.
‘Did Mauriss set me up?’ Dupravel wondered at this moment, as from the corner of his eyes, he noticed some concerning movement.
Dozens of guards and reinforcements were closing down on his location, as the longer this battle dragged on, the worse his odds of success became.
“Damn you, Mauriss…” he hissed under his breath, his voice low and lethal, as he attempted one last hail Mary at killing Veyr, but the Dragon blocked it precisely.
*CLANG*
“OH DAMN YOU, MAURISS!”
He roared again, this time louder, as he spat each word with all the venom in his heart.
Then, as if realising that this was a wasted effort, he pulled back and reached into his robe as he hurled a dozen smoke bombs across the battlefield.
*Pop*
*Crack*
*Fsssh*
In an instant, a thick veil of smoke swallowed the entire square, cutting visibility to near zero.
Screams echoed as civilians stumbled in panic and the incoming guards halted to regroup.
And just like that, Dupravel turned to leave.
Slipping into the mist like a shadow, he retreated through the sewer grate prepared in advance with his pride wounded and his rage simmering into something far more dangerous.
The mission had failed.
The Dragon still lived.
And worse—he had been tricked.
Not by Veyr.
Not by the Cult.
But by Mauriss the Deceiver.
The sly old god had played him like a pawn, and sent him to a certain death, while making false promises of freedom and power.
*Splat*
*Splat*
Dupravel’s boots splashed through shallow sewer water as he fled, his mind drowning louder than his footsteps.
‘How pathetic,’ he thought, jaw clenched tight. ‘All these years serving them like a dog… all this blood shed in their name… and for what?’
He blinked, his rage giving way to something colder.
‘I should have joined the Cult. I should have lived here with my son….. I should have negotiated a deal for my life. It would have been easier than the missions I did for Mauriss….’
His grip tightened around his blade’s hilt.
‘Instead, I fought for scum like the Eternal Deceiver. Let pride and vengeance blind me. Let lies shape my path….. HA–’
A bitter laugh escaped him.
‘Maybe I was the fool all along. Maybe… I still am.’