Neither Willem nor Alice could believe their eyes.
Samael… this was the same boy who had once been so meek, so timid, such a spineless pushover.
But now, he was someone entirely different.
He was different in both mentality and appearance. And it was unmistakable — like the excessive piercings in his ears or the sharp look of superiority in his eyes.
They’d heard the rumors, of course.
They’d heard how the youngest of the Theosbanes had grown into a delinquent over the years.
But hearing about it was one thing. Seeing it with their own eyes was another.
And then there was the crude way he spoke to them.
To them!
Royals of the Central!
This was the same boy who once couldn’t even look Alice in the eyes without trembling, and now he had the gall to threaten to cut out her tongue.
But the most shocking thing of all wasn’t his words. It was the fact that he could back it all up with his strength.
Somehow, Samael was managing to hold his ground, going toe-to-toe with both of them in a two-on-one unrestrained fight.
Alice narrowed her eyes as she moved to flank him, her sword ablaze.
She studied him carefully between strikes, her mind racing as she tried to figure out how this guy was holding his own against them.
Samael’s movements were unpolished.
His fighting style was rough and ragged. It didn’t carry any elegance or grace. Just… brutal practicality.
There was no wasted effort, no flashy displays of skill.
Every dodge, every strike, every counter was executed with the raw pragmatism of someone who really wanted to hurt his opponent more than he wanted to win.
It was clear he hadn’t spent much time training in the halls of elite dojos or under the tutelage of master swordsmen.
No, this was the style of someone who had learned to fight in the alleys and backstreets, where rules were nonexistent, and survival was the only measure of victory.
His hits were messy, sometimes reckless, but they hurt nonetheless.
Alice parried his sudden jab toward her throat, the impact reverberating up her arm.
She gritted her teeth. ‘He’s strong.’
Stronger than she remembered.
It made sense, really.
After all, if rumors were to be believed then this young man subdued every Awakened teen gang in the city of Luxara.
He was said to rule the streets of the Golden City with an iron fist.
He was indeed someone with a lot of real-life fight experience, maybe even more than both of the royal twins combined.
Samael pivoted sharply, using the momentum from her deflected blow to twist toward Willem and deliver a sharp kick to his side.
The force of the strike wasn’t enough to hurt Willem but it still made him stagger.
Alice moved to strike again by raising her sword high to deliver a downward slash.
However, Samael was already rushing in. He slammed his palm against the pummel of her sword, halting her slash before driving his knee to her ribs.
“Khaa!” Alice gasped sharply. It hurt, but she raised her free palm and invoked the flames.
The flames answered, coalescing into a fireball that exploded squarely into Samael’s chest at point zero with the force of a cannon blast.
Since he was standing so close to Alice, the golden-haired boy didn’t get a chance to jump back to safety, and the impact of the explosion sent him flying back.
Samael twisted mid-flight, arching his body instinctively to brace for the impact.
But Willem was already moving.
With the precision of a seasoned fighter, Willem’s roundhouse kick connected mid-air, slamming into Samael’s side.
The force of the blow sent him careening sideways, his body crashing into the ground with a loud thud that left a trail of dust and debris in its wake.
Samael groaned as he rolled onto his back, the acrid scent of scorched fabric filling his nose.
His jacket was charred in places, smoke curling from the edges, but it had done its job — the academy-issued combat gear had absorbed the brunt of the flames, leaving his skin mostly intact.
Still, the pain was real. His ribs ached, his breathing shallow, but the sharp grin that spread across his face was anything but defeated.
“Nice one,” he rasped, propping himself up on one elbow as he wiped a smear of dirt from his cheek. “I almost felt that.”
Alice gritted her teeth, but Willem was beside her to hold his sister back.
“Careful,” the Prince said. “He’s tougher than we thought.”
And that’s when Alice suddenly realized what was happening.
“Will,” she gestured toward the golden-haired boy with her chin. “He’s provoking us on purpose. He wants us to come at him and lose coordination. He’s pulling us out of sync.”
Her breath hitched at the realization. It was so obvious now. Samael hadn’t just been fighting — he’d been controlling the fight.
From the very beginning, he’d split his approach between them.
Against her, he used brute strength to break through her technique.
Against Willem, he used his superior agility to slip through the strikes.
He was also very unpredictable in his approach.
It was calculated chaos — a strategy designed to break their teamwork.
And it had been working.
Alice bit her lip in frustration. She would’ve noticed such a transparent ploy if she hadn’t let herself be blinded by rage.
Samael was keeping himself in positions where he only ever had to face one of them at a time, using terrain, footwork, and his unpredictability to keep them at bay.
The brilliance of his strategy wasn’t in its complexity but in its sheer practicality. He wasn’t fighting to win — he was fighting to keep fighting longer.
She exhaled deeply, the bitter truth settling in her chest — this was the difference in experience.
From a young age, she and Willem had been trained by the best instructors in the Central.
Their teachers had drilled them endlessly in martial discipline, the art of overwhelming aggression, and the golden rule of combat — strike first, strike fast.
And it had always worked.
Until now.
Samael had turned their own principle against them.
By choosing to stay defensive, he forced them to strike first, forced them to commit, and in doing so, he dictated the pace of the fight.
It was infuriating.
But even as Alice’s frustration simmered, she knew the truth — none of it was enough to let Samael win.
He was skilled, yes — resourceful and relentless — but skill alone couldn’t make up for the difference in power between him and them.
“Will,” she called again, her voice firm and steady now. “Attack him together. Head-on. Don’t split up.”
Willem glanced at her, his brows furrowing in brief confusion. After all, by attacking him from a single direction, they were throwing away their number advantage.
He wanted to argue with his sister, but the look in Alice’s eyes left no room for doubt.
“Get close to him,” she continued, her tone sharp as a blade. “Force him to make the first move. If we stay on him, he won’t have room to maneuver. Keep striking, don’t give him space to breathe.”
Willem nodded once, his grip tightening on his axe. “Got it.”
Alice shifted her stance, flames flickering to life along her sword once more.
Across from them, Samael stood up to his feet casually, his arms loose at his sides, that damned smirk still plastered on his face.
But Alice caught it — the faintest flicker in his expression, the tightening of his jaw.
He’d realized they weren’t going to play his game anymore.
And so, this time, he attacked first.
A lash of flame appeared in his hand, and he snapped it forward toward at Willem. But the charming prince caught it with his bare hands, the fire not even burning his clothes.
“Really, man?” Willem scowled, his tone laced with disappointment. “You’re using fire against a Draken?”
Samael sighed slightly. “Yeah, I know. It’s embarrassing. But the two strongest attacks in my Soul Arsenal are fire-based.”
“Can’t blame you. Fire is awesome,” Willem remarked with a wry grin. Without warning, he twisted his body and unleashed his tyrannical strength to yank on the fiery whip.
Samael stumbled forward, barely managing a grunt before he was flung clean off the ground.
Willem swung him through the air like a ragdoll attached to a rope and slammed him into a cluster of fighting Cadets nearby.
The impact scattered them like bowling pins. Bodies toppled everywhere as groans and dust filled the dry air.
Samael coughed through the seething ache across his ribs and right leg. He pushed himself onto his knees and took a painful breath.
That was a stupid thing to do – he told himself.
He shook his head to steady his dizzying vision… just in time to see a fireball streaking toward him at blistering speed.
Samael’s eyes widened for half a second before he grabbed the closest Cadet — a short boy who still seemed dazed from the earlier collision — and pulled him forward as a shield.
The fireball struck with a deafening boom, sending shockwaves through the ground.
The Cadet that was unceremoniously used a meat puppet slumped unconscious in Samael’s grasp, his Academy-issued combat jacket absorbing the worst of the impact.
Samael tossed the boy aside, but not before taking his spear from his hand. “Sorry, dude. You were in the wrong place, wrong time.”
