Magus Supremacy - Chapter 727
Capítulo 727: It’s That Time of the Year
CHAPTER 727
On an island situated quite far away, a huge castle could be seen dominating the majority of the landmass that occupied the island.
A vast body of water surrounded the territory, waves crashing endlessly against jagged rocks as if guarding the structure from the outside world.
Deep within the castle, a certain man could be found inside a quiet study room, eyes flickering across the pages of a book held firmly in his hand.
His composure was top notch, radiating an aura of restrained authority and quiet dominance that filled the space without effort.
Long black hair flowed past his shoulders, fluttering gently as a cool breeze slipped through the slightly opened window.
His back faced the door as he continued reading in silence until a soft knock echoed lightly within the room.
Before he could utter a word, the door creaked open and a young man stepped inside with controlled steps.
Stopping a metre away, he dropped to his knees, head lowered while his own dark hair almost concealed his expression completely.
“What do you want, Azrael?” the older man asked calmly, fingers still flipping through the pages without a trace of distraction.
“Father… it’s… it’s time.” Azrael replied, his words breaking in the middle.
Not from fear, but from a deep pain lodged firmly within his chest, a feeling he neither voiced nor understood enough to explain.
At those words, the book snapped shut with a sharp sound as the older man placed it neatly on the table beside him.
He turned to face Azrael, revealing broad shoulders layered with dense, hardened muscle that stretched the fabric of his shirt tightly around his arms.
“Oh. It’s that time of the year, eh?”
Azrael clenched his fists, teeth grinding softly together as he nodded in silence.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
With those simple words, the older man vanished from the room as though he had never existed there at all.
It was not teleportation, but pure overwhelming speed, the door creaking faintly as the only sign of his departure.
Azrael remained kneeling, lifting his head slowly to stare at the doorway.
His eyes glistened with moisture, threatening to spill, but he quickly brushed his face clean with the back of his hand.
Letting out a weary sigh, he pushed himself up from the floor.
His hands curled tightly into fists at his sides, trembling uncontrollably.
“Brother… is this why you ran away? Is this what you saw that made you run?”
The next instant, his expression shifted. His gaze cleared, becoming calm and still like a vast body of water.
His lips curved upward into a knowing smile as a low chuckle escaped him, echoing softly and almost shaking the room from its depth.
“Who cares? I should be happy. After all, I am upholding the values and tapestry of the family. I am not a disgrace like my runaway older brother. I stayed, and I conquered. Let the tradition continue from my head.”
With a smirk, he stepped out of the study, pulling the door shut behind him with deliberate finality.
***
Elsewhere within the castle stood a massive training hall, its sheer size comparable to a football pitch.
At that moment, several individuals were gathered inside, their gazes fixed firmly on the center of the vast space.
Standing at the heart of the hall were two children barely past their tenth year, faces filled with confusion and uncertainty as they glanced around, clearly unaware of why they had been abruptly pulled away from their training or what awaited them next.
The same training they had never been granted a break from.
The same harsh routine they had been subjected to ever since they turned five years old.
And now, they had been dragged away from it, forced to stand at the center of the training ground while several older men surrounded them, each figure exuding an oppressive pressure that weighed heavily on their small frames.
The hall filled with low murmuring as the gathered spectators stared at the children with undisguised pity.
The elder of the two was eleven years old, while the younger had only just turned ten.
A throne-like chair had been positioned at the far end of the hall, its presence dominating the space as the murmurs continued to echo, all at the expense of the trembling children who kept stealing glances at one another.
Suddenly, a sharp swooshing sound cut through the air, instantly silencing the entire hall.
A thickly built man appeared out of nowhere and calmly seated himself upon the throne-like chair.
His frigid expression pierced through the now quiet space as he rested his chin against his knuckles, posture relaxed yet suffocating.
This man was the current Patriarch of the clan, and as such, no one dared to speak in his presence.
In fact, every individual bowed deeply toward him, including the two children who immediately recognized the figure before them.
Another man materialized beside the throne, standing straight with hands behind his back.
This was Azrael, his gaze fixed forward, his expression stoic and unreadable.
The children looked back and forth between the two men, confusion swirling within their eyes as they wondered why their father and grandfather were staring at them in such a manner.
“We all know why we are gathered here, correct? All except the children,” the Patriarch spoke, his voice calm as the crowd lowered their heads, though many still stole cautious glances at the boys.
The Patriarch continued speaking.
“As is customary, the tradition that has existed within this clan since the dawn of time is the reason we have assembled here today.”
He paused briefly, lifting a hand and gesturing toward one of the men standing among the crowd.
That man stepped away, disappearing for a short while before returning with swords in hand.
The weapons were presented to the children, who reluctantly accepted them, bewilderment written plainly across their young faces.
“Children. How are you both related?” the Patriarch asked evenly.
The two exchanged a confused look before answering in trembling voices.
“We are brothers.”
The Patriarch nodded slowly, a faint smile touching his lips.
“Step-brothers, or biological?”
The children swallowed hard before responding again.
“Biological brothers.”
Shifting within his seat, the Patriarch leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto them.
“And who am I to you?”
Once more, the children glanced at one another, unsettled by the sudden interrogation, yet they dared not refuse an answer.
“Y… you are our grandfather.”
“Do you know why you were removed from training today?”
They shook their heads in unison.
Leaning back against the throne, the Patriarch smiled at them. It was the gentle smile of a lunatic.
“As per the customs of my bloodline, the customs of this clan, my family, every child born into it undergoes training from the age of five for a singular purpose.
As you all know, your father standing beside me is next in line should I fall,” the Patriarch said, gesturing toward Azrael.
“In the same manner, we are gathered here to determine who will lead after your father, between the two of you. That is the way of our family.”
A heavy tension seeped into the air as the children struggled to comprehend what his words implied.
The Patriarch did not grant them the luxury of reflection, continuing without pause.
“And how shall we decide? Through a tradition I personally established.”
Gathering what little courage he had, the older child inhaled shakily and asked the question burning within his chest.
“Wh… what tradition?”
The Patriarch’s smile widened.
“You will fight one another… until death claims one of you. That is how we decide who rules. That is the tradition of the Cromwell family.”