Chapter 342: Pity

Black flames erupted from Max's hands.

The fire didn't roar.

It whispered.

And yet, in that whisper, it devoured Veylin whole.

The moment the flames touched his body, Veylin screamed.

"AGGHHHHHH!"

His voice ripped through the fog-choked air like a blade.

A raw, soul-wrenching, flesh-peeling scream that pierced straight into the bones of everyone present.

It was the kind of sound that shattered stillness.

The kind of scream that made even the cruelest hesitate.

"NO!"

Azula's scream followed. But hers wasn't rage.

It was grief.

Pure, furious, and maddening.

She surged forward like a storm, her eyes bloodshot, flames bursting from her fists, her aura boiling with chaos.

She was ready to kill Max.

To rip him apart, cell by cell.

But then—another figure stepped into her path.

King Magnar.

His expression was stone-cold, eyes grim.

"I can't let you get through," King Magnar said, his voice low and grim.

His eyes stayed locked on Azula's, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

'He killed him. Right in front of everyone.'

The image of Veylin's body turning to flames still lingered behind his eyes.

'This kid… he's not just dangerous. He's a menace.'

Azula, trembling with fury, stared at him with wild, bloodshot eyes.

"MAGNAR, GET AWAY!"

She didn't wait for an answer.

With a roar of rage, her hands ignited, bursting into blazing yellow flames. She lunged forward, both fists smashing toward Magnar with enough force to level a city wall.

But Magnar didn't flinch.

He simply raised his hand, and in that instant, a brilliant blue shield shimmered into existence before him.

Smooth. Radiant. Absolute.

Her fists struck the barrier with the force of a comet.

BOOM!

The explosion of power shook the ground beneath them. A concussive shockwave rippled through the air, kicking up dust and fog, forcing every leader and genius nearby to stagger back a step or two.

Some fell to their knees. Others gasped from the impact.

But the shield held.

And so did Magnar.

Azula stepped back, breathing hard, her hands still aflame—her expression a storm of rage and grief.

But as the dust began to settle, it wasn't her people were looking at.

It wasn't even Max anymore.

It was the sky.

It was the air.

The energy in the zone… had shifted.

A deep, low vibration started in the ground beneath their feet. Almost imperceptible at first.

And then came the silence—a heavy, choking quiet.

Even the wind died.

And that's when the dread set in.

Infernal energy.

Thick. Oppressive. Rising fast like a flood tide.

Something had changed.

Max's black flames, Azula's explosion of power—together, they had shaken the fragile equilibrium of the Mourning Depths.

But at this moment something else happened too.

Something—

That everyone feared at this moment.

No.

It was what came next.

The shift. The change. The silence.

Because in the heart of that deathly stillness—

Veylin's scream stopped.

And then—

Nothing.

Where his body had once been, there was only ash.

Max's black flames hadn't burned him.

They had unmade him.

There was no corpse. No trace.

Just dust, floating away in the fog.

Silence.

Then—

Cold breath. Everywhere.

The gathered leaders and geniuses exhaled together, sharp and involuntary.

Because now they understood.

This wasn't a genius.

This wasn't a prodigy.

This was something else entirely.

A force.

A weapon.

A storm wearing a human face.

They had plotted against a boy, thinking they could cage him.

But standing before them… was a devil.

And he had just proven that he didn't need mercy.

Because he would never ask for it.

And he sure as hell wouldn't give it.

"You... you killed Veylin..."

Azula's voice was low, trembling—not with fear, but with fury too vast to contain. Her eyes darkened, filled with the kind of grief that only turns to hatred.

And then—rage. Heaven-seething rage.

Her body burst into golden-yellow flames, blazing like a second sun in the fog. The very ground beneath her feet cracked from the force of her aura.

"I WILL KILL YOU!!" she screamed.

She took a step forward—

But then—

A voice.

Cold. Hollow. Void of emotion.

"Azula."

She froze.

"Do you want to die too?"

She turned sharply—

—and saw King Magnar.

But this wasn't the composed monarch she had always known.

This was something else.

His face was carved in stone, his eyes like twin glaciers. His presence, once regal, now felt like a cold storm pressing down on the world.

He took a slow step toward her.

"You have two choices." His voice was terrifyingly even.

"Either I kill you… or you stay silent. What do you choose?"

Azula's breathing turned ragged.

"He killed my son!" she screamed, voice hoarse. "That vermin murdered my child! I want him DEAD!"

"Do you think I care?" Magnar replied coldly, eyes narrowing.

"If you don't calm your aura right now, I will end your life here and now. You're strong—yes. But not stronger than me. You know that."

And then, without warning, his aura erupted—for just a breath.

But that was all it took.

The world shuddered. Every expert-rank leader around them took an involuntary step back, some gasping as their knees buckled beneath the weight of his pressure.

And then—just as quickly—it vanished.

But the silence it left behind was absolute.

Azula's flames flickered… and died.

Her face twisted with grief and hate, but she said nothing.

She turned toward Max, eyes bloodshot, her voice now cold and slow—lethal.

"I will kill you. I will hunt down your friends. Your family. Every person who's ever known your name—I'll kill them in front of you. I will bury your soul in agony until you beg me to end it."

Max just laughed—sharp, bitter, cold.

"Pity."

He tilted his head.

"If only you'd brought a daughter along too. I would've taken my time with her… unlike Veylin."

His tone darkened.

"Honestly… I regret killing him so quickly."

Azula's entire body shook, fists clenched, flames itching to return—but she held back.

She had to.

She could not win—not now.

But her silence now… was just the promise of a storm to come.

And Max? He just stared back, eyes empty of fear.

He had crossed a line—and he wasn't going back.