nownovels Chapter 627 - 626- Viktor’s Anger Mode
Chapter 627 - 626- Viktor’s Anger Mode
"Mind your language."Evriana’s voice cut through the tent like a blade.
The words were quiet. The particular, low, dangerous, do-not-make-me-repeat-myself tone of a woman whose authority was absolute and was being challenged.
The commander’s mouth closed.
"He is Viktor Ktorian," Evriana said. "My nephew."
The name landed.
’Ktorian.’
Not Redwood. Not Viktor-the-soldier. Not Viktor-the-pretty-boy-in-cheap-armor. ’Viktor Ktorian.’ The nephew of the princess. The blood of the main line. The son of Celestia — the eldest daughter, the heir, the woman whose name was spoken with reverence in every hall of the Ktorian family.
The tent went silent.
The particular, absolute, you-could-hear-a-pin-drop silence of a room full of men who had just realized they had been sitting in the presence of royalty and had not known it.
They stood.
Every commander. Every officer. Every guard. The particular, immediate, reflexive, ingrained-from-childhood response of men who had been trained to recognize rank and had failed to recognize it and were now correcting the failure with the deepest, most formal, most desperate bow they could produce.
"Our apologies," the scarred commander said. His voice had changed. The aggression was gone. The particular, humbled, I-have-made-a-terrible-mistake tone of a man who had challenged royalty and was now calculating the odds of keeping his head.
Viktor looked at them.
The bull-headed guys, he thought. At least they were smart enough to recognize the name.
He gave a gesture — the small, dismissive, sit-down wave of a man who was not offended and wanted everyone to stop bowing because the bowing was wasting time.
They sat.
Trembling.
The particular, full-body, nervous, I-am-in-the-presence-of-someone-who-could-end-my-career trembling of men who had just learned that the pretty boy in cheap armor was the nephew of the princess and was therefore someone whose bad side was a career-ending location.
The strategy session resumed.
A magic tool sat on the table — a particular, crystalline, glowing device that hummed with enchanted energy. It was a demonic energy sensor. The particular, military-grade, detection instrument that the Ktorian family used to locate and track demon activity.
The explainer — a thin, bespectacled officer with the particular, nervous, I-am-presenting-to-my-superiors energy of a man who had been given a map and a pointer and had been told to explain — pointed at the map.
"The monsters are getting demonized," he said. "Their behavior is very strange. Boars and goblins in this area are attacking. The aggression is unusual. Coordinated. Organized."
He pointed at the map.
Two circles. One outer, one inner. The outer circle was marked with blue dots. The inner circle was marked with a red dot.
"The outer zone," the explainer said, his pointer tracing the blue circle. "We are seeing symptoms of demonization in the monsters here. Aggressive behavior. Unusual pack coordination. The boars are forming squads. The goblins are using tactics."
He moved the pointer inward.
"The inner zone. The red dot. Here, the sensor is picking up a concentrated source of demonic energy. Most likely a demon tribe general or a higher-ranking demon. Something that is producing the energy that is demonizing the outer zone."
The commanders leaned in. Their faces carried the particular, grim, this-is-worse-than-we-expected expression of men who had been hoping for a simple goblin hunt and had just learned they were dealing with a demon general.
Eyes moved to Viktor.
The particular, sideways, evaluative, we-should-probably-get-on-his-good-side glances of commanders who had just learned that the pretty boy was royalty and were now calculating the political value of an alliance.
Viktor noticed.
The violet eyes — scanning the room, reading the glances, interpreting the body language — processed the information with the particular, patient, predatory, cataloging efficiency of a man who saw everything and filed it.
’At least I am not abandoned,’ he thought.
The Ktorian family had not treated him as a random soldier. They had created an image of him — a reputation, a name, a presence — that was still alive within the family. The commanders who had never met him knew his name. Knew his blood. Knew that the nephew of the princess was not a man to be dismissed.
The explainer continued. Viktor listened. His eyes on the map. The blue dots. The red dot. The circles.
He spoke.
"The middle zone," he said. "It is underground. Not above it."
The tent went quiet.
The explainer looked at him. The commanders looked at him. Evriana looked at him.
"Most probably, above ground would be the radiation of it," Viktor continued. "The device is picking up the radiated energy — the demonic energy that leaks from the source and spreads outward. The source itself is below. The real deal is underground."
The commanders looked at each other.
The particular, confused, what-is-he-talking-about, this-pretty-boy-is-correcting-our-intelligence expressions of men who had not considered the possibility that the demon was below them.
"What?" the scarred commander said.
Viktor’s finger tapped the map.
"There is a cave," he said. "On the side of the mountain. The outer edges. We can enter from there."
The tent was silent.
Evriana’s eyes were on him. The amber irises — sharp, focused, the particular, I-am-evaluating-you gaze of a woman who was trying to understand how her nephew knew things that her intelligence officers did not.
"How do you know that?" she asked.
The question was direct. Not accusatory. The particular, military, I-need-intelligence-and-I-need-it-now tone of a commander who required information.
Viktor looked at her.
His violet eyes met her amber ones.
"I know because—"
He blinked.
The pause was deliberate. The particular, I-am-about-to-say-something-that-will-make-this-complicated pause of a man who was choosing his words.
"—did Aunt Celestia not tell you?"
The name landed.
’Celestia.’
Evriana’s body went rigid. The particular, full-body, every-muscle-locking, jaw-clenching, breath-stopping response to a name that carried the weight of last night’s revelation — the discovery that her elder sister had had sex with her nephew — and the particular, devastating, I-cannot-deal-with-this-right-now reality of having that name spoken aloud in a room full of commanders.
She shook her head.
The motion was small. Tight. The particular, controlled, I-will-not-show-emotion, military-grade head shake of a woman who was dying inside and was refusing to let it show.
Viktor sighed.
"Then you, I, and Berenga would only follow," he said. "The three of us. We enter the cave. We handle the source."
Evriana’s confusion was immediate.
"What?" she said. "Commander companies retreating? What are you — you cannot simply—"
He glared.
The particular, violet-eyed, blood-rising, killing-intent glare that he had inherited from his mother — the particular, Ktorian-family, matriarchal, I-am-the-apex-predator-in-this-room-and-you-will-obey gaze that made the air itself feel heavier.
Everyone choked.
The commanders — all of them, every scarred, battle-hardened, bull-kin officer in the tent — felt it. The particular, throat-closing, chest-compressing, knife-on-the-neck sensation of being in the presence of something that could kill them.
Their swords moved.
Not in their hands. Not drawn from scabbards. The swords — the weapons hanging at every commander’s hip, the steel blades that were their primary tools of war — lifted. Into the air. On their own. The particular, telekinetic, matter-manipulated, floating-in-midair, points-toward-throats demonstration of a power that should not have existed in a man this young.
Every sword in the tent hovered.
Pointed at its owner.
The particular, blade-at-the-neck, your-own-weapon-is-now-your-executioner, I-could-kill-everyone-here-before-anyone-draws-a-breath demonstration of dominance that made the commanders’ faces go white.
Even Evriana felt it.
Even Berenga — the woman he had fucked into the moss last night, the commander who had been destroyed by his cock — felt it. The particular, stomach-dropping, this-man-fucked-me-and-I-did-not-realize-he-could-kill-me realization that she had been in the hands of something far more dangerous than a twelve-inch cock.
Viktor folded his hands.
The casual, relaxed, unhurried gesture of a man who was holding a room full of swords at attention and was not even concentrating.
"I am more than capable enough to kill all of you here," he said. His voice was calm. Conversational. The particular, mild, unbothered, I-am-stating-a-fact tone of a man who was not threatening but informing.
"Do you think I would be weaker than the demons?"