Chapter 37: The Focus of All Eyes

In a remote and unreachable mountain valley, an ancient castle, shrouded in the moss of time and an aura of mystery, stood in silent vigil. Like a crag in the river of time, it had remained unmoved for ten thousand years. The architectural style of the castle blended classical and modern elements; its main structure was built of sturdy stone, draped in emerald ivy. The grand gate shimmered with a strange glow, the faint pulse of magic at play. Above the main entrance, a massive plaque inscribed with "Cobalt Soul Academy" flickered in and out of sight amidst the mountain mist.

As night fell, darkness enveloped the ancient academy. A mottled owl spread its broad wings and glided silently across the night sky, its eyes gleaming with a mysterious and sharp light in the darkness, clutching a scroll of parchment. Its wings trembled slightly in the wind, yet it did not slow its flight. Finally, it dove into the ancient castle, circled a few times, and expertly found a narrow window, slipping inside with agility.

Inside the room, candlelight flickered softly. The owl landed on a desk piled high with books and scrolls, releasing its talons so that the letter landed firmly on the surface. The owl turned its head, its yellow eyes fixed on the recipient with a remarkably human-like gaze, as if waiting for something.

The recipient had a thick mane of long, silvery-white hair that fell loosely over his shoulders like moonlight shed upon the earth. His slender beard was equally snow-white, hanging neatly and solemnly over his chest. His eyes were deep and blue, reminiscent of an endless ocean, his gentle gaze revealing a sharpness and keen insight that seemed to see through everything. His face was etched with wrinkles, each one appearing to tell an untold story. Upon seeing the owl, he flicked his wand.

A plume of blue mist flew into the owl, causing a distinctly human-like expression of comfort to appear on its face. "There now, eat too greedily again, and I shall not let you out!"

The owl gave a soft hoot. Dumbledore gently stroked the owl's feathers and opened the letter to read it carefully. A moment later, his body trembled slightly, and a look of astonishment flashed in his eyes. The "God-Calling Art," lost for ten thousand years? A suspected ancient secret profession: [Dragon Seal · Weapon Master]? It seems the Northwest Continent has produced an interesting little fellow!

After much deliberation, Dumbledore took up paper and pen to draft a reply: "Your report has been received. My advice is to keep this person under secret observation for now. Once his true identity and factional stance are confirmed, we may consider issuing an invitation. Furthermore, I suggest elevating this matter to be overseen by the Dean of the Northwest Continent branch."

Having finished the letter, he patted the owl on the head. The owl grasped the reply in its talons, took wing, and vanished into the night.

...

Today, the Florence Extraordinary Arena was crowded, yet it was far quieter than usual. Not a single ordinary citizen could be seen throughout the entire arena.

Even in the upper-tier open stands, those seated were nobles dressed in refined attire and carrying themselves with dignity. The boxes on the first two levels were filled to an unprecedented degree. International organizations from across the continent, the Aefin Senate, cabinet ministers, the dukes of the Four Frontiers, the military, and various hereditary nobles were all either present in person or had sent representatives to witness today's match. The Extraordinary Arena had been under martial law since last night, with the Imperial Guard taking control of the area within a five-kilometer radius. Many speculated whether His Majesty the King or Her Majesty the Queen would attend the match in person.

Wearing a mask, Cohen felt the complex gazes from the stands. With a calm expression and a steady gait, he stepped onto the arena floor. Unlike his usual low-key attire, Cohen wore a deep purple velvet robe today, adorned with a brilliant brooch at the collar. Underneath was a snow-white silk shirt, cinched at the waist with a gold belt. The impeccably tailored clothing perfectly accentuated his tall, athletic frame; his broad shoulders filled the silhouette of the shirt, and the belt emphasized the golden ratio of his stature. He wore a magnificent cloak of heavy brocade, trimmed with golden tassels that swayed gently with his every step, exuding nobility and majesty. At this moment, he did not look like a combatant about to enter the ring, but rather like a young monarch returning in triumph from a campaign.

Observing Cohen’s dashing posture and elegant, composed temperament, the assembled nobles were certain of one thing: he was one of their own. This sense of decency and nobility emanating from his very bones was something commoners could not learn in a thousand lifetimes.

In a first-tier box, Isabella frowned slightly and let out a cold snort. "Is he dressed so ostentatiously just to seduce noble ladies?"

Beside her, Nephthys glanced at Isabella, silently remarking to herself, *Are you talking about yourself? Look at how your eyes are shining; you look like you want to pounce on him. Can you not show a little restraint as a Daughter of the Golden Wing?*

Mr. Moduo, clearly noticing his mistress's expression, coughed lightly and said, "Indeed. If one didn't know better, they'd think he was some young noble out for a romp! Mistress, Master often says we should keep our distance from such men; they are the most adept at playing with a woman's heart."

Isabella arched a delicate eyebrow. "Uncle Moduo, the man you call so adept at playing with women's hearts is currently finding a way to save your nephew."

Moduo’s expression turned slightly awkward. No matter how much he disliked the boy, he had to acknowledge the favor.

Meanwhile, Andre sat with Sandro, the second son of the Duke of the South, who said with unconcealed jealousy, "Dressed up like a peacock in heat."

Andre smiled sardonically. "Why be angry, Second Young Master? With the 'Black Tomb' making a move, he won't be jumping around for many more days."

Sandro’s brow twitched violently, and he muttered something under his breath without speaking any louder.

In a second-tier box, Bogus, who had been arrogant and overbearing just yesterday, now dared not breathe a word, carefully attending to a middle-aged man beside him. The man had a resolute face with sharp, hard lines, his hair combed neatly to one side without a single strand out of place. His black hair was streaked with silver, adding to his air of experience and composure. Every gesture exuded the style of a high-ranking bureaucrat.

This was Theodore DuPont, Bogus's uncle, the current Vice President of the Aefin High Court and Assistant to the National Chancellor. He was a trusted confidant and right-hand man to the new National Chancellor, Baron Gore Philip, and a rising political star in Florence’s political circles—a man of high position and immense power.

Theodore observed for a moment before speaking. "This man is not some young person with a bit of talent, as you described. His composure and poise alone far surpass yours."

Bogus hid his jealousy well and smiled obsequiously. "My uncle is right. It was my lack of foresight yesterday; otherwise, I would not have had such a major conflict with him."

Theodore’s tone remained cold and stern as he asked, "Are you certain he has reached an agreement with Nephthys? That your engagement to her cannot continue?"

Bogus said resentfully, "Yes, that wretch said it herself."

Theodore’s gaze toward Cohen grew as sharp as a blade. "Then it seems we were never destined to be friends. Nephthys is important; she must be one of us."

Excitement welled up in Bogus. He did not know why his uncle placed such importance on Nephthys, but the thought that there was still a chance for him and her filled him with joy.

Theodore’s voice continued to ring in his ears. "Watch closely today and learn. To deal with an enemy, one must use wisdom, conspiracy, and power. Never show your face; stab them in the back! To engage in a direct, foolish confrontation like you did—that is the mark of a brute, the mark of stupidity."

Bogus’s eyes lit up, and he asked eagerly, "Does Uncle have arrangements for today?"

A flicker of cold malice crossed Theodore’s features. "I will ensure that under the gaze of the masses, he suffers agonizing torment and tastes the failure of despair!"