Rise of The Abandoned Husband

I slammed into Marc Fairlight with all the force I could muster, our auras colliding in a spectacular explosion of gold and blue. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the courtyard, cracking stone and shattering the remaining windows.

Marc staggered back, surprise flashing across his face. He clearly hadn't expected me to match his power so easily.

"Impossible," he hissed, quickly regaining his composure. "You're no Martial Sage."

I didn't waste breath responding. Instead, I pressed my advantage, channeling energy into my fist and driving it toward his chest. Marc barely deflected the blow, his eyes widening as the force behind my attack pushed him back several feet.

"You'll regret insulting Isabelle," I said, advancing steadily.

Marc's face contorted with rage. He unleashed a flurry of strikes, each empowered with his ice-blue energy. I weaved through them, feeling the cold burn as several grazed my shoulders and arms.

"Is that the best you can do?" I taunted, catching his wrist and twisting it sharply.

Marc howled in pain but managed to break free with a burst of energy. His companions looked on nervously, clearly torn between intervening and self-preservation.

"Young Master Fairlight," one of them called out, "perhaps we should—"

"Silence!" Marc snapped, his pride visibly wounded. "I don't need help dealing with this upstart."

I smiled coldly. "Are you sure about that?"

Marc roared and charged again, this time gathering energy for a more powerful technique. The air around him frosted over as he summoned what looked like his signature move.

"Frost Dragon's Descent!"

A massive serpentine construct of ice and energy formed above him, diving toward me with jaws agape. It was an impressive technique—one that would have frozen most opponents solid.

But I'd faced far worse.

I met the attack head-on, my golden aura intensifying as I channeled the Nine Secrets technique Mariana had taught me. The dragon crashed against my defenses, ice splintering and shattering as it encountered my superior energy.

Marc's jaw dropped as his ultimate technique crumbled before his eyes.

I didn't give him time to recover. With blinding speed, I closed the distance between us and landed a devastating palm strike to his chest. Marc flew backward, crashing into one of the courtyard's stone columns with enough force to crack it down the middle.

He slumped to the ground, coughing blood, his pristine robes now tattered and stained.

"That's enough!" An authoritative voice cut through the tension.

An elderly man stepped forward from Marc's group, his expression severe. "Young Master Fairlight, this display is unbecoming of your station."

Marc struggled to his feet, rage and humiliation warring on his face. "He dared to—"

"I know what happened," the elder interrupted. "But this is not how we handle matters. Your father would be disappointed."

Those words seemed to strike harder than any physical blow. Marc's face paled, then flushed with anger.

"This isn't over, Knight," he spat, wiping blood from his lip. "You have no idea what forces you're playing with."

I remained silent, watching as the elder helped stabilize Marc. The message was clear: Marc might have authority from his father, but he wasn't quite ready to wield it effectively.

After catching his breath, Marc turned his attention to Emerson Holmes, who had been watching our exchange with barely concealed terror.

"You," Marc snapped, pointing at the Guild President. "Clear everyone out of this area. Now."

Emerson Holmes straightened his robes and, to my surprise, shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Master Fairlight."

Marc blinked, clearly not expecting resistance after his display of power. "What did you just say to me?"

"While I acknowledge your father's position and Ms. Hayward's intentions, I am still the acting President of the Veridia City Martial Guild," Holmes replied, his voice steadier than I'd ever heard it. "These young masters and mistresses represent the most influential families in our city—families whose support keeps this Guild functioning."

Marc's face darkened. "You dare defy me?"

"It's not defiance," Holmes continued, gaining confidence. "It's practicality. The Bradford family alone contributes thirty percent of our annual operating budget. The Rostovas provide exclusive access to rare cultivation resources. Without their continued support, the Guild's very existence would be threatened."

I watched with interest as Emerson Holmes, typically spineless and corrupt, suddenly found his backbone when facing institutional collapse.

"You think I care about money?" Marc scoffed.

"Perhaps not," Holmes conceded. "But your father does. The Second Secret Realm may be powerful, but it doesn't exist in isolation. We all need allies."

The elder at Marc's side whispered something in his ear. Whatever he said caused Marc to stiffen, then reluctantly back down.

"This humiliation will not be forgotten, Holmes," Marc said, his voice cold with promise. "When my father hears of this—"

"Please, do inform him," Holmes replied smoothly. "I'm certain he'll understand the delicate balance of power we maintain here."

Marc shot me one final venomous glare before turning away. "Come," he ordered his companions. "We have more important matters to attend to."

As they walked away, I heard Marc mutter, "Knight will pay for this. They all will."

Once Marc was out of sight, Holmes exhaled shakily, looking like a man who'd just gambled everything and somehow survived. He turned to face the remaining nobles, including a bruised Blaise Rostova who had regained consciousness.

"My apologies for the interruption," he said, forcing a smile. "Shall we continue?"

He approached the massive doors of the Scripture Pavilion once more, pressing the token against the ancient lock. The runes glowed brighter this time, responding to the key's energy. With a deep, resonant rumble, the massive doors began to swing inward.

"The Scripture Pavilion is now open," Holmes announced grandly. "Please enter with respect and reverence. This sacred space houses knowledge dating back thousands of years."

The nobles murmured excitedly, previous tensions forgotten as they crowded forward. I fell in behind them, curious despite myself about what lay within.

As I crossed the threshold, however, an invisible force slammed into me like a physical wall. Pain radiated through my body, my muscles seizing as if rejecting entry. I staggered, gritting my teeth against the unexpected assault.

"What the hell?" I muttered, pushing forward despite the resistance.

The pain intensified with each step, my vision blurring momentarily. This wasn't a physical barrier—it was something more fundamental, as if the very essence of the pavilion was rejecting me.

"The Pavilion tests all who enter," a soft voice explained beside me. I turned to find an elderly caretaker watching me with knowing eyes. "Those with heavy killing intent often face resistance."

I nodded grimly, understanding the implication. My path had been soaked in blood lately—necessary blood, but blood nonetheless. This sacred place of knowledge was reacting to the darkness that had grown within me.

Forcing myself forward, I finally broke through the invisible barrier, the resistance fading as I fully entered the vast hall. Inside, the pavilion opened into a magnificent space lined with ancient scrolls and texts. Soft, ambient light emanated from nowhere and everywhere, illuminating rows of study tables where scholars once pored over forbidden knowledge.

The nobles had already spread throughout the hall, exclaiming over rare texts and arguing about which sections might contain the most valuable techniques.

"Can you believe Marc Fairlight's arrogance?" Ricardo Beaumont complained loudly to his companions. "Coming in here, acting like he owns the place!"

"The Fairlights have always been insufferable," another noble agreed. "Just because they control one of the Secret Realms doesn't make them royalty."

I watched this hypocritical display with cold amusement. These were the same people who had cowered before Marc just minutes ago.

"Knight!" Darnell Bradford called out, approaching with a friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That was quite the display of power. I had no idea you were so formidable."

"Now you know," I replied flatly.

"Indeed, indeed," Darnell continued, undeterred by my coldness. "You know, the Bradford family is always looking to ally with rising talents. Perhaps we could discuss—"

"Stop," I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. "Two months ago, you refused to acknowledge my existence at the Grand Tournament. Three weeks ago, you laughed when your cousin called me a 'country bumpkin with delusions of grandeur.' Now you want an alliance?"

Darnell paled, his smile faltering. "I... that was a misunderstanding—"

"And you," I turned to Ricardo Beaumont, who had drifted closer to listen, "told everyone at the Autumn Banquet that I was 'nothing but Mariana's pet project, bound to fail when facing real competition.'"

Ricardo sputtered, "I never said—"

"Yes, you did," I interrupted. "You were drunk on Celestial Dew Wine and thought no one important was listening."

The gathered nobles fell silent, watching our exchange with wide eyes.

"The problem with all of you," I continued, my voice carrying through the hall, "isn't just your arrogance. It's your assumption that others will forget how you've treated them once you decide they're useful. You call Marc Fairlight insufferable, yet you're cut from the same cloth—you just lack his power."

I walked past their stunned faces, heading deeper into the pavilion.

"At least Marc Fairlight was consistent," I called over my shoulder. "He didn't pretend to respect me after I proved my strength."

Behind me, I left a wake of speechless aristocrats, their faces flushed with a mixture of anger and shame. Whatever tentative alliances might have formed were now shattered by the harsh mirror I'd held up to their behavior.

As I moved deeper into the sacred hall, I wondered what ancient knowledge awaited me—and what price I might have to pay to access it.