Read Novel Full Chapter 205: And ice always cracked.
Chapter 205: And ice always cracked.
The applause for Doctor Voss faded slowly, reluctantly, like a tide that didn’t want to retreat.
Even after he left the stage in another flash of blue light, the hall buzzed with aftershocks. Scholars leaned toward each other in urgent whispers.
Military officials were already recalculating logistics in their heads. The implications of his work hung over the Feast like a new constellation, impossible to ignore.
The announcer allowed the energy to settle just enough before raising a hand.
"And so," he said smoothly, "we continue."
The screens above the platform shimmered again, reorganizing into a new image. This time it showed a woman standing on a frozen battlefield, her blade embedded in the skull of something colossal. The creature beneath her looked less like an animal and more like a natural disaster given flesh.
"Commander Rhea Talvorn," the announcer declared.
A column of pale light deposited her on the stage. She stood straight-backed, silver armor polished to a mirror sheen, her dark hair braided tightly behind her head. A scar crossed her nose and cheek in a pale slash that didn’t detract from her beauty so much as define it.
"Three months ago," the announcer continued, "Commander Talvorn led a force of eight hundred ascendants against the Frost Titan of the northern rift. A creature estimated to be capable of erasing an entire city if left unchecked."
The image above shifted, replaying the battle in stylized fragments. A mountain-sized silhouette moved through a blizzard. Lightning speared the sky. Tiny figures swarmed its legs like sparks against a storm.
"She returned," the announcer said, "with six hundred and twelve survivors... and the Titan’s head."
The hall erupted.
Rhea didn’t smile. She bowed once, crisp and respectful.
"We were lucky," she said when given the podium. Her voice was rough with disuse, more comfortable shouting orders than giving speeches. "Luck and discipline. The Titan bled. We made sure it didn’t stop bleeding."
A ripple of dark humor moved through the crowd.
"We lost people," she continued. "Good ones. Remember them when you celebrate. The north is quieter now because they paid for it."
She stepped back before the applause could swell into something sentimental. Her departure was as sharp as her arrival. Flash of light. Gone.
The Feast rolled forward.
A pair of researchers from a coastal academy presented a new barrier framework that allowed underwater cities to triple their depth limits. A young ascendant barely out of his teens demonstrated a technique that stabilized teleportation across unstable terrain, earning gasps when he vanished from the stage and reappeared in the rafters before dropping lightly back down.
Each achievement stacked atop the last, a tower of progress built in real time.
Some were martial. A veteran tactician unveiled a strategy that had broken a demon stronghold without a single civilian casualty. The screens replayed the operation like a chess match made of fire and steel, every move deliberate.
Others were quiet revolutions.
A healer introduced a regeneration protocol that cut recovery time for spinal injuries by seventy percent. The hall fell into reverent silence as the data scrolled overhead. Even the nobles, often numb to blood and war, understood what that meant. Futures restored. Families returned whole.
Between presentations, servants moved through the aisles with drinks and delicate sweets. No one truly tasted them. The Feast had shifted from indulgence to awe.
Sebastian sat beside Belle at the top of the dais, watching the procession with steady eyes. From this height the platform looked small, but the weight of what stood upon it was immense. Every person who stepped onto that stage altered the trajectory of the human domain in some way.
Belle remained still.
Her posture never changed, hands folded loosely in her lap, blindfold stark against the glow of the screens. Yet the air around her felt attentive, as if the hall itself were aware she hadn’t spoken a word and was waiting.
Another name rang out.
"Professor Ilmar Kest."
An elderly man appeared, stooped but sharp-eyed. His achievement was less dramatic but no less profound: a predictive model that mapped demon incursion patterns with ninety percent accuracy. The screens displayed branching probabilities like a forest of glowing veins.
"With this," the announcer said, "entire regions can prepare weeks in advance. We no longer wait for disaster. We meet it."
The applause was steady, respectful, grateful.
The Feast was no longer just a celebration. It was a ledger of survival.
One by one, more figures stepped into the light. A trio of engineers unveiled a city-scale energy lattice that could redistribute excess mana from wealthy districts to struggling ones. A reclusive archivist revealed a recovered pre-cataclysm text that rewrote sections of early magical history, sending scholars into visible shock.
The crowd rode waves of astonishment, never quite settling before the next surge arrived.
Time stretched.
The artificial night sky above deepened, stars rearranging subtly to mark the passing hours. Yet no one grew restless. The Feast held them in a gentle, relentless grip.
Finally, after another presentation faded into applause, the announcer stepped forward and didn’t immediately speak.
He waited.
The silence that formed wasn’t empty. It was anticipatory. The kind of hush that gathered before thunder.
When he did speak, his voice carried a new tone. Not louder. He didn’t need volume. The hall leaned toward him instinctively.
"Honored guests," he said, "we have celebrated innovation, courage, and brilliance tonight. We have witnessed the proof that humanity does not stand still."
He turned slowly, sweeping a gaze across the tiers.
"But there are moments," he continued, "that transcend achievement. Moments that define eras."
The screens dimmed.
The chandeliers softened, their gold light cooling toward silver. The platform beneath his feet brightened, isolating him in a circle of clarity.
"It is my honor," he said carefully, each word placed with precision, "to announce that Belle Ardent will now make a statement."
The name hit the hall like a physical force.
Sound vanished.
No murmurs. No whispers. Even breath seemed to hesitate.
Every head turned toward the uppermost dais as one. Thousands of eyes lifted, drawn to the blindfolded woman seated beside her student.
Belle didn’t move immediately.
The silence stretched, vast and electric, as the entire Feast waited for the strongest human alive to stand.
Belle rose.
The motion was small, almost delicate, yet it carried across the hall like a command. Chairs creaked as people unconsciously straightened. Conversations that had already died did not dare resurrect. Even the air felt disciplined, as if the Feast itself recognized authority and snapped to attention.
She stepped forward.
Her boots made a soft sound against the polished floor of the upper dais. Each step was unhurried. Controlled. The black blindfold across her eyes caught the glow of the suspended lights and turned it into a thin silver sheen. The coat she’d worn earlier was gone; she stood in formal black attire trimmed in gold, severe and elegant, the uniform of someone who did not need decoration to be remembered.
Sebastian remained seated as she passed, but his gaze followed her with quiet intensity. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Something electric ran between them, a silent acknowledgment that this moment had weight far beyond ceremony.
Belle reached the edge of the dais.
The announcer stepped back without needing to be asked. No introduction followed. None was required. The entire human domain knew her name. Knew the wars she had ended. The monsters she had erased. The cities she had saved by arriving a single second before annihilation.
She stood alone on the platform.
The lights shifted subtly, focusing on her. The screens above didn’t display her image. They didn’t dare reduce her to projection. Instead they dimmed, leaving her figure stark against the vastness of the hall.
For several seconds, she simply looked out over the crowd.
Or appeared to.
Those who didn’t know her might have thought the blindfold made the gesture symbolic. Those who did know better understood she saw more than anyone in that room ever could. Her awareness pressed outward like a tide. People felt it crawl across their skin, a phantom touch that wasn’t invasive, just undeniable.
She was measuring the hall.
Measuring them.
Kings, queens, generals, scholars, ascendants, nobles, diplomats. Every pillar of human civilization sat beneath her gaze, waiting.
When she spoke, her voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be. It carried effortlessly, smooth and calm, threading through the air until it reached the furthest seat.
"I won’t waste your time with ceremony," she said.
A faint ripple of nervous laughter flickered and died.
"This Feast exists to celebrate achievement," she continued. "But tonight I’m not here to celebrate. I’m here to prepare you."
The word prepare settled heavily.
Several officials shifted in their seats. The mention of preparation pulled everyone’s thoughts in the same direction. Toward borders. Toward the uneasy quiet that had held for three years.
Toward the treaty.
"The Five-Year Treaty," Belle said, confirming the collective thought, "ends in two years."
The hall tightened.
No one reacted loudly. These were people trained to hold composure under pressure. But tension moved like a shadow across the tiers. Shoulders stiffened. Eyes sharpened. Hands clasped a little tighter.
"We all knew," she said calmly, "that peace was temporary. It was never meant to be permanent. It was a breath. A pause between storms."
The memory of the war still lived in the bones of the older attendees. Cities burned into glass. Skies split open. The ground drinking blood faster than rain could wash it clean. The treaty hadn’t ended the hatred between races. It had only frozen it.
And ice always cracked.