I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 840: Debating

The high obsidian plateau of Floor Twenty-Five caught the thin, freezing mountain wind, whipping the edges of Jack Kaiser’s dark coat against his shins.

Below the sheer precipice, the sprawling demonic biomes stretched across the horizon under shifting auroras, their synchronized troop movements sending a rhythmic, low-frequency hum vibrating upward through the solid rock.

The petrified cedar trees lining the southern ridge stood motionless, their blackened needles coated in a glaze of dry frost that refused to thaw under the artificial sky.

At the center of the plateau, the ten newly bound Council members remained gathered in an involuntary cluster.

The rich emerald velvets of Elowen Ashwood’s skirts and the layered crimson silks of Sable Malakor rustled steadily as the cold draft bit into their tailored garments.

Their breaths rose in shallow, white plumes, their postures rigid and their shoulders drawn tight toward their necks.

Every gaze remained pinned to the twin spatial projections hovering three feet above the dark stone, where Loryn’s dark mana held reality open like stretched parchment.

The portal on the right was still and pale, framing the vast glacial expanses of Floor Twenty-Two.

The image showed Prince Rhys stepping across a field of blue permafrost on the distant outskirts of the floor, the green contractual runes along his forearms casting a soft, emerald reflection against the towering frozen spires.

Mira walked half a pace behind his flank, her leather suppression gloves resting on her thighs, her footsteps leaving shallow depressions in the snow crust.

They had only just crossed the threshold into the frozen borderlands, maintaining a slow, measured advance toward the distant glacial sanctum.

The portal on the left was an unrelenting tempest of brine and blood.

Floor Eleven was drowning in its own turbulence.

Captain Theo Althalos was kneeling upon the neck of the Disaster-class Dragon, his left arm hanging limp where a pressurized water javelin had fractured the pauldron and driven the silver plate deep into the muscle.

The golden filigree across his breastplate was blackened by sulfuric foam and smeared with dark indigo demon blood.

His golden hair hung in matted strings across his eyes, his mouth open in ragged, wheezing gasps as he forced his right hand to lift his broadsword.

Below the thrashing wings of the dragon, the ocean boiled.

Dozens of four-armed Tidefang demons breached the slate-gray waves, their iridescent scales glistening under the mist as their tridents rose in coordinated salvos.

Three more barbed harpoons struck the dragon’s armored flank, sinking between the obsidian scales.

The heavy kelp ropes grew taut instantly, groaning under the collective downward weight of fifty aquatic demons attempting to drag the flying mount beneath the churning surface.

The dragon roared, a deafening blast of kinetic sound that fractured the water into sheets of white foam, yet the beast refused to dive into the deeps to purge the nest.

It hovered, banking stubbornly against the gale, prioritizing its own survival while ignoring Theo’s desperate shouts.

——

Elowen Ashwood took a slow step toward the left projection.

Her porcelain fingers tightened into fists within the folds of her green velvet gown, the fabric pulling taut across her knuckles until the skin turned bloodless.

“He cannot reach them,” Elowen said, her voice dropping into the quiet of the plateau. “His martial discipline relies on high-velocity wind cuts and linear light thrusts. The salt mist refracts his light before it travels twenty paces, and the water pressure absorbs his wind blades. He is sitting on an apex dragon mount, yet scouts are picking him apart because he cannot touch the ocean floor.”

Sable Malakor stepped forward to Elowen’s shoulder, her amethyst eyes narrowing into cold, sharp slits as she looked past the scrying window and fixed her gaze on Jack Kaiser’s spine.

The dark leather bodice across her chest rose and fell with rapid, controlled breaths, the tension in her jaw pulling the pale skin of her neck tight.

“The trial is compromised,” Sable stated, her tone carrying the formal weight of an aristocratic prosecutor addressing a supreme magistrate.

“You placed the true heir on an upper floor where the native population yields to his companion out of historical terror, avoiding entire combat engagements. You placed the Senior Praetor of the Sovereign Vanguard over an abyssal trench that invalidates his entire magical foundation. This is not an assessment of martial capability or sovereign worth. It is a slow, theatrical execution designed to humiliate the high-born lineages.”

Sirius Anake shifted his footing, his heavy military boots grinding against the obsidian stone.

The deep campaign scars along his jaw flushed a dark, mottled red as he looked from the bloody feed of Floor Eleven to King Maelor’s towering, silent frame.

“The founding charters of Caeloria state clearly that trial grounds must present an equitable test of arms,” Sirius said, his deep voice carrying the unyielding cadence of a veteran commander.

“A warrior cannot demonstrate superiority over a domain he possesses no physical means to inhabit. If the Crown permits this slaughter to proceed, the Vanguard will view the outcome not as a legitimate succession, but as murder under the guise of ancient law.”

Jack Kaiser did not turn around immediately. He stood at the edge of the overlook, his hands buried deep within his coat pockets, watching a distant herd of dread-rank minotaurs march in silent ranks along the valley road below.

The wind caught his white hair, blowing it back from his forehead to reveal the unblinking, heterochromic intensity of his eyes.

When Jack finally turned, his movement was slow and fluid, carrying no defensive tension or physical agitation.

He looked across the ten nobles, his eyes lingering on Sable’s rigid jaw before moving casually to Sirius and Elowen.

“You speak of equity and charters as if the universe owes your pride an explanation,” Jack said, his voice flat, rhythmic, and cold enough to cut through the mountain draft.

“Theo Althalos entered that portal with an ancient, Disaster-class Dragon between his knees. That beast possesses enough raw physical mass to flatten a city gate and enough concentrated plasma in its lungs to boil an inland lake.

He had the high ground. He had the elemental superiority of flight. He had an immortal vanguard unit pledged to ensure his lungs continued to draw air.”

Jack took two paces toward the Council, stopping just before the edge of the scrying projection.

He pointed a single, pale finger toward the left portal, where Theo was currently screaming as another harpoon tore a strip of flesh from the dragon’s underbelly.

“Look at him,” Jack continued, his tone devoid of mockery, presenting only the bare, unvarnished reality of the feed.

“He is failing not because the ocean is deep, but because his mind is narrow. He was trained in pristine courtyards where opponents stand on manicured grass, announce their lineages, and strike within predetermined paths of attack.

When the world refuses to conform to his academy textbooks, he panics. He hacks at ropes instead of burning the water. He screams at a dragon that does not respect his weakness instead of reading the flow of the currents. Plainly, he is a weak individual.”

Jack lowered his hand, his gaze sweeping across the pale faces of the ten lineage heads.