Anomaly of Fate
Chapter 86: A Noble Secret

Chapter 86: A Noble Secret

"What... did you just say?" Velren’s voice came out slower than intended, as if his mind was still catching up.

Mikhail finally turned his attention away from the arena and faced him. "You heard me," he said, crossing his arms.

"After the Dominion Clash, I took that piece to someone who knows their shit when it comes to these kind of things."

Velren furrowed his brows. "And?"

"They told me it’s a rare and valuable material—something that shouldn’t even exist in common circulation."

Mikhail tapped the railing lightly, drifting his gaze downward.

"The stuff’s called Ebonite Alloy."

Velren glanced back at the chunk of dark metal in his palm. Ebonite Alloy... The name sounded unfamiliar, but something about the way Mikhail was speaking made it clear that it should mean something.

Mikhail continued, his voice taking on a more measured tone.

"This isn’t just some random high-grade material. Ebonite Alloy is the trademark of House Rhaegis."

Velren’s grip on the piece tightened.

"House Rhaegis? You mean—"

"Alistair’s family," Mikhail confirmed.

"And not just any noble house—they’re artificers, the best in Elyndra. Their entire household has spent generations studying, refining, and producing the strongest combat gear and relics. Their specialty? Weapons and armor infused with Ebonite Alloy. If you see something made from it, chances are it came from their forges—or at least, it was meant to."

Velren exhaled slowly, glancing back toward the arena where Alistair stood, with his massive black claymore still resting on his shoulder.

The intruder from the island—the Kaovus—was made of the same material that House Rhaegis used in their creations.

Velren exhaled sharply, flickering his gaze between the piece of the Ebonite Alloy in his hand and the arena below.

"You know... that doesn’t actually prove that he’s guilty of anything."

Mikhail didn’t disagree. "No. But it sure as hell earns my suspicion."

His arms were crossed as he leaned against the railing, watching Alistair bask in the aftermath of his effortless victory.

Velren shifted his stance.

"Why didn’t you bring this up when we were meeting with Professor Vekar? Or... did you already told him beforehand?"

Mikhail let out a dry scoff.

"No. I didn’t."

Velren raised a brow.

"Why?"

Mikhail rolled his shoulders as if debating how much to say.

"Because my suspicion isn’t enough. If I threw out accusations based on a hunch, especially against him, all I’d get is pushback. You saw how people treat the guy. He’s not just some noble—he’s practically royalty in the Academy. If I wanted people to actually listen, I’d need proof. Not just a scrap of metal and bad timing."

Velren frowned, considering that for a moment. It made sense—annoyingly so. He knew firsthand that authority figures weren’t always keen to act on mere speculation, no matter how strong the gut feeling behind it was.

Still, that didn’t explain one thing.

"...Then why tell me?"

Mikhail finally turned to look at him.

"Because I heard from Solenne." His eyes narrowed slightly.

"She told me you were the one who landed the finishing blow on the Kaovus."

"And?"

"And that’s enough for me to know you’re not the wrong person to tell. For now, at least."

That... sounded reassuring. Nice to know that he wasn’t on the other end of Mikhail’s suspicion.

For a moment, Velren simply stared at him, rolling the strange, weighty shard between his fingers. Then, with a slight frown, he finally asked:

"Alright, but what’s your intention with all this? Why go through the hassle? What are you actually trying to do here?"

Mikhail didn’t hesitate.

"It’s just like what the professor said. The Kaovus was sent for an assassination attempt."

He turned his gaze back to the arena below, where Alistair was making his way off the battlefield, victorious.

"That means someone powerful enough to control something like that wanted a high-profile target dead. And if that’s the case..." He exhaled sharply, as if the thought itself was exhausting.

"That means a war could be on the horizon."

Velren’s brows knitted together.

"War?"

Mikhail scoffed slightly, shifting his stance.

"A commoner like you probably wouldn’t get it."

Was that meant to be insulting, or what? Velren crossed his arms, raising a brow.

"So what, you’re just gonna keep following Alistair wherever he goes?"

Mikhail sighed, rubbing his temple as if Velren had just given him a headache.

"That was the plan at first, but—"

Before he could finish, the intercom system roared to life again, its static-filled voice cutting through the lingering noise of the crowd.

"As per the rules of the Gauntlet Cycle, the victorious combatant has exercised their right to continue the challenge. Alistair Rhaegis remains in the arena. The next challenger is now being selected!"

Velren’s brows shot up. Wait, hold on—he’s staying in?

That meant Alistair wasn’t just here for a single fight—he had willingly chosen to keep going, to take on more opponents one after another. Was this why he’d come in the first place? To prove something? Or was it just another way for him to flaunt his ridiculous strength?

Mikhail clicked his tongue in frustration.

"I don’t have time for this."

Without another word, he abruptly reached over, snatching the black chunk of material from Velren’s grasp before turning on his heel.

Velren blinked, then scowled.

"Oi—where the hell are you going?"

Mikhail barely spared him a glance. "Down there."

Velren stiffened. Down there? As in—the arena? Is he... planning to challenge Alistair?

"That’s your plan?" Velren narrowed his eyes.

"I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but shouldn’t you at least handle this more... subtly?"

Mikhail let out a short, humorless chuckle.

"Subtly? What, you want me to sneak around and whisper sweet nothings in his ear until he confesses?"

He shook his head, eyes sharp with irritation.

"No. That bastard’s not stupid—if I start poking around in the shadows, he’ll catch on, and then I lose any chance of cornering him."

He turned slightly, glancing toward the arena below.

"But this place? This is the perfect stage. Here, he can’t just walk away. He can’t dodge questions with empty words or noble pleasantries. In a match, there’s nowhere to hide."

Mikhail’s fingers curled slightly, with the weight of the black material still in his grasp.

"If I want answers, this is the best way to get them—by forcing them out of him, head-on."