Khepri stood tall above the shattered remnants of the Estate, the air around him still thick with mana that refused to settle. Bodies were being carried, med-bots hovered past unconscious figures, and distant alarms echoed like fading thunder. But Khepri heard none of it—not truly.
His eyes were locked on the boy.
That piercing yellow gaze. That calm, emotionless face. That eerie detachment as he sat atop the colossal tigress as though he were the eye of the storm, untouched by the chaos around him.
Thunder Clan.
Khepri didn't need confirmation. He knew. That clan's bloodline carried an unmistakable arrogance—born not from pride, but from conviction, as if the world beneath them existed merely as a stage for their will.
But this boy...
His face.
His hair.
His presence.
He was supposed to be dead.
The very reason why war had erupted between the Higher Clan and the Thunder Clan. The catalyst behind one of the most brutal, costly campaigns in recent memory.
