The Pursuit Of Catalyst: A Dive Into Another Verse

Zweinston Royal Castle — Midnight

The throne room was quiet. Too quiet.

Sylves stood in the chamber's center, cloaked in shadows. The walls of polished obsidian reflected torchlight like rippling water. Behind the golden throne, hidden glyphs pulsed faintly — protective runes laced with defensive enchantments. But they didn't stop him.

He already knew this was a trap.

A presence shifted behind the throne — heavy boots echoed once before King Vali Zwein emerged. He wore a black breastplate inlaid with blood-colored sigils, and his eyes glinted with cruel calculation.

"I expected you," Vali said calmly, his hand resting on the hilt of a curved blade. "The shadow from Ellesmere… the boy from the prophecy. You're too early, but perhaps that makes things more amusing."

Sylves said nothing. His violet eyes locked onto the king's.

Vali stepped down the dais. "You've come to assassinate a monarch. It won't be that easy."

From every corner of the chamber, mages emerged. Sixteen of them. Hands glowing with destructive magic. Behind them, warded spears gleamed with the edge of cursed enchantments.

"Your void tricks won't help you," the king smirked. "You've walked into your grave."

Sylves lifted his hand.

The shadows exploded.

The air went thick. Magic sigils shattered before they could be cast. Three mages were gone in an instant — erased from existence, their screams never born.

Sylves moved through them like a storm given form. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

He parried a blade with pure void matter, turned it into a vortex, and swept away two soldiers. Lightning sparked in the air; a rune detonated near his feet. He stepped through it, unharmed. His eyes glowed — an unnatural brightness, like the void itself looked through them.

Within forty seconds, the throne room was a ruin.

Only Sylves and the king remained.

Vali panted, blood trailing down his arm, though his sword still held firm.

"You're… not human," the king gasped.

Sylves stepped forward. "And you've wasted your last move."

Vali charged. Desperation over strategy.

Sylves sidestepped, flicked his wrist — and the king's sword shattered.

With his other hand, he plunged a lance of condensed void into the king's chest.

Vali staggered back, mouth agape. Blood spilled down his chin. His knees buckled as the black magic consumed him from within. He reached forward one last time… and fell to the floor, lifeless.

Sylves breathed in, then out.

Without another word, he walked through the side hallways toward the eastern barracks, dragging the body through a veil of silence. Outside, the torchlights flickered. The barracks were still ablaze with activity, unaware of what was to come.

With one heave, Sylves threw the king's body into the courtyard.

A soldier spotted it first — a scream echoed through the air, followed by chaos. Confusion. Panic.

Sylves vanished in the smoke.

Certainly! Here's the continued narrative from the moment Sylves finishes his mission and prepares to return — excluding the girl subplot — and focusing on the aftermath of the king's assassination and Sylves's return to Ellesmere:

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Zweinston Royal Castle – Outer Grounds

The flames crackled behind him.

Sylves stood alone on the rooftop of the eastern barracks, the corpse of King Vali Zwein discarded like refuse among his own burning command tents. The Zweinston troops had already fallen into disarray the moment their capital's alarm bells rang. No one had seen the assassin. No one could even confirm he was real. All they knew was that their king was dead—and someone had walked into their stronghold and walked back out.

Sylves took one last look at the carnage below. The fires were spreading faster than expected, ignited by oil stores and explosive glyphs he had cast under the cloak of chaos. Screams rang out. Orders were lost in the whirlwind of panic. The military command structure was collapsing in real time.

He took a deep breath. Not from exhaustion—his body was still honed, his mana pool barely dented. But mentally, it was clear.

The war would shift from this point forward.

The enemy's morale was broken.

He extended a hand, his fingers brushing against the air like a violinist over strings.

The void answered.

A shimmering tear in space opened behind him—dark and humming with condensed spatial energy. His own personal portal, tuned to the exact spot from which he had departed.

With one step, Sylves vanished.

---

Whitebark Fortress – Central Courtyard

It was nearly dawn. Snow had started to fall again, light and whispering across the barracks rooftops and tent covers. Soldiers huddled near wardfires, unaware of the exact events that had just shaken the enemy ranks.

Then, the portal bloomed open in the air before the central keep. Heads turned. Magic flared. Weapons rose in instinct.

And then they saw him.

Sylves Ellesmere stepped out, cloak torn and singed, boots dusted with soot, but posture upright and eyes cold with the clarity of victory. The snow hissed as it touched his cloak, steam rising faintly from residual magic.

A silence swept across the fortress.

Then someone murmured, "He's back…"

Another, louder: "He did it."

A cheer erupted—then a dozen more. Within seconds, the entire courtyard roared in applause and disbelief. Word spread like lightning across the camps: The Zweinston king was dead. The empire's greatest threat had just lost its head overnight.

Duke Danise Ellesmere descended the stairs from the war room, eyes sharp.

"Sylves."

The two met in the middle of the courtyard, father and son, Duke and heir.

Sylves dropped to one knee—not from formality, but from the weight of what he had carried and accomplished.

"It is done," he said. "King Vali Zwein has fallen. Their capital is in disarray. Their troops will fracture within days."

Danise placed a firm hand on his shoulder and helped him to his feet.

"You've not only defended this duchy—you've changed the tide of this war," the Duke said. "Your mother will want to see you."

Sylves gave a faint smile. "I could use a hot drink… and perhaps a nap."

Laughter rippled through the nearby officers and soldiers.

Hawk stepped forward, arms crossed but eyes betraying something like pride.

"You executed the plan exactly… though I'm mildly insulted you didn't bring back a souvenir."

"I left the souvenir burning in their capital," Sylves said flatly.

The men and women around them laughed again—this time louder, freer.

Dawn finally broke behind them, the sun cresting over the white ridges.

And in that golden light, Sylves stood not as a student, not as a noble son—

But as a shadow who had walked into death's heart and returned to tell the tale.

The name Sylves Ellesmere was no longer a whisper of nobility.

It was a name the enemy would fear.

And the people would follow.

But suddenly... Sylves collapsed.

---

Whitebark Fortress – Infirmary Wing

The cheers still echoed faintly beyond the stone walls of the fortress, but inside the chamber, all was quiet.

Sylves lay motionless on the infirmary cot, his cloak carefully folded beside him, his breathing shallow but steady. The strain of battle, the storm of mana channeled in a single night—it had all taken its toll. He hadn't been wounded, but his body had simply… given in. Exhaustion beyond exhaustion. A toll only someone like Hawk Frost could have foreseen.

The moment he collapsed in the courtyard, panic had surged through the command ranks. But Hawk had caught him before he hit the ground, and with a calm voice that cut through the commotion, he had reassured them all.

"He's fine. Just tired. He'll wake up soon."

Hours passed.

Snow continued to fall beyond the frosted windows.

And then… Sylves stirred.

His eyelids fluttered. He winced at the faint light. And then, as the world swam into clarity, a familiar warmth surrounded him.

He was lying on something soft… no, someone.

His head rested on his mother's lap.

Duchess Ylva Ellesmere, serene as ever, stroked his hair gently, her silver-blonde locks cascading over her shoulder like moonlight. Her violet eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with immense relief.

Standing quietly at her side was Aria, her hands folded neatly, her usual composure touched with motherly concern.

Sylves blinked. His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

"...Mother?"

Ylva smiled, cupping his cheek as she leaned down.

"I'm here, Silver," she whispered. "You're safe. You're home."

For a moment, nothing moved. Then—slowly, almost reluctantly—tears welled in Sylves's eyes and began to spill silently down his cheeks. He didn't sob. He didn't wail. But he wept—quietly, freely—for the first time in years.

Ylva pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing his head gently to her chest.

"I know it was hard on you," she murmured into his hair. "So much weight on your shoulders… I'm sorry you had to bear it."

Sylves clung to her like a child again, breathing slowly, grounding himself in the warmth of the one person who had never faltered.

Then—perhaps trying to lighten his heart or simply unable to resist her motherly teasing—Ylva added with a faint chuckle, "If you want… shall I breastfeed you? You must be hungry."

Sylves froze.

Then, with a faintly horrified expression, he lifted his head and straightened. "No… I'll pass."

There was a beat of silence.

And then Aria, unable to contain it, burst into a soft laugh behind her hand. Ylva laughed too, the kind of elegant, melodic laugh that only she could manage, and even Sylves couldn't help but let a smile break through his exhaustion.

The room, which had been heavy with worry, was now filled with gentle joy.

For now, the war could wait.

Sylves Ellesmere had come home.

---

Imperial Capital – Asphalia City

Royal Court, Throne Hall

The sun had barely crested the horizon when a royal courier stormed through the eastern gates of the Imperial Palace, bearing a sealed scroll scorched by Void magic—a signature that could belong to only one man.

Emperor Maevor Asphalia read the report in silence. The vast throne hall was still, its golden banners unmoving despite the crisp morning breeze drifting through the windows. At his side, several high-ranking ministers waited with bated breath, unable to interpret the Emperor's stone-like expression.

Finally, Maevor stood. He looked not to his council, but to the tall stained-glass window depicting the founding of the Asphalian Empire.

"The King of Zweinston is dead," he announced, his voice calm—yet undeniably resolute. "Killed in the heart of his own castle. By our weapon."

The room gasped. Not out of sorrow, but in awe.

"Are you certain, Your Majesty?" asked Grand Strategist Corlan.

Emperor Maevor turned slowly, holding the scroll up. "There is no doubt. This bears the hand of Hawk Frost… and the presence of someone even greater. My son and Duke Danise's heir… Sylves Ellesmere."

Murmurs spread like wildfire. Not only had the war taken a dramatic turn, but the myth that had begun forming around the prodigy of Ellesmere now had its most legendary deed.

"The boy did what our armies could not," murmured one minister. "He ended a war before the blood reached our capital."

"No," corrected the Emperor. "The war is not over. But this… this changes everything."

---

Imperial Asphalia Academy – Headmaster's Office

The news struck the Academy like a thunderclap.

Students were still assembling in the great atrium when the staff gathered urgently in Headmaster Gardinant Blackwood's chambers. The door slammed shut behind the last professor as the Headmaster unrolled the message himself.

"King Vali Zwein has fallen," he read aloud. "Last night. Assassinated by Sylves Ellesmere, sixth-year, our top-ranked student."

The silence in the room was broken only by the ticking of the arcane clock on the wall.

Professor Ellar, a seasoned enchantment scholar, rubbed his temples. "Assassinated? At his age? That's… unprecedented."

"He's not just a student anymore," Headmaster Blackwood said slowly, "He's become a symbol."

Elas stood quietly beside the Headmaster's chair, having been informed before the staff. His golden hair hung slightly into his eyes, but his expression was composed.

"Not a symbol," he said. "A force."

No one disagreed.

Soon the Academy was abuzz with whispers. Rumors of Sylves returning, stories of how he slipped through enemy lines, destroyed enemy camps, and vanished again into the void. His legend was growing faster than the truth could be explained.

In one night, Sylves Ellesmere had become a name spoken not with awe, but with reverence.

The war had shifted.

And all of Asphalia was watching.

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