The whispers sharpened into open insults.
"Disgraceful," a silver-haired noble scoffed. "Letting gutter trash sit in the same hall as us? The Wizard King has gone senile."
Another sneered openly at Asta, his voice loud enough for half the chamber to hear. "That one doesn't even have magic. What is he, a jester dragged in for amusement?"
"You can smell the common dirt on them from here," someone else laughed. "It's nauseating."
"You think you belong here?" another spat, his voice cutting like a whip. "You should crawl back to the slums you came from."
Laughter rippled through the noble ranks. The air thickened with malice, their arrogance pressing closer like a storm. Official source is noveⅼfire.net
Dave's jaw flexed. His crimson eyes narrowed, flicking across the rows of mocking faces. He stayed silent at first, letting it wash over him, his calm demeanor unshaken. But when one bold noble pointed a jeweled finger at Yuno and barked—
"Commoner filth! You'll never rise to our level—"
A low hum filled the hall. Not magic. Not mana. Something deeper, rawer. The walls seemed to tighten, the air itself warping with an unseen weight. A ripple of killing will exploded outward from Dave, rolling across the chamber like a tidal wave.
Nobles froze mid-laugh. Their bodies stiffened as the pressure hit them, slamming into their very souls. One by one, weaker mages collapsed to their knees, eyes wide in terror. Some gasped for breath, others simply fainted where they stood.
This wasn't mana pressure—it was something they had no defense against. A spiritual dominance that clawed straight into their core.
Even seasoned captains watching from the sides tensed instinctively, their brows furrowing as they braced. The atmosphere was suffocating, like standing before a predator who saw them as prey.
A sharp gasp echoed. Nozel Silva, prideful captain of the Silver Eagles, had dropped to one knee. His teeth clenched, his arms trembling as he struggled against the weight crushing down on him. His eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto Dave.
"…What is this…?" Nozel's voice cracked, laced with rage and fear all at once. His pride as a noble—crushed beneath an unseen hand.
Dave's gaze cut into him like a blade, calm but merciless. His words rolled heavy in the silence that followed:
"This is what happens when someone who clings to stolen magic dares to stand before one born with true, natural power."
The hall went dead quiet. No one dared laugh now. No one dared speak.
Dave hadn't named it, hadn't explained it. He didn't need to. To them, it was an unknown force beyond magic—undeniable, irresistible.
Yuno's eyes flickered with realization, while Asta just stared, wide-eyed. But neither said a word. They knew Dave wasn't bluffing—he was reminding everyone that some strength couldn't be measured by noble blood or mana lineage.
Nozel's body shook as he forced himself upright, fury in his eyes, but the truth was plain. No matter how he strained, his magic hadn't even budged Dave. His pride told him to lash out, but his instincts screamed the truth—if he moved recklessly, Dave could end him in an instant.
The hall remained silent, crushed under the weight of Dave's will.
"What is happening here?"
The silence shattered as Fuegoleon entered with his brother and vice-captain, his stern gaze sweeping across the scene. He stopped cold at the sight—nobles unconscious on the floor, others trembling, and Nozel Silva himself kneeling while Dave stood over him, eyes sharp as a blade.
"What is this, Dave?" Fuegoleon demanded. His voice wasn't raised, but its weight filled the chamber.
Dave didn't flinch. "Nothing. Just that this bastard with his so-called 'noble pride with stolen magic' was faking strength. I decided to show them what the might of pure magic looks like."
Fuegoleon's brow furrowed. "Pure magic? What do you mean by 'stolen magic'?"
Dave's gaze flicked toward the silent nobles before settling on Fuegoleon again. His tone was calm, but each word cut with intent. "History is written by victors, Captain. You've read the accounts, haven't you? The invasion of the elves—what the books say about that war. Do you really think it was true?"
Fuegoleon's eyes narrowed, his voice steady. "Speak clearly."
Dave took a step forward, his presence unwavering. "The so-called noble families of this kingdom massacred the elves, then seized their magic for themselves. That's what 'noble blood' really is—stolen bloodline power."
The air grew heavier, whispers breaking out among the shaken nobles. Dave's tone only hardened.
"The elf leader—Licht—watched his people slaughtered. He went mad, transformed into the monster whose skull now sits on display at Hage Village."
The hall went still again. Even Fuegoleon's stern composure flickered as he processed Dave's words.
"Let's say what you did is true," Fuegoleon said, his voice firm but layered with caution. "Even so—you could still be lying about it."
Dave only smiled. His calm confidence shook more than just Fuegoleon—it reached deeper, brushing pride and certainty aside. Nozel's gaze sharpened, unable to dismiss the weight behind Dave's claim. He let his hand rest over his grimoire, magic stirring faintly as he tested the truth for himself. If Dave truly spoke of stolen magic, then the evidence would reveal itself in resonance. But if he lied, the discrepancy would be clear.
"Well," Dave said smoothly, "the first Wizard King still rests. You can ask him. There is also the devil who worked with the nobles of that time… and the maid of the Wizard King, who still lives to this day. Then there are the children of Licht, and the sister of the first Wizard King—both alive, though they may not know the truth of the massacre."
"The first Wizard King is still alive!?" Fuegoleon's eyes widened in shock. It had been centuries—many Wizard Kings had risen and fallen, yet the first still lived?
Dave was just about to answer when a sudden roar of mana shook the palace. A messenger burst in, panicked.
"The capital is under attack!"
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