The moment Maxwell stepped out from behind that marble pillar, eyes glowing with a furious blue light, and fists clenched tightly, the atmosphere rearranged itself. And Franklin’s killing intent died.

No. It more than died.

Franklin’s petty killing intent drowned.

And, to a man who was used to being the apex and top predator in his cycle, the drowning of his killing intent before his very eyes left him with all shades of shock and stupefaction.

The man, dressed in a three-piece all-black suit, looked up at the furious regressed god with his trembling crimson eyes.

"That blue hair and eyes... Maxwell?"

Margarita had fallen to the ground, breathing heavily and delighting in the fact that she could now breathe properly.

Had she suffered this same thing from this man in Max’s past life?

The possibility of the thought almost made Maxwell stagger.

His own brother. His own blood brother... to the woman he loved.

"What did you do?" Franklin asked with a low voice, speaking to Maxwell as if he were still the pitiful rat he once was. "I asked, what the hell did you do?!! And why are you even he–"

"Take a step away from the lady."

Maxwell’s voice was final and absolute. It left no room for negotiation or argument.

At that moment, Franklin’s crimson eyes widened.

And, for the first time in a long time, he stared at Maxwell.

He looked at him.

The blue-haired man looked different from the picture-perfect definition of a pushover that he remembered. He looked more refined now. More dignified. More powerful.

And more furious.

Even his voice oozed with unquestionable authority. And the weight of his presence...

Franklin was in denial about the level of pressure he felt. Even though the pressure was forcing him to kneel.

The Belognian heir felt like he was thrown in the middle of the sea, given no way out. He felt like Maxwell’s pressure was as boundless as the deepest oceans of Cryst.

Franklin felt like he was drowning.

"Take a step away from the lady," Maxwell repeated.

Franklin stood still for a moment.

He glanced down at Rita, who stared at Maxwell with a questioning expression. And then he gazed at Maxwell. He repeated that same movement. From Rita to Maxwell, from Maxwell to Rita.

And then his lips curled.

"You... don’t tell me..."

Maxwell blurred.

The atmosphere around him dissolved in mists, and a soft, cerulean energy trailed behind him as he moved with untraceable speed.

Within a fraction of a second, the god in man flesh stood in front of the Belognian heir.

Franklin’s eyes widened.

He braced himself almost instinctively, taking a step back to create space.

How had a mage made such a movement so refined and so efficient that it put weapon users to shame?

But before Franklin could even process this fact, the sound of Maxwell’s palm hitting his face echoed unnaturally in the air, filling the crimson-eyed man with pain and fueling the fear that had begun to take root in his heart.

Maxwell gripped Franklin’s face tightly. And, in a fluid motion without much struggle, he lifted the man.

In that same moment, he willed a bed of water into existence.

A quick twisting of his thumb froze that bed of water, changing it to a solid form.

Maxwell slammed the man on top of the bed of ice.

And the ice layer shattered.

The collision sent a shockwave that rippled through the entirety of the Silvester Estate.

How funny it was.

The nobles hadn’t stopped when Rita had flared her killing intent. When she’d been threatened. They hadn’t stopped when Franklin had flared his killing intent. They hadn’t stopped when they felt the radiating pressure of a 9th-circle mage.

The calm, classical music playing in the Ball only stopped the moment Franklin, a Belognia heir, was slammed into a table of ice.

Maxwell began to hear gasps and murmurs erupt from within the halls.

He zeroed them out of his mind, staring at Franklin, who lay in the debris of shattered ice, writhing in pain.

A farce. That wouldn’t do any damage to a 6th-circle flame mage who’d undergone body tempering.

"You should know," Maxwell said, "I’m not doing this to you to take petty revenge for what you and that filthy household did to me. In fact, I’ve forgotten all about that," Maxwell paused, and, for the first time since rage blocked his vision, stared at Rita, who sat calmly on the ground. She was staring at him in shock.

Reality washed over Maxwell.

’Ah, damn.’

Still, he turned to Franklin. And, to avoid Rita overhearing, he crouched low and whispered in Franklin’s ear.

"But what I won’t forget is if you touch even a strand of hair of my loved ones. I’m not really an advocate for violence and murder, but the next time you do... I’ll kill you. Take this as a warning."

Franklin Belognia blinked, looking up at Maxwell.

And then he gulped.

From the steadiness in Maxwell’s blue eyes, he could tell that the man wasn’t lying.

He would kill him.

Franklin had obviously heard of the rumors of a young S-rank mercenary in Ludia who cleared the Red Valley. He’d heard the rumors about him being a 7th-circle mage.

And he’d heard rumors of that young mercenary being Maxwell.

At the time, his father had told him not to worry. That Maxwell might’ve stumbled upon some chanced luck that would explain his feats. And Franklin couldn’t just believe that the failure of House Belognia had risen to become a prominent figure in Jalozi.

But now he stared at the man with his own eyes...

He even threatened to kill him.

"Are you not scared of the implications of what might happen to you if.. You kill a Belognia Heir?"

At that moment, Maxwell smiled. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"No."

Maxwell raised a hand. And a ball of twirling water manifested, hovering above his palm.

"But the fact that you’re considering the implications of you, a Belognian Heir, being killed must mean that you believe I’ll truly kill you."

The ball of water in Max’s hand dissolved. And he grunted as he stood upright.

"That’s good."