The Overseer and the captain stiffened at the same time.

Ruel swallowed.

"That… aura…" he muttered. "It feels wrong."

Wrong was an understatement.

The pressure radiating from the old man was warped, heavy, and crushing, yet still somehow contained, as though the world were struggling to pin it down.

Varun's jaw tightened. His fists clenched hard enough for veins to bulge.

"That is no ordinary Rank 3," he growled. "That is Rank 4-level suppression. I never thought those damned beasts would actually bring a Rank 4 superpower here."

He spat the next words like poison.

"This is a violation. A direct provocation. A war declaration."

Michael did not react with shock.

He breathed out slowly, gaze steady.

"For a plan on this scale," he said quietly, "you did not really think they would hold back, did you?"

Varun looked at him, and for a brief moment felt another kind of fear.

His mind drifted to the conversation he had with the youth earlier.

The boy had been asking strange questions and saying strange things like he would handle the demonic supernaturals.

Like who did this youth think he was.

Did he actually believe he could do something even the Federation army here could not do.

Varun had been ready to rudely dismiss him from his office at that time when everyone froze as they watched the youth summon a palm sized coffin and call out creatures with Rank 3 power one after another.

Michael was not surprised at the demonic supernaturals' actions.

He had expected something like this.

These people who dared to invite demons into their world to send a message were not to be underestimated.

His focus was now entirely on the old man.

The old man across the field finally lifted his head.

His eyes were hollow pits of darkness.

The ice beneath him cracked.

And even from this distance, everyone felt it.

A half step Rank 4 monster, struggling to suppress itself enough to exist on the first floor, was now fully turning its attention toward Michael.

The old man's lips stretched into a faint, almost kindly smile.

When he spoke, his voice did not boom or roar.

It drifted over the battlefield like a quiet breeze, yet cut through the screams and explosions so clearly that Michael heard every word.

"Interesting…" the old man said softly. "In my lifetime, I have only ever met a few youngsters like you."

His gaze rested on Michael with a strange warmth that did not fit the scene around them.

"Such power at this age," he chuckled, low and breathy. "Tell me, boy. You are not secretly an old man wearing young skin, are you?"

Michael did not answer.

On the surface, his expression stayed flat and unreadable.

Inside, every nerve sharpened.

This pressure…

Even from here, the old man's existence pressed faintly against his soul, like a hand testing the limits of a glass wall. One careless push and it would shatter.

The old man did not seem bothered by the silence.

"How does it feel," he asked slowly, "to have such great power at your fingertips?"

He tilted his head as if studying a rare specimen.

"No, let this old man answer for you," he said with a light laugh. "It must feel wonderful. To stand above your peers. To command so many strong Rank 3 undead. That alone tells me you are not ordinary."

His smile thinned.

"It tells me you are something special."

Varun tensed further at those words.

Ruel glanced at Michael, unable to hide his unease.

The old man's next words, however, held no praise.

"So," he said softly, "why are you using that power for the wrong cause?"

The wind seemed to pause for a heartbeat.

"Why," the old man repeated, eyes narrowing, "are you standing on the Federation's side?"

Michael finally spoke.

His voice was quiet.

"Why? Do you think it is wrong?" he asked.

The old man's smile deepened.

"Of course it is wrong," he replied gently. "The Federation does nothing but put chains on beings like us."

His gaze slid over the broken walls, the frozen corpses, the swirling spells in the distance, then came back to Michael with an almost pitying calm.

"Tell me, boy. Is this how we are supposed to live? Registered. Restricted. Measured like livestock. Used as weapons when convenient, discarded when not. Where is our dignity in that?"

Varun's expression twisted.

Ruel's hands clenched by his side.

Michael cut in before either of them could speak.

"So how should we live?" he asked.

The old man's eyes brightened.

The single word he caught onto was small, almost casual.

We.

Even Varun and Ruel felt it. Their backs went rigid.

They were not confident they would survive what was unfolding here, but the idea of Michael shifting toward the demonic side made a colder fear creep into their chests.

They didn't know his age but they could tell for such that he was in his early twenties at most.

How bright was this person future? They didn't know but they knew it couldn't be underestimated.

The old man, in contrast, looked delighted.

He took a small step forward. The ice beneath his feet cracked softly, as though the world adjusted around his presence.

"How should we live?" he repeated. "Freely. Without collars. Without some distant council deciding which power we can use, which law we can touch, which path we can walk."

His tone stayed mild, but every word carried weight.

"In my generation, those born with dangerous talents were either turned into tools or quietly erased. For stability. For balance. For peace." He chuckled darkly.

His eyes narrowed as he studied Michael's face.

Varun's jaw clenched.

"Do not listen to him," he hissed under his breath.

The old man did not even glance his way.

"Boy," he continued, "you are at an age where most are still figuring out what element they are compatible with, and yet you stand here with dozens of Rank 3 creatures under your command. You have the potential to reach far above this level. Far above the Federation's leash."

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