Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives

Warlock Ch 402. Stubborn

Lysandra stepped through the final layer of the barrier, the magical veil parting like warm mist before sealing behind her with a soft shimmer of silver light. The air outside shifted immediately—lighter, colder, less saturated with the mana-imbued comfort of the warlock's protected territory. Her boots crunched faintly against the gravel-lined walkway, her senses still sharpened from the conversation she had no intention of forgetting anytime soon.

She didn't look back at first.

Not until she reached the outer marker. Then she stopped.

And turned.

The mansion stood still in the morning light, its silhouette cutting sharp against the ever-shifting skyline of the magus district. Sleek walls, angled windows, hovering shield runes softly pulsing near the roofline—it looked modern, minimal, elegant.

But she knew better.

That building was a fortress.

Not because of its walls, or its wards, or the security measures she had already mapped in her head the moment she walked through the front door.

It was a fortress because of him.

Damian.

No—Kaelan.

She clicked her tongue softly and narrowed her eyes.

"Stubborn bastard," she murmured to herself.

And still… her expression didn't harden the way it usually did when she thought about threats, enemies, or chaotic political chess pieces.

Instead, something flickered behind her gaze. A kind of old ache. Something stored away, untouched for far too long.

Memories.

She didn't want them, but they came anyway.

Years ago—decades now, though her kind didn't measure time like mortals did—she'd stood across from Kaelan on a shattered battlefield. The sky had been blackened with smoke, the earth scorched by fire and cursed spells, and her wings had ached from the clash. His aura had been unstable, pulsing with layered magics no mortal should've been able to handle.

And yet… he stood.

She remembered how he moved—confident, fast, wild like a storm breaking free from its leash. As a warlock, he should've been below her. Mortal-blooded, mana-bound, limited. He should've been crushed.

But he didn't break.

He matched her.

Every strike, every counterspell, every surge of raw energy—he kept up.

The fight ended in a draw. She'd left with a torn gauntlet and bruised ribs. He'd left with a fractured arm and a grin that said, "See? We're not so different."

She hadn't smiled back.

But she remembered thinking, 'He's dangerous. And impressive.'

And maybe… interesting.

Back then, no one knew how far he'd rise. No one could've predicted the unraveling that came later. The accusations. The exile. The betrayal. She didn't believe it, not really. The claims that Kaelan had stolen the Demon King's core, that he had absorbed it for power—no, it didn't make sense. It never had.

But she'd stayed silent.

Because she was dragonborn.

And dragons… were not to interfere.

They were the balance. The watchers. The neutral hand that maintained the line between ruin and order. That was their creed. Their law.

And even when the world condemned Kaelan, even when the Magus Senate paraded a bloody verdict through every sanctioned platform, the dragon tribe stood back.

Because Kaelan's act—his crime—had done something else.

It had sealed the Demon King.

Not destroyed him. Not consumed him.

Contained him.

She knew. The tribe knew.

Deep inside Kaelan—no, Damian now—something had locked the Demon King in a prison of soul and spell. A containment so ancient and brutal it could only be done by sacrificing everything else. Damian had taken that burden on himself.

And the world had thanked him by throwing him away.

Lysandra exhaled, slow and deep.

She didn't like feeling this way.

Sympathy sat wrong in her chest. Pity even worse. And yet… something about seeing him again, standing shirtless with those tired, defiant eyes, still fighting, still bleeding for people who would never thank him—it stirred something she hadn't let herself feel in years.

She had respected him once.

And despite everything?

She still did.

The sound came softly at first—barely a breath against the wind. But Lysandra turned toward it immediately, her body tensing. Her fingers flexed at her sides, claws itching beneath skin. She stepped off the main path into the narrow alley between hedges, her boots silent now.

She heard it again.

A scrape. A whisper. Magic pulling too tight in the air.

Amateurs.

Her eyes narrowed, and her senses sharpened.

Then she saw it—three cloaked figures moving along the side wall across the street, their shadows too slow, their presence shielded poorly. They were trying to be clever. Masking their scent with city grime and back-alley mana. But they weren't ready for her.

Lysandra didn't speak.

She didn't warn.

She moved.

Her body blurred forward, wings snapping out in a burst of power that cracked the air like thunder. The first spy didn't even turn around before she was on him—her clawed hand pierced through his chest like paper. He choked once and collapsed without a sound.

The second flinched and raised a charm—defensive, trembling.

Lysandra's eyes flared gold. "No."

She opened her mouth, and a single word of Draconic spilled forth.

"Nelithik (Die)."

The spy's body burned from within, blood boiling as the energy collapsed his inner wards.

The third tried to run.

Of course he did.

But she was already in front of him.

He skidded to a halt, wide-eyed, a dagger raised more out of desperation than hope.

Lysandra stepped forward slowly, looking almost bored. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He opened his mouth. "We were just—"

She slashed upward.

The dagger hit the ground before he did.

She stood over the corpses for a long moment, the faint smell of burnt ozone and blood staining the air. Her wings folded neatly behind her, and her armor clicked softly as she turned back toward the mansion in the distance.

They were spies.

Magus Society, maybe. Senators. Didn't matter. Someone had been watching her.

Watching him.

She wiped her clawed hand on the cloak of the nearest corpse and muttered a quick [Cleanse] to remove the blood from her gauntlet.