Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 303 - 298: Enter the Ring

The training hall was warm in the way all danger was—contained, humming, waiting.

High windows lined the upper walls, letting in diluted winter light, soft and cold like glass left in snow. The floors gleamed from constant wear, smooth stone etched with pale scuff marks and dulled streaks of old combat boots. Above, reinforced beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, etched faintly with containment runes. A soft thrum, almost inaudible, vibrated underfoot.

The wards were old, imperial, and relentless.

No ether. Not here.

Every soldier knew the rules. Once you stepped into the circle—outlined in faint gold around the center ring—you were nothing more than body and blood and breath. Ether surged in your veins, yes, but the wards stole it before it could rise. There would be no glowing sigils, no ether-fused strikes, no illusions. Just fists. Blades. Bruises.

It was a place meant for warriors.

And right now, it was full of spectators.

Gabriel stood near the edge of the ring, arms folded, coat unbuttoned and a scarf lazily wrapped at his throat. Beside him, Alexandra was perched on one of the stone benches with Irina, both of them sipping tea that Edward insisted they carry from the imperial wing—no food or drink from outside, not anymore. Not since the last attempt.

"They look like nobles waiting for a concert," Max muttered from behind a column, already regretting everything.

Gregoris was leaning against the far wall like a storm that had decided, temporarily, not to strike.

And in the ring stood Damian.

Jacket already off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair slightly damp from snow that had melted on his way in. He looked unbothered. Focused. Like the Emperor of the Empire had time to beat someone half to death for leisure.

Max exhaled sharply and mumbled, "Why the hell did I agree to this?"

He turned—quiet, practiced—and immediately spotted Charles across the hall, slipping his gloves on with every intention of leaving unnoticed.

Max moved.

So did Damian.

Golden eyes flicked up at the exact moment Max ducked toward the side entrance. "Claymore."

Max froze. "What?"

"Get in the ring."

"No."

"Now."

Gregoris didn’t even hide his laugh.

Max froze mid-step like a man caught trying to sneak out of his own execution.

"What," he said flatly, "do you mean get in the ring?"

Damian turned slowly, hand flexing once as he adjusted the wrap around his wrist. The golden light of the high windows caught on the edge of his jaw, casting his shadow long across the center circle. Calm. Cold. Unrelenting.

"You agreed to this training rotation," Damian said without looking away. "You’re not backing out now."

"I didn’t agree," Max said. "I was—coerced. There’s a difference. You told me you want to see the damage to your ether channels, not that you will get your frustration out on me. There was supposed to be used ether, not melee combat. For that, use Charles!"

"Don’t drag me into your problems." Charles said, his blue eyes shining with danger.

Damian turned his head just enough to glance at Max, then past him—toward the other figure sliding on gloves like he meant to disappear into the stone itself.

"Gregoris," Damian said calmly. "Change the wards. Full ether access. I want to see if the ring still holds at high saturation."

Max paled. "Wait—wait, what?!"

Gregoris moved without question, stepping to the control panel etched into the pillar just outside the circle. His fingers danced across the sigils, pressing into the embedded rune slots like it was second nature. A pulse of low light flickered across the ceiling—red, then gold, then a brief flicker of violet. The hum beneath their feet deepened, vibrating like an engine waking up.

The glow pulsed once more, settling into a steady crimson ring around the floor. The containment wards had shifted. No longer suppressing ether—but allowing it. The training hall, already humming with tension, now felt sharper. Tighter. Like a blade pressed just against the skin.

Max stared at the ring like it had personally betrayed him.

"You’re insane," he said. "You’re actually—"

"Not insane," Damian cut in, calmly tightening the wraps on his wrist. "Just thorough."

Gabriel arched a brow. "That’s what people say before doing something dramatic and irreversible."

"He always does something dramatic," Alexandra murmured behind her teacup.

Irina looked between them with wide eyes, then at Max. "Should someone stop him?"

Edward didn’t even flinch. "He’ll be fine. Probably."

Max exhaled sharply through his nose and took a step toward the ring like he was approaching his own funeral pyre. "You said we’d test ether flow. You said nothing about a duel. A spar. An assassination attempt in formal wear."

Damian tilted his head. "Do you see anyone else in that ring?"

"Yes," Max snapped. "You. With murderous intent."

Gabriel coughed once—might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been judgment.

The crimson light from the ether-activated wards curled faintly around the inner ring now, pulsing with soft, visible veins of power, the kind that left the hair on Max’s arms standing. His own ether stirred sluggishly, unsure whether to flee or fight.

Too late for the first.

Damian rolled his shoulders once, the faint crack of bone and tendon breaking the last illusion of imperial refinement.

"Come on, Claymore," he said, voice level. "Let’s see how much of your power was talent—and how much was inherited."

Max closed his eyes. "I hate you."

Damian’s smile didn’t shift. Not really. But something in his expression sharpened—pleased, predatory, like he’d just heard the bell before a long-anticipated match.

"I’m flattered," he said. "Hate is still an investment."

Max snorted, dragging a hand down his face like he was bracing for impact. "So is getting hit in the face by the Emperor."

"You’re not that fragile."

"Says the man with gold-braided death in his aura."

Damian’s ether surged around him—not unleashed, not yet, but coiled beneath his skin like a second pulse. The runes etched into the warded ceiling flickered in response, casting faint shadows along the floor. Crimson and violet light pooled around his boots, elegant and dangerous like spilled silk.

Max stepped fully into the circle, the boundary line flaring faintly beneath his heels. The wards accepted him. Locked him in.

He rolled his shoulders. Drew his ether up just enough to feel it buzz under his palms. His magic had always been quieter than Damian’s—more surgical, more refined—but it was still dangerous. Still his.

"I’m not going easy," Max warned, low and honest.

Damian’s eyes caught the light, burning gold like a dying star.

"I’m counting on it."