Genetic Ascension

Chapter 1219: Late

Late was something Sylas never was. Being punctual was just another part of being disciplined, so he took it quite seriously.

Ansla, however, didn’t seem to give a damn.

No, she did. Actually, she seemed to make it her mission to appear late, as though she wanted all eyes on her. Truly, she was worth it. Sylas had yet to see another Noble Demon woman with her aura or her looks. The combination of the two made it obvious why so many wanted her.

But this time, Ansla didn’t walk into the ball alone, and that made it so the gazes were all the more focused.

Sylas carried the same sort of cold indifference on him, Ansla hanging from his arm only the barest amount. The two hardly looked as though they were together, and might not have even seemed to be if not for the fact Ansla had looped her hand around his bicep.

All things considered, their temperaments were quite a match for one another and would have seemed almost natural… if not for the fact Sylas’ aura was like a deflated balloon in comparison to Ansla’s.

The dining hall was large, a pit formed of descending marble steps taking up the center of it all, while curved dining tables of various lengths and in pleasant-to-the-eye arrangements lined the exterior.

There was almost certainly a large chess game of politics going on with all the various seating arrangements. Sylas scanned the room quite confidently to take in all of their faces, just in case he would need to know anything.

Many were looking at him, but the dimness of his emerald eyes didn’t give anything away—not this time.

Calm and stoic, even in the hushed whispers and less-than-subtle words that layered atop them, the two made it to a relatively small, curved dining table.

Sylas pulled Ansla’s seat back for her before moving to take his own.

A palm blocked him.

Sylas didn’t hesitate for a moment, his claw flashing with a black light as he directly chopped it off.

Blood spurted, and the hall that had grown a bit more quiet than usual fell into complete silence this time.

However, Sylas’ actions were far from finished.

The blood that spurted through the air was caught by his telekinesis before the dining table could be ruined, the rest threatening to spill out of the Demon’s severed wrist being caught in a bubble of control as well.

Lightning sparked, cauterizing the wound—but only after Sylas moved a palm, catching the bubble of blood and slamming it out.

BANG!

The head of the Demon was caught by Sylas’ hand, the latter being so large that despite the size, it looked as though Sylas was squeezing a ball beneath his claws before he slammed him to the ground.

The Demon tipped back in his chair, his skull cracking against the marbled floors as the blood that had been in Sylas’ palm drilled into his mouth and nose, tearing a path through his body and churning his brain to mush.

From start to finish, the Demon didn’t even have a chance to react. And in the end, he actually lost his life to his own blood.

Was that a display of Will that was too powerful? Sylas didn’t think so. This Demon was just far too weak—not even Level 60 from a casual scan, and a younger one probably looking to make a show of power.

This table seemed to have a lot of Ansla’s family on it, actually. One of the men that Sylas had seen was almost certainly her father, and this young man might very well have been one of her brothers or, at worst, a cousin.

Yet, Sylas still didn’t hesitate.

Sylas crouched to the balls of his feet, looking at the headless corpse for a moment as though awakening from a savage dream. His expression still didn’t change very much, and Ansla didn’t so much as look over from her place.

However, even after all of this, no one could have expected what Sylas would do next.

He picked up the corpse, his claws digging into the jagged flesh of its neck. His Aetherflow pulsed, and all of a sudden, the sound of echoing blades filled the air.

SHIIING! SHIIING! SHIIIING!

The Demon was chopped to pieces, his skin filleted to the bone, his inner organs chopped to minced meat, his flesh carefully carved.

Then, one plopping mess after another, he was arranged onto the table as though he had become part of the feast, the bones becoming delicate ornaments themselves.

It looked as though Sylas had not only done this before, but that he enjoyed doing it—that it was a sick sort of fascination to him.

With an expression just as indifferent, he pulled his chair back in the pooling blood, sliding through it as he took his position and waited, closing his eyes as though none of what had just happened had anything to do with him.

For the first time, Ansla smiled.

“Aren’t you going to greet my father, Sylas?” she asked in her smooth, alto voice.

Sylas opened his eyes, looking to the head of the table. Due to the curve, he didn’t have to turn his head very far at all—they might as well have been looking face to face.

Ansla’s father, a man with skin two or three shades of ash darker than his daughter, his face carved of stone, his eyes a lethal crimson. His horns were as black as night, unlike the polished whites of his daughter, curling upward rather than back.

Sylas nodded, and then closed his eyes again.

Ansla seemed particularly amused by this interaction. Her father didn’t react. Her uncles, though…

**BANG!**

The dining table shook, and a much burlier and fatter version of Ansla’s father stood to his feet.

Sylas didn’t seem to react, but his lips did part to speak the first words he had today. They were directed toward Ansla.

“Is your family’s standing high enough to destroy the things in this place? If I had known, I would have been more heavy-handed.”

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