Hakan's boots echoed across the marble floor of the chamber, the sound sharp and solitary in the silence. With each step, the air grew heavier—thicker with something old. Something ancient.
Towering statues lined the path ahead, carved with such precision they felt almost alive. Their eyes, frozen in stone, followed him. Silent witnesses of a forgotten era. Dragons, all of them—majestic, terrifying, proud. Each bore weapons, relics, or scars from wars no scroll had ever recorded.
And yet… none of them stirred anything in him.
He slowed, his gaze drifting across the engraved names—worn with age, many half-erased by time.
"Who are these dragons?" he asked, frowning. "I've never seen any of them before."
"They would not be known to you, my liege," Rhalvion replied, walking a few paces behind. His tone was quiet, reverent. "Most of their names are lost to time. Burned away in war, swallowed by betrayal, or simply buried under the weight of centuries."
Hakan turned back toward the statues, studying them closer.
"They're all Dragon Monarchs," Rhalvion added, stepping forward, "each one who sat on the throne of Drakareth before you."
Hakan narrowed his eyes. The realization settled like iron in his chest. All of them—every single one—was a dragon.
Except him.
The only human.
They walked deeper into the hall, the shadows growing longer, the silence more profound. The still air whispered of battles fought, of secrets kept.
"You didn't bring me down here just to see some dead dragons," Hakan finally said, his voice firm, suspicious. "So what is this, really?"
Rhalvion didn't stop walking. He simply smiled faintly.
"No, my liege. You'll understand once we arrive."
Hakan exhaled sharply through his nose, growing impatient. "Then stop wasting time. I'm not—"
He halted mid-sentence.
His breath caught in his throat.
Just ahead, at the very end of the chamber, stood a statue unlike the others.
It was massive—taller, more detailed, more… alive. The power radiating from it was undeniable.
And Hakan recognized it immediately.
That posture. That gaze. That energy.
It was him.
The one he hated more than anyone else.
Azharel.
His fists clenched.
"You brought me here… to see him?" Hakan asked slowly, his voice simmering with anger. "Why? Why is his statue here? He's a Primordial, not a Monarch."
Rhalvion moved ahead, then slowly dropped to one knee.
"He is a Primordial," he confirmed.
"And he was also… the very first Dragon Monarch of Drakareth."
Hakan stood frozen, eyes wide.
"…What?"
The air shifted, colder now. He looked back at the statue—at Azharel's stone face staring down at him with the same unreadable expression he'd seen in the Rift.
"Azharel was once like you, my liege," Rhalvion continued, voice low. "He led this realm through a time of war—a time when all of existence nearly fell to ruin. He fought, survived, and became something beyond even a Monarch."
Hakan's thoughts spun like a storm. None of it made sense.
Azharel. The one who had looked at him in the Astralis Rift… and turned away. The one who claimed Hakan had no fate.
And now, he stood in the same place that monster once ruled.
"…This makes no damn sense," Hakan muttered under his breath, jaw tight.
Rhalvion said nothing more.
Because the real answers—Hakan would soon face them himself.
But someone else was also chasing answers.
Back on Earth—in Cape Town—Soren Raihan stood atop a high-rise, the wind tugging at the ends of his grey coat, his sharp gaze fixed on the horizon. The city below bustled with life, but none of it reached him. His thoughts were elsewhere—still trapped in that moment with Ren Tianlong.
He clenched his jaw.
"That bastard… one word," he muttered to himself. "That's all it took."
His fists tightened, the memory burning in his mind. The pressure. The weight. The humiliation of nearly being forced to his knees like a servant—not by a blow, but by a single command.
Kneel.
And he almost had.
If it weren't for the eruption of his black flames—the primal defense that had surged from within him—he would've bowed to Ren like every other soul who'd crossed his path.
Soren hated that.
More than anything, he hated being powerless.
But now…
His lips curved into a slow, dark smile.
"Well now that I know," he said quietly, "you control reality... I can burn it."
A flicker of black flame danced in his palm—silent, hungry, defiant.
"If I burn reality itself," he whispered, eyes glinting, "then your dominion means nothing."
Ego?
Maybe.
But it wasn't empty.
It was strategy. And vengeance.
The moment didn't last long. His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping him back. He picked it up with a casual flick.
"Yes."
"Sir," came Zara's voice, crisp but tense, "we've received a priority message from the Accord. They've summoned you to headquarters—immediately."
Soren didn't reply at first. His gaze shifted toward the stars above, cold and distant.
"…Fine," he finally said. "Ready the plane. Tell Arham we move at dawn."
He ended the call without waiting for acknowledgment.
For a moment, he stood there in silence—alone with the wind and his thoughts.
"Why now, all of a sudden?" he muttered. "Those idiots don't make sense…"
He slung the grey coat over his shoulder, gripping it with one hand.
Then, without warning, he stepped off the edge of the building.
BOOM.
A black explosion of flame burst behind him as he ignited mid-air, rocketing through the sky with a sonic boom that cracked across the rooftops. His silhouette vanished into the night, streaking like a black comet toward the hotel—where Zara and Arham had returned from Switzerland, waiting for orders.
Cape Town had gone quiet again.
But the storm was already moving.
The cold white light buzzed faintly above, flickering just enough to remind anyone in the room that this was a hospital, not a haven. The walls were far too sterile, the air too still. No scent of smoke or blood or fire lingered here—only the soft whir of life support machines and the hum of silence trying to settle.
Alaric lay motionless in the leftmost bed.
His face was heavily bandaged, one eye still swollen shut, the other half-lidded, staring at the ceiling with no interest. His chest was wrapped in layers of gauze, and the faint lines of purple bruising still showed through his arms. A nasal cannula fed oxygen into his lungs, which hadn't fully recovered from the internal damage.
But he was awake.
And worse—aware.
He didn't speak. Didn't flinch. He just lay there, jaw locked and throat dry, as if forcing his body to even breathe was a betrayal of how broken he felt inside.
Across the room, Rina stirred lightly in her bed.
The machines around her pulsed softly, monitoring her vitals. A dull beep-beep-beep kept time like a nervous heartbeat. Her face, young and pale, seemed peaceful—almost too peaceful for someone who'd nearly bled out trying to save someone she'd idolized.
Sylvia sat between them, a chair pulled halfway to both beds, her hands folded in her lap.
She hadn't slept in over a day.
Her coat was tossed over the back of the chair, her boots scuffed from hours spent running between med stations, backup calls, and post-battle briefings. But now—here—she was still.
She looked first at Rina, watching the girl's chest rise and fall with the gentle aid of the respirator. The kid had taken a hit that would've killed most adults. But she'd held. She'd shielded Alaric when he couldn't protect himself.
Then, her eyes slid to Alaric. Still not speaking. Still lying there like stone.
"You've got to stop punishing yourself," she said quietly, her voice the only sound in the room outside the machines. "You're not him, Alaric. You're not Hakan."
No answer.
She didn't expect one.
Sylvia leaned back, rubbing her temple. "But you're still our captain when he's not here. And that means you don't get to wallow in silence while the rest of us try to keep everything from falling apart."
Still nothing.
Torren walked in a few seconds later, his signature hoodie replaced with fresh medical gear, his right arm in a sling and several bruises still fresh along his jaw. He was chewing on an energy bar like it was made of ash.
"Any change?" he asked, not looking directly at either bed.
Sylvia shook her head.
"She's stable," she said. "He's… conscious. But not talking."
Torren walked to the foot of Alaric's bed, his usual cocky fire nowhere in sight.
"You know," he muttered, voice low, "you're not the only one who thinks they're weak."
Alaric's good eye twitched slightly.
Torren kept going.
"When Rina dropped, I lost it. Fought like a damn maniac. Barely even remember half of it. I was so pissed off, I almost got myself killed. And for what? Because you took a beating trying to protect all of us?"
Sylvia looked up sharply but said nothing.
Torren's voice dropped even more. "You're the one who stood, Alaric. You stood when your body had no right to. And yeah, you got your ass kicked. But you didn't break."
Silence stretched again, but Alaric finally blinked—slowly. Deliberately.
"She got hurt… because I was weak," he said, voice hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in days.
Sylvia stood and walked over to him.
"She got hurt because we were outmatched. Because two monsters with six-star power dropped out of the sky. You want to blame someone? Blame the enemy."
Alaric didn't look convinced. He stared at Rina again, her small frame so still it made his chest tighten.
"I shouldn't have needed saving."
Sylvia folded her arms, eyes flaring with irritation.
"Then be stronger. But stop acting like this was all your fault. Rina made her choice. Just like we all did. That's what we do—we protect each other. Even if it kills us."
Torren finally grinned, tired but sincere. "She'll be alright. And so will you. You just need to remember that Hakan didn't build this guild to be a one-man army."
Sylvia glanced toward the window.
Shizumi still burned faintly in the distance, scars across the skyline.
Just then, Sylvia's comm buzzed on her wrist.
She tapped it.
"Yes?"
The voice on the other end was curt. Official.
"This is Hero Accord Command. The Black Dragons are requested to report to Global HQ within twenty-four hours. High-priority assembly. Emergency level: Crimson."
Sylvia's face hardened.
"Understood."
The call ended. She looked between the two men, then toward the unconscious girl.
"Well," she said, exhaling slowly. "Looks like we're not done."
Torren cracked his neck.
"Guess we're going back to the center of the storm."
Alaric didn't speak.
But when Sylvia looked back at him, she saw it—that faint glimmer behind his swollen eye. Not peace. Not hope.
Something closer to resolve.
He might be broken—but not finished.
Not yet.
RAWALPINDI – SILVER VALKYRIES HQ
The Silver Valkyries' headquarters sat perched like a fortress of polished marble and silver-veined steel atop the Rawalpindi hills. Morning sun bathed the compound in a regal glow, the banners fluttering with the emblem of a soaring valkyrie surrounded by rings of moonlight.
Inside the main hall, Iffah stood at the center, reviewing mission reports on a crystalline panel. She was dressed in her signature silver armor, her long black hair tied back, a spear resting against the wall beside her. Her expression was focused—sharp as ever.
A knock echoed through the command chamber.
"Lady Iffah," her second-in-command, Emaan Shah, stepped in with a grave look. "You need to see this."
Iffah turned. "What is it?"
Emaan handed her a sleek holo-communicator, its screen already active. The Accord insignia glowed across it.
"All guild leaders, report to Hero Accord HQ immediately. This is not a request. This is a summit."
The message was brief—but it carried the weight of urgency.
Iffah narrowed her eyes. "Soren was right. Things are moving faster than we thought."
TOKYO – TEMPEST VANGUARD HQ
Kaede Arashi stood at the edge of a sky-bridge overlooking the sprawling city below. The wind tugged at her coat, lightning dancing subtly across her fingertips.
Kaito approached with a tablet in hand. "Message from the Accord."
She read it in silence, her jaw tightening.
"I'll prep the squad," Kaito offered.
"No," Kaede replied. "This isn't a tactical mission. It's something bigger." She turned toward the hangar. "Assemble the council. And send a message to Jin."
OSAKA – OBSIDIAN WARDENS
Raiden Jin stood shirtless, hammering into a training dummy with enough force to crack its reinforced core. Kara Voss entered, her aura calm despite the void energy crackling faintly around her.
"Another meeting?" Jin grunted, wiping sweat from his brow.
"This one's different," she said, tossing him the tablet. "They're calling everyone."
He read the Accord's summons and exhaled slowly.
"Guess the world's really on fire now."
LOS ANGELES – COLTON BLACKWOOD
Colton leaned against the railing of a rooftop, the Californian sun barely touching the weariness on his face. A raven drone hovered beside him, projecting the message from the Accord.
He watched it in silence.
Behind him, his guild was already mobilizing.
"You better know what you're doing, Accord," he muttered, before turning toward the helipad.
CAIRO – KAELEN DRAKENHART
Kaelen stood at the center of a vast underground sanctum lit by golden lanterns. His hands were clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the holo-screen floating in front of him.
"The Accord's getting nervous," his aide said.
"They should be," Kaelen replied. "We've been playing defense for too long."
He reached for his cloak. "Ready the jet. And alert Colton—I have a feeling we'll need to speak again soon."
SIBERIA – REN TIANLONG
Far away from the assembling storm, atop a frozen cliff in Siberia, Ren stood with his eyes closed, the wind howling around him. Snowflakes stopped mid-air within the boundary of his Absolute Dominion.
He had already seen the message.
He didn't react. Didn't blink.
Then, finally, his lips moved.
"They want to bring the strongest together?"
The wind howled louder.
"Let them. I'll see for myself... who still deserves to stand."
The Accord HQ – Switzerland
The wind howled above the mountains, cutting through the cold steel exterior of the Hero Accord Headquarters, a fortress of glass and titanium nestled like a blade against the snowy cliffs.
Inside, the air buzzed with tension.
For the first time in years, the strongest guilds were all arriving under one roof.
Arrival: The Silver Valkyries
Iffah's boots clicked confidently on the polished floor of the upper landing, her long silver coat flowing behind her. She was flanked by Emaan Shah, her second-in-command, who gave a slow whistle.
"Tighter security than a nuke vault," Emaan muttered.
Iffah smirked. "We've been through worse walking into Vealzaryon's throne room."
A voice called from below. "And still talkin' like you own the place."
Kaede Arashi stepped in, arms crossed, storm energy flickering faintly at her fingertips. Her vice, Kaito, followed with his signature quiet smile.
"Well, well," Iffah grinned. "If it isn't the Thunder Queen herself."
Kaede arched an eyebrow. "Didn't we leave the name-calling behind after we vaporized Nyxara together?"
"You only got the killing blow because I cracked her spine first."
They both laughed and bumped shoulders, two warriors who had earned each other's respect in fire and death.
Arrival: The Black Dragons
Sylvia stepped in next, black boots silent against the floor, her cloak fluttering like smoke. Torren followed, still nursing a healing burn on his arm from the last fight—but not enough to stop him from talking.
"This place is too damn clean," he muttered. "Feels like a hospital lobby."
Sylvia gave him a side glance. "Try not to set it on fire."
Then a familiar figure caught her eye—Iffah.
"Still carrying that pride like armor, I see," Sylvia said as they hugged briefly.
"And you still wear sarcasm like a perfume," Iffah shot back with a small smile.
They didn't talk much. They didn't need to.
A few feet away, Soren Raihan stood near a pillar, coat draped over his shoulder, quietly sipping coffee as his black flames gently shimmered under his skin.
Torren marched straight up to him.
"Yo. Dragon Prince. We've never actually met, huh?"
Soren barely looked at him. "We just did."
"I meant—nevermind," Torren scratched his head. "I heard about what happened in Cape Town. You and Ren, huh? How'd that go?"
Soren took a long sip. "I didn't kneel. That's what matters."
"Damn right," Torren grinned. "No offense, but if I was there, I'd have roasted that smug bastard."
Soren raised an eyebrow. "You talk too much."
"I fight better."
A faint smirk cracked across Soren's otherwise stone face. Just a flicker.
"You've got Hakan's temper."
"Damn right I do."
Colton Blackwood and Kaelen Drakenhart approached from opposite ends of the hall, both exuding a calm that only seasoned monsters could afford. Colton gave Soren a nod.
"So… Accord thinks it's a good idea to pull all of us into the open."
Kaelen, always more tactical, glanced around the room.
"This is against everything we agreed on. They're forcing consolidation. We're gonna become targets."
Soren didn't even blink.
"We already are. But now the game's moving faster."
Colton folded his arms. "They're spooked. They don't know who's next. Pulling us together is either a shield… or a trap."
Kaelen's voice lowered. "Let's just make sure we don't get played."
A sharp tone echoed through the HQ speakers.
"All guild leaders and designated officers—report to Conference Chamber One. Repeat: all active guild leaders and officers report to Chamber One."
A man in a sharp black suit walked in, clipboard in hand, flanked by high-ranking Accord agents. His eyes scanned the gathered legends.
"This way, please. You're all expected."
The group moved in silence, past biometric gates and reinforced blast doors until they reached—
The Conference Chamber
It was massive—wider than any war room they'd seen. Half dome, lined with floating platforms and a circular holographic display that hovered above the center table.
Monitors glowed with real-time data: energy spikes, missing heroes, red zones blinking on every continent.
One by one, the leaders took their seats.
Iffah. Sylvia. Torren. Soren. Kaede. Jin. Colton. Kaelen.
Their guilds flanked them on the upper levels.
And just as the doors were about to close—
A hush fell across the chamber.
A new group entered.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized. Identical suits. Glowing eyes. Power humming in their steps.
The Vanguard Sentinels.
Each one handpicked by the Accord. Enhanced. Elite. Not guild-aligned—just pure military might.
Soren's gaze followed them coldly.
Torren leaned in. "Who the hell are they?"
Soren muttered, "The last card the Accord's willing to play."
The conference chamber of the Hero Accord HQ was built to hold legends.
Yet right now, despite the room being filled with the world's greatest powers, no one spoke first.
Each seat was taken by a symbol. Not just a hero. A force. They represented entire continents, ideologies, styles of warfare, philosophies of power. Every Guild Leader sat in place, hands folded, eyes flickering between the table's center and each other.
Above them, the massive holographic display spun slowly—tracking red-zone activity, tower fluctuations, and still… no signs of Luxarion, Dimitri, or Hakan.
At the head of the chamber, a platform shifted slightly as Mr. John Marshall, head of the Hero Accord (United States Division), stood.
Grey suit. Trim beard. Sharp eyes like bullets made of reason and regret.
"You all know why we're here," he began. His voice was firm, rehearsed—but not lifeless. "The global situation is deteriorating rapidly. Tower anomalies. High-tier monster incursions. The deaths of ranked heroes. The absence of others."
He looked around the table slowly.
"And we still have no official explanation for what happened to Jirrah Rourke. No statement from Dimitri Volkov. Luxarion Graves is marked as missing. Hakan Raihan has been radio silent since the battle at Valtherion. Our strongest heroes—disappearing, dying, or choosing to work outside Accord protocol."
Colton Blackwood leaned forward. "Maybe we should talk about why they're going silent."
"Speak your thoughts, Mr. Blackwood."
Colton didn't hesitate. "We're being hunted."
A murmur went through the room, some nodding in agreement, others scoffing.
Across the table, a representative from the Brazilian guild, Ordem de Ouro, raised her voice.
"Then where is he?" she demanded. "If the strongest are being hunted—why has Ren Tianlong not shown his face in this room until now?"
A heavy pause.
"Why hasn't he addressed the death of Jirrah Rourke?" she continued. "A man who stood beside him in the same tier. Where is he when the Accord needs answers?"
Others started to join in.
"Is he even aligned with us anymore?" "Why has no one questioned his independence?" "Wasn't he there when the Atlantic Rift Tower broke—alone?" "Did he let Jirrah die?"
The murmurs grew. Some pointed. Others looked away.
But before the accusations could rise to shouting—
The doors boomed open.
The room froze.
A stillness blanketed the chamber like snowfall over a battlefield.
And there—stepping through the threshold, his coat flowing behind him, his presence denser than gravity—Ren Tianlong entered the room.
His eyes didn't flicker. He didn't bow. He didn't apologize.
He simply walked forward, as if the entire room existed because he allowed it to.
Every head turned.
The only ones who didn't react?
Soren Raihan, leaning back slightly, unreadable.
And directly across from him—the leader of the Vanguard Sentinels, who sat rigid, eyes like stone.
He was draped in a sleek matte-black combat mantle, stitched with dark silver insignia. His hair was white, cropped brutally short. His presence carried a pressure that didn't beg for attention—it demanded submission.
His name: Verrian Solace.
A name forged from silence, resentment, and total control.
As Ren approached, both men murmured under their breath—at the same time:
"So... he finally decided to show."
Ren didn't look at either of them. He took his place at the far side of the table, his movements slow, precise. He didn't sit like a participant. He sat like a king—deciding if the room was worth his attention.
No one spoke.
Not for several seconds.
Until finally—Mr. John Marshall broke the silence.
"Welcome, Mr. Tianlong."
Ren didn't respond.
John continued.
"The council has been... concerned. Not just about the anomalies around the world, or the increase in high-tier incursions. But about the strategic collapse of our hero chain of command."
"The people are scared. The media is speculating on whether the Hero Accord is finished. The world thinks our strongest have abandoned us—or are being picked off. We needed you here, Ren. Weeks ago."
Ren tilted his head. Just slightly.
"And what would you have me do?" he said, his voice level. "Make a speech? Host a rally? Tell the world everything is fine?"
John didn't flinch. "I would have you align. Commit. Coordinate."
"No," Ren said flatly. "You would have me leashed."
That statement sucked the oxygen from the room.
From the balcony above, whispers broke out between guild members.
Kaede narrowed her eyes.
Soren exhaled softly, arms crossed. Watching.
Colton shifted uncomfortably. Kealen stayed stone-faced.
Iffah looked between everyone, her brow slightly furrowed, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the table.
John continued, this time slower.
"You're not above the Accord. None of us are. If you want to work outside the chain, fine. But when lives are at stake, when heroes are dying—we expect cooperation."
Ren didn't blink.
"Then perhaps you should stop waiting for gods and start learning how to fight your own wars."
From across the table, Verrian Solace finally spoke.
His voice was sharp, polished like obsidian.
"You mistake solitude for strength. You mistake domination for leadership."
Ren looked at him—just for a second. Their auras cracked the air between them.
"And you mistake submission for strategy."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
John Marshall held up a hand, cutting through the tension like a scalpel.
"Enough. This isn't why we're here. We have reports from five continents of coordinated movements. Someone's testing us. Probing. Looking for our weaknesses. We can't keep reacting. We need to decide—now—whether to engage full Vanguard deployment. Whether to classify this as an existential threat."
He looked around.
"I want your votes. All of you. Because if we go through with this... the age of containment is over."
One by one, the guild leaders straightened in their seats.
The room that had begun in tension was about to erupt in decision.
But before that—
Ren leaned forward, just slightly.
"You're too late."
All eyes turned to him again.
"The hunt isn't starting. It's already begun."
He looked around the room—his gaze sharp, almost surgical.
"They're not after heroes. They're not after towers."
His voice dropped.
"They're after something bigger. And if you don't move fast, they'll find it before we do."
Ren's words hung in the air like a blade suspended above their heads.
"They're not after heroes. They're not after towers."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed.
"They're after something bigger. And if you don't move fast, they'll find it before we do."
A heavy pause followed. No one dared interrupt until John Marshall, calm but stern, finally asked:
"What are they after, Ren?"
Ren's gaze darkened.
He tapped a single finger against the table, once, and then let his voice settle into the silence like thunder before a storm.
"A name was spoken."
He let it sit. No embellishment. No drama.
"I was in Cape Town. Dark elves—different from anything we've seen. Organized. Intelligent. Fanatical. They weren't just killing. They were following something. Or someone."
A few members leaned in slightly, tension gripping the room again.
"One of them… just before I eliminated her… said this: 'Aurelian is coming for you. You won't see him. You won't stop him. He is the rightful King. The Monarch of the Realms.'"
The last line echoed through the conference hall like a prophecy.
Even the most stoic of guild leaders exchanged uncertain glances.
"Monarch of the Realms?" Iffah asked, her tone skeptical, but focused. "What realms?"
Ren's eyes moved toward her—then swept across the room.
"That's the problem. The elves spoke about 'the Realms' like we should know what they meant. Like it was common knowledge. But here's the thing…"
He leaned forward again, his tone slow and deliberate.
"They weren't talking about countries. Or tower zones. Or even alternate dimensions like we've theorized."
"They meant other realms of existence. Entire worlds. With life. Civilization. War. Power. And politics that make ours look like a playground."
"And we?" He gestured loosely to the room. "We're just one realm. Earth. Probably the weakest."
"They didn't say they were going to conquer us. They didn't even say we mattered. Just that their king—their Monarch—was coming. And when he does, everything else gets erased."
A cold dread crept over the room like frost on glass.
John Marshall sat down, folding his hands on the desk before him.
"You're saying Earth isn't the center of this invasion. We're just in the way."
Ren gave a small, grim nod.
"They're looking for something. Someone. And they'll burn through anything in their path to get to him."
Soren, arms crossed, finally broke his silence.
"And this name… Aurelian."
"He's not a symbol," Ren said. "He's real. And they're loyal to him like zealots. They spoke about him with reverence. Like a god. Or a king returning to claim his throne."
Kaelen rubbed his jaw.
"Monarch of the Realms... You think this is connected to the towers?"
Ren didn't answer right away.
Then:
"The towers were never meant for us. They weren't built for humans. They're just doorways. Markers. Anchors across the Realms. Whatever's coming… the towers are just the trail markers they're following to get here."
A soft curse escaped from Colton under his breath.
"So what now?" asked Raiden Jin, his voice like gravel. "What do we do with this?"
John looked around the room. Then at Ren.
"You said we need to move fast. So tell us. Where do we go?"
Ren didn't blink.
"We find out who this Aurelian is."
"And we pray… he's not already here."
Kaelen's brows furrowed. "You've seen him?"
Ren nodded once. "no I didnt even see him I don't know who he is and what he looks like . But I felt it. He's... different. The elves believed in him like he was a god. And I think he might believe that too."
Colton leaned forward, elbows on the table. "How powerful are we talking?"
Ren didn't answer right away. His silence said more than words.
Then—
Mr. Iqbal, the Pakistani Accord representative, broke it with a question that cut clean through the tension.
"What if he's the man from the video, Marshall?"
Marshall's head turned sharply.
Murmurs rippled through the room. Dozens of guild heads exchanged confused glances.
Soren straightened in his seat, frowning.
Iffah leaned toward Arashi, whispering, "What video?"
Kaede's hand twitched near her wrist-comm. Even Verrian Solace's usual poise flickered with the barest reaction.
"What video?" Ren asked, his voice quieter now—but sharper.
Marshall sighed, the weariness of a thousand secrets suddenly visible in the lines on his face. He looked at a staff member.
"Cue it up. Protocol footage. File Sigma-Black: Elysium Breach."
The room darkened. A large holoscreen hummed to life at the center of the round table, flickering with static.
Then it played.
As the footage paused, the conference room of the Hero Accord headquarters fell into absolute silence. Eyes remained locked on the screen—on the destruction, on the impossible annihilation, on them.
Verrian Solace leaned forward slightly, his voice the first to cut through the tension.
"That wasn't just power. That was declaration."
Ren's eyes narrowed, but it was Mr. Iqbal who broke the moment.
"You're all looking at the elve—but what if he's not the only problem?"
His voice was calm but carried weight.
"This incident—it happened nearly two months ago. We couldn't trace the energy spike at first. But after what Ren said about the name Aurelian... we dug up footage. We didn't think it was connected—until now."
A hush fell again.
"Play the full clip," Marshall ordered.
The footage resumed.
The timestamp was clear. The satellite feed grainy, distorted by energy surges that nearly fried the sensors. But the shapes—two of them—were unmistakable.
This was not Earth's technology. The footage itself barely held together.
Occurred in the past three to four months.
Some speculated that it was all over, while others believed it was just the calm before the storm. Regardless, people slowly returned to their routines, embracing a fragile sense of peace.
But that peace was short-lived.
Above a sprawling island city—a paradise for the rich and powerful—a massive portal tore open the sky. From the vortex emerged two humanoid figures, their presence distorting reality itself.
One was tall and imposing, with long, silvery hair and eyes like frozen embers—Aurelian Thaldris, the elven leader.
The other had a dark, twisted elegance, with raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders and a wicked smile—Seraphina Nyxthalia, a being no one had ever seen before. No records. No sightings. Not even whispers.
Seraphina's eyes glinted with cruel delight as she surveyed the bustling city below. Laughter and music echoed through the streets, oblivious to the impending doom.
She gave a twisted grin.
"Look at them," she sneered, her voice like velvet laced with malice. "Humans. So carefree... so pathetically ignorant."
Aurelian's gaze remained fixed on the city, his lips curling into a disdainful smirk.
"They won't be for long."
He raised his hand, drawing upon the unimaginable power surging within him. A cosmic energy coiled around his fingers—swirling flames entwined with crystalline frost, blending seamlessly into a chaotic vortex.
The air vibrated with overwhelming pressure as Aurelian's voice echoed across the island.
"Primordial Convergence!"
Reality itself seemed to bend and fracture as a colossal wave of pure destruction cascaded downward. Searing, incinerating flames merged with freezing, crystallizing cold, tearing through the city in an instant.
Space warped.
Gravity twisted.
And the island was swallowed by the cataclysmic force—structures crumbling, people disintegrating, and even the air itself being annihilated.
Within moments, nothing remained but a void where the island once stood—a blackened scar on the world.
Aurelian lowered his hand, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he let out a low, sinister laugh.
"Humans... so weak and insignificant."
Seraphina stepped forward, tracing her finger through the lingering distortion in the air, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
"Beautiful work, Aurelian. Truly magnificent."
Aurelian glanced at her, a dark, twisted pride evident in his expression.
"This is just the beginning. Soon, the world will remember the power of those they thought were mere myths."
Seraphina chuckled, her crimson eyes glinting.
"Let them cower. Let them fear. By the time they realize what's coming... it'll already be too late."
The footage ended.
Dead silence.
Even the wind outside the massive glass walls of the HQ seemed to pause.
Soren leaned back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Verrian Solace's gaze had sharpened, and for the first time, even he looked unsure.
Ren was the only one still perfectly still—his eyes locked on the screen where the image of Aurelian had last been.
And then, John Marshall stood up, his voice grating like steel dragged across concrete.
"Ladies and gentlemen… that island wasn't just wiped out."
"It was erased."
He looked around the room, his voice low.
"This is what we're dealing with. Not monsters. Not towers. Not even war."
"This... is a reckoning."