NOVPUBThey reach the doors of the meeting chamber.
Inside, almost every seat is already filled. The circular obsidian table gleams beneath the hovering light orbs, and tension buzzes faintly in the air—unspoken, but ever-present.
As soon as Alix steps in, a few heads turn. Lathar follows closely behind, his posture relaxed but alert.
Brakar, who's already lounging near the edge of the room with one foot propped up against the wall, spots Lathar and grins wide.
"Look who decided to show up," he calls out, loud enough for the entire chamber to hear. "Didn't expect you to crawl back so soon after getting flattened, Lathar."
Lathar snorts. "Flattened? Please. We both know I'd leave you eating dirt in a real duel."
Brakar gives a sharp bark of laughter. "You still dreaming about that one spar where you almost landed a hit? Damn, you're persistent."
"Persistent enough to keep on winning in every duel we have." Lathar shoots back smoothly as he moves toward the table. "Unlike you, who probably fought his way into command by headbutting a wall until someone got bored."
That earns a few quiet laughs from the nearby commanders, though no one interrupts the back-and-forth.
Brakar raises both hands mockingly. "Fair. Walls don't talk back."
Lathar slides into his seat without missing a beat. "Neither do you, once your jaw's broken."
Brakar laughs again, louder this time, clearly enjoying the exchange. "One of these days, old man. One of these days."
Alix says nothing through it all. He walks to his assigned seat with calm composure, drawing more than a few glances—but no open commentary this time. He's already left an impression.
Moments later, a shift passes through the room again—subtle, but noticeable. A ripple in the air. Mana coils tightly, reverently.
The doors open again.
Veyrith enters, his towering presence casting long shadows across the polished floor. Behind him, her stride fluid and silent, comes Svira.
She is not like the others.
Her form is sleek, serpentine in movement, with chitin armor laced in silver patterns that shimmer faintly as she walks. Her pale skin contrasts against the deep black of her monstrous limbs—three fingers each, ending in claws that click softly with every step. A long, bladed tail coils gently behind her, curling and uncurling with a patient rhythm.
As the two approach, the room falls completely silent.
Veyrith stops at the head of the table, resting both hands on the dark surface. His gaze sweeps across the gathered commanders, assessing, weighing. When he speaks, his voice is low but carries an edge that cuts through the silence.
"This time, I bring bad news."
No one speaks. Even Brakar straightens, the amusement gone from his face.
Veyrith's gaze darkens. "General Medoran—the one I chose to send to that continent—is dead."
A wave of shock slams through the chamber. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
Lathar leans forward slightly, stunned. "Dead? Sir Medoran is dead?"
Someone exhales sharply across the room. A younger commander mutters under his breath, "That's not possible… he's Tier 6."
Svira steps forward, her voice crisp, controlled. "I confirmed it myself. We lost all contact."
Brakar's brows furrow. "What the hell could kill a Tier 6? It's been centuries."
"Five hundred years," Veyrith says grimly. "Since a Tier 6 died in open combat on our soil. We all know what that means. Medoran wasn't careless. He was experienced, brutal when needed. If something took him down, it wasn't chance. It was strength."
One of the commanders, a veteran with a bronze pauldron shaped like a lion's maw, speaks up, disbelief etched into every word. "But how? That continent—the one with the three kingdoms—they don't have anyone above Tier 5, right? They're country bumpkins compared to us."
Veyrith's jaw tightens, his fingers curling slightly against the table. "That's what we all assumed. Clearly… we were wrong."
He pauses, then adds coldly, "After this meeting, I will go to that human king myself. I want answers. Personally."
Svira steps up beside him, her voice smooth but laced with steel. "My lord, if I may—Astram is likely already there. His subordinate died too. He won't ignore this."
Veyrith's brow furrows. "It's my lapse of judgment. I didn't think the human king's enemy would have someone capable of killing a Tier 6. That's on me."
Another commander shakes his head firmly. "With all due respect, my lord, it's not your fault. Medoran's death can't go unanswered. We should avenge him immediately."
Veyrith nods once, decisively. "We will. Me and Svira will go there after this meeting."
He looks around the room. "I want preparations ready. We will demand that the king opens the Relic."
A stir goes through the chamber—whispers, uncertain glances.
The Relic.
Everyone knows what it is. Or at least, what it's supposed to be: a remnant of a Tier 7 powerhouse, buried beneath the ruins on that continent. Untouched. Sealed. Dangerous.
Alix, meanwhile, sits quietly, his expression unreadable.
But inside, his thoughts are sharp. 'So that's what he wants, not justice, not vengeance. But the Relic.'
He leans back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
'Medoran dies, and all he sees is opportunity. Typical.'
Shortly after, the meeting comes to an end. The commanders begin to file out, their voices low, grim with tension. Alix rises from his seat and makes his way toward Lathar, who's lingering near one of the pillars, arms crossed, eyes distant.
Alix stops beside him and speaks quietly, but firmly.
"Lathar. I need you to gather our people. Only Tier 4 combatants. No one lower."
Lathar's brow rises. "Just Tier 4s?"
"Yes," Alix says. "No one else. Keep it small. I have something I need to take care of—alone."
Lathar exhales through his nose, but doesn't argue. Not this time.
"So you're heading off again," he says, not bothering to mask the resignation in his tone.
---
In the capital city of the Valgros Kingdom, storm clouds roll silently above the towering spires. The sun filters weakly through them, casting pale light across the upper courtyard where the portal stands—pulsing faintly with unstable mana.
King Rewalt stands at its edge, hands clasped behind his back, his crown resting heavy on his brow. Beside him, Prince Asdri gazes at the shimmering gateway with a tension that tightens his jaw.
"I never thought…" Rewalt murmurs, eyes locked on the arcane frame, "…that our enemy would be capable of killing two Tier 6 monsters."
Asdri glances at his father, brows furrowed. "Father… are you sure our enemy, is even native to this continent?"
Rewalt doesn't answer immediately. His gaze lingers on the portal a moment longer before he sighs.
"That," he says quietly, "I don't know anymore."
Then Rewalt adds, his voice hardening, "But we've got a new problem."
Asdri turns to him fully. "The leaders of the monsters?"
Rewalt nods grimly. "The lord of Gresvin called Astram. From what I've gathered, he's the current ruler of their continent. And the other one Veyrith—the one who sent Medoran—he's the leader of a rebel faction trying to overthrow Astram's tyranny."
"And both are very powerful Tier 6," Asdri says, more a statement than a question.
Asdri's hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. "If that monster Astram gets here first…"
Rewalt cuts in sharply, "We pray he doesn't."
Silence falls between them again, the hum of the portal the only sound.
"We need to speak to Veyrith," Rewalt says at last. "If there's a side to choose in their war, we choose the one less likely to burn our world."
Asdri nods. "Then let's just hope Veyrith gets here before Astram does.".
Shortly after, the portal hums—its shimmer growing brighter, warping the air around it with arcs of unstable mana. A low pressure rolls out from its center like the calm before a storm.
Three figures emerge from the light.
The first steps forward with regal, unshakable poise—Astram. His blue eyes sweep the courtyard with quiet menace. Broad-shouldered, draped in robes of dark silver etched with crimson veins of mana, he exudes not just power, but the sense that power itself bends around him. Flanking him are his two subordinates. Carwel and Tandu, are now fully healed.
Rewalt straightens the moment they arrive. His voice is steady, even courteous—but clipped at the edges.
"Welcome, Lord Astram."
Astram's eyes land on Rewalt, unblinking. "King Rewalt," he replies, his tone eerily calm. "We see each other again. I assume you already know why I'm here."
Asdri stands still beside his father, but inside, his heart races.
He's seen his fair share of Tier 6s on the main continent—some arrogant, some noble, some cruel. But this… this is something else. Astram doesn't feel like a Tier 6. He feels like a calamity disguised in flesh. His aura presses down like a mountain, heavy and deliberate. The lesser Tier 6s he's met couldn't compare.
'This man… no—this monster,' Asdri thinks, 'has to be at least level 680… maybe even 690.'
Even among the central powers, someone like Astram wouldn't be obscure. He wouldn't be just an another Tier 6. He would be a name people whisper about before wars are decided.
Astram speaks again, his gaze never leaving Rewalt.
"I lost one of my own. And not just anyone. Gresvin, a loyal servant who's followed me since the Unification Wars."
Rewalt's shoulders tighten, but he doesn't lower his head. "It's my fault," he says at last, voice quiet but clear. "Who would've thought… that my enemy was this strong?"
Astram watches him in silence for a moment, then steps forward—only a single step, but it feels like the entire courtyard shrinks around him.
Rewalt continues, trying to keep his composure. "I'm also at a loss. If they are this powerful… why haven't they already wiped us out in one clean strike?"
