New Calendar, Year 541.

Halden Empire, Sky City.

This colossal city floating above the sea of clouds was Halden’s pride and the greatest marvel in all of Atlan.

Its foundation was cast from a magic alloy that gleamed silver-gray in the sunlight. Intricate runes were etched on every slab of metal, layered and dense. Atop the foundation, countless ornate buildings stood row after row.

Around the city, rings of floating defense platforms revolved slowly like planetary belts.

Warships were moored on the platforms, sleek and razor-lined, flickering in and out of sight amid the clouds. Farther away, innumerable small floating constructs shuttled back and forth like tireless worker bees, tending every inch of the giant city.

Beneath their feet the clouds rolled like a boundless white ocean.

Sunlight poured from above, bathing the city’s every corner and coating the entire metropolis in a brilliant sheen, as if it were a fabled divine realm.

This was Halden’s royal seat, the heart of the empire.

Sky City, the Royal Court.

It rose like a three-dimensional platinum greatsword, magnificent and vertical, thrust into the city’s center. The hilt formed the Royal Court’s main gate, while the blade consisted of layer upon layer of palace halls.

At the same time.

Inside the Royal Court, the King of Halden entered a sealed private chamber.

He wore imperial robes—a white long gown trimmed in gold, the empire’s emblem embroidered on his chest: a city suspended in clouds with two stars above it, one bright and one dim.

The King of Halden stared ahead.

This chamber sat at the court’s deepest point; the walls were carved with dense runes. Light moved along the rune paths like rivers of radiance flowing across the walls.

In the center of the chamber was a pool.

The water was crystalline and still without a ripple, yet it exuded a profound depth that seemed to swallow all light. Looking down from the pool’s edge, the bottom could not be seen—only endless depth.

In the pool’s center floated a huge crystal.

It was an irregular polyhedron, each face mirror-smooth with faint luminous currents within. Inside the crystal, a figure could be discerned.

Human-shaped, seated cross-legged, eyes closed in calm repose.

Halden’s Immortal.

For countless years, the true guardian of the empire, an ancestor of each reigning Halden king, the great being who forged Halden’s golden age.

Within the royal family they called this ancestor the Immortal Dawn.

Meaning: the empire rose from chaotic times, and he was the first light.

“Ancestor, the empire’s situation is improving.”

The King of Halden whispered.

There was no immediate response from the figure within the crystal.

The spellcaster king continued, “The spread of Abyssal corruption has, in recent decades, not been fully contained. Your ships bear our empire’s weakest soldiers; they sail toward the Abyss with determination to defend the empire, sacrificing flesh and blood along with Iron Will to guard one root of the Rune each time.”

Runic roots: the root-shaped zones formed where Skysoar Engines connect to the Abyss to extract its energy.

Those zones were once energy conduits but have become the most dangerous battlefields.

Because of Abyssal corruption, the engines’ connection to the Abyss proved hard to sever. The roots used to siphon Abyssal energy instead became channels through which the Abyss eroded the empire.

Countless demons surged forward, and Halden’s warriors mainly fought around these siphoning roots.

“In the past decades, only seven cities’ engines showed signs of going out of control.”

“Besides the first two that were destroyed, the others were discovered and suppressed by us in advance. Thankfully, we prevented the situation from worsening.”

He paused, then added, “The alchemists are researching ways to remove Abyssal corruption.”

“There was recent news from the front: they created a new purifying rune whose efficacy exceeded our expectations. It can dispel Abyssal aura around engine components. While it cannot completely eradicate the source of corruption, it can significantly reduce concentration, at least making Sky Cities less prone to losing control.”

“Even if the siphoning roots are breached, these runes can buy us much time.”

As he spoke, a slight relief entered the King of Halden’s tone.

“At the current pace, in a few decades—at most within a hundred years—we should be able to restore all fifth-generation Skysoar Engines to normal operation. Then the empire will turn from danger to safety…”

He looked toward the figure in the crystal and said, “The empire will be safe again.”

Silence.

A few seconds later, a voice emanated from the crystal.

“How about the demons?”

The voice was faint, as if drifting from a great distance, yet it landed clearly in the king’s ears. It carried a sense of burden, each word heavy.

The King of Halden understood: the Dawn ancestor’s condition was poor.

“Temporarily, there has been no large-scale movement.”

The King of Halden said, “After Aola’s Red Emperor destroyed two out-of-control Sky Cities, the demons retracted significantly.”

“According to frontline reports, the demons’ attacks on siphoning roots have weakened. In some regions the demons have even retreated some distance. But we will not be complacent; they may be redeploying.”

Mentioning the Red Emperor made the King of Halden smile faintly.

“Come to think of it, that Red Emperor was… an unexpected boon.”

He said, “Originally we only sought his help to deal with the out-of-control cities, but he performed even better than we anticipated.”

A very soft laugh came from the crystal.

“Interesting,” said the Immortal. “A dragon still short of Mandate, yet capable of such feats.”

“Yes.” The King of Halden replied, “It is interesting—he hasn’t even reached crown-level yet.”

“An adult legendary who can overwhelm crown-level strength in his prime… He has the bearing of an Immortal. He may pose a danger to us in the future, but for now he has eased much pressure. We must acknowledge that.”

They did not linger on that topic.

The spellcaster king’s expression grew grave, then he spoke seriously, “Ancestor, there is still one matter I must report—this concerns something pressing.”

“Speak.”

“Regarding the corrosion issue with the seventh-generation Skysoar Engines.”

The King of Halden weighed his words carefully; each was measured before he said, “After repeated inspection and simulation, the alchemists reached… an unusual conclusion.”

“They did not trust their initial finding, but after multiple verifications the evidence became more convincing, and they submitted it to me.”

He paused, then continued:

“They believe that the fifth-generation engines had a hidden flaw from the very beginning of their design.”

“This defect was minute, so small that under normal operation it could not be noticed. Yet it allowed the engine to fail to fully isolate against Abyssal corruption when extracting Abyssal energy, giving the Abyss a chance to slowly rot us from within.”

“Like an extremely fine crack, normally invisible.”

“But when pressure grows high enough, it becomes the termite hole that collapses the dam.”

He paused and his voice sank, “In other words, before the empire’s large-scale Abyss development and before the mass production of fifth-generation engines, this vulnerability already existed. It did not appear later.”

The chamber’s atmosphere stiffened.

The flowing runes halted for an instant, then resumed their slow turn.

After a long moment, a voice from the crystal asked, “What are you implying?”

The King of Halden took a deep breath and said solemnly, “Ancestor, I suspect… there is high-level treachery at the empire’s core.”

“When the fifth-generation engine was designed, when the Abyssal Development Plan was first launched, someone—or rather, some force—was driving all this.”

“Who could do such a thing? Not an ordinary person.”

“It would require the ability to bury this hidden hazard in secret, in full view of many eyes, without detection.”

Silence stretched.

Long enough that the king feared there would be no response.

He stood motionless, waiting. Rune light flowed across his face, revealing his tension. Then the Immortal’s voice sounded again.

“Who do you suspect?”

The King of Halden did not answer immediately.

His gaze flicked from the crystal figure to the flowing runes and back. His lips moved slightly; after several seconds of hesitation, he finally spoke three words:

“…the other one.”

Halden’s emblem bore two stars, one bright and one dim.

The brighter star represented the royal family’s Immortal; the other represented another Immortal who was not of the royal bloodline.

Halden’s people called that figure the Immortal Dark Star.

Meaning: the empire’s second star, not as luminous as the Dawn but equally important and irreplaceable.

The Abyssal Development Plan was primarily orchestrated by this Dark Star.

He proposed the initial concept, pushed the plan forward, and supervised the engines’ design and construction.

The King of Halden continued, “He oversaw the entire project’s progression and knew the engines’ construction better than anyone.”

“From theoretical derivation to midterm testing to eventual mass production, he participated and supervised every step. He had access to all core secrets during the design phase; no one understands the engine’s every detail more than he does.”

“If someone tampered with the engines, he could not possibly be unaware.”

“And…,” he paused and said in a low tone, “since after your injury these years, he has been at the frontlines, always near the siphoning roots.”

“His justification was that he personally supervised the war, leading by example and confronting the Abyss himself.”

“That sounds reasonable and beyond reproach, but in hindsight could it be possible he reached some agreement with the demons? He positioned himself at the front to monitor battlefield changes and adjust his plans at any time?”

Silence.

A long silence.

The King of Halden sensed the weight of what he had just said.

To suspect an Immortal, to suspect the empire’s second star—such doubts were dangerous. He was the contemporary ruler sitting upon the throne, but rulers come and go; Immortals endure like gods.

Finally the voice replied.

“…Don’t speak of it.”

The King of Halden raised his head.

“Ancestor…”

“I said, don’t speak of it.”

The voice cut him off. Though soft, it carried unquestionable authority. “Halden needs unity now. Whatever the truth may be, now is not the time to seek it.”

“The Abyss and the demons lie before us; we require all forces to fight together.”

“Any internal division will cost the empire dearly.”

The King of Halden murmured, “But, Ancestor, if it is him, the consequences…”

“If it is him, then it is precisely not the time.”

Weariness mixed into the Immortal’s voice. “If he has betrayed us, you should understand what that means. Moreover, you lack concrete evidence—only conjecture. I am inclined to believe he is unaware and has been deceived by the true betrayer.”

“Perhaps there is a third party, a power we do not know, manipulating all of this from the shadows.”

The King of Halden nodded slowly.

“I hope so.”

“Do not spread word of the engine flaw,” the Immortal continued. “Proceed as before. Do not investigate or probe. Reveal your doubt to no one; act as if you never discovered it.”

“Your task is to steady the empire and focus all available strength on resolving the immediate crisis.”

The spellcaster king bowed his head slightly. “Understood.”

“The urgent matter now is to concentrate on fixing the engines. Other matters… wait until later.”

A faint reply came from the crystal, “Mm, go.”

The King of Halden bowed again and turned to leave the chamber.

At the entrance he paused and glanced back once at the figure in the crystal. The figure remained seated with eyes closed, composed as if their prior conversation had never occurred.

Then the King of Halden took his leave.

The crystal’s light calmed, the swirling mist settled, and the chamber returned to its usual tranquility.

New Calendar, Year 543.

Central Continent, Southern Domain.

Crossing the vast, desolate Sarud Desert and continuing southward, the air gradually grew moist.

The wind carried humidity, the scent of vegetation, and the distant salt tang of the sea.

This was Latona Kingdom territory, and at Latona’s southernmost edge lay a coastal city.

It sat by the busiest harbor in the Southern Domain, towers rising within the city, waterways crisscrossing, ships coming and going in a constant stream.

Sunlight shimmered on the sea, sparkling and reflecting off the crystal spires of the city’s magic towers, making the whole city seem to glow peacefully.

At the same time, inside a hidden reception room.

Two figures sat opposite one another.

One was the Farrel Kingdom’s Crown of Three Aspects, Varta.

He still looked trim and capable, though there were extra lines at his eyes and more gray at his temples. His presence remained as before: deep and steady as a bottomless pool—calm on the surface but hiding overwhelming force beneath.

He sat on the floor with a relaxed posture that nonetheless radiated an unspoken authority.

Opposite him was Latona’s Crown of Magic, Aphra.

She wore a deep-blue robe embroidered with complex incantations along the hem. Her hands rested folded on her knees and an almost imperceptible magical aura surrounded her. Her expression was thoughtful.

“So? Have you decided?”

Varta spoke calmly as if discussing an ordinary matter.

Aphra lifted the crystal cup before her, sipped lightly, and set it down. The liquid was pale gold with a faint glow—her favored drink.

“Do you know what you’re asking?” she asked.

“I do.” Varta nodded, meeting her gaze. “I have thought it through clearly, and this must be done. I have reconsidered it countless times; I am certain this is the only choice.”

Aphra’s brows knitted slightly.

A crown-level champion coming personally to discuss cooperation meant something serious.

Their cooperation centered on assassinating and decapitating Aola’s Red Emperor while he slept.

“The seas are calm now, but the storm has not passed,” Aphra said. “The demons may return at any time. Latona’s aid will be needed to resist them. That would be the perfect time for you to weaken each other through infighting.”

Varta’s expression did not change.

“Not appropriate, but necessary.”

He said, “Aphra, spellcasters like you are wiser than I in analysis. I won’t mince words or indulge in rhetoric.”

“We sit here for a practical conversation about risks and benefits.”

“The demons are a threat, I admit. They endanger the entire continent. But the force at the true front line is Halden.”

“They triggered this disaster and should be held accountable. We defend our own kings and handle local troubles—we’ve done enough.”

Aphra’s brows moved slightly but she remained silent.

Across from her, the Tri-Crowns’ gaze sharpened with the monk’s characteristic edge.

“Most importantly, you know as well as I do that the Red Emperor is a more immediate threat than the demons.”

He said in a low voice, “Dragons grow stronger with age. Especially a monster like him.”

“When he awakens, his strength will be greater. There is no doubt—he is very likely to reach crown-level. He is already astonishingly powerful despite not being crown-level yet.”

At that time…”

He paused and continued, “Who else could oppose him? You? Me? Even if we unite, we’d struggle to resist.”

Aphra shook her head slowly.

“He does not seem like a savage evil dragon.”

“You are certain he will target us after awakening? From his past actions, though expansionist, he has not torn up existing covenants.”

“I don’t know,” Varta admitted frankly. “I don’t know whether he’ll view us as obstacles. But I do know one thing: I cannot stake our fate on ‘I don’t know.’”

He looked at Aphra. “Would you risk the Southern Domain’s future on one dragon’s whim?”

“Would you let your people, all of Latona, live in that uncertainty—waking each day to wonder if the dragon will suddenly turn on you?”

Aphra fell silent.

In truth she harbored little personal malice toward the Red Emperor.

On the contrary, she sensed something ordinary about the dragon emperor; nothing in him suggested outright cruelty. Yet what he planned could not be risked.

Putting your people’s fate in a dragon’s goodwill was reckless.

After a long moment, Aphra asked, “How about Lamorein, the Lord of Thunder? Have you contacted him?”

“Although both are dragons, Lamorein and the Red Emperor are not aligned. Maybe we can exploit their rivalry. Their internal strife could work to our advantage.”

Varta shook his head slightly.

“That Ancient Dragon is crafty and adept at concealment.”

“But my intuition tells me he looks down on us humans, indeed on all beings other than dragons. He might agree outwardly, but secretly aim his talons at us and deliver a fatal blow at the decisive moment.”

“Non-kin cannot be trusted.”

Varta trusted his instincts.

A martial monk’s intuition often surpassed many magical senses.

He weighed his words and continued, “We do not need to fear Lamorein launching a sudden all-out attack.”

“You likely received word: the Raging Tides Dragon Domain struck the Breckton Kingdom. The dragons have turned inward—the nations once cowed by the Lord of Thunder can no longer endure his oppression and have risen up.”

“Internal and external conflicts are erupting simultaneously; he is already overwhelmed.”

Aphra inclined her head slightly, clearly aware of these developments.

“I’ve heard the northern reports.”

“So you think now is the best chance to strike the Red Emperor?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Varta nodded, a flash of resolve in his eyes.

He adjusted his posture and began to elaborate in detail.

“Soon the Red Emperor will have slept for roughly fifty years.”

“This is the most delicate window. He has not yet broken through to crown-level; his rank hasn’t transformed decisively. Yet after decades of prolonged slumber his body is depleted.”

He looked at Aphra. “You understand this better than I.”

Aphra nodded: “A dragon sleeping too long will experience gradual energy depletion. Upon waking there’s a period of weakness.”

“Exactly.”

Varta said in a low voice, “His body is in deficit and his power has not fully recovered. If we prepare thoroughly over several more years—gather two sides’ legendaries, elite troops, and various counters—”

“If we are unwilling to bow to a dragon, this is our only chance. The best chance.”

“If we miss it, once he naturally awakens and fully recovers, we will have no possibility left. Then, whether we like it or not, we must accept that harsh reality.”

Aphra’s complexion shifted at his words.

She said, “You make it sound brutal, but you haven’t answered one question.”

“Ask.”

“What are you seeking in return?”

Varta allowed a slight smile.

Aphra looked at him and said bluntly, “You’ve said so much about non-kin, about the Red Emperor being a more urgent threat than demons, about refusing to kneel under dragon wings—but it all feels abstract.”

“Will you risk everything for these reasons?”

She paused and spoke frankly, “At the end of the day you want the Tear of the Immortal. That is your true motive; everything else is secondary.”

Varta nodded slowly.

“You are right.”

He answered plainly without excuse. “That Tear of the Immortal is my only chance. If possible, I would prefer to ascend to Mandate by my own power. I tried and failed.”

“My body is aging.”

“I feel myself grow weaker each day, every moment. I cannot wait.”

A complex expression crossed Aphra’s face. She understood his bitterness and longing—shared human resonance.

The Mandate was within reach yet always elusive; with time slipping away, hope shrank like a mirage in a desert—chasing it only to find it perpetually out of reach.

Today’s Varta might be tomorrow’s her.

“What will I gain?” Aphra asked, pulling herself back to practicality.

At those words Varta’s spirit stirred and he immediately replied, “The Red Emperor’s entire body will be yours, intact—every scale and claw. I only want the Tear of the Immortal.”

“Study it as you wish; dissect it however you wish.”

“A dragon as exceptional as the Red Emperor would be more valuable to a spellcaster than a mere drop of the Tear. His body could conceal countless secrets.”

Aphra’s eyes flickered.

Indeed—such an extraordinary dragon, one stronger than crown-level before actually being crown-level, possessing the bearing of an Immortal—his flesh would be a spellcaster’s dream material.

Those secrets, gifts, and power sources might be hidden within his body.

After thinking, she asked, “Once you secure the Tear and reach Mandate, how can I be sure you won’t betray me?”

“I will bind a magical covenant with you.”

Varta answered without hesitation; it was clearly planned.

“You will lead the covenant.”

“You are a spellcaster and understand these things better than I. Set whatever mechanisms you deem necessary to guarantee safety and impose constraints that prevent me from reneging.”

“Bind my words with runic locks, soul brands—whatever you choose.”

He said earnestly, “After I reach Mandate, I will not harm your interests. Moreover, I will do three things for you.”

“As long as they do not violate my principles or harm my core interests, I will accomplish them for you—whether in battle, protection, or other matters.”

Aphra’s eyes reflected deep consideration.

Mandate is—at essence—also a type of legendary status. As fellow legendaries who hadn’t reached Immortal status, a covenant led by her could indeed be enforced so Varta could scarcely break it.

Aphra fell into silence to weigh the proposal.

Once Varta reached Mandate, he would replace the Red Emperor’s ecological niche.

He would also be able to clear large surface rifts and become a force against demons.

Crucially, she could ensure this monk at Mandate posed no threat to her. With a signed covenant, she would gain a powerful ally indebted to her.

As for the Red Emperor…

Although Aphra sensed something different about him, deep down she could not fully trust a dragon’s compassion.

Allowing him to awaken naturally would consign the future to one beast’s whim.

She could not gift such a fate.

Varta did not press; he sat quietly and waited for her answer.

After a long pause, Aphra spoke.

“All right.”

One simple word, and Varta’s eyes brightened slightly as he exhaled in relief.

A crown-level spellcaster’s participation in a legendary coup would be invaluable—perhaps even more decisive than his own presence.

Aphra looked at him and said:

“I need to know your plan.”

Varta did not hesitate.

“As is proper.”

“First, locate his exact sleeping position.”

He looked into Aphra’s eyes and said, “From fragments and tissue dropped during battle, Eastern Alliance spellcasters have narrowed down a general region—on the Rhen Plateau.”

“But that’s all.”

“The Red Emperor’s magic resistance is very high. Even using mediators for location is difficult. The Alliance’s spellcasters have tried many times and only determined approximate areas; they cannot precisely pinpoint him.”

Varta paused briefly, then continued: “However, if you cast the spell, the situation changes.”

“You are the Crown of Magic. Where others cannot reach, you can. You can lock onto his exact position. This is the plan’s first and most crucial step.”

Aphra inclined her head lightly.

“That I can do. With his tissue as a medium, I can perform a tracing and locating ritual. As long as he is alive, I can find him.”

“Next, we strike when he is vulnerable,” Varta took over.

“Have him set up a small array to cover his sleeping region and, when he is at his healthiest, launch a devastating strike.”

“No need to kill him outright, which is unrealistic.”

“But we must severely wound him, leaving him injured and further weakened. After that, the rest will be easier.”

“Aola is built upon the Red Emperor. Other legendaries are mere embellishments. If he falls, their cohesion collapses.”

He paused and emphasized, “All our legendaries combined, prepared and waiting, striking at a weakened, ambushed Red Emperor: our chances exceed seventy percent.”

Aphra rose, walked to the window, and pushed it open.

Sea breeze flowed in with a salty dampness and the distant noise of waves; seagulls circled and ships moved back and forth.

She stared out the window for a long time without speaking.

Varta came to stand beside her, also looking out over the city toward the sea.

Two crown-level figures stood side by side, gazing at the city beneath and the distant ocean.

“What are you thinking?” Varta asked.

Aphra did not turn. Her voice was calm: “I’m wondering whether our decision is right or wrong. How will posterity judge us years from now?”

“Will they call us decisive heroes or foolishly overreaching?”

“There is no absolute right or wrong.”

Varta said, “Only necessary choices.”

Aphra slightly nodded.

“Yes, a necessary choice.”

She repeated softly, then turned to Varta: “So it’s decided.”

They exchanged a glance; everything was understood without words.

Outside, the sea breeze continued to blow and waves kept lapping the shore, but the busy city and its people had no idea that moments ago a conversation that would determine their future had just concluded.