The Frontier was a powder keg, and he was tempted to light the fuse himself — announce the Fruit of the Mountain God openly, summon the Tribe’s full might, and claim credit for the discovery.
But the elders would crucify him for hiding it first. Rolando’s impatience and his own greed had turned a perfect prize into disaster.
Now Rolando lay dead, the Fruit shards lost, and Sylas had only excuses and shame to bring home.
He would not be punished heavily — the Tribe needed their Emperor-level elders far too much for that — but ridicule? Disdain? Loss of standing?
That was guaranteed.
And as fate would have it, the man he least wanted to see stood waiting at the entrance of the Tribe’s Sacred Grounds.
An older man with weathered skin, the colour of burnt earth. Thick, luxurious beast furs draped over his shoulders. Long, dark hair braided in the Rhodarian fashion. Eyes black, sharp, humourless.
Fifth Elder of the Sakar Tribe.
A TAO Emperor.
Saban du Sakar.
“Well, well, well…” Samoa drawled, voice dripping venomous amusement. “Look what crawled back. The great Spider of Sakar returns from his heroic expedition. Tell me, Sylas — where is my nephew? I seem to have misplaced him.”
The words struck precisely where Sylas bled.
He didn’t stop walking.
“Hmph. Mind your tongue, Frog,” he replied coldly. “I’m not in the mood.”
Samoa laughed — a cruel, barking sound.
“The Patriarch wants to see you. First Elder’s orders. Hopefully nothing… unfortunate will happen to you before then.”
Sylas’s step faltered for a fraction of a second. Then he moved on without another word.
When he reached his cabin, someone waited kneeling outside — the messenger who had once delivered Roland’s letter. “Servant” was too humble a word; this man was an operative of the War Council’s intelligence network.
He served Sylas because the Council forced him to — and because Sylas was one of the Ten Great Tribes’ elders.
Sylas walked past him — then stopped.
“Go to the Galia slums,” Sylas said quietly, without turning. “Find the envoy of the Liberation Brotherhood. Tell him this: Michel De Rosas is alive. He’s near the Ansara–Rhodar frontier.”
The man’s pupils contracted sharply.
“M-Michel De Rosas? That ghost?” His voice lowered. “Sixth Elder… that man vanished twenty-five years ago. And the Brotherhood—Are you certain? They’re dangerous heretics. People who try to deceive them end up with their entire bloodline wiped out. The Patriarch decreed we are to avoid contact with them entirely.”
Sylas chuckled darkly.
“Are we now afraid of mutts barking in the dark? We are the Great Tribe of Sakar — one of Rhodar’s Ten Pillars. If we tremble at every upstart cult or secret faction, we deserve extinction.”
He turned then, eyes glinting with resentment and calculation.
“Besides… what I give them is gold. Many outsiders don’t know that Lirian de Mikaeli’s martial path was the Interceptor Fist.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“But… Rolando was injured years ago by—”
“Exactly.” Sylas’s smirk was thin. “I fought Michel De Rosas on the Frontier. His Martial Art was the Path of the Interceptor Fist — the same style. Teacher and disciple, or siblings of the same school. The Brotherhood has been hunting for Lirian’s roots for decades with no success. This will make them move.”
A beat.
“And Michel is the one who ruined our business. He interfered, delayed everything… and now Rolando is dead. I can’t hunt him now, but the Brotherhood?”
He shrugged.
“They’ll happily finish the job. The dead should stay dead.”
The servant swallowed.
“The same Martial Art… that information could earn a great reward. A Brotherhood favour is no trivial thing.”
“So go,” Sylas said, turning toward the path leading to the Patriarch’s hall. “Deliver the message. I have to face the Patriarch and the First Elder… and Saban will try to stir trouble.”
He stopped, looking briefly over his shoulder.
“This isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.”
And he walked into the Sacred Grounds, carrying with him the shadow of a war he had just helped ignite — without even realising how far the flames would spread.
Nerion spotted the rooftops of Radom long before the caravan reached the gates. The Night Crows’ wagons rumbled steadily behind him, wheels cutting through the last stretch of dirt road that led home. Silvestre sat on the edge of one cart, legs dangling, while Mikael walked ahead with the same unreadable calm he had kept the whole journey.
Raye rode beside the lead wagon, grinning as if he’d won a war of his own.
“You boys come back alive from the Frontier,” he said, “I figured I should welcome you with something useful.”
He tossed a small lacquered chest toward Nerion. Nerion caught it awkwardly, almost dropping it; the scent of rare herbs and oils drifted out from the slight opening.
“For Elisha,” Raye added, tapping his nose. “Man’s got potential. An investment worth making.”
Mikael’s eyebrow twitched. Nerion stammered, “T-thank you, Mister Raye—”
“Oh, please,” the man laughed, waving his hand. “You’ll pay me back eventually. Or Elisha will, when he’s a big important Army man or becomes a Boy toy to one of the Army officers like Major Serena.”
Silvestre leaned toward Nerion and whispered, “Boy toy, huh? Good thing he’s not here to hear that. If Raye knew Elisha was actually assigned to serve the Dragon General, he would laugh himself to his death.”
Raye only cackled and rode ahead, pleased with himself.
The Orphanage door burst open the moment the caravan stopped.
Myra flew out first, her red hair tied in a messy braid, eyes red from sleepless nights. Behind her, a storm of children followed, shouting Nerion’s and Silvestre’s names.
“Nerion!” she cried, gripping him so tightly he almost lost his balance. “You’re home… you’re really home.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Mikael stepped forward, and the hardened woman pulled him into a long, trembling embrace.
“Everything’s handled now,” she murmured.
“I know you did well,” Mikael answered softly.
Landa and Brandon emerged next, bandages wrapped around ribs and heads, leaning on each other like two battered brothers-in-arms.
“We’re fine,” Landa said before Nerion could ask.
“Not fine,” Brandon corrected. “Just alive.”
Nerion swallowed hard. His chest felt tight; the thought of losing them made his hands shake.
Myra placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll tell you everything inside.”
The living room filled with quiet. Mikael sat cross-legged, back straight, face hardening with every detail Myra recounted — Varro, the intruders, the desperate fight, the damage.
Mikael was more worried about Myra nearly relapsing into the Red Demoness, but in the end, he let it be. They were fine, and it was all that mattered, though Myra’s clenched fists and somewhat blackened irises let him know there was still a remnant in her psyche.
By the time she finished, even the children stayed silent.
Silvestre clenched his fist. “If I hadn’t— If we—”
Mikael cut him off with a raised hand. “What matters is that you lived. All of you.” His voice cracked for the briefest moment, quickly buried.
Nerion reached into his coat and placed Sagat’s ring on the table with a soft clink.
“This… use everything inside,” he said. “For repairs. Medicine. Food. Whatever the Orphanage needs.”
Myra blinked, stunned. Mikael’s eyes shifted, imperceptibly softer. The chest of treasures was heavy, but giving it away felt light.
That night, they held a small elegy for Lucca.
Miriam cried until her voice broke. Brandon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to look brave. Mikael lit a single candle, placing it on the table beside Lucca’s old wooden carvings.
Silence filled the room — not empty, but remembering.
Nerion whispered, “He deserved better… so much better.”
Mikael rested a hand on his head. “So we honour him by living.”
Days passed. The rhythm of the Orphanage returned.
Morning training resumed, harsher than before. Mikael’s instructions cut like cold steel.
“Again, Nerion. You had ten seconds of glory — now earn ten years of strength.”
Nerion collapsed into the dirt more than once, cursing quietly. Silvestre teased him relentlessly until Mikael doubled his own exercises as well, which shut him up for a day or two.
When the children complained, Mikael taught them things instead.
Maps of the continent drawn in dust.
Stories of mages from Luztar who refused to bow to anyone.
Tales of Rhodarian warriors who greeted death like a drinking companion.
Rumours of Brindisi’s hidden city beneath the humongous Icebergs of the Archipelago.
Songs sung by nomads under the Avi-Sena sky.
Legends of the missing Elf tribes in the Dark Forest of Bahamut.
The children soaked up every word, eyes wide.
Silvestre grew quickly.
His aura stabilised at TAO Master level 13, and he opened two more Acupoints despite the missing arm. He moved a little differently now — shifting weight, adjusting balance — but his grin never changed.
“Invincible among kids,” he boasted one morning, puffing his chest.
“Among kids,” Myra repeated dryly. “Remember, I can still toss you into the river.”
Silvestre shut up immediately.
The diluted Millennial Stone Milk strengthened everyone, even little Brandon, who swore he felt his bones buzzing.
Nerion rebuilt himself day by day — not fully recovered, but stronger than he had ever been before Arbak touched his life.
Mikael watched them with the look of a man trying to outrun time.
More lessons, more drills, more warnings.
Myra spoke with him every night, sometimes softly, sometimes sharply, but whatever troubled him, he kept locked behind his eyes.
Nerion felt it too. A tension in the air. A sense that peace was a thread stretched thin.
But for now, they were home.
For now, they breathed.
And for now, the Orphanage lived.
The cellar deep underground was silent except for the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark. Rows of shelves lined the stone walls, filled with scrolls, coded ledgers, blood-sealed talismans, and relics stolen from every corner of Aeonia.
A single lantern burned blue, casting long, sharp shadows. Runes were etched in all the walls, giving the room an eerie atmosphere.
A man sat at the lone desk.
Lean. Hooded. Dark hair falling in disarray over eyes rimmed with sleepless hollows. The only piece of ornament on him was a ring — a dull metal circlet, the Templo sigil crossed by a wicked scythe.
A scroll materialised silently before him. He unrolled it without looking away from his current task, his fingers tracing a complex pattern of temporal runes.
His eyes — black, depthless — moved once across the page.
The lamp flickered. Or maybe the room simply darkened under the weight of the man’s aura.
A slow, terrible smile formed — without warmth, without triumph.
“Finally.”
He leaned back, shadows pooling around his shoulders like a mantle.
“Six years of silence. Six years of corpses, dead ends, ghosts.” His fingers tapped the parchment once. “And now, war brews at the Frontier. A convenient wind.”
He folded the message.
“The Gran Maestre will be pleased. Chaos sharpens blades that have grown bored.”
The lantern’s flame guttered as he stood.
His voice softened, colder than steel.
“I told you, Lirian…” A faint tremor of killing intent rippled through the runic papers on the desk. “…I will find your son.”
He lifted the ringed hand — the scythe glinting faintly.
“And when I do, your memory will vanish with him. Both of you erased. Forever.”
The lantern went out.
The city’s old iron bell tolled once — deep, resonant, shuddering through Pellam like a warning heartbeat.
No one had heard it ring in seven years.
Pellam’s walls trembled beneath anxious footsteps. Merchants closed their stalls. Mothers pulled children inside. Soldiers stood in rigid lines atop the battlements, staring at the horizon where a sea of red standards approached.
The Third Regiment of the Red Phoenix Army.
Felitia Du Venteria rode at its head — armour of black leather and beast hide gleaming under the sun, hair whipping like a dark banner. The Vermilion Phoenix emblem of her regiment glowed faintly with heat.
“Form camp,” she commanded.
The ground thundered as thousands obeyed. Tents rose in disciplined arcs. Artillery was unshrouded. War banners stabbed into the earth like spears.
The message was clear: Rhodar had arrived.
Ansara - Mount David Defence Line
Elisabetta Mariana de Varona stood on the high ridge before the Ansaran encampment, hair whipping in the mountain winds. Her silver cloak snapped behind her like a flag.
Sebastian frowned deeply beside her. “We do not know their intentions yet. A provocation might—”
“She already knows we’re watching,” Elisabetta replied. “And she wants to see how bold we are.”
Elisha stood behind them, still bruised from “training,” eyes widening as the General grinned.
“Let’s greet her. It’s customary, after all, for the host to give a welcome gift.”
Elisha opened his mouth to protest — and thought better of it.
She summoned her Will.
Metal groaned. Light bent. And before the soldiers’ eyes, a three-meter phantom armour of empty, shimmering silver rose from the earth — feminine in shape, mask smooth and expressionless, a spear forming in its gauntleted hand.
The Iron Maiden incarnate.
The armour stepped forward, drew its arm back, and hurled the spear. The air split open. A comet streaked across the sky.
Felitia did not flinch.
Her army murmured in fear and awe as the silver comet tore toward them, burning the clouds.
“As feisty as ever…” she muttered.
She lifted her hand. Fire ignited in a ring around her feet. From it rose a five-meter Vermilion Bird — wings aflame, eyes bright as molten gold.
The bird shrieked, releasing a beam of solar fire.
THRUM!
The sky exploded into a second sun as the two techniques collided. Light washed across the plains. Men shielded their eyes.
And through the blinding radiance, across more than a hundred kilometres, Elisabetta and Felitia both turned — looking directly toward where they knew the other stood.
Two wills collided, though neither moved.
War had not yet begun.
But the first blow had already been thrown.
In Ansem, a small bell chimed from the Ministry Tower — not an alarm, but a summons.
Rumours carried farther than sound in the capital, and both came with the same message:
Meanwhile, snowflakes drifted lazily through the training courtyard of House Corina.
Julieta De Corina pivoted with surprising grace for a nine-year-old, her hands weaving a delicate Heaven-element sigil. The air shimmered faintly with starlight.
“Good,” Manke said behind her, voice even. “But your centre is too tense. Heaven flows — it does not strain.”
Julieta tried again, breathing deeply, letting the energy soften. Her steward nodded approvingly.
He was a tall, silver-templed man, clad in dark blue robes. Cold mist clung faintly to his sleeves — the sign of a Rank 5 Ice Arch-Magus.
Julieta tried summoning an air bubble, when it suddenly collapsed, and she fell panting.
Manke noticed Julieta was distracted. She was losing focus easily.
“Something on your mind, my Lady?”
Julieta’s hands folded close to her chest.
“Manke… I overheard Lord Father in his study. He’s starting to send aid to the Frontier. The Seven Years of Peace
Manke’s expression didn’t change.
“War never truly left, little lady. It only sleeps.” Seeing Julieta furrow her head, Manke softened his tone. “We do not know yet. It may be posturing. But the nobles will panic regardless.”
Julieta gazed toward the distant artificial mountains, brows drawn.
“Will the Dragon Generals be there?”
“Yes,” Manke said. “General Varona has already taken command. And…” His eyes crinkled. “I hear that General Varona has taken a new aide. A boy from Radom.”
Julieta blinked. “Elisha?”
“So the reports say.”
She let out a tiny breath of relief. “If Elisha’s with a Dragon General… then he must be safe. And that means…”
Her voice softened.
“…maybe Nerion is safe too.”
Manke placed a gentle hand on her head. “Children should not carry the world’s fears. Focus on your cultivation, my lady. Whatever comes, Ansara is not so fragile.”
Julieta nodded — but the worry did not leave her eyes.
Above them, snow continued to fall.
As quietly as war approached.