**Ch.1 – Winter’s Veil**

  *Snow fell in silence—thick, cold, and endless.*

  The morning mist had yet to clear. The winter sun of the imperial capital seemed to shy away from the chill, casting only a faint, pale light from the edges of the sky.

  The snow wasn’t heavy, but it fell endlessly—like a gauzy veil draping over the rooftops, streets, and bronze statues of the thousand-year-old city, turning the entire imperial capital into a solemn, silent painting.

  Yet within the inner courtyard of the Wellington Ducal Estate, the snow seemed reluctant to truly touch the ground.

  Though no one had swept the paths, a winding trail stretched outward from the edge of the pond, curving like a line drawn in ink—gentle, yet precise.

  Clusters of winter holly stood still in the corners of the walls, their leaves covered in a layer of frost. The cold hung in the air like invisible blades, cutting through every inch of silence.

  By the pond sat a young boy, cross-legged in the snow.

  His breath was long and steady. A faint shimmer of waterlight hovered around him, as if magic seeped from beneath his skin, resonating silently with the water element suspended in the icy air.

  His dark hair was slightly damp, clinging to his youthful yet well-defined face. Under the pale morning light, his sky-blue eyes reflected the snow like mirrors—clear and intensely focused.

  This was Ross Wellington—firstborn son of the Wellington family, just twelve years old. He had already stepped into the ranks of Senior Mages, a prodigy granted the title of “Pureborn of Water” by the Holy See.

  At the center of the pond, a blue orb the size of a clenched fist floated in the air, surrounded by eight thin threads of water. They swirled gently, pulsing in rhythm with his breath, like a dancer’s veil weaving a soft, steady cadence in the cold.

  The boy's brows were furrowed in concentration. His hands moved in flowing patterns, forming seals as fluid and intricate as rippling water. He was attempting to weave the eight water threads into a complete sigil—the [Seal of the Spirit Ring].

  But the water lines, though agile, refused to fall into place. They drifted unpredictably, resisting his guidance. After a brief tremor, the formation collapsed entirely, scattering into tiny droplets that splashed upon the pond’s surface, breaking into fragmented ripples.

  “…Failed again,” he murmured, barely audible. His fingers trembled slightly, and the sweat on his brow cooled quickly in the winter air.

  A calm, deep voice rose from beneath a snow-laden pine.

  “If you treat water as a servant, it will never obey you. But if you dance with it, it may choose to answer.”

  The boy turned his head. A figure stood shrouded in the morning mist. He wore a deep blue robe, a gray mantle draped over his shoulders. His posture was upright, features sharp and solemn, silver hair cascading down to his collar. His face bore the severity of chiseled stone, yet his eyes—cool and gray—were still and tranquil, like the surface of a frozen lake.

  It was Charles Wellington—the First Duke of the Skydome Empire, Marshal of the Northwestern Legion, Royal Advisor of Magic, and Commander of the Capital Patrol Guard.

  Charles approached with steady steps, each footfall silent upon the snow. A few strands of silver hair brushed his brow, but his eyes held a rare warmth as he looked upon the boy.

  “Father,” Ross called softly, a hint of embarrassment in his gaze. “I can already control eight threads at once... but I still can’t make them orbit the core.”

  “Eight threads,” Charles replied, laying a light hand on his son’s shoulder, “is already the edge of what’s possible.”

  “Don’t rush. Elemental affinity isn’t for commanding—it’s for listening.”

  Ross nodded faintly but couldn't help whispering, “When you were my age... were you better than me?”

  Charles smiled—a smile that echoed with time.

  “At eighteen, I managed five. You're twelve, and you’ve already mastered eight.”

  “Isn’t the answer obvious?”

  Ross didn’t smile. He fell silent for a moment, fingers gently tracing the fabric at his knee. At last, he spoke, his voice low.

  “The Academy of Natural Magic sent word. I’ve been formally accepted… but I... I’m not ready to leave this place.”

  Charles said nothing at first. He lifted his gaze to the dim sky. The snow was falling finer now, almost invisible—but in its silence, there was a cold that reached to something distant and unseen.

  “You were born in summer,” he said at last. “But that night, it snowed without end.”

  “Mother said it was a sign from the Water God,” Ross replied with a small smile.

  “More than that,” Charles said, his gaze sharpening.

  “That night, the Aqua Compass began to hum—and then it shattered, split into two pieces. One half fell into my palm. The other vanished.”

  “When you were a month old, the second half reappeared—glowing blue—nestled in your swaddling cloth.”

  “That day, I knew your path would be bound to water. And only the Academy of Natural Magic is worthy of your gift.”

  Ross fell silent again, eyes drifting to the blue crystal shard that hung at his chest. It was smooth as glass, flawlessly clear, always cool to the touch. When he meditated, it sometimes shimmered with pale blue ripples.

  “…Can it really glimpse the future?” he asked quietly.

  “It can whisper the path ahead in silence,” Charles answered, “and shine a light in the dark. But whether it's right or not… depends on your belief, not the stone.”

  He paused, something tightening in his gaze—as though a distant memory had just stirred.

  “I have an audience with the Emperor today.”

  “Now?” Ross blinked. “But there’s still ten days till the New Year. Didn’t you say this would be a quiet stretch?”

  Charles only smiled, not answering. Instead, he looked toward the courtyard's small clock pavilion.

  “His Majesty claims it’s for ‘banquet preparations.’ But if it’s just chandeliers and feast menus, why call for me?”

  At that moment, the courtyard gate swung open with a thump.

  A small figure dashed through, trailing snow and warmth.

  “Brother! You didn’t wait for me again!”

  Jenny Wellington—eight years old, Ross’s younger sister—burst into the garden like a gust of wind wrapped in wool. She wore a cream-colored cloak trimmed in lambswool, her cheeks flushed rosy red from the cold. In her hands, she clutched a steaming loaf of milk bread fresh from the oven.

  Her round face shone with mischief and glee. Golden curls bounced against her hood, and her bright blue eyes sparkled in the snowlight, pure and unclouded. Snowflakes gathered on her lashes and nose, but she seemed not to notice, skipping gleefully across the frosted stone path.

  “You two are always sneaking off to practice magic,” she pouted, lips pressed forward. “And when I train with my sword, you're always drinking tea.”

  Ross took the bread from her hands with a sigh of resignation. “Didn’t I tell you not to run? Look at you—your face is freezing.”

  Jenny straightened, placing her hands on her hips with exaggerated pride. “I’m a future Knight of Glory! A little cold doesn’t scare me!”

  No sooner had she spoken than her boot slipped on the icy stone. “Eek—!” With a yelp, she tumbled forward—straight into her brother’s arms, sending a flurry of white snow flying around them.

  The two children collapsed into a giggling heap, laughter echoing across the quiet courtyard. High above, a startled crow flapped from its perch and vanished into the falling dusk.

  Charles stood a few paces away, watching the scene in silence. His gaze deepened, shadowed by thought, and after a long moment, he exhaled softly.

  “I’ll go change in the study,” he murmured. “The snow’s beautiful—but don’t play too long.”

  He turned and walked into the manor, footsteps silent on the frozen stone.

  Charles returned to the inner hall and made his way toward the western wing of the estate—his study, nestled deep within the manor’s stone heart.

  The walls here were built from froststone quarried only in the Empyrean northlands, a rare mineral that exuded a constant chill. Yet inside, warmth radiated from an enchanted hearth set with fire-crystals, casting a steady glow over the ancient books and polished maps adorning the chamber.

  At the center stood a long blackwood desk, its dark surface etched with delicate magical runes. War charts, sealed scrolls, and coded correspondence lay neatly arranged upon it. But what caught the eye first—what always did—was the crystalline half-disc nestled in its velvet tray: the Watervein Compass.

  It pulsed faintly with a pale blue sheen, its surface rippling like a pond beneath moonlight. Within its translucent core, fractured runes flickered—remnants of an ancient magical array.

  Charles approached slowly. He removed the sword from his hip and placed it beside the desk, then lowered himself into the high-backed chair. For a moment, he simply sat there, fingers hovering above the compass's edge, eyes unreadable.

  After a long silence, he opened a drawer and drew out a folded parchment and a wax seal. Dipping his quill in ink, he began to write—not in the common tongue, but in the archaic sigils of the Tower of Natura, the secret language of those once trained beneath its boughs.

  His hand moved swiftly. The script was narrow and slanted, the strokes tight, each line drawn with practiced urgency, as if urgency itself were pressing down through the nib of his pen.

  Once finished, he rolled the scroll and placed it carefully into a rune-etched transmission capsule. Then, with the same care, he set the crystal shard into the slot atop the lid.

  A hum began. Faint blue waves pulsed outward from the center of the box like ripples across still water. With a final shimmer, the light collapsed into a single line—and vanished.

  Charles sat back. For the first time that morning, his expression cracked—just slightly. There was a shadow in his gaze.

  “…Come,” he whispered, barely audible. “Please come.”

  —

  The sun had risen higher now, casting a pale sheen across the snow-covered courtyard.

  Inside the smaller dining room, a copper kettle let out a soft whistle atop the hearth. The scent of milky tea and fruit preserves lingered in the warm air, mingling with the faint fragrance of pine from the logs burning steadily in the fireplace.

  The curtain between the kitchen and dining space shifted gently. A slender, graceful figure stepped out, her movements quiet, deliberate.

  She wore a modest pale green gown tied with a silver sash. Her skin was porcelain fair, her features elegant and composed—clear eyes beneath arched brows, lips soft but seldom frivolous. There was a serenity about her, like still water over deep stone.

  This was Joanne Wellington.

  A daughter of the former Prime Minister under Emperor Turan II, she had once been the pride of one of the capital’s most revered houses. But since marrying into the Wellington family, she had set aside the brilliance of her lineage and immersed herself entirely in the quiet rhythm of domestic life. For more than a decade, she had been the quiet pillar of the household—always present, always poised, whether in grand imperial banquets or humble morning meals.

  Now, in this gentle pocket of warmth amid the frigid capital, she set a plate of buttered milk bread on the table and glanced sideways toward the little girl devouring her breakfast with eager bites.

  “Slow down, Jenny. No one’s stealing your bread.”

  Jenny mumbled around a mouthful of pastry, her voice muffled and plaintive: “But once Brother leaves… there’ll be no one left to tease me.”

  Ross sat beside her, cupping a warm mug of milk between his hands, the steam rising into his face. He said nothing at first, his gaze lingering on the windowpane, where snowflakes drifted in silent flurries.

  “I’m just going to study,” he said eventually, his voice quiet. “A few years, and I’ll be back.”

  “But you won’t be here after New Year…” Jenny’s lips pouted. She hugged the warm pouch at her side tightly, cheeks puffed in dismay.

  Joanne reached over and gently brushed her daughter’s hair aside. “Every journey begins with leaving something behind. The farther your brother walks, the higher he’ll rise.”

  Ross turned toward his mother. Her smile remained, calm and tender—but in the depths of her gaze shimmered the faintest sheen of unshed tears.

  “I’ll write home often,” he promised softly.

  The room fell into a gentle hush once more. Only the occasional crackle of the fireplace interrupted the peace.

  Then came the muffled rhythm of hooves outside the gate.

  The envoy from the palace had arrived.

  Charles pulled on his cloak, fastened the silver-edged armor beneath it, and stepped out into the frost-kissed air. On his chest gleamed the Seven-Star Medal—the honor reserved for the Skydome Empire’s supreme marshal. In the morning light, it shimmered cold and bright.

  Ross followed him to the steps. He hesitated, then spoke up as his father mounted the carriage.

  “Father… when you return—can we train again? Just once more. With the Waterveil Ring.”

  Charles looked down at him, then stepped close and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “I promise,” he said with quiet solemnity.

  Ross nodded, firmly this time.

  Then the wheels turned, the horses pressed forward through snow, and the black carriage rolled away down the white-shrouded avenue, vanishing slowly into the fog of the waking capital.

  Ross stood alone beneath the archway, watching until the outline was gone.

  He turned, about to head back inside—when his foot slipped slightly. Regaining his balance, he looked down.

  The stone path, though dusted with snow, now bore a glistening trail of water—a faint line that shimmered like a thread of light. It traced its way along the marble tiles, up the stair, and pointed… directly to his chest.

  There, the shard of the Watervein Compass hanging from his neck pulsed faintly with light. It cast gentle ripples outward—quiet, mysterious.

  Ross blinked.

  He clenched the pendant gently.

  “…Today’s snow feels colder than usual.”

  He whispered the words to no one, then slowly lifted his head, gazing into the white sky above, where the snow fell in silence—thick, cold, and endless.

  ***

  **Ch.2 – Whispers Before the Storm**

  *Only the wind and snow remained, their whisper as soft and cold as fate itself.*

  The skies above the capital always brightened late, especially on winter mornings. Even the bell tower's chime seemed to push through layers of snow, arriving dulled and delayed.

  The Skydome Palace was built along the mountain, its structure vast and tiered. Three great steps led to the main hall; six wings arched outward like a resting beast, its snow-laden golden domes glinting faintly with cold authority.

  This was the heart of a thousand-year empire. And now, it lay unnaturally still.

  At the gates, royal guards stood motionless with halberds in hand. Their blacksteel armor glinted under the gray light, and the plume atop each helm trembled as if stirred by an unseen wind—a silent warning.

  Behind the palace, fourteen towers pierced the clouds, rising from the spine of the mountain into the capital's core. These were the famed Skydome Towers.

  Each one represented a domain of imperial mastery—astronomy, alchemy, nature, faith, magic, warcraft and beyond. The towers stood not only as monuments of knowledge and power, but as spiritual pillars of the realm.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  A long, black carriage rolled into the palace grounds. Drawn by two white snow-maned horses, its wheels clicked crisply on the stone path. The carriage bore no emblem or ornament, yet the driver held the reins with taut focus, as if taming a beast prone to fury.

  From within stepped a broad-shouldered man in a dark blue marshal's cloak, his shoulders draped in a gray mantle. Snow clung to his silver hair without melting, his figure carved by wind and frost.

  A royal chamberlain bowed low. "Duke Wellington, His Majesty awaits."

  Charles nodded wordlessly and entered.

  Inside, upon the ivory throne, Emperor Adam of House Turan lounged with ease. His black-gold robes traced sharp lines over a tall, poised frame. Brown eyes, deep and unreadable, caught the glow of the hall.

  He turned a gold-ringed hand, idly stroking the royal crest upon his finger.

  Moments later, the great doors opened. A tall figure stepped in through the morning light.

  "Your servant, Charles. Before the throne."

  He knelt on one knee, hand resting on his sword.

  Adam smiled faintly, waving the attendants away as he stepped down from the dais.

  "Come now, up with you. I called you here to the Hall of Blossoms—do you remember how we used to fool about here as boys? Back then, I wasn't Emperor, and you weren't the Marshal. Yet every steward feared the pair of us would shatter the stained-glass windows."

  Charles smiled. "And every time, you blamed it on my strength."

  Adam laughed, clapping his shoulder. "Exactly. Funny how those idle days seem the most precious now."

  They walked together to the window. Snow blanketed the garden below. In the distance, a team of mage-artisans arranged decorations for the New Year.

  A gust stirred the snow, painting the world like a living tapestry.

  Silence settled, until Adam asked softly, "How fares the wind in the northwest?"

  Charles's expression shifted. "Still bitter. The Wildborn tribes have been sending scouts since last winter's end. Skirmishes on the frontier have increased. No full invasion yet, but the tension thickens."

  Adam's voice remained measured. "But my reports speak of 'peaceful borders, all tribes subdued.'"

  "From the Holy See's intelligence branch," Charles replied calmly. "Pretty words meant for pretty audiences."

  Adam tapped the window frame, not replying at once. He knew the truth behind the words. He also knew the cost of confronting them.

  "It's not that I'm blind to their restlessness," he said at last. "But the treasury is strained. The capital departments clamor for expansion. If we maintain the Northwestern Legion at current strength, the budget may crack entirely."

  Charles's voice remained steady, but cold: "And if the frontier falls, it won't be the budget alone that breaks."

  Adam lowered his voice. "I understand the need for a strong border. But you've been accused of overextending the army. They say your presence unbalances the court."

  “Who are they?” Charles’s gaze sharpened, voice low.

  Adam's thumb brushed the golden ring, the royal seal glinting faintly. “Porter’s faction. And others.”

  Charles's hand drifted to his sword. “Then the wind shifts, after all.”

  Adam turned back to the high window, his voice slow, weighed. “The front lines are not the only place that needs holding. Decay spreads from within. Trade stagnates. The people grumble. If we cannot steady the heart, what hope have we at the edges?”

  Charles said nothing. He tapped the sword’s hilt, once—twice. The sound was soft, but in the silence of the hall, it echoed like ice cracking beneath the weight.

  "We've worked side by side for years," Adam said, gentler now. "I trust your loyalty. But loyalty alone cannot calm a storm. If your name breeds unrest, then what good is your virtue?"

  Charles looked up, voice low and earnest. "I do not fear the storm. I fear you... leading it through these palace walls."

  Adam murmured, "The palace is too quiet. If a wind truly rises, how could we not hear it?"

  Charles's eyes held steady. "And if you've been deafened, blinded? What then?"

  Adam said nothing. He walked to the brazier, sprinkling pine resin into the flames. Smoke curled upward, half-veiling his face.

  "We shouldn't be like this," he whispered.

  Charles remained silent.

  A gray-robed attendant entered. "Your Majesty, Minister Gerald awaits."

  "Let him wait." Adam turned back. "Charles, stay in the palace during the festival. I’ll convene the council tomorrow. We may find a better path."

  Charles bowed. "As Your Majesty commands."

  He turned. His cloak stirred a breath of wind, scattering ash and smoke.

  Light spilled from the high windows, casting long shadows behind him until the great doors closed in silence.. Adam watched him go, unmoving.

  —

  Outside the southern gate, a line of carriages waited silently in the snow. Black lacquer gleamed beneath a colorless sky. Royal steeds snorted white mist, their hooves restless on ice-slick stone.

  The coachmen stamped frozen feet and glanced skyward, hoping the snowfall would ease. Guards in silver-inlaid armor stood like statues, snow weighing down their plumes.

  Charles emerged from the palace, fox-fur cloak billowing faintly. His pace was steady, but slower than usual. A tight pull marked his brow—traces of the exchange still lingered.

  He took a deep breath of cold air.

  Minister Gerald approached. Hair silver, gaze sharp, the aging nobleman had long served as steward of the inner court.

  "Duke Wellington," he greeted.

  "Minister Gerald."

  No more was said. But as they passed, Gerald halted and gripped Charles's right hand, placing his left atop it.

  “Duke Wellington, the Empire cannot do without loyal men such as you. With your counsel, His Majesty is truly blessed by the Water God. Some words… are best not taken to heart.”

  Charles blinked, then clasped Gerald’s hand with his own. "you honor me Minister. I merely do my duty."

  They parted without another word.

  Charles entered the carriage. Within, a red moonstone crystal pulsed faintly, casting warmth and calm.

  He opened his palm. A sealed message lay within.

  With a finger, he broke the wax.

  The paper bore only a few words:

  On the Night of Blessing, the wind will turn.

  —Mirror

  His gaze darkened at the signature: a single word in imperial script, crisp as a dagger.

  "The Mirrorbound..."

  An order born of old blood and older secrets. Loyal to no god, no crown—only truth. If their hand had reached the palace, then...

  He tapped the window rail.

  Snow blurred the world beyond.

  The wheels rolled. Stone gave way beneath them. Few noticed the silent carriage leaving the heart of the empire.

  Charles crushed the note and flicked it into the snow.

  A wind caught it. Flame bloomed briefly, then vanished.

  He stared at the distant wall. The palace was his pride—and the shrouded path ahead.

  He spoke softly, to no one:

  "Adam... are you truly thinking of the Empire?"

  Only the wind and snow remained, their whisper as soft and cold as fate itself.

  ***

  **Ch.3 – Oaths in Ash and Frost**

  “Fate whispers. The gods sigh. The world is left to rot.

  Born from chaos, returned to chaos—rebirth shines from the One.

  He is dominion, he is origin, he is vast—he is the breath of the Dragon God.”

  The bard's voice echoed through the tattered tavern on Scorpion Alley, deep and sonorous, less like a tale and more like an ancient chant.

  In the shadowed corner, Kristo sat cloaked and silent. Most of his face lay hidden in darkness as he sipped hot desert malt from a cracked bowl—grit and heat clinging to his throat. Yet his gaze never left the bard.

  The tavern flickered with murky lanternlight. Peeling bounty posters and crude nude sketches stained the walls. The air was thick with grease, smoke, and old blood. The clientele: mercenaries, exiles, smugglers, and fugitives—weathered faces etched with suspicion and scars.

  This was Sand City—the only “city” in the Silver Desert, though in truth it was nothing more than a tangle of caravan crossroads and outlaw dens. No empire ruled it. No law bound it. Only fists and coin held sway.

  The bard's tale spoke of them—the Chaos Dragon Knights.

  “They came from the Oasis of Death. Disciples of the Dragon God. Hounds of the night. Some say they slew the horrors hidden deep within the sands. Others whisper they march beside the dead, drenched in the blood of nobles and priests alike…”

  He paused, voice lowered, gaze sweeping the room.

  “And some say… they are the true order of the world.”

  The crowd laughed, raising their cups in jest. But a faint ripple stirred behind Kristo’s eyes.

  He had heard the tale before—especially in the exile camps along the desert rim, where faith in the Holy See had long been forsaken, replaced by belief in something far older. Far darker.

  His fingers drifted unconsciously to the hilt at his waist—Frostbrand.

  It was a plain blade in appearance, but a cold blue glow shimmered along its spine. Ancient frost runes etched the steel. If one looked closer, they’d see veins of magic running just beneath the surface, like a curse not yet fully awakened.

  Across the tavern, a few mercenaries in sand armor had been eyeing him. One of them spat, then swaggered over, grin crooked.

  “New face, eh? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  The man slapped Kristo’s shoulder. “You chasing legends too? Looking to strike gold in the oasis?”

  Kristo said nothing. His expression was stone. He looked up, once.

  His eyes—pale silver, utterly still—held no anger, only chill.

  The mercenary blinked, then chuckled awkwardly. “You look half-starved. What are you, some noble’s errand boy? Come on, tell me where you got that pretty blade.”

  His companions drifted closer, their gazes turning hungry.

  Kristo set down the bowl and rose.

  His cloak slid back, revealing a plain, sand-gray coat—no emblem, no crest, no mark of church or noble. He looked like no one of note.

  The lead mercenary snorted. “Can’t even feel aura on this guy. Bet he’s not even Bronze-tier. Boys—looks like dinner came early.”

  He reached out—

  Steel hissed.

  A cold arc slashed through the air, so fast it left no wake.

  The mercenary froze. Then he looked down.

  His armored right shoulder—gone. The entire plate, with the flesh beneath, had been sheared away. Blood had not yet surged when his legs gave out.

  Silence dropped like a hammer.

  Kristo resheathed his sword. The blade hung at his side, faint mist curling from its edge.

  “Before you try stealing from a man,” he said calmly, “ask yourself if you're ready for the weight.”

  His voice was steady. Unmoved. But it chilled the room.

  Another mercenary gasped. “He… he has no aura—but that cut—”

  “That was a Silver-tier strike. At least. And he’s not even Awakened…”

  All eyes turned to the sword. The blade itself shone with soft frost. Blood droplets that had splashed from the wound froze mid-air, shattered before they hit the ground.

  Then the back curtain stirred. From behind it stepped a broad-chested man, bare to the waist, skin dark, torso inked with the sigil of the Yellowflame Gang—masters of this part of Sand City.

  “You draw blood in my tavern,” the barkeep rasped, voice like gravel. “Care to explain yourself?”

  Kristo looked up, voice as even as before.

  “He tried to take my sword.”

  “That was my man,” the barkeep said coldly. “Nice sword you got there. Leave it behind, and I’ll let you walk out alive.”

  The tavern went still as death.

  Kristo did not bristle. He simply unclasped his cloak, folding it with care and laying it over the back of his chair.

  Beneath, his shoulders were corded muscle, and beneath his coat, faint silver gleamed—amulets and binding runes etched into the fabric, glowing gently with his body heat.

  His stance was precise. Blade held low. Feet grounded. A faint aura spilled around him—not elemental, but dense as stone.

  The barkeep's eyes narrowed.

  "Unaffiliated aura… Bronze-tier? No. That pressure… is he Gold?"

  Before he could finish the thought, Kristo moved.

  Like a released arrow, he crossed the tavern in a breath, air tearing behind him. In the next heartbeat, he was already on the Yellowflame boss.

  The man barely raised his guard before—

  Clang!

  Steel struck steel. Frostbrand scraped against metal bracer, didn’t bite into flesh—but the force alone sent the man stumbling back three steps. The tiles beneath his boots cracked apart.

  The room lurched. Mercenaries froze mid-breath.

  “That form… That isn’t just brute Gold-tier swordplay.”

  “His aura—no signature, no projection… But his blade—he channels it through the body…”

  The barkeep steadied himself. He understood, now.

  No element. No outward aura. But blade, step, and strength woven into one. A purestyle Gold-tier warrior. Rare. Lethal.

  He snarled and punched forward. His arm flared crimson. Aura surged—heat and dust coiling around his fist like a landslide.

  The air warped.

  “—Pure Compression? That’s a Warlord-class!”

  Someone shouted. The bar erupted in fire.

  Tables crashed backward. Heat slammed into the walls.

  But in the heart of it, the silver-grey figure did not move.

  Kristo raised Frostbrand. Blue sigils lit his arm. With a flick of his wrist, the cold flared.

  A shimmering arc cut forward.

  Frostfang Art: Shatterglint Slash.

  The blaze parted like mist.

  The arc ripped through the flame, cleaving it in two—then surged on, straight for the barkeep’s chest.

  The man recoiled, barely evading. But not fast enough. The edge glanced his shoulder—a line of red welled, then froze solid in an instant.

  Silence fell.

  Wind slipped in through shattered windows. Sand whispered across the floor.

  Kristo lowered his sword.

  “That was the only warning.”

  His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel. But no one dared move.

  The barkeep took a step back, face pale, mouth thin with fury.

  “We’ll remember you,” he said through his teeth.

  Kristo didn’t answer. He returned to his seat and drained the last of his ale.

  The bard had stopped playing. Now, he strummed once—softly, nervously—like to hide his breath or steady his heart.

  Kristo’s voice cut through the quiet.

  “The Chaos Dragon Knights. And the Oasis of Death. Where?”

  The bard hesitated.

  “What you showed just now… even in Sand City, that’s rare. But if you really mean to seek the deep desert—” He paused, then said, “Even Saints don’t always come back.”

  Kristo raised a brow. “You’ve seen it?”

  “No,” the bard replied. “But ten years ago, Gurul Blackbeard—the desert’s king of thieves—led sixty men into the oasis. They said he was Transcendent Warlord. None returned.”

  “A search team found his warhammer near the edge. Cracked down the middle. All they brought back… was shattered armor.”

  Kristo said nothing.

  The bard continued, voice quieter.

  “Some say he was slain by the Oasis’s guardians—the Chaos Dragon Knights. Others say… the oasis itself is alive. A nightmare that dreams in sand.”

  Kristo’s voice was even. “Why has the Church never named them in their records?”

  The bard laughed bitterly.

  “The Church… records what suits its truth.”

  “The Chaos Dragon Knights are what this world refuses to remember.”

  Kristo stood, dropped a coin to the counter, and pulled on his cloak.

  The bard called after him.

  “There’s an old pillar circle. Thirty miles southeast of the Worm Grave. Locals say—that’s where the Dragon Knights walk from.”

  Kristo paused.

  “You won’t be the first to try,” the bard said softly.

  “But gods willing—you might be the first to return.”

  The wind lifted Kristo’s cloak as he stepped into the night. Frostbrand shimmered faintly at his hip.

  He turned his gaze southwest—toward the dunes. Toward the sea of silver sand that swallowed all paths, all names, all hope.

  He remembered the blood on his wife’s lips. The pious cruelty in the High Pontiff’s smile. The weight of a soul long buried.

  To find light in the dark, one must enter the dark.

  “I won’t be coming back,” he said.

  His voice was calm.

  Sand crunched underfoot. Wind howled like a wolf.

  Behind him, the lights of Sand City faded.

  Ahead, only the desert.

  And silence.