Nifulton was not Yardrad.

  Where Yardrad was a tapestry of kingdoms woven tight with Vitalis — magic breathed into every corner of life — Nifulton had built its world on steel and current. Nation after nation, ruled not by kings but by Lords, rose across a land almost as large as The Earth. Their streets pulsed with neon and wire, not spellfire. Wavers and Kruisers cut the skies and roads in regimented lanes. Power grids hummed. Here, Vitalis was a secret ingredient, refined and hoarded by the elite: Lords and their bloodlines alone openly practiced its arts. A handful of citizens knew more — whispers, furtive experiments — but knowledge of Vitalis in Nifulton remained gated, jealously guarded.

  It was this marriage of pulse and mystic that made Nifulton dangerous and brilliant. Where Yardrad mastered spells, Nifulton learned how to funnel Vitalis into machines: extract it, convert it, make it run turbines and engines. Wavers and Kruisers were mass-produced there and shipped to anyone who could afford. In Silverstone — the glass-and-light nation of Dragoons — power plants bleached the night with electricity distilled from Vitalis. The city never slept.

  In a narrow alley that smelled of oil and ozone, Quihote Develos had a man by the throat. The backlight from a buzzing sign picked out Quihote’s green eyes and burnished brown skin. His black hair lay plastered by sweat. The other man — a Dragoon, rumpled and arrogant — was pinned to the alley wall like a rat.

  Quihote held him aloft with one hand and, with the other, produced a vial of something fluorescent: V2. He let it catch the alley light as if it were a confession.

  “This,” Quihote said, voice low and calm, “where did you get this? Who supplies you?”

  The dragoon stared back without answering. Quihote pushed him; the barricade of bricks shattered under the man like rotten wood. Still silence.

  Quihote’s patience snapped. He threw the man through nine successive walls; concrete dust rained down and the air smelled sharp and metallic. The Dragoon staggered, dazed — then, frantic, fumbled a syringe and jammed it into his leg. The drug bloomed through his veins. Muscles knotted, veins jumped. A manic laugh escaped him.

  “Hahahaha — the power flows through my veins!”

  He lunged like a cornered animal, rocketing through the jagged hole in the wall toward Quihote. His blow landed on Quihote’s face— bone shattered with a hideous pop — and the alley floor near Quihote cratered six meters wide from the force. The man’s eyes bugged, suddenly small with fear.

  Quihote’s reaction was clinical. He caught the attacker by the face and lifted him until their eyes were level.

  “There are no shortcuts to strength,” Quihote said, his voice ice-cold. “You have to put in the work. Any other method is detrimental.”

  He leaned in. “TELL ME WHO SUPPLIES THE V2.”

  The man’s bravado splintered. He stammered out a name. “Beatrice. She—she sells it. Not the supplier, I don’t— I think she’s a buyer like me.”

  “Beatrice,” Quihote repeated. “What race is she?”

  The dragoon blinked, confused. “What do you mean, what race?”

  “Do you think Dragoons are the only people in the world?” Quihote asked. “You’ve seen nothing.”

  “She’s a Dragoon,” the man finally managed.

  “Where does she make the drop?” Quihote demanded.

  “Under the bridge. Tomorrow evening. Eight,” the man gasped.

  Quihote smiled — the kind that meant a debt would be collected. “Thanks for cooperating.”

  The dragoon winced, then realised his mistake. “Why—why did I tell you all that?”

  Quihote tossed him to the ground. “Because I have ways of getting answers.” He straightened, giving the man one last look. “Take my advice. Stop taking that thing unless you want to die young.”

  A sleek waver idled at the alley’s mouth. The door hissed open; Gustein sat inside on the passenger bench like he’d been waiting all day. He glanced at Quihote and said, impatient: “Hurry up. I have a client.”

  Quihote slid into the driver’s seat, fingers already finding the controls. “They don’t pay you what I do,” he replied without looking back.

  The waver rose, humming, and then the city swallowed them — a silver blade of light slipping into Silverstone’s night.

  ---

  Elsewhere — Yardrad, No Man’s Land

  In Splinter, the raider town where law was a joke and blood paid the bills, smoke and noise filled the bars like stormclouds. The stench of sweat, iron, and cheap liquor clung to the air.

  Irisa pushed through the swinging door, silver eyes scanning until she found him.

  At the counter sat a man who didn’t blend — couldn’t blend — no matter how he tried. His presence cut through the haze like a blade. Tall, broad, over eleven feet: an Aurellian. His brown hair was streaked with silver, and a jagged scar carved across his forehead.

  He drank from a small chipped cup, his scar catching the lantern light.

  “Never thought I’d find one of you here,” he said without turning, voice rough, seasoned. “What brings you so far?”

  Irisa leaned on the counter, sliding a black rune-carved card across the wood.

  The man’s eyes flicked to it. He frowned.

  “You’ve got one of my cards… but I don’t remember giving it to you.”

  “What matters,” Irisa said evenly, “is that I have it. Which means you know where I need you to take me.”

  The Aurellian’s lips twitched — not quite a smile. “That’s no place for a young woman like you.”

  Irisa’s silver eyes narrowed. “Do I look like someone who can’t take care of herself?”

  This time, he turned to look at her properly. For all his towering frame, she still stood taller, her presence eclipsing his. He studied her in silence, then chuckled low.

  “I heard your people were looking for rarebreeds,” he said, sipping again. “You found them, didn’t you?”

  Irisa gave no answer.

  He tapped his empty cup against the counter. “Another.” The bartender filled it. He tossed it back in one smooth gulp.

  “Mazorik doesn’t open for another two months,” he said flatly.

  “I’m here to make a reservation,” Irisa replied. “For two.”

  He tilted his head. “Two? I only see one of you.”

  “I won’t be coming alone.”

  “That’ll cost you… two hundred thousand narlins.”

  Irisa’s brow furrowed. “That’s robbery.”

  The man smirked into his cup. “I have to compensate for inflation, girl. And I know you can afford it.” He set the cup down with a sharp click, then fixed his gaze on her. His tone dropped lower, heavier.

  “This person you’re bringing… they wouldn’t happen to have green eyes, would they?”

  Irisa said nothing.

  “So you believe the story?” His voice turned curious, almost amused.

  “I don’t entirely doubt it,” she admitted. “Parts of it have already come true. I’m sure you’ve heard of the hole in Iftiar.”

  The Aurellian’s expression darkened. “I’ve seen it. The energy lingering there felt… familiar. But different. Wilder.” He leaned closer. “If you really believe in those stories, are you sure taking him to Mazorik is a good idea? If I weren’t me, I’d prevent that at all costs.”

  He tapped a heavy finger on the table, slow and deliberate. Then his lips curved, just faintly.

  “But even I’m curious to see what happens.”

  He straightened, eyes distant as though replaying something in memory. “A few years ago, I met a boy. Small — too small for an Elvhein, especially a rarebreed. At first I mistook him for an Earther. But then… I looked into his eyes. And that story crossed my mind.”

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  His scarred face hardened. “You people have never stepped foot on Yardrad. That boy you found… your plus one… it’s him, isn’t it?”

  Their eyes locked — his steel to her silver. And then, without hesitation, he nodded once.

  “I knew it.”

  He stood, his massive frame looming, and tossed back the last of his drink. “Things are finally getting interesting.”

  As he walked past her, he said over his shoulder:

  “Transfer the money to the account on the card.”

  He paused at the doorway. “When the time comes, I’ll need a way to contact you.”

  Irisa rose smoothly, slipping him a silver card of her own.

  The Aurellian accepted it, smiling at last. Then he walked into the night, his shadow stretching across Splinter’s filth-stained streets.

  Irisa watched him go, her own lips curving.

  ---

  Heful – The Royal Palace Fields

  The roar of clashing forces shook the open fields.

  Isebala darted in first, her blade a blur of silver. She slashed at Eryndor again and again, but each strike met his bare palm. Steel rang against flesh, shockwaves exploding outward. Dust and grass whipped into the air, trees bowing from the force.

  Beside her, Juvian’s power rumbled through the earth. From the torn ground, colossal serpents burst forth — their scales glittering, their fangs and tails forged from diamond. One swung its tail with the weight of a collapsing tower.

  Eryndor shifted a single step, dodging with minimal effort.

  Isebala pressed harder, leaping high, her body trailing light. She brought her heel crashing down toward Eryndor’s skull.

  BOOM.

  He caught the kick on his forearm, the ground detonating beneath him. A crater seventy meters wide yawned open, the earth groaning. With a flick of his arm, he hurled her away like she weighed nothing.

  The diamond serpent struck. Its jaws clamped down, closing around him with a thunderous snap. Fangs like spears dug deep, the pressure enough to shatter buildings.

  But Eryndor stood inside its mouth, unshaken. His arms locked against its massive fangs, holding them apart. He effortlessly forced the beast’s jaws open.

  That’s when Isebala flashed in again, blade raised high. Her strike carved into his side with all her strength—

  —but Eryndor erupted free, the serpent’s maw snapping shut behind him.

  Juvian’s chant split the air.

  “Terra Colossus!”

  The ground roared, and titanic stone hands burst upward. They slapped Eryndor skyward, one after another, sending him spinning through the air like a ragdoll.

  CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.

  Each strike cracked the air, thunder rolling with every blow. Finally, a hand twice as large as the rest manifested from the heavens.

  It descended like judgment itself.

  BOOOOM.

  The giant palm slapped Eryndor down. He landed on his feet, shattering the earth into a crater one hundred meters wide.

  The stone hands swarmed, raining down in a relentless cascade.

  BOM! BOM! BOM! BOM!

  Juvian raised both arms, his voice bellowing through the battlefield.

  “Amon Colossus—IMIT!”

  The colossal hands withdrew, surging back into the heavens at sonic speeds, their retreat tearing shockwaves across the land.

  From a distant tower, King Juval and Queen Zeliona watched, the battlefield spread before them like a stage.

  “They’ve gotten stronger,” Juval mused, his tone calm.

  Zeliona’s eyes narrowed. “Stronger, yes… but look closer. Eryndor is unscathed. He remains completely unaffected.”

  On the field, Isebala roared, her aura flaring. She lunged, sword angled straight for Eryndor’s chest.

  At the same moment, Juvian summoned a spear of diamond, five times Eryndor’s size, and hurled it from the skies at Mach 8.

  Eryndor raised his left hand and caught the descending spear mid-flight. With his right, he clamped down on Isebala’s sword an inch from his heart.

  BOOOOOOM.

  The impact was apocalyptic.

  A crater three hundred meters wide ripped open. A slash of mana from Isebela’s sword screamed outward, carving a trench a kilometer long. Trees bowed, snapping under the tremor.

  Jeffery, watching beside the royals, could only stare.

  “You said he was injured, Your Highness?”

  Zeliona’s lips tightened. “That was what Andrea said. Even injured they're no match for him… these weekly spars are accelerating their growth beyond anything we expected.”

  On the battlefield, Isebala wrenched her blade free and unleashed a downward slash. A wave of pure mana blasted outward, gouging a kilometer-long trench into the earth.

  Zeliona’s eyes shone. “Isebala’s strength has already far surpassed her age. She now stands at the level of a Mid D-rank Raider.”

  Jeffery’s jaw clenched. “D-rank already huh...I’m only C. To think there are so many levels above me? I’m among Zitry’s strongest Raiders, How can there be more rank? I've never seen or even heard of someone who is a B or an A rank. Those ranks only exists on paper.”

  King Juval’s chuckle was quiet but heavy. “Oh, Jeffery. The Raider Association is not just Zitry—it is global. You’ve never left our borders, so you cannot fathom the power that exists beyond. Power you cannot dream of.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Take Eryndor, for instance. If he were a Raider, he’d be at least A-rank. You know of the Plunder Island competition, do you not?”

  Jeffery frowned. “I thought it was just entertainment. A film. An illusion.”

  Juval smirked. “It was real, Jeffery. Every last spell, every last death. Broaden your horizons.”

  Jeffery’s eyes widened, turning back to the fight. To think all those catastrophic feats were true…

  On the field, Juvian and Isebala paused, panting, sweat glistening on their brows.

  Eryndor stood tall, unscathed. His voice rumbled like a verdict.

  “Already flagging? I had anticipated far greater vigor. I cleared my engagements to grant you this bout—do not squander my forbearance.”

  Juvian spat, chest heaving. “He’s not even using magic… and still, we can’t scratch him. What are you made of, Eryndor?”

  Jeffery’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “My king, I wish to trade blows with him.”

  Juval turned his gaze. “If this were before, I’d forbid it for fear you might hurt him. But after what I’ve seen on Plunder Island … you have my leave.”

  Jeffery stepped forward, voice booming. “Enough! Rest now, both of you. I’ll fight him today.”

  Zeliona chuckled lightly, her tone sharp as a blade. “Good luck, Jeffery. Do try not to embarrass yourself in front of the children.”

  Juvian and Isebala withdrew, leaving the field.

  Jeffery leapt from the tower. He landed before Eryndor with a crash that shook the ground.

  At 10’5, the knight was massive by human standards. But as he looked up into the looming frame of Eryndor, his breath caught.

  “By the heavens… you’re even larger up close.”

  Eryndor’s gaze lowered, his expression calm. “Are we to commence our sparring now?”

  Jeffery unsheathed his sword, the steel gleaming under the sun. He lifted it high, his voice clear.

  “I, Sir Jeffery of House Mortel, challenge you, Eryndor.”

  Eryndor smirked faintly, emerald eyes narrowing.

  “Very well. Challenge accepted.”

  ---

  To Be Continued...