Deep beneath Pungence’s house, Daiel stood before the pulsing Orb, its glow bathing his face in blue light. He clapped his hands together, grinning like a thief who’d just struck gold.

  “Perfect. Now I can easily pull this out of here.” His eyes narrowed, the grin fading. “But there’s a problem. Something that bleeds this much energy… Pungence will feel it vanish instantly. Can’t risk it. Best to wait for the others to deal with him first.”

  The Orb hummed in silence, as though mocking his caution.

  ---

  The Ballroom

  Above, the ball glittered on. Laughter and music filled the grand hall, chandeliers blazing as nobles danced and traded pleasantries.

  A man broke through the crowd, approaching Eryndor with eager steps.

  “Eryndor, correct?”

  Eryndor inclined his head, posture steady. “Yes.”

  The man spoke quickly, his words tumbling out with breathless admiration.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you. My daughter tells me of your accomplishments in Festitude Academy. With men like you, I know the future rests in capable hands.”

  He extended a hand.

  Eryndor hesitated only briefly before clasping it. His grip was firm, but measured.

  The man chuckled nervously. “Forgive me. I can be rather clumsy.”

  He slipped back into the crowd before Eryndor could respond.

  Eryndor glanced down at his hand—then froze. A thin bead of blood traced across his palm. His eyes widened.

  “…I’m bleeding. This... this cannot be.”

  He looked up sharply. The man was already vanishing into the throng. Between his fingers, hidden from the world, a tiny needle gleamed faintly before he tucked it away. His lips curved into a quiet smile.

  “One down.”

  Elsewhere, Ziraiah raised a glass from a nearby table. She didn’t notice the woman who brushed by, slipping something unseen into the drink.

  Ziraiah sipped, exhaling as she watched the crowd. The woman smiled to herself as she disappeared into the masses.

  “Another one down.”

  ---

  The Royals

  At the high dais, King Gozay and Queen Starla conversed with Zitry’s royal family. Laughter echoed around them, their voices rising above the hum of the ballroom.

  Gozay was in the middle of a story, his booming voice carrying.

  “And when Juvian was born, his father fainted flat on the floor!”

  The royals burst into laughter.

  Princess Isabela tilted her head, curious. “You knew Grandpa Jonah?”

  “But of course,” Gozay intoned with genial gravitas. “We were companions of great closeness. I have known your bloodline across generations—yours is the sole Aurellian house ever deemed worthy of our regard.”

  Prince Juvian’s eyes lit. “How was my father like, back then?”

  Starla’s lips curled in amusement. “He was a troublemaker.”

  Juval groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “You don’t need to tell them that…”

  But Starla continued, her voice playful. “Always pestering Gozay with his endless questions. The boy drove him mad.”

  Even Gozay allowed himself a reluctant chuckle. “That incorrigible whelp shadowed me without reprieve.”

  The nobles leaned in, eager for the tale.

  ---

  A Hundred and Five Years Ago

  When Juval was only seven, he visited Gozay with his father Jonah. From the moment he laid eyes on the towering 13-foot titan, his curiosity became relentless.

  He appeared everywhere, his voice piping with endless questions.

  One morning, Gozay rolled out of bed only to find Juval’s face inches from his own.

  “Mr Gozay… do birds ever land on your head and build nests?”

  Later, in the privy, Juval knocked urgently at the door.

  “Mr Gozay! When you sit on a toilet, does it break?”

  “OUT!” Gozay bellowed, his roar rattling the walls.

  In the yard, Juval dangled from a tree branch, peering down.

  “Mr Gozay, if you fall, does the ground shake?”

  At breakfast, he piped up mid-bite.

  “Mr Gozay, when you hug your wife, do you squish her?”

  At dinner, wide-eyed, he asked,

  “Mr Gozay, do you drink from a cup… or a bowl?”

  During an important war meeting, Juval popped out of nowhere like a ghost.

  “Mr Gozay, how do you even fit in a bathtub?”

  Gozay snapped, slamming a fist onto the table. “Jonah! Your boy is testing my patience!”

  But Juval only grinned, poking his head through the doorway once more.

  “Do you eat soup with a spoon, or a shovel?”

  “OUT!” Gozay thundered, his roar shaking the rafters.

  ---

  The Present

  Back in the ballroom, the nobles and royals howled with laughter at the memory. Even Juval buried his face in his hands, muttering, “I can’t believe you told them all that…”

  Meanwhile, across the hall, Eryndor pushed through the crowd, scanning desperately for the man with the needle. His sharp eyes cut the crowd apart—

  But before he could reach him, a woman bumped into him.

  “Apologies,” she murmured, slipping past.

  When Eryndor turned again, the man was gone.

  Vanished.

  ---

  Juval rose from his seat, tapping his glass lightly with a spoon. The room quieted, all eyes on him. His smile was bright, almost boyish, yet his voice carried easily across the ballroom.

  “My friends… my family,” he began, his tone warm and genuine. “You have no idea how much this means to me. To see all of you gathered here—not as Kings and nobles, not as officials or soldiers, but simply as people—celebrating life together. That is a gift no crown can buy.”

  Laughter and soft applause rippled through the hall.

  Among the crowd, several well-dressed nobles exchanged subtle nods. Their faces were not their own—disguises woven by spellcraft. Slowly, deliberately, they began to move, their steps weaving through the throng like hunters closing in on prey. Their target was clear: Pungence, standing with a drink in hand, blending as though he were just another guest.

  At the same moment, a man approached Valerius. His manner was eager, his smile too polished.

  “You’re Valerius, aren’t you?” he asked quickly. “I’ve heard you know Pungence. Remarkable man. Please—shake my hand.”

  Valerius stared at the outstretched hand, his expression flat, his body unmoving.

  The man pushed slightly closer, voice tightening. “Come on, just a handshake.”

  Valerius’s eyes narrowed. His voice was low, suspicious.

  “Why do you want me to shake your hand so badly?”

  The man’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes gleamed with urgency.

  Meanwhile, Juval’s speech continued, his words light yet heartfelt.

  “We often forget what truly matters. But tonight, I am reminded that family… and the bonds we share… will always outshine titles, riches, or even power.”

  Then—Pungence faltered. His glass slipped slightly in his hand as he winced, pressing a palm to his temple. A dull groan escaped him. He staggered toward a pillar, leaning against it as though the stone might steady him. His breathing grew ragged.

  Cracks splintered the pillar under his grip. A sharp snap echoed through the chamber. The fissures spread upward like lightning, drawing startled gasps.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Pungence?” Juval’s voice broke through the noise, concern lacing his words. “Are you well?”

  Across the room, a woman lowered herself gracefully into a seat. Her lips moved in subtle rhythm, whispering words of power. Few noticed her presence.

  The pillar gave way with a thunderous crack, collapsing in a storm of dust and stone. Pungence’s breaths came faster, his body swaying, his vision splintering into threes.

  Andrea rushed forward, her voice tight with panic. “Pungence! What’s happening to you?!”

  He saw three Andreas at once. His hand reached toward her, trembling.

  “...Andrea… my head…!”

  Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd.

  “What’s happening to him?”

  “Is he cursed?”

  “Is it an attack?”

  “What attack? This is Pungence we're talking about.”

  The man before Valerius grew more insistent, grabbing at his hand.

  “Shake it—shake my hand, damn it!”

  Valerius stepped back sharply, his instincts screaming. Something was wrong. He willed open his Sentinel—and instantly, he knew.

  The man before him had no presence. No radiance of life. Nothing.

  Valerius’s eyes snapped to Pungence. Two figures had reached him—one holding a dark artifact, the other stretching out empty hands. They were inches away.

  Valerius moved. Super speed blurred the room into streaks of light. But before he could intercept, the false noble near him lunged, wrapping arms around him with impossible force. Together, they crashed through the balcony, plummeting outward.

  The artifact touched Pungence.

  An eruption tore reality asunder. The artifact detonated from within Pungence, collapsing and expanding in the same instant—then unleashing a cataclysmic blast.

  The palace was obliterated from the inside out. Huge stone walls buckled and burst apart like brittle glass, massive slabs of marble hurled into the air as though weightless.

  The shockwave consumed everything. Nobles, guards, and servants alike were launched through the air, bodies flung against shattered pillars and collapsing ceilings. Chandeliers exploded in showers of crystal, flames leapt from overturned braziers, and the air filled with dust and screams.

  At the epicenter, Pungence was swallowed whole by a ravenous sphere of black energy, its violent pull tearing reality around him. The castle became a storm of ruin, as if the very world had chosen that moment to collapse upon itself.

  The woman was in the air, and yet her chanting continued—low at first, then rising louder, sharper, in a tongue not meant for mortal ears. The Oblivion Tongue.

  Her disguise melted away. Skin flushed crimson. Her hair blazed into fiery orange. Her eyes burned like molten coals. She pulled a vial from her sleeve, downing its contents in one motion. Her chest rose and fell heavily as she hissed:

  “Only a few seconds… and already out of mana. You are a true monster, Pungence.”

  She resumed her incantation, voice reverberating unnaturally as her spell deepened.

  Inside the void, Pungence screamed.

  The world around him warped and twisted, space itself pulling in every direction at once. The air bent, the ground lurched, and his vision fractured into endless copies of itself. He clutched his head, staggering as if his skull would split under the pressure.

  Time folded upon itself with merciless cruelty—every moment repeating, cycling again and again, each repetition sharper, heavier, more unbearable than the last.

  The spell held him captive in a prison of agony, where seconds stretched into eternities.

  And still, the woman’s voice grew louder, each word of the Oblivion Tongue sealing him further into that hell.

  ---

  Inside Pungence’s home, Daiel’s lips curled into a smile.

  “Hear that sound? They must have reached him.”

  From beneath the orb, a portal tore open like a wound in reality. The sphere descended into its maw and vanished.

  Daiel dusted his hands. “Our job here is done.”

  Another portal opened, and he and his ally stepped through.

  ---

  The world outside was collapsing.

  Eryndor fell through the air, emerald eyes blazing. He tried to silently cast float as he usually does.

  Nothing.

  “What?” His voice broke as he tried again. “Floatati, ark, inun!” Still, no magic answered.

  The ground rushed up.

  He slammed through rooftops and walls, tumbling through homes like a meteor. His body smashed through civilians in his path, snapping bones, crushing skulls, ripping bodies apart in the wake of his descent. When he finally struck stone, he cratered the street—leaving death in his path.

  Before he could breathe, a crimson fist flashed through the smoke and collided with his jaw.

  The world exploded.

  Eryndor was hurled two kilometers, carving a trench through Heful itself. Buildings collapsed, civilians shredded in the storm of his momentum. Blood sprayed across his suit, his face, his hair—the screams around him deafening. He flipped and landed on his feet, skidding to a stopped, the ground beneath him caved into an 800-meter scar. He staggered, wide-eyed, staring at the carnage.

  Blood. Bone. Severed limbs. Screams echoing in the ruin.

  He rushed to lift a wall crushing a man, dragging him free. But the man’s foot tore off in his hands.

  A child’s cry pierced his ears.

  “Mommy!”

  Eryndor turned—only to see a wall collapse over the little girl. His eyes widened. His mouth parted. No words came. Only silence.

  ---

  Ziraiah crashed into a home, coughing as she rose. Her body dripped with blood—but not her own. She looked down. She was standing atop a man’s corpse, his guts spilled grotesquely.

  “No… no, no, no!” Her voice broke as she dropped to her knees, fumbling. She tried to summon a healing elixer, but nothing happened. “What’s happening to me?!” she screamed, trembling.

  ---

  Eliana dragged herself out of rubble, blood dripping from her temple.

  “Mother! Father!”

  Her cry rang out as King Gozay burst from the ground in fury, frost erupting from his skin. Queen Starla emerged within a glowing barrier, her gown torn, eyes blazing.

  ---

  Across the city, alarms blared. Sirens screamed from towers, and speakers crackled with the same phrase over and over:

  “Heful has been breached. Citizens, remain inside your homes. Heful has been breached.”

  Guards swarmed toward the palace in panicked floods.

  ---

  Farther out, Valerius clawed his way from a crater five kilometers wide. Dust rose in waves around him. His gaze lifted—and froze.

  Standing there, watching him with cold purpose, was the man who had begged for a handshake.

  Before Valerius’s eyes, the man’s flesh twisted, bones snapping, body convulsing. His disguise peeled away like rotting paper. His true form emerged.

  Katos.

  ---

  To Be Continued...