A profound silence descended, commanded by the brilliant light. It pulsed, radiating concentric halos that expanded outward, subduing the very air. Even the destructive battle raging across the heavens froze. The wind died, and every eye fixed upon that single point of luminescence.

  Its position, far to the west of Caelindor, chilled Nathan’s spine. He recognized the location—near Cascade Gardens, where he had been hunted, where Vincent had been taken.

  “People of Mirothea.” A low voice, ancient and tinged with sorrow, echoed across the land. “Your sacrifices are not forgotten. They are etched into history.”

  An invisible cold swept over the onlookers, a chill so deep the survivors took an involuntary step back, physically weighed down by the words.

  “People of Mirothea!” The voice swelled, a sob fracturing its composure. “For generations, we have been trapped in a wild, barren wasteland. We kill for resources, eat dry grass to survive another hungry day, and drink foul concoctions just to open our eyes to the accursed, burning sun. This is how we have lived.”

  Boom!

  The war in the sky erupted anew, but the roles had reversed. Now, Mirothea’s champions intercepted Caelindor’s advance. Tangled lines of power were relentlessly driven back toward the border. Fire and air manifested like void specters, incinerating and shattering every patch of earth they grazed.

  Chaos infected Nathan’s small group. Cries for escape and the ceaseless groans of the wounded choked the cramped cave. Yet no one dared venture out; they remained paralyzed in their stone prison.

  “The Promised Land!” The brilliance flared, searingly bright. “My father, and his father before him, made a vow. For centuries, we cried out for aid to deaf ears. No one listened. No one offered support. So we took it upon ourselves.” The voice grew fervent. “And today! Today is the day we claim it! I mourn the passing of my children, but their cries demand action. I come to you now. Together, we will witness a new Mirothea. That is the only happiness I require!”

  The point of light ascended from the mountain peak, climbing until it eclipsed the dawn. Before their eyes, the horizon dissolved into a panorama of absolute, radiant yellow. The fabric of space warped under the influence of this new sun, suffocating onlookers dozens of kilometers away. Clouds turned the color of dried blood. An inferno was imminent.

  “For King and Country!” The whisper resonated in every soul, clear as a bell.

  The false sun trembled, distorting like a bubble overfilled with air, before pulsing with an outward wave of energy.

  “Prepare for impact!” Aotian roared.

  A mana dome snapped into existence. Cultivators tossed out defensive artifacts, instantly weaving layers of protection.

  “It’s not an attack,” Zeryn murmured, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

  The radiance shrank, flickering in a sky torn between night and dawn—a star lingering at the precipice of a new age. Then, amidst the collective held breath of the world, it detonated.

  A ring of light swept across the heavens. Where the corona passed, luminous motes rained down, unstoppable. In moments, the vast expanse was blanketed in glowing dust.

  The ring dissipated, vanishing as if it had never existed. Silence followed. The high-tier battle ceased, the chaotic auras in the sky shrinking into nothingness.

  “Was that it?” a survivor asked, a thread of hope in his voice.

  Nathan frowned, glancing between Zeryn and Aotian for answers.

  A tremor shuddered through the ground, as if the earth were groaning in pain. Rocks grated against one another; loose stones danced on the surface. A deep, constant rumble filled their ears. Then, the change began.

  Below, on the plains stretching from the hill’s base, the earth churned. Verdant grass withered in an instant, disintegrating into gray dust. Rich brown soil bled color, fading to a sterile, parched yellow before collapsing into loose grains. In seconds, a sand dune stood where a meadow had been.

  From that epicenter, the blight radiated outward with terrifying speed. Earth and vegetation were consumed by an inexorable wave of desolation. The curse Mirothea had unleashed upon Caelindor was not an explosion, but a plague of sand.

  Moments ago, the landscape—though scorched by war—had boasted forests and vast grasslands. Now, it was swallowed by an eye-searing yellow. Rolling hills collapsed into shifting dunes. Lush greenery withered into emptiness. The air choked on swirling grit, and the sounds of nature died, replaced by the deadly, grating whisper of sand grinding against sand. Moisture vanished, and a searing heat descended.

  The ground beneath Nathan surrendered to the same fate. Helpless, he felt the rock under his boots crumble and sink, giving way to soft, shifting grains. Heat instantly penetrated the leather, scalding his soles.

  Behind him, the transformation swept wide, enveloping the area around Maelivar and establishing a harsh, new perimeter for the city.

  “Now, we cannot even run,” Zeryn said, echoing Nathan’s own grim realization.

  To their left and right, shapes shifted within the rising sandstorms. Dunes rose and fell as unseen bodies traced curved paths beneath the surface. The monsters Nathan had only seen on PsiLink—the hellions of the desert—were closing in.

  Nathan scanned his companions. They stood frozen until the stinging grit drew their attention to their own skin. The sand wasn't just blowing; it was abrading their mana barriers, grinding them down. Only Nathan, reliant on Physical Cultivation, could withstand the assault without shielding. At Aotian’s sharp command, they retreated into the cave to regroup.

  Nathan lingered a moment longer, staring at the transformed horizon. The sheer scale of mana required to terraform a region this vast... the thought made his head spin. It was terrifying, yes, but magnificent.

  He couldn't suppress the awe rising within him. This was the weight of a nation's desperation. To change the world for their survival, no matter the cost.

  They were so close. And they would seize it. This was Mirothea’s final gambit.

  Inside, panic reigned. Survivors clamored for answers, their voices echoing off the stone walls. A few managed to catch a PsiLink signal, but the resulting flood of information was an incoherent avalanche—too much noise, too little clarity.

  Nathan and the remaining Verdant Spire disciples hugged the periphery, waiting in silence. Nathan watched Aotian rally his own people, though the leader’s eyes seemed focused on a distant point, waiting for something—or someone.

  A knot of unease tightened in Nathan’s gut. If this escalated further, he would have to follow Zeryn and trust in their mysterious protector to extract them, leaving the others to their fate. The wet, rhythmic sound of Frank biting his nails broke his train of thought. Nathan placed a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder. Frank offered a forced, brittle smile in return, his knuckles nearly raw from anxiety.

  Understanding rippled through the survivors. Teams coalesced, and hushed conversations about escape routes filled the air. But the method of escape remained a jagged pill they couldn't swallow. The terrain belonged to the sand now—an absolute advantage for Mirothea. Speed was essential, yet who had enough mana left to burst out and run? Time was a luxury they had already spent.

  The immense pressure made the air in the cave feel thick, like weights pressing down on everyone’s spirit.

  Sevro approached Aotian. The movement drew the gaze of everyone present; the Gravity Aspect Cultivator had been a statue of silence until now. He whispered to the captain, and Aotian’s face, already worn from days of war, drained of color. He nodded grimly. Moments later, the silence broke as panic flared again.

  “Silence!” Aotian’s voice, amplified by mana, drowned out all other sounds.

  The whispers died down, leaving only the grating sound of sand and wind blowing in from the cave entrance.

  “Mirothea sacrificed a Tier 5 Space Aspect Cultivator,” Aotian announced, fighting to keep his voice steady. “That sacrifice fueled the terraforming event you just witnessed. The front line is gone. The enemy is now on our territory.”

  A collective, sharp intake of breath rippled through the survivors. But no one shouted.

  “On our territory?” someone asked. “How many? Where exactly? How long until they reach us?”

  “Numbers are unknown. They could be anywhere, perhaps directly above us. They are closing in as we speak.”

  Aotian’s answer sucked the air out of the cave.

  “They’ve gone this far,” another mournful voice said, “so what are our high-level cultivators doing? Can anyone revert this transformation?”

  “Do we have anyone willing to burn their soul like that Tier 5?”

  “No,” Aotian replied, his tone flat. “We lack the asset.”

  A chorus of curses filled the small cave.

  “So what are the orders?” a Tier 3 from Stormcrown Institute demanded. “Is high command sending a rescue force?”

  Aotian closed his eyes, his face sagging as if he’d aged a decade. When he opened them again, his back straightened, his hands clasped behind him. “The order is to hold our ground. I know it’s too much to ask. But Caelindor will honor you for your act. What you do right here, right now, will be remembered.”

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  “Fuck that!” The Tier 3 didn’t mince words. “We’ve lost more than half our people just to get here. You think we’ll obey?”

  “Lachlan Rourke,” another sneered. “The joke of the century. Is this his 'chance at victory'? His 'escape route'? If not for him, we wouldn't be rotting in this dead end.”

  “That’s right!”

  The curses spread faster than the desert outside. Contorted faces, flying spittle, and fierce glares burned into Nathan’s vision. He struggled to reconcile these rabid animals with the crowd that had fanatically cheered Lachlan’s plan—and him—just hours ago.

  As he was thinking this, the crowd’s eyes turned toward him, Zeryn, and Sevro. Swords were drawn instantly. Frank, Elen, and the Verdant Spire Sect disciples formed a protective arc around their two senior brothers.

  Aotian and the military personnel shielded Sevro, but Prince Daniel was less forgiving. His sword flashed. The nearest agitator’s head separated from his shoulders. Blood misted the air, and the wet thud of the skull against stone plunged the cave into icy silence.

  “Ungrateful wretches,” Daniel spat, wiping his blade. “To think my father sent me to lead this.”

  The mob surged forward, fueled by the Prince’s disdain, but the Tier 3 leaders intercepted them, physically holding the line. The situation was dire enough without adding fratricide to the list.

  But for Nathan, the Prince’s words struck a different chord. He remembered Lachlan’s advice: Daniel might be the key. He had to admire the Major; his influence ghosted over them even now. Lachlan had predicted Mirothea wouldn’t stop at Maelivar. The frightening thing is preparation, Vincent had once said. If Carrion Creed was meticulous for a single assassination, a nation of high-level cultivators would be infinitely more thorough.

  “Captain Aotian,” Prince Daniel said, stepping over the corpse. “Convene a council. We have matters to discuss, and time is a luxury we no longer possess.”

  Aotian showed no malice, only a decisive nod. He cast his gaze over the cave, selecting the strongest. Nathan and Zeryn were summoned.

  Around a makeshift table, the elite of the survivors exchanged weary glances. A soundproofing ward flickered into place, sealing them off from the crying wounded.

  “According to the encrypted channel Sevro provided,” Aotian began, eyes narrowing, “our situation is critical. The enemy hasn't found us only because we are ghosting. But a single significant mana fluctuation, and they will descend upon us.”

  “Share the feed,” Zeryn requested.

  Aotian flicked his hand, and a data packet materialized in their PsiLink interfaces. Nathan accessed the stream. Reports from high command flooded his vision—summaries of new ceasefire negotiations. The objective had shifted. It was no longer about retaking Maelivar; it was about holding the line. Territory was now currency for the negotiation table.

  Each person absorbed the information provided by the military. Leaders broke the circle briefly to restrain disciples on the verge of panic-stricken flight. A single unauthorized signal could draw the enemy from beneath the ground. Survival now demanded absolute discipline.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen,” Aotian said, “I still maintain my initial proposal. Please stay and support us.”

  No one answered.

  Nathan narrowed his eyes, catching messages from surviving groups scattered across Caelindor’s territory. And among them were familiar names.

  The messages scrolled by, desperate and unencrypted:

  “Roran Alastair, requesting aid. Any Verdant Spire disciples, please respond. Coordinates attached: East of Maelivar.”

  “Milo Thayne. Western front. Gathering stragglers. If you can hear this, run to us.”

  “Zahra Kinyara reporting. Xander Caldoran is critical. We need backup. Anyone.”

  Other names flashed—Tianyue, Erza, Silas—people Nathan had no fondness for, yet their distress painted a grim picture. He forced himself not to reply, terrified of revealing their coordinates. A knot of worry tightened in his chest. How desperate were his friends, that they would broadcast in the clear and disregard all defensive protocols?

  A few fingers tapped on the table surface. Each face tensed, jaws clenched. What was the way out of this?

  Nathan shared the feelings of the disciples from other factions. He wouldn't choose to stay with the military. Doing so wasn't without a chance of survival, but it was too slim. He still wanted to protect his own life and his comrades' more. He glanced at Zeryn and received a nod of understanding.

  “Have you deliberated enough?” Prince Daniel’s voice cut through the gloom, his silk robes shimmering in the light of the floating glowglobes. “I’ve given you two precious minutes. That is one more than you deserve.”

  Aotian quickly followed up to prevent the others from making any inflammatory remarks. “Do you have a plan, Your Highness?”

  “You must think I came here just for personal gain, especially in the legion of the most talented Major, Lachlan Rourke?”

  Daniel’s soft laughter grated on their nerves. The Prince turned his gaze to Nathan. “You too, Nathan. You looked down on me at the encampment. Didn't you say you’d be my personal chef if I actually ended this war?”

  The fidgeting at the table ceased. Every eye widened, fixing on Nathan.

  Nathan stood bewildered. He knew his development had been rapid, yet standing among figures like Lachlan and Daniel, he felt sluggish, a step behind in a race he didn't understand.

  “It is exactly as you suspect,” Prince Daniel said. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a crushing heaviness. “I can end this war. That is why I am here. I am my father's final wager—the last chip on the table after my brother Edward failed to secure victory with Adrian.”

  Nathan rubbed his temples, confusion clouding his thoughts until the realization struck him. He looked around the table. The grim acceptance on the other faces told him he was the last to understand.

  “So,” Daniel continued, his voice terrifyingly calm, “you have a choice. Stand under my banner when I offer my unconditional surrender to the Mirothean army. Your lives will be spared. The war will end.”

  Nathan swallowed hard. The logic clicked, but the reality was nauseating. The King had calculated this loss from the very beginning.

  “I will be blunt,” Daniel said. “My father has long sought to end this conflict, either by sending a royal hostage or establishing a marriage alliance. Yes, Maelivar will be ceded to Mirothea. Reclaiming it is a problem for the future. It is not the first time we have traded land for time.”

  Thud.

  The stone table cracked under the force of a fist. Yet no one flinched. They simply closed their eyes, resigning themselves to a chill far deeper than the fear of invasion.

  “You mean to say,” the Tier 3 from Stormcrown rasped, “that our brothers died for nothing?”

  “History does not mourn failed campaigns,” Daniel retorted. “Succeed, and you are heroes. Fail, and you are forgotten statistics. I have no time to sugarcoat reality. If you want to live, follow me. That is my offer.”

  “Duty to the people?” another Tier 3 scoffed. “Or is this just a play for the throne? A way to polish your image for the history books?”

  “If it were, would that make the result any less sweet?” Daniel replied, a thin smile touching his lips.

  Tempers flared. Auras clashed in the confined space, forcing Aotian to raise a hand and physically dispel the rising aggression.

  “Listen to me,” Aotian commanded, his gaze sweeping the room. “Do not be seduced by the Prince’s offer. Surrender is not salvation. You may live, but you will suffer for every breath. You will rot in a Mirothean dungeon until a delegation negotiates your release. Until then, fate will not be kind.”

  “And the Prince?” a female disciple sneered. “Does royalty get a pass on the torture?”

  Aotian laughed—a harsh, barking sound that startled everyone. It was the first time the Captain had broken his stoic mask.

  “Royalty are the prize catch,” Aotian said, his voice dropping to absolute zero. “The enemy will wring every drop of intelligence from Prince Daniel. By any means necessary.”

  All eyes turned to the Prince. His expression remained unyielding, a mask of practiced indifference that defied their pity.

  “Then why do it?” Nathan asked. “If they break him, won't they learn everything about our defenses?”

  Aotian glanced at Daniel. The Prince raised two fingers to his temple, pulled them away as if drawing out a thread, and then blew them clean.

  Nathan shivered, recognizing the gesture as Soul Scouring. To protect state secrets, they would flay his mind and scrub his spirit world clean before the handover. The process guaranteed the enemy found nothing, yet the pain of such a procedure was legendary.

  “Well?” Daniel asked, a wide, reckless grin splitting his face. “Anyone still want to trade places with a Prince?”

  Nathan rubbed his temples, fighting back a wave of nausea. The thought of walking willingly into such torment... it was suffocating. Vincent had been taken, but he had value as a recruit. Daniel was walking into a meat grinder with no exit.

  A crimson alert flashed on their PsiLink interfaces. The entire council rose as one.

  The leaders all rushed out of the cave to see the countermeasure that Caelindor was implementing.

  Outside, the sandstorm raged. In the distance, massive tornadoes connected heaven and earth. The heat intensified as the sun climbed, casting down merciless golden rays.

  Far toward Caelindor’s center, a red streak tore across the sky. It grew rapidly, resolving into a shield manifested as a spectral lion striding across the clouds. Its form dwarfed anything Nathan had ever seen. The sheer pressure disintegrated the sandstorms, carving a golden path for the majestic beast.

  “The National Treasure,” Daniel murmured, shaking his head. “My father plays his hand.”

  “What is its function?” Nathan asked.

  Daniel frowned, eyeing him like a peasant.

  Zeryn, instead, explained, “Its mechanism is similar to our Verdant Spire. A treasure used only in emergencies. From what I know, this shield can create a wall to block Mirothea’s army from advancing.”

  “You omitted the cost,” Daniel interjected. “Deploying a National Treasure drains the country’s reserves on a massive scale. It bleeds us dry of mana stones.”

  Nathan looked back at the Prince. His face betrayed neither relief nor anticipation.

  “You seem to not want the national treasure to be here?” Nathan asked.

  “Correct.” Daniel nodded. “They sacrificed a Tier 5—and a Space Aspect at that. Do you understand their madness? They will not stop. Your sect leaders likely begged for the National Treasure because they lacked the spine to deploy the Verdant Spire.”

  Nathan couldn't find any words to refute.

  From Mirothea’s lines, a black speck appeared, matching the Lion Shield’s velocity. As it closed the distance, its form resolved: a massive, tapering spike of midnight black. A fang.

  “Obsidian Fang.” The whisper rippled through the crowd.

  The mysteriously disappeared sect had finally appeared on the chessboard. All the questions everyone had were gradually being answered. Obsidian Fang Sect had truly betrayed them, siding with Mirothea.

  Prince Daniel sighed softly. “Why did it have to be this?”

  The object appeared deceptively ordinary—void of patterns, flames, or illusions. Yet it tore through the air with cataclysmic force, growing to the size of a tower before mercilessly slamming into the Lion Shield.

  The spectral lion roared, a sound that vibrated in their very marrow. Nathan clapped his hands over his ears. The resulting shockwave tore through the light and sand, forcing everyone to their knees.

  The wind passed, leaving only low, humming sounds. The sand particles tore at their mana protection barrier.

  Nathan stood up, looking toward the sky. The lion had vanished, leaving only the ancient shield and the fang hovering. And then, on their surfaces appeared a winding crack.

  As if reaching a stalemate, both treasures retreated. But Mirothea was not finished. From the receding Obsidian Fang, a stream of black sludge poured down.

  Squinting, Nathan realized the sludge was composed of human figures. The Obsidian Fang Sect had joined the battle at Caelindor’s weakest moment. The plunder had begun.

  Nathan spun toward Zeryn. “Attack my left hand! Now!”

  “What are you doing?”

  “No time! Just strike!”

  Ignoring the bewildered stares, Zeryn complied. The sword prodigy stiffened his fingers, coating them in Sharp Aspect, and slashed toward Nathan.

  Triggered [Battle Trance]. One credit given.

  Triggered [Battle Trance]. One credit given.

  The skill stacked. Zeryn’s movements began to drag, decelerating in Nathan's vision.

  “Faster!” Nathan barked.

  Zeryn’s hand blurred.

  Triggered [Battle Trance]. One credit given.

  Whispers erupted; fingers pointed at the unnatural speed. Nathan ignored them.

  “Frank, target my right!”

  Frank lunged without a word. To Nathan, the punch moved through molasses. He deflected it effortlessly.

  The Battle Trance stack held firm. It didn't reset.

  “Elen, join in!” Nathan roared. “Full speed! Don't hold back!”

  The three descended on him like a storm. Yet Nathan moved within the eye of the hurricane, parrying every strike with absolute precision.

  He had long wrestled with the limitations of Battle Trance. Switching targets usually reset the stack, stripping his speed at critical moments. But reviewing the battle logs from Maelivar had sparked an idea—a loophole. This was the key to leading them out of hell.

  “Stop!”

  Ignoring the heaving chests of his sparring partners, Nathan locked eyes with Aotian and Daniel.

  “Get back inside,” he said, waiting for his heart rate to drop. “I have a third option.”

  Hope flared on the faces of the team leaders as they rushed back into the cave. Time was bleeding away. Recovered or not, they had to move.

  Nathan remained behind. He closed his eyes, summoning the interface.

  Time for upgrades.