Back in the scorched heart of the Solara Kingdom—Zone 15, the once-thriving city of Ilis had become a portrait of ruin. Fires crackled like laughter from the gods, smoke coiled skyward like serpents, and the screams of the dying carried through the air with a symphony of despair. Roots erupted from beneath the earth, twisting into spires of thorn and stone, crashing through towers and crushing homes beneath their cruel weight.
Above it all, floating effortlessly on invisible currents of myst, was Sylvathar—the Green Calamity himself.
He stood as though the sky belonged to him, a silhouette of black and sickly emerald wreathed in veils of drifting ash. His eyes—pale green, aglow like poisoned stars—gazed down at the chaos below with the detached amusement of a deity watching insects scurry over the burning ruins of their nest.
Beneath his feet, Solara burned.
From Zone 15 all the way to Zone 19, the Solarian Kingdom was buckling. Even with the relentless bravery of its knights, its valiant mages, its armored battalions holding the city walls—their resistance was nothing compared to the sheer weight of Sylvathar's invading horde. Hybrids swarmed the streets like wolves in a slaughter pit. Gaia demons stomped through the city like walking cataclysms, tearing through stone and soul alike. The battle was not a fight—it was a slow, exquisite death.
And Sylvathar, standing above it all as calm as the eye of the storm, allowed himself a smirk.
"Beautiful," he whispered.
The word left his lips like a prayer.
"So fragile… so predictable… These humans. They run, they scream, they fight so hard to delay the inevitable. Their courage is admirable… but ultimately useless. Like ants resisting fire."
He spread his arms wide, inhaling deeply as the scent of smoke, blood, and burning wood curled into his senses.
"I could descend now," he said to no one but the sky, his voice as smooth and cold as polished marble. "I could snap my fingers and level this entire kingdom in minutes. My new form aches to move… to unleash… to erase. But where is the pleasure in swatting them all in a single stroke?"
He lowered his arms and folded his hands behind his back, regal and still, as the wind ruffled the dark green cloak around his shoulders.
"Let them suffer. Let them feel. Let their kings and queens taste dread and futility. Let the children scream for parents already dead. Let the brave choke on the dust of their crumbling cities." He turned his head slightly, watching a family desperately flee from a collapsing building, only for a root spear to impale them mid-run. He didn't blink.
"Death is one thing. But fear—the long, choking dread of knowing death is coming and you can do nothing to stop it—that... is art."
He looked to the distant horizon where fire painted the clouds orange and red.
"Solara shall fall. But not simply as a strategic loss. No. It shall be a statement. A message carved into the earth. When I return to the Demon Realm, I will not return as a warlord of the past—but as a legend. One who bathed in the fall of kingdoms."
He chuckled softly. A low, velvet sound. Cold and merciless.
"And you, dear Sanguis…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "You who stand as my brother and rival... You thought me mad to venture to the human world. You laughed as I dared to reach beyond the bounds of our kind. But what I bring back from this realm is evolution. What I bring is power born from hatred, desperation, and the fear of a thousand souls."
He raised a single hand, green myst swirling softly in his palm.
"I will not just return. I will return… above you."
His hand closed into a fist, and below him, a segment of the city cracked open as if the land itself were surrendering. Buildings collapsed in synchronized ruin, smoke rushing upward like a scream torn from the earth's lungs.
Then silence. A pause. The eye before the next wave.
Sylvathar exhaled softly and looked upward, into the vast heavens above.
"Do you see this, Mother of Myst?" he whispered. "This is your precious creation. This is your balance... unraveling at my touch."
Then he smirked again, the kind of smile a storm might wear as it swallows a coastline.
Back in the heart of the Tempest Palace, Lucy stood still, her posture poised with the calm of a monarch, though her heart bore the weight of uncertainty. She and her four elite agents had searched every wing, corridor, and hidden chamber of the palace—from the deep sanctums of the underground wing to the far-reaching towers—and yet, there was no trace of Liam or Mabel. No whispers of their mystic energy. No clues. No sign. Nothing.
And so, reluctantly, painfully, Lucy was forced to make the call only a ruler could. She left two of her most valuable assets to the hands of fate.
Whatever is to happen to them... will happen.
It stung. Deeply. But she could not allow herself to become paralyzed. She couldn't afford tunnel vision—not when the kingdom screamed beneath her feet. Her duties outweighed her emotions. That was the burden of the crown.
Now, with the city of Tynoon ablaze in the distance, Lucy stood atop the grand marble balcony of her royal chambers, a tempest of fire and chaos painting the skies before her. The silhouettes of knights clashing with demons flickered below like shadow puppets in a tragedy. The sounds of battle—clashing steel, erupting spells, the cries of the dying—rose to meet her ears like a twisted chorus.
Wyjin stood to her right, a shadow cloaked in cloth, his hood drawn up, eyes ever-vigilant. The knight who had led earlier operations flanked her left. The final two Royal Corps agents stood at her back, facing the chamber itself, watchful and ready to strike at the first hint of danger.
"Report," Lucy commanded, her voice cool, composed, royal.
The agent to her left stepped forward, his tone unwavering.
"Solara is faltering, Your Majesty. Their defenses are thin and their numbers are stretched. Without reinforcements, it's only a matter of time before another entire region of Amthar is wiped out... again."
His words hung in the air, heavy and raw.
Lucy remained silent for a moment, her emerald eyes fixed on the distant fires. Then, softly, she asked, "And the Tempest Kingdom?"
"We are faring better, Your Majesty. The knights are pushing back, though progress is slow. But in Icua and Tynoon…" the agent hesitated briefly, "Sir Yaer and Lady Moonstone are engaged with enemy commanders—strong ones. They're being pushed to their limits."
Lucy's gaze narrowed. "And what of Galen?"
The agent shook his head with quiet regret. "There's been no trace of Sir Magna anywhere across Amthar. Not in any zone, not even the borderlands. It's as if he vanished from the realm."
Lucy's brow twitched. Galen did have a tendency to vanish without warning—but not . Not during war. Not during catastrophe. This wasn't Galen simply being Galen. This… this reeked of foul play. Someone had taken him. And to whoever had the audacity to pull such a feat, she hoped their death was fast. Not out of mercy… but because if she got her hands on them first, it wouldn't be.
She turned fully toward her agents.
"First priority: we must find a way to aid Solara. We cannot afford another region falling into ruin." Her voice held steel, each word honed with the resolve of command. "Magnus and Mystica are not fighting at their full potential—not while civilians are still within their radius. They're holding back for the sake of the people. But if we can clear their surroundings…"
She paused, then nodded to herself.
"Send word to all field agents—divert their focus. Their mission is now to secure and evacuate civilians, not fight. Once the people are safe and inside the shelters, instruct all nearby knights and mages to fall back. Tell them to get a good distance away from Magnus and Mystica."
Her eyes glimmered coldly.
"Because once those two stop holding back… Tynoon and Icua will become death zones. Not just for demons. For anything standing in their way."
The agents gave curt nods, already relaying her orders via their comm runes.
Lucy continued, voice low but strong.
"Second priority: call upon Crescent. Their threat level is lowest among the three Kingdoms. We'll assist them in eliminating their greatest obstacles. Once that's done… we turn everything we have to Solara."
Her gaze turned again to the blazing city, to the cries carried on the wind.
"If Sylvathar wants to leave a scar on Amthar, we'll give him a storm he won't forget."