Granero knelt rigidly before the altar, his hands clasped so tightly the veins bulged against his skin.
His gaze was fixed on the mannequin of Josh Aratat—its hollow eyes hidden behind the carved face mask. The air inside the dimly lit chamber felt heavy, thick with the incense smoke curling from the brass bowls around him.
Each whispered prayer from his lips was more desperate as he progressed, pleading, begging and reaching out supernaturally for the black dragon to manifest. His mother's laboured breathing echoed faintly from the bed behind him, a reminder of how little time was left.
Just when the silence was getting to a suffocating level, then, with a thunderous slam, the door burst open.
Granero jolted, a startled shriek escaping him as he spun around, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes narrowed when he saw who it was. "Uncle Passo! Why would you barge in like that? At least knock…"
Passo ignored him. His boots clanged against the stone floor as he strode past, heading straight for the frail figure lying on the bed. "Little sister," he said, his voice sharp and urgent. "We must leave—now. The enemy army has crossed the border of Region One. In no time, their boots will be at the gates of Region Two. Do you understand? They'll be here soon."
On the bed, Granero's mother stirred, her face pale with pain. She tried to turn but grimaced as a stab of agony tore through her back. Her trembling hand reached weakly toward her son, who still knelt stiffly at the altar. "Granero, honey…" she whispered, each word drawn from her like blood from a wound. "Go with your uncle. Escape this place while you still can."
Granero rose slowly, his fists trembling at his sides. His eyes burned with defiance as he stepped closer to her bedside. "Mom, what hope do we have? Run where? No matter where we flee, the war will still find us. We might as well stand here and fight."
"You fool! if you run, at least there is still a chance of survival, even if for a day, that can ensure your head on your shoulders." Passo snapped, his patience snapping like dry wood. He grabbed Granero's shoulder and shook him. "Do you not understand? They are millions—an endless tide of steel and fire. Ronny saw them himself, said the horizon was drowned in their banners! How do you fight that? You don't—you survive! Swallow your pride and come now, before it's too late." Passo exaggerated the numbers of the enemy as he became animated in his actions.
Granero's jaw clenched. He turned his head slowly, meeting his uncle's furious gaze with icy silence, refusing to answer.
"This insane bastard..." Passo let out a bitter curse and swung back toward his sister. "Forget this delusional boy! Sister, listen to me—get up. We leave now!"
But she only whimpered, her body wracked with pain. "Passo…" Her lips quivered, her voice no more than a frail thread. "I am dying. I feel it in my bones. And I cannot go anywhere without my Granero. If he chooses to stay, then I stay. Whatever comes… we face it together."
Passo froze, staring at her in disbelief. His jaw tightened, his eyes darting between her wan face and Granero's blazing, stubborn stare. For a moment he looked like a man caught in a nightmare with no escape. Finally, with a disgusted scoff, he turned on his heel.
"You're both mad," he spat, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Then, without another word, he stormed out the door, his footsteps pounding down the corridor until they faded into silence.
The hut was still again, save for the rasping breaths of Granero's mother and the steady hum of the prayers he had abandoned.
Granero rushed to his mother's side, his trembling hands slipping under her shoulders to help her sit up. Her body felt weightless, as though the intense back pain and injury to her spine had already stolen most of her strength. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto her thin blanket as he gazed into her hollow eyes. She managed a faint smile, but even that seemed to cost her dearly.
"Mother…" Granero's voice cracked, heavy with despair. He hated how fragile she looked, hated how helpless he felt. But deep inside, his resolve was iron. He had no desire to run, no plan to abandon her. If the black dragon refused to come, then he would stay here until the end. Better to die fighting fate than live as a coward.
---*****************************************---------
At the gate of Region 2, a scene of eerie stillness greeted the approaching army. Emperor Cailan Gravis and his endless wave of soldiers swept forward like a storm tide. At the vanguard rode Vincent Kim, his armor polished to a blinding sheen, his black horse stamping furiously at the dust. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon as though daring the world to challenge him.
Somewhere within the massive column, behind layers of guards and in a newly acquired gilded carriage, Emperor Cailan Gravis reclined in indulgence. Agatha was pressed close beside him, like butter melting into bread. Curtains drawn, the two made no attempt to hide their pleasure. The muffled sounds drifting from the carriage made even the most hardened soldiers avert their gazes, though their ears burned at the suggestive noises. It was not hard to imagine what occupied them.
Yet at the gate itself, an unsettling detail revealed itself: there were no guards. Not a single sentry. The towering arch stood abandoned, silent as a graveyard at midnight. The emptiness was almost mocking, as if the city itself had exhaled and vanished.
General Vincent Kim pulled on his reins, his horse neighing and rearing slightly as he came to a halt. His men behind him shuffled uncertainly. He sat tall in his saddle, the embodiment of arrogance, yet his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Vincent Kim was no ordinary general. He had been plucked from the ranks not long ago, rising from a legionary commander of 10,000 men to general of not just 50,000 but placed over the command of all 599,600 soldiers—a power no other general had ever been granted. His sudden elevation was Emperor Cailan's doing, and it had sent ripples of unease among the high commands.
Of the original eight generals, four lay in graves, their names already forgotten in the dust of war. To replace them, new blood had been chosen, swelling the number to twelve. But jealousy and venom brewed quietly among them. Many could not swallow the insult that Vincent Kim—once a mere legionary leader over 10,000 men—was now raised above them all, granted authority they could not even dreamed of, or see no possibility of getting.
In whispers and dark corners, assassination plots festered. Yet none dared strike openly. For Vincent Kim was not just ruthless—he was unhinged. His unpredictability was his shield, and his savagery his weapon. Facing him was like squaring off against a duck on steroids—loud, erratic, and absurdly dangerous.
And now, as he glared at the empty gate, the question lingered in the air like poison smoke:
Where were the defenders?