The night had settled over the city like a warm sigh. The stars shimmered gently above, painting a soft sheen across the wooden rooftops of the hillside town. Lanterns flickered lazily along the quiet paths, their amber glow casting dancing shadows over cobblestone. A cool breeze drifted in through the cracked tavern windows, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain.
Inside the tavern, the chaos from earlier had faded. The crowd had thinned, voices lowering to tired farewells and good-natured drunken rambles. Grayson stood behind the counter, eyes distant, as Mira quietly listened to the last of his story.
"He walked into the battlefield like he belonged there. No fanfare. No fear. Just... calm. The kind of calm that silences even war."
Mira blinked, absorbing the weight of the words.
"That's how you know, huh?" she asked softly. "He's not just some traveling drunk."
Grayson nodded. " Saw him cut down things that shouldn't even exist. And then walk away like it was Tuesday."
Mira's breath caught, but a nearby voice snapped her back.
"Mira, another round of cider, please!"
She blinked, then nodded quickly. "Right—coming!"
Returning to the floor, she weaved between the remaining customers. An older woman gently patted her hand on the way out.
"That stew, dearie? Bless your hands. Reminds me of my mother's."
A few others nodded and waved as they shuffled out.
As Mira moved among the last of the evening patrons, the tavern slowly dimmed into a quieter lull. The warm crackle of the hearth danced across the walls, casting lazy shadows over tired faces and half-empty mugs. A soft breeze slipped in through the half-open shutters, stirring the scent of roasted meat and malted ale. Outside, the hush of night draped the village in peaceful silence.
One of the remaining customers stood awkwardly near the bar—the same large, shaved-head man from earlier. Mira, clearing empty plates nearby, caught his glance.
He stepped forward hesitantly, his posture stiff, as if his pride wrestled with his guilt. "Hey… uh…" His voice was rougher than before, but now laced with restraint. "Sorry. About earlier. I didn't mean to—just… got carried away."
Mira blinked, slightly surprised. She opened her mouth to speak, but then the man's eyes flicked sideways—just a quick, nervous glance toward the table near the window.
Kuro was still lounging there, one leg up on the bench, nursing another cup of ale. His grin was lopsided, gaze half-lidded, but his presence was unmistakable. He gave the mercenary a slight, lazy nod—nothing more than that. But it was enough.
The man visibly flinched. He took a half-step back, nodded quickly at Mira again, then turned and walked off in a brisk, hunched shuffle that might as well have been a sprint.
Mira stared after him for a second, then turned back toward the bar, a slight smile tugging at her lips.
With the last of the crowd trickling out, she finally made her way back to the corner where Klaus sat—still munching on his now-cold stew like the world around him didn't exist.
"You've been at that for a while," she said softly.
Klaus didn't respond.
"Is it… really that good?"
Still no reply.
She sighed, half-laughing. "Do you ever talk?"
"Sometimes," he muttered.
"Well, that's progress," she smiled.
Then came the sound of boots and a bottle clinking on wood.
"Careful, lass. He speaks so rarely, you might summon a demon if you press too hard."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Kuro."
The man dropped into a chair beside Klaus, grin plastered on his face, bottle half-empty and spirit full. "What a night, huh? Drunk regrets, near-death stew, and this young champion sitting like he owns the table."
Klaus didn't look up.
"You know," Kuro leaned closer, voice playful. "You remind me of someone I met once. Quiet. Angry. Looked like he hadn't smiled in years. Turned out he was a prince. Or a demon. Depends who you ask."
Mira chuckled. "You have a story for everything."
"I do," Kuro said proudly. "Now tell me, pretty boy, where'd you come from, huh? What land tossed out a face like yours?"
Klaus said nothing.
Kuro's grin didn't falter. "Nothing? No hint? No tragic monologue?"
Silence.
Kuro tilted his head. "I know your origin."
That made Klaus's hand twitch.
"I know about the battle at the ignar estate," Kuro said, swirling his drink. "I know about the Ignar elites. The way they burned everything to the ground. And you—" he pointed the bottle, "you faced Varion Ignar,One on one on almost equal standing. Didn't you?"
From behind the bar, Grayson's voice rang out, incredulous. "It's this boy!?"
Mira turned, eyes wide. "What!?"
Kuro chuckled. "He didn't just fight. He tore through them like a damn storm. And then came the other Monarchs… all six of them.
He leaned back, voice growing softer. "And he stood there. All for one girl."
The moment he said it, the air shifted.
Klaus's body tensed—then exploded with energy.
A deafening boom echoed as wind erupted around him, his will surging like a hurricane. The air shattered. Tables split. Glass exploded. A pillar of light—silver and violent green—shot through the tavern's roof, piercing the night sky.
The wind howled, mixed with the roar of pressure itself. Customers screamed, diving for cover. The ground cracked beneath Klaus's feet, the storm spiraling into a vortex.
Mira shielded her face, eyes wide with awe and terror.
Klaus's voice roared over it all:
"Speak anymore ,and I will erase this city from the map."
Everyone froze.
Kuro didn't.
He just smiled. "Finally… someone interesting around here."
Then, calmly, he stood. He raised one hand.
In an instant, his aura exploded. No flash, no sound—just overwhelming presence. A pressure that wrapped the entire district. It nullified Klaus's storm like a wave swallowing sparks.
The air returned to calm. Birds chirped again. The light disappeared.
Klaus collapsed, unconscious.
Kuro caught him effortlessly.
"Sleep it off, kid."
Then he turned, raised a finger toward the shattered tavern.
"Remanent: Reconstruct."
Particles—bits of wood, stone, glass—froze midair. They shimmered, danced. It was like watching time rewind, molecules reversing entropy. Pieces slid back into place, following the flow of remembered structure.
Within seconds, the tavern stood whole again.
He hoisted Klaus over his shoulder. "I'll take him."
Mira stared, stunned.
"You two are insane," she whispered.
Kuro winked. "Damn right."
---
Moonlight spilled like liquid silver across the vast balcony of the Skyspire Citadel, casting elongated shadows across the high marble arches.Below lay quiet, blanketed in the eerie calm of the windless night. Lanterns shimmered across rooftop gardens and hovering bridges, their flames flickering gently, untouched.
Zephyra stood at the edge of her balcony, unmoving—statuesque in a floor-length robe dyed deep storm-blue, her silver cuffs glinting like tiny blades. Her pale white hair, braided at the sides and loose down the back, stirred only slightly in the faint whisper of high-altitude breeze.
Behind her, a man stepped forward with silent reverence. He wore a tailored black overcoat with three golden sigils embroidered on his collar. His name was Caldris—an elder man with sharp, hawk-like features and a gait that spoke of years in military formation. But in the presence of his master, he bowed deeply.
"Lady Zephyra," Caldris spoke in his controlled, even tone, "the last of the council members have returned to their quarters. The economic reform proposals have been filed for morning review."
Zephyra did not turn. "And the Guild coalition?"
"Still bickering over grain tariffs. They fear the Sorein delegates will pull trade routes again."
A soft exhale escaped her lips. "Let them. The Guilds speak only when they're hungry or threatened. We'll tighten sea routes through the north—send a message."
Caldris nodded once. "Understood. What of the rationing policies for the lower rings?"
"There will be no rationing," she said coolly. "We don't starve our citizens. We weaponize prosperity."
A quiet hum of approval left Caldris's throat, and he stepped up beside her now, daring to look out over the shimmering skyline of the empire's crown.
"The winds have been strange today," he murmured.
Zephyra's brows twitched slightly. "Yes."
They stood in silence for several long seconds, each immersed in thought. No talk of vanished warriors. No whispers of bloodlines or prophecies tonight. Just the city, its lights, and the immense, humming void above.
Then she felt it.
It started as a chill—subtle, like the moment before lightning dances across your skin. Her eyes slowly lifted toward the far southern skies. The stars there seemed to ripple, distort… and then crack.
A distant blast of wind surged across the heavens like a blade drawn through silk. And then came the light.
A beam of white-green radiance tore through the night, cutting from the horizon sky like divine judgment. It wasn't lightning. It wasn't even elemental. It was will, raw and unfiltered—like the sky itself had been commanded to open.
Caldris staggered one step back, shielding his eyes. "By the—!"
Zephyra didn't move. She simply stared, her expression unreadable.
"This power..," she whispered.
She turned sharply, her cloak flaring like wings behind her. Caldris stepped in to follow, but she raised a hand.
"You'll remain here."
Caldris paused, nodding. "As you command."
"And Caldris…" she added, glancing over her shoulder.
"Yes, my Lady?"
"Ready the skies for travel. I won't be long."
She leapt. Not down—but into the wind.
With a sharp intake of breath, the air around her bent. Zephyra vanished into a streak of sky-blue light that shot from the Citadel, piercing through the layers of clouds, headed toward the edge of the empire—toward the storm that had already begun to change everything.
The silver city of Veltraxis shimmered under the evening glow, its crystal-topped spires catching the dying sun's light like fireflies frozen in time. Lanterns ignited with a soft whoosh across the white marble streets, casting warm golden hues on the bustling capital. Market stalls slowly shuttered. Merchant guilds held their last negotiations of the day. But something stirred far from the polished heart of the city.
Outside the rebuilt tavern near the city's edge, Kurozane stood with Klaus slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The unconscious boy's blonde hair dangled, catching the fading light. Kuro, as usual, wore his half-buttoned cloak over loose attire, unbothered by the weight or the strange glances. His white hair flicked as the wind shifted, and he squinted playfully at the air, sniffing.
"I smell trouble," he said to himself with a grin.
In that moment, a shift occurred. The wind slowed. The noise from the tavern dulled.
A woman descended like royalty made flesh.
Monarch Zephyra.
Her arrival wasn't loud, but it shook the air. She appeared in a pulse of wind and light, her long robes embroidered with flowing sigils of storm and cloud. Her hair cascaded like silver streams down her shoulders, her eyes glowing faintly with cyan brilliance.
Mira and Grayson, standing at the tavern entrance, gasped.
"Mira—" Grayson whispered sharply.
"I know," she said quickly, and both dropped to one knee in reverence.
Zephyra's gaze did not linger on them. It was pinned to the white-haired man grinning like a fool.
"Kurozane," she said simply, her voice colder than the wind.
Kuro turned with a half-salute, still grinning. "Zephyraaaa. Long time, no shoutin' match. You missed me?"
Her lips pressed into a tight line. "You're harboring a fugitive."
"I'm harboring a kid with worse manners than me. Be proud."
The atmosphere thickened.
Without warning, Zephyra released her Will.
A burst of cyan and silver erupted from her, casting gusts across the entire city. Windows rattled. Civilians cried out. Clouds spiraled unnaturally above the district. The very air turned sharp with pressure.
Mira clutched her chest, gasping. Grayson stepped in front of her protectively.
"Hand him over," Zephyra ordered. "Or i shall use force."
Kuro's smile vanished. Like someone flipping a switch.
The carefree, joking bard was gone.
What remained was silence. Pure, sharp silence.
Kurozane lifted his head, eyes half-lidded, and in them danced something ancient. Not rage. Not pride.
Conviction.
"Force?" he repeated, voice low. "You think threatening me… will change fate?"
Zephyra tensed.
"You don't understand—"
"No," Kuro interrupted, stepping forward. The street cracked beneath his footfall. "You don't understand. This boy… survived the fire of Varion Ignar. Shattered the Pyreborn. Made the heavens quake. And now you stand here, waving your power around like some spoiled godling?"
"You dare—"
"I dare everything," Kuro snapped. "Because unlike you, I don't move for politics. I move for what's right."
He shifted Klaus gently from his shoulder to the ground beside him.
Kuro reached behind his cloak and slowly unsheathed his katana.
It rang like a divine whisper—long, curved, immaculate steel, its edge vibrating subtly, wreathed in pale blue energy. The guard was shaped like an open fan, the grip bound in frost-kissed wrappings.
"Koseigan," he murmured.
He sliced the air in a precise, fluid motion.
The space before him split. A rip in reality unfolded like torn silk, revealing a swirling blue portal filled with stardust and calm wind.
"You want to chase storms, Zephyra?" Kuro said, standing at the threshold. "Then pray your sky holds."
Without another word, Kuro picked up Klaus and vanished into the rift.
The portal sealed behind him with a chime—leaving only the silence of a Monarch whose power had just been challenged… and denied.
Zephyra stood frozen.
Her hands trembled.
But not from fear.
"…He's returned," she whispered.
Behind her, the city breathed again—but nothing felt the same.