The king's voice cracked the silence like thunder.
"What… did you just say?"
The audience chamber was deathly still. Court officials, nobles, and guards froze where they stood. Seated on the throne, King Vael'Zarion leaned forward, eyes locked on the young man before him.
Alter, the Draconian Prime, repeated without hesitation, "I want access to every dragon material in the kingdom. Vaulted, archived, sealed or sacred—I need it all."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Queen Elanra covered her lips in disbelief. Prince Kaelen narrowed his eyes. Princess Alyxthia's brows shot up, while Prince Ryvar just muttered under his breath, "He's not even trying to sugarcoat it…"
The king blinked slowly. "You mean… all of it? Every wyrmsteel plate, stormfang scale, blood crystal, marrowed claw? From the palace reserves to the hidden vaults?"
Alter nodded. "Yes. I will use them to forge new equipment—gear fit for the Dragoons. With what's coming, they'll need more than training. They'll need weapons worthy of gods."
Whispers erupted. One councilor nearly dropped his ledger.
The king closed his eyes. Thoughtful silence stretched for several tense seconds. Then he opened them—calm, steady.
"I see," he said. "You won't change your mind."
"No."
The king exhaled heavily. "Very well. As sovereign of Drakareth, I hereby authorize the full mobilization of dragon materials within the kingdom. All reserves will be opened, all caches reported, and every classified holding transported to your command center."
The queen finally spoke. "What could you possibly make that requires that much material?"
Before Alter could answer, Princess Alyxthia gently stepped forward, unsheathing the short ceremonial blade at her hip.
"I believe… this," she said softly, holding it up.
A divine glow shimmered along the etched protective runes.
"This was made by Soryn. During our tour. He crafted it… with a single forge session."
The king and queen's eyes widened. Kaelen stepped closer, inspecting the blade.
"This is… divine-tier craftsmanship," the prince muttered. "From one forge visit?"
Ryvar whistled. "And here I thought he was just pretty."
The queen leaned forward. "You're telling me… the young man forged this? In a day?"
Alyxthia nodded. "Not even a full day. He infused the gem, engraved protective runes, and harmonized the flow without flaw. He said… it was just a small gift."
The room fell into stunned silence.
The king finally leaned back in his throne and whispered, "So that's the level of the one who calls Alter his master…"
Alter said nothing. He turned away and began to walk toward the doors. As he reached the threshold, he paused and looked back.
"Prepare the convoy. I'll begin crafting at dawn."
He left without another word.
Behind him, the weight of a kingdom shifted. And the forge fires of a new era were about to ignite.
The castle vaults were emptied.
Under strict royal decree, military convoys and aerial wyverns delivered crates of scaled ores, wyrmsteel cores, talon-tipped alloys, and preserved membranes of fallen dragonkin to the southeastern plateau—just beyond the training grounds where the Dragoons were currently resting.
Alter stood alone in the center of the wide, cleared field, wind rustling his long crimson-streaked hair. He had removed his sovereign plate for the first time in weeks, donning only black forging attire reinforced with dragonhide threading. His bare arms shimmered faintly with golden resonance, the tribal mark on his chest glowing dimly.
Before him were dozens of sealed containers. Behind him, the Dragoons and the Council stood atop a stone balcony carved into the mountainside. Even the royal family watched through a far-seeing scrying projection, their expressions tense with curiosity.
Alter took a deep breath.
And then—he unsheathed Starsever, planting it into the ground beside him like an ancient stake of judgment.
He raised his right palm.
The sky answered.
A divine flare ignited around him, rings of heatless flame and light spinning into a forging circle. The ground beneath his feet cracked, releasing a dormant dragon pulse that trembled through the very bones of the mountain. Sparks danced in the air, and glowing geometric sigils formed an anvil beneath him—an ancient crafting altar once used by the Draconic Lords of old.
Gasps echoed from the Dragoons.
Talia's eyes widened. "Is he… forging without a forge?!"
Vellmar blinked twice. "That altar wasn't there yesterday."
Selin narrowed her gaze. "He's using divine inscription casting… mid-material resonance…"
Soryn, standing silently near the base of the plateau, smirked. "Now then. Let's show them what a real blacksmith looks like."
Alter extended his left hand, and a massive core of obsidian wyrmsteel rose into the air, suspended by invisible pressure.
Then—his first strike.
No hammer. Just his palm, infused with internal force, slammed into the floating core.
A shockwave erupted across the plateau. Energy spirals shot upward, and the core compressed into a gleaming ingot, its outer crust shedding away in molten rings.
The next moment, Alter struck again.
Fist of Ruin – Forging Style.
He weaved the first of the Demon God Killing Martial Arts into his smithing, reshaping the very laws of impact and form. Each motion condensed a different dragon aspect—fire, lightning, wind, and shadow—into layered alloys, balancing opposing energies into a single harmonic resonance.
Item after item took form.
Helms shaped like dragon skulls fused with radiant crystal visors. Chestplates bore living veins of heat-distributing flame runes. Armguards flexed like muscle, but hardened to diamond when struck. Boots were tailored for Ghost Step—a hybrid of aerial agility and shock absorption.
Each set was unique. But all bore the same sigil: the Mark of the Sovereign Flame.
Jaris, watching from the balcony, whispered, "He's… building sets designed for each of us."
Rhed clutched the balcony edge, jaw slack. "That guy's not just a swordsman. He's the whole damn mountain."
Down below, Alter's sweat glistened like starlight. His focus never wavered. Each piece was laid onto separate glowing pedestals that floated beside him—twelve for now, each slowly rotating in divine suspension.
He wasn't done.
In the distance, Soryn stepped forward, raising his hand.
Golden light gathered at his side, forming a ceremonial forge glyph. "Time for part two," he said, smirking. "Let's work, Master."
Alter nodded.
Together—Master and Disciple, they began to engrave divine rune inlays into each crafted item, chanting runic blessings designed to harmonize with the Dragoons' individual elemental paths and fighting styles.
The air rang with whispered syllables from an age long passed. Sigils danced along the surface of gauntlets and blades, fusing magic with craftsmanship, memory with material.
Above the plateau, clouds parted. Sunlight shone down directly upon the forge altar, as if the skies themselves bore witness.
From the scrying chamber, Queen Elanra covered her lips with one hand. "They're… reforging the soul of Drakareth."
King Vael'Zarion's voice was low, reverent. "No… they're creating a future that can survive after even gods fall."
As the final set was completed, Alter stepped back, his breathing steady but deep. Twelve full Dragoon equipment sets floated behind him. He closed his eyes—and a single command resonated through the mountaintop.
"Come forth, chosen."
The six newly-appointed Dragoon commanders, along with six others chosen by merit, leapt down from the plateau with awe and reverence. They knelt before the gear, as the sets hovered toward them one by one.
Each piece attached with magnetic grace—perfect fit, balanced aura, complete synchronization.
When the last gauntlet locked into place—
—twelve new auras erupted, each shining with the essence of a Dragon Lord's element. It was not mere armor. It was empowerment. Unity. Purpose.
Alter turned toward Soryn.
"I'll leave the next batch to you. I'm heading to retrieve something even rarer."
Soryn saluted casually, but a playful smirk tugged at his lips. "Don't take too long, old man. They'll expect fire-breathing swords next."
Alter chuckled, unsheathing Starsever once more. A golden rift opened behind him, swirling with time-marked runes and burning wind.
He stepped through it without hesitation.
Soryn turned to face the stunned Dragoons.
"All right," he said. "Break's over."
A flash of light exploded behind him as the forge altar faded—and the next phase of the Dragoon's evolution began.
Three days had passed.
The skies above Veyr'Zhalar were quiet as armored wagons, escorted by the 6th Division, arrived at the southern edge of the royal district. Dozens of crates—sealed in dragon-forged locks and bearing the crest of Drakareth—were offloaded with precise care, glowing faintly from within. These were no ordinary materials. Dragon scales imbued with volcanic heat, bones tempered by the frozen peaks, crystalized hearts, and wings lined with primordial light. It was the kingdom's legacy… now in Alter's hands.
Alter approached silently, clad in his Sovereignborn armor, with Starsever slung across his back. He moved past the crates with a slow nod and extended his hand. A deep pull of energy surged through the air as each container collapsed into pure matter and was absorbed into his dimensional storage—vanishing with pulses of golden light.
Draven Stryvalis, still clad in obsidian-scaled armor, gave a respectful bow. "All secured, my lord."
"Thank you," Alter said. His voice was steady. Too steady. "Please… thank the king for honoring my request."
Draven studied him for a moment—those golden dragon eyes dimmed behind memory. "He understands. And so do we." Then, without another word, the captain turned and marched off with his escorts.
The plaza emptied. Only silence remained.
Alter exhaled. A long, dragging breath. Then his hand drifted toward a small silver chain around his neck. At its end was an ancient amulet, barely glowing—a relic untouched by time.
The Still World Amulet.
His fingers tightened around it.
"…It's been a long time, old friend."
The world shifted.
In a blink, everything changed.
He stood within the Still World.
A plane frozen in timeless serenity—built from memory and emotion. The wind didn't move. The grass didn't sway. The sun never changed position. It was the same as he left it. His home, nestled between hills and forest. The stone forge, the cottage with the carved dragon archway. The herb garden still in bloom. The wooden bench beneath the twin blossom trees.
Unchanged.
Unyielding.
Unforgiving.
He walked forward, boots crunching softly on the gravel path. Each step weighed more than the last. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was empty. And as he stepped past the flower beds, the shadows of memory began to stir.
Lira's laughter echoed faintly by the garden.
He glanced to the left.
A younger Lira sat on a stump, robes folded neatly, a book hovering beside her, giggling as she tried to balance a floating rune in her palm. She looked at him—smiled.
It faded.
He clenched his fists and kept walking.
The porch creaked under his weight. He opened the door.
Inside, everything was perfect. The living room, with its fireless hearth. The shelf of rare spell tomes she collected. His tools hung neatly on the wall above a forge blueprinted in divine patterns. The dinner table still had two cups—never cleaned. Preserved by time. By intention.
More echoes flickered in the corners of the room.
Him holding her hand as they discussed mana resonance over tea. Her playful nudge as he teased her focus. The quiet moments. The warm ones. The real ones.
He moved through the hall, down to the end.
He stood before the bedroom door.
Alter hesitated.
Even prepared, the weight was unbearable. His hand trembled as it reached for the doorknob. Slowly, the door creaked open.
And the pain came rushing in.
The room was untouched. The sheets still slightly curled. A faint scent lingered—familiar, beloved, cruel. The aura of that night, burned into the walls. The bonding. The warmth. The promise.
And the consequence.
He fell to his knees, fists clenched at his sides as tears broke from his eyes—silent at first, then shaking. He bit down on his lip, blood drawing at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't stop.
"…Lira," he whispered. "I miss you."
There was no answer. Only silence. Only the hum of a love that lingered, just out of reach.
Time passed.
How long? Hours? Minutes? Impossible to tell in the Still World.
Now outside.
He sat on the bench beneath the twin blossoms. His hands covered his face, breath shallow, body still trembling. Around him, the memories kept flickering—her smile, her voice, her warmth.
He dragged his hands down and looked up at the sky—unchanged, always blue.
His voice was cracked, almost feral.
"…Val'zaruun."
The name echoed like thunder in a world without sound.
He stood.
Eyes bloodshot but burning with resolve.
He walked to the forge beside the house—his sanctuary.
The moment he stepped in, his demeanor changed. No more tears. No more echoes. Only fire.
With a wave of his hand, hundreds of materials materialized from his dimensional storage—glimmering dragon scale composites, crystalline fangs, molten essence orbs, raw soulforged steel, and rare god-thread runes. They floated around him in perfect formation.
His hands moved.
One item at a time.
He selected core metals and began with the base frames. He etched runes directly into the alloys before they cooled. Dragon script, divine script, memory script. Each piece layered in resistance, responsiveness, identity.
Next came enchantments—lightning, flame, frost, wind, shadow, crystal. Layered with mana pulses attuned to Dragoon markers. Custom-bound by type, role, aura signature. Adaptive resonance fields followed.
Then augmentation slots—precisely socketed.
Then attunement coating—imbued from scaled blood signatures he had claimed.
Then divine threading—fortified with internal soulbind channels.
Then sacred forging compression—timed within the Still World's dimensional stasis fields.
Every profession, every trade, every ancient craft he had mastered across his lifetime was summoned into each motion. The forge blazed without heat, the tools moved without noise, the runes glowed without flicker.
This was not smithing.
This was resurrection.
Of will.
Of purpose.
Of vengeance.
Of future.
And as the first of the Dragoon armaments began to take shape—shimmering with mythic light, bearing the echo of draconic resonance—Alter did not look up. His expression was hardened, relentless.
His war had begun anew.
Three days had passed.
The skies above Veyr'Zhalar were quiet as armored wagons, escorted by the 6th Division, arrived at the southern edge of the royal district. Dozens of crates—sealed in dragon-forged locks and bearing the crest of Drakareth—were offloaded with precise care, glowing faintly from within. These were no ordinary materials. Dragon scales imbued with volcanic heat, bones tempered by the frozen peaks, crystalized hearts, and wings lined with primordial light. It was the kingdom's legacy… now in Alter's hands.
Alter approached silently, clad in his Sovereignborn armor, with Starsever slung across his back. He moved past the crates with a slow nod and extended his hand. A deep pull of energy surged through the air as each container collapsed into pure matter and was absorbed into his dimensional storage—vanishing with pulses of golden light.
Draven Stryvalis, still clad in obsidian-scaled armor, gave a respectful bow. "All secured, my lord."
"Thank you," Alter said. His voice was steady. Too steady. "Please… thank the king for honoring my request."
Draven studied him for a moment—those golden dragon eyes dimmed behind memory. "He understands. And so do we." Then, without another word, the captain turned and marched off with his escorts.
The plaza emptied. Only silence remained.
Alter exhaled. A long, dragging breath. Then his hand drifted toward a small silver chain around his neck. At its end was an ancient amulet, barely glowing—a relic untouched by time.
The Still World Amulet.
His fingers tightened around it.
"…It's been a long time, old friend."
The world shifted.
In a blink, everything changed.
He stood within the Still World.
A plane frozen in timeless serenity—built from memory and emotion. The wind didn't move. The grass didn't sway. The sun never changed position. It was the same as he left it. His home, nestled between hills and forest. The stone forge, the cottage with the carved dragon archway. The herb garden still in bloom. The wooden bench beneath the twin blossom trees.
Unchanged.
Unyielding.
Unforgiving.
He walked forward, boots crunching softly on the gravel path. Each step weighed more than the last. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was empty. And as he stepped past the flower beds, the shadows of memory began to stir.
Lira's laughter echoed faintly by the garden.
He glanced to the left.
A younger Lira sat on a stump, robes folded neatly, a book hovering beside her, giggling as she tried to balance a floating rune in her palm. She looked at him—smiled.
It faded.
He clenched his fists and kept walking.
The porch creaked under his weight. He opened the door.
Inside, everything was perfect. The living room, with its fireless hearth. The shelf of rare spell tomes she collected. His tools hung neatly on the wall above a forge blueprinted in divine patterns. The dinner table still had two cups—never cleaned. Preserved by time. By intention.
More echoes flickered in the corners of the room.
Him holding her hand as they discussed mana resonance over tea. Her playful nudge as he teased her focus. The quiet moments. The warm ones. The real ones.
He moved through the hall, down to the end.
He stood before the bedroom door.
Alter hesitated.
Even prepared, the weight was unbearable. His hand trembled as it reached for the doorknob. Slowly, the door creaked open.
And the pain came rushing in.
The room was untouched. The sheets still slightly curled. A faint scent lingered—familiar, beloved, cruel. The aura of that night, burned into the walls. The bonding. The warmth. The promise.
And the consequence.
He fell to his knees, fists clenched at his sides as tears broke from his eyes—silent at first, then shaking. He bit down on his lip, blood drawing at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't stop.
"…Lira," he whispered. "Miss you."
There was no answer. Only silence. Only the hum of a love that lingered, just out of reach.
Time passed.
How long? Hours? Minutes? Impossible to tell in the Still World.
Now outside.
He sat on the bench beneath the twin blossoms. His hands covered his face, breath shallow, body still trembling. Around him, the memories kept flickering—her smile, her voice, her warmth.
He dragged his hands down and looked up at the sky—unchanged, always blue.
His voice was cracked, almost feral.
"…Val'zaruun."
The name echoed like thunder in a world without sound.
He stood.
Eyes bloodshot but burning with resolve.
He walked to the forge beside the house—his sanctuary.
The moment he stepped in, his demeanor changed. No more tears. No more echoes. Only fire.
With a wave of his hand, hundreds of materials materialized from his dimensional storage—glimmering dragon scale composites, crystalline fangs, molten essence orbs, raw soulforged steel, and rare god-thread runes. They floated around him in perfect formation.
His hands moved.
One item at a time.
He selected core metals and began with the base frames. He etched runes directly into the alloys before they cooled. Dragon script, divine script, memory script. Each piece layered in resistance, responsiveness, identity.
Next came enchantments—lightning, flame, frost, wind, shadow, crystal. Layered with mana pulses attuned to Dragoon markers. Custom-bound by type, role, aura signature. Adaptive resonance fields followed.
Then augmentation slots—precisely socketed.
Then attunement coating—imbued from scaled blood signatures he had claimed.
Then divine threading—fortified with internal soulbind channels.
Then sacred forging compression—timed within the Still World's dimensional stasis fields.
Every profession, every trade, every ancient craft he had mastered across his lifetime was summoned into each motion. The forge blazed without heat, the tools moved without noise, the runes glowed without flicker.
This was not smithing.
This was resurrection.
Of will.
Of purpose.
Of vengeance.
Of future.
And as the first of the Dragoon armaments began to take shape—shimmering with mythic light, bearing the echo of draconic resonance—Alter did not look up. His expression was hardened, relentless.
His war had begun anew.
The forge hummed.
Not with sound, but with presence—a low, vibrating aura that thickened the very air. Golden etchings pulsed in rhythm across the floor, and the anvil glowed faintly beneath Alter's hand.
The first weapon was already formed.
A long sword, azure-hued, catching the soft blue of the forge flames. Its shape mirrored Starsever, his own blade of celestial power—sleek, precise, forged for speed and divine precision. But unlike Starsever, this weapon carried a fainter resonance. Its strikes would ripple space, but not tear it. Its light would shimmer, but not fracture realms.
Still, it was divine-tier—by all mortal and most divine standards, a masterpiece.
He held the sword up. The runes across the fuller glowed. It pulsed once, and the flames in the forge bowed slightly inward.
"Satisfactory," Alter muttered, rotating the blade once before embedding it in the floating weapon rack beside him. "Next."
What followed was meticulous.
He conjured the base materials with a sweep of his hand—liquid dragonsteel, fragments of Ignivar's scale, threads of celestial silk, spectral bone lining, and essence-imbued platinum.
The armor was not a replica.
It was a recreation.
A perfect echo of his own Sovereignborn Draconic Plate.
Each piece was shaped by memory and reforged through divine comprehension.
The chestplate—silver-blue, layered in concentric patterns like dragonhide—bore the same angular elegance as his own. The pauldrons swept out into folded wing motifs, not just decorative but aerodynamically sound for glide-assisted combat. The hip mantle flared like unfurled wings, wrapped with stabilizing runic seams. The gauntlets were grooved and pressure-bound for combat flexibility.
He affixed the mounting mechanism to the rear backplate—exact measurements. Precisely one foot apart. Able to magnetically sheath the long sword instantly in combat.
The helmet came last.
Silver, twin horns sweeping back from the jawline and angling skyward. Just like his. The retractable faceplate mechanism was flawlessly installed, allowing for full visibility in passive state and full enclosure in battle mode.
But Alter wasn't finished.
He extended his hand and summoned a fist-sized crystal—clear as ice, shimmering faintly with internal pulses of golden blue.
A Resonating Crystal.
He embedded it directly into the center of the chestplate, above the heart, etching a circle of runes around it in dragonic script.
Then—he breathed into it. Not air, but his aura. A blend of sovereign presence, divine synchronization, and command resonance. The crystal pulsed… then echoed.
The effect was staggering.
Within seconds, the sword at the rack pulsed in response. Then the chestplate. Then the pauldrons. Every piece of the armor lit in sequence.
And then the armor… glowed.
Not just with magic. With awareness.
As if it knew it had been born.
As if it recognized its purpose.
Alter stepped back, observing every rune flickering to life—each inscribed not only for protection, but for unity. The core of the armor—the Resonating Crystal—was the key.
He recorded the effect in a mental node.
[Resonating Crystal Effect]
– If two crystals are within 500 meters, both users gain +50% combat amplification.
– Each additional nearby crystal stacks multiplicatively.
– Maximum potential: 300 active resonances.
He imagined it—three hundred Dragoons, charging as one. Every breath in sync. Every strike amplified. The resonance would ripple across the battlefield like a storm of unity—linking their minds, their power, their will to fight.
A shared purpose made manifest through armor.
He exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow.
He checked the result.
Divine Tier – Verified.
Artifact-Tier Effects – Confirmed.
That surprised even him.
He'd created a divine-grade armor set—but its unified resonance, real-time augmentation, and spatially reactive rune systems placed it at the cusp of artifact-tier creation. The Still World had elevated his work beyond ordinary logic.
He stepped back from the armor, gaze lingering on the final rune—etched at the collar, hidden beneath the outer plating:
"To stand beside a god is to become more than mortal."
He didn't smile.
He didn't cry.
He only sat down—exhausted, chest heaving. His vision blurred slightly. Time moved strangely here, but the burn in his arms and mind reminded him he'd pushed past mortal limits.
A quick glance at the dimensional clock.
Elapsed Time: 4.2 Days.
"…Just for one set," he muttered, rubbing his temple.
This would take a while.
But he would finish it.
One sword. One armor. One Dragoon at a time.
He stood again, muscles aching but resolve unwavering.
In the Still World, time was his to command.
He would forge them all.
The sun hung high over the Dragoon training fields, its golden rays stretching long shadows across the grounds as wind rustled over scorched earth and stomped grass. Sword marks and elemental burns still marred the terrain from days of rigorous drilling.
Midday.
And then… a ripple.
A soft fluctuation in the surrounding air.
Alter emerged.
He stepped onto the field, quiet but undeniable. His silver-blue armor bore fine soot at the edges, his once-flawless gauntlets darkened by countless hours of labor. His movements were slower than usual—not from weakness, but from pure exhaustion. Deep lines etched beneath his golden eyes, and the aura around him, while stable, pulsed like the echo of thunder after a long storm.
Every Dragoon on the field stopped.
Weapons lowered. Footsteps stilled.
They turned to face the Sovereign of their order.
Even Soryn, standing with folded arms at the instructor's line, stepped forward with a furrowed brow. "Alter… you're back. You look like you've walked through all nine hells."
Alter gave a tired smile, his voice hoarse. "I have. I crafted a thousand blades inside the silence. Rest would be wise… but I couldn't wait."
He scanned the field. "How's their progress?"
Soryn nodded, stepping beside him. "More than I hoped."
He began to summarize. "During your absence, the Dragoons completed their foundational training. They've fully mastered the Elemental Runic Marker Combat System. Every squad can place and detonate markers in motion without delay."
Alter raised a brow, impressed.
"And?" he asked.
Soryn's voice took a solemn pride. "They've finished learning the Demon God Killing Martial Arts. All eighteen strikes. Execution still varies in precision, but even the final chain—Creator's Banishment—is being attempted by the top squads."
A flicker of emotion passed through Alter's eyes.
"And the Divine Heavenly Sword Style?"
"Still… just out of reach," Soryn admitted. "They grasp the principles. But your blade style demands more than strength or repetition. It asks for balance. The soul, the will, the blade—all must breathe in unison."
Alter nodded slowly.
"…That's beyond expectations."
He took a deep breath, then raised his voice.
"Dragoons! Cease training and assemble!"
The field came alive with motion. Dozens of squads sprinted into formation, boots stomping in perfect rhythm. Three hundred elite stood in seamless rows, blades sheathed, breathing held.
Alter's presence seemed larger now. More than sovereign. A returner from time's forge.
He stepped forward, voice calm but resonant.
"While I was gone, I watched through the Still World. Time flowed differently for me, but I felt every moment you endured. I tasked you with walking my path. With mastering what others said was impossible."
His eyes scanned the crowd.
"And you did more than endure. You evolved."
From behind him, six figures stepped forward—his personal disciples.
They stood taller now. Their eyes sharper. Their presence unmatched.
Alter turned to face them.
"I chose you early on. Not for your power… but for your potential."
He looked into each of their eyes, then gestured, and with a flick of his hand, six massive weapon crates and armor cases materialized in the air—floating like relics descending from the heavens.
"Today, you are no longer just Dragoons. You are Vanguard Sovereigns of this force."
Each armor set shimmered with the same draconic elegance as his own—silver-plated, celestial-sculpted—but with one key distinction:
Color.
One bore the fiery crimson of the Pyreborn Aspect.
Another shone with deep azure, resonating with the Stormcoil Aspect.
A third glowed faintly with emerald mist, the Windborne affinity etched along its seams.
The fourth carried the obsidian frost of the Icebound sanctum.
The fifth glimmered with golden crystal—Light.
And the last… flickered with iridescent shadow and void, representing Chaos.
Each long sword mirrored Starsever's design, albeit slightly less devastating—yet still divine-tier. Runes shimmered. The hilts pulsed with embedded resonance.
The crowd stared in awe.
Jealousy.
Wonder.
Doubt.
Hope.
Alter turned toward the gathered ranks and chuckled lightly.
"Don't worry," he said with a smirk.
He raised a hand—and the dimensional rift behind him exploded with light.
Dozens of armor and sword sets appeared in suspended air—glimmering, divine-tier, untouched. Each set radiated a subtle pulse… as if waiting for its wielder.
"I said I would forge a legacy. I meant all of you."
He stepped forward to the first Dragoon in line.
The recruit stiffened, trembling as Alter held out a sword and armor set—identical to the original but colored with a unique skyborne gray-blue, signifying the balance of elements.
Alter placed it gently into his arms. "Wear it with pride."
The recruit said nothing—his mouth agape, tears threatening to form.
Then Alter moved to the next.
And the next.
Each armor set bore slight color variations—a flicker of flame, a streak of lightning, an icy tint, an earthbound tone—signifying latent affinity. It wasn't just equipment. It was identity.
Row after row, Alter handed them out himself.
He made eye contact with every Dragoon.
He smiled at the stunned, encouraged the shy, and patted the shoulders of the shaken.
But as he neared the final rows, the atmosphere shifted.
Whispers in the back.
"…There's not enough."
"Did we train hard enough?"
"Maybe I didn't stand out…"
Doubt crept in.
Until Alter reached the last row.
And then—he smiled.
From his dimensional space, he summoned the final set—one with a unique pale violet sheen, glimmering softly under the sun.
He placed it into the final recruit's arms, looking him straight in the eye.
"You earned this," he said. "All of you did."
The Dragoon blinked—and then let out a shaky exhale, gripping the armor with both hands like it was a holy artifact.
Alter stepped back.
"I want you all to go and put them on. Meet me back here in ten minutes."
The field exploded with movement—this time, with eagerness. Not a single soldier hesitated. Cheers, gasps, even tears filled the air as squads ran off toward the dressing chambers, armor in hand, blades cradled like heirlooms.
Alter watched them disappear.
Exhausted.
But fulfilled.
His eyes softened.
"…Worth it."
Inside the Dragoon barracks, chaos had never looked so majestic.
Armor sets lay opened across every table, bench, and training chest in sight. Dozens of Dragoons were scattered in organized disorder—half-dressed, half-panicking, all overwhelmed by what they now held in their hands: Divine-tier Draconic Equipment, freshly gifted by the Sovereign himself.
To the untrained eye, it looked like military discipline had collapsed. But to anyone paying closer attention—it was the exact opposite.
This was reverence in its most chaotic form.
Talia Fenreith spun in circles near a mirror, breastplate held backward in her arms. "Okay but why does it feel like I'm wrestling a metal dragon that wants to punch me in the ribs?!"
"You're holding it backwards," Rhed Velgroth grunted from a nearby bench, already halfway into his own armor. "The dragon wings are supposed to wrap outward, not crush your lungs!"
"They look the same from both sides!"
"Only to you!"
Jaris Tenvahl sat cross-legged in the corner, carefully applying one of the enchanted gauntlets, whispering, "Runes aligned with pressure nodes… resonance feels flawless. Hm. Just the right degree of mana flow through the frame."
Beside him, Elira Mistshade tried to lower the helmet over her head, only to immediately yank it back off. "Okay. This helmet just made a hissing noise and tried to bite my hair."
"It's a retractable combat mask, not a fashion statement," Selin Varrow said softly, already fully suited and inspecting the mount-lock system behind her back.
Elira eyed her sideways. "Yeah? Then why did it growl at me when I looked in the mirror?"
"It didn't growl," Selin replied without blinking. "That was you."
Further down the room, Vellmar Dreadmoor stomped across the floor like a plated juggernaut.
"I FEEL LIKE A THUNDER LIZARD IN A MEAT SHELL," he bellowed, laughing proudly. "THIS IS AMAZING."
"You look like a walking fortress that forgot leg day," someone muttered from behind.
Vellmar turned. "WHO SAID THAT?!"
From the back corner, a recruit was hyperventilating while holding his chestplate two inches above his head, unsure how to align the internal resonance lines.
"Do I push my aura into it? Or breathe into it? What if it explodes?!"
Talia zipped past, still spinning in half-armor. "If you explode, call it art!"
Meanwhile, a group near the far wall stared at their helmets like they were cursed relics.
"So... we just put them on and they lock?" one asked.
"You have to tilt your head forward slightly, let the inner runes read your bone structure, then press inward on both jawline curves," another said, reading the manual like a sacred text.
"What if it closes on my nose?"
"You don't need your nose."
"Speak for yourself!"
Suddenly—clack!
One helmet snapped shut with a crisp metallic sound and hissed with a flash of energy.
"…Okay that was awesome," someone whispered.
"I felt like a dragon blinked over my eyes," another said in awe.
"Yeah but how do I open it again?! I can't see! Guys? GUYS?!"
From the side, a row of fully armored disciples stood quietly, already shimmering in their aspect colors, watching the others with the patience of saints. Each of them had been the first to test their gear hours ago.
Soryn stood beside them, arms folded, smirking.
"They'll get it," he murmured. "Eventually."
Back in the main room, Rhed struck a pose with his newly fastened armor and sword across his back. "Alright. Do I look like death incarnate, or is it just the lighting?"
"You look like someone who's about to fall over backward," Selin replied dryly.
And sure enough—he did.
CRASH.
"...I'm fine."
Laughter erupted across the barracks.
But despite the chaos, the stumbles, and the semi-panicked murmuring about runes and resonance frequencies—something was changing in the air.
The armor, now properly aligned, was beginning to sync with their auras.
Each plate began to hum softly.
Each crystal, embedded in the chest, began to glow faintly—resonating with others in the room. Sparks flickered across shoulders. Swords hummed with mutual presence. Hearts began to race with growing anticipation.
One by one, the recruits adjusted.
The armor no longer resisted them.
It accepted them.
And as the last few clamped their helms into place and stood tall, the room grew quieter.
Every Dragoon—now shining in their custom divine armor—looked around at their comrades.
They saw not chaos.
Not confusion.
They saw reflection.
Each other.
United.
Armed.
And ready.
Outside, the training field awaited.
And the Sovereign was watching.
The skies above the Dragoon training grounds shimmered.
Rows upon rows of armored warriors stood in perfect formation—three hundred strong, arrayed like a legion of celestial juggernauts. Their newly donned armor caught the midday sun in cascading brilliance, colored by aspect: crimson, azure, emerald, obsidian, gold, and violet hues danced across the mirrored rows like banners of war.
But what caught the eye most… was the aura.
From each warrior, a plume of spiritual pressure lifted into the sky—visible, living energy that rose in a spiral of synchronized flow. Each stream of aura carried its wielder's intent, harmonizing with those beside them. As the Resonating Crystals in their chestplates activated in proximity, a tremor pulsed through the field.
Above, the very clouds shimmered—nudged by the invisible weight of united power.
From the raised obsidian platform overlooking the field, Alter stood tall despite the weariness in his posture. Beside him, Soryn Vael'Zarion crossed his arms, face calm but pride gleaming in his eyes.
The two watched the display.
"...Magnificent," Alter said quietly.
"It's like watching dragons hatch from steel," Soryn replied.
Then, Alter took a step forward. His voice, though tired, rang with clarity.
"This… is the first step of our unity."
The auras surged slightly in response, as if the armor itself heard him.
"You have each earned your place in this formation—not just with effort, but with growth. From this day on, your strength no longer belongs to you alone. It belongs to each other."
He let that linger.
"Training will resume. But not tomorrow."
There was a brief pause—some of the recruits blinked in surprise.
"You may rest," Alter declared. "Regroup, recover, and adapt. In two days, we begin again—this time, with your new armor. Dismissed."
As if one, the three hundred armored Dragoons saluted and bowed—then turned and departed with military precision.
Their footsteps were heavier now—but not from burden. From purpose.
As the final squad exited the field, Alter's tone shifted.
"Disciples. Stay."
The six personal disciples halted and turned back.
They stood with confident posture, blades mounted across their backs, each glowing with resonance.
Alter raised an eyebrow. "Well? Why were you all late?"
Vellmar rubbed the back of his neck. "It… took a while."
Talia sighed dramatically. "You made armor designed by a celestial forge god and expected us to know how to put it on?"
"I thought it was intuitive," Alter muttered, genuinely confused.
Selin, ever silent, just gave him a flat look.
Jaris cleared his throat. "The precision of the rune placements was incredible, but also confusing. Several of the activation glyphs had to be aligned manually."
Elira chimed in. "My helmet hissed at me."
Soryn raised an eyebrow and turned toward Alter. "...You didn't install the auto-equip function, did you?"
Alter blinked. Then his mouth opened slowly in dawning horror.
His eyes widened.
He slowly lifted one hand…
…and slapped his forehead.
"I did install it," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "I just… forgot to give you the chant to activate it."
A long pause.
Black lines metaphorically ran down the disciples' faces.
Vellmar dropped to one knee. "I spent forty minutes suplexing my greaves into place…"
Soryn placed a firm hand on Alter's shoulder, deadpan. "Go rest, forge master. Before your brain melts."
Alter gave a defeated sigh, his entire aura slouching. "You're right…"
He began turning away, then paused.
"Oh—before I forget."
He waved one hand—and six glowing glyphs projected midair in front of the disciples.
Auto-Equip Activation Chant:
"Draconic Sync – Equip!"
Armor Recall Command:
"Vanishing Sheath."
Emergency Eject Phrase:
"Divine Unbind – Full Release."
Power Reserve Trigger:
"Ignition Surge – Aspect Prime."
Then…
He glanced over his shoulder. "Also… the Resonating Crystals you're all wearing in your chestplate…"
They blinked.
"Yes?" Jaris asked.
"You've… felt the effect, right?" Alter said.
Silence.
Blank stares.
Alter's eyebrow twitched. "You didn't notice the +50% combat resonance boost from standing near each other?"
Elira raised a finger. "...Is that what that warm, tingly rush was?"
Talia shouted, "I THOUGHT I WAS HAVING AN EMOTIONAL MOMENT!"
Soryn massaged the bridge of his nose.
Alter, swaying slightly, sighed so deeply it echoed across the platform.
"Just… experiment with it. You'll see for yourselves."
And then, without another word, he tapped the Still World Amulet hanging from his neck—and vanished in a shimmer of golden dust.
Gone.
Silence followed.
Soryn glanced back at the disciples.
"…Alright," he muttered. "Let's not tell the recruits they could've equipped everything in three seconds."
Everyone slowly nodded in guilty agreement.
Sunlight danced lazily over the Dragoon camp. For the first time in weeks, the clang of blades was replaced with soft laughter, the thunder of training replaced by sizzling skewers and the hum of relaxed voices. Across the grounds, bonfires burned gently, logs arranged into makeshift lounges where armor-clad warriors finally removed their gauntlets and let their hair fall loose.
It was rest day.
And the Dragoons were glorious in their unproductivity.
Some lounged near shallow springs, dipping sore feet in the water. Others lay in the grass with half-eaten fruit and armor pieces used as drink trays. A few had organized an "armor-off" contest, seeing who could fasten and unfasten their plate the fastest—manually, of course.
Near the main firepit, a large group had gathered, still buzzing about the new gear.
"I swear," a recruit groaned, "my chestplate refused to latch unless I was doing squats. I don't know if it wanted submission or sacrifice."
Another scoffed, swirling his drink. "At least yours didn't suction cup itself to your back mid-spin. I thought I'd never breathe again."
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
"Hey, mine kept whispering something in draconic when I tried to wear it inside out. Was that normal?"
"I think it insulted your aura," someone muttered.
Amid the chaos, the personal disciples sat off to the side—relaxed, composed, not a scratch on their pride.
Talia stretched under a tree, sipping a fruit slush.
Elira carved small runes into the ground for entertainment, watching them spark.
Selin silently polished the edge of her sword with gloved precision.
Jaris lounged with his boots off, sipping tea like a noble scholar.
And Vellmar, proud as ever, posed by the bonfire, flexing in full armor with his greatsword mounted proudly on his back.
He turned dramatically toward the crowd. "I don't know why everyone's so worked up. I finished suiting up in, what, two seconds?"
Dozens of heads turned at once.
"…Come again?" a recruit near the front asked cautiously.
Vellmar puffed up his chest. "I mean—you all did it the long way. Manual attachment, aura syncing, all that. But the armor literally auto-equips with a chant. Alter told us the moment he handed it out."
Silence.
A stillness fell over the crowd so complete, even the fire seemed to dim.
Jaris, sipping calmly, didn't even look up. "Vellmar…"
Selin's eye twitched.
Talia's straw snapped.
Elira's rune flickered ominously.
Vellmar blinked. "What? We were all told. Alter gave us the chant—'Draconic Sync – Equip!' Worked like a charm. Literally."
A long pause.
Then—
"HE WHAT?!" a Dragoon shouted from the far side.
"You knew this—ALL ALONG?!"
"AND YOU LET US SUFFER?!"
"DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I FOUGHT WITH MY GREAVES?! I NAMED THEM."
"I THOUGHT I WAS BEING TESTED BY THE ARMOR SPIRITS!"
Voices collided into a storm of betrayed fury.
Jaris stood, brushing off his sleeves. "We had… one rule."
Elira muttered through gritted teeth. "We agreed specifically not to tell them until after they adapted."
"I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS A SECRET!" Vellmar protested, raising his hands. "I THOUGHT EVERYONE FIGURED IT OUT!"
"You absolute tower of dragon-headed muscle and no filters—!"
Rhed stormed from the back, missing a boot, shouting, "I dislocated three ribs donning the left pauldron!"
Talia screamed into the sky. "I SPENT NINETEEN MINUTES ARGUING WITH MY HELMET!"
The camp exploded into chanting.
"DRACONIC SYNC – EQUIP!!"
SNAP!
Armor clamped to bodies instantly, locking in place with a gleam of blue-silver runes.
"...It actually works," someone whispered, wide-eyed.
"IT FITS TO MY AURA."
"I FEEL LIKE A HEROIC ACTION FIGURE!"
"WHO NEEDS STRAPS?!"
"MY BACK IS HEALED."
From every firepit, tent, log, and shadow, voices rose in outrage and wonder. The camp shifted from leisure to semi-righteous comedic mayhem.
Soryn, watching from a raised stone near the edge of the grounds, took a long sip of his tea and closed his eyes.
"…He told him not to say it," he muttered.
Back near the center, Jaris sat back down and sighed.
"We had one rule, Vellmar."
Selin nodded without a word, pulling her hood forward.
Talia narrowed her eyes. "You're giving them the next ten drills."
Elira looked amused. "Hope your vocal cords are ready."
Vellmar slumped. "...I really thought they knew."
From the Still World, Alter turned in his sleep, groaning slightly.
Then, with one tired breath, he muttered, "...I told them it was a secret…"