The Beast Realm was not a single world. It was a universe of its own, a sprawling galaxy teeming with life.
It held millions of planets, each one distinct.
On the outer rims, where the mana was thin and the suns were dying, the lower species fought for scraps in barren wastelands. It was a chaotic, lawless frontier.
But as you moved toward the center of the galaxy, the worlds changed.
The planets here were lush paradises, vibrant with colors human eyes couldn't perceive. Gravity was gentle, the air was sweet, and the mana flowed like rivers of light. This was the domain of the High Clans and the Celestias.
In this realm, geography was status. The stronger your bloodline, the closer you lived to the Core.
And at the very center, orbiting a star of pure golden fire, lay Draconis Prime.
It was one of the crown jewels of the Beast Realm. A planet of floating continents, waterfalls that cascaded into the sky, and mountains made of crystal that hummed with energy.
This was the home of the Draco Celestia. One of the strongest Dragon Celestial Clans.
In the highest floating palace, twelve figures knelt on a floor made of polished starlight.
They were currently in humanoid forms—sculpted perfection, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Their armor was woven from the scales of conquered stars. But the shadows they cast were not human. They were vast, winged, and monstrous.
They were the Twelve Heirs of the Draco Celestia.
Above them, seated on a throne carved from a single piece of sun-stone, sat their King.
He was massive. Even in his humanoid form, he radiated a pressure that made the air shimmer. His eyes were vertical slits of burning gold.
"One million years," the King rumbled. His voice didn't just fill the room; it resonated in their bones.
The Heirs lowered their heads.
"That is how long the title of 'Beast God' has slipped through our claws," the King continued, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "For a million years, we have watched lesser beasts—the Phoenixes, the White Tigers, the Void Turtles—sit on our throne."
He stood up. The heat in the room spiked.
"The Great Cycle is turning. The Tournament will begin in three years. The pathways between realms will open."
He looked down at his children, his gaze heavy.
"This time, we do not settle for second place. Go. Prepare. Claim the resources of the colony worlds. Feast on the cores of the outer planets. Do whatever you must to sharpen your fangs."
The room was silent for a heartbeat. Then, a deep, grinding voice broke the protocol.
"Do we truly need three years, Father?"
It was the First Heir.
He was a mountain of a man, kneeling at the front right. His armor was forged from the crust of a dead red dwarf star, glowing with dull, rhythmic heat. His skin was the color of charcoal, and veins of liquid magma pulsed beneath the surface of his neck.
He didn't lift his head, but his voice carried the arrogance of the strongest.
"The White Tigers have grown fat and lazy. The Void Turtles hide in their shells. I could crush their champions today with one hand."
A scoff came from the left.
"And that is why you would fail, brother."
This was the Second Heir.
He was the polar opposite of the First. Slender, elegant, and sharp. His skin was pale blue, translucent like glacial ice, and his armor was made of shifting, whispering wind currents. His eyes weren't burning suns; they were cold, calculating nebulas.
"We shouldn't care about the other beasts," the Second Heir said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "Our spies report a few of the Dragon Celestial Clan have formed an alliance with the Mythical Beast Clans. If we charge in blindly, as you suggest, we will be flanked before the first bell rings."
The First Heir growled, the temperature in the room spiking. "I do not need alliances. I am a Draco. I burn what stands before me."
"You burn energy," the Second countered calmly. "I prefer to burn my enemies."
"Enough," the King said.
He didn't shout. He didn't have to. The single word slammed into them like a physical weight, forcing the First Heir's magma to dim and the Second Heir's wind to settle.
"Arrogance is a slow death," the King rumbled, looking at his eldest son. "And caution," he shifted his gaze to the second, "can look like cowardice."
He leaned back on the throne.
"I do not care about your methods. I care about the Crown. Now, go."
"As you command, High Father," the twelve voices chanted in unison.
Before they could rise, the heavy golden doors at the end of the hall groaned open.
A figure entered.
He was dressed in the formal ceremonial armor of the Celestial Guardians, the King's personal elite. He didn't walk; he moved with the fluid, deadly grace of a predator.
He stopped fifty steps from the throne and dropped to one knee, pressing a fist to his chest.
"My King."
The King frowned, the air around him crackling. "Speak, Guardian. Make sure it is important. You've interrupted the Royal Council."
"I bring urgent news from the Shadow Scouts, Sire," the Guardian said, his head bowed low. "They have returned from the chaotic fringes of the void."
The room went silent. The Shadow Scouts were the only ones capable of crossing the deep emptiness between universes.
"Report," the King ordered.
"We have found him," the Guardian said quietly. "The new Candidate. The one carrying the legacy of the Human Emperor."
The silence shattered.
The King's eyes flared brighter than the sun outside. A low growl started in his chest, shaking the floating palace.
"Found him?" the King hissed. "After all these centuries. Where?"
The Guardian hesitated for a fraction of a second, then spoke clearly.
"He is on a small, isolated planet in the lower realm. The locals call it Earth."
"Earth," the King repeated, tasting the word. "Is it exposed? Can we send a legion?"
"Regrettably, no, Sire," the Guardian said. "The planet lies within The Line."
The King slammed his fist onto the armrest of his throne.
BOOM.
A shockwave rippled out, cracking the crystal floor.
"That cursed barrier!" the King roared. "It had been a million years and the power… We cannot physically enter without burning our souls to ash."
"Indeed, Sire," the Guardian agreed quickly. "Our scouts, they only managed to get a glimpse because they followed a stream of Chaos that leaked through the barrier. They can monitor him from the shadow, but they cannot interfere."
While the King raged, a subtle ripple went through the line of kneeling heirs.
The Seventh Heir.
She was stunning—a creature of cold, breathtaking beauty with hair like liquid moonlight and eyes the color of deep emeralds.
When the Guardian said the word Earth, her primary heart missed a beat.
She kept her face like stone, staring at the polished floor, but her mind was spinning.
Earth?
A memory tried to surface—something warm, something fragile she had thought was lost in the void long ago.
Does it mean…?
Her hands clenched slightly, her nails digging into her palms.
He is there.
She felt a rush of terrified hope. But she locked it down instantly. If the King saw her reaction, if he sensed her connection to that forbidden place, she would be executed before she could stand up.
The King paced back and forth, his anger cooling into cold calculation.
"Monitor him," the King commanded, his voice echoing like doom. "Let the shadows watch his every breath. If he finds a way to step one foot outside The Line… kill him."