{Present}
The cavern yawned before them, a gaping maw of darkness that devoured light itself. Yet within its depths stood a structure of impossible grandeur—an obsidian castle, its spires clawing at the cavern's ceiling like the fingers of a buried titan. The stone was blacker than a starless void, polished to a sinister gleam, its walls etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, whispering secrets in a language long forgotten.
The castle's great doors stood open—an invitation or a trap. Two guards flanked the entrance, their armor forged from the same abyssal substance as the fortress. Upon their breastplates, the Mark of the Hands of the Divine shimmered in silver, a stark contrast against the consuming dark. As the pale-skinned man and the woman approached, the guards bowed, their voices a synchronized murmur.
"Lord Tenth. Lady Eleventh."
Dreco and Medusa strode past without acknowledgment, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous hall beyond. The interior was a masterpiece of dread—vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, pillars carved with scenes of forgotten horrors, and a floor so polished it reflected the torchlight like a pool of still, black water. The air hung thick with incense and something older, something hungry.
At last, they reached the heart of the fortress—a vast chamber dominated by a long, rectangular table. Thirteen chairs surrounded it: six on either side, and one at the head, looming over the rest like a throne. Each seat bore a numbered sigil, their backs adorned with intricate designs that seemed to writhe under one's gaze.
Only six were occupied.
Dreco slid into the chair marked X with the ease of a knife finding its sheath. Medusa coiled into XI, her fingers drumming a silent war rhythm on the armrests.
Then—
"Seems not everyone was deemed... worthy of invitation." The voice dripped with indifference. A man with cascading white hair lounged to Dreco's left, his single visible eye gleaming like a shard of ice as it traced the empty chairs. Even the 13th seat—the throne—yawned vacant, its presence a weight heavier than the castle itself.
"Who the fuck called this meeting, then?" The words exploded like shrapnel. A man with short, dark hair lounged in his chair like a bored predator, his boots propped on the table, his scarred arms crossed over his bare chest. He was a mountain of muscle, each scar a testament to battles fought and survived. His greatsword leaned against the wood, its notched edge still crusted with dried blood from whatever poor soul had last crossed him.
"Take your feet off the wood, Falkore," the white-haired man—White Fang—said in a neutral tone.
Falkore, the Seventh, chuckled. "Make me."
A vein throbbed at Dreco's temple. "Must you always—"
"Oi! Did I ask for your yapping, weakling?" Falkore's laughter was the sound of bones breaking. He turned back to White Fang, eyes alight with dangerous glee. "I do what I want. When I want. And not one of you spineless fucks can change that."
"IS THAT SO?"
A voice deeper than the abyss shook the castle to its foundations. Reality itself trembled as a spatial rift tore open, and from it stepped a figure—no, a presence—clad in obsidian robes darker than the void between stars. He was nothing and everything at once, the world recoiling from his mere existence. His dark skin contrasted starkly with his short, bone-white hair, his eyes twin pits of absolute stillness.
Behind him stood Saturn the Ninth—beautiful beyond reason, as if sculpted by divine hands. Silver hair, silver irises, earrings that danced with every turn of his head.
"We greet the Great Lord," the assembled figures intoned, rising in unison.
"Sit." The command left bruises on the soul.
Saturn sealed the rift with a negligent flick, taking his seat at IX as the Great Lord claimed his throne. His gaze—when it settled on Falkore—was the last thing a dying star might see.
This fool truly has a death wish, Dreco thought.
"I'm sure you wonder why only six of you were summoned," the Great Lord began.
Falkore leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like a jackal at a slaughter. "Yeah, Great Lord. I'm real curious." His tongue swiped across yellowed teeth. "Dreco and Medusa got to paint Breaking Dawn red. I want my turn."
White Fang's knuckles cracked. "You overstep—"
A raised hand. Silence fell like a guillotine.
"No." The Great Lord's fingers interlaced. "He is right." The pause that followed was a noose tightening. "He has been shackled too long."
"Burn Arachis to the ground."
The words hung in the air, thick as execution smoke.
Arachis wasn't just a random elite school; it was the pinnacle of education, known to produce some of the greatest warriors of mankind. It was a pillar of the world, and burning it to the ground would make a statement so grand the nobles wouldn't be able to bury it. The Watcher had already sown fear into the hearts of Arachis' people, and it was time to lay the blocks on the foundation already built.
Falkore grinned like a maniac, licking his teeth like a ravenous fiend. "Fucking finally!"
"It won't be easy," White Fang cautioned. "They'll expect us after Medusa's Watcher."
The Great Lord didn't blink. "Nefertiti's pawns are in position. We wait for her signal—then reduce that cesspit to cinders."
Saturn's silver eyes gleamed. "Sending all six would be... excessive."
"Three." The Great Lord raised fingers like a priest bestowing damnation. "Will suffice."
Falkore's grin turned feral. "What about that worm Duron? Let me snap his neck. Just for fun."
"You will not go to Arachis, Falkore." The Great Lord's voice was ice. "You have another task."
"WHY?!" Falkore roared, slamming his fists on the table as he surged to his feet.
"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE STANDING BEFORE."
The Great Lord's voice was a thunderclap. The island quaked. Beasts howled in terror. The very air turned to lead, crushing the room's occupants to their knees—all except Saturn, who watched, impassive.
Falkore bore the brunt. Gravity itself became his executioner. The table shattered beneath him as his bones cracked, blood spraying from his lips.
"Forgive me, Great Lord," he pled.
And then the pressure disappeared.
The robed man rose, his patience spent. "Saturn will deliver your orders. I am done here." With that, he turned, stepping into another rift that Saturn summoned with a wave.
Silence.
The tension in the room was suffocating. All eyes locked on Falkore; they were all irritated by his carefree, nonchalant attitude, and now they had all suffered for it.
Then—
"Worth it." Falkore spat a tooth onto the rubble, laughing through the blood. "Thought I'd gotten closer after getting stronger."
Dreco stared. "And?"
A crimson grin. "He's not a king. Not a god." Falkore dragged himself upright, shaking like a storm-lashed tree. "He's the dark before the fucking dawn."
Medusa moved in a blur of fury, slamming him back into the wreckage. "You suicidal maniac!"
White Fang was already at the door, his sigh carrying the weight of millennia. "I work with children."