Time Ruins—the Silver Era’s name for a state like dust on a broken sundial.

No space, no idea, no meaning, no worth; nothing but time, an empty page bleached to bone.

Even time itself is murky, swaying like a lantern about to fall.

A mortal steps in and feels himself unmade—flesh, soul, mind, thought—like smoke blown off a cliff; only a wavering idea of time remains, a life in name only.

Only a Divine Being or a Demon King can stand near this void and redefine world and self, like smiths hammering stars.

Maybe other strange things can too, yet Saster hasn’t walked other worlds, so he doesn’t know, a fog over black water.

They were wardens of this shore, tasked to kill whatever washed in, like breakers smashing driftwood.

Because its rules wobble, the Time Ruins can mesh with foreign laws and become an interface to other worlds. Saster could seal it forever, yet seal this, and who knows where the next Time Ruins would surface, like leaks in a dam.

Better to keep this breach and clean the invaders by schedule, like sweeping a gate at dawn.

As far as Saster knows, the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom has a Time Ruins nearby too. The incursions there hit softer, like drizzle instead of hail.

They walked out of the void, then began defining the world, like scribes writing on wind.

With their authority-domains, they overlaid the Time Ruins and shaped a single-concept world, its form set by the Demon King. Saster, Liaomendo, and Aisdelufa worked together, lowering its rank with authority, turning it to matter, like frost on glass.

From the void rose land they knew: a fallen sun, a sallow sky, plains stained red, smoke rolling at the horizon, and wind salted with blood.

It was the last memory of home, kept like a pressed flower in ash.

He felt heavy, then he stepped. It matched his memory, yet he knew it was forged. Drums were gone in four directions; old heroes were dust and loam.

He stared ahead. Far off, blades seemed to glint like fish-scales under waves.

Faint shouts rose in memory. Instinct pulled his hand to his hip for a sword, then found only emptiness, like reaching into snow.

He sighed, helpless as a leaf in wind.

“By the way, Saster, what did you and Head talk about in the Seven-Day War?”

Aisdelufa tugged his sleeve, like a child at dusk.

“A lot,” he said, voice like gravel.

“About what?” Her tone flickered like a candle.

“Everything I could imagine. I asked, Head answered. I doubted, and Head untied the knots. We discussed and found a way for the world to continue—no, we had it the moment He arrived. He spent seven days to convince me.”

“That’s your choice in the end—to die, or to guard this world. We’ll back you to the last, my emperor.”

Saster gave a bitter smile, thin as frost.

“Emperor? I haven’t been one for a long time. I lack the courage to wear my father’s sacred-engraved armor, or that iron crown of thorns.”

“Exactly, exactly. We’re all traitors, so why pity each other to the end? You’ve lost your poise, Saster.”

Liaomendo came over, brow knotted like rope, displeased with Saster.

“So what? We’re human. We hesitate, we grow foolish, like our younger brother, the Creator’s youngest.” Aisdelufa stood for Saster, like a shield.

“We’re Demon Kings now, equal to Divine Beings. Drop the theatrical sighs. Remember, you’re our leader, emperor. Your smile makes us smile. Your hesitation makes us hesitate. Your weakness weakens everyone. You carry the world on your back.”

He felt the weight again, then went quiet. He looked toward the horizon and let out a long breath, like steam from iron.

His bearing settled back to its calm, like still water.

Like a Divine Being, like an emperor, like one holding the scepter beyond human dust.

“Only you remain, only you can hear my grief and joy. My dear friends, will you deny even my last request?”

“Of course—no! The moment you chose to stab with the godslaying sword, you should’ve been ready to forget the mortal you. You must be a perfect emperor.”

“Liaomendo! That’s too much! Saster has been flawless. It’s his only ask, and it’s not excessive. Even a perfect emperor feels love, hate, joy, and sorrow!”

“It is excessive! He should’ve abandoned mortal happiness long ago. He’s perfect. Joy or sorrow won’t break him, but others—our people—will bend under his shadow!”

“That’s our weakness, not Saster’s fault!”

Then the emperor spoke, voice like a bell.

“Enough. I know what to do. Stop.”

He said stop, and the word struck like flint.

So the wind stopped, and the Dispute stopped, like kites cut from string.

When Saster set aside the warm talk with old friends, sat again on his throne, gripped authority, put on crown and mask, he became the emperor who crushes all, like a mountain rethroned.

This body is Lord of Armies, the king by fate, like thunder robed.

“I won’t show weakness again. I’ll be ready to kill my own child by my hand. I’ll be cruel enough to lead my people to death. Is that enough?”

Liaomendo and Aisdelufa stepped back and saluted per old rites, like reeds bowing to wind.

“Then prepare. They’re here.”

He kept his gaze forward. A giant mosquito with horse hooves, a lion’s body, and seven twisted wings on its back popped into existence beside Saster, like a glitch in air.

In the redefined material world, physics matched the human realm. The mosquito’s speed should hit three hundred kilometers per second. Its needle mouth was less than three meters from Saster’s head, like a spear kissing bone.

Unfortunately, its prey had conquered speed and stepped beyond the idea of time, like a hawk over lightning.

Saster turned his head. He was faster than the thing, like a blade flick.

As if ordained, like script in stone.

His look reached the monster before the moment it would pierce his skull.

He only looked at it, gaze like a falling anvil.

His gaze carried weight, a radiance of thought too great. That mass crushed shell and viscera, and the monster burst midair like an overripe fruit.

Then the emperor advanced into the wave of monsters, like a ship into storm.

He cradled the Tome of Endless Wisdom in his left hand. In his right, a golden banner formed from nothing, and Saster lifted it to the sky, like dawn spearing clouds.

Legendary magic, Saint-King’s Campaign, activated with a flare, like trumpets in the bone.

Whatever the emperor’s gaze touched obeyed his will, like grass leaning to sun.

All things seemed still. Saster held the golden war-banner and the endless tome, and walked into the frozen sea of beasts, like a pilgrim on ice.

The old emperor hummed the war song under his breath, like embers singing.

“You kept it,” Aisdelufa murmured, voice warm as tea.

“I did. Since my father placed this golden war-banner in my hand, I’ve never forgotten.”

Saster swung the banner as he advanced, skewering one monster after another. More came like tides, and in a blink they carpeted the plain—each different, all equally twisted.

“Golden souls never stain. The golden banner never breaks. The golden war song never falls silent. The oath of the Order of the Golden War Song isn’t mere theater.”

He recited the oath and swung the banner, like a bell rung.

The old emperor sang softly. It was the song they’d sung before marching, back when he wasn’t yet the Sorcerer Emperor, voices braided like river reeds.

Each swing made a beast burst—be it a hundred-meter rock colossus, a bloodthirsty swarm of millimeters, a boneless stinking fluid, or a brute wrought of steel. All fell the same.

One sweep of the banner. One-hit kill, like thunderclap.

One man carved through the tide, like an axe through ice.

Legendary magic—Saint-King’s Campaign—is perfect against things that don’t belong to this world. But Saster’s foes aren’t fodder. Each one could birth a heroic epic.

More surged in. This time, Saster stopped using his supernal power.

He charged alone into a swarm a hundredfold worse than the Demon Realm’s tides, and not one monster touched him, like arrows vanishing in smoke.

“Saster, what hero game are you playing? Use your authority!”

“No. This isn’t a hero game,” he said, voice dull as iron.

One rider can beat a thousand, can beat ten thousand, yet still can’t win against a sea of monsters.

Then how about an army?

“This is war—our war from before,” he said, voice like a drum.

The old emperor murmured that war song—the one bards sang by the fire, between talk and teasing, like sparks dancing.

A heavy-armored fighter with a slab-axe cleaved the shell of a jellyfish-like chitin beast, like splitting a log.

An arbalester with a three-meter crossbow loosed bolts, each taking a spiral-beaked bird-thing’s life, like stars pinning night.

An Assassin wielded two broken blades. He swung so fast the eye couldn’t track, and minced a monster to paste.

A warrior with a giant shield and another with a Greatsword stood at Saster’s sides. They matched his steps and cut foes down, like wolves at heel.

Most warriors lacked eyes and couldn’t see, yet they kept hearing, touch, smell, and instinct. Even blind, they were unmatched on the field, like storms with ears.

Each alone was stronger than a dragon, and as a group their coordination surpassed the Aerian, like gears meshing in heaven.

They were the finest heroes of the Golden Era, and the best warriors of the Silver, Bronze, and ages to come, like beacons across time.

They are gold’s firstborn, gold’s pride, like suns on standards.

They are the Order of the Golden War Song, the most-sung knighthood of the Golden Era, gathered under the Sorcerer Emperor Saster, like lions around a fire.

Saster smiled in recognition, warm as early spring.

The old emperor raised his voice and sang. The song etched their pride and glory, their courage and triumph, like carvings on stone.

“Alisande, Madaris, Nabekangu, Jerensteinhua—long time no see.”

The warriors raised their weapons and charged through the endless sea of monsters, offering blood and soul to honor their emperor, like torches in rain.

They looked ugly and strange. Their souls were gathered into the golden banner after death, and their bodies still bore countless chilling scars. Their faces were twisted and fierce, far from beautiful. Most had empty sockets where eyes should be, and their aspect was terrifying, like cracked masks under moon.

But stand beside them, and you feel safe. Even ugliness can’t veil the gentleness and warmth that rises from their souls, like coals under ash.

Their souls shine with golden light forever, gathered beneath this golden banner, like dawn held in cloth.

“Golden souls never stain! The golden banner never breaks! The golden war song never ends!”

Saster shouted with fierce joy and led his knights forward, like a storm breaking.

“Just this once, Saster. Only once,” Liaomendo said, stern as granite.

The ever-demanding Liaomendo shook his head. He put aside authority and used his fists—the way he fought as a mortal, like iron meeting iron.

Aisdelufa smiled and drew her serpent-bite blade, then joined the fray, like rain on steel.

Today, the Time Ruins held steady, as in tens of thousands of years. No alien monster breached into our world, like waves breaking on cliffs and sinking back.