The capital of the Central Empire, Zangwill.
Wail III walked alone through the imperial palace, unaccompanied by maids or guards. Though past fifty, his steps remained steady, his bearing regal. Sharp glints occasionally flashed in his eyes—keen as a hawk’s.
This corner of the palace saw few visitors. Tall walls blocked the sunlight, and an eerie chill wind swept through, lending the place an abandoned, haunted air. Yet here walked the emperor, revered by millions across the Central Empire, heading deeper into the shadows.
After descending a flight of stairs and turning several corners, the space abruptly opened up. A secret water dungeon lay before Wail III.
A bare-chested man with a powerfully built frame hung chained to the wall, iron links binding his wrists and ankles. His head drooped low, tangled black hair—long neglected—veiling half his face. His exposed body was a tapestry of scars: old wounds layered upon fresh ones, countless and overlapping.
Behind him, runes carved into the stone wall formed a massive, unsettling pattern. In the dungeon’s gloom, they pulsed with a faint luminescence. Any mage well-versed in arrays would recognize this as a suppression circle—one designed to crush the magic, mind, and strength of whatever lay trapped within. Unlike ordinary arrays, this one targeted not sentient beings, but colossal, destructive beasts. Most intelligent creatures would shatter under its weight: minds broken at best, bodies exploding at worst.
The man within the array lay utterly still, seemingly unaware of Wail III’s arrival—or perhaps already dead.
Wail III stood far back at the dungeon entrance, watching the lifeless figure. A flicker of wariness crossed his eyes. After a long pause, his voice cut through the silence, deep and cold: "Still refusing to wake, Maelon?"
No answer came. Only silence.
Unfazed by the lack of reply, Wail III’s lips curled into a serpentine smirk—an expression utterly at odds with his noble features. "No matter. You’ll be eager to wake soon enough."
"Your meal is nearly ready. But first, you’ll need to sharpen those teeth of yours."
A figure cloaked head-to-toe in black materialized soundlessly behind Wail III like a shadow, head bowed low.
"Activate the second-tier enhancement array," Wail III commanded, his voice devoid of warmth—sharp as a blade.
The cloaked figure nodded, raising a hand toward the chained man. The runes behind him flared to life. Crimson light crawled across each symbol, twisting and reshaping until a new array blazed into existence.
The moment it formed, the man’s body jerked violently. A beastly roar tore from his throat. He threw his head back, straining against the chains, his face contorted in agony. The iron links groaned under the strain, making one wonder if the thick, arm-sized chains would snap beneath the fury of this caged beast.
Instead of recoiling, Wail III threw his head back and laughed—a mad, echoing cackle. His laughter tangled with the man’s roars, bouncing off the dungeon walls like demonic whispers from hell itself. Chilling.
...
As dusk deepened, the caravan finally emerged from the mountains. An endless plain stretched before them, vanishing into the horizon. Neat rows of wheat fields blanketed the land, and nestled among them glowed a small, bustling town.
Magestown—the famed adventurer’s haven. Perched at the crossroads of the Central Plains and the Cursed Dragon Gorge, it served as a vital hub for supplies and travelers. Though remote, its strategic position lent it an unusual vibrancy.
Magestown boasted countless taverns, built expressly for the mercenaries and adventurers who gathered here. Before venturing into the Cursed Dragon Gorge, most stopped for a drink—no one could be certain they’d return alive. Those who made it back invariably drowned their relief in a night of drunken revelry. For this reason, the town blazed with light even deep into the night.
Seeing the twinkling lights of the town, many humans in the caravan cheered. They immediately began inviting their non-human companions to join them for drinks. Swept up in the mood, even the usually reserved orcs cast aside racial barriers, roaring with laughter as they clapped human warriors on the back, vowing to drink until dawn.
Other races, though less boisterous, accepted the invitations with warm smiles.
Grace watched her companions eagerly rallying friends, a soft smile touching her own lips. She could hold her liquor, but disliked it—it dulled her will, hindered her training.
Her swordmaster had taught her: a true swordsman draws steel only with unwavering focus and a calm mind. Sword intent wasn’t just about the blade; it lived in the *will* behind it.
*But tonight… just this once… Master would forgive me, wouldn’t he?*
As she raised her hand to join the invitation, a faint sound drifted from the carriage behind her.
Grace lowered her hand, turning toward the vehicle. She remembered—it was the Elvenkind’s carriage. Inside should be…
A memory flashed: that girl cradled by the Elven King days ago, her face half-hidden by long black hair. She hadn’t been seen since. This morning, Loran—the captain of the guard—had borrowed food from them. For her, likely.
Rumors said the Elven King had spent the entire night inside that very carriage… enough to frighten his own guard captain.
*The girl "hatched" from Adonis’s egg?* Curiosity piqued, Grace crept silently toward the carriage, straining to listen.
"Bad man!"
Grace froze. That petulant, pouting voice…
"Bad man! Won’t let me out! Locking me up… Don’t think you can do whatever you want just because you have Xiaoqing’s face! Jerk!"
Who was she scolding? The Elven King? He’d placed her in that carriage. But the tone… it lacked venom. It sounded almost like playful banter between lovers.
*Lovers? Her and the Elven King? Two women?*
A strange pang of unfairness struck Grace. *We all fought the black dragon together. We all witnessed her birth from its egg. What right does he have to claim her alone?*
Unaware her thoughts had veered into strange territory, Grace’s hand reached unconsciously for the carriage door. An overwhelming urge seized her—to see the face behind that voice, the girl whose mere words made her heart race with inexplicable longing.
*What kind of girl could stir such curiosity with just her voice?*
Lost in this haze, Grace pushed the door open. A sliver of light spilled out. She leaned in, peering through the crack…
Just then—
"Human. You’ve overstepped."
