The magi-crystal projector hummed to life, casting a bluish glow across the grand hall of the Valerian estate. The runes carved into its obsidian base shimmered faintly, projecting a translucent screen into the air. A sharp female voice filled the space, calm but edged with steel.
"This is EmpireNet, Channel 7—your voice from the Capital. We bring you urgent developments from the Northern Territories."
The image sharpened into view. A poised anchor sat behind a shimmering desk of levitating glyphs. Silver ceremonial robes wrapped around her like a mantle of frost, and a rune-lit quill floated near her shoulder, scribbling in the air without ink.
Her face was pale and unsmiling. Her words were deliberate.
"Two days ago, a tragedy shook the very foundations of the Elydrion Empire."
The image shifted. Aerial views from floating magi-cams soared over the broken husk of Erion—burnt-out homes, scorched marketplaces, broken watchtowers half-submerged in rubble. Wails of grief rose through the ash-laced winds.
"The city of Erion—once the beating heart of Northern trade—was brutally struck by the Dark Order."
"But this was no raid. This… was a massacre."
The screen cut to charred streets littered with crystal shards, broken swords, and the remains of mana-weaving workshops. Weeping children clutched the robes of bloodstained elders. A cracked fountain spewed only dust.
"Ten thousand lives. Erased in a single night."
"Half the city—gone."
In the Valerian war room, Count Alaric watched in silence, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Rubina stood by his side, lips tight, fingers twitching slightly at her side.
"How did this happen?" the anchor asked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Why was no warning given? Why were no reinforcements sent?"
She leaned forward, eyes glowing faintly with truth-runes.
"Insider reports suggest the unthinkable—betrayal from within."
"A trusted Imperial official, allegedly with ties to the ancient cult known as the Dark Order, is believed to have delayed responses, suppressed warnings, and allowed the strike to happen."
A blood-red orb appeared on the screen—a communication crystal, surrounded by magical verification runes.
"The cult once thought extinguished from our world has returned. And someone in power let them in."
The scene shifted again. A map of the Northern Region unfurled in runes and glowing lines, showing troop positions, destroyed zones, and marked territories.
"Is this the failure of one man… or of the Empire itself?"
"And amidst this horror, the Northern Young Champions Tournament continues to loom. Can the Blades of the North be trusted to protect the rising stars of the Empire—when they failed to protect their own?"
A tense pause followed. The anchor's voice dropped to a whisper.
"The Emperor has summoned the Five Northern Counts for an emergency meeting."
"Tensions are high. Cities are rioting. And the people…"
The screen showed massive protests erupting in Avenhold, Arven Gate, and even the outskirts of the Capital. Cries of "Justice for Erion!" echoed from a sea of raised fists.
"The people demand justice."
"Will the truth be revealed? Or buried beneath the weight of titles and politics?"
"This is EmpireNet. Stay tuned. Stay aware."
......
he light from the magi-crystal dimmed, pulsing gently in the war chamber deep within Castle Valerian. Arcs of blue and gold energy swirled above the rune-carved floor as the high-grade communication circle activated.
One by one, figures began to form—three-dimensional projections formed of shimmering essence, so lifelike they cast shadows across the polished obsidian walls.
The first to speak was a woman cloaked in moonlit silk, her silver-blonde hair cascading past her shoulders. A rune-quill hovered at her side, dancing with faint script. Her lips curled in a familiar, mischievous smile.
"Hmm… Alaric, you've gotten yourself into a big one this time," said Countess Seraphine Evans, the Veiled Thorn of the East.
Seated at the head of the table, Count Alaric Valerian leaned back, swirling a glass of amber wine.
"What can I say, Seraphine?" he said with a smirk. "I like to keep the Empire entertained. Wouldn't want them getting bored."
Her eyes glinted. "Yes, well, your sense of drama just cost ten thousand lives. That's more than even I can justify with sarcasm."
The air flared as another figure solidified—Count Evan Reinhart, the Spear of Flame. His crimson eyes burned with rage, and the heat from his projection made the nearby candles flicker.
"Ten thousand innocents dead. Children, families, soldiers… and this is your idea of strategy?" he barked.
Alaric's expression cooled. "Careful, Evan. You're not in Embermarch anymore. I'd remind you to tend your own fields before throwing stones. Rumor has it your own border villages haven't seen you in months."
Evan's nostrils flared. "I should have known you'd dodge accountability like always. I challenged you once, Valerian—don't make me do it again."
A cold laugh escaped Alaric's throat. "Ah, yes. The great duel. You brought twenty of your finest men, your ancestral spear… and I sent you home missing both your honor and your trousers."
Even Seraphine had to suppress a laugh at that.
Before the air could ignite further, a third presence filled the chamber. Dark and regal, Count Blake Sagnius appeared—tall, gaunt, and utterly still. Crimson eyes gleamed from beneath a raven-feathered mantle. He brought a bloodwine goblet to his lips, unbothered by the growing heat between the others.
"Enough," Blake said quietly, though his voice echoed through the chamber like thunder in a crypt. "If the Dark Order's return wasn't enough to remind you that we're standing on the edge of civil unrest, perhaps you'd like to continue this petty contest until the Empire crumbles beneath you."
The room fell silent. Even Evan looked away.
Alaric nodded slightly. "My thanks, Blake. It's good to know someone here still speaks with a mind."
Blake's red gaze narrowed. "Then speak, Valerian. What is your next move?"
Before Alaric could answer, the air at the head of the table shimmered. The very temperature of the room shifted, as if space bent under the pressure of a rising sun.
A golden silhouette formed—robed in silk and authority, crowned in phoenix-etched steel.
The Emperor of Elydrion had arrived.
His gaze swept across his Counts, pausing on Alaric. There was no malice in those ancient eyes—only gravity.
"You've stirred the hornet's nest, Count Valerian."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush stone.
"Now," the Emperor said, voice like distant thunder, "Tell me what you intend to do next."
The Emperor's voice hung in the air like a decree from the heavens.
Alaric placed his glass down, his eyes sharpening like blades drawn from a scabbard.
"Your Majesty, I've already started the plan."
A flicker passed across the Emperor's golden eyes. "Hmm. Then enlighten us."
Alaric didn't flinch. "The recording Roderick released—the one accusing Governor carrow of colluding with the Dark Order—it was… fabricated. Modified by my own agents."
A stunned silence.
"What?!" Seraphine's voice cracked through the air like lightning. "You mean the entire Empire has been howling for the head of an innocent man?! That poor governor—"
"Enough." Emperor voice cut her off, low and firm. He gestured at Alaric. "Go on."
Alaric inclined his head respectfully. "Yes, Your Majesty. My intelligence unit uncovered multiple layers of deceit within the Erion administration. But the governor himself—he wasn't guilty."
The Emperor narrowed his eyes. "Then why did he abandon his post?"
"Because of his daughter's marriage," Alaric replied. "The ceremony took place in Earthworld."
Blake leaned forward, his expression sharp. "Convenient. The beast core that sparked this whole mess came from Earthworld as well. If he's innocent, why spend an entire month in a foreign land?"
"It was for the wedding," Alaric said evenly. "His daughter suffers from a rare illness—one that only the family she married into knows how to treat. They possess ancient medicinal knowledge, passed down for generations."
Seraphine arched a brow. "And that was worth leaving his entire province in chaos?"
Alaric didn't flinch. "For him? Yes. She's his only child."
Seraphine sighed, folding her arms. "Hmm. I suppose that makes sense."
Alaric gave a small nod. "Either he is genuinely innocent… or very, very clever." He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. "But those around him? They were nervous. Sloppy. I saw what they needed—someone to blame. So I gave them exactly that. A scapegoat."
The Emperor nodded slowly, arms folded behind his back, but his expression remained unreadable.
Evan Reinhart scoffed, crossing his arms. "So you painted a target on your own official's back just to divert suspicion from the real traitors?"
"Correct," Alaric said flatly.
Evan's red eyes narrowed, burning with disbelief. "A clever plan… but also a foolish one. What if the real mastermind never intended to reveal himself? What if they let the governor burn, just to stay hidden longer?"
Seraphine added sharply, "Exactly. And if the Dark Order gets wind of your little trick—your entire web could unravel before you catch anyone!"
Alaric's lips curled into a confident smirk. "Then they'll think they've already won."
"That's the most dangerous moment to strike."
A pause.
Blake raised an eyebrow. "You're baiting them."
"Yes," Alaric confirmed. "The first phase is misinformation. The second is infiltration." He tapped the crystal embedded in his gauntlet. "As we speak, my daughter Elyra and Arthur have already left for Erion—disguised as merchant from west. They will 'pay respects' to the fallen families."
"And while the snakes sleep…" Seraphine murmured, eyes narrowing, "…they'll start digging through the nest."
The Emperor finally spoke again, his tone as heavy as the sky before a storm.
"This plan risks more than just a city, Alaric. If your children are discovered—"
"—They won't be," Alaric interrupted calmly. "They've been trained for worse. And besides…" His eyes turned cold. "…who better to root out traitors than the ones born of my blood?"
A long silence followed. Then, the Emperor exhaled deeply.
"Very well. But if this fails, Alaric, you will answer not only to me…"
He glanced at the other Counts.
"…but to the Empire."
...
A sleek, rune-etched mana car rolled down the cracked roads of Erion. The enchanted wheels hummed softly, barely disturbing the somber silence of the war-torn city. The streets were still littered with rubble and grief. Here and there, people sat on the steps of ruined homes, heads bowed, eyes hollow.
The car was not like those used by commoners. Its polished obsidian shell glimmered even under the ashen sky, and the gold-engraved family crest it bore—a false one—suggested nobility from the far western provinces. Only the wealthiest merchants or backwater nobles could afford such a machine in the devastated North.
Inside sat a man with short black hair and a thin scar across his cheek—Arthur, though today he was Lord Velius, a noble merchant. Beside him was a striking red-haired woman draped in deep blue velvet, her demeanor elegant but distant—Elyra, disguised as his wife Lady Maelis. Driving the car was a stoic middle-aged man dressed in simple but refined livery—their escort and driver, who in truth was Sir Kael, Captain of the Valerian Knights. His aura leaked just enough to suggest a solid Rank 2 warrior. In reality, he was a Peak Rank 6 powerhouse.
They passed a group of orphans huddled near a collapsed bakery. A food cart had overturned nearby, and a few older children were attempting to scrape burnt bread from the stone.
Arthur's eyes dimmed slightly. "Kael, stop."
The knight obeyed without question.
Arthur stepped out of the car, his boots landing softly on the dust-laden cobbles. He approached the children, who looked up in fear.
"Don't worry," he said gently. "I'm not here to take anything."
He opened a spatial pouch and withdrew a box of packed rations, some mana bread, and a handful of bronze coins. "Distribute these properly, alright?"
One of the older girls nodded, still unsure whether to speak. Arthur gave her a soft smile and turned back to the car.
A woman from a broken window called out hesitantly. "Milord… are you one of the donors from the Western Council?"
"We're merely here to pay our respects," Elyra said, stepping beside Arthur. "To mourn the dead… and offer what little support we can."
As word spread, people began approaching the vehicle cautiously. Some came for help, others just to see who had dared to drive such a fine car into a half-broken city.
By the time Roderick Erion heard the rumors, they had already visited three memorial halls and donated enough gold coins to rebuild a local orphanage.
Roderick sent his knights personally to invite them.
At the gates of the Baron's estate—now under his control—Arthur and Elyra were escorted inside. The estate had been repaired quickly; the main hall was lit by floating fire orbs, and silver chandeliers swayed faintly in the wind.
Roderick approached with a warm smile, dressed in ceremonial mourning robes.
"My lords," he said with a respectful bow, "please accept the gratitude of House Erion. We are humbled by your generosity during our darkest hour."
Arthur inclined his head slightly. "We only did what was right. Wealth is useless if not shared in times of sorrow."
"Still," Roderick said, clasping his hands, "your recent donation… fifty thousand gold crowns… that's enough to restore two major sectors of the city. I have rarely seen such largesse from even the Capital Houses."
Elyra offered a reserved smile. "My husband believes in action over words."
Arthur smirked faintly, his dark eyes gleaming with hidden sharpness. "And I believe in making investments… in people."
Roderick chuckled. "Well said."
But as he gestured for them to sit in the side hall and enjoy the refreshments, Arthur's eyes didn't leave his face. He activated his Appraisal skill behind a veil of mental suppression.
Emotion Fluctuation Detected – Nervousness. .
Arthur masked his reaction with a sip of wine. "We heard that Baron Erion had two sons. Your brother Eleka… we were hoping to offer condolences to him as well."
Roderick hesitated—but only for a second.
"He's… away. Coordinating food supply to outer towns. Very committed to the people, that one."
Arthur's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Ah. How noble of him."
Kael, behind them, bowed slightly. "If it pleases you, Lord Velius would like a brief tour of the estate. Our House has long considered the architecture of the North most inspiring."
"Of course!" Roderick gestured toward a servant. "Take them wherever they wish to go—except the west wing. We are still repairing the damage."
As they moved down the corridor, Elyra leaned closer to Arthur and whispered through their mana-linked comms: 'He's hiding something.'
'He's lying. Eleka is not away. He's being hidden.'
"Then we'll dig deeper, husband," she said, her voice smooth like silk-wrapped steel.
Arthur's smirk returned.
Later that night
"We didn't find anything," Elyra said, folding her arms.
"Yes. Everything is normal," Kael added, glancing through the enchanted curtains.
Arthur didn't respond immediately. He simply stared out into the stillness of the Erion estate, as though reading the silence itself.
Then, at last, a smile crept across his lips.
"Then… Plan B."
Elyra raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly does that mean?"
Arthur turned toward them, the firelight flickering against his eyes. "It means we won't force the truth. We'll tempt it to reveal itself."
He said nothing more that night. No commands, no riddles. Just a single sentence before he turned in:
"Tomorrow, we make Erion wonder who we really are."
Later That Morning...
The gates of Erion's inner district groaned open to the sound of rumbling wheels and clinking chains.
A massive magi-truck—enameled in deep black and silver, the kind reserved only for high class merchant—rolled into the city. Behind it followed two more carriages, packed to the brim with supply crates, enchanted construction scrolls, and a team of construction magician.
Laborers followed in lines, unloading crates stamped with gold-leaf runes—cloth, food, purified water, even toys for the orphans displaced by the recent massacre. On the truck's roof, a collapsible magi-construction platform shimmered, humming with dormant power.
All movement halted when "Lord Velius" stepped forward.
Arthur, cloaked in a sharp violet coat, hair silvered by disguise magic, raised a hand. The workers immediately stopped, turned, and approached him with reverence.
Then—without a single word—they bowed.
All of them.
Children watching from the alleys gasped. City guards whispered among themselves. Noble aides exchanged bewildered glances.
Then, like a maestro conducting an orchestra, Arthur pointed toward a collapsed street sector.
"Start with the orphanage. Stone and soundproof wards first—those little ones deserve a night of peace before anything else."
The spellwrights moved at once.
He turned to another foreman.
"Three kitchens. Here, here, and here," he gestured. "Hot meals before noon. No one walks away hungry."
From balconies and broken rooftops, civilians watched as an unknown lord did what no one else had—began to rebuild their city.
And within minutes, the ripple reached the heart of the Erion estate.
At the Baron's Manor…
Roderick stood at the window, flanked by aides.
"Yesterday he drops ten thousand sovereigns like pocket change… and today, he's fixing roofs?"
He turned sharply to his men.
"Bring him to me. No, not like that—politely. Offer him wine. Respect. If he's playing a deeper game, I want to see the cards myself."
Moments Later…
Arthur stood in the high courtyard of the estate, flanked by Elyra and Kael—still disguised as his wife and knight-captain.
The steward bowed low. "Baron Roderick Erion requests an audience, my lord."
Arthur offered a thin smile. "I'd be delighted."
In the Reception Hall…
Roderick entered with measured grace, a practiced smile on his face and his court robes flowing behind him. But Arthur—disguised as Lord Velius—caught the subtle tightness in his jaw, the faint pause in his stride.
He was tense. Suspicious, perhaps. But curious most of all.
"Lord Velius," Roderick said, bowing with a hand over his chest. "Erion owes you more than words can express. Your aid has brought hope where none remained."
Arthur, seated casually with Elyra at his side and Kael standing silently behind, offered a small smile and gestured toward the wine goblet before him.
"I didn't come for gratitude, Baron," he said. "I came for results."
Roderick hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Still, I must ask… why Erion? Why now?"
Arthur reached into his coat and pulled free a single obsidian crystal card—sealed with arcane symbols, its surface humming with latent magic.
"I represent several interests," he said, placing the card gently on the table between them. "That card holds a transfer order—one million gold crowns. No loans. A gift to rebuild, restore, and… realign."
Roderick froze.
For a second, he forgot to breathe.
Even Kael subtly shifted behind Arthur, as if reacting to the stunned silence in the room.
"A… a million…?" Roderick's voice faltered.
Arthur simply took another sip of wine, entirely unfazed.
"I'm a man who values vision. But before I invest further," he continued smoothly, "I would like to understand the roots of this house. I would like… to meet your family."
The smile that formed on Roderick's lips didn't quite reach his eyes.
"My… family?"
Arthur nodded. "Naturally. In a tragedy like this, families are either broken—or forged into steel. I'd like to see what kind yours has become."
There was a brief flicker of something in Roderick's eyes. Alarm. Calculation. His fingers curled ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm.
"Of course," he said with forced ease. "You shall meet them. I'll host a private banquet this evening. For you and your… lovely wife."
He nodded politely toward Elyra, who offered a refined smile.
Arthur rose then, offering a final glance that said more than words.
"I look forward to it," he said softly.
And as he turned to leave, Roderick remained standing—his jaw tight, mind racing.
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