The moment the council doors closed behind Kael, silence gripped the war chamber like a vice. All eyes were on him—some filled with hope, others with doubt. The table was circular, carved from obsidian veined with glowing sigils that pulsed gently with mana. Around it sat the most powerful representatives of the last free dominions: arcanists, generals, spiritualists, and strategists.
Kael's gaze swept across the room before he finally took his place at the head of the circle. The seat had once belonged to High Marshal Vareth—the man who led the final stand at Luminaris and paid with his life. That seat wasn't meant for someone Kael's age. And yet, here he was.
No one spoke.
Kael inhaled deeply. You've faced eldritch horrors, slaughtered demigods, broken through realms… this is just politics, he told himself, though the pit in his stomach argued otherwise.
"I assume everyone has read the latest scout reports," he began, voice steady.
Lord Harren of the Iron Fold leaned forward, his gauntleted fingers steepled. "The Citadel of Ash has moved. Again."
Kael nodded grimly. "It's not just moving. It's adapting. Our diviners believe the structure is shifting based on our positions—intelligent, maybe even semi-sentient."
A murmur of unease rippled around the table.
"So now we're fighting terrain too?" muttered Serana Dawnreach, the elven bladesinger whose entire battalion had been lost three weeks ago during a botched flank.
Kael raised a hand. "Yes. But we also found something else—something buried within the Citadel's core. A pulse."
"A what?" asked Archmage Tyrel, his white beard bristling.
Kael tapped the table. A hologram shimmered to life, projecting an ethereal waveform pulsing rhythmically. "The scouts picked this up before being overrun. It's not magic. Not entirely. It's… a resonance. I think it's a call. And I believe it's tied to the Protocol."
The mention of the Protocol sent ripples of energy across the chamber. That name had weight. It wasn't just a system now—it was prophecy, rebellion, salvation.
Tyrel narrowed his eyes. "You're saying the Ascension Protocol itself is being mimicked? Or worse, hijacked?"
Kael shook his head. "I think… it's evolving. Like me."
The words hung in the air. Kael hadn't meant to reveal it—not so soon—but there it was. Naked. Truthful.
"You've changed," murmured General Aelric, the oldest among them. "I've seen it. The way the world bends around you. Like you're no longer bound by this plane."
Kael nodded slowly. "Ever since unlocking the Seventh Tier, I've felt it. Something beyond the interface. Beyond levels and stats. A will. The Protocol is alive."
Silence.
Then, Tyrel rose to his feet. "If that is true, then the war is no longer just against the Obsidian Horde. We're battling the very framework of our existence."
Kael met his gaze. "Not necessarily. I think the Protocol is testing us. Pushing us to become more than we were. The Horde? They're the crucible."
Lady Serana folded her arms. "So we're pawns in a cosmic game."
"Not pawns," Kael said. "Candidates."
That single word shifted the mood of the room. Hope flickered where despair had nested.
"What's the plan?" Aelric asked.
Kael exhaled. "We need to reach the Citadel Core. That pulse—it's getting stronger. If I can interface with it, maybe I can rewrite its parameters. Reshape the battlefield. But I can't do it alone."
"No," Tyrel said. "You need a strike team. Handpicked. Unmatched."
Kael nodded. "And I've already chosen them."
With a gesture, the wall behind him shimmered, revealing six figures—each a legend in their own right.
Nyssa, the Shadowmancer—formerly Kael's adversary, now a reluctant ally, her blades forged from pure void.
Rokhan Stonefist—the dwarven juggernaut whose fists had shattered siege engines and whose laughter could rally broken men.
Eira Windborn—the stormcaller who once brought down a flying fortress with a single chant.
Vael—the mysterious construct-mage whose body was a fusion of enchanted steel and forgotten runes.
Kira and Luno—the twin assassins who moved like smoke and left no survivors.
Together, they were Kael's answer to the impossible.
"Why these six?" Harren asked.
Kael stepped aside, letting the holographic profiles rotate above the table.
"Because they've all broken their own limits. They've all faced death and refused to yield. And because they don't serve kingdoms or crowns—they serve the future."
A pause. Then, General Aelric nodded.
"Then let them be the tip of the spear," he said. "We'll rally our forces, draw the Horde's eyes elsewhere. Give you a window."
Kael felt a tightness in his chest begin to loosen.
"But know this," Tyrel added. "If you fail, there may be no coming back. The Core may corrupt you… or worse."
Kael smiled faintly. "Then it's a good thing I've already died once."
A ripple of quiet laughter broke the tension.
"Then let us move," Serana said. "Before fate chooses for us."
As the council disbanded and the plans were set in motion, Kael remained behind for a moment, staring at the still-glowing waveform on the table. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Not just a signal—but a synchronization.
The Protocol wasn't just a tool. It was a mirror.
And what it showed… was terrifying.
He left the chamber and made his way to the staging grounds where his team waited. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Each one understood what was at stake.
Kael looked to the sky.
The Citadel of Ash loomed in the horizon—an ever-shifting monolith of steel and shadows. A living fortress. A final test.
He drew his blade, etched now with markings that shimmered faintly—words that only the Protocol could understand.
"We end this," he said.
And they moved.