The five years of silence had not been wasted. While the world trembled beneath his shadow, Aezreal's cultivation surged to heights that brushed the edges of myth. Tribulation lightning had scarred his flesh and remade it, countless near-deaths tempering his marrow until it pulsed like a furnace.
And now… the stillness broke.
The System's words still lingered in the void of his mind.
> [Next Sign-In Location: Radiant Empire – Capital of Celestara]
It was not simply a destination. It was a declaration.
The Radiant Empire – Celestara's Dread
Far to the east, the Radiant Empire glittered as it always had. White jade palaces rose like mountains, rivers of spirit qi coursed through artificial channels, and towers draped in golden banners cast their shadows over millions of kneeling citizens. The capital, Celestara, was called the City of the Divine Flame, the heart of an empire that had ruled uninterrupted for thousands of years.
But beneath its splendor, unease festered.
In council chambers where marble walls had never once known fear, ministers whispered like cornered rats. Sect lords once allied with the throne shifted uncomfortably in their silk robes. Generals stared at maps stained with nervous sweat.
At the head of it all sat the Radiant Emperor himself, crowned in flame, robes embroidered with the thousand suns of his dynasty. His eyes burned with a fury that no courtier dared meet.
Five years. Five years since the Azure Sky Sect was reduced to rubble, its grand mountain halls now nothing but dust. Five years since assassins sent in shadows had vanished without echo. Five years since armies sent to corner the calamity had returned in tatters—or not at all.
And now the whispers had grown too loud to be ignored. The shadow was coming.
Some called him a man. Some called him a demon. A few, in hushed defiance, called him the inevitable.
But all knew his name.
"Aezreal."
The emperor spat it as a curse. Yet no matter how he cursed, no matter how his armies drilled, the dread in his capital grew like a storm.
Aezreal's Ascent
Far beyond the empire's gilded walls, atop a mountain peak that pierced the very heavens, Aezreal stood.
The scythe rested against his shoulder, its runes alive with black flame, whispering like the echoes of a thousand slaughtered souls. Beside him, Nyx crouched—no longer a hatchling, no longer a beast, but a primordial titan. Its wings stretched across the sky like a continent of shadow, its three hybrid heads whispering in unison: chaos, void, and flame.
Five years of silence had made them more than companions. They were resonance itself, a singular entity bound in breath and blood.
Aezreal's aura was restrained, but the heavens still trembled around him. Tribulation qi swirled like an endless storm. Even mountains at his feet cracked and bled rivers when he exhaled. He stood not as a cultivator clawing upward, but as one who had already placed his hand upon the throat of the world.
Yet his gaze was calm. Patient. His voice low.
"It is time."
He did not roar. He did not boast. His words were softer than the wind. Yet across the continent, cultivators stirred as if thunder had rolled across their souls.
The march had begun.
The Road of Shadows
The journey to Celestara was not short. It was a trek across kingdoms, across contested lands, across the graves of empires long devoured by Radiant flame. But for Aezreal, it was not a path of travel. It was a path of conquest.
He did not hide. His steps were deliberate, each one sending a shiver through the ley lines of the earth. Mortals saw his silhouette in the distance and fell to their knees in trembling prayer. Cultivators sent to scout never returned.
In border towns, his shadow passed. Walls once thought impregnable crumbled without his touch, armies scattered before his silence. Yet he did not linger. He left no occupation, no banners, no sermons. He simply moved forward, as if the very world itself was but a road meant for his stride.
The people called him a storm. The sects called him a curse. But the Radiant Empire called him by another word: inevitability.
Voices of the Other Empires
As Aezreal's path carved toward Celestara, the other three empires stirred in their silence.
In the north, the Frozen Hallow Empire cloaked itself in winter storms. Their emperor, a man who had not left his icy throne in centuries, whispered to his court:
"He marches. Not for the Radiant Empire alone, but for us all. The balance is broken."
In the south, the Emberfang Dominion prepared their warriors, volcanoes roaring in resonance with their battle hymns. Yet even their most bloodthirsty generals hesitated to speak of direct confrontation.
"Let the Radiant fools bleed first," one spat, though his eyes betrayed unease. "If he slaughters them, perhaps the south will have its turn."
And in the west, within the veiled rivers of the Verdant Myriad Dynasty, ancient cultivators convened beneath canopies that had seen the rise and fall of a thousand generations. The elders spoke not in fear, but in solemnity.
"The cycle repeats. The heavens resist. The abyss answers. The question is not whether he will break them… but whether the world can contain what emerges after."
Each empire schemed, but none dared intervene directly. To move was to risk becoming the first to fall.
The Approach to War
Aezreal's name now hung heavy over Celestara. Every temple rang with chants begging the heavens for deliverance. Every sect reinforced their wards until spirit qi bled from their disciples like marrow. And yet none dared leave the capital's walls.
They knew the shadow was coming.
They did not know when.
Until one night, when the moon turned red.
Aezreal stood upon a plateau overlooking the vast plains that led directly to Celestara. Beyond the horizon, he could see the faintest glimmer of jade towers and golden banners. The empire's heart was close enough that his aura brushed against its borders.
Nyx stood beside him, its three heads snarling in unison, flames and void-light spilling from its maws. The beast's wings stretched wide, blotting out stars.
The scythe pulsed, hungry, its whispers louder now, speaking not of death, but of dominion.
Aezreal said nothing for a long time. He watched the capital as a hunter might watch a sleeping prey. Then, softly, almost reverently, he whispered:
"Celestara… your era ends tonight."
The air grew cold. The earth shivered. Somewhere deep within the city, the Radiant Emperor rose from his throne, his heart hammering without reason, his crown suddenly heavy upon his brow.
The storm had arrived at their gates.
And the march of shadow had only just begun.