The capital of Celestara had never been so quiet.
For centuries, its avenues had thrummed with life: merchants shouting their wares beneath banners of flame, cultivators walking proudly with sect insignias on their chests, priests chanting hymns to the Radiant Flame.
But now… silence.
The people moved quickly, heads bowed, whispers clipped short. Soldiers in golden armor patrolled every street, their halberds trembling in hands that had been steady against a hundred rebellions. Even the air seemed heavier, as though the heavens themselves crouched upon the city's walls.
Because they all knew. The shadow was coming.
The Emperor's Council
Within the towering Jadefire Palace, the Radiant Emperor sat upon his throne. His crown of flame flickered dimly, no longer the eternal blaze it once seemed. Around him, ministers, generals, and sect lords knelt in a half-circle, their foreheads damp with sweat.
"Five years," the emperor said slowly. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp as blades. "Five years, and still none of you bring me his head."
No one spoke.
The emperor's hand tightened around the throne's armrest. "Armies sent, slaughtered. Assassins dispatched, devoured. Even saints of the Sword Pavilion fell without trace. And now he dares to march openly upon my city?"
His words struck like thunder, but no one dared answer. They had seen too much. Heard too much.
Finally, one of the elder ministers croaked, "Your Majesty, perhaps… perhaps the heavens themselves stand with him. The Tribulation Realm is said to be the ceiling of mortal power. Yet he lingers there still, five years past the peak. It can only mean—"
"—that he seeks the Final Realm," another interrupted, voice trembling.
The chamber fell into silence.
The Final Mortal Realm. A realm spoken of only in myths, said to be the last step before ascension, a realm where mortal flesh could rival immortals in raw might. Many dismissed it as a legend, a story whispered to inspire desperate cultivators.
But none could deny what they had seen. A man surviving five years at the peak of Tribulation, growing ever stronger, his aura blotting out sects and devouring armies.
He was no longer simply climbing realms. He was breaking them.
The emperor's eyes narrowed. "Then if he steps beyond… he will no longer be a man."
Schemes in the Shadows
Not all within Celestara bent knee out of loyalty.
In the back halls of noble manors, families whispered of escape. Merchants packed their vaults with spirit stones, ready to flee the capital at the first crack of war. Sect elders argued whether allegiance to the emperor meant suicide, or if betrayal would buy mercy from the shadow approaching.
One sect lord of the Crimson Blade whispered to his disciples,
"If the emperor falls, then we bow to the new king of shadows. Survival is loyalty enough."
Another, of the Sun-Crown Order, hissed in return,
"Traitor! When the shadow comes, we shall burn him with Radiant Flame itself!"
Yet even as they roared, their eyes betrayed fear. None of them truly believed their flames would burn brighter than his scythe.
The Priests of Flame
In the temples of Celestara, priests and oracles wept before their sacred flame altars. For generations, the fire had burned steady, a symbol of the Radiant Empire's eternal rule. But now, the fire flickered.
Visions plagued the oracles—visions of shadow swallowing suns, of a three-headed beast blotting out the sky, of a scythe that reaped not men, but empires.
One oracle tore out her eyes in despair, crying,
"The flame does not see him! The heavens do not resist him! The flame is dying!"
Word of her madness spread through the streets like wildfire. And though soldiers tried to silence the rumor, whispers grew: if the flame was faltering, then the empire itself was already ash.
The Emperor's Resolve
The Radiant Emperor rose from his throne. His aura burned across the chamber, forcing every minister to their knees.
"Enough," he growled. "This empire was not built to tremble before one man."
With a gesture, he summoned a map of the continent, glowing with qi-light. "Send word to the other three empires. Tell them if they do not act, they will be next. Tell them this shadow is not mine alone to bear. If they wish balance, let them prove it."
His generals saluted with trembling fists. But even as they left, none truly believed the other empires would intervene. Why sacrifice their blood when the Radiant Empire could bleed first?
The emperor knew this as well. His heart thundered with rage, but deep beneath it lay something he had never felt before.
Fear.
Aezreal's Silence
Far from the golden towers, Aezreal stood upon a cliff, watching the lights of Celestara flicker faintly on the horizon. Nyx coiled beside him, three heads low, wings furled tight like a predator ready to strike.
The scythe whispered again, hungrier now, eager to taste the blood of kings.
Aezreal's eyes narrowed. His aura did not flare. His killing intent did not rise. He simply stood, silent, patient.
For five years he had waited. For five years, he had tempered himself on the edge of lightning, on the brink of madness. He could feel it now—the cusp of something beyond Tribulation, a threshold the world had long forgotten.
The Final Realm.
When he stepped into it, he would no longer march as a man. He would descend upon Celestara as inevitability itself.
And deep in his chest, a voice whispered, soft and absolute:
The empire will fall.