The council chamber of Paris stood like a scar upon the city. Its marble pillars were cracked, its stained-glass windows shattered, but within its ruined heart burned the brightest gathering of aura wielders the world had ever seen.
A great circular table dominated the hall, carved from the salvaged oak of Notre-Dame, and around it stood men and women whose auras shimmered like unseen storms.
From Japan, a swordswoman in silver armor, her eyes as sharp as drawn steel.
From Russia, a towering man with shoulders like boulders, his icy aura chilling the very air.
From Egypt, a robed mystic whose hands glowed faintly with golden hieroglyphs.
From Brazil, a young man with flame tattoos burning across his arms.
From Korea, a pair of twins, their aura resonating in perfect harmony, like mirrored reflections.
And then there were the survivors of Paris.
Rehan, silent but burning.
Ishita, her scarlet aura faint but steady.
Zahir, his desert pride unbroken.
And Ethan, pale and wounded, yet refusing to bow, with Akira looming beside him like a sentinel carved of iron.
The room buzzed with unspoken tension.
---
The Clash of Voices
The Russian was the first to speak, his voice a thunderous growl.
"Fifty thousand civilians dead. Entire districts burned. And yet you French wielders could do nothing. Tell me—why should we place faith in an alliance that already bleeds?"
The French councilors flinched. The Brazilian slammed his fist on the table.
"Because divided, we all die! You saw what one Ranked Demon could do in Paris. Imagine five at once, scattered across the world!"
The Japanese swordswoman's voice cut like a blade.
"Then perhaps the weak should not stand in the way of the strong."
Her gaze slid across the room—then landed on Ishita. Scarlet light flickered faintly around her. The swordswoman's lips curved in disdain.
"Child. You reek of instability. That crimson flame of yours will consume you long before it burns your enemy."
Ishita's fists clenched beneath the table. Her aura surged dangerously before she forced it down, teeth gritted.
Rehan stepped forward, his voice calm but edged with steel.
"Careful with your words. She stood with us in Paris when the sky itself collapsed. Do not mistake youth for weakness."
The tension crackled like lightning.
---
Akira's Shadow
The Japanese swordswoman opened her mouth to retort—then froze.
Akira had moved. He didn't speak, didn't raise his aura—yet the weight of his gaze fell upon her like a guillotine. Cold, merciless, absolute.
For a moment, she faltered, her breath catching in her throat. Then she looked away, lips pressed tight.
The hall fell silent. Everyone remembered Paris. Everyone remembered how Akira Tanma's wrath had cut through demons like wheat.
Even nations that once scorned him now knew: he was a storm given form.
---
Ethan Speaks
The silence was broken by Ethan's voice—raspy, but strong.
"We can argue. We can posture. But none of it changes the truth." He struggled to his feet, clutching the edge of the table. "Demons don't care about borders. They don't care about nations. They'll come for all of us. And unless we stand together, humanity will fall."
His words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, even the proudest wielders lowered their eyes.
Then the Egyptian mystic raised his hand, his voice smooth as silk.
"Unity, yes. But unity requires trust. And trust… is fragile." His golden eyes slid toward Ishita again, then toward Rehan. "New wielders, untested, unstable. Should they truly stand among us?"
---
Rehan's Oath
Rehan stepped into the center of the chamber, his aura flaring faintly. He looked each leader in the eye, his voice ringing with conviction.
"I don't ask for your trust. I don't even ask for your approval. What I ask is this—judge me by my blade. Judge us by the lives we've saved, not by the fear of what we might become."
He raised his sword, the steel catching the broken light of the chamber.
"I swear on this blade—I will not let another Paris happen. Not while I breathe."
The Brazilian wielder grinned. "Now that's a speech I can drink to."
The Russian snorted, crossing his arms. "Hmph. We will see if your oath holds."
The Egyptian mystic's smile remained unreadable.
But Ishita's eyes softened. For the first time, the fear of being judged faded—because someone had spoken for her, not as a burden, but as a comrade.
---
Foreshadowing
As the debate wound down, the council scribes recorded the first pact of its kind: The Paris Accord—an alliance of aura wielders, sworn to fight together against the demonic tide.
But in the shadows of the chamber, whispers lingered. Some wielders exchanged cold glances. Pride still burned. Mistrust still poisoned.
The alliance had been forged—but cracks already spidered across its surface.
And somewhere in the abyss, demons stirred, amused.
---
Closing Scene
That night, as torches flickered over the rebuilt streets of Paris, Rehan and Ishita stood on a balcony overlooking the city.
"Do you think they'll really fight together?" Ishita asked softly, her scarlet flame faint against the wind.
Rehan's gaze lingered on the stars. His voice was steady, but distant.
"They will. Until fear makes them turn on each other."
Ishita shivered, her hand brushing her chest as if feeling the scarlet flame within.
"And when that happens?"
Rehan's grip tightened on his sword. His eyes burned with quiet resolve.
"Then we'll stand anyway. Even if the whole world breaks apart—we'll stand."
The night swallowed his words.
The storm was still coming.