The northern quarter was unrecognizable. Rubble and scorched stone littered streets once bustling with merchants and courtiers. Windows were shattered, streets cracked, and the faint hum of lingering aura still clung to the air like fog.
Yet despite the devastation, the city survived. Its people whispered in fear, calling him the pale sovereign, the ghost who had struck without mercy. The nobles convened in secret chambers, frantic and desperate, their alliances fraying under the weight of Lucien's influence.
"…The boy… he is no boy," one councilor hissed, voice trembling. "He moves like a shadow. He destroys our mercenaries as if they were toys. How are we to oppose him?"
"…He is not of this world," another added. "The void itself seems to follow him. Every fragment we touch, every ritual we attempt—he consumes it, bends it to his will."
Even as the city struggled to recover, the ripples of Lucien's actions spread further. Far beyond the walls, in distant continents, the energy that had erupted in the city did not go unnoticed.
Across the northern deserts, towers of ancient stone glimmered with arcane symbols. A council of continental lords felt the pulse—void energy resonating through ley lines that stretched across the lands. It was unlike anything they had encountered before. Some called it a threat; others called it a harbinger. But all agreed: it was unignorable.
In the frozen north, a figure cloaked in frost and darkness stared at a map of shifting energies. "The White… it bleeds into their realm," the figure muttered. "And someone walks through it, untouched. Someone… exceptional."
In the southern jungles, a warrior-priest felt the same tremor beneath the earth and water. "The void awakens again," he whispered, kneeling before a carved idol. "And the one who survived it stirs in our lands."
Lucien, unaware of the eyes now watching him from thousands of miles away, returned to the rooftops of his city. The fragment of the void pulsed faintly within his aura, whispering secrets that only he could understand. He did not flinch at the knowledge that others had sensed him. He had faced The White and survived. He had dominated void-born creatures. He was ready.
The city below slowly rebuilt, but fear lingered. Couriers whispered tales of a pale figure who could bend shadows and reality itself, who dismantled noble houses without lifting his hand, who moved like the inevitable stroke of fate.
Lucien looked toward the horizon, pale eyes glimmering.
"They are waking," he said softly. "The world beyond knows of me… and they will come. Let them. The Sole Exception does not flee. He conquers. And every step they take… I will already be there."
Above the city, the wind carried a faint, chilling hum—the lingering echo of the void, the pulse of The White, and the promise of the storm to come.
The first arc of the city had ended. The game for the continent—and the fragments of the First World—was only beginning.