In the veil of time, Ezmelral watched her lookalike meditate with effortless grace, her form a serene anchor amidst the chaos of an inner battle. Eleven years had passed since L'uminix's resurrection, and in that span, Ezmelral had paid meticulous attention to her lookalike's every move, driven by a desperate hope to uncover the reason they'd journeyed back through time: the solution to purge the Praexar infestation brewing on her own planet and save her parents.
From her observations, her lookalike—mentored by the GodKing, a master of military psychological warfare—seemed to have woven some of those strategies into her own intricate plan. One tactic stood out: seeking shelter amidst chaos—a method that capitalized on a destabilized planet's turmoil to seize control, turning disorder into an opportunity for dominance.
Ezmelral's mind drifted back to the beginning, the chaotic aftermath of L'munix's resurrection. When the first souls returned, confusion reigned—newly reborn with fragmented memories of the future, they stumbled into a world ripe for upheaval. Local "warlords" emerged from the disarray, vying for power, their ambitions fueled by the instability that her lookalike now seemed poised to exploit.
Her lookalike chose not to intervene in this brewing hostility, allowing the discord to fester like an untended wound as she quietly laid the foundations of the Paladixtus. She handpicked the most pure-hearted souls to serve as its founding members, their integrity a cornerstone for what was to come.
Why only the purest souls at first? The answer was deceptively simple. The goal of a Flood Mission is to cleanse a species that has strayed too far down a path of no return by resetting the planet entirely. The first to be reborn would be two of the most virtuous souls, entrusted with a sacred tome titled Discipline. This book would become more than a guide—it would evolve into a way of life for the reset species, passed down from parent to child, from child to neighbor, and from neighbor to future generations, weaving a fabric of order through time.
This was a masterful stroke of social engineering. The greatest challenge in implanting new methods within a society built on thousands of years of entrenched history and tradition lies in the inevitable resistance and opposition that arise. A Flood Mission obliterates that foundation and history at its core, leaving a blank slate ripe for reshaping.
Rather than forcing Discipline upon the majority—a battle doomed by rebellion—she crafted it to be so comforting, so safe, so irresistibly appealing that outsiders would naturally flock toward it, drawn like moths to a gentle flame. Thus, the Paladixtus was born—a secret order, biding its time in the shadows, allowing chaos to simmer until the moment they were needed most, their influence poised to rise from the ashes of disorder.
And that's precisely what unfolded. Three years after biding her time, fully aware of the corrupted's fate, the moment arrived when the worst of the warlords—the most malevolent among them—had filled their Seeds of Corruption faster than any could have foreseen. Their corruption bloomed violently, birthing a new horror upon L'uminix that the folk dubbed PraLumunix—a grotesque amalgamation of shadow and malice that terrorized the land.
Now, the people of L'uminix faced a dual threat: warlords dominating the east with iron fists, and PraLumunix ravaging the west with relentless ferocity.
It was then that the Paladixtus first revealed themselves—the only force capable of slaying PraLumunix with their Eden Root-forged swords, blades imbued with the ancient power to sever the corrupted's ties to darkness.
Over the next eight years, the Paladixtus rose to become the fourth major power on L'uminix. Their expansion was methodical: they welcomed survivors who were either children too young to develop Essence Cores and thus free of the Seed of Corruption, or adults with an innate sense of discipline—souls untainted by greed or malice.
As more towns and villages pledged allegiance to the Paladixtus order, they integrated Discipline into their daily lives—a philosophy that became their shield and strength. These communities took charge of building shelters and orphanages for the children victimized by PraLumunix, offering refuge to the innocent.
Meanwhile, the strong and able were recruited into the Paladixtus ranks, their skills honed to protect and expand the order's reach. What began as a modest temple evolved into a thriving region, pushing out warlords and former rulers with unwavering resolve.
Word spread across L'uminix like wildfire: a holy sanctuary existed, free of evil, where living on the edge of death was no longer a daily reality. Naturally, people migrated to this beacon of safety, swelling the region's borders and transforming it into the undisputed powerhouse of L'uminix—a bastion of hope rising from the ashes of chaos.
In just eleven years, her lookalike had astoundingly reverse-engineered the Orb of Resurrection's two-person system into a large-scale regional framework—a feat that transformed L'uminix's destiny with remarkable ingenuity.
Of course, meddling with thousands of years of entrenched foundations was bound to stir opposition—a resistance now making its way toward her. A sharp knock echoed through her chamber, breaking the stillness.
"Who is it?" her lookalike asked, her voice calm as she opened her eyes from meditation, the serenity of her inner focus lingering in her gaze.
A voice responded from beyond the door—a member of the Twelve Consilium Disciplinae, Meryal. "A report, my lady."
Rising gracefully, her lookalike adjusted her robes and opened the door, revealing Meryal standing before her. The warrior's armor gleamed with a muted brilliance—an exquisite balance of divine craftsmanship and battlefield pragmatism. Its surface, a tempered silver-gray, caught the light like still water at dawn, each plate sculpted to flow with the body's movement rather than restrict it. Subtle gold inlays traced the edges of her pauldrons and breastplate, forming sigils of protection that pulsed faintly with Essence stirring beneath her skin.
The design blended strength and grace: pauldrons curved like unfurling wings, the chestplate contoured with meticulous precision to her form, and layered tassets tapered into a dark, royal-blue half-cloak that swayed behind her with quiet authority. Her gauntlets and greaves bore quiet scars—etched reminders of battles fought and survived, polished into the metal as if woven into the armor's living story.
It was no ceremonial garb—this was lived-in, sacred armor, crafted for one who bore both burden and command. Even at rest, Meryal exuded readiness to stride into war's heart, her gaze calm, her poise unshaken—a knight forged not only by duty, but by an unyielding conviction that radiated from her very presence.
Ezmelral's lookalike shifted left with a graceful turn, beginning to walk down the corridor, and Meryal fell into stride beside her, her armored presence a steady companion. Meryal withdrew a sheaf of papers from her side, passing them to the lookalike with a respectful nod. The lookalike took them, her eyes scanning the contents as they moved forward. Along the corridor, every ten steps, Paladixtus warriors stood at attention, their armor stained with the dust of battle. Each saluted with a resounding thump as they slammed fists to their hearts, a rhythmic tribute echoing through the stone hall.
Meryal broke the silence, her voice clear and measured. "Four of the Consilium Disciplinae await us in the main hall."
"The others?" the lookalike asked, her gaze lifting briefly from the papers.
"We've managed to contact the six others," Meryal replied. "They're en route as we speak."
"Who's missing?" the lookalike pressed, her tone sharpening with focus.
"Osculi Iudæ," Meryal answered.
Ezmelral's lookalike nodded, recalling his mission. "He's currently occupied with another task in a nearby region. No need to disturb him."
"Yes, m'lady," Meryal acknowledged with a slight bow.
They approached the main hall's grand doors, pushing them open to step inside. At the center stood a sturdy table, its surface cluttered with maps marked with strategic points—red ink denoting strongholds, blue lines tracing trade routes, and black Xs marking zones of conflict. Around it, four figures awaited: Bellavius, Iraetius, Libinea, and Avorlas—each clad in the same Paladixtus armor, its silver-gray plates and gold inlays gleaming faintly under the hall's torchlight. They were deep in discussion, their voices a low hum as they debated the ongoing crisis, their scarred gauntlets gesturing over the maps with the weight of command