The world returned to Isolde in jagged, painful fragments. The heavy scent of ionized air and cooling metal pressed against her senses as her eyes finally fluttered open. Above her, the hazy sky of the Tungsten Hearth swirled with the settling dust of the Achondrite strike. She felt a rhythmic throbbing in her skull and the tight, clean pressure of a bandage wrapped around her forehead and arms.
With a muffled groan, she braced her palms against the grit-covered earth, her muscles screaming in protest as she struggled to force herself upright.
"Hey," a voice called out, steady and surprisingly warm. "Take it easy. You shouldn't be moving around just yet."
Isolde ignored the warning, her stubbornness flaring through the fog of her concussion. "No," she rasped, finally managing to sit up, though the world tilted dangerously for a second. "I'm fine."
She blinked, her vision finally locking onto a young man standing a few paces away. He was draped in the same distinctive white cape as the silent warriors who had ended the battle, but his head-warmer was pulled back, revealing a face that seemed both youthful and burdened by ancient knowledge.
Isolde's eyes darted past him, scanning the industrial ruins. The gray landscape was now dotted with dozens of white-caped figures. They moved with a ghostly grace, engaged in intense, low-voiced discussions with the battle-worn Chronohelixians.
"Who are you people?" Isolde questioned, her voice sharpening with a soldier's suspicion.
The young man let out a soft, melodic chuckle. "I'm Jo El Necro," he said, offering a slight nod. "A member of the El Necro Clan. Everyone you see here in the white capes belongs to our house. And we aren't alone—there are many more of us scattered across the reach of Aethelgard."
Isolde's brow furrowed. "How? I thought the El Necro were wiped out by Absalom in Vylonia. History says your bloodline was extinguished. How can there be this many of you here?"
"History is often a lie told by the conqueror," Jo said, his expression turning solemn. "Five centuries ago, when Thorenzia fell, the Vylonians dragged the survivors to their homeland to serve as slaves. But death didn't take everyone they thought it did. You've likely met the El Vitrifex by now; like them, some of us survived the purges. While many of our kin were stolen away to Vylonia, some of us remained right here in Aethelgard. We stayed in the shadows, growing in number, growing in strength."
He looked toward the horizon, his eyes distant.
"For five hundred years, we held onto the belief that the Thorenzians would one day strike back—that our empire would rise from the ash. We spent those centuries perfecting our secret art: the power to summon anything from the cosmos. I was waiting for a sign, and then I saw it. I saw a young man steal the Aureblade. At first, I took him for a common thief. But then I saw him draw that blade from the stone—the same sword that had remained unmoved for forty centuries since our great ancestor Thorenz placed it there. No man should have been able to touch it."
Jo's gaze returned to Isolde, intense and burning. "Then I saw the tattoo on his neck. I knew then he was no thief; he was a scion of the El Joranda Clan."
The name hit Isolde like a physical blow. "Valerus," she whispered. "I've always wondered about that tattoo. He told me once he was born with it, but he never knew why."
"Because it isn't a mere decoration," Jo revealed, his voice dropping to a respectful tone. "The image of the lion is etched into their very skin from birth. It is the Mark of a Leader. It is the divine brand that cements the El Joranda's status as the strongest bloodline—the rightful sovereigns of the Thorenzia Empire."
Isolde looked down at her hands, the image of the reckless, defiant Valerus shifting in her mind. He wasn't just a rebel leader; he was a living piece of a broken crown.
"The Mark of a Leader, huh?" she mused, a faint, weary smile touching her lips.
Deep within the empire, the province of Haven existed as a cruel contradiction to the rest of Aethelgard. It was a place of breathtaking beauty—a perpetually calm coastal paradise where the air tasted of salt rather than soot. Unlike the choking industrial rot of Tungsten or the eternal ashen winter of Cinder, Haven was kept in pristine, deceptive tranquility. It was the playground of the Delacronix elite and the high command, a gilded sanctuary that doubled as one of the most heavily fortified sea-gates in the world. For the Chronohelix, it was a beautiful cage; any escape by sea meant passing through the mouth of this sleeping dragon.
Friday, a Chronohelix spy embedded in this seaside fortress, moved through the white-stone streets with the tension of a coiled spring. Intelligence gathering had been a nightmare; the security was so tight it felt like the very walls had eyes. As he rounded a corner, his luck ran out. A squad of Aethelgardian soldiers spotted him, their eyes widening before they unleashed a relentless barrage of gunfire.
Friday blurred into motion, his instincts screaming as he dove behind a marble pillar. Lead chewed into the stone, spraying dust into the sea breeze. The soldiers ceased fire, their boots crunching on the pavement as they surrounded his position, waiting for the inevitable.
Suddenly, a flash of fabric darted out from the corner.
"There he is!" a commander barked.
The squad unloaded, a hail of bullets shredding the target—only for their hearts to sink as they realized they were shooting at nothing but a discarded cape, fluttering harmlessly in the wind.
In that heartbeat of confusion, Friday emerged from the opposite side. He leveled his hands, his fingers glowing with a white-hot intensity. Small, concentrated sparks of Flame Hera spat from his fingertips like rounds from a semi-automatic weapon. With lethal, rhythmic precision, he picked them off one by one, dropping thirty soldiers before they could even re-aim.
He didn't stay to admire his work. Friday sprinted toward the heart of the province, but another platoon blocked his path, weapons raised. As they opened fire, Friday didn't duck. Instead, he channeled his Hera into his feet, unleashing a violent burst of thermal energy that propelled him into the sky like a human rocket.
Soaring above the rooftops, he looked down at the fifty-three soldiers scrambling below. He drew a deep breath, cupping his hands as he conjured a massive, roaring sphere of fire. He hurled it downward. The resulting inferno swallowed the platoon in a single, deafening bloom of heat, clearing his path to the Tetrarch's palace.
Landing near the castle gates, Friday stopped, his chest heaving as he stared up at the opulence of the imperial architecture. "Father, watch over me," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and resolve.
Memories of his father flooded his mind, but they were quickly drowned out by the haunting image of Queen Lysandra. The thought of her—her coldness, her betrayal—turned his grief into a boiling, uncontrollable rage.
"They will pay!" he growled.
Driven by a sudden, mad fury, Friday dashed into the palace like a charging bull. He shattered the front doors, bursting into a grand foyer where a group of Aethelgardian soldiers were taunting a line of captured Chronohelixians.
"It looks like we've got company," one soldier sneered, drawing his blade.
The swordsmen lunged, but Friday was a whirlwind of vengeance. He unleashed a massive, sweeping wave of fire that incinerated twelve men instantly. The flames were so precisely controlled that the heat licked across the captives' wrists, melting their heavy iron chains without scorching their skin.
The freed rebels scrambled to their feet, grabbing discarded weapons.
"I'll leave this floor to you guys," Friday called out, already moving toward the grand staircase.
"Go! We've got this!" the Chronohelixians chorused, holding the line as Friday surged deeper into the belly of the beast.
He tore through the palace, clearing rooms and sprinting up spiraling stairs, his eyes searching for the Tetrarch. Each door he kicked open was empty, the silence of the upper halls mocking his rage. Finally, he reached a massive, ornate door at the end of the highest corridor. He grabbed the handle and twisted with all his might, but the door remained immovable—locked by something far stronger than a mere bolt.
While Friday waged his fiery war in the coastal paradise of Haven, a different kind of storm was brewing in the frozen heights of Talon. Built into sheer, jagged cliffs where the air was thin enough to bleed the lungs, Talon was the Empire's iron nest. It was a militaristic fortress of mountain peaks, serving as the training ground for elite dragon-riders and aerial units. To take Talon was to pluck the eyes from the Emperor's head, and the task of blinding the eagle fell to Monday.
Leading the infiltration team, Monday moved with a cold, terrifying efficiency. Like his brother Friday, his eyes burned with a dark, concentrated fury, but where Friday was an explosion, Monday was an avalanche.
He marched at the head of the Chronohelix unit, his footsteps silent against the permafrost. He didn't speak. He didn't boast. The only sounds that broke the mountain's silence were the wet thuds of Aethelgardian soldiers falling and the sharp cries of the dying. When four guards attempted to block the narrow mountain pass, Monday didn't even break his stride; he flicked a wrist, and a massive, jagged slab of bedrock rose from the earth, slamming into them and launching them into the misty abyss below.
A larger group of thirteen soldiers rushed forward, weapons leveled. Before they could close the distance, Monday slammed his palm against the ground. With a violent groan of shifting tectonic plates, the very earth beneath the soldiers shot upward. In seconds, they were stranded on a thin, soaring pillar of stone that pierced the clouds, leaving them trapped thousands of feet in the air with no way down.
Monday walked past the base of the pillar with a majestic, chilling indifference, his boiling rage acting as a shroud. The Chronohelixians behind him watched in stunned awe at the sheer scale of his Earth Hera.
"Everyone! Follow Prince Monday's lead!" one rebel shouted, his voice cracking with newfound courage. A deafening uproar erupted from the ranks as the Chronohelixians surged forward, emboldened by the unstoppable force at their front.
As they approached the inner sanctum of the fortress, Monday spotted a pile of discarded heavy metals near a forge. He gestured, and the metal liquified and flew toward him, molding itself to his body through his elemental command. It fused into a seamless, impenetrable suit of armor that encased him completely, leaving only his cold, vengeful eyes visible through a narrow slit.
He looked less like a man and more like an ancient golem of war.
He rounded the final cliffside path to find a man waiting for him. The figure stood with a relaxed, almost bored posture, a longsword resting casually against his shoulder. This was Takt, the Tetrarch of Talon.
"Yo," Takt greeted, offering a lazy smirk. "I'm Takt. Tetrarch of this province. Nice to meet you, I guess."
Monday's voice emerged from behind the metal visor, hollow and metallic. "Well, sorry. I have no intention of telling you who I am."
The Chronohelixians caught up, their weapons raised as they fixed their gaze on the Tetrarch. The tension on the narrow ledge was thick enough to suffocate. Monday turned his head slightly toward his men.
"Guys, I can handle this on my own," he commanded. "Just move past us and take control of the province. Don't let the air units launch."
"Right!" the rebels chorused. They moved in a wide arc around the two warriors, their footsteps echoing as they hurried toward the command towers.
Takt didn't move to stop them. He simply watched Monday, his eyes scanning the metal-clad prince. As the last of the rebels disappeared around the bend, the mountain fell into a heavy, expectant silence. Only the howling wind remained, whistling between the two men left alone at the top of the world.
While the provinces of Haven and Talon burned with the fires of rebellion, the heart of the Empire itself was under siege. In the obsidian halls of Cinder, Valerus was no longer a man; he was a force of nature. Using Wind Hera, he tore through the castle like a localized hurricane, his feet barely touching the floor.
Lightning Hera pulsed through his veins, overclocking his reflexes to a god-like degree. His twin blades were a study in elemental perfection: Valor, his black blade, was a roaring pillar of flame, while Apex, his golden blade, was shrouded in a violent, high-pressure torrent of water. Attacks from the palace guard shattered against his Earth Hera defenses as if they were nothing more than glass.
The Imperial guard responded in mass, desperate to stop the intruder. Sixty-five soldiers opened fire simultaneously as Valerus soared through a vaulted corridor. He didn't flinch. He parried the wall of lead with a flick of his earth-shielded wrists and countered with a devastating fusion of water and lightning. The resulting discharge fried the entire unit in a blinding flash of blue light. Valerus didn't stop to count the bodies. The casualty list in the capital had already climbed to a staggering 2,489 souls. His fury was a boiling ocean, and he was drowning the Empire in it.
Back in the pristine coastal silence of Haven, the chaos of the outside world felt like a distant memory. Inside a lavishly decorated, dimly lit chamber of the Tetrarch's palace, the only sound was the rhythmic, passionate moaning of a woman. A man moved above her in the throes of intimacy, their unclad bodies tangled in silk sheets, completely oblivious to the revolution screaming outside their doors.
Suddenly, the heavy, ornate door didn't just open—it disintegrated. A violent blast sent the wood flying across the room, where it slammed into the far wall and collapsed into a pile of splinters. Black flames—unnatural and cold—clung to the remains, devouring the wood with a silent hunger.
The woman's eyes snapped wide. She shoved the young man off her, her breath catching as she stared at the dark fire. "Black flames?" she whispered, her voice trembling with recognition. This was Tattiana, the Tetrarch of Haven.
Friday floated into the room, his feet hovering inches above the floor, wreathed in that same abyssal fire. His eyes were cold, reflecting the dark aura of his power. "Overdrive: Black Knight," he said, a jagged, mirthless smile playing on his lips.
Tattiana recovered quickly, a playful, mocking smirk spreading across her face as she looked at him. "Why do you deny a young man and woman such passionate pleasure, little intruder?"
"Pleasure?" Friday spat, his voice dripping with loathing. "Hah! I'd rather call this rape."
Tattiana's expression snapped into a snarl. "What?"
"Look at him," Friday gestured with a flaming hand. "You are having your 'intimacy' with a slave. The heavy iron chains around his neck tell the story. He isn't here because he wants you; he's here because he doesn't want to die. Isn't that the definition of rape?"
Terrified, the young slave scrambled for his clothes and bolted toward the exit. As he ran, Friday flicked a finger, sending a precise spark of black flame at the man's neck. The fire consumed the iron chains in a split second, leaving the man's skin untouched. Realizing he was finally free, the man let out a cry of pure joy and disappeared into the palace corridors.
Tattiana stood up, her naked form glowing with a faint, arrogant light as her fury boiled over. "What did you do that for? Why did you set him free?"
"Simple," Friday replied, his black flames flaring higher. "The era of slavery ends now. The era of freedom begins. Those who cannot accept the light of the new world will have to be consumed by the darkness of the old one."
Tattiana took a menacing step forward, her body shimmering. "If you freed my slave, then I'll simply make you his replacement!"
"Idiot," Friday mused.
He flicked a small, pebble-sized ember of black fire. It landed harmlessly on Tattiana's right hand. She laughed and began to blow on it, trying to put it out, but the fire didn't flicker. It grew. Panic set in as she used her left hand to beat the flames, but the moment they touched, her other hand caught fire as well.
"No! Stop it!" she screamed, thrashing wildly.
"You're an idiot," Friday said coldly, watching her struggle. "Those are black flames. They won't stop burning until their target has been reduced to nothing but ash."
"No! Please! Take it off me! PLEASE! NOOOOOO!"
Tattiana's screams echoed through the palace as she writhed in agony, the black fire spreading with an inexorable, silent hunger. Within minutes, the beautiful room was silent, and all that remained of the Tetrarch of Haven was a pile of charred, unrecognizable bone and ash.
Friday stared at the remains and gave a single, somber nod. "In the new era, we don't even need a King," he whispered. "Because everyone will finally be free."
He turned his back on the ashes and walked out into the sea breeze, leaving the darkness behind.
On the freezing, jagged cliffs of Talon, the air was thin enough to kill—but the tension between the two warriors was deadlier.
Monday stood like an iron statue, his metal armor reflecting the pale mountain sun. Across from him, the Tetrarch Takt let out a long, mocking sigh, leaning on his blade.
"Yo! That was harsh, man," Takt said, shaking his head.
Monday's brow furrowed behind his visor. "What was?"
"You said you don't intend to tell me anything about yourself. Total cold shoulder," Takt chuckled, though his eyes remained sharp.
Monday let out a weary sigh. He was done with games. "If I have to say it a million times, I will. I have no intention of telling you anything."
"Hmmm. Sorry, bro," Takt's grin widened, turning predatory. "I already know who you are."
Monday stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "Huh?"
"Oh, what was it that Queen Lysandra told us again?" Takt mused, lazily stroking his beard as if trying to recall a fond memory. "Oh, right. 'The human heart is so fragile, easily shattered into pieces.'" Takt erupted into a fit of mocking laughter, the sound echoing off the cliff walls.
The mention of Lysandra hit Monday like a physical blow to the chest. The raw trauma of her betrayal surged through him, turning his cold focus into white-hot rage. He roared, unleashing a barrage of Earth Hera. Jagged boulders and stone spikes tore from the mountainside, flying at Takt from every direction, but the Tetrarch moved like a leaf in the wind. He dodged every strike with infuriating ease.
Monday lunged forward, closing the distance to use the weight of his metal-coated limbs. He threw a flurry of punches and kicks that could have shattered castle walls, but Takt didn't even break a sweat. He danced around Monday's strikes, always an inch out of reach.
Monday backed away, gasping for air. The thin atmosphere was taking its toll. What is going on? He wondered. Why aren't my attacks hitting him?
Desperate, he launched another massive wave of rocks. Instead of dodging, Takt began to run in a tight, rapid circle. Within seconds, a massive, howling cyclone materialized out of thin air. The wind seized Monday's own rocks, swirling them in the vortex before spitting them back at him. Monday dove to avoid his own projectiles, but before he could recover, a concentrated blast of wind slammed into his chest, sending him flying backward across the frozen ground.
Monday struggled to his feet, his lungs burning. "Wind Hera? How… how do you know how to use the super-rare Wind Hera?"
"Simple. Queen Lysandra taught me," Takt said, his voice cold as the mountain air. "And I was a fast learner. Now, it's time to end this."
With a flick of his wrist, Takt channeled the wind to seize Monday's body, hoisting him several feet into the air. Monday thrashed, but the atmospheric pressure was too great; he couldn't move a single finger.
"Come to think of it," Takt mused, looking up at the trapped Prince, "didn't someone from your little rebel group possess Wind Hera too?"
Monday's mind flashed to Valerus. The irony was bitter—his friend's power was being used here as a tool for his execution.
"Alright, I'm sure you know that Hera has a second stage, don't you?" Takt asked.
Monday's eyes widened in disbelief. What? Overdrive for Wind Hera?
"Overdrive! Oxygen Deprivation!" Takt yelled.
The world went silent. Monday's mouth opened, but no air entered. Takt had stripped the very oxygen from the space around Monday's head.
"Every Hera type has an Overdrive form," Takt explained, watching Monday's face turn a bruised purple. "And this is mine. To stop my prey from breathing. The body needs air, little Prince. In just a minute, you'll be a very heavy, metal-clad corpse."
Tears began to stream down Monday's cheeks, blurring his vision. He felt his consciousness slipping. He thought of Lysandra—the woman who had broken his family and was now killing him through a proxy.
I have less than thirty seconds to live, Monday thought frantically. If I don't do something now, I'm really going to die.
Then, a different face entered his mind. His mother, Luisa. He remembered the coldness he had shown her, the distance he had kept. Mother… I never even apologized for how I treated you. If I die here, I'll never have the chance.
His heart hammered against his ribs. It's too early for me to die!
The earth began to quake with a violent, primal intensity. In a mere two seconds, the ground beneath them didn't just break—it erupted. Volcanoes of molten rock and superheated ash burst from the mountain. Takt yelped and dove away, but a stray spray of lava caught his hand, charring the skin and forcing him to break his concentration.
The vacuum vanished. The wind released Monday, and he fell directly into the heart of the volcanic eruption.
Takt stared in disbelief as a figure emerged from the smoke and flowing magma. Monday was coughing, gasping greedily for the ash-filled air, but he was standing. He began to walk toward Takt, and the sight was impossible: a perfect circle of small, active volcanoes surrounded Monday, moving as he moved. He was the center of a walking cataclysm.
"Is he… walking on the volcanoes?" Takt stammered, his bravado finally crumbling.
The heat became unbearable. Takt felt the temperature rising until his armor began to glow. "It's getting hotter! What is this?" Takt bellowed, retreating as the ring of fire drew closer. No matter how fast he moved, the volcanoes followed Monday, maintaining the distance like a loyal guard.
The volcanoes move with him, Takt realized, sweating profusely. He's trapped in the middle, but I can't get in!
Takt unleashed a desperate wave of wind attacks, trying to blow the magma aside. But the volcanoes rose up, the molten rock shaping itself into shields to block the wind as if the fire itself had a mind of its own.
"Overdrive! 360-Degree Defensive Barrier!" Monday rasped, his eyes glowing like embers.
Takt let out a shaky, hysterical laugh. "What? What a cheap joke! There is no such thing as an absolute defense!"
Monday stopped walking, the wall of lava pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Wanna try?" Monday asked.
Takt stared at the walking catastrophe approaching him, his tactical mind spinning at a frantic pace. Overdrive: 360-Degree Defensive Barrier, he thought, the heat beginning to blister his skin. It's a terrifying application of Hera. It doesn't just shield him; it makes the very concept of close combat a death sentence. He realized with a sinking heart that against a hand-to-hand fighter, Monday was now invincible. The closer the Prince stepped, the closer his opponent moved toward an inescapable cremation.
"It sounds like an ultimate defense," Takt whispered to himself, his grip tightening on his sword. "A fortress with no holes. But I'm going to prove him wrong."
"Hey!" Monday's voice cracked through the roar of the lava, snapping Takt out of his daze. "Are you going to attack or not? You're starting to put me to sleep."
Panic finally overrode Takt's pride. He didn't attack; he recoiled. He executed a desperate, wind-boosted leap backward, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the ring of fire. He landed, squeezed his eyes shut for a second to center his remaining Hera, and prepared for a final, long-range cyclone.
But when he opened his eyes, the world was orange.
Monday was no longer across the clearing. He was standing directly in front of him.
The transition had been so fast, so absolute, that Takt didn't even have time to scream before the heat hit him. He was now inside the perimeter of the 360-degree barrier. The air around him ignited instantly. Takt's armor turned into a furnace, and his skin began to liquefy. He let out a horrific, high-pitched scream of agony, his hands clawing at the air as if he could push the heat away, but there was no escaping the sun-bright intensity of the Prince's rage.
In a matter of seconds, the screaming stopped. Takt collapsed, his body charred to a blackened husk before he even hit the stone.
"You wasted too much time," Monday said, his voice hollow. "I got tired of waiting, so I decided to end it."
The volcanoes slowly receded into the earth, the molten rock cooling into jagged obsidian as Monday deactivated his Overdrive. He stood over the roasted, lifeless remains of the Tetrarch who had mocked his mother. There was no triumph in Monday's gaze—only a deep, soul-shattering sorrow.
"I've always wondered why we must fight each other," Monday mused, looking out over the peaks of Talon. "When we are all part of one big family tree… if the world were a peaceful place full of love, I believe 'war' wouldn't even be in the dictionary."
He didn't look back at the corpse. He turned his face to the wind and walked away, descending from the mountain as the Chronohelix flag was raised over the dragon-rider barracks.
The tide had turned into a tsunami. With the fall of Talon and Haven in a single day, the Aethelgard Empire was crumbling. Of the fifteen original provinces, the iron grip of the Emperor had been shattered everywhere but in four final strongholds.