After a night soaked in blood, dawn rose pale over Mainland. The hospital corridors of District one were colder than usual, heavy with the scent of disinfectant and grief. Leroy Livingstone stepped through the glass doors in silence, his coat still stained faintly with the dust of the Colosseum.

  Even here, among the sterile walls and the hum of medical machines, his presence drew eyes. Nurses, orderlies, and even the wounded commonfolk looked up as he passed — some with awe, some with fear, others with desperate curiosity. A few approached him hesitantly, asking for his signature, most wanting to know what truly happened during the Colosseum Incident.

  But the Council had not spoken. The truth was buried for now.

  “It’s over,” Leroy told them, voice firm but hollow. “The threats have been contained. The Council ensures your safety.”

  And with that, a wave of relief rippled through the hall. Prayers were whispered — for the Council, for the All Realm — and the whispers faded behind him as he made his way deeper inside.

  The corridor leading to the morgue was quiet except for a faint, wandering tune — a guitar, played lazily and out of tune. Leroy found DHertz slouched on a bench, fingers idly strumming.

  “Don’t make noise in a hospital,” Leroy said without raising his voice.

  DHertz blinked, coming back from whatever thought had held him. “Relax, First Brother,” he muttered with a crooked grin. “My audience is dead anyway.”

  Leroy gave him a long, unreadable stare. Beneath the silver gleam of the corridor lights, DHertz could see how weary his leader looked — the exhaustion stitched deep into the edges of his eyes. Even the mighty could bleed silently.

  Without another word, DHertz stood and opened the steel door to the autopsy room. The air inside bit colder, thick with the metallic tang of preservative chemicals. Upon the table lay King Dayrand.

  Leroy stood over the corpse. The silence between them was heavy enough to crush sound itself.

  “I’ve got the report here,” DHertz said, flipping through a folder but choosing to read it aloud instead. “Might be easier this way.”

  He began, voice steady but grim. “No signs of external violence. The king slit his own throat with a dessert knife. No poison, no struggle marks. Cause of death: self-inflicted wound. But…” — DHertz hesitated — “there’s… tension frozen in his expression. Severe psychological distress.”

  Leroy’s gaze lingered on the dead man’s face. “Who was the last person to see him alive?”

  “One of the royal attendants said he met with Cygnus in the noble waiting room,” DHertz replied, flipping another page. “Witness said His Majesty started trembling uncontrollably after the meeting. Like he’d seen a ghost.”

  Leroy closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

  “You don’t think Cygnus killed him, do you?” DHertz asked, tone cautious.

  Leroy exhaled slowly. “Cygnus isn’t the type. If he wanted someone dead, it wouldn’t be this…. Besides, he was with the rest of the Council when the fighting began.”

  DHertz tilted his head. “Could be magic.”

  “Perhaps,” Leroy murmured. “But my gut says otherwise. Dayrand knew what was coming. His rebellion failed. He must’ve seen judgment in Cygnus’s eyes and decided death was a gentler punishment than the Council’s verdict.”

  He took a pen and paper from the counter, the scratch of the nib slicing through the still air as he wrote — a report, condensed into clean, clinical lines for Bjorn and the Cognisource Network to polish into the official narrative. The truth, filtered and gilded for the public eye.

  DHertz watched him in silence. There was something magnetic in Leroy’s composure — the way duty anchored every gesture, every word. The man looked half-dead from exhaustion, yet his will was unbroken, a flame steady even in the storm’s aftermath.

  “Where’s the rest of the Council?” DHertz finally asked.

  “They’ve all returned to their factions,” Leroy said without looking up. “Last night took its toll.”

  DHertz poured two cups of black coffee, the steam curling like smoke from a dying pyre. He placed one near Leroy.

  “And you?” he asked quietly. “What about you, first brother?”

  Leroy paused, pen hovering above the paper — then lowered it, eyes distant, as though seeing something far beyond the cold walls of that morgue.

  “I wasn’t hurt last night,” Leroy said quietly, sipping the coffee DHertz had handed him. The bitterness slid down his throat like iron. “So it’s fine.”

  DHertz laughed, the sound oddly bright in that cold, corpse-filled room. “You know… if I were a woman, I might’ve married you already.”

  Leroy’s brows twitched. “Stop your nonsense. This is a morgue.”

  “I’m serious!” DHertz grinned, leaning against the counter. “You should find someone, at least—a woman who can actually take care of you, or, I don’t know, remind you you’re still human.”

  Leroy didn’t look up from his paperwork. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To handle things I can’t?”

  “Please,” DHertz scoffed, taking another sip. “This is work. I mean someone who looks at you like you’re more than a council. No one can beat the sincerity of a woman waiting and believing in you.”

  “Do you even have one in mind?” Leroy asked dryly, signing the last line of his report. “You don’t even have a partner yourself.”

  “Touché.” DHertz chuckled, pretending to think. “Though… your ex looks better than ever, you know. Word is she’s become quite the beauty—and dangerous too.”

  Leroy’s tone turned to frost. “Yes. I’ve heard.”

  DHertz smirked. “Then you have been keeping tabs. Maybe you should go talk to her, try to mend things. The woman’s strong now—runs many Class-B fighters, from what I heard.”

  “I’m done with her.”

  “Maybe you are,” DHertz said softly, packing his guitar into its case. “But is she done with you? You could at least give her a proper goodbye. She deserves that.”

  Leroy finally looked up, his eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness and too many ghosts. “Are you done lecturing me?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” DHertz raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry, first brother. Couldn’t help it.”

  Leroy slid the folded report toward him. “Get this to Bjorn. Cognisource will handle the narrative.”

  As DHertz turned to leave, he paused. “Hey… what about Lord Star’s daughter? Is she alright?”

  Leroy’s voice dropped lower. “I don’t know for sure. But I think she’ll bear the trauma.”

  DHertz nodded, the humor gone from his face. “Understood.” He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and left to deliver the report, his footsteps echoing down the hall until the morgue fell silent again.

  Leroy stood alone for a moment longer, staring at the pale outline beneath the morgue sheet. So many faces, so many endings—and he was still here, bound by duty, not by choice.

  “Ellison,” he called after him, stepping out into the corridor. DHertz turned, halfway to the elevator.

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  “When’s the final bout in District three?” Leroy asked.

  A grin spread across DHertz’s face. “Finally, the mighty Councilman wants a little nostalgia?”

  “Maybe I just need to vent,” Leroy muttered, scratching the back of his head. A faint spark of green light flickered across his fingers—the same eerie radiance that had once terrified armies.

  DHertz laughed. “Alright. I’ll make sure you get in—secret guest fighter, masked, of course. Wouldn’t want to cause a riot.”

  They walked out of the hospital together, the wind outside carrying the scent of rain and rust from the ruined city.

  DHertz mounted his black steam bike—a sleek beast of steel and silence—and revved it toward District two.

  Leroy lingered for a moment, eyes raised toward the gray sky. Then, with a low hum, emerald light flared around him, wrapping his figure until it burst upward—The Green Wraith, returning to his quarters high above Mainland.

  The house was modest in size, but its silence carried the kind of weight that came from greatness long sustained, no need a bigger space, he live alone and rarely at home. Nestled in one of District one’s elite neighborhoods, it was a structure of glass and pale steel — minimalist, yet too perfect to be called humble. The moment Leroy Livingstone stepped inside, the stillness greeted him like an old comrade.

  The walls gleamed with relics of his past: medals, framed commendations, and polished plaques arranged with military precision. Under the steady glow of the ceiling lights, they told the story of a man who had outlived his legend. Headlines from yellowed newspapers adorned the walls like holy scripts

  “Leroy Livingstone: The Weapon Master Who Tamed the Impossible.”

  “Knight Quasar, Leroy, and Starmist Repel Giant Invasion.”

  “The Leader of Council Second Generation: Leroy J. Livingstone Takes the Mantle.”

  Each title felt like a fragment of another lifetime.

  Leroy loosened his collar, washed his face at the sink, and forced himself to prepare breakfast — a simple meal of eggs and meat. As he ate, the radio crackled with the news.

  “Following last night’s Colosseum crisis, the Council stands united. All seven factions fought side by side to suppress the threat, ensuring zero civilian casualties. This demonstrates the unmatched solidarity of our leadership, even in these peace times—”

  Leroy scoffed mid-bite, shaking his head as he stabbed another piece of meat with his fork.

  “Solid, huh?” he muttered, a crooked smirk cutting across his tired face. “You’re a talented storyteller, Bjorn.”

  The broadcast droned on about border disputes, minor skirmishes among superhuman gang in Mainland, and the usual political fabrications. The world outside was spinning fast, but inside this house, time had stopped somewhere between glory and fatigue.

  After eating, Leroy showered, brushed his teeth, then threw on a towel and collapsed onto the sofa. The room was dim but peaceful, the quiet hum of the city beyond barely audible.

  He leaned back, tapping his abdomen absently — and at his touch, a faint green luminescence pulsed beneath the skin, tracing the outline of a relic embedded deep within him.

  He stared at it in silence for a moment, then spoke, his voice low and strangely gentle.

  “You know,” he said to the relic, “we’ve been together a long time. Guess I’m lucky to have ended up with you. But…” He exhaled, his gaze distant. “I’m not getting any younger. When the day comes that I have to let you go, I hope I find someone worthy enough to take my place.”

  The relic, of course, said nothing. It is an inanimate object. Its glow flickered once — whether from energy or mere coincidence, he couldn’t tell. But it was enough to make him chuckle under his breath.

  Then — a knock at the door.

  He sighed, stood, and opened it to find a man standing on the porch — sharp-featured, skin sun-tinted, with long black hair tied neatly at his back. His jacket bore a coiled white dragon, inked across the fabric like a ghost of his moniker: The Pale Dragon.

  “Cheng,” Leroy said, faint surprise slipping into his voice.

  “I brought food,” Cheng replied simply, lifting a carrier bag filled with steaming dishes and a few small bottles of alcohol.

  Leroy stepped aside, motioning for him to enter. “You didn’t have to. I’ve already eaten.”

  “I know,” Cheng said, setting the food on the counter and popping open one of the bottles. “But Lisa told me to stay. Said you’d probably refuse to rest unless someone forced you to.”

  That earned a small huff of laughter from Leroy. “Lisa still treating us like children, huh?”

  Cheng shrugged. “Old habits die hard.”

  The Pale Dragon wasn’t one for long speeches. He moved through the house with the quiet discipline of a martial artist, making himself comfortable but not invasive. He didn’t press Leroy with questions, didn’t ask about the Council, the Colosseum, or the blood that had painted last night. He simply sat — letting silence be its own language.

  If there was one person Leroy could tolerate in moments like this, it was Cheng. The man’s presence didn’t demand anything of him. No pity, no questions, no expectations.

  Minutes passed. The hum of the radio faded into static.

  Leroy reclined deeper into the couch, his eyes growing heavier, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

  Cheng took a slow sip of alcohol, eyes on the window. Rain had begun to fall, thin and deliberate.

  He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

  He was here — and that was enough.

  The first light of dawn spilled through the sheer curtains of Starmist’s chamber, painting the marble floor in soft gold. The air was perfumed with the scent of lilies and incense, faint and soothing — a deliberate attempt to erase the memory of last night’s blood and chaos.

  On the silken bed, Starmist lay awake, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders like moonlight. Her skin was pale but no longer fevered, the wound that had nearly ended her life now closed — though a faint ridge of scar tissue still marred the smoothness of her side. Bjorn had said it would fade within a week, but scars were not what troubled her.

  Around her, maids moved in quiet efficiency, arranging trays of fruit and baskets of gifts sent from dawn onward — ornate boxes wrapped in gold, crystal flasks of perfume, scrolls bearing the crests of noble houses and kingdoms. Some came from allies within the Council, others from royal courts seeking favor… and more than a few from men hoping to turn sympathy into courtship.

  From the veranda, soft instrumental music floated in — a harp, gentle and melancholic, played by the Stargate musicians to calm her soul.

  A knock echoed softly.

  “Come in,” Starmist said.

  The door opened to reveal Starfall, her eldest nephew, dressed in the dark blue uniform of Stargate’s elite division. His posture was impeccable, but his expression betrayed both fatigue and restrained frustration. In his hand was a scroll sealed from the Great Kingdom of Abyss.

  He took a seat beside her, glancing briefly at the fruit platter before plucking an unoffered grape and popping it into his mouth. “A letter of apology from King Darkon,” he said. “For what Lucretius did last night. They must be terrified we’ll cut off trade routes.”

  Starmist took the scroll, skimmed it, then rolled it neatly again. Her tone was calm, almost maternal. “No. This isn’t fear — it’s empathy. King Darkon’s heart is still sound. He understands the weight of ruling.”

  Starfall gave a small snort, half amused, half incredulous. “You always see the good in people, Aunt. Even when the assassins came to your doorstep.”

  Her lips curved into a soft smile, the kind that carried both strength and serenity.

  He leaned back, folding his arms. “So how did it feel? To be struck by Dark Adamsword? I’ve never heard of anyone surviving it before.”

  Starmist’s fingers brushed against the faint scar on her abdomen. Her gaze drifted to the balcony, to the faint shimmer of the horizon beyond. “Fortunate, perhaps. If anyone else had taken that blow, they wouldn’t survived.”

  “Why are you always like this?” Starfall sighed, exasperation bleeding through. “You could at least show an anger.”

  Starmist didn’t answer. She simply looked at him — not with anger, but with the kind of patience that made words unnecessary. It was that look that made Starfall both respect and resent her. He couldn’t decide whether her gentleness was her divine gift… or her curse.

  Breaking the silence, Starmist asked quietly, “And your sister? How is she?”

  Starfall’s tone softened. “Still asleep. Mother hasn’t left her side since last night. She hasn’t woken since last night.”

  “Let her rest,” Starmist said, sipping from a cup of warm herbal tonic prepared by her servants.

  Her nephew nodded, though his jaw tightened. “Maybe.” He rose and walked toward the open balcony, the sunlight casting long shadows over his face. “Still, that night is really cruel even for her age.”

  The harp outside shifted to a slower melody, and for a while, the only sound in the chamber was the music and the distant cry of birds.

  Starfall turned back to her suddenly, frustration rekindled. “I should’ve been out there, you know. If that cursed sorcerer hadn’t appeared, I’d have had my match. My opponent’s identity is still classified.”

  He dropped back into the chair, fuming. “And I had good odds this time — better than facing that Storm Samurai.” He kicked lightly at the carpet, a childish motion for someone meant to inherit a kingdom.

  Starmist allowed herself a small laugh. “Patience, Starfall. There’s always next year.”

  He groaned. “There isn’t a next year. Father said this would be my last Colosseum season. He wants me to focus on family things… to prepare to take over Stargate.”

  At that, Starmist set her cup down and studied him. “And how do you feel about that?”

  He hesitated, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly. “I hate it.”

  “You have to see the good side?” said Starmist, her tone patient, warm — the tone of someone who still believed in the better parts of others. “You’ll have greater responsibility now.”

  But Starfall’s expression hardened, the calm mask cracking into defiance. “No, how many times I should tell all of you!” he snapped, standing abruptly. “I don’t want responsibility! I don’t want to lead anyone — or to be the one people look up to.”

  The last words came out almost as a confession, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and helplessness.

  For a moment, the chamber seemed smaller, as if his outburst had pulled the air tight around them. Starmist studied him quietly, her aruze eyes soft but unreadable.

  He continued, pacing now. “All I ever wanted was to fight — to live freely, without these expectations, these chains of bloodline and duty. Leading a faction like my father? That’s a nightmare.”

  He turned, gesturing sharply toward the balcony where the banners of Stargate fluttered in the sea wind. “Do you even realize what that means? To bear their weight? This family, this faction… it’ll collapse if I’m forced to lead it!”

  The words landed like a blow. For the first time in years, Starmist’s composure wavered. Her brows furrowed, lips parting slightly in shock — not at his rebellion, but at the raw truth behind it.

  Before she could respond, Starfall spun on his heel and stormed toward the door. His boots struck the marble hard, echoing through the grand hallway beyond.

  “Starfall” she called after him, but the door had already closed. The sound lingered for a long time before silence returned.