The blackened wounds that had once devoured Cygnus Spellbane flesh were gone.

  The curse that had burned across his body in the Colosseum had vanished without a trace — no scars, no residue of pain.

  He was whole again.

  Inside the Southern Sorcerer’s Temple, the Sorcerer Supreme sat alone at his obsidian desk.

  Before him lay a thick spellbook, its pages the color of old bone. He wrote with a quill of goose feather, the ink glowing gold as it struck the parchment.

  Each stroke released faint sparks that drifted upward before fading like dying fireflies.

  Around him, the desk was crowded with the sacred tools of his craft: an hourglass filled with magical sand, an magical compass, and several flasks of potion still bubbling with faint fumes.

  Whatever he was writing — whether the birth of a new spell or the correction of an ancient one — it was enough to make even the temple’s spirits watch in reverent silence.

  The room itself was a paradox of creation and decay —

  walls of polished black stone that drank light, paired with wide crystal windows that poured sunlight into the chamber.

  A perfect equilibrium: radiance and shadow in quiet conspiracy.

  Then, a knock on the heavy wooden door broke the stillness.

  It creaked open to reveal an Elder Spiritualist Sorcerer, his long beard flowing to his chest, his eyes clouded but sharp beneath the weight of years. Around his neck hung a large silver medallion that shimmered faintly with runes of preservation. His robes were immaculate white, covering him from neck to heel.

  In his hands, he held a staff capped with an oval crystal that released a thin stream of smoke, fragrant with Osmanthus oil. The scent drifted across the room.

  “Master Spellbane,” the old man said, bowing slightly as he gripped his staff with both hands. “The autopsy is complete.”

  Cygnus paused mid-line. The quill stopped glowing. He closed the spellbook gently and placed the feather beside it.

  Then he rose slow, deliberate, and silent — his robes whispering against the polished floor. Without a word, he gestured for the elder to lead.

  They descended the spiral staircase, twenty floors below the temple’s sanctum.

  Each level grew colder, darker, until even the air seemed reluctant to move.

  At the bottom lay an ancient ritual hall carved directly from the black mountain from centuries age.

  The space looks like grand circular chamber, built with tiered stone seats that encircled a central altar.

  Four other spiritualists sorcerer were already gathered there, their silver pendants glinting in the low light. Each one knelt, murmuring silent incantations around the bodies laid upon the altar.

  One corpse wore the purple garb of a high sorcerer — the mark of a once-great practitioner now reduced to stillness.

  Beside it lay the twisted form of the creature slain during the Colosseum battle, its body half-melted, half-chopped, as if the laws of life had given up halfway through its creation.

  Cygnus stepped closer, his eyes glinting faintly in the rune light.

  He did not speak.

  He only observed — the faint rise and fall of air, the tension of magic lingering in the corpse.

  And in that silence, every other sorcerer present felt the shift —

  as though something unseen, something ancient and aware, was listening through Cygnus’s gaze.

  Cygnus’s voice broke the silence, calm but edged with curiosity.

  “So… what did you find?”

  He absently turned the ring on his left middle finger as he spoke — a habitual gesture that glinted faintly under the green glow of runes surrounding the corpses.

  The two bodies lay encircled by candles, their wax long melted into rivers across the altar floor. The air shimmered faintly where preservation runes pulsed — bright, sigils drawn to delay decay.

  Grodom, one of the spiritualist sorcerer, stepped forward and bowed slightly.

  “This is clearly not of our world,” he said. “But where it came from — or how it arrived here — we cannot yet say.”

  Cygnus’s gaze sharpened.

  “The rune isn’t working,” he murmured.

  He snapped his fingers once — and the green lights flickered out instantly. The chamber seemed to grow heavier.

  “Tell me,” he continued, “is this body preserved because its nature resists corruption… or because our realm itself refuses to claim it?”

  The question hung in the air like a spell no one dared to answer.

  Grote, the white-bearded spiritualist, cleared his throat.

  “Extraterrestrial physiology often differs from ours, even if they command the same magical principles.”

  Cygnus nodded faintly, pacing around the altar with his hands clasped behind his back. His reflection flickered across the obsidian tiles beneath his feet.

  Girte, another of the circle, spoke next — her tone laced with conviction.

  “Whatever this thing is, it represents blasphemy against existence itself. A desecration of the All Realm.”

  Cygnus tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “House of Solivara, then?” he asked, stroking his beard. His voice held neither certainty nor doubt.

  Grodom frowned.

  “If there’s no trace of a portal, and no record of a sorcerer entering the All Realm recently… how did he arrive?”

  Cygnus looked up at the dim runes carved into the ceiling, his mind already racing beyond them.

  “The most likely explanation,” he said slowly, “is that they came aboard an Extraterrestrial vessel — one of the trade ships returning from the export.”

  He began circling the corpse again, his movements slow, almost ceremonial. Each step echoed faintly in the chamber.

  “We also confirmed,” said Grumu, unrolling a parchment filled with neat runic script, “that no forbidden scrolls or arcane texts have gone missing. There’s no evidence this creature learned its craft within the All Realm.”

  Grote shifted uneasily.

  “Then… is it possible we’ve been breached again, Master Spellbane?”

  Cygnus exhaled, a slow and heavy sound. His expression didn’t change, but the room felt colder.

  “If we have,” he said, “it would be impossible. The magic within this being is far too mature. This is no apprentice’s hand — this is the work of something ancient, disciplined.”

  His gaze swept across the circle of spiritualists, their faces half-lit by candlelight.

  “The true danger,” he continued, “is not the creature itself. It’s what happens if others begin dabbling in these so-called ‘tricks’ — these counterfeit miracles. Even small distortions in the weave can disrupt the balance of the entire realm.”

  Geb, the youngest among them, hesitated before speaking — his voice breaking the stillness like a crack of dry wood.

  “Master Spellbane… apart from its refined magic — what makes you so certain this wasn’t an infiltration?”

  Cygnus’s gaze remained fixed on the corpses, his tone steady and analytical.

  “He couldn’t have been na?ve enough to attack the Council so openly,” he said. “Even the most desperate would think twice before making that mistake.”

  He extinguished another candle with a flick of his fingers; its smoke curled into the air like the last breath of a prayer.

  “If he’s been in the All Realm long enough, he would understand our hierarchy. He’s strong that much is certain. His actions weren’t born of stupidity, but of confidence... the kind that exceeds understanding.”

  Cygnus moved along the altar’s edge, the dim light tracing the outline of his black robes. One by one, the candles around the corpse died at his command until the chamber was lit only by the runes’ faint afterglow.

  “Which means,” he said quietly, “he didn’t learn this craft here in the All Realm.”

  Geb drew the shroud over the dead sorcerer’s face, his voice low but contemplative.

  “Once again, the cosmos proves it — that there are others out there who’ve mastered the same art we call sorcery.”

  Grodom stepped forward, covering the warped corpse of the shapeshifted creature beside it. His tone carried unease.

  “Then... is this a new threat to our faction, Master Spellbane?”

  Cygnus finally looked up, his golden eyes glinting in the dimness.

  “A single wayward sorcerer showing off his strength isn’t a threat to Morsalem,” he said. “But if he spreads an idea — if he preaches an ideology that defies ours, that is where we intervene.”

  He tilted his head slightly, eyes lowering again toward the body — not moving his face, only shifting his gaze downward, as though he were judging the corpse rather than studying it. The silence that followed carried more authority than any command.

  Girte broke it first, her voice tentative.

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  “Master Spellbane… shall we prepare an official autopsy report for the Council?”

  Cygnus sighed, reaching into the inner fold of his robe.

  “No need. The enemy is dead. The threat insignificant. If the Council demands answers, I’ll give them myself.”

  He drew out a small talisman — a silver disk etched with luminous runes — and turned it once between his fingers. The green glow from the floor dimmed further as though obeying his thoughts.

  “We have greater concerns to attend to than cataloging a corpse that never belonged here in the first place,” he said, voice softer now but final.

  The other sorcerers exchanged uneasy glances, bowing slightly in acknowledgment. None dared to question him.

  Above, the last candle sputtered out.

  Cygnus never needed to teach the spiritual sorcerers, not in the way others did.

  Before them, instruction was unnecessary. His presence alone was a reminder that the world must continue turning according to the creed of their faction.

  The Sorcerer Supreme kept the truth of the Starmist and Lucretius incident to himself. Quietly, he gave his command: the two corpses were to be buried in the Northern Abyss Realm.

  The spiritualists sorcerer obeyed. They covered the bodies in cloth, murmuring sealing incantations to contain any lingering essence. Then they carried the shrouded remains below, to the preservation chamber, where the dead were kept in waiting before being handed over to Gruk.

  When the chamber emptied, Cygnus returned to sit near the altar.

  A stack of letters awaited him — brown parchment marked with the golden-black ink used only by the Sorcerer Faction.

  He read in silence for fifteen minutes, he said nothing, while the spiritualists quietly cleansed the altar of death.

  Finally, without looking up, he spoke.

  “When was the last time Sicilia and Nymeria came here?”

  Grote straightened, clutching his staff.

  “Three… perhaps four months ago, Master Spellbane. It has been quite some time.”

  Cygnus lifted one of the letters between two fingers, the edges trembling slightly under his touch. His eyes narrowed.

  “And at that last meeting… were their convictions still strong?”

  His tone had changed — still calm, but now laced with a restrained irritation. The golden fire in his eyes burned hotter, revealing the rarest thing in him: disappointment.

  Grote hesitated before answering.

  “Y–yes, Master Spellbane. Their faith was intact. They continue to send reports to you, don’t they?”

  Cygnus raised the parchment, shaking it slightly.

  “Then what do you think this is?”

  The room fell silent.

  He set the letter down with deliberate care, his jaw tightening.

  “I’ll speak to both of them myself. The territories they serve are strong enough to distract them, but that’s no excuse for negligence.”

  There was a pause. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Then Girte, unable to restrain her curiosity, spoke.

  “Forgive me, Master Spellbane… but… do you still cooperate with Adam?”

  Cygnus turned his head sharply. The motion was subtle, but the air trembled as if space itself recoiled. His voice came out low — measured, but edged with absolute command.

  “You will address my order’s members as Masters,” he said. “And Adam will always have a place within it, regardless of his origins.”

  He pointed directly at Girte as he spoke, his eyes blazing with the weight of unspoken history.

  Cygnus turned toward the open door, already walking away. His robe whispered across the stone floor.

  Beyond the gates stretched a vast sea of green steppe, wind sweeping across it in waves. The sky above was clear and blindingly blue — a rare mercy in a world ruled by shadow and magic.

  Cygnus inhaled deeply, feeling the breeze against his face. For a moment, the Sorcerer Supreme looked almost human.

  The first light of dawn washed over Stargate, gilding the marble towers and crystalline windows of the manor. The gardens shimmered with dew, and the air carried the faint fragrance of star-roses swaying in the early wind.

  In the western dining hall, Lord Star, Lady Star, and Starmist sat together for breakfast as the sun rose slowly over the horizon.

  Lady Star poured syrup generously over a stack of soft, steaming pancakes — so much that the plate looked almost like a bowl of sugar soup.

  "Dear husband,” she said between bites, “how did things go with Starfall last night?”

  Lord Star turned a page of his Cognisource newspaper and spoke without looking up.

  “He’s... complicated. We’ll need more time to understand his emotions, I think.”

  Lady Star sighed, shaking her head slightly.

  “I truly can’t comprehend that boy’s way of thinking,” she said, her tone caught between irritation and disappointment. “Perhaps finding him a wife would anchor him — give him a little sense of responsibility.”

  Lord Star chuckled softly, still scanning the morning headlines.

  “Finding him a wife would be the easiest thing in the world,” he said dryly. “Women are already quite taken with him. But tell me—do you really think having what comes easily will make him value it?”

  Lady Star paused, her fork hovering in midair. She didn’t answer.

  Across the table, Starmist remained quiet, content to eat and stay out of her elder brother’s domestic debates. She wore a thick sapphire-blue coat, warm enough for travel. She had plans that morning — to leave for the northern territories with Elysius.

  Lady Star’s gaze turned toward her.

  “Speaking of marriage,” she said playfully, “Starmist, have you given any thought to your own future?”

  Starmist looked up from her plate, her tone polite but firm.

  “Honestly, not yet. For now, I’d rather focus on the Council.”

  Lady Star smiled knowingly.

  “Just as I thought you’d say. But don’t wait too long, I doubt the men of the All Realm will be patient forever.”

  Starmist laughed softly, as did Lord Star, whose eyes finally lifted from the newspaper.

  At that moment, the door to the dining hall opened, and a gate servant stepped in, bowing respectfully to the three nobles. His eyes turned briefly to Starmist.

  “Lady Starmist,” he said, “Elysius is waiting at the front gates.”

  Starmist nodded, taking a few quick bites to finish her meal.

  “Understood. Please tell him I’ll be right there.”

  She rose, wiping her hands with a napkin, and gave a courteous smile to her brother and sister-in-law.

  “Thank you for breakfast. I’ll be gone only a few days.”

  As she reached for her gloves, Lord Star folded his newspaper and looked up.

  “Before you go,” he said, “have Elysius come in. I’d like a word with him.”

  Starmist’s smile faltered slightly.

  “Ah… I think we’re in a bit of a rush, brother. Perhaps another time.”

  Lord Star regarded her for a moment, then simply nodded.

  “Very well.”

  “I will,” Starmist replied, her voice soft but certain.

  She turned and left the dining hall.

  The morning corridors of Stargate gleamed in pale gold as Starmist made her way toward the front hall.

  Halfway down the long, blue-carpeted corridor, she nearly collided with Starlax, who had just woken.

  The young girl’s white hair was tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep as she rubbed one with the back of her hand.

  “Auntie, where are you going?” the child mumbled, stifling a yawn.

  Starmist smiled softly, bending slightly to ruffle her niece’s messy hair.

  “Council duty, little star. I’ll be gone only a few days, all right?”

  Starlax nodded, too drowsy to ask more. She padded barefoot toward the dining hall while Starmist turned toward the exit.

  Inside the hall, Lord Star and Lady Star were still seated at the table, their breakfast nearly finished. The seats meant for their two sons remained empty.

  For a moment, the husband and wife simply looked at each other — not coldly, but with the quiet fatigue of two rulers who have seen too much of the same dawn.

  Lady Star was the first to speak.

  “You’ve heard about your sister’s accident, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” Lord Star replied evenly, setting down his cup of sweet chocolate. “She doesn’t wish to make an issue of it. Best if you don’t either.”

  But Lady Star leaned forward, eyes sharp, voice edged with restrained worry.

  “That’s not the point. Starmist is a pearl to our faction and to the entire All Realm. How long can she keep risking her life like that?”

  Lord Star took another sip, calm as still water.

  “It’s in her nature,” he said. “And as long as Leroy, Amaterasu, and Bjorn are watching over her, we should trust in her judgment.”

  Lady Star frowned, her tone tightening.

  “They were close once, yes — but you know as well as I do how politics changes people.”

  Lord Star folded his hands, finally meeting her gaze.

  “Then tell me, my wife — what would you have me do? I cannot return to the Council. My time there has passed. You understand that, don’t you?”

  For a long moment, Lady Star said nothing. She looked down at her cup, then slowly changed the subject.

  “Speaking of our daughters,” she said carefully, “have you given any second thoughts about betrothing our girl to Prince Morrigan?”

  Lord Star exhaled softly.

  “They’ve been close since childhood. I’m merely guiding them toward what’s already natural between them. It’s not a forced bond — not yet.”

  Lady Star raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

  “Even after what Morrigan did to Starlax at the Colosseum?”

  Lord Star’s expression didn’t change.

  “Childish mischief,” he said. “Nothing more. And to his credit, the boy stood before both the Council and the Vanguard to apologize. Darkon has raised his heir well.”

  He looked thoughtful, then added,

  “It’s time we teach our daughter the same grace, so she might be worthy of the throne beside him one day.”

  Lady Star’s lips parted to reply, but before she could, the soft sound of small footsteps echoed through the hall.

  Starlax entered, smiling brightly, the tension in the room dissolving at once.

  “Good morning, Father! Good morning, Mother!”

  Lord Star rose from his chair and knelt slightly to meet her height, wrapping her in a gentle embrace.

  “My little star,” he said warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

  Starlax giggled, half embarrassed, half delighted by her father’s affection.

  Lady Star shifted her seat so the girl could sit between them. The servants quietly refilled her plate with golden pancakes and a drizzle of syrup.

  The girl picked up her fork eagerly, her appetite as bright as her smile.

  “How’s your speech practice coming along, my dear?” Lord Star asked, brushing a stray strand of white hair from her face.

  Starlax chewed, swallowed, and looked up at him — eyes wide, hopeful, unaware of the political constellations being drawn above her head.

  It’s going well! I’ve learned a lot of new proverbs already,” she said proudly.

  For a moment, Lord Star and Lady Star exchanged a puzzled glance — then both smiled.

  “My sweet girl,” Lady Star said gently, “I’ll be adding another course to your studies next month, all right?”

  “Okay!” Starlax replied, still chewing. Her words came muffled through a mouthful of syrup and pancakes.

  Then came the sound of measured footsteps — slow, steady, and deliberate.

  The door opened, and Starslayer, the second son of House Star, entered the dining hall. His long white hair fell neatly down his shoulders, his expression composed, eyes glacial.

  Without greeting anyone, he crossed the room and sat beside his father. He reached for the folded newspaper Lord Star had been reading, took it, and began scanning the pages in silence.

  Lady Star’s tone sharpened slightly.

  “Starslayer, do you not see your mother and father here?”

  He didn’t look up. Didn’t answer. The rustle of the newspaper was his only reply.

  Lord Star glanced at him briefly, saying nothing for a long moment. The tension hung heavy, though Starlax, still busy with her breakfast, barely noticed.

  After several seconds, Starslayer spoke first — not to apologize, but to inform.

  “Father, have you heard? The Scavenger from Cogworks growing more reckless lately.”

  Lord Star sighed softly and reached out to take the paper from his son’s hands.

  “Enough. Eat first. Others can wait.”

  But Starslayer ignored him. Folding the newspaper neatly, he rested both elbows on the chair’s arms, fingers laced together in thought.

  “Actually,” he said calmly, “I think it might work in our favor. The Scavengers’ chaos will drive up the demand for batteries across the markets. Profits will rise — as will our wealth.”

  Lady Star’s expression hardened. Lord Star’s eyes lifted, the faintest glimmer of steel behind his calm.

  “Starslayer,” he said, his tone deepening, “I’ve told you before: oppression is the debt of greed. Our faction agreed long ago that—”

  “Father,” Starslayer interrupted, his voice cold but composed. “Let’s not pretend morality feeds anyone. Our comfortable life is built on wealth. And wealth—”

  Lady Star cut him off sharply.

  “Your duty,” she said, voice firm, “is to keep training until your power awakening. Then we’ll discuss duty.”

  Starslayer turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation.

  “Don’t deny it, Mother. I’m the only one of your children who truly cares about the survival of this house.”

  The words landed like a spark in dry air.

  Lord Star set his cup down carefully — no anger, no raised voice — only the sound of authority being restored. His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of command that silenced entire councils.

  “You’ll do as your mother says,” he said evenly. “And you will not speak of matters that fall to your elder brother’s responsibility.”

  Starslayer’s voice broke the brief silence, low but cutting.

  “Starfall is incompetent. Foolish. He’ll drag this House into ruin.”

  He didn’t look at either of his parents — only at his hands, pale against the dark table, as though the words were meant for them instead of the people across from him.

  Lady Star’s patience finally cracked.

  “Starslayer, that’s enough. This is a breakfast table, not a Council chamber.”

  He pushed his chair back and rose. His composure remained, but his eyes had hardened into something colder than defiance.

  “Perhaps one day you’ll see Starfall for what he truly is,” he said quietly. “Dysfunctional.”

  He turned and walked toward the door. His footsteps echoed across the marble, calm and unhurried — yet every one of them felt like the closing of a gate.

  Lord Star exhaled slowly, setting down his cup. His gaze remained steady, but behind his calm lay something weary — the ache of a father watching the foundation of his legacy fracture.

  Lady Star, hands trembling slightly, stared at the empty doorway where her son had stood.

  Disappointment clouded her face — not just for Starslayer’s arrogance, but for Starfall’s absence, and for the growing distance between them all.

  Across the table, little Starlax looked from one parent to the other, her eyes wide and uncertain.