In a world where monsters roamed the land as casually as cattle and strength dictated law more firmly than any crown, a massive city stood.

  It rose from the earth like a titan’s monument—vast, ancient, unyielding. Its white-stone walls stretched outward in three rings around the center, each layer taller than the one before it, forming a fortress so immense that villages could fit comfortably within its embrace. From a distance, its silhouette looked almost living, as though some sleeping beast had allowed towers and battlements to grow upon its spine.

  At dawn, the land around it stirred long before the sun fully crowned the horizon. Golden light spilled across endless golden fields of wheat, where herds of horned grazer-beasts trundled lazily through mist that clung to the grass like layers of silk.

  The outer ring was a hive of life. Farmers with tools coaxed different kinds of vegetables, some the size of boulders from the soil. Caravans clattered along stone roads, pulled by large four-legged draft bulls with horns as long and large as twice a grown man’s arm. Smiths hammered steel in open-air forges, sparks flying like fireflies as they shaped weapons meant to hunt creatures as tall as houses.

  And everywhere, adventurers wandered.

  Armored hunters boasting tooth-necklaces of slain beasts strode proudly through merchant stalls. Young mages carrying satchels overstuffed with scrolls hurried toward academies built into the lower walls. Children played tag beneath statues of old heroes—those who shaped the age with sword, spell, or sheer will.

  The closer one drew to the center of the fortress, the more refined the world became.

  Bridges of marble arched over crystalline canals. Markets transformed into grand arcades filled with rare wares, phoenix feathers sealed in glass spheres, enchanted ink that glowed softly against parchment, potions that shimmered with colors not found in the natural spectrum. Nobles in embroidered cloaks rode expensive gilded carriages.

  And above it all…

  The heart of the realm.

  The castle’s inner keep.

  To call it a keep is an understatement. It was a palace of grandeur but also a towering citadel of white stone veined with streaks of silver, its spires so tall it would look like they were trying to pierce the heavens. Ancient barrier-wards, like faint blue smoke encircled the entire thing—emanating from the highest tower, humming with latent power.

  It was said the walls could withstand a thousand armies or the wrath of a single angered dragon.

  This was the seat of power in a world ruled not by kindness, nor democracy, nor noble ideals—but by strength, cunning, lineage, and legacy. All who entered its gilded gates understood a simple truth.

  In this land, weakness was not a sin. It was a death sentence.

  Still, hope flickered.

  A new age was beginning to stir. Shadows shifted. Stars whispered. Even the monsters in the distant plains seemed to pause and listen. On the outlying forests, massive tree-spirits, bark-skinned giants taller than windmills—lumbered at a snail’s pace along the forest’s heart, even paused their tending to their grove of ages.

  It was as if the entire world felt it.

  Deep in the bowels of the palace, far beneath the grand marble halls, deeper still than the vaulted armories and sealed libraries, within an octagonal chamber, carved from dark and silver-veined stone, ringed with tall hooded statues that reached the room’s ceiling, two figures stood.

  The air was cold here. Too cold.

  Not the simple chill of underground air, but the kind that clings to the soul, that tastes of shadows and secrets buried before the first king ever claimed the throne. The walls glowed faintly with runes arranged in eight spiraling patterns, each whispering in a language no human tongue had spoken for millennia.

  “Celes,” said the elder of the two.

  The man’s voice echoed sharply against the chamber walls, as if the room itself listened.

  He wore formal regalia, a dark-plated uniform of the High Magistrate, with a mantle clasped by a silver lion sigil. At 183 centimeters, he stood ramrod straight, posture as sharp as a drawn blade. Though he appeared to be in his mid-forties, there was a timelessness to him, an aura of someone who had seen too much and forgotten little.

  “Is it ready?”

  Across from him, kneeling before an intricate circular raised dais was a young woman—no more than twenty—but gifted with a presence that made the air around her vibrate faintly. Her ash gray hair drifted as though underwater, reacting to unseen currents of power. Lines of light crawled across her fingertips, weaving into the runes set before her.

  “Yes, majesty. We can begin.”

  ========================================================================

  10:10 PM, Japan, Western Cape

  The question and answer had already begun, and unsurprisingly, nearly everyone participated. The only three outliers were my parents and Nana baa-san—even though she was allowed to, considering she had also gone with the others on that bus ride.

  They sat together at a small round table near the back of the hall, a soft pool of golden light from the lights catching the edges of their silhouettes. My mother was talking animatedly with the old lady and Nana baa-san meanwhile seemed perfectly content to listen. She held her teacup in both hands, smiling faintly—one of those soft, unbothered smiles that made it clear she was amused at whatever story my mother was telling.

  While my father stared straight ahead at the podium, expression unreadable, though the slight tightening of his jaw told me he was listening to every word.

  Few people glanced their way, perhaps wondering why the three of them remained silent while the rest of the hall buzzed with raised hands and eager voices. But the questions kept coming, rolling one after another, and soon the room’s attention drifted back to the speaker at the front.

  I may or may not have indirectly, probably, in the vaguest sense, implied that Remy would be the one to host. He was giving a bit of a stinky eye, but what can you do. Remy’s face was hilarious when he got called.

  ========================================================================

  12:03 PM, Japan, Western Cape

  It was already midnight, and only four contenders remained in the game—my two sons, and the young ladies, Reika, and Shizuku. Konrad suggested we take a short break, and everyone drifted back to their seats. Almost immediately after sitting down, my eldest and Remington started ribbing each other, their voices full of familiar mischief. And then the other boys joined in, their table easily being the loudest.

  I sighed inwardly.

  Just then, someone came sprinting across the hall, shouting breathlessly, “Shifu! Shifu!”

  It was that other boy who Arthur seemed to be friends with, the one with the hair sculpted into a quiff. At first, I assumed he was calling for one of his own friends, but to my surprise, his attention was fixed on my firstborn. So, this one wasn’t Arthur’s friend, but his?

  Shifu means teacher in Chinese, at least from what I know. What nonsense had my son gotten himself into in this time? And judging by the puzzled expressions around us, I wasn’t the only one wondering. Another question to add to the ever-growing list I needed to ask him later.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  My son, however, looked genuinely confused.

  “Shifu means teacher in Chinese, right?” Arthur voiced exactly what I had been thinking. “So why is Burbank calling you teacher?”

  The question seemed to startle their friend who realized what he was doing and he glanced around uneasily at the eyes now fixed on him. He took a deep breath and spoke nonchalantly, like he was describing the weather.

  “Ai, shi fu zuijin de xinwen ni kanle ma?”

  Silence followed. Then Trayn voiced what everyone else was thinking. “What?”

  Everyone turned to my son, who simply shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’ve only just started learning Chinese.”

  Remington, however, translated with a small, amused chuckle. “He said, ‘Hey, have you seen the latest news about the city government?’”

  Everyone’s confusion grew.

  “Wei, my guy… what?” Trayn asked again, slower this time, as if that would help. Wei shot him a pleading look before turning desperately to my eldest.

  My son exchanged looks with Remington before he spoke in German. Now nobody could understand them.

  “What’s wrong Wei?”

  “We received word, Paris, London, Washington, New Delhi, and even Sydney, all under siege.”

  “Have we received any call for reinforcements?”

  “None yet. But Eli wants permission to go back. Archon Arnault got caught.”

  “She has my blessing. We’ll be fine here.”

  Their low, tense exchange ended just as abruptly as it began. Wei nodded resolutely, spun on his heel, and ran out of the hall.

  William stared after him before turning to his elder brother. “What was that about?”

  “The usual. Bad guys attacking. Got to respond,” my eldest replied with a shrug.

  So it was about games, then. Nothing surprising. He always threw himself into them as if they were matters of life and death.

  And from the seriousness on his face, perhaps, to him, they were.

  ========================================================================

  5:35 PM, Paris, France

  The heavens trembled as the two divine weapons locked onto one another. Lightning roared as the air itself shuddered.

  Taarush’s warbow pulsed with energy—its limbs vibrating like a living thing, the string a line of blinding red lightning. In his lower arms, the sword and spear resonated in tandem, drawing in power from the storm above.

  Across from him, Nivaan stood firm within Airavata’s howdah as he drew his bow once more. The weapon gleamed with ancient runes, burning with blue-white flame.

  They released simultaneously.

  Their strikes screamed through the air, blending with the rhythm of the already restless storm.

  éclat dove behind the larger mount, Arnault pressed low against her neck, holding on for dear life. Airavata trumpeted, erecting a radiant barrier of lotus petals that held against the wave.

  Two streaks—one gold-blue, one crimson—split the heavens as they collided midair. When the two bolts met, for an instant, time fractured.

  The detonation that followed cracked open the clouds like shattered glass, raining bright molten light across the battlefield. Shockwaves rolled in all directions, uprooting trees, near leveling the valley below, and vaporizing the air between them.

  Arnault regained control mid-fall before speaking through a telepathic link. “Nivaan, he’s drawing on the field’s power. We won’t win this slugfest we’ve got to focus on escape and warn the others.”

  Nivaan grimaced, his aura flaring as he replied. “Already working on it. But his friends sealed the exits. We’ll have to punch through.”

  Taarush, hovering above, raised an empty hand to the sky. Lightning spiraled around him like a vortex, condensing into a single sphere of incandescent plasma between his hand.

  “I am the storm given flesh!”

  “Vajra Vispho?a!” (Thunderbolt Explosion)

  He hurled it down.

  The plasma exploded outward—a wave of annihilating lightning sweeping the entire field. Anything within kilometers was engulfed in a blinding maelstrom of power.

  But the storm didn’t touch Arnault and Nivaan.

  A pink lotus as vast as a cathedral bloomed across the sky, its inside petals formed of blue flame and refracted light.

  “Amazing,” Taarush muttered begrudgingly. “As expected from one of the Astras. Your defensive capabilities truly are formidable.”

  Arnault charged at Taarush at near breakneck speed. Lightning spear met diamond-tipped lance in a cataclysmic clash, the discharge nearly ripping Arnault’s grip from Ode. He turned on his seat, bringing down Serment in another flaming arc but was countered by the khanda. He ducked down, just in time to avoid another volley of lightning arrows.

  Taarush reappeared directly in front of Arnault in a surge of lightning, swinging his khanda in a surge of lightning and thunder. Arnault raised Serment just in time—their blades clashed again, exploding with raw mana and sparks.

  “Now, Nivaan!” Arnault shouted as he parried blow after blow before he disengaged, Eclat darting away in a flash of white. Taarush thrust his spear, but it struck only the afterimage of refracted light.

  Nivaan’s response came like a whisper carried by the wind.

  Airavata—Pralaya Step.

  He was on the ground as the massive white elephant stomped, releasing a shockwave that folded space around its feet. A spiral of lotuses formed beneath it, glowing brighter and brighter until they merged into a column of light that extended upward trying to open a tear in the barrier.

  Taarush teleported a beat later behind Nivaan. He raised both Vajra and Paranjaya and upon impact, the Nivaan in front of him shattered like glass.

  Then a lotus bloomed where he stood, crystalline lattices of energy emanated outward then inward, forming a cage around him. Enraged he struck at it with lightning, tried to pierce it with Vajra, slash it with his sword, but Airavata’s barrier held.

  Arnault seized the chance. He kicked éclat into motion, his voice ringing inside his mind with command. Ode, Sing!

  His lance ignited, turning then twisting releasing a blade of pure radiance that spiralled into a drill. He and Eclat launched upward like a beam of light. They struck the edge of the barrier field—a lattice of energy that shimmered across the heavens—and split it open in a shower of sparks and sounds of cracking glass. Fast behind him, Nivaan followed, riding through the tear.

  High above, beyond the collapsing field, the two Archons emerged into calm skies of Paris. Their gambit had paid off and they quickly casted a small cloud around themselves as cover. Arnault’s breathing was ragged and his armor was in pieces. Nivaan slumped in Airavata’s howdah, exhaustion bleeding through their auras.

  Arnault guided éclat closer.

  “Message first,” he said through shallow breaths. “Then we regroup.”

  Nivaan nodded with resolve.

  A wide band telepathic communication rang out, reaching the minds of the members in the continent.

  Attack on Notre-Dame a stalemate. Mages after ley lines. Clean up, 2 bodies at Montparnasse Cemetery.

  ========================================================================

  00:36 AM, Japan, somewhere near the border of Meguro city and Ebisu

  The updated feed came through. Chief inspector Kuroda and Assistant inspector Masaki leaned in as the screen expanded, the data unfolding across Tokyo like a luminous web.

  After the maps from neighboring districts were added and they connected the dots, twelve bright lines appeared—all seemed to be intersecting in the capital. While at the city’s core, three concentric paths circled a single point.

  The two men looked at each other. Cold sweat now pouring on their backs because they may have uncovered something.

  Kuroda wiped the sweat from his palms. “That’s—not something you see every day. Are these cultists we’re dealing with?”

  Masaki didn’t answer. He was still tracing the pattern, line by line, something gnawing at the edge of his mind. The center of the web felt, wrong. Too deliberate. Too close.

  ========================================================================

  5:59 PM, Paris, France

  “Converge on the ley lines! The enemy intends to do something there!” Arnault barked into his phone as he and Nivaan weaved through the thick pedestrian traffic, their pace hurried but controlled.

  The streets of Paris were oblivious to the battle that had raged over Montparnasse Cemetery moments ago, or even to the wider war happening. To the casual observer, two men running through the evening bustle were nothing more than hurried travelers. But Arnault and Nivaan were hunters now, and the city itself felt like a fragile cage.

  They reached the towering silhouette of Notre-Dame de Paris, its spires standing proudly into the sky. Nivaan’s eyes flicked upward.

  “The ley lines converge beneath the nave and choir. They might have set up wards somewhere, which makes anyone who directly approaches stand out almost immediately,” he muttered.

  Arnault nodded, already scanning the fa?ade. “Either way, we can get a better vantage from above. We go quiet. Let’s move.”

  Nivaan nodded before he let out another telepathic message.

  “To all members of the Oder entering Notre-dame, C.O.D.E is in effect.”

  With practiced stealth, the Archons weaved through the crowds into the cathedral’s interior, disappearing behind columns and blind spots, occasionally using side corridors and access ways, then climbing the three hundred steps upward until they reached the top.

  They entered the restricted sections of the timber roof framing, moving along catwalks suspended high above the vaulted ceilings. In front, muffled sounds of combat reached them—members of the Order were already engaged with the mages, their wardsigns absorbing sound and magic, making the chaos they make imperceptible to the people below.

  The two navigated the labyrinth of beams and walkways, stepping carefully along narrow wooden planks. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors on the attic floor. The air smelled of old wood, stone, and candle wax.

  Arnault exhaled as he scanned the space.

  “Warning’s gone out. Ley lines aren’t fully secured yet, but we’ve bought some time.”

  Nivaan nodded, exhaustion also clear on his face.

  “And we just survived the attic of Notre-Dame. Barely.”

  Arnault again contacted the people who were already fighting and was informed that Marcelle was near the nave in one of the pews. She was coordinating all of the fighters. She was also responsible for the disruption of work crews who were performing reconstruction and repair work, while Nivaan was watching for any signs of approaching enemies.

  “Marcelle said that the place is already warded, but we can’t fight too hard. With so many of us fighting, she can’t hold back the damage for too long.”

  Nivaan stood straight and nodded. “Then we must hurry and stop whatever it is they are planning here.”