Instead of retreating to their quarters, Leroy, Bjorn, and Elysius chose to step beyond the walls—down into the sleeping streets of Neruga, where lamps flickered like veins of amber in the dark.

  When the people realized who walked among them, the city came alive. The commonfolk whispered in awe, simply staring—three Council member, seen usually only in newspapers or the glow of radio.

  The trio stopped before an old opera house, its brass fa?ade gleaming faintly.

  They took seats not in the balcony of honor, but in the front row among the townsfolk.

  The performance began.

  The orchestra rose in haunting tones as the curtains parted, revealing a scene of an age long past—the time when Sorcerers and commonfolk kings had stood side by side to fight the Ancient Elemental Gods. Firestorms, illusions, and echoes of divine wrath painted the stage in gold and shadow.

  Elysius leaned forward, eyes wide with wonder, a small bag of roasted corn in hand. “This story… it’s from a thousand years ago,” he said, his voice a mix of reverence and disbelief.

  Bjorn glanced sideways, smirking. “Didn’t think you’d know history, boy. I figured you only looked toward the future.”

  That earned a short laugh from both Bjorn and Leroy.

  The three sat in quiet awe as the story unfolded—a tale of sacrifice and rebellion, where men dared to strike at gods. When the curtain finally fell, the cast bowed deeply toward them, the Council’s insignia glinting under the spotlight as the audience erupted into applause.

  Bjorn rose and clapped as well, cigar tucked behind his ear, a grin spreading across his face. “Not bad,” he said.

  Afterward, the trio wandered into a modest tavern tucked between the old steam alleys. The room smelled of oak and salt, laughter rising from a few sailors sharing drinks. They found a corner table, ordered food, and for the first time in days, simply existed as themselves—not as leaders, not as symbols, just companions.

  Leroy’s transmitter blinked softly on the table. He sighed and answered.

  The voice that emerged was calm, deep, and unmistakable. Cygnus.

  “How was the meeting?”

  Leroy replied, “All stable. No conflict. The council remains strong.”

  Bjorn leaned closer, grinning at the small device. “You hear that? Still no wars started, no kings offended. You can relax.”

  “Good,” said Cygnus, his tone clipped but approving. “Maintain their discipline. Remind them where they stand.”

  Bjorn chuckled, taking a swig of ale. “You don’t have to worry. As long as Professor Bjorn is here, their mouths stay shut.”

  There was a faint exhale of amusement from the transmitter. “Such a moral compass, Professor. Send my regards to Lord Star.” Then the connection cut, leaving only a faint hum in its wake.

  Elysius, leaning back in his chair, twirled his empty glass idly. “Can I ask something strange?” he said after a pause.

  Both Leroy and Bjorn looked up.

  “It’s about Master Spellbane,” he continued. “I asked Starmist before, but I want to hear your take. He used to sit on the Council, didn’t he? Alongside Lord Star. Why hasn't he retired yet?”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Bjorn nearly choked on his drink, laughing. “You call him strange? Boy, your entire faction makes strange look normal.”

  Elysius only smiled, unbothered.

  Leroy answered with his usual calm. “Even in unity, ideologies never vanish. The factions may work together now, but their philosophies remain different.”

  Bjorn didn’t seem to care much for the philosophical thread of their earlier conversation. He simply adjusted his coat, muttering something about “overthinking and under-drinking,” while Elysius sit beside him in silence—head lowered, eyes lost in thought.

  By the time the moon stood high and pale above Neruga, the three councilors were making their slow way back to the palace on foot. The night air was cool, the cobblestones glimmered faintly under lamplight, the streets mostly empty now.

  Someone once said that when a man’s mind is tangled with too many thoughts, a walk beneath the open sky can untie a few knots.

  Perhaps that was why they didn’t take a carriage home.

  At the front gate, three Regal Vanguards were stationed for the night shift—Raidbones, D’Hertz, and Druganda—each embodying a different kind of exhaustion.

  D’Hertz lay sprawled lazily on a mound of grass, strumming his guitar, the slow melody wandering somewhere between lullaby and lament. The sound was enough to make anyone drowsy.

  Raidbones, in stark contrast, stood sentinel before the gate—arms crossed, unmoving, a silent wall of muscle and discipline. His white mane glimmered faintly under the lantern light.

  Meanwhile, Druganda was inside a small enclosed post, helmet off for once, hidden from view. The poisonous aura that surrounded him when exposed was sealed away by the thick iron walls. For the first time that day, he could breathe freely.

  “Where’s your smile, vanguards?” Bjorn called out, half in jest. “Tomorrow’s the last day.”

  He pointed teasingly toward Druganda, who blinked from his seat inside the guard post, clearly unimpressed.

  Raidbones grunted, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “There’s nothing worth smiling about, Professor. I should be back in the Abyss training the corporals, not guarding nobles who talk in circles.”

  Leroy chuckled quietly. “You know as well as I do, Figar, you’re the only one from Abyss we trust for this sort of work. We can’t exactly ask Dryskull to handle this.”

  Raidbones snorted. “That sickly corpse been in the north too long.”

  Bjorn raised his hands, surrendering to their weariness. “Alright, enough morbid talk. Let’s not turn the night sour. Come on, gentlemen—inside.”

  The three Councilors left their Vanguard behind, their footsteps fading into the stone corridors of the palace.

  Tomorrow would mark the final day of the Silver Chair. After that, a week of rest—though for council of the All Realm, rest was always a myth.

  Inside the palace, they made their way not to their quarters, but to the recreation lounge, a warm, quiet chamber lit by amber lamps and the hum of a small clockwork hearth.

  Elysius spread out his notebook on the low table, flipping through the pages he’d filled—or tried to fill. Even now, his writing barely covered half a sheet. So many words had been spoken, but so few he could truly grasp.

  Bjorn slumped into the couch beside him, removing his iron gloves and setting his round spectacles on the table. His heavy coat landed on the chair behind him.

  “Uncle,” Elysius began, hesitating as he pointed at one of his scribbles. “What does this term mean?.”

  He got no reply.

  Bjorn’s head had already tipped backward, mouth slightly open, bottle still clutched tightly in one hand. The mighty Professor of Cogworks was already asleep—snoring like a furnace on low power.

  Elysius sighed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You lecture about enthusiasm and fall asleep first.”

  Leroy, sitting nearby and loosening the straps of his uniform, gave a quiet chuckle. “Let him rest.”

  He set aside his beret and armor plates, revealing the faint exhaustion beneath the calm. “You can stay up if you like, Elysius. Just… not in here. Let the fat man sleep.”

  Elysius nodded and gathered his notes. “I’ll go outside. Fresh air might help me think.”

  He slipped out, leaving the two senior councilors behind. Bjorn’s snoring resumed almost immediately, echoing softly against the ornate ceiling. Leroy smiled faintly at the sound—it was strangely comforting in the stillness.

  But rest didn’t come easily.

  The faint glow of his transmitter blinked once on the desk. He hesitated, then pressed it.

  A familiar voice flowed through—a voice of grace and steel. Starmist.

  “Leroy,” she said. “I trust all is well?”

  “Yes,” he answered, his tone low. “No disputes, no threats. The sessions have been steady.”

  They talked for a few minutes before both of them drifted off to sleep.

  Tomorrow the first cracks in the Reign of Superhumans would begin to show.