The Ashenmaw Forest was as dreadful as ever. No birds sang there. No wind stirred the leaves. The forest listened, and it remembered.

  A portal opened between the crooked trunks, tearing the silence like a wound. Light spilled out, and from it stepped Cygnus Spellbane. He adjusted the folds of his dark robes and walked toward the lonely mansion that crouched among the dead trees.

  He knock the door and soon creaked open, Yugor stood there. Even after several visits, the servant still flinched at the sight of him. The aura of Sorcerer Supreme could not be hidden. It pressed on the air like a storm about to break.

  Yugor bowed his head and stepped aside.

  “Please, this way.”

  He led Cygnus down the dim corridors without another word. The sorcerer followed at a slow pace, hands folded behind his back, eyes drifting across the interior. The mansion smelled faintly of dust and cold stone, as if the warmth had been drained from it long ago.

  At last, Yugor pushed open a door.

  Inside, Lucretius sat on a chair. He faced the wall, not the window. His bare back showed in the gray light, thinner than it should have been. The muscles had not vanished, but they no longer held the same weight. He looked like a blade left too long in the rain.

  “General hasn’t eaten much this months,” Yugor said quietly. “he still refuses.”

  Cygnus said nothing. He studied the man’s silence, the stillness of his shoulders, the quiet defiance in the way he did not turn around.

  Lucretius did not acknowledge him at all.

  Yugor slipped out, closing the door behind him.

  Silence settled over the room. Ten minutes passed with almost no movement. The two councilmen might have been statues carved from the same cold stone. Neither spoke. Neither shifted. Even their expressions seemed fixed in place.

  Lucretius never once looked at Cygnus.

  At last, the sorcerer flicked his fingers. A chair formed from portal light and hardened into shape behind him. He sat.

  “Lucretius,” he said, his voice calm but edged with impatience. “How long will you act like this? Do you think I have nothing else to do?”

  No answer came. Lucretius kept staring at the wall, as if the stone held some secret only he could see.

  Cygnus closed his eyes. A long, tired breath left him.

  “If you refuse the program, that's your choice. But when will you return to the council?”

  A quiet voice answered, soft as dust falling from a shelf.

  “I will not return.”

  Lucretius’ eyes never moved from the wall.

  Cygnus opened his own and pointed at him.

  “I will say this again, as council member, we set aside personal feelings and desires for the All Realm.”

  No response. Only the faint sound of breathing in the still room.

  Cygnus leaned forward slightly.

  “I will ask you the same question again. But I expect a different answer.”

  He paused.

  “When will you return to the council?”

  Lucretius spoke without turning his head.

  “I will not return to the council.”

  The Fallen Knight did not waver. Not even a little.

  Cygnus nodded once, irritation flickering across his face. He rose from the conjured chair.

  “Very well. I have heard enough from you. The Abyss cannot remain vacant forever. The others and I will choose someone else.”

  He turned and reached for the door.

  Before his hand touched the handle, Lucretius stood.

  “Can you remove this weight from me?” he asked.

  Cygnus paused. He turned back, confusion clouding his sharp eyes, and walked toward him again.

  “Personal feelings are a problem for the council,” Lucretius continued. “Maybe there is a spell that can ease this.”

  There was no pride left in his voice. Only a quiet plea.

  “You do not need a spell,” Cygnus said. “And even if you did, I would not cast it. You only need to return to the council.”

  He turned his back again and looked out the window. The gray forest beyond the glass seemed to lean closer, as if listening.

  “Or perhaps,” Lucretius said softly, “you could make Starmist like me.”

  Cygnus pressed a hand to his forehead and exhaled. He turned around again, patience thinning.

  “How long will it take for you to understand? You and I were never meant to live for love or approval. Our duty and our power exist for something greater.”

  The words struck like stones.

  Lucretius sank back onto the bench, fingers digging into his hair.

  “Why, Lucretius?” Cygnus went on. “Is there no other woman in the abyss? Is it too painfull for you to see Leroy and Starmist together?”

  The questions came one after another, sharp and relentless.

  Lucretius suddenly shouted. He slammed his head against the wall once, then again. The dull thud echoed through the chamber. Even the Sorcerer Supreme fell silent.

  “Look at yourself,” Cygnus said at last, turning the ring on his finger. “You are unstable. You never learn how to behave like a council.”

  He studied the broken knight for a moment.

  “Do you truly think you deserve her love?”

  “Shut up!” Lucretius roared.

  His fist crashed into the wall. Stone split beneath the blow, a web of cracks spreading across the surface. He pointed at Cygnus, eyes burning.

  The sorcerer did not move. His gaze remained cold and steady, as if nothing in that room could threaten him.

  “If you want me back in the council,” Lucretius said, voice rough, “then grant one of my request.”

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  Cygnus let out a dry laugh.

  “The second option is absurdity. Should I remove Leroy? Or perhaps every man in the council, just to clear the path for you?”

  “Then give me the first one,” Lucretius said. The anger drained from his voice, leaving only a hollow calm.

  Cygnus drew a long breath.

  “I will return next week.”

  Without another word, he left the room. The door closed behind him, leaving the Fallen Knight alone with the cracked wall and the quiet weight in his chest.

  He walked through the mansion without waiting for servants. The corridors swallowed his footsteps. Outside the front door, he opened a portal and stepped through, the light fading as it sealed behind him on his way back to Morsalem.

  Inside the chamber, Lucretius returned to his chair. He stared at the wall again, as if nothing else in the world existed.

  Near the doorway, three figures watched through the narrow gap. Yugor, Fer, and Hun, his loyal servants, peered in silence at their general, unsure whether to enter or remain in the shadows.

  In District Three, Elysius had just finished his weekly duties. He sat inside the Pristine House with Leroy and D’Hertz, the three of them leaning near the bar while a small band played across the room. Strings hummed, glasses clinked, and the air smelled of smoke, polished wood, and strong liquor.

  The Pristine House was loud as always. Weapon Masters filled the place, their laughter rising above the music, their armor and weapons resting against chairs and walls like sleeping beasts. Elysius had begun to fit in among them. The others seemed to like him. He asked questions about everything, watched every duel, and listened to every story as if each word mattered.

  He had even started drinking with them.

  At first, Leroy kept an eye on his glass, measuring how much the boy took. But the alcohol did nothing. Not even a flicker of dizziness. Celestials were built differently, just like the aliens of House Star. Their bodies refused the fog of drunkenness.

  Unfortunately, their bladders did not share that resilience.

  If Elysius drank too much, he would rush off in a panic. Once, even Burgess in his beast form had tried to outlast him in a contest of endurance. The boy still won. The story spread quickly, and after that, the Weapon Masters treated him like one of their own.

  Sometimes they would joke and ask him to read their futures with those strange eyes of his. Elysius would squint into the distance, then suddenly shake his head and say the visions were cloudy today. The act always earned him laughter.

  He was starting to know almost every gang leader in the district. He spent most of his free time here instead of Takamagahara, despite Cygnus’ suggestion.

  “So,” D’Hertz said, plucking idly at his guitar, “how is the All Realm doing?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Still safe.”

  “I heard Bjorn is requesting a closed transmitter for the council,” Leroy said. “If the Cogworks approve, your work should ease a little.”

  They leaned against the bar, backs to the shelves of bottles, watching the crowd move and sway with the music.

  Elysius frowned.

  “I’m still annoyed with him. Instead of helping with the Cognisource, he’s writing some humor book and selling it to the public.”

  Leroy laughed.

  “That sounds like him.”

  “Even the professor wants a break from politics,” Elysius muttered. “Says he needs to clear his mind.”

  “When will the transmitter be ready?” he asked.

  Leroy lifted his drink.

  “He only just submitted the request.”

  Elysius sighed and let his shoulders drop.

  “Are you getting tired of your duty?” Leroy asked. “Maybe you and D’Hertz could split some of the work.”

  “It’s fine,” Elysius said. “I’m a Celestial.”

  D’Hertz grinned and nudged him with his shoulder.

  “Ah yes. Very reliable Celestial.”

  Elysius managed a faint smile, but it faded quickly.

  “There is one problem,” he said. “Every time I go to the Abyss, I have to deal with Samartian. I’m getting sick of it.”

  “Does it happen every time?” Leroy asked.

  Elysius nodded.

  D’Hertz chuckled.

  “At least your job gets exciting when she shows up.”

  “Exciting?” Elysius said. “She would kill me if she ever got the chance. Without hesitation.”

  Leroy’s expression hardened.

  “I’ll speak to King Darkon about it.”

  Elysius waved both hands at once.

  “No, no. Let it be.”

  Elysius lifted his glass, watching the light ripple through the liquid.

  “Last week, when I'm in the Stargate,” he said, “Starlax had already woken and laughing again."

  Leroy’s shoulders eased at the news. A faint, relieved smile crossed his face.

  “She asked about you,” Elysius added. “So I need to say something.”

  The smile faded.

  “What did you tell her?” the Green Wraith asked.

  Elysius took a casual sip.

  “I said you’d visit next week.”

  Leroy choked on his drink.

  “Why would you say that?” he gasped, coughing. “You picked an exact time for something like that? You should’ve said I’d come by unexpectedly."

  Elysius looked just as flustered.

  “She’s been asking for three weeks. What was I supposed to say to make her stop?”

  He rubbed his temple.

  “I even checked the future. That answer seemed like the only one that would quiet her.”

  “If I cannot come,” Leroy said, voice low, “then it becomes a lie. Starmist will hate me even more.”

  “Maybe this is the time you need to go,” Elysius replied.

  “Hey,” D’Hertz said, raising a hand between them. He looked from one to the other, clearly lost. “What exactly is happening here?”

  The two council members kept pointing at each other, both tense in their own ways. D’Hertz only blinked, unsure which side to take.

  Leroy finally drew a long breath and leaned back against the counter again.

  “I’m cursed,” he muttered.

  D’Hertz shrugged.

  “Still, as a man, you’re the one who has to go there.”

  The three of them lifted their glasses at the same time. They drank in silence, eyes drifting back to the crowd moving across the bar.

  After a moment, Leroy spoke again.

  “Fine. I’ll go.”

  “Next week?” Elysius asked.

  Leroy finished his drink in one long swallow and nodded. He set the empty glass down, then pushed himself away from the counter. Without another word, he headed toward the stairs that led back to the underground halls, leaving the other two behind.

  D’Hertz let out a small chuckle.

  “I used to think he only avoided dealing with Mia. Turns out he treats Starmist the same.”

  “Mia? One of the leader?” Elysius asked.

  “Yeah. But don’t worry about that one,” D’Hertz said, waving it off.

  Elysius only stared, unsure what to say after hearing about Mia. The boy’s expression turned blank, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle with pieces that did not quite fit.

  D’Hertz nudged his glass toward him.

  “Finish it. Don't waste a good drink.”

  Elysius obeyed, swallowing the rest. A moment later, the two of them stepped out of the Pristine House and into the streets of District Three.

  They walked toward the Arena of Valiance. The evening air carried the smell of metal, sweat, and cheap food from roadside stalls. Small fights were common there, the kind meant more for pride than blood. Entertainment for the restless.

  Many of the commonfolk already recognized Elysius. The Celestial had been seen around the district for months now. Still, his presence always felt strange. Like finding a diamond in a gutter. Something too bright for such a place.

  They talked and laughed along the way. D’Hertz strummed his guitar as they walked, playing odd little melodies that sounded half like tavern songs, half like something he had just invented on the spot. The music drifted through the narrow streets, light and careless.

  When they reached the arena’s entrance, both of them slowed.

  A crowd had gathered near the gate. Several people were being carried out on stretchers. Some groaned. Others were silent, their bodies limp beneath bloodstained cloth.

  D’Hertz and Elysius exchanged a look, then rushed inside.

  Chaos filled the arena. Weapon Masters lay scattered across the sand, most of them bearing the insignias of different gangs. They looked beaten beyond resistance.

  From the center of the arena came a booming voice.

  A massive man stood there, muscles like iron cables beneath his skin. He held a microphone, and no one in the stands dared challenge him.

  “If you cannot calm,” Rufus roared, “then I will keep it for you. With these thousand fists.”

  Around him, his subordinates moved in and out, dragging the wounded away. The ground was already stained dark in places.

  Rufus pointed at the crowd. Many of them were gang members themselves.

  “Next. Get down here!”

  No one moved. The spectators had seen enough broken bodies for one day.

  But Rufus’ men, soldiers of the Mainland guard, began forcing them forward. Some were shoved. Others were thrown directly into the arena.

  D’Hertz clenched his teeth. Then he leapt down from the stands, landing on the sand below.

  “What the meaning of this, Rufus?” he shouted. “Why are you hurting your own faction?”

  The crowd fell silent. Two Vanguard members of the Weapon Masters now stood facing each other. Everyone sensed what might follow.

  Rufus stepped forward and grabbed D’Hertz by the collar, pulling him close.

  “Council is in a fragile situation,” he whispered. “Leroy is distracted. I am doing what must be done as the keeper of security.”

  D’Hertz shoved him back, freeing himself from the grip.

  “Some of them are dead, you maniac,” he snapped.

  Rufus slipped his knuckles back onto his fingers, face hard.

  “You are too soft for a Vanguard, D’Hertz. Look at Susanoo, Raidbones, Dryskull. They would kill to maintain order.”

  “But not in this arena!” D’Hertz shouted.

  He pointed at the stands.

  “Your actions will drive the syndicate leaders straight to Leroy. You’re the one creating more problems.”

  Rufus’ expression darkened. He let out a sharp breath, then reached for his coat and round hat.

  “Do as you want. I’ve lost the mood to fight anyone today.”

  The Thousand Fist brushed past him, their shoulders colliding. Rufus called to his men, and they began to leave the arena in a tight formation. The show was over.

  D’Hertz followed behind them, making sure none of the soldiers lingered. One by one, they filed out. The spectators were ordered back to their own districts, and soon the arena fell quiet.

  Only the wounded and the two of them remained.