Cryus looked up—and saw Gravio advancing toward Imperial, who was locked in battle against Ari and the others.
Gravio raised his hand, conjuring a massive iron spear, dense with gravitational pressure.
He hurled it toward Imperial's back—his blind spot.
The projectile moved so fast that air itself bent around it.
In a blink—
Blood sprayed.
Everyone froze.
Even the clash of steel fell silent.
Imperial looked back in shock. The spear had pierced through a body—but not his.
It was Cryus.
The iron spear on his heart .
The lightning general stood between Imperial and death, the spear buried deep in his chest. Blood streamed down his armor as he fell to one knee… then collapsed completely.
"Dad… DAD!!!"
Imperial's scream ripped through the silence.
In his mind, chaos: screams, death, memories of everyone he loved—his father, his mother, Ari, little Emi—falling again and again.
He shook, clutching his head. No… stop…
Darkness swallowed it all. Black. Silence. Nothing.
The battlefield—once roaring with fire and thunder—fell into a pin-drop silence.
Even Jimmy, who had been charging from behind, stopped in disbelief.
He took another step—but a sudden dark wave of magic erupted from Imperial's body. The energy was so dense it crushed the air itself.
Jimmy was thrown back instantly, eyes wide in fear.
Imperial slowly rose, twin blades in hand. His eyes burned, not with light—but dark lightning.
Gravio smirked. "What's wrong, Red One? Aren't you going to cry over your father's—"
He never finished the sentence.
In the blink of an eye, Imperial appeared behind him.
Gravio's head fell from his neck before his words even reached the ground.
But the fight didn't stop.
Ben, Morgan, and Lucy—all three charged alongside Gravio's reanimated shell.
Their attacks crashed against Imperial's invisible barrier of magic, unable to even touch him.
Gravio broke through, roaring, but Imperial caught him by the face and slammed him into the ground—ten meters deep, the earth itself shattering.
Ben, Morgan, and Lucy were thrown back into the ruins, their bodies broken and burnt.
Gravio crawled out, blood dripping down his forehead, laughing.
"Heh… now this is getting interesting. Show me, Imperial. Show me what it feels like to face death!"Cryus's Final Moments
Nearby, Elara and Ari were kneeling beside Cryus. Elara's hands glowed with healing light, Ari pouring every bit of energy she had—but Cryus's body refused to heal.
Cryus's eyes found Imperial, standing in the distance like a storm given form.
He smiled faintly.
"Finally, I understand… you did love your family. Even after all this time."
"now I remember the day you were born… and why I left you. The whole thing is my fault. So I decided to come here and help you but—"
"I wish I could tell you everything—but my time's run out."
"Now it's all in your hands, my son."
His lips moved one last time, but no sound came.
His heartbeat faded.
Cryus Alden—was gone.
The Day Before Imperial Was Born
Cryus sat alone in a dimly lit library, surrounded by towering stacks of books and an ancient map spread across the table. His fingers traced the edges of worn pages as his eyes scanned the text.
"This book… it's more than just about equality," he murmured. "The statement 'the world is equal'… it's not just moral, it's… mathematical."
He picked up a pen and began marking the map, sketching lines and measurements with careful precision.
"If 'world' refers to the actual world map, then 'equal' could mean symmetry," he muttered. "So, if I measure the landmass of each empire…"
He traced the outlines of continents and islands, comparing the sizes and positions of the empires. Two large empires on one side, a small one, and two medium-sized empires on the other—balanced, yet… something was missing.
His finger hovered over the ocean between the Aetheris Empire and the Solaria Empire.
"There… there should be something here," he whispered. "It can't just be ocean. If the symmetry holds, there must be land hidden beneath."
He leaned back, eyes locked on the map, lost in thought.
(Author's Voice)
The day Imperial was born, Cryus named his son and left the family behind. Drawn by the mystery hinted at in the book—a book he had acquired during a mission after his father's death—he set out for the ocean, determined to uncover what was hidden.
[ Past : The Mission where The survival chance is 9%]
Cryus arrived with his father, Grandfather Imperial, and several mages at the coastal region of the Solaria Empire. The air crackled with magical energy.
"Father, we are here," Cryus said, pointing to the spot where fluctuations in magic were strongest.
Grandfather Imperial reached out, touching the surface of the ocean—but his hand was repelled as if hitting an invisible barrier.
Cryus stepped forward and touched the water. Unlike his father, he passed through effortlessly. A shimmer of light traced his hand as the others followed, one by one, allowed entry.
What they saw left them speechless.
The ocean had vanished. In its place was a hidden landmass, ruins rising from the ground, saturated with raw magic that hummed through the air.
"I can't believe this," Cryus whispered. "Father… what is this place? Why has it been hidden from everyone?"
"Or… more precisely," Grandfather Imperial said, voice grave, "it has been hidden by someone."
A deep, echoing voice cut through the silence.
"You are right, Imperial. It is hidden from humans. All who dwell here live in the light of love and harmony."
Five figures emerged from the ruins, moving closer. Their presence radiated authority and power.
"Lord Magnus of the Solaria Empire… and the others," one soldier murmured in awe. "The five emperors of the Five Empires."
Magnus smiled—cold and slow.
"Welcome, Cryus Alden. You stand in the Sixth Empire: the Sruken. The place where you will die."
Confusion rippled through the men at Cryus's back. Then the air tore.
Magnus pushed a pulse of magic outward—thick, suffocating light that smelled of ozone and singed iron. It hit the soldiers like a physical weight; many wavered, fell to their knees, gasping. Before anyone could recover, Magnus whispered a bright, terrible rune. Flame braided through the air and licked at the fallen—incinerating armor and bone alike in a single, clinical stroke.
When the smoke cleared there were only two steady figures left: Cryus and his father, Grandfather Imperial.
Magnus's grin widened. "Here you will die, Cryus Alden—or, more precisely, you, successor of the Lightning God." He bowed to no one and then moved.
At his side materialized the Emperor of the Central—an austere figure whose presence bent the light. Together they surged forward like converging storms.
Grandfather Imperial's voice cut through the roar. "Cryus, hold them. I will handle the rest."
Cyrus Alden gripped his blade, its edge glowing with purple lightning, arcs of energy dancing along the metal like living serpents.
Across from him, the Lightning Emperor advanced, sword crackling with golden electricity. Beside him, Magnus moved with impossible fluidity, dimension magic warping reality around his fists and feet, shadows coiling with each step.
Cyrus didn't hesitate. Lightning flared from his blade as he charged, the purple arcs illuminating the shattered stones.
The Lightning Emperor struck first, a horizontal slash of raw lightning that tore the ground open. Cyrus twisted, parrying with his own blade. Purple energy collided with gold, sparks exploding in every direction, sending shards of stone raining like deadly hail.
Magnus surged forward, fists and feet striking with devastating precision, reality itself bending with his attacks. Cyrus rolled, purple arcs trailing behind his blade, slicing through the warping afterimages. One fist from Magnus slammed the ground, cracking the earth beneath him, but Cyrus leaped, spinning in the air, slashing down. The purple lightning cut clean through one of Magnus' energy illusions.
The Lightning Emperor pressed in, faster this time, golden arcs blurring with every swing. Cyrus met him head-on, his purple lightning blade wrapping around his arm like a living coil. Sparks exploded as each strike collided, ground shattering under the force.
Cyrus feinted, dodging a lethal strike, then lunged with a spinning slash. Purple lightning arced outward, striking the Emperor square in the chest. The impact threw him back, stumbling, smoke rising from the scorched armor.
Magnus reacted instantly, twisting reality, launching a dimensional kick that tore through air like a blade. Cyrus spun, narrowly avoiding the strike, lightning trailing behind him, slicing through Magnus' afterimages. He slammed his blade forward, the purple arcs erupting outward, forcing Magnus back a step.
Cyrus' strikes were relentless. Each swing of his sword left streaks of purple across the battlefield, arcs of energy exploding outward. The Lightning Emperor struggled to keep pace, parried desperately, but Cyrus' control of lightning was flawless—every movement calculated, every counter precise.
Magnus pressed harder, bending space with his fists, trying to corner Cyrus. But Cyrus weaved between them, strikes slashing through golden arcs and distorted energy alike. He ducked under a horizontal slash from the Lightning Emperor, then spun, slashing upward. Purple lightning erupted, striking the Emperor's shoulder. Sparks, smoke, and raw electricity blasted the air.
The Emperor staggered, momentarily blinded by the brilliance. Cyrus didn't hesitate. With a final surge, he dashed forward, blade streaking with purple lightning, and slashed through the Lightning Emperor's guard, striking him down with a thunderous blow.
The Emperor crumpled, kneeling, electricity flickering and dying across his armor. Cyrus' purple lightning dimmed slightly, the battlefield trembling with the aftershock.
Now it was just him and Magnus.
Magnus' eyes narrowed, reality bending unnaturally around him. He struck, fists twisting space, kicks slicing through air that didn't exist a moment ago. Cyrus met him head-on, purple lightning arcing along his blade as he blocked, countered, and dodged.
The battlefield exploded with clashing energy. Magnus hurled waves of dimensional magic, curling around Cyrus' movements. Cyrus slashed through them, purple lightning trailing every strike, cutting, parrying, and keeping the pressure relentless.
Magnus' fists collided with Cyrus' blade. Sparks erupted. The force threw Cyrus backward, rolling over shattered stone. He landed, blade ready, aura flaring. The two charged simultaneously.
Magnus twisted space, appearing behind Cyrus, swinging a fist that distorted the air. Cyrus pivoted, slashing with his purple lightning blade, sparks cascading, and Magnus staggered.
They collided again and again. Each punch, each strike, each slash was a storm, shaking the ruins, sending arcs of electricity and warped energy in every direction. Cyrus' purple lightning blade danced like a living thing, every strike precise, overwhelming. Magnus countered, but Cyrus matched him move for move, strike for strike, their clash tearing the air apart.
Cyrus leaped, spinning, slashing downward. Magnus twisted, dodged partially, but the purple arcs of lightning wrapped around him, pushing him back. He landed, glaring, aura bending reality around him, but Cyrus didn't relent.
The air hummed, the ground cracked, the ruins shook as the two forces collided, unstoppable and equal. Sparks, arcs of lightning, distorted shadows—they all merged in chaos.
Cyrus' strikes became faster, more precise. Purple lightning tore across Magnus' afterimages, striking directly. Magnus countered with a wave of dimensional force, but Cyrus twisted midair, blade slicing through the energy, landing firmly on the ground, purple lightning flaring brighter than ever.
Magnus staggered. He struck again, desperate. Cyrus met him, lightning arcs wrapping around the blade like a coiling storm. A final, explosive clash—purple lightning against twisted space—sent Magnus skidding backward, reality snapping like shattered glass.
Cyrus stood, chest heaving, blade glowing with purple lightning, victorious over the Lightning Emperor and now facing Magnus alone, the battlefield trembling under the aftershocks of their duel.
The ruined landmass was silent—no birds, no wind, no sound at all. The air itself seemed to be holding its breath. The cracked earth beneath their feet shimmered faintly with old sigils, the last traces of a forgotten civilization.
Grandfather Imperial stepped forward. Each of his steps echoed like distant thunder. Lightning crawled lazily across his arms and shoulders, flickering through the air like living veins. His eyes—cold, sharp, and unyielding—met those of the three emperors standing opposite him.
Malrik, Emperor of Wind, floated a few inches above the ground, his cloak fluttering in invisible currents.
Seraphina, the Grass Empress, stood still with her bare feet rooted into the soil, eyes half-closed, feeling the pulse of the land beneath her.
Celestia, the Water Empress, watched in silence, the moisture in the air condensing around her like mist waiting for command.
No words. Only intent.
Malrik moved first. The wind bent around his body and exploded outward—an invisible wall of pressure that slammed across the battlefield. Stones lifted and shattered. The air screamed.
Grandfather Imperial didn't flinch. Lightning rippled down his arm, condensed into his fist, and when he threw the first punch, the air detonated. The wind wall broke apart, scattering into harmless gales. The shockwave tore trenches into the ground.
Malrik spun through the air, redirecting currents, launching cutting gusts sharp enough to slice stone. Grandfather Imperial stepped through them—each blade of air disintegrating the instant it touched his aura.
A flicker. A blur.
Grandfather Imperial appeared in front of him and drove his fist forward. Malrik barely raised his arm, forming a vortex shield, but the impact shattered it. The blow sent him hurtling across the battlefield, crashing into the fractured earth.
Celestia moved next. Water gathered at her side, twisting into serpentine shapes that coiled and struck. Each whip of water carried the density of steel. She swung them forward—five in rapid succession.
Grandfather Imperial ducked under the first, caught the second, and twisted—his lightning shot through the water in a blinding surge, reversing its path. The current tore through the wave, stunning Celestia long enough for him to cross the distance between them.
His palm struck her chest—not to kill, but to knock her back. The ground erupted where she landed, water bursting upward like shattered glass.
Seraphina's vines shot from the ground, bursting through the cracks. They wrapped around his legs, arms, waist—glowing green and pulsing with life. For a second, the lightning dimmed.
Then it flared.
A surge of white-blue light consumed the vines. Smoke rose from the ground as the bindings burned away. Grandfather Imperial exhaled sharply, raising his eyes toward Seraphina, who was already summoning more—this time, thicker, harder, woven with bark and magic.
She thrust her hands downward, and the land responded. Thorned branches exploded upward, hundreds of them, aiming to pierce him from every side.
He stomped once.
The earth shattered outward in a ring of electricity, incinerating everything within thirty meters. The force of it threw Seraphina off balance, but Malrik had already recovered and came down from above, spiraling inside a cyclone.
The sky darkened. The air thinned.
Malrik's fist met Grandfather Imperial's mid-air. The collision was thunder.
They vanished into a storm of strikes—one cloaked in lightning, the other wrapped in wind. Every impact split the ground, every miss carved the air into blades.
Celestia rejoined from behind, summoning water from the mist. It hardened into spears that launched one after another. Some cut through the shockwaves; others froze mid-flight, forming barriers that redirected Grandfather Imperial's movement.
Seraphina followed, her vines weaving into the ice, fortifying it with nature's strength.
Together, the three formed a perfect tri-element assault—air, water, and earth moving as one.
The sky roared.
Grandfather Imperial was at the center of it—dodging, striking, countering with movements too fast for the eye. His fists carved lines of light through the air. Each punch carried not just strength, but intent—the kind honed through decades of battle.
A kick shattered Celestia's frozen barrier.
An elbow met Malrik's strike and broke his wind spiral apart.
A backfist cleared Seraphina's approaching vines in a single sweep.
But they were relentless.
Malrik appeared to his right, hands extended—"Tempest Break."
Celestia raised both arms—"Tidal Collapse."
Seraphina's aura flared—"Verdant Convergence."
All three unleashed their ultimate forms.
Wind screamed, water surged, and the ground split open as roots the size of towers reached for the sky.
The combined assault consumed the entire ruin. For a moment, everything disappeared inside a dome of chaos—air blades, water bursts, and vines crushing down like divine judgment.
Lightning flared from within.
Then the dome exploded.
A column of white light tore through the heavens, so bright it blinded the emperors. The next instant, Grandfather Imperial appeared above them, both fists drawn back.
"Lightning God Fist."
The words echoed like thunder.
He descended like a comet. His fists struck the ground—one after another. The first punch shattered the wind barrier Malrik had raised; the second broke through Celestia's water shield; the third met Seraphina's roots and scattered them into burning splinters.
The world convulsed.
The ground caved in under the force. Bolts of lightning spread outward in every direction, snaking across the battlefield, striking everything they touched. The shockwave tore through stone, air, and magic alike, silencing all sound.
When the light faded, the landmass was a crater of smoke and glowing cracks.
Malrik was the first to move—barely. His body was trembling, his arm fractured, eyes wide in disbelief. Celestia knelt beside a pool of her own shattered magic, her breathing shallow. Seraphina tried to stand, but the ground wouldn't hold her. Her vines lay burned and lifeless.
Grandfather Imperial stood at the center of it all, his aura flickering weakly, arcs still dancing across his skin. His clothes were torn, his breathing heavy, but his eyes—those lightning-filled eyes—remained sharp and alive.
The emperors forced themselves up, trembling, faces lit by the faint glow of the lightning still crawling along the ground.
They met his gaze—wounded, beaten, and kneeling.
For a moment, no one moved. The world seemed to exhale.
Grandfather Imperial straightened, letting the last spark fade from his hands. His voice was low, calm, resolute."Emperors…" he muttered, voice low but dripping with scorn. "The strongest forces of any empire…"
A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and mocking, echoing across the fractured ruins. His eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in the devastation, the scorched earth, the collapsed barriers. "Pathetic," he spat.
His gaze shifted to Cryus. The boy had already taken down the Lightning Emperor, standing bloodied but unbroken, facing Magnus—the master of Dimension Magic. Space itself bent and twisted around Magnus, his attacks coming from angles that should have been impossible. Each strike crackled with unnatural energy, forcing Cryus to react with every ounce of skill he had.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then Magnus struck.
Space twisted beneath his feet, fists slamming toward Cyrus, the impact sending shockwaves through the cracked ground. Cyrus rolled forward, sparks leaping from his purple lightning blade as he slashed upward. The arc of electricity collided with Magnus' fist mid-air, tearing a streak of energy across the battlefield.
Magnus staggered back slightly, then grinned. He unleashed a spinning kick, warping the air as it came. Cyrus pivoted, narrowly dodging, purple arcs trailing like a living storm. He swung his blade horizontally, catching Magnus' leg, sending him tumbling backward, dimensional energy crackling and flickering.
The mage recovered instantly, warping space to appear behind Cyrus. A punch struck, bending air, but Cyrus ducked, spinning, lightning arcs from his blade sweeping outward, cutting through the afterimages Magnus left behind.
The battlefield shook. Stones shattered, chunks of debris tossed like missiles by the force of their collisions. Every strike Magnus threw bent reality, but Cyrus was faster, weaving between attacks with deadly precision, purple lightning flaring brighter with every move.
Cyrus lunged. Magnus twisted, warping the ground beneath him, but Cyrus' blade struck anyway, arcs of purple lightning bursting outward. The force threw Magnus back, his cloak and robes flickering with warped energy. But he laughed—a low, dark sound—and surged forward, punches striking like dimensional hammers.
Cyrus blocked, parried, the clashes echoing like thunder. Each impact sent sparks of lightning and warped energy scattering into the sky. He countered with a spinning slash, purple lightning tearing through Magnus' afterimages, but Magnus bent the strike with reality magic, blocking the edge without touching the blade.
They collided again. Magnus' fist met the lightning blade; a shockwave radiated outward, cracking stones and sending rubble flying. Cyrus pushed forward, energy flaring brighter, arcs of purple lightning wrapping around his arms like coiling serpents.
Magnus backflipped, landing lightly on fractured stone, and prepared a hand gesture—dark energy spiraling around his fists, dimensional magic coalescing into a massive spell.
Cyrus didn't hesitate. He charged, blade crackling violently, lightning surging along its length like a storm incarnate, striking at Magnus before the spell could fully form. Sparks and distortions collided in mid-air, the ground trembling beneath them.
Magnus grinned through the chaos, eyes narrowing. The spell continued to build, tearing reality around him, shadows coiling and twisting, energy forming into something immense.
Cyrus slid to a crouch, purple lightning surging violently along his blade, arcs leaping outward. He whispered to himself, barely audible over the roar of energy:
"Now… end this."
He surged forward, faster than thought, blade humming with concentrated lightning, the air itself bending around him. Purple arcs wrapped around his sword like living lightning, crackling and exploding with raw energy.
Magnus' spell reached its climax, a vortex of twisted dimension magic forming around his fists. He prepared to release it, confident in the destruction it would bring.
Cyrus' blade arced in a brilliant streak of purple. Time seemed to slow. The storm of lightning, the cracks in reality, the shattered battlefield—all focused into this moment.
And then—Cyrus' final move launched.
The scene froze in chaos: purple lightning and raw dimensional energy collided, Magnus' eyes widening in shock as he began to release his spell. The battlefield shattered, suspended between destruction and revelation.
Everything hung in balance.
And in that suspended moment, the outcome—victory or defeat—remained unseen.
Cyrus surged forward, purple lightning blazing, blade aimed straight at Magnus.
But suddenly—everything froze. His strike stopped mid-air. The weight of an invisible force crushed him, limbs heavy, heart pounding.
Around him, darkness coiled and twisted. Shadows leapt from the ruins, forming a perfect square. Before he could react, the four Emperors emerged, their eyes cold, hands raised.
Cyrus Alden was trapped.
The dark magic square snapped shut around him, dimensional energy pulsating, draining his strength.
The Sametime
Form Grandfather Imperial Pov
Then a shiver ran through the Emperor. Something… was wrong.
He turned—slowly scanning the battlefield. His eyes widened. The three emperors who had fallen moments ago—Malrik, Seraphina, and Celestia—were gone. The ruins seemed… still, the air unnaturally heavy, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
And then he looked again.
Before him, Cryus struggled. He was caught within a square of absolute darkness, perfectly formed, unyielding. Shadows coiled and writhed along the edges, piercing the ground like silent chains. The combined power of Magnus, Malrik, Seraphina, and Celestia pressed inward, sapping Cryus's magic, dimming his aura with each passing heartbeat.
Cryus's lightning flickered, sputtered, and then waned. Grandfather Imperial's eyes narrowed. Lightning arced along his body, crackling with fury and determination. He didn't hesitate. He surged forward, every muscle coiled, every step explosive.
The moment he reached the barrier, he didn't strike to break it—he struck at Cryus. With a burst of blinding speed, he slammed his fists into the dark square, sending a shockwave that reverberated across the ruins. The magic shivered, pulses racing along the edges.
"Cryus! Get out!" he roared.
Lightning flared from his body, spilling into the barrier. The square quivered violently. With a final, tremendous push, Grandfather Imperial shoved Cryus backward, propelling him out of the barrier in a blinding surge of energy. Cryus tumbled through the air, landing far away, gasping, his aura barely holding.
But Grandfather Imperial didn't follow. He pulled himself forward—into the heart of the square.
The barrier seemed to consume him, dark energy coiling and twisting around his body. Lightning fought against it, sparks exploding outward, but the darkness was absolute. It wasn't chains or ropes—this was magic that devoured existence itself, bending and crushing the very matter of a being.
Cryus watched in horror, powerless. His father's fists slammed into the barrier, the light of his aura colliding with the black magic in a final, blinding flare. Then… the energy surged inward, and the square collapsed in on itself, swallowing everything within.
A force like a tidal wave ripped through Cryus's body, throwing him backward across the ruins. He blacked out as the Sixth Empire's dimensional energy ejected him from its twisted space, hurling him into the void between worlds.
When he came to, Cryus was alone. The Sixth Empire, the barrier, the emperors, and his father—everything was gone.
Something in him was… missing. Memories of the dimension, of the battle, of the sacrifice—erased, like a storm had wiped the sky clean. All he could feel was a hollow ache, an instinctive grief he couldn't place, and a lingering pulse of power fading from somewhere far away.
Grandfather Imperial was gone. Not dead in the ruins, not before him—but gone entirely, lost within the darkness of the Sixth Empire's magic. Cryus had survived, but the cost… the cost was something his mind could not reach.
He lay on the fractured ground, breathing raggedly, staring at the empty sky. The battlefield was silent. The ruins were still. And the memory of his father, though lost, whispered through his instincts: he had fought, he had protected, and he was gone.
The Sixth Empire was a ghost. Cryus's past within it—a void.
And so, in silence, he rose. Alone.