The Imperial Citadel of Dalenhart.
The Grand Hall of Balance.
A vast chamber carved from sandalwood and obsidian, where power echoed in every step.
At the heart of the hall, upon a throne inlaid with stars, sat a tall, regal man in a dark-gold imperial robe.
His features were calm, but sharp. His eyes carried the weight of empire.
This was the current Emperor of the Dalenhart Empire.
And seated across from him—thin, aged, draped in a deep green cloak of dragonscale—was Lord Valeus, the last surviving founder of the Dalenhart Dynasty.
He was also the empire's most powerful living martial practitioner.
The final anchor of an empire built upon martial supremacy.
---
"Uncle," the Emperor said, folding his hands, "at your current strength, is there anyone in the world who could stand against you?"
The old man smiled faintly.
"If they are not a Mythic Ascendant, then no. There is none."
His tone wasn't arrogant—only honest.
Even among Grandmasters, there were levels. Some were barely there. Others, like Valeus, sat at the pinnacle.
No sect in the world had a warrior to match him. No empire, not even the far-north Dominion, dared challenge Dalenhart so long as he lived.
And yet…
"The Mythic Realm," the Emperor murmured.
"You stand just beneath it. Is it so unreachable?"
Valeus's smile faded.
"The closer you draw to the heavens, the further away they seem."
Despite centuries of martial refinement, decades of wisdom passed down from the first Emperor—a Mythic himself—Valeus had not crossed that final threshold.
Even with every scroll and secret the empire had gathered over generations, the step into the Mythic was as elusive as the stars.
"But do not fear," the old man said softly.
"So long as I yet breathe, no one alive can shake this empire."
And then—before another word could be spoken—
BOOM.
The heavens cracked.
A voice—calm, resonant—rippled through the world like thunder tearing through silk.
> "The monk Aeron Vale requests entry into the Imperial Vault of Martial Lore."
It echoed three times, each time louder, each word a blade of divine sound.
The floor trembled. The rafters wept dust. The Emperor gripped his armrest—
His vision blurred.
Even Valeus—the man known as the Iron Pillar of Dalenhart—shook where he sat.
His ears rang. Blood welled in his throat.
"That voice…" he whispered, eyes wide.
"Just a voice," he muttered again. "At this distance… and it crushed my aura…"
No Grandmaster in history could do this. Not even the first Emperor.
Only one conclusion remained.
"He's beyond Grandmaster."
---
Outside the palace, Aeron stood calmly beside a speechless crimson-robed monk.
All around him, the imperial city was in chaos.
Thousands of elite soldiers had collapsed from spiritual overload. Even the four hidden Grandmasters in the inner sanctum had been silenced in moments.
And Aeron?
He had merely spoken.
One sentence.
---
"B-Buddha…" the monk stammered, his thoughts scrambled.
He had once planned an intricate web of favors, timing, and royal introductions. But now?
That one voice had undone centuries of martial hierarchy.
"Look." Aeron gestured gently toward the gates.
"They're coming."
---
And indeed, the gates of the palace opened wide.
Out strode a group of figures—most clad in imperial black.
Leading them were two men:
One tall and richly dressed, his face pale.
The other, thin, gaunt, and radiating power like a coiled storm.
The Emperor. And Lord Valeus.
Behind them, three other figures followed—clearly injured, their steps unsteady.
These had been the Grandmasters guarding the vault.
Now, they walked with their heads lowered.
---
The Emperor stepped forward and gazed at the monk before him.
This was the face from the portrait. The robes of the Sanctuary. The presence of a storm.
He knelt.
"I greet the Master."
His voice cracked slightly.
Ten thousand imperial guards could not match this one man's breath.
Valeus lowered his eyes in acknowledgment as well.
He could sense it clearly now. Aeron Vale was not just a Grandmaster.
He was the Mythic Realized.
The stories of such people were always spoken in the past tense.
Until now.
---
Aeron tilted his head slightly.
"I would like to view the Martial Vault."
He spoke without threat. Without command.
And yet…
The Emperor immediately stepped back and gestured.
"The Master is welcome. Please, enter."
---
As Aeron began to walk, the Emperor followed him with his gaze.
Only one thought echoed in his mind:
"He could have taken the palace with a whisper."
And yet he hadn't.
He asked.
He waited.
He respected the throne he could crush.
The Emperor bowed again, deeper this time.
---
Inside the Vault, hundreds of scrolls and tomes lined the obsidian shelves.
The walls were inlaid with silver runes, and a protective formation thrummed around the room.
Aeron stepped in without pause.
The formation crumbled silently as he passed.
The Vault had never opened for anyone without royal blood.
And yet now, it opened like a flower before the sun.
---
Outside, Valeus stood still.
He closed his eyes.
"What a world," he whispered. "One man walks into the heart of the empire… and we all kneel."
The monk beside him couldn't answer.
What could he say?
Some men need armies.
Others need titles.
And then, there was Aeron Vale.
One man who controlled a country—not through politics, not through war… but through presence alone.
---