'System, total SP?' Nyx asked, eyes narrowing as they walked.
[129,000 SP.]
'That's it?' His brow twitched. 'I hunted nonstop for a month and didn't spend a single damn point.'
[SP accumulation from low-rank beasts has been restricted to ensure balanced progression.]
Nyx's nose twitched. 'That's some premium-grade bullshit.'
[Also, all prices in the shop have increased by 2% due to someone's recent complaints.]
'Oi, that's not fair—'
[Now 4%.]
'…Alright, alright, I'll shut up. Damn, you petty bastard.'
Nyx sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Guys! Rest break," he called out.
The group slowed, confused.
Samantha approached first. "What's up? Don't tell me you're tired. We've only been walking four hours."
Valon landed beside them with a scoff. "Don't tell me he's the bottleneck. What happened to the whole dark horse image?"
But Nyx just smirked. "Time for an upgrade, boys and girls. Might as well power up before we dive into the pit of hell."
The group froze. Then slowly… grinned. They understood exactly what he meant. But deep down they didn't know that they were being influenced by the devil incarnate, slowly changing towards chaos.
---
Meanwhile, back in the Royal Capital…
The city no longer resembled the proud jewel of the kingdom it once was. Tension rippled through its veins. Streets once lined with chatter and pageantry now whispered rebellion.
The cause? Rowan Vaelthorn.
The man once labeled a traitor. Now a martyr.
A new faction had emerged, dragging buried truths into the light. And this time, no lie could bury them again. They had proof—undeniable, irrefutable proof—that Rowan and his wife, Lily, had been executed unjustly. And with that, they tore through the illusion of justice the kingdom had clung to.
Nobles. Generals. Even once-loyal royal officials began to defect, rallying under one banner: truth.
At the center of it all stood a man once known only as The Ghost—the most loyal warrior the crown ever had. Now, he led the rebellion.
With him stood monsters in human form—veterans of wars who'd turned entire battlefields into graveyards with a single command.
They weren't fighting for the throne. They were fighting to make the world remember.
Even Eleanor's rival kingdoms—who had once threatened war—stepped back, intimidated by the sheer weight of this new force. And the demand from the faction was simple:
Reveal the truth. Or face war.
---
Inside the king's chamber of war…
"Your Majesty, the rebels have driven our forces to the brink," one advisor barked, his voice laced with panic. "At this rate, they'll take the capital within a month."
King Aldric opened his mouth to speak—only for another noble to cut in, his face red with rage.
"How dare they! Traitorous scum, defending a criminal! Raising Rowan's name like he was some kind of hero—!"
Aldric stayed silent, his fingers tightening around the edge of his throne. The room buzzed with fury, but he said nothing. Because he knew.
If he denied the truth now, the backlash would be catastrophic. But if he confessed… the consequences might be even worse.
Finally, he spoke. "We will attempt contact. Request a meeting. Resolve this… without war."
A lie, perhaps. But it bought him time. He turned, cape swaying, and left the chamber.
---
Elsewhere, in the underbelly of the kingdom…
Glass shattered.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUUUUCK!" the former crown prince screamed, flinging a goblet across the room.
Shadows loomed in the corners—silent men cloaked in black. But none dared speak.
"I gave you all so many chances! And you couldn't kill a brat! A brat!"
He grabbed one of the cloaked men by the collar and slammed him into the wall.
"And now? Now they're digging up the past! If I go down, I swear I'm dragging every single one of you down with me!"
Spittle flew as he raged, madness dancing behind his eyes.
"I need to contact Father. He can fix this. Just like he did last time. Yeah… yeah, he'll fix it."
He was no longer royalty. He was a man unraveling. A ticking bomb.
And his name?
Prince Elric Ironhart. The king's first son.
Samantha's older brother.
The man whose sins sparked it all.
---
"Be ready."
Two words. That was all the note said—no seal, no signature, no flourish.
But Karl knew the weight behind them. Knew the name that didn't need to be written.
He stared at the slip of parchment in his hand, the ink still fresh, before folding it with quiet care and slipping it into his coat. His footsteps echoed through the narrow corridor until he reached the door to the war room.
It wasn't grand. No towering ceilings or gold-inlaid walls. Just a cold chamber of stone, a round table at the center, and seven figures seated around it.
But the air inside? It could kill lesser men on the spot.
No titles were spoken. No names exchanged. Yet each presence around the table held the weight of nations. Legends dressed in silence, in scars, in power that couldn't be bought or borrowed—only earned.
Karl stood before them, his voice calm but unshakable.
"It's time. Final preparations begin now."
They didn't ask questions. They didn't need to. One by one, each nodded—grave and wordless, as if they'd been waiting for this moment far longer than he had.
Then one of them moved.
A cloaked figure, small in frame, but carrying a presence that made even the air still. She pulled back her veil, revealing a face both young and timeless—a beauty wrapped in danger, elegance forged in steel.
When she smiled, it wasn't the kind that charmed or deceived. It was the kind that promised consequences.
"Did Nyx send the message?" she asked, voice soft as velvet, sharp as a blade's edge.
Karl nodded. "Just now."
He still remembered the first time she'd stood before him—nervous, determined, practically dragging her sword behind her, begging to be taught. Back then, her swing was awkward, her grip wrong, her stance unstable.
And now?
Now she stood not as his student, but his equal. No longer seeking his approval, only his coordination.
What she'd become… even "talent" didn't explain it anymore.
"I can't wait to see him again," she said, her tone suddenly light, almost teasing. Like a girl reunited with an old friend—not a warrior about to march into a war-torn capital.
Karl didn't return the smile. But something in him eased—if only a fraction.
The storm was coming.
But maybe, just maybe… they were finally ready to meet it head-on.