Dunce's heart clenched like ice as Mystic Mystic Night's cold voice washed over him. Gathering his courage, he blurted out, "Inquisitor Chief Mystic Mystic Night… I need to ask… is Mystic Mystic Moon… is she doing okay?"
Mystic Mystic Night spun around, his eyes sharp as honed blades. Under that oppressive gaze, Alon instinctively lowered his head. "My daughter is *well*," Mystic Mystic Night spat the word with palpable disdain. "She requires no concern from the likes of you. Remember your place, Alon. You and my daughter exist in entirely different worlds. She dedicates herself to mastering the Sacred Arts within these hallowed halls. I will *not* tolerate any disturbance. Once you're healed, you will leave the Sanctum immediately. Do not fret – I recall the five-year duel stipulated by the Blademaster. If, by some miracle, you manage to defeat me then… we shall see." Without another word, he strode away, leaving Alon shivering in the void of his words.
A frigid despair settled into Alon's core. Mystic Mystic Moon was here, within the Sanctum's walls. Perhaps mere corridors separated them. But Mystic Mystic Night's words were an adamantine seal, locking away all hope. His message was crystalline: Alon, the street rat, the orphan, was dust beneath the daughter of the Sacred Flame's Inquisitor Chief Chief. What *was* Alon? Nothing. Worthless. The memories surged – stolen glances, whispered conversations, a fragile warmth he hadn't known existed. *Yue… I want to see you… to find you so badly… But can I? I can't! Our worlds are fractured, impossible to bridge.* Alon dug his nails into the bed frame, the physical pain a feeble echo of the agony tearing him apart.
The next dawn found Alon, Rock, Rockforce, Cloud, and the desperately weakened Stella summoned back to the Hall of Supplication. Pope Mystic, Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan, and the ever-present chill of Mystic Mystic Night awaited them.
Pope Mystic offered a benevolent smile. "Rest seems to have revitalized you, Alon. We summoned you for two matters, requiring your earnest consideration. First: We extend an invitation. Join the Sacred Flame. Though your path diverges from our divine arts, your potential is undeniable. Within our fold, you'll find unparalleled resources and mentorship to hone your unique gifts."
Cloud answered instantly, her voice hard. "Your Holiness, the Elfkin pledge allegiance to no external power. The Whispering Woods are our only sanctuary." The Church, its golden spires and holy pronouncements, meant nothing to her. Where was their vaunted light when her people suffered? If gods existed, they ignored the Sylvan. Getting Stella home was her only focus.
Pope Mystic nodded, turning to Alon and the brothers. "And you?"
Alon wrestled internally. Mystic Mystic Night's words were still sharp shards in his mind, amplifying his crushing sense of inadequacy. Joining the Sanctum… becoming one of them… it would elevate him, grant proximity to Mystic Mystic Moon. The thought ignited a desperate flame within him. *I could see her again...* But then reality crashed in – he was a disciple of the Celial Mountain Sword School. How could he join the very institution whose shadowed allies in the Twilight Dominion had nearly destroyed him? The grim streets, the slavers, the oppressive aura of Darkness… all under the Sanctum's tacit allowance. He glanced at Mystic Mystic Night's impassive face. "Your Holiness," Alon said, his voice heavy with resignation, "I must decline. Stella's Ancient Bloodline flickers dangerously low. Our duty demands we hasten her to the Elven Sanctuary. We came to take our leave… and thank you once more for your divine intervention."
Pope Mystic's brow furrowed slightly at Alon's desolate tone. "As you wish. We do not coerce. We only hope the Sacred Flame may count you as a friend."
Before Alon could respond, Rockforce snapped, "Friend? Only if your 'Sanctum' stops shielding the Darkness crawling in the Twilight Dominion! Then maybe!"
Rock elbowed his brother sharply, offering a conciliatory bow. "Forgive my brother's temper, Your Holiness." He knew the power radiating from these men – the heads of a continent-spanning faith. The Church's ambiguous stance towards the Twilight Dominion was a minefield.
Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan's lips twitched in the ghost of a smirk. Seeing his formidable elder brother momentarily flustered was always a pleasure. And the filth of the Dominion deserved no quarter.
Pope Mystic absorbed Rockforce's outburst without anger, sighing instead. "A valid point, though bluntly delivered. The Twilight Dominion… its founders held deep ties to the Sanctum's past. We offered sanctuary, yes. But their recent descent into shadows… has been excessive. This matter *will* be addressed. Then, you also decline?"
Rock met the Pope Mystic's gaze squarely. "We are Duncekin, Your Holiness. Few recall our past, but you… you know it." The Church knew the deep cuts of their history.
A flicker of surprise crossed the Pope Mystic's eyes. Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan's posture stiffened. The Duncekin Saga was a tightly guarded secret, their millennia of suffering an unhealed wound. Pope Mystic's voice held a rare note of contrition. "The Duncekin Saga… I know it. Yet, in that tumultuous time… with the world rebuilding after the Shadowfall… and the victorious factions carving territories they refused to yield… Returning your ancestral lands, spanning continents as they did… would have birthed new chaos. Blood would have flowed again. Regarding that… the Sanctum offers sincere regret. But the Sacred Flame's chosen path was the necessary one then." He sighed. "Ancient history serves no purpose now. Since refusal is your answer, we proceed. The second matter concerns the Hades Sword."
Alon stiffened, his hand flying protectively to his chest. "Your Holiness, I will *not* relinquish Hades Sword! On the Celial Peak, I bested Inquisitor Chief Mystic Mystic Night for it. Whatever its cursed origin, it's my uncle's legacy, his final gift to me!"
"Alon, calm yourself," the Pope Mystic said soothingly. "I did not demand its surrender. Merely… to behold it. The ultimate artifact of Shadow… who wouldn't yearn for a glimpse?"
"You… you won't take it?" Alon searched the Pope Mystic's face.
"The Church Pope Mystic *does not* deceive," Mystic Mystic Night interjected coldly. Pope Mystic shot him a silencing glance.
Alon hesitated, then slowly removed his jacket, revealing the sword harness beneath. He unfastened Hades Sword, sheath and all, and with a determined breath, offered it to the Pope Mystic.
Pope Mystic accepted the harness. A pure, radiant aura bloomed from him, encasing it. His fingers traced the intricate holy wards engraved on the leather. Slowly, he drew Hades Sword from its sheath. Encased in his potent Sacred Light, the group felt no shadowy taint, only a contained, profound menace. Within the white light, a core of swirling grey pulsed.
"Exquisite," Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan murmured, awe warring with wariness. "Truly the Shadow Pope Mystic's finest. Its power radiates even sheathed. A true Apex Artifact. No wonder the Reaper claimed so many souls with it."
"Apex indeed," the Pope Mystic concurred. "Perhaps even… beyond Apex. An artifact not meant for our mortal plane."
Alon stared, bewildered. Hades Sword was always whispered as pure evil. Here, they spoke of it as a treasure?
"We speak truth, child," the Pope Mystic addressed Alon. "Hades Sword *is* an artifact of unparalleled power. Sacred archives recount its discovery by the Third Pope Mystic – a weapon fallen from the Celial Spheres or the Void Abyss itself. Perhaps… as its name suggests… the blade of the Shadow Pope Mystic." He drew out the two faded parchments from the sheath. He barely glanced at the one detailing martial forms. His focus locked onto the unnervingly blank one. Pope Mystic murmured an incantation. A beam of pure gold light emanated from his fingertip, bathing the parchment. He lifted his voice: "O Divine Powers of the Ascendant Realm! Grant me, thy humble conduit, thy infinite wisdom and guidance!" The parchment floated from his hand, hovering mid-air. Pope Mystic's eyes blazed. His hands formed an intricate sacred seal. Pure, focused light shot from the seal, striking the chest of the towering angelic statue presiding over the Hall. The statue *glowed*, absorbing the power. It seemed to stir, the stone rippling with borrowed life. The Celial Crest upon its brow ignited, releasing a blinding, seven-colored beam that struck the floating parchment.
The parchment shuddered. On its blank surface, lines of shimmering, golden script began to appear. The writing was square, intricate, utterly alien. No one in the hall, not even the Pope Mystic, could decipher it. Alon stared, transfixed. An impossible sense of *familiarity* washed over him. His mind went blank. Flashes of blurred figures, countless indistinct figures, rushed through his consciousness – an ancient, fragmented memory struggling to surface. He strained, desperate to grasp the images, but they dissolved into mist.
Pope Mystic sighed, withdrawing the beam. The statue dimmed. The parchment drifted gently back into his hand. He looked at Alon. "Archives of the Third Pope Mystic state these inscriptions are a divine tongue. Deciphering them might unveil Hades Sword's true origins."
As the script faded, Alon's senses returned. He grappled futilely with the fleeting images. A deep revulsion for Hades Sword suddenly surged within him. Seeing Alon's dazed expression, the Pope Mystic mistook it for awe at the divine display. "Child," he said kindly, placing parchments and sword back into the sheath, "Hades Sword remains in your charge. Its shadow is potent; wield it sparingly." He returned it to Alon.
Alon accepted Hades Sword mechanically. The blade's icy, malevolent aura jolted him back to reality. Gazing at the obsidian jewel set in its hilt, swirling with unnatural darkness, a violent urge to hurl it away seized him. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the disgust down, and secured the harness once more. "You… trust me?" he whispered.
"Shadow's opposite is not Light, but Purity," the Pope Mystic stated. "Only one with an untainted soul can hold such shadow at bay. Yesterday, awaking from death's brink, your first words called for your companions. That act – placing their lives above your own – reveals the core of your being. You *are* pure."
"Pope Mystic," Alon met the holy man's gaze, resolve hardening. "Thank you. Hades Sword's edge will taste only the foulest darkness. This is my oath." Every moment within the Sanctum walls was agony, amplifying his desperate need to see Mystic Mystic Moon. Only distance could numb this pain. "If nothing more requires us… we must depart."
Pope Mystic studied Alon's troubled countenance. "Very well. Should you ever require the Sanctuary's aid, you need only seek its gates. The Trial of a Thousand Years draws near; it may well demand your hand. The path is perilous. Stay vigilant." He nodded to Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan. "See them out."
Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan complied, guiding the group from the Hall.
Once they vanished beyond the doors, Mystic Mystic Night approached his father. "Father," he murmured, "you passed on the chance to reclaim Hades Sword? It was bequeathed by our hallowed ancestors!"
"Son," the Pope Mystic's gaze sharpened, disappointment etched in his expression. "I hold your insight in high regard. Why this myopia? Hades Sword, however potent, is a mere ripple against the tidal wave of the Millennial Trial. Alon seemed… disturbed. What did you say to him?"
Mystic Mystic Night stiffened. "Father, I remain unconvinced he is the Chosen. Lord Divinus was brilliance incarnate! This… this orphan operates on dumb luck! The little power he commands is *all* fortune."
Pope Mystic sighed deeply. "Mystic Mystic Night, my son, the gap between our perceptions worries me. I sought to bind him to us, you drove him further away. 'Luck'? Do you believe luck strikes without cause? It is divine guidance! His journey has been harrowing, true, but it is his *character*, his *will* that forged him. Heed me: henceforth, Alon Duo is *never* to be treated as an adversary. Cease surveillance. If he *is* the Chosen One, the approach of the Thousand Year will reveal him. Now… your own power plateaus. Focus. Lest your own daughter eclipse you." With a flash of golden light, the Pope Mystic vanished, leaving Mystic Mystic Night standing alone, stunned.
Outside, Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan slowed his pace. "Alon. That technique, the Fury of the Dual Tempests… was it taught by the Blademaster?"
Alon saw no reason to lie. "Yes. By the Master."
"If executed by the Blademaster himself… how much greater would its fury be?"
Alon shook his head. "I wouldn't know. He never demonstrated it before me. But the 'Living Essence' art he taught… I've only reached the threshold between Second and Third Crystallization. He said deeper Essence draws more potent Celial Wrath. His Essence has crystallized sixfold. The Fury… it must be devastating."
Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan inwardly conceded. His current power paled before the Blademaster's. If *Alon's* Fury of the Dual Tempests had taxed him so, the Saint's unleashed version… it was unimaginable. Even his brother Pope Mystic might fall; he himself would certainly perish. "If you see the Blademaster… tell him Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan of the Sanctum seeks… enlightenment."
Alon nodded, though the full implication escaped him. The thought of the Blademaster, who had poured so much into him, brought a sudden sting to his eyes.
Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan continued, "Head southeast beyond the mountains to reach the Elfkin's territory. Alon – Fury of the Dual Tempests is beyond your mastery yet. Heal your Core before risking its force again. Another rupture… not even the Pope Mystic could save you. Remember."
Alon shuddered involuntarily, recalling the cataclysmic collision of Yin-Girlng Lightning. "Understood. I'll be cautious."
Grand Inquisitor Chief Yuan shifted his gaze to Rock and Rockforce. From within his robes, he drew out a slender tome, extending it to Rock. "My earlier judgment… nearly cost Alon his life. Consider this… recompense. Alon's path, guided by the Blademaster, requires no further direction; the Celial Mountain way is true. Your own power, brothers… is formidable for your youth but… fractured. Discordant arts stunt growth." He tapped the book. "Within is 'Aura's Unseen Bulwark,' a technique suitable for you. Refine your Essence. Focus it. Discard the disparate. Tandor't fret – it's my *own* foundational art, independent of the Sanctum."
Rock took the tome, astonishment warring with gratitude. They held little affection for the stern old man. Yet, he offered his *core technique*! Their Duncekin heritage granted resilience, not finesse. The Sword School had offered basic combat forms and Essence advice, but no *true* path. A genuine, powerful Essence art… was their unspoken dream. Here, unexpectedly granted.
Rockforce frowned. "Inquisitor Chief Yuan, what's the catch? You takin' us on as apprentices?"
Yuan snorted. "With *your* thick skull? I'd expire from exasperation before your first kata. My reason stands as spoken. Learn, or ignore it – the choice is yours. But the art *does not* leave Duncekin hands. Fail to refine yourselves… our next encounter may be your last." Without ceremony, wreathed in pure white battle aura, he vanished.
Rock watched the spot where Yuan had stood. "The old wolf's… less cold-hearted than I thought."
Rockforce peered at the book. "So… we learnin' this Bulwark junk?"
A rare smile touched Rock's lips. "Would we be Duncekin if we refused power? He called you 'thick skull,' brother. Prove him wrong."
Rockforce's jaw tightened, remembering Yuan's disdainful glance. "Next time I see him… he'll choke on that sneer."
* * *
Stella's Ancient Bloodline faded like a dying star. By the time they crossed into the Federated Territories, she could no longer walk without support. Alon carried her. Cloud's voice crackled with urgency: "The Princess Petal's Life Rockforce Spark dwindles! Without the Heartwood Nexus and Spirit Lake… it will gutter out!" Honor demanded completion. They procured horses in the territory and rode hard, pushing southeast toward Sylvan lands.
Three grueling days later, the shimmering expanse of the Whispering Woods finally pierced the horizon. Stella had fallen unconscious the previous noon. The situation was critical.
As they urged their mounts forward, Cloud's anxiety spiked. "Alon! Stella teeters on the edge! If she wakes *before* reaching the Spirit Lake… the bloodline is *lost*!"
"Lost?" Alon's blood ran cold.
"*Yes*!" Cloud's reply was a knife. "If consciousness returns before immersion… she becomes Sylvan, but never Queen!"
Failure was unthinkable. How could he face Queen Lysandra? Jaw clenched in desperation, Alon made his decision. "Ride on! I'll take her ahead!" He tightened his arms around the frail figure in front of him, his voice a low, urgent murmur against her hair. "Stella! Hold on, little star! We're almost home. Hold on!" He thrust himself powerfully from the saddle, landing lightly on the packed earth. Pure Essence, the Living Rockforce refined within him, surged. He became a streak of focused light, blurring past the galloping horses, hurtling toward the tree line.
Forest and sky streamed past in a green-grey rush. Alon shielded Stella within a cocoon of Essence, his voice a constant, fervent litany:
"Stella, we're so close! Tandor't wake!"
"Stella, you are royal blood! Be strong! Keep the spark!"
"Stella, it's Alon! Hold on for me! For your mother! Hold on…"
The vibrant boundary of the Whispering Woods surged before him. Alon saw it—Stella's eyelids fluttered faintly. *No!* He poured every ounce of power from his Silver-Crystallized Core into speed. *Almost there!* Simultaneously, he channeled profound Essence into her fragile form. He didn't know how to preserve the bloodline, only Cloud's dire warning: *Stop her from waking.* His Essence flowed deep, locking down her senses, forcing her back into the depths of unconsciousness.
The ancient woods welcomed him with silent mystery. He had no time for reverence. Guided by fragmented memories, he plunged deeper. Suddenly, a lethal whisper sliced the air ahead. Alon slammed to a halt, Essence flaring. He'd barely avoided the arrow. Ten Elfkin emerged like ghosts – two chanting softly, others nocking arrows, arrows pointed at his heart. Guardians.
Alon's shout echoed with desperate authority: "HOLD FIRE! TO THE SPIRIT LAKE! PRINCESS STELLA FADES!"
The lead Guardian halted the imminent volley. "Stella?" Skepticism lingered. Most hadn't seen Alon before. "Identify yourself!"
"Alon Duo! Charged by Queen Lysandra! The Ancient Bloodline dies! *Move! NOW!*" Panic edged his voice. Every second stolen was death to hope. If they resisted… he would fight.
The name struck the lead Guardian like lightning. Queen Lysandra's command echoed in his mind: *Find them. Bring them to me.* The urgency in Alon's eyes, the burden he carried… it was truth. "Apologies, Guardian! Secure passage! Guide him!" The Sylvan parted, their forms dissolving into the foliage as they raced ahead, leading Alon through the forest's deceptive pathways. Without them, the woods would have swallowed him whole.
They breached an unseen veil. The breathtaking vista of the Sylvan City unfolded – the Heartwood Nexus reaching for the sky, the shimmering, mystical Spirit Lake beneath. The sight filled Alon with terror, not awe. The body in his arms trembled violently. *She's waking!* Acting purely on primal need, Alon compressed a shield of raw Essence around Stella and launched her with all his might towards the shimmering waters near the base of the Heartwood Nexus. The bundle of light arced gracefully before striking the lake's surface with a heavy *plunge*.
Water exploded upwards. Seeing her vanish into the sacred waters, a sliver of tension released in Alon. He sagged, lungs heaving. Exhaustion from the run and the crushing fear hit him like a physical blow. Was the bloodline truly preserved? He'd forced her back under… did that count?
The lead Guardian roared in fury. "FOOL! SYLVAN CANNOT SWIM! YOU'VE DROWNED HER!"
Before Alon could explain, five figures descended like leaves from the Heartwood Nexus. Among them – Queen Lysandra. She hovered over the ripples, emerald light flaring from her hands. Water-drenched, unconscious Stella rose into her mother's arms. Alon exploded into motion, Essence propelling him across the lake's surface in impossible strides. He grasped a hanging vine, pulling himself onto the massive root beside the Queen. "Your Majesty! She…" Words choked him. The terror of failure surged back.