The skies over Ashveil Fortress burned with streaks of violet and gold as the aftermath of the Dominion Trial settled into memory. The council chambers of the Black family remained quiet, but tension curled beneath the silence like a coiled serpent.
Jareth stood at the center of the Grand Hall, alone before the Circle of Nine his family's ruling council. Men and women dressed in robes woven from realm-thread silk, each with eyes like stone and smiles carved from steel. Behind them, obsidian banners fluttered gently, marked with the sigil of a single crowned serpent- Black sovereignty.
He didn't bow.
He didn't need to anymore.
"You've caused quite a stir, nephew," said Lord Asmun, leaning back into his throne carved from obsidian. "The First Realm… of all places. Do you know what kind of chaos you've triggered?"
Jareth's eyes didn't waver. "The kind we were born from."
A few murmurs broke the stillness. Some wore expressions of fascination. Others, dread.
Matron Kelechi, one of the oldest, clicked her tongue. "My son died opening a gate to that cursed place. You speak of it as though it is a legacy."
"It is," Jareth replied. "One you all tried to bury."
Asmun's lip curled. "Watch your tone, boy. We raised you."
"No," Jareth said. "You used me. Trained me like a pawn. And when I proved inconvenient, you tossed me into a failed continent to rot."
Matron Kelechi sighed. "And yet you rose."
"Because unlike the rest of you," Jareth said, stepping forward, "I didn't grow soft watching from these halls."
There was a pause. The kind that follows shattered pride and precedes open war.
Then Lord Duma spoke.
"What do you want, Jareth?"
He faced them all.
"I want my domain."
Murmurs erupted at once. It was rare for an heir to claim their own continent—rarer still to do so without approval. Usually, it was gifted. Offered as reward or wagered through blood duels. But to demand it, especially after a Trial like his, was audacious.
Asmun laughed dryly. "And which will you claim? Ebonreach? It's still in ruin since the last uprising."
"I'll take Obsidian Vale," Jareth said.
That silenced them.
Kelechi's voice went sharp. "That region borders the Solari domain. The Veil Reaches. It's a powder keg."
"Perfect," Jareth said.
Lord Duma narrowed his eyes. "You intend to provoke them?"
"I intend to challenge them," Jareth replied. "Valen Solari looked down on us all. He won't again."
Asmun stood. "You're not ready."
"I am," Jareth said. "And if you won't give it then I'll take it."
His core flared with that ominous pulse again, deep red edged in black. The hall dimmed slightly as a gust of invisible energy swept across the floor.
Even the elders leaned back, not out of fear, but uncertainty.
The SSS-Rank was not something they could ignore.
Not anymore.
Lord Duma raised a hand. "Let him have it."
The others turned to him in shock.
"Have you lost your..."
"He's awakened something," Duma said. "If we suppress it now, we lose control of it. If we guide it, maybe we survive what's coming."
Jareth turned, walking out of the chamber without waiting for the formality. His eyes burned with purpose.
He had one goal.
To rise from heir to ruler.
And he would start by turning the most volatile region on Earth Star into his throne.
---
Ayaka threw a datapad on the desk. "We've got problems."
Jareth didn't look up. He was reviewing the topographic mana maps of Obsidian Vale, already identifying potential cultivation sites, dimensional fractures, and ruins left behind by the ancient war between the Solari and the Nyari.
"What kind of problems?" he asked.
"Syndicate movements. Rogue cultivators. And more troubling Solari operatives already in the region."
He looked at her now. "They're trying to provoke me."
"They don't need to. If you walk in there with your banner raised, it'll trigger an incident."
"Good," he said. "Let them come."
Sera entered, holding a slim black blade, newly forged from realmsteel.
"They've already started," she said. "Two of our advanced scouts were found dead near the Riftline. No emblems. No identifiers. Just burned to ash."
Jareth stood, pushing the datapad aside. His voice turned cold.
"Then it's time we remind the Solari that the Blacks don't bow."
---
Far beyond the Vale, within a mirrored sanctum beneath the Solari citadel, Valen stood before an ethereal projection of the Deep Realm a swirling mass of starlight and screaming void.
He knelt before it, murmuring a forgotten language.
From the darkness, a voice emerged.
"He carries the seed. It must not bloom."
Valen nodded. "I understand."
A pause.
"Bring us his heart."
---
Three days later, Jareth stepped foot into Obsidian Vale. The wind here was dry, tinged with metallic dust and residual mana storms. Old battlefield scars were visible in the broken canyons, half-buried ruins, and fractured spirit lines that lit up like veins at night.
Soldiers awaited him his personal forces. Cultivators, tech-augmented warriors, and loyalists who believed in the rise of a new Black heir. Among them were orphans of the Dominion conflict, survivors of forbidden experiments, and mercenaries with realm war experience.
"Welcome to the fire," Ayaka said beside him.
Jareth nodded.
"I'm going to build an empire here."
She looked at him. "And if the other heirs try to stop you?"
He stared out across the wasteland.
"Then I'll bury them here."