Half a year—an instant, on the scale of the universe.
Yet, within the Aresia star system—once dismissed as a barren frontier of civilization—this half-year had felt as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button.
The void rippled like a lake struck by a falling boulder.
Space itself was repeatedly and violently torn apart, forming one after another of jagged, monstrous rifts that radiated waves of ominous distortion.
From those yawning tears in reality, fleets emerged—first came the Rivenblade Dynasty.
Thousands of warships burst forth from the rift, each bearing at its prow a gleaming sigil of a curved energy blade.
They resembled a pack of bloodthirsty sharks: hulls of cold iron-gray, engines spewing eerie crimson exhaust—as if the vessels themselves had just bathed in blood.
At their head was the flagship "Soul Killer", a behemoth the size of a small moon.
Its vast hull was studded with jagged ramming spikes and dense arrays of gunports, emanating the oppressive aura of a Level 2 Civilization at its peak—commanded by an Astral Emissary.
That murderous intent spread freely through the void, causing even nearby asteroid belts to tremble.
Then—another section of the void was drawn open, like a curtain pulled aside by invisible hands.
A new fleet emerged, utterly different in style.
Their ships were sleek and elegant, coated in ivory-white armor engraved with intricate, radiant sigils. Soft yet inviolable light flowed around them.
It was the Purification Fleet of the Ecclesia of Sacred Brilliance.
Each vessel resembled a mobile chapel; choirs' hymns, amplified by psychic resonance, drifted through the emptiness—an attempt to purify all that was "unclean."
At their forefront sailed the "Holy Judgment," a colossal rotating cruciform ship whose central cross was inlaid with a blazing core, as dazzling as a miniature star.
The energy it radiated carried the pressure of a Level 3 Civilization—an Astral Archmage's power.
"Hmph. The hypocrites of Sacred Brilliance always did love their theatrics." A cold voice rasped from a newly formed vortex of darkness, metallic and edged like grinding steel.
The third fleet arrived—the strangest of them all.
They didn't emerge from hyperspace so much as seep out of the void's shadows.
This was the fleet of the Dark Mechanicus.
Their ships were made entirely from a fusion of living metal and unknown dark-matter skeletons.
Their shapes shifted constantly—sometimes like colossal mechanical cephalopods, other times like faceted black crystals—while streams of green data pulsed along their hulls like glowing nerves.
Their flagship, the Void Weaver, looked less like a vessel and more like a sentient, shape-changing nebula that exuded a devouring aura of nullity.
Its master—a being who had replaced most of his body with machinery, the Astral Archmage Darkweaver—lurked within its core.
And this was only the beginning.
One after another, more fleets arrived through their respective rifts—each bearing the banners of a different Starsea Civilization.
The Behemoth Clan sailed in massive bio-ships that breathed and pulsed like titanic beasts.
The Ethereal Trade Union commanded vessels made entirely of condensed energy, shimmering like ribbons of living light.
Even a few ancient Titan Remnant arks appeared—constructed of bronze and runes, as though they had sailed straight out of myth.
Within moments, the outskirts of the Aresia system had become a gathering ground for the main fleets of dozens of civilizations.
They loomed in silence, bristling with weapons—predatory wolves of the cosmos, their hungry, wary eyes all fixed upon one single blue world below: Aresia.
Scanning beams of every imaginable wavelength swept across the planet's surface, probing, dissecting, analyzing.
Energy readings were confirmed and reconfirmed—the world's ambient energy level was, indeed, surprisingly low.
"Strange…"Within the Holy Judgment, Grand Inquisitor Hohenheim frowned.
Clad in white robes embroidered with gold thread and holding a scepter of authority, his voice carried both reverence and unease.
"The residual signatures from six months ago clearly indicate the presence of Astral Archmage-level power."
"But now… nothing. Have the combatants destroyed each other and gone into hiding—or…"
"Or perhaps it's a trap?"
A sinister tone slithered through the encrypted comm-link—the mechanical whisper of Darkweaver himself, his speech converted directly into dataflow.
"Residual energy means nothing," he said. "What matters is that place…"
His sensors locked onto the northern region of Aresia—a zone where every probe beam vanished without trace.
Dalton Town.
"That city…""I can't see through it."
"The scans sink like stones into a bottomless sea. Yet the high-dimensional spectrum feedback… is paradoxical.""It both exists and does not exist in this spacetime layer."
Though none could discern the precise energy readings within, their high-dimensional analyses and causal scrying revealed enough to drive them mad with greed.
They "saw" rivers of liquid energy winding through the streets; millennia-old elixirs growing casually by the roadside; elemental spirits flitting through the skies; and in private courtyards, golden trees bearing fruit like miniature suns.
Even more astonishing—beings thought extinct across the universe appeared to dwell within!
This was no mere city.It was a primordial divine treasury left untouched since the age of gods.
"A miracle! This is the garden of the ancients!"The Behemoth Clan chieftain's growl was thick with greed.
"Infinite wealth—lost technologies beyond price!"The Ethereal Union's envoy's eyes glittered with computation.
"We must claim it!"Marshal Baroque of the Rivenblade Dynasty could scarcely contain himself.
Greed spread through the coalition like a virus—raw, primal, uncontrollable.
Several lesser fleets from Level 1 Civilizations, eager to earn glory, began to stir.
Their cannons hummed with unstable light, as if one impulsive order away from plunging the entire star system into war.
Dalton Town, War Council Hall
The atmosphere inside the vast chamber burned with the fire of war.
In the center hovered a massive three-dimensional projection of the Aresia star system, a living simulation where countless red enemy markers flickered like a swarm of stars. Yet, among the gathered leaders of Dalton, there was not the slightest trace of fear.
The hall was packed.
Beyond Dalton's own high command—Leo, Lilith, Elarielle, Magnar, and others—sat representatives from dozens of races and major factions of the outer districts, all gathered under one roof.
Gone was the shock and greed that had once marked their first arrival.
In its place burned a feverish mix of excitement, ambition, and fervent anticipation.
The grand rewards of the war six months ago had already spread throughout the outer city, igniting every heart like wildfire.
The Crossbridge Empire, for its exceptional contribution, had been granted ownership of three full commercial streets in the most prosperous outer district zone.
The Dwarven Kingdom, thanks to its unmatched military engineering, had secured subcontracting rights to produce part of Dalton's official military equipment—earning profits beyond imagination.
The Thunder Mage Tower, whose mage battalions had excelled in cooperative combat, was allowed to send its best apprentices to study within the Inner City Academy of Magic—an honor beyond price.
And yet, the greatest envy of all was reserved for Lupotin and his Starseer Tower faction.
For being the first to "turn to the light" and for his critical contributions in resource integration and intelligence work, part of his inner circle had been granted the dream of official Outer City citizenship!
That meant permanent residence within Dalton's mana-rich environment.
Their children could attend city academies, and some might even gain access to higher knowledge and opportunities!
As for Lupotin himself—he had been awarded temporary Inner City residence rights!Temporary, yes—but even that was a privilege no outsider had ever earned before.
Now, as Lupotin stood there, his face radiant, his aura sharper and more refined than half a year ago—his subordinates proudly holding their heads high—the envy in the eyes of every other faction's envoy was unmistakable.
Empire dignity? Strongman pride?
Utter nonsense—mere words.
Before real, tangible rewards and a path to ascend higher, all such things crumbled into dust.
"Comrades!"
Vice President Magnar's voice echoed across the hall, calm yet stirring like a battle horn.
"The hyenas and jackals of the Starsea have gathered at our gates, coveting Dalton's wealth and foundation!"
"Half a year ago, we gave them a taste of what it means to defy us—we proved the might born from unity under the Dalton banner!"
"Today, the enemy comes in greater numbers—but that only means more glory to claim, more honor to carve into our names!"
"Dalton has never been stingy toward those who fight bravely and achieve greatness!"
A thunderous roar filled the chamber.
"For Dalton!"
"For the right to live in the Outer City—fight to the death!"
"I'll twist the heads off those Starsea dogs myself!"
"They dare invade our world? Damn them!"
"Glory or death!"
The entire hall erupted into a war cry.
Marshal Otto of the Crossbridge Empire pounded his chestplate; King Thrain of the Dwarves whipped his beard-braids in excitement; the Thunderclap Tower Master raised a hand wreathed in crackling lightning.
The rewards of the last war had already sweetened their ambition—and Lupotin's success had become the final spark that set their blood aflame.
Every external faction present was now ready to commit their full strength—ready to burn through their reserves, even to unleash forbidden powers that harmed their very souls—just for a chance to seize first merit in this coming war.
At the edge of the Aresia system—Dalton's fleet arrived.
Compared to the grand coalition's vast armada that blanketed the stars, Dalton's fleet looked almost meager—barely a thousand ships.
Yet their formation radiated a chilling precision, a mechanical discipline that seemed carved from pure order itself.
Each warship—be it the sleek Star-Chaser Cruiser or the towering Bastion-class Battleship—glowed with faint, flowing runes across its hull, their energy signatures terrifyingly stable.
Many onlookers could not hide their astonishment.
How could a civilization that apparently lacked even a single Star Core Archmage field such disciplined and well-fortified forces?
And more shockingly—faced with so many Level 2 and 3 civilization fleets—how dare they not kneel or surrender, but instead raise their blades?
Such arrogance could only come from ignorance.
Marshal Baroque of the Rivenblade Dynasty could bear it no longer.
He drove his crescent-bladed flagship forward, emerging before the coalition line.
The crushing aura of an Astral Emissary exploded outward, pressing on all who beheld him.
As a commander from a Level 2 Civilization capable of producing Astral Emissaries, Baroque stood among the elite of his rank.
"Cowardly natives, hear me!" he thundered.
"I am Baroque, Grand Marshal of the Rivenblade Dynasty's Expeditionary Force! You squat upon divine relics—an unpardonable crime!"
"Kneel and surrender now! Hand over all that you possess, and I may grant you the mercy of living—to mine our sacred veins in service to the Dynasty!"
But before his words could echo through the void—laughter erupted across Dalton's open channels.
The offer of surrender was met with scorn and mockery.
Every soldier of Dalton—be it a regular trooper or a crusader volunteer—wore only the fire of battle in their eyes, not fear.
They yearned not for mercy, but for glory and advancement!
Lower-class citizens?
Ha! Even a janitor in Dalton was prouder than a noble in the Rivenblade Dynasty.
"Who's this bumpkin? Think yelling louder makes you right?"
"Mining for you? I'd rather clean toilets in Dalton!"
"Quit talking and start fighting already! The brothers are itching to earn merit points!"
Baroque's face turned a furious shade of purple—no one had ever dared humiliate him so brazenly.
"Courting death!"
He roared.
The void behind him twisted violently.
A colossal blade of pure destructive energy—stretching several kilometers—condensed into being.
It was his personal law-weapon: Soulrend Slash, a strike powerful enough to tear through stars.
As the blade fell, the very fabric of space screamed—leaving behind a black scar that refused to fade.
Even the leaders of several Level 1 Civilizations went pale; such power was beyond anything they could withstand.
Yet—as that cataclysmic slash descended, the foremost Dalton cruiser did not even activate its energy shields.
Just before the blade made contact, a soft, verdant light bloomed across the void.
A translucent barrier unfolded—gentle yet unyielding—like the tender sprout of spring pushing through the soil, shimmering with endless vitality and the deep rhythm of life itself.
Buzz—!
The Soulrend Slash crashed violently into the emerald barrier, unleashing an energy storm so immense that it could have pulverized an ordinary Legendary-rank powerhouse on impact.
But the green light curtain—though trembling violently—did not shatter.
It flexed like a living vine, soft yet unbreakable, wrapping itself tightly around the descending energy blade.
Layer by layer, it stripped away and absorbed the destructive power within, converting it into gentle ripples of natural mana.
In the end, the immense blade let out a mournful hum—then fractured inch by inch, disintegrating into countless motes of fading light.
A moment later, a slender figure appeared silently at the prow of the cruiser.Elarielle.
Clad in her elven battle armor and holding the staff Whisper of Nature, crafted from a branch of the World Tree, she stood bathed in green luminescence.
Her face was serene and flawless, as cold and pure as moonlight.
She didn't even glance at Baroque.
Instead, she turned slightly toward the elven archers and druids standing in disciplined formation behind her and said softly—
"Remember this well. The Path of Nature is not only about growth and healing. It also embodies binding… and retaliation."
"Impossible!"
Baroque's eyes bulged as if they would burst from his skull.
From this seemingly delicate elf, he could distinctly sense the aura of a Star Core Archmage!
Truth Archmage → Star Core Archmage → Astral Emissary → Astral Archmage → Astral Envoy…
The entire chain of ranks flashed through his mind like a thunderbolt.
And then—shock rippled through the entire allied fleet.
To challenge across realms at this level—to pit a Star Core Archmage against an Astral Emissary—was as absurd as an ant defying a god.
It was an iron law of the universe: the higher the realm, the wider the gulf.
Cross-realm battles became exponentially impossible the higher one ascended.
And yet—Elarielle had just done it.
"You're merely a Star Core Archmage! How can you block my Law-infused strike?!"Baroque's disbelief turned into raw fury, while the coalition erupted into chaos.
"Cross-realm suppression?! That easily?!"
"Who is she?!"
"How can such a remote world harbor someone like this?!"
Within the Dalton forces, an entirely different sound shook the air—an explosion of cheers.
"Dean Elarielle, magnificent!"
"Long live the Dean!"
"Elarielle, our goddess of nature!"
The mages and students of Dalton Academy shouted themselves hoarse, their morale surging to new heights.
Among the older scholars and veterans who knew the ancient history of the Elven race, however, faces turned pale with awe and disbelief.
"T-That's… that's Elarielle! The Queen of the Sunlit Elves!"
"She—she was supposed to have vanished ages ago! And she's the mysterious Dean of Dalton Academy?!"
"Ten thousand years… and instead of fading, she's advanced even further?! What in the stars happened?!"
"By the gods of Nature… that's Her Majesty, the former Queen herself!"
"But didn't the records say her power had fallen drastically after the Great Sealing War?"
"They said she would never return to her former glory!"
Yet here she stood—restored, radiant, and beyond anything they had imagined.
Not only had she regained her strength…she had surpassed the Eternal rank—and now wielded the power to defy even Astral Law itself.
Those few ancient beings who had once ridiculed her—calling her sacrifice for the world a foolish waste—now sat frozen, pale as death.
Their arrogance crumbled beneath the truth.
The one they had scorned for her "naïve idealism" had long since soared beyond their reach—leaving them behind, small and silent beneath the light of her reborn divinity.