The inside of the castle was made of black stones. Black stone framed every surface—walls, pillars, ceilings—cut so precisely that not even light could find a flaw between them. But that blackness was not void; it was alive with colour, decorated in spirals and sigils of gold and green script that glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with something buried deep beneath the stone. The air smelled faintly of metal polish and blooming jasmine.

  Every vase and sculpture glistened, freshly wiped clean despite their obvious age. Ornamental blades sat in open wall mounts, their edges untouched by time. A sword with a dragon's fang for a hilt rested beside a pristine urn carved in the image of a phoenix with its wings curled around a star.

  The floor gleamed beneath Sadi's feet, so polished it reflected not only her image but the shadows beyond it.

  This place had not been abandoned.

  It had been preserved—by someone who feared being forgotten.

  At the far end of the vast entry hall stood a Thousand-Mile Cloud, tethered to a gleaming emerald pillar that reached into the upper floors like the spine of the world itself. It stood motionless and silent, glowing gently with scripts that ran from its base up into the heights above, lost beyond view.

  And then—a voice.

  A rasp of age, strained through the years. Yet woven with a desperation so sharp it echoed off the stones like a cracked bell.

  "They have arrived..."

  There was a pause. The voice trembled, barely able to believe the words that followed.

  "Is it finally…"

  "Time?"

  The air stilled.

  Sadi swallowed, her voice small beneath the vaulted ceiling. "Hello? Who are you?"

  A moment passed in silence.

  Then came the sound of shuffling feet, of fabric dragging along stone , and the whisper of something old and fragile being roused from stillness.

  From above, descending slowly on the Thousand-Mile Cloud, came a figure.

  He wore layered green and white robes, once fine , now frayed at the edges. His skin was pale— ashen, like old paper left too long in the sun. Hair spilt down in silver tangles, and a beard as unkempt as brambles clung to his chin. But his eyes ...

  His eyes were wet. Shining with emotion that had no name.

  Sadi barely had time to register the sorrow in them before pressure slammed into her chest like a hammer.

  She fell to her knees.

  Whitehall beside her collapsed just as quickly, both of them crushed beneath the sheer weight of spirit emanating from the man. It was not hostile. It was not sharp.

  It was deep.

  Ancient. Unyielding.

  "Forgive me!" the man gasped, panic in his voice. "This one… this one has not had guests in so long, he forgot…"

  His aura vanished like breath in winter.

  Sadi blinked, heart still hammering in her chest. She pushed herself to her feet—

  And stared.

  The man had fallen to his knees.

  His hands pressed to the floor. His head bent low, forehead touching the polished stone in a bow of utter reverence.

  He was bowing to her.

  Her.

  What?

  She blinked rapidly, trying to find words, but her mind was still tangled in confusion . She turned to Whitehall for help.

  He looked back with a helpless expression and gave a small shrug. His eyes said it all.

  "Um…" Sadi began, her voice climbing in pitch. "Hello?"

  The old man tried to lower his head further, his spine trembling. "Please forgive me," he whispered, words trembling. "This one did not mean disrespect. This one only—only meant to honour your presence."

  Sadi really didn't know what to say. So, she tried her best to diffuse the situation. "N-no," she shook her hands. "Please, stand up. I felt no disrespect."

  She elbowed Whitehall, nodding slightly.

  He caught on. "Nope," he said. "No disrespect at all."

  "See?" Sadi smiled—nervous, unsure. "All fine."

  The man exhaled like a dying fire rekindled. "Your graciousness…" he murmured. "As true as the day I met you."

  Met?

  Was he mistaking them for someone else?

  "I don't think we've met before," Sadi hesitated.

  "No, no," the man shook his head. And he sounded like he was speaking to himself when he continued. "Of course we have. Just not like this."

  "Umm... I really don't think-"

  The old man interrupted her and continued. "Of course we have. You have her power inside of you."

  And then, like a piece of a dream falling into place, it clicked.

  "You're talking about Sunda," Sadi replied. "The one whose remnant resides in my spirit."

  "In your Soul, child. In your Soul," the old man huffed as if offended. "What is with kids these days trying to make new terms."

  Sadi didn't wish to debate and just nodded instead.

  "And the task is done," he muttered, more to himself than to them. "I will break my oath if I must. And I will fulfil it."

  "I'm sorry," Sadi gently began. "But I do not understand. What oath are you breaking? What task did Sunda give you?"

  The man paused and looked at Sadi with wide eyes. "You do not remember?" he shakily asked.

  Sadi felt her core shiver as the old man ran his perception through her.

  "You are her ," he whispered. "There's no doubt about it."

  Sadi opened her mouth, but she did not know what to reply. "I .. I don't know what you are talking about. I don't know what is happening."

  The old man clamped his mouth shut, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. He shook his head after a moment. "That does not matter. I will still fulfil my oath to the one that saved me."

  Frustrated with the lack of clarity, Sadi blurted out. "Who are you? And what oath are you fulfilling? Why are we here?"

  The man flinched. "Please! Please do not ask me to say what I am bound not to. Please do not make me speak what must not be said."

  "Then what can you tell us?" Whitehall said quietly.

  The man stood fully now, slowly—like someone unused to standing tall. He brushed the dust from his sleeves and nodded solemnly.

  "This one's name is Gavottes Garandit. Archlord of the Path of the Dying Oath. Disciple of the Rune Sage. Subject of her grace, Queen Emala."

  He spread his arms to the gleaming black hall around them.

  "This place once belonged to the Emperor of the Black Dragons," he said, voice growing taut with ancient fury. "But by her grace's might, we abolished them."

  He turned to them, voice trembling once more.

  "Tell me… what of the Black Dragons now?"

  From the frantic of his voice. The shiver in his movements. The fear in his eyes. Sadi knew what he was searching for.

  Salvation.

  "The Blackflame Empire is now a vassal of the Akura Clan, a human clan," she answered. "The Emperor is also a human Overlord."

  Whitehall added, "No Black Dragons remain." A lie. But one the old man needed.

  Relief flooded the man's eyes, and tears dripped down his cheeks. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Like centuries of burden had just been lifted off his back.

  "Thank you," the old man slowly said. "For letting me know. The Black Dragons were tyrants. Their Path of the Blackflame always leads to destruction. Eliminating them is a necessity for peace."

  Sadi didn't correct the man.

  What would be the point?

  The old man wiped his tears with his robes, and when he was done, his eyes were filled with new determination.

  "Come," he said, gesturing toward the cloud. "There is not much time. Now that you are here … they may be watching."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Whitehall stepped onto the Thousand-Mile Cloud. "They?"

  The old man looked over his shoulder.

  "The Abidan," he said simply .

  Sadi frowned. "That sounds familiar…"

  Garandit sighed. "Tyrants of the Universe?"

  They shook their heads.

  "Conquerors of worlds?"

  Still nothing.

  "Cultists in white armour?"

  Whitehall raised his brow. "You mean the messengers from the heavens?"

  The old man nearly choked on his own spit and had a heart attack when he heard what Whitehall said.

  "Messenger of the heavens?" he wheezed like he had just been stabbed. "Sure, if you call the tyrants and conquerors as 'heaven'," he spat.

  Whitehall and Sadi exchanged a look behind the Archlord's back. Neither of them understood what was unfolding—not truly . The names, the history, the oath s…i t was like stepping into someone else's dream.

  But Sadi noticed something else now—something subtle.

  Whitehall's expression had changed.

  They followed Garandit deeper into the castle. The black stone halls gave way to an arched doorway inscribed with foreign script, faint green veins of light pulsing down the carvings. The doors opened without touch—just a whisper of old recognition—and led them into a Soulsmith's sanctum.

  It was not a forge.

  It was a cathedral built for creation.

  A dozen workbenches lined the room, littered with incomplete arrays, coils of glowing thread, and schematic scrolls rolled and stacked like the spines of dead dragons. Scripts crawled lazily across parchment as if still rewriting themselves. Soulsmith tools—some familiar, others utterly alien—floated in stasis fields made of suspended starlight.

  In the far corner, an ancient Blackflame forge burned with eerie stability. Its core glowed a sullen black, not flickering , but breathing. The flame did not hiss . It purred like a predator in deep thought.

  But the centrepiece of the room—what drew Sadi's breath in and held it—was the anvil.

  It was the size of a banquet table and made of a metal she could not name. Its surface gleamed with veins of white and gold, streaked with threads of silver and black like rivers of frozen lightning. Even standing several paces away, Sadi could feel its power radiating outward in slow waves.

  Not aggressive. Just immense.

  It didn't hum with madra. It pressed into the world around it, like gravity itself bowed to it.

  She whispered, awed, "That could be worth a city…"

  Whitehall nodded once. "Or very large one."

  Garandit approached it solemnly, reverently—as one might approach a tomb. His fingers hovered above the anvil's edge.

  And then—

  He struck it.

  No technique. No madra. Just a single, withered fist.

  The metal shattered.

  Not with violence. Not with sound.

  It broke like mist under sunlight, dissolving into glittering dust that vanished before it touched the floor.

  All that remained was a simple, weathered brown sack. The Archlord knelt, lifting it like it held a sleeping child. He cradled it in both hands, turning to face them.

  "When not working on my primary task, I have devoted myself this past five hundred years to do what I can to help with our effort," the man explained as he reached into the sack.

  "I have imbued these with what you have taught me," he nodded to Sadi.

  "I would not use it openly while you are still in Cradle and keep it in your soul space at all times . Most Abidan are not powerful enough to detect these items, but if one did, you would not stand a chance as you both are now."

  He drew out something small—no larger than a coin. It was a square of tightly folded black fabric, barely thick enough to notice.

  But when he shook it—

  It unfurled, rippling like a liquid shadow into a full-length, hooded cloak. The edges shimmered with thread that danced in and out of the visible spectrum. The inside was darker than darkness itself.

  He handed it to Whitehall, his wrinkled hands surprisingly steady.

  "This cloak will only answer to you. It will hide your identity and veil your presence."

  Whitehall took it slowly, almost reverently.

  "Its power will grow as yours does. One day, it will even hide you from the Abidan."

  Then he reached into the sack again, this time pulling out a small lacquered box no wider than a handspan.

  He turned to Sadi.

  "This… is yours."

  She opened it.

  And gasped.

  Inside were two large ear ornaments , shaped like stylised wings—delicate, golden, impossibly intricate. The feathers were inlaid with gems of every color, capturing the hues of a sunrise in flight. Sadi realised it was meant to mimic Sunda's wings.

  "I made them with the madra you left behind when we first met. The sumpings will shine your light ... so others may follow. These will also only ever answer to you."

  Then, the old man looked at both of them with... fondness? Like he was witnessing something he never thought he ever would.

  "These two items will always connect you . Even if fate does not will it. You will find each other."

  He gave them a small smile. It was faint but genuine.

  "While one leads the path with light, the other shall strike in the dark. With this, may the cursed pair be whole."

  Sadi stared at the box in her hands, heart full of questions she couldn't yet speak.

  Whitehall was the first to break the silence.

  "What is this?" he asked, voice sharp. "Why are you giving this to us? What exactly are you preparing us for?"

  There was venom in his tone now. Not hatred—but frustration. Grief. That endless hunger for truth he'd carried since the day he woke up in this world.

  Garandit faltered. "I… I cannot—"

  "Speak plainly!" Whitehall snapped. "We are not children. If you know something—tell us."

  The Archlord bowed again, lower this time.

  "Please," he begged. "I cannot. I must not. It would change too much. At this time … you are not ready."

  Whitehall clenched his fists, but before the anger could boil further, Sadi stepped in.

  She placed her hand in his, gently lacing their fingers together.

  "I just want answers," he muttered. "I just want to know… why I am here."

  "I know," she whispered. "And we'll find out."

  Then, she added softly:

  "Together."

  She turned her gaze back to Garandit.

  His robes, for all their ornate stitching, looked worn thin. His beard trembled as he breathed. He looked like a man made entirely of memory and oath.

  "Centuries of waiting…" Sadi murmured. "You've been alone all this time."

  The Archlord nodded slowly. "Yes. But no longer."

  "What did you mean by that we are not ready at this time ?" Sadi asked softly.

  He stood with purpose now, his voice strengthening.

  "That brings us to my primary task. Follow me—we must not delay."

  Without another word, the Archlord turned, his emerald and ivory robes trailing behind him like faded banners of a forgotten empire.

  His steps echoed down the black stone corridor with deliberate grace—neither hurried nor hesitant. There was a finality to the way he moved, as though every stride had already been walked a thousand times in memory, and now at last in reality.

  Sadi and Whitehall followed, silent.

  They returned to the castle's ground floor, its vast chamber now feeling hollow and reverent, like the heart of a temple waiting for prayer.

  At its centre, beneath the sprawl of the towering ceiling , Sadi saw it : a vast circular array etched directly into the obsidian floor.

  The ring spanned at least twenty feet in diameter , drawn in a radiant mesh of green and silver script. Each rune shimmered faintly like dew under moonlight, breathing in rhythm with some ancient will. The array hummed quietly, not in sound , but in pressure, as if space itself was being bent inward.

  Garandit came to a stop at its centre.

  He turned to face them—his expression soft, peaceful. He gave a small wave of his hand, and Sadi flinched as a film of green madra wrapped around her skin.

  It settled over her like a second layer, clinging to her form— cool and supple.

  Whitehall reacted similarly, his brow furrowing as the strange technique took hold of him.

  "That will protect you," the Archlord said gently, "from the after-effects—once I'm gone."

  "Wait. What?" Sadi and Whitehall said in unison, a spike of alarm in their voices .

  But the old man had already turned inward. His gaze drifted toward the array.

  "I cannot tell you what my task was ," he murmured. "But I can show you what I've discovered. What I've … endured."

  The array beneath him lit up.

  Dozens—then hundreds—of circular scripts ignited in sequence, green and silver madra racing outward from his feet. They crawled across the floor, climbing the walls, arching over the ceiling like veins in the bones of the world .

  Green light filled the space—not bright, but vast. Deep. Everlasting.

  Then, slowly, Garandit rose with blazing green eyes.

  His body lifted from the ground with neither technique nor visible support. He simply hovered, arms drifting to his sides, head tilted upward toward the dome of power now assembling above him.

  "I studied the technique of Monarch Emala—the way she bent time like wire, stretching it thinner and thinner," he said. "I tried to slow it, then stall it, then rewind it…"

  A tremor entered his voice.

  "But neither my path nor hers were ever meant for reversal."

  His eyes softened to a pale, soft green, filled with sorrow and resolve.

  "Still," he continued, "I refused to abandon the effort. For centuries, I poured myself into it. And I found it—a way. A thread of reversal, narrow as a whisper, fragile as light."

  The light of the array thickened, the air shimmering like a heat mirage around it.

  His voice grew stronger .

  "But to achieve it, I must break my oath."

  He looked directly at Sadi then— into her eye s—a nd did not look away.

  "And I will do so willingly," he declared. "In the name of the Emperor."

  The floor pulsed.

  Reality twitched.

  "Let this stand as a warning," Garandit continued. "What I have made here is fragile. Limited. Meant only to touch a single corner of time. Do not replicate what you see , for you must not touch what I am about to. Build upon my technique. Refine it."

  He held his open palms in front of his chest, where a green ball of madra began to grow.

  "Should you ever reverse time. Do not alter far. Do not seek to change too much at once."

  A crack of madra and aura split across the ceiling, and the green madra binding Sadi's skin shimmered brighter in response.

  "If you alter too much," he continued. "You may never find your way back."

  The ball of green madra between his palms began to grow. In moments, it had begun to fill the entire room.

  Sadi stared at it, her perception sharpening to follow the layers of different techniques. She could see threads within it—some moving forward, some looping, some caught in stillness. She had never seen madra like this . Not even from the Beast King.

  She leaned in.

  Trying to understand.

  Garandit looked upon them one last time. Eyes filled not with power—but reverence.

  "My name," he said proudly, "is Gavottes Garambit, Archlord of the Dying Oath. Loyal to the Rune Queen Emala. Loyal to the memory of the Empire."

  His eyes bore into Sadi's and his voice rang through the chamber like a bell.

  "Witness me, Emperor!"

  Above him, the air shimmered. Then—solidified.

  A circular badge of pure will formed in the space over his head—engraved with a clock whose hands had no numbers.

  Sadi felt something deep within her shift.

  Disgust.

  Like what he was doing was a betrayal.

  "Reverse."

  And he slammed his palms together.

  The world fractured.

  A shockwave of green madra exploded outward, igniting every script in the room at once . Light flooded the chamber like a tidal wave. The madra touched the walls, the floor, the ceiling—and then, time itself.

  Beneath the blinding green light Sadi thought she saw movements.

  At first, they were shadows—blurs swimming behind the screen of green, slow and staggered. But they grew clearer. Sharper. And then she realised—

  They were moving backwards.

  Sadi's breath caught.

  She saw Gavottes Garandit, younger now—his posture stronger, back straight, hair short and black as ink. He moved through the halls of the castle , retracing his steps, his hands setting tools into places that should not exist, laying down arrays she had never seen, and tucking away sacred instruments into alcoves that shimmered out of existence once his hands left them.

  He was living time in reverse.

  And she was witnessing it.

  A gasp escaped her lips as her vision deepened. The green light flared—intense, overwhelming—and just when she thought she would be consumed by it entirely ...

  A golden light pierced through.

  It cracked through the green like the sunrise breaking through storm clouds, warm and commanding. Where the green had been distortion and drift, the gold was clarity. Sadi could see everything again . Clearly. Vividly .

  The ceiling of the castle shattered above them—no sound, only the memory of impact—and through the storm of falling debris descended a shape like a comet made of sunlight.

  Sunda.

  The Garuda soared downward, her radiant wings spread wide, feathers trailing pure light , her body wrapped in a blazing aura that scorched the memory of darkness from the room.

  She held something—someone.

  A man.

  Young. Barely breathing.

  It was Garandit.

  His face was pale, his body limp, blood slick on the side of his robes.

  He was dying.

  Sunda's talons cradled him gently like he weighed nothing at all. She landed silently, her wings folding into a crescent halo behind her. Then she bent low, her beak near his ear, and whispered words that Sadi could not hear—but felt in her bones.

  A promise.

  A bond.

  An oath forged with light.

  And then—Sunda turned.

  Just for a moment.

  Her eyes—bright with ancient light—met Sadi's.

  She sees me.

  The thought struck like lightning.

  It was impossible. This was a vision of the past. A memory. A ghost.

  But Sadi knew—Sunda had looked at her.

  And then, like wind scattering mist, Sunda vanished.

  No flash. No sound.

  Just gone.

  But the world did not stop.

  From the far side of the castle, a portal opened—an elegant disc of spinning blue script. Through it stepped a woman wrapped in familiar green and white robes, though hers shimmered with far more weight and woven authority. She was tall and regal, bearing herself not with arrogance, but with the certainty of command.

  Upon her head was a crown, simple but stunning—four curving green horns that flared backwards like living emeralds, so like Ziel's goldsigns it made Sadi's breath catch.

  Queen Emala.

  The name formed in her spirit without prompt.

  She didn't walk. She strode, stepping through the battlefield that the castle had become, heading straight toward the roar of the sky.

  And then the sky opened.

  From above, crashing through thunderclouds and rain, came a Blue Serpentine Dragon as thick as the entire palace. Its scales rippling with thunderous power, its presence eclipsing the sun thunderstorms in memory.

  The Weeping Dragon.

  Queen Emala rose into the air, green trails of madra spiralling around her like ivy caught in a storm. She met the beast in the sky, their powers colliding in silence as the memory looped in sacred rhythm—two titans locked in battle.

  And then the vision fractured again.

  The ground shook.

  The Monarch's presence vanished in an instant , torn from the battlefield like a candle snuffed in the wind.

  Sadi gasped as the power disappeared—too suddenly.

  And below, the battle raged.

  Streaks of Blackflame split through the castle like cracks in the air, searing the stone, incinerating columns and murals alike. Sacred artists in green and white—dozens of them—fought back, their numbers collapsing like falling dominos. Their robes flared with scripts. Their swords glowed with desperate resolve.

  They were dying.

  They died anyway.

  There was no retreat.

  No surrender.

  Only the resolve to fight to the last name, the last breath, the last flicker of light.

  And then—

  The green light surged again, engulfing everything in brilliance. Sadi flinched as it overtook her vision once more.

  The past was being pulled back.

  Folded in.

  Sealed away.

  And finally, it was gone.

  When the green light faded, the silence that followed was not mere quiet.

  It was the absence of movement, the echo of a technique too powerful to exist, the stillness that follows something ancient breaking open and folding shut again.

  And everything had changed.

  Where once Shatterspine Castle had stood proud and preserved—a monument of pristine black stone and polished gold—it was now a mausoleum.

  The walls had crumbled . The shining floors were buried beneath layers of ash and dust. The elegant vases that once lined the halls were shattered across the ground like broken bones. The murals were scorched . The scripts that had lit the hallways now sparked dimly before fading to nothing.

  Statues once upright in reverence now lay cracked and faceless.

  The weight of age, of war, of memory—all of it had returned in a single breath.

  Sadi took one slow step forward, her boots crunching softly against a field of broken glass and soot. It felt like she was walking into a dream made real and then left to rot.

  A strange silence followed her.

  Not natural.

  Unmoving.

  She turned her gaze to the far end of the shattered corridor—and froze.

  A gaping hole yawned where the far wall had once stood, revealing a deeper layer of the castle she hadn't known existed. Beneath the exposed foundations were twisted hallways that descended into darkness.

  But that wasn't what stopped her.

  It was the smoke—rising in delicate ribbons from deep within.

  And the bodies.

  They were everywhere.

  Scattered across the stone in unnatural stillness. Dozens. Maybe more. Some crumpled against walls, some with limbs twisted in impossible directions. Green and white robes stained with ash and blood. The air itself smelled of seared flesh and old metal.

  The wounds told their own story.

  Scorch marks, edged with black residue, carved across chests and throats. Some had been burned straight through—seared shut by the impact of Blackflame.

  These weren't just remnants of a past battle.

  These were the frozen dead.

  "...Sadi," Whitehall whispered.

  She didn't realise she'd been swaying until she felt his arm wrap around her waist, grounding her.

  His voice came low and steady but laced with something dark. "Something's wrong."

  Sadi tried to speak, but her throat felt closed. Her eyes scanned the space again—this time, slower.

  He was right.

  The smoke didn't move.

  It hung in the air like strands of thread, unmoving, curling upward in perfect stillness, as though trapped in glass.

  Time had stopped.

  Not everywhere—only here. Only in this palace. A bubble. A pocket.

  Sadi looked down at her arms , at her skin—still slick with that layer of green madra, the technique Garandit had given them before his final technique. It clung to her like a second breath, separating her from the rules of the moment.

  "We need to go," she said quietly. "Before the technique ends. We don't know what would happen if we remain here."

  Whitehall nodded slowly.

  But his eyes were still fixed deeper into the ruins, toward the heart of the devastation.

  Toward the bodies.

  "He's still in there, isn't he?" he said. "Gavottes."

  Sadi followed his gaze , past the smoke , past the fallen, to where a collapsed chamber shimmered with a faint, flickering glow.

  The very edge of the spell's reach.

  "Yes," she said. "I saw him . Back then. He is barely alive. Sunda saved him before. But…”

  She hesitated. "But now it's as if that never happened."

  Whitehall's voice was quiet. "I see."

  His expression shifted—not in surprise or fear, but in something heavier. The kind of weight that came with understanding just enough of something too vast to comprehend.

  She stepped closer to the edge of the chamber, to the brink of that still air, watching where Gavottes's figure lay. Crumpled. Bleeding. Caught in a moment that would never move forward again.

  "We could save him," she said.

  Not desperate. Just soft. Hopeful.

  She looked back at Whitehall, at the mask he continued to wear despite his scars having disappeared, at the deep exhaustion buried behind his careful posture.

  Whitehall met her eyes and shook his head. "I don't think he wants us to."