Chapter 191: Bask City

  Bask City emerged from the mist like a sleeping titan.

  Carved into the rising hills and cradled by the slow, winding arms of a wide silver river, the city stretched far and wide—its sheer size dwarfing towns like Reinhart several times over.

  Stone walls as thick as ancient trees enclosed the city in a sturdy embrace, each battlement bristling with watchtowers and sharp-eyed sentinels.

  Banners of gold and navy fluttered from every tower top, their sigils dancing in the breeze like the heartbeat of a newly awakened nation.

  This was the capital of Bask.

  And it was alive.

  From the air, the city looked like a weaving of stone and timber, its architecture a fusion of local craftsmanship and the cultural echoes of the central continent.

  Multi-storied homes clung to the terraced hillsides, stacked like elegant boxes carved from polished rock and lacquered wood.

  Between them ran wide cobbled streets where carriages rolled and crowds bustled, their chatter and footfalls forming a quiet roar even from the sky.

  In every corner, signs of magic glimmered subtly—belts that lightened merchants' burdens, enchanted scaffolds that hovered midair for construction, flickering orbs providing cool light in shady alleys.

  These weren’t tools of war but conveniences, signs of a city where the arcane arts had been normalized and integrated into daily life.

  Above it all, nestled at the highest point like a crown atop the hills, loomed Bask Castle.

  It was less a palace and more a fortress reimagined—its obsidian-black spires climbed into the sky, flanked by silver-veined towers and a massive central dome crowned with a crystalline beacon.

  The very air shimmered faintly around it, a result of layered protections and wards placed over generations.

  Within its halls, the greatest of Bask’s minds, might, and power resided: the Magians, the noble houses, the Tower Apostles.

  And soon, Abel.

  From high above, the golden carpet floated silently through the clouds, the wind whispering around its edges like reverent spirits.

  Master Stone stood at its front, cloaked in gray and gold, regal and unreadable. Behind him, seated in lotus position, was Abel.

  His eyes slowly opened.

  They gleamed faintly with starry light—a remnant of what had awakened within him.

  Without a word, Abel rose to his feet as the castle grew nearer, its presence looming larger with every breath. Stone’s voice, calm and grounded, broke the quiet.

  “You’ll be staying in the castle during your time here,” he said, gaze fixed ahead. “All details regarding the Independence Inauguration will be sent to your badge. You’ll know when the time comes.”

  Abel nodded silently, his cloak fluttering around him.

  He didn’t know exactly what awaited him within these walls, but he could feel it—the weight of eyes, the gravity of change. The city was awake, the nation was shifting, and he… he was no longer just a boy from a lost village.

  He was a Rank 3 Apostle.

  And soon, all of Bask would know his name.

  …

  Some hours had passed since Abel’s arrival, and now he stood alone on the wide balcony of his guest chamber, a soft breeze brushing against his cloak.

  The view was... overwhelming.

  Below him, Bask City stretched endlessly, a vibrant tapestry of life and magic that glowed under the amber hues of a descending sun.

  From this height, the streets looked like delicate veins, pulsing with motion—people moving in harmony, lights flickering on as twilight settled over the hills.

  Abel leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the marble rail. He had seen many things in his journey so far, but this city, this moment, felt like a dream.

  How far I’ve come... he thought, not without a sense of awe.

  His badge buzzed faintly against his chest, pulsing once.

  A summons.

  He turned just as a knock echoed at the door.

  Cautiously, Abel approached and opened it to find... no one.

  Only a floating blue mirror, levitating silently in the air.

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  Before he could speak, the surface shimmered like disturbed water, and within it appeared the visage of a woman—her features elegant and surreal, like a divine being sculpted from liquid glass and soft light. Her hair was flowing silver, her eyes glinting with eerie clarity.

  “You are Abel Noria,” she said, her voice crystalline, echoing as if it came from the depths of a dream. “I have come to escort you to the Inauguration.”

  Abel blinked. “And... you are?”

  “I am merely a creation,” she replied smoothly. “A reflection given form, made to carry out my master’s will. I am nothing more than a guide.”

  There was something whimsical about her—graceful, mysterious, and just slightly mischievous.

  As she glided effortlessly down the corridor, Abel followed close behind, his steps cautious and eyes never straying far from her strange, mirrored form.

  The palace halls were breathtaking—grand in both scale and splendor.

  Polished crystal veined the marble walls, catching the warm glow of enchanted sconces that floated like silent sentinels, casting steady, golden light.

  Along the corridor stretched murals unlike any he had ever seen—alive with subtle motion, as if the past still whispered through them.

  One depicted a host of flaming beasts locked in a brutal clash with robed Apostles, their magic flaring in radiant bursts. Another showed a colossal five-headed serpent being severed mid-roar by a towering greatsword forged of stone.

  Further down, a grotesque battle raged between hunched, rat-like creatures—twisted things wielding jagged blades and foul magic—and a band of Apostles standing firm, each channeling the elemental forces of fire, water, earth, wind, light, and shadow.

  It wasn’t just a hallway—it was a moving chronicle of Bask’s trials and triumphs, etched into the very bones of the palace.

  “So… are you sentient?” he asked cautiously.

  She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with playful curiosity. “I think. I think not. But perhaps you’d like to find out?” Her smile widened just a touch. “Would you like to step into the mirror and see what I see?”

  Abel’s brow furrowed. “I’ll pass.”

  A soft chuckle escaped her. “Very well. Another time, perhaps.”

  They continued on in silence until they reached an ornately carved double door, guarded by tall statues of winged beings, each holding a burning blue torch.

  The mirror-woman stopped just short.

  “I cannot go further,” she said, her tone now gentler. “Beyond this door lies the heart of Bask’s new era—the Independence Inauguration. What awaits inside... will mark you.”

  Abel swallowed, squaring his shoulders.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The mirror shimmered once more, her face slowly vanishing into the glass as her final words echoed softly:

  “Be who they never expected you to be.”

  With a breath, Abel stepped forward.

  And pushed the doors open.

  The grand doors shut behind him with a deep thud, echoing down the corridor like the toll of a distant bell.

  Abel stood for a moment, taking in the splendor before him. The hallway stretched long and wide, lined with banners bearing the insignias of the three great towers of Bask.

  Enchanted chandeliers floated midair, casting a soft, golden glow across marble floors that shimmered with starlike motes of light. Every step he took felt ceremonial, the quiet thud of his boots echoing between intricate arches and high vaulted ceilings.

  At the end of the hallway, the corridor opened up into a vast auditorium—not a room, but a spectacle.

  Hundreds of chairs were arranged in precise rows, split by several main aisles. The space buzzed softly with quiet murmurs, though the atmosphere was still deeply reverent. It was the kind of place where history settled in the air like dust, timeless and heavy with expectation.

  As Abel stepped in, all eyes didn’t turn to him, but his eyes certainly drank in everything.

  To his left, seated in the first wide aisle, was a group of apostles robed in deep forest green, their long garments embroidered with silver leaves and earth sigils.

  Their badges—similar in make to his own—shone with the emblem of Verdant Tower. Their auras were sharp, grounded, and powerful. Rank 3s and even Rank 4 Apostles sat among them, faces both youthful and weathered.

  Opposite them, apostles in short, dark-orange robes filled another section. Their insignias bore the jagged crest of Duskfang Tower—a stylized fang eclipsed by a sun. Their demeanor was more relaxed, but a dangerous edge hung around them. Abel felt their strength too, restrained, but undeniable.

  Toward the front, on the far-right aisle, sat a smaller but equally important group: the nobles.

  Well-dressed, well-postured… and visibly tense.

  Abel could feel it—the quiet resentment lingering in some of their eyes.

  These were members of the old order, forced to adapt to a new reality. Many had resisted the rise of institutes. And yet, seven of the ten great noble families of Bask were present here today—a symbolic gesture of unity.

  Elsewhere in the audience were heads of the politics in Bask city, renowned craftsmen, scholars, and even famous individuals with some authority. Abel recognized a few faces from books and rumors. Important people from every field of society had come to witness this historic moment.

  But it was the stage at the far end that stole his attention.

  There, standing in a half-circle of power and command, were the three Magians of Bask.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  At the center was Master Stone, the silent monolith who had guided and brought him here. Towering and composed, with his signature gray-and-gold robes and unshakable presence.

  To Stone’s right stood Magian Verdant, his shimmering with the weight of centuries, and even from a distance, his connection to light was palpable. On Stone’s left stood Magian Duskfang.

  These were not just leaders.

  They were legends.

  Abel’s chest tightened as he took it all in. So this… is the peak?

  He moved quietly toward the section designated for the Stone Tower apostles. They were older, most by at least a decade.

  Some glanced his way but said nothing. These were apostles who had built their names in silence, far from the noise of politics and rising towers. They wore their power subtly, but unmistakably.

  None greeted him, and Abel didn’t mind.

  He didn’t know them either.

  He simply bowed slightly, respectful, and took a seat near the back. From here, he could see it all—and feel it all. The magnitude of the moment. The weight of history being written.

  As he settled in, his gaze wandered once more to the three Magians on the stage. He had met Stone. But Verdant and Duskfang? They were beings of lore to him—tales he had read or heard whispered from the lips of tower initiates.

  And now… he sat in the same room as them.

  The same ceremony.

  The same future.

  Then Stone stepped forward, his voice like distant thunder.

  “People of Bask. Brothers and sisters of the Towers. Nobles of name. Seekers of knowledge. Guardians of this new era…”

  The inauguration had begun.