The council chamber trembled with the sharp voice of the youth.

  “So it is true they are possessed?” Elysius shows curiosity, his tone untempered, ringing louder than the vaulted stone deserved.

  A hand the size of a hammer slammed against metal, jolting the table.

  “Keep your voice down, boy! This is a small room,” barked Professor Bjorn without lifting his eyes. The old artificer fingers were already deep in the guts of a half-finished contraption, gears and sparks spilling across the copper.

  Bjorn cut an imposing figure: taller than any two men, heavyset beneath a bear-fur coat, his thick jowls shadowed by bristle and his hair forced into a proud crest. His spectacles flashed whenever the lanternlight caught them, hiding whether he looked at machine or man.

  Across from him, the majestic goddess, Amaterasu raised her gaze from the parchment spread before her. A flicker of flame seemed to dance in the reflection of her red eyes. “Mass possession exists again,” she murmured, voice tinged with restrained fury, “very interesting” Her red kimono folded about her like a robe of war, a delicate kanzashi glinting among the fire of her hair.

  The weight of her words hung in silence until Leroy stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone. The former soldier’s broad frame cast a long shadow across the council’s round table.

  “If mass possession has struck the realm, then we cannot remain idle,” he declared, his tone carrying the command of one long drilled in battle.

  From her place, Starmist lifted a porcelain cup to lips pale as marble. The steam curled like whispers around her face, softening her features though her azure eyes gleamed with alien depth. She lowered the cup before speaking, her voice calm yet edged with certainty.

  “I have talk with the commonfolk in the Southeast,” she said. “Their sorcerers cannot explain what happen there.”

  A hush settled, heavy as the air before a storm. The council chamber, though small and thick with the scent of dry flower, seemed to expand beneath the weight of their unease. The youngest of them, Elysius—draped in white and gold, his boyish frame bound in the trappings of premature authority—remained standing, his jaw set though his cheeks burned with shame at Bjorn’s rebuke.

  Cygnus stirred at last, his voice breaking the tension of the chamber.

  “They are not from my Sorcerer Order,” he said, calm yet resonant, his tone like stone grinding in the depths of the earth. His left hand propped against his chin, eyes half-lidded as though the matter were already beneath him. “I shall send my own emissary.”

  The others listened in silence. Cygnus Spellbane had borne the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme for near seven centuries, and all knew his years stretched even further still. His hair, once black, was veined with silver now, the weight of time etched into every strand. Yet the layers of violet and green that draped his shoulders still carried the gravitas of a founder—one of the first pillars to shape the Council of Power.

  Across from Leroy, seated in cold detachment, was a man who seldom spoke. His hand moved slowly, polishing the heavy sword that never left his side, his presence as quiet as it was suffocating.

  This was Lucretius, the fallen knight of whispered legend—the strongest and deadliest knight the All Realm nowadays. His long dark hair framed a face pale with stillness, and his armor, a seamless weave of midnight steel, bore motifs of three black skulls. Not a single scar marred the polished plates, though his cloak was tattered, as though time itself recoiled from touching him.

  No one knew what he truly was. Some said he had once fallen in battle, dragged back from death by abyssal sorcery. Others claimed he had bartered his soul to a demon in an unholy pact. Whatever the truth, none could deny his thirst for blood in combat, nor the ruin he left in his wake. He was a creature of longevity, like Cygnus—another shadow that had endured across centuries.

  “We need not move as one,” Cygnus continued, voice cutting through the council’s unease. “Leave this matter to me.”

  No one opposed him. Respect—perhaps fear—stayed their tongues. The others bowed to his judgment, deferring as they always had to the elder among them. Leroy, pragmatic as ever, shifted the discourse toward other matters, for the council’s table was never empty.

  The cries of the All Realm poured in endlessly, and even its strongest hands faltered to weigh which should come first.

  And yet, though calamity had erased half of the realm and reduced humanity’s numbers by more than sixty percent, that devastation granted the council a cruel simplicity. Hard decisions, once tangled by the voices of millions, had grown quiet under the shadow of mass extinction.

  Elysius, however, could not mask the disappointment written across his youthful face. The boy of seventeen leaned back, arms crossed, his golden eyes bright with restless longing.

  “A pity,” he muttered. “I would have liked to see them—the possessed people.”

  His words hung in the air, na?ve yet fearless, the hunger of youth pressing against the weary silence of immortals.

  Bjorn gave a short, derisive laugh, his thick fingers twirling a screwdriver between them.

  “There is no such thing as mass possession,” he scoffed, his voice heavy with scorn. “It is a matter of psychology—neurology, or something. Nothing more.”

  Cygnus, ever unmoved by the artificer’s barbs, spoke with unshaken calm. “Not all things can be explained by your science, Professor,” he replied, his tone cool as still water. The clash was familiar: sorcerer and cogworks, two factions bound together by necessity, yet divided by their very ways of seeing the world.

  At the opposite end of the table, Elysius bent over a stack of reports, his youthful eyes sharp with diligence. He paused, frowning.

  “What about this—elemental beings kidnapped by intergalactic traders?”

  It was a question born of innocence, yet it struck the table like a spark. The boy had been given the simplest duty—to sift, to order, to choose what merited their attention—but even a misplaced choice could turn the council’s eye from salvation to ruin.

  Amaterasu’s kimono rustled as she slammed a palm against the table, her eyes blazing like her namesake’s flame. “Then let the gods destroy them!” she raise her voice, voice edged with fury. “Those thieves deserve no mercy.”

  Her rage was not without cause. The elemental creatures, fragile and yet vital, were the lifeblood of her kind. To the Elementalists, their bond was sacred: without them, the flow of nature’s energy faltered, ecosystems collapsed, and the strength of every elemental master waned. The very balance of the Realm depended upon their survival.

  Leroy shifted in his seat, broad shoulders tense beneath his soldier’s garb. When he spoke, his voice commonly carried command, yet beneath it trembled the hesitation of a man who knew the weight of every word.

  “We know who is involved,” he admitted, “but in our position, we cannot simply move against them.”

  Cygnus nodded once, lending his authority to the soldier’s caution. “This is not a single crime, but a problem for centuries. To cut too sharply is to let the threads recoil. Many lives are bound in this trade.”

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  Indeed, the illegal markets had plagued the Realm long before the rise of the superhuman council—back when the commonfolk still held power. Smuggling had always been a shadow of imbalance, a desperate answer to the gnawing hunger of inequality. In the broken world of the All Realm, where survival itself was fractured, such shadows only grew deeper.

  Elysius, still hunched over the reports, whispered the names written in careful ink. “Kappa, Alkonost, Earth-trolls…” His golden eyes glimmered with both dread and wonder. Each name was a fragment of myth, now reduced to mere contraband in ledgers of greed.

  A silence followed, heavy and bitter. Around the table, the council could feel it: the world they were sworn to protect was not only threatened by demons, but by the hunger of men.

  “How could they have taken an Alkonost?” Bjorn muttered, his screwdriver still spinning between his fingers. “I placed a radars across the northern areas.”

  Cygnus drew the report from Elysius’s hands, his eyes narrowing. “And yet Amigdala sends no word. Event not a whisper. Either our eyes are failing… or they are being blinded.”

  The name hung heavy in the chamber. Amigdala—the member of sorcerer order who held the northern citadels, voice of the order in those frozen realms.

  Amaterasu rose half from her seat, her anger crackling like sparks. “So easily fooled, both of you. This council is paralyzed by confusion, while my faction bleed for it. If none here will act, then I will send my brother to end this syndicate terror!”

  Gasps stirred the circle. To deploy her brother was to brand the council as aggressors, and she knew it. Even so, her voice trembled with fury at their restraint.

  “Patient, Amaterasu,” said Starmist, his tone soft as drifting snow. The extraterrestrial leaned forward, his blue eyes reflecting the serenity. “Once, when we were younger and unbound, perhaps we would have marched without any hesitation. But the title upon us now is greater than our personal desire.”

  Bjorn gave a low grunt. “I despise it as much as you flame. Each of our choice drive the mass opinion, feels like a prison even though we are the main power in this realms. Yet Starmist is right.”

  “To do nothing,” Starmist continued, “is sometimes the hardest choice of all. But it may also be the truest path.” There was no mockery in his words just patience, and the strange humanity she shown so natural despite she is an outsider.

  Cygnus’s gaze swept all of the younger members, sharp and showing domination. “At this stage, you will not be ruled by passion. Remember, the All Realm itself is your charge. Not the pride of your factions or just the people of your kin.”

  The council chamber quieted again. The bold of voices gave way to a tempered calm. At last, the talk turned to the Realm itself—the task no faction could ignore.

  They finally agreed that Amaterasu should send her brother, but he should not fight, only gather information, then the council would decide. The fire goddess became calm again.

  One hundred and seventy one territories remained in their ledgers, scraps of a world surviving in the shadow of war. Twenty six were great kingdoms, still clinging to crowns and courts. Fifty seven more were held by paramounts and chieftains, men and women who commanded rare resources. The rest lead by fragile hamlets, wandering tribes, forgotten valleys where the scars of ruin were carved deepest.

  The eastern and southern reaches of the Realm were wastelands, suffered deeper than any others by the Great War. Cities lay in ruins, their spires drowned in ash, their rivers poisoned and broken. Forests had burned to ashes, fields lay barren beneath layers of cracked stone. What remained of the people there gathered in scattered bands, some hardened into raiders who preyed upon neighboring lands, others too frail to fight, surviving only by the rations and relief the Council could spare.

  In the west, by contrast, the Realm still breathed. The seat of the Council there, at the heart of the city of Mainland, bastion of precious stone and steel, untouched by the worst of the great war. At its summit stood Caelumreach, the citadel whose very name meant path to the heavens. It was here that the great decisions of survival were forged.

  Bjorn set aside the tangle of gears and coils in his hands, his usual levity fading. His voice dropped down.

  “We built a power-station in the southeast. Within weeks, it was torn apart, stripped by scavengers and the commonfolk sought to help.”

  The Cogworks bore the burden of rebuilding what war had shattered—bridges, power, engines to light the dark. Yet in the wastelands, poverty bred lawlessness. Hunger made thieves of all.

  “They sold the generators, no doubt,” Leroy said, brow furrowed, the soldier’s pragmatism in his tone. “Traded them to nearby kingdoms for food.”

  From his place at the far end of the table, Lucretius stirred at last. For most of the council’s quarrel he had been silent, his gauntleted hand resting upon the edge of his blackened sword. Now he spoke, the cursed steel whispering as he set it against his chair.

  “Shall I discipline them?” he asked, the words calm as winter, yet edged with a violence that chilled the air.

  The silence that followed was heavy. All knew what “discipline” meant in the hands of the Fallen Knight.

  “No,” Cygnus answered firmly. “There has been enough for the commonfolk.” His gaze turned toward the extraterrestrial women. “Starmist will go, to see what truly happen in southeast.”

  “And if she fails or harm?” Amaterasu’s lips curved into a sly smile, though her eyes flashed like firelight. “Then we let Lucretius to execute them.” She gestured to the knight, who showed no flicker of emotion, only that same cold, unreadable mask.

  Agreement shows through all the council members. To spill blood was the last resort, years of fragile peace had taught them that the Realm could not deal with another unnecessary war.

  From his seat, Elysius lifted another sheaf of reports, his young face bright with cautious hope.

  “The soil in the east is stirring,” he said, almost eagerly. “With the help of the Earth Elemental and Forest Maidens, patches of rain-forest have begun to rise again. Not strong, but plants pushes through. Though the effect of radiation run deep.”

  “Vine Viper is learning to growth some of eastern herbs,” Amaterasu said, her voice steady but her eyes intent. “Yet the Shogun immediately request for the relocation of elemental creatures to the east. I ask the Council for the permission.”

  “With herbs taking root there, the locals would gain trade enough from the harvest,” Starmist replied, his tone deceptively calm. “They would no longer need to steal Cogworks machinery for survival.”

  “Have you spoken of tribute with the shogun and the forest maidens, should this plan proceed?” Leroy asked, leaning forward, his soldier’s gaze stare upon Amaterasu.

  By the First Council Decree, any land broken and abandoned—if unclaimed or inhabited by those unable to tend it—was granted to the Elementalists for stewardship. Once the land healed and bore profit, commonfolk might return to it. Yet even then, the territory remained under the Council’s dominion, managed by Elementalists; and those who drew livelihood from it were bound to pay tribute, rent for the ground beneath their feet.

  Amaterasu folded her arms. “That is why I ask the question in this table. We await the Council’s order.” Leroy feels confused for that statement.

  “Then tell Vine Viper to hurry,” Bjorn snapped, tossing a spanner onto the desk. “I’ve enough of this endless madness.”

  Starmist’s pale lips curved in a small laugh, the sound like frost thawing in spring.

  Before the moment could soften further, Elysius leaned forward with youthful eagerness. “Master Cygnus, what of the candidate for the Vanguard I presented to you yesterday?” His choice of title—Master—hung in the air, a mark of deference owed only to the Sorcerer Supreme, rarely heard in this chamber save from one of his own faction.

  Cygnus did not answer at once. He reclined in his chair, eyes drifting upward toward the carved ceiling, as though seeking counsel from the stars painted there. “I have read the candidates. Yet I am not convinced that we must swell the Vanguard members too soon.” His words were calm, yet the hesitation in them unsettled the air.

  Bjorn seized the list of candidates with a grunt, his thick brows knitting as he scanned the names. Then, in his usual thunder, he barked, “And why is there no one from the Celestials? Again?”

  “Lower your voice, Bjorn,” Leroy admonished sharply, reaching to take the parchment from his hands. “This hall is not built for shouting.”

  Elysius stifled a laugh, the mirth of youth breaking briefly through the tension.

  “El,” Starmist said softly, laying a hand upon the boy’s shoulder. Her azure gaze lingered, full of concern. “Is there any problem in your faction?”

  “There is nothing,” Elysius murmured, voice tight with unease. His golden eyes fell toward the floor, unable to meet the gazes around the table. His feet swung idly beneath the chair, betraying his youth more than his words.

  Leroy planted his fists on his hips, one hand still clutching the parchment of names. “Elysius, whatever troubles your faction faces, bring them before this council. The seven of us stand as one. What is said within these walls remains within these walls.” His tone was firm, but not accusatory—an anchor rather than a rebuke.

  Bjorn leaned back in his chair with a groan, uncorking a squat bottle and taking a swallow. “Strangest of all factions, that one,” he muttered, wiping his beard. “Even your arrival among us was strange, boy.”

  Amaterasu’s sharp eyes scanned the parchment, her lips pursed. “But no important news for past few years? No word within? That is far from normal.”

  Across the table, Lucretius said nothing, but his gaze flickered briefly toward Elysius—dark, unreadable, like a blade’s shadow.

  Cygnus chuckled softly, the sound old and weary. “What matters is that he sits here still. He has grown enough to tell us what needs telling—when the time is right. The Celestials walk their own path, by a law that is not like ours.” The Sorcerer Supreme’s words carried both acceptance and something less tangible, as though he knew secret none dared speak aloud.

  They chatted for two hours discussing other generic matters such as finance, infrastructure, security, news, and foundations. The atmosphere in meetings isn't always high-tension; there are some issues they consider trivial. Discussing such matters is often not their cup of tea, but it's still a duty that must be fulfilled.

  The meeting was brought to its close. They would assemble again in seven days.

  Lucretius leave first, silent as always, and without farewell. Cygnus raised his teacup, weaving a ripple of symbols in the air; a portal rise, the fallen knight walk into it. The sorcerer closed it with a flick of his fingers before opening another, stepping through into the Abyss and vanishing toward his temple.

  Amaterasu lingered only long enough to stride to the balcony. With a flare of heat, she leapt into the air—her form blazing, trailing fire across the sky like a meteor with a burning tail. Starmist placed a gentle hand on Elysius’s shoulder, guiding the boy from the chamber. Together they ascended to the rooftop, where one of her silver-winged vessels awaited.

  Bjorn lumbered to his feet last, arms weighed down with blueprints and tools, muttering curses beneath his breath. “I’m done. I’ve had my head fill for the day.”

  “Hey Bjorn,” Leroy said, voice steady, as he returned to his seat. “I need your counsel, old friend.”

  Bjorn froze, shoulders sagging, before lowering himself back onto the chair with a sigh that rattled the air. “For sake, not that again.” His voice bristled with annoyance, but Leroy only laughed, the sound breaking the heavy silence that lingered after the council’s dispersal.