Ch 86 - The Brewing Turmoil

Of the nine major nations, six rulers promptly sent handwritten letters to the Zephinya Kingdom. The letters expressed grave concern over the riots that had erupted following Lux Sentinel’s death and urged the kingdom to take full responsibility for the escalating situation. More significantly, they emphasized that one of the revered Heavenly Virtues had been killed within Zephinya’s borders, implying the nation bore the weight of guilt and negligence.

Adding to the mounting pressure, the Church of Virtues issued a formal letter of condemnation. The Church demanded a thorough explanation and justification regarding the kingdom’s potential involvement or lack of diligence in protecting Lux Sentinel, casting further suspicion on Zephinya.

In a single day, the Zephinya Kingdom found itself politically isolated. Ostracized by its fellow nations and weighed down by internal riots and unrest, the kingdom was rapidly spiraling into chaos.

The massacre of the imprisoned nobles in the Citadel of Mankerret had already dealt a devastating blow to the Zephinya king’s covert network—those who had silently influenced the kingdom’s inner workings from the shadows.

Overwhelmed by mounting internal and external pressures, the ruler of Zephinya declared a state of national emergency. In a desperate bid to regain control, he summoned all the kingdom’s grandmasters for an urgent council meeting. The fate of the kingdom teetered on the edge of collapse, and this meeting was perhaps their last chance to salvage it.

In the dimly lit chamber, eleven figures gathered, their faces shadowed but heavy with tension. At the center of the table sat Inyake Radiz, the current ruler of the Zephinya Kingdom. Flecked with silver, his rustic beard framed a weary face as he slumped forward, one hand on his forehead. His fine linen robes, though regal, hung on him like a burden, reflecting the weight of the crisis on his shoulders.

Standing silently at the king's side, his prime minister observed the proceedings with a grave expression. His sharp eyes darted between the maps and the men seated around the table. Surrounding them were the Nine Grandmasters of the Royal Mage Academy, each of whom had answered the king's urgent summons.

A detailed map of the Eldoria Realm, marking the borders of the Zephinya Kingdom and its neighboring nations was spread out on the table before them. Beneath it lay a growing stack of reports, intelligence notes, and hastily drafted plans. Even the seasoned grandmasters, renowned across the land for their expertise, bore furrowed brows as they scrutinized the situation.

Grandmaster Gunther, a tall man with sharp features and a reputation for his strategic acumen, took the lead. He unfurled a set of documents, spreading them across the table as his measured voice filled the room. "According to my intelligence network, the perpetrators behind this tragedy are a newly formed dark guild. They emerged recently, but their actions indicate an alarming level of coordination and strength. As for their numbers, identities, or specific whereabouts... those details remain unknown."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over the group like a storm cloud.

A dark-skinned woman in gleaming armor—Grandmaster Hamanthra, known for her blunt demeanor and battle prowess—picked up one of the documents and scanned it quickly. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she tossed it back onto the table. "So, let me get this straight: some fledgling dark guild manages to slay a Virtue—one of the most powerful beings in existence—and they do it within our borders? How is that even possible? And worse, how did they evade detection under our noses?"

She leaned forward, her voice rising with restrained anger. "Even if we somehow locate these people, do we have the strength to capture or subdue them? If they could kill Lux Sentinel, what makes us think they won’t obliterate us the moment we engage?"

Her words hung heavy in the air. No one responded immediately.

Gunther's lips pressed into a thin line. For once, the strategist, who was usually so quick with solutions, seemed at a loss for words. The silence deepened, each passing second adding to the palpable tension in the room.

Grandmaster Pierre, a man of precision and order, adjusted his immaculately ironed clothes and fixed his glasses before speaking. He held one of the letters in his hand, his voice laced with disdain.

“Well, of the seven letters from our precious neighbors, three are outright declarations of war should we fail to meet their demands. The audacity! Hiding behind the Church’s skirts, using it as their shield while daring to threaten us.” He scoffed, placing the letter down with deliberate force.

Grandmaster Biswaq, a striking man with a well-groomed beard, leaned forward, his voice steady and measured. “The threats from neighboring kingdoms are a concern, yes, but our priority should be ensuring that tensions between us and the Church do not escalate any further. The Church’s influence is deeply embedded in every kingdom—if we misstep, we won’t just be facing a few war-hungry nations; we’ll be facing the wrath of the entire religious order.”

The massive figure of Grandmaster Ajax loomed over the table, his booming voice shaking the very air. "They can go to hell for all I care!" he bellowed, slamming a fist down with enough force to rattle the table. "We've already made it clear—we had nothing to do with the assassination of that Virtue. If they refuse to believe us, then let them march on our borders! We'll bury them where they stand."

A sharp sigh followed, accompanied by the subtle yet exasperated sound of glasses being adjusted. Grandmaster Pierre, ever the embodiment of composed intellect, barely spared Ajax a glance before remarking dryly, "Please, refrain from shouting, Ajax. Not only is it unnecessary, but that may very well be the most idiotic suggestion I’ve heard today. Frankly, you should have just sent your vice-captain in your place—at least he would have had something worthwhile to contribute."

"Enough!" The king’s voice cut through the tense air, sharp with frustration. His fingers curled into fists on the gilded armrests of his seat. "What do you propose as our next course of action?"

The room fell into a heavy silence. One by one, all eyes turned toward Grandmaster Gunther, the kingdom’s chief strategist.

Gunther exhaled, clearly reluctant. “I won’t sugarcoat it—if the kingdom is to survive this crisis, our best option is to submit to the Church of Virtues. We must demonstrate that we are not their enemies, in hopes that they will restore order. Of course, this would come at a price—granting them the administrative power they’ve long sought.” His tone was grim, laced with frustration.

The king ran a weary hand down his face. "So our only path forward… is to kneel before the Church.”

Grandmaster Messindra, cloaked in shadow, finally broke the tense silence. Her voice was smooth yet unreadable. “There is another option—we uncover the true culprits and clear our name. A daunting task, but not impossible. We would need to reroute our intelligence network, track down this so-called dark guild, and gather undeniable proof. Fortunately, I already have informants within the Church’s ranks who have begun piecing together fragments of the truth. However, obtaining solid evidence will take time.”

Grandmaster Casia, a woman of serene elegance draped in white, furrowed her brows. “Wait… are you saying the Church already knows we had no hand in Lux Sentinel’s assassination, yet they are still branding us as the guilty party?”

The words had barely left her lips when a sharp bang reverberated through the chamber. Grandmaster Travis fiery red hair a perfect match for his infamous temper, had slammed his fist onto the table with enough force to rattle the goblets atop it.

“Of course they know!” he growled, eyes ablaze with fury. “They just need a damn excuse to seize control of this kingdom. Those conniving bastards have been scheming for years.” His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, barely restraining the rage simmering beneath his skin. Then, turning his fiery glare toward Messindra, he spat, “If that’s the case, forget waiting. Steal whatever intel they have and expose the real perpetrators—now.”

Messindra inclined her head, her expression as unreadable as ever. “That’s exactly what I’m working on,” she affirmed. “But before we can obtain the evidence we need, we must buy ourselves time—enough to clear our name before the noose tightens around our necks.”

A heavy silence followed. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the war table, mirroring the uncertainty that gripped the chamber.

Gunther, who had remained silent until now, let out a slow, weary sigh. He pressed his fingers against his temples as though trying to stave off the mounting pressure. “That’s the problem,” he muttered, his voice laden with the weight of experience. “Time is the one luxury we do not have. The Church and the neighboring nations will not remain idle for long. Even now, they are watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.” His gaze swept across the room, lingering on each of his fellow strategists before settling on the king.

Then, his voice dropped, and the warning in his words sent a chill through the air. “If this situation escalates… if the Heavenly Virtues themselves choose to intervene, it won’t just be our reputation at stake.” He exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists. “Our entire kingdom could be brought to its knees.”

Grandmaster Ajax let out a sharp scoff, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Hah! We’re wasting too much time fearing the Virtues. I don’t see why you’re all so terrified of them. One of them was taken down by a bunch of nobodies, and now you act like they’re untouchable. If anything, that just proves they’re not as powerful as they pretend to be. Instead of cowering, we should strike first—wipe them out and claim their lands for ourselves.”

A tense silence filled the chamber, the weight of his words pressing heavily on the air.

Across the table, Grandmaster Harnold, the grizzled warrior with an eye patch, fixed Ajax with a hard glare. “Watch your tongue, fool,” he warned, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “If the Virtues even catch wind of such treason, our kingdom will be wiped off the map before you can lift your damn sword.”

Ajax’s smirk only widened, his amusement evident as he leaned forward, “Oh, give it a rest, old man. Maybe it’s time you retired and played with your grandkids instead of spouting nonsense. I, for one, am not afraid of the Virtues. If it comes down to it, my warriors and I will cut them down ourselves.” His tone was laced with unwavering confidence as if the idea of facing the Virtues in battle was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Across the table, Grandmaster Harnold’s weathered face hardened, his one good eye narrowing into a glare as he slowly rose from his chair. "You fool," he growled, voice laced with frustration. "I watched their ‘divine power’ peel the flesh from armies! I saw cities burn to ash at their whim! You think your poultry army and swagger—"

Crash.

The ceiling exploded in a rain of timber and stone. A chandelier shattered, crystal shards scattering like ice as a figure plummeted through the debris—landing with a crack that split the council table beneath clawed, scaled feet. Dust swirled around him, catching the light like malevolent glitter.

“Well, well!” crooned a voice like molten iron, smooth and searing. “A secret little meeting? So who are you planning to target next?”

A towering figure stood before them, his presence suffocating. His body was draped in crimson-red scales that gleamed under the flickering candlelight. Vast, leathery wings folded neatly behind him, their span so great that even partially unfurled, they loomed like shadows against the walls. His golden reptilian eyes swept across the chamber, gleaming with sharp, predatory amusement.

A grin spread across his face, revealing rows of sharp teeth that gleamed like polished daggers. His golden, reptilian eyes flickered with amusement as he surveyed the room, basking in the stunned silence that greeted his arrival. "What do we have here?" His deep, resonant voice dripped with mockery. "The finest mages of the Zephinya Kingdom, all conveniently gathered in one place. How thoughtful."

He took a slow step forward, the stone table beneath his feet groaning under the weight of his immense presence. His crimson-scaled fingers flexed, and the sound of his claws scraping against one another like stones grinding together sent an unsettling chill through the air. "So tell me," he continued, his gaze settling on the king and then drifting toward the grandmasters. “Why not skip all the tedious formalities and make me your next target instead?"

The air in the room thickened as if suffocated by the sheer weight of his presence. No one moved. No one spoke.

Belarus Benquish Ironhearth. The Virtue of Valor. A living dragon in human form.

And right now, he was looking at them the way a predator looked at cornered prey—with a playful, unsettling smile and the promise of violence lurking just beneath the surface.

The king remained frozen, his fingers curled into tight fists on the table, his once-composed demeanor shattered by the impossible reality standing before him. Around him, the grandmasters—some of the most powerful individuals in the kingdom—sat paralyzed, their minds struggling to process how, in mere moments, the very balance of power in the room had shifted so drastically.

Belarus tilted his head, watching the group frozen in place. His voice was light, almost amused. “Ah! My apologies for letting my bloodlust slip so freely. I sometimes forget how fragile you creatures are—so easily paralyzed by mere presence alone. And where’s the fun in killing you like this?” He exhaled, stretching his shoulders. “Give me a moment—I’ll fix that.”

With a slow, controlled breath, he reined in his bloodlust. The oppressive weight that had shackled the room lifted, and air rushed back into the lungs of those present. A few gasped as they regained control of their bodies, yet the fear in their eyes only deepened. Even in the absence of his aura, the lingering knowledge of his overwhelming power had already left its mark.

The grandmasters wasted no time. Reacting in unison, they backed away from Belarus, their instincts and experience guiding them. Gunther and Harnold immediately flanked the king, pulling him toward the rear of the chamber. The others took battle positions, forming a tight perimeter around the draconic Virtue.

Grandmaster Pierre flicked his wrist, summoning a floating cannon, its massive barrel humming with raw energy as it locked onto Belarus. Hamanthra raised her arms, calling forth a blazing lion spirit that merged with her body, transforming him into a towering being clad in living fire and molten armor. Biswaq’s fingers traced patterns in the air, conjuring a swirling tornado that crackled with unstable wind currents. Ajax, ever the warrior, materialized a colossal greatsword from his inventory, gripping it firmly in both hands.

Meanwhile, Travis’s flesh hardened into crimson scales, his form mutating into a monstrous flame lizard, curved horns sprouting from his forehead. Above them all, Messindra hovered in the air, her cloak billowing as ominous dark clouds gathered under her command. At the rear, Casia stood with her hands raised, channeling divine energy to reinforce her comrades—her golden blessings pulsing with radiant power, amplifying their mana and fortifying their bodies.

Belarus stood at the center of it all, utterly unfazed. His sharp eyes swept over the grandmasters, analyzing their power, their preparations. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he clapped his hands together, his expression breaking into a grin.

“Now this is impressive,” he mused. “A proper display of strength. A collection of elite mages, each with near-fully matured divine spirit contracts. I must say… if you all worked together at your absolute best—maybe you could take down another Virtue.” His voice carried a teasing lilt, but the implication was deadly serious.

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“Stand down, grandmasters!”

The command came not from Belarus, but from the king himself.

King Inyake Radiz stepped forward, his presence commanding as he gently but firmly moved Gunther and Harnold aside. He lowered his head in a deep, respectful bow, his voice calm and deliberate, each word carefully chosen. “Sir Belarus,” he began, his tone steady, “I am Inyake Radiz, ruler of the Zephinya Kingdom. You are mistaken—we had no hand in the assassination of Sir Lux Sentinel, nor have we ever conspired against the Virtues.”

He straightened, his gaze locking with Belarus’s smoldering eyes, unwavering despite the palpable menace radiating from the Virtue. “This council was not gathered to plot war, but to uncover the truth behind this tragedy and ensure justice is served. We do not seek conflict with the Church of Virtues. All we ask for is time—time to prove our innocence and rectify this grave misunderstanding. I swear to you, upon my name and upon the honor of my kingdom, that I will find the true culprits and deliver them to you myself. Their heads will be laid at your feet, to be judged as you see fit.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the king’s words hung in the air, heavy with resolve and solemnity.

For a long moment, Belarus said nothing. His golden eyes narrowed, the flicker of flames dancing within them as he studied the king. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a wider, more sinister grin. He stretched his wings slightly, the leathery membranes catching the light as a faint puff of heat escaped his nostrils. “Oh?” he purred, his voice low and dripping with amusement. “Now that is interesting.”

His gaze sharpened, predatory and gleaming, as he leaned forward, his claws digging into the splintered table. “But Your Majesty,” he continued, his tone almost playful, “you see, I didn’t come here for justice or explanations. I came for a fight. And this little gathering of your so-called finest mages… well, it’s just too tempting. I don’t particularly care whether you killed that brat Lux or not. What I do care about, is whether you lot can give me a battle worth remembering. So, how about it? Shall we dance?”

The king’s composure faltered for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Sir Belarus,” he implored, his voice tinged with desperation, “please, I beg you to reconsider! Our kingdom has always been devoted to the Virtues. We are not your enemies!”

Belarus threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep and resonant, like the rumble of distant thunder. “Devotion, you say?” he sneered, his grin widening to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Then prove it. I command you—come at me with everything you’ve got. Or I'll reduce your kingdom to ruins.”

His wings spread fully now, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the room. The air grew thick with heat, the very stones beneath their feet trembling as if in anticipation. The king’s plea hung unanswered, swallowed by the growing inferno of Belarus’s presence. The Virtue of Valor was here, and he was not leaving without a fight.

Behind Belarus, Ajax moved with surprising speed for a man of his colossal size. In a single, thunderous step, he closed the distance, his massive frame casting a shadow over the Virtue. With a guttural roar, he swung his enormous, glowing sword in a devastating arc aimed straight at Belarus’s back. “Eat this, then!” he bellowed, his voice echoing like a war horn.

Belarus didn’t even flinch. With a fluid, almost casual motion, he turned and raised one arm, the scales along his forearm glinting like molten metal. The sword struck with a deafening *clang*, sending a shockwave rippling through the air. Sparks erupted as the blade met the scale, but the sword failed to pierce through. The force of the impact, however, was immense—Belarus’s feet sank into the stone floor, the rubble beneath him disintegrating into dust as a small crater formed around him.

Ajax’s sword, a relic of immense magical power, radiated energy that not only targeted Belarus but also tore through the room itself. A jagged crack split the floor, racing across the chamber and dividing it in two. Yet, despite the chaos, Belarus stood firm, his scaly wrist holding the blade at bay as if it were nothing more than a child’s toy.

Ajax’s roar deepened, his body beginning to glow with an otherworldly light. Veins of power shimmered beneath his skin, pulsing like rivers of molten gold. His eyes ignited, burning with a berserker’s fury as he poured every ounce of his strength into the strike.

For a moment, Belarus’s smirk faltered. His wrist trembled slightly under the increasing pressure, and his golden eyes narrowed in mild surprise. “A remnant of the Giant Tribe,” he muttered, his voice tinged with both amusement and disdain. “How intriguing. But this… this is nothing compared to the true might of your ancestors.”

With a sudden, brutal motion, Belarus reached out and grabbed the blade with his clawed hand. His scales flared with a fiery glow as he clenched his fist, shattering the magical sword into fragments. Before Ajax could react, Belarus drove his other fist forward, the punch landing squarely in the giant’s solar plexus.

The impact was catastrophic. A deafening *boom* reverberated through the chamber as Ajax was launched backward like a cannonball. He tore through walls and pillars, his massive body carving a path of destruction through the palace before finally crashing out into the open air, his form crumpling like a ragdoll.

Belarus flicked the remnants of the shattered sword from his hand, the glowing fragments scattering like embers. He turned to the remaining grandmasters, his grin widening as he flexed his claws. Then, his voice dripping with mockery and anticipation, he asked, “Now then... who's next?”