[Chp 21] New Guildmaster

The gates of Moon Lence groaned open, their iron hinges shrieking like war horns long forgotten. Dust curled in the wind as two silhouettes emerged from the glaring sunlight—one draped in a storm-grey cloak that fluttered with age and wisdom, and the other, a towering figure cloaked in the fusion of shadow and flame. It had been a year. Twelve brutal, soul-forging months in the World of Dragons. And now… they had returned. Iskar strode with quiet pride, the pride of a master whose pupil had done what many believed impossible. But it was the man beside him that made the earth seem to still. Zero—the name once spoken in scorn or sorrow—walked as if the wind obeyed his pace. His presence was undeniable. Unshakable. Fire curled at the corner of his eyes, but it was not the reckless blaze of before. This was controlled. Disciplined. The shimmering glint of scale beneath his skin whispered of something ancient. Something earned. The cold, subtle vapor from his breath—the trace of Sylthara’s frost—lingered in the air like mist from another world. The streets of Moon Lence stirred to life as whispers spread like wildfire. "Wait… is that—?" “It can’t be…” “He’s alive?” “No… no, that’s not the same man. Look at him…” “Iskar’s pupil… the one who disappeared into the Dragon World…” The banners of the Guild fluttered overhead, each one depicting the sigils of the Nine Realms. And today—of all days—they bore witness to the Choosing of a new Guildmaster. Iskar glanced sideways, smirking faintly. “You always had a flair for timing.” Zero said nothing at first. Then, quietly, “It’s time.” Every step he took silenced another pocket of disbelief. His boots echoed against the stone, a rhythm that quieted even the market bells. Guildmembers paused mid-conversation. Apprentices dropped their crates. Elders held their breath. He reached the steps of the Grand Hall. The doors—massive, carved from elderstone and inscribed with the names of every Guildmaster before—creaked open of their own accord, as if the building itself recognized who had come. And at the far end of the hall stood the current Guildmaster—his hand hovering above the ancient relic embedded in the pedestal: the Moonbrand. He paused, eyes locking onto Zero. The chamber grew still. Then the Guildmaster lowered his hand. “All this time,” he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “Looks like the choosing just got… interesting.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. From the candidates standing beneath the high banners, one figure stepped forward. His movements were crisp, measured. Silver-and-black armor glinted as he moved into the center, amber eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Tirion. He studied Zero with open disdain. “Well well… the legend returns,” he said coldly, voice carrying through the vast chamber. “Back from whatever cave or crypt you were hiding in.” Zero didn’t stop walking. He approached the center with calm authority. “No caves. No hiding. Just survival. Growth.” “Growth?” Tirion barked a short laugh. “You disappeared, Zero. When this realm bled, you were gone. You missed the battles. The rebuilding. You missed earning your place.” “I didn’t come back for a throne,” Zero replied. “I came back because I finally understand what needs to be protected.” Tirion scoffed. “How noble of you. Did the dragons give you a nice speech while they patted your head? Taught you how to look important?” “They taught me how to be ready,” Zero said. “And they showed me what’s coming.” Tirion’s face darkened. “You’re not even from here. Not born of this Realm. You come waltzing in—just in time to snatch the title you never fought for. What makes you think you deserve this?” “Because I did fight,” Zero growled. “Not here—but where it mattered. In the Realm of Beasts. In the Storm Grave. In the Dragon World. Where power doesn’t come from politics or bloodlines… but survival. Will. Fire.” The crowd murmured in awe. The Guildmaster raised a hand. “Silence.” The chamber stilled once more. He stepped forward, eyes grave. “This Guild does not crown kings. It entrusts guardians. We stand on the edge of new storms—ones that swords and tradition alone cannot face.” His voice deepened. “Tirion of the Eighth Realm. You have bled for this guild. You have served with honor. You are a candidate worthy of the mantle.” Tirion’s chin lifted slightly. Pride flickered in his eyes. “But the council has watched more than loyalty. They’ve watched the world. And the world… has shifted.” He turned to Zero. “This man disappeared, yes. But what he returned as… is something more. A force tied to the Nine Realms themselves. To dragons. To balance. To the unknown.” He drew the Moonbrand from the pedestal. The relic pulsed with blue fire the moment it touched the air—reacting, yearning. He turned to the crowd. “Zero… step forward.” Zero did. The moment the Moonbrand touched his hand, a surge of elemental power erupted. Flames, frost, wind, and whispers all wove together—coiling up his arm like a vow. The mark glowed in his palm, ancient runes blazing blue and silver. Gasps filled the hall. Some voices cheered. Others recoiled. Tirion's face twisted with rage. “This… this is a mistake!” he shouted, stepping forward. “This isn’t leadership! This is fantasy! You’re letting a foreigner, a freak of the Realms, take the mantle meant for someone who lived and bled for this land!” Zero met his gaze. “Then stop me.” Tirion froze. Zero stepped closer. “Prove to everyone that I don’t deserve it. Not with words. Not with pride. But in the Tournament of Realms.” The name struck like thunder. The Guildmaster’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You would stake your right so soon?” Zero nodded. “Let the Nine Realms decide. Let the warriors speak.” Tirion’s lip curled. “I’ll break you in front of them.” “I welcome the attempt,” Zero said. “But remember—dragonfire doesn’t yield to wind.” The two stared at each other, power radiating off both. Then— “Let it be done!” the Guildmaster declared. “The Tournament of Realms begins at moon’s turn. Until then—let the new Guildmaster lead. Let peace hold.” The chamber exploded. Voices clashed—some furious, some celebratory. And at the center of it all stood Zero—still, calm, unshaken. He had returned. And the storm was only beginning.