The eastern borderlands of the Divine Continent still smoldered in the aftermath of war.
On this day, a fated conversation—and ensuing conflict—unfolded amid the heavy air.
King Aerlant of the Humans strode alone into the Akkan sacred domain of Duskrend Crag, clad in his gold-trimmed cloak.
• No entourage.• No guards.• No retinue.
His steps were steady, each footfall on the obsidian-strewn path sending tremors through the Akkan sentries.
King Turansol of the Akkans awaited him within the throne chamber.
His ash-gray skin, fiery red eyes set in a rock-tempered face—all remained calm. Only behind him did Velox the Archer, Elina the Magus-Warrior, and Mikara the Shadowblade shift uncomfortably.
"King Aerlant," Turansol spoke in a low voice.
"King Turansol," Aerlant replied with a nod, voice steady.
A tense silence fell before Aerlant spoke plainly."I have come not for the kingdom, not for the temple—I have come for myself."
"Why alone?" Turansol asked.
"Because," Aerlant locked eyes with him, "I trust you."
These words struck the chamber into stillness.
Turansol's brows furrowed. "Trust? Yet you clearly suspect me."
Aerlant inclined his head."It is precisely because I trust you that I cannot let my councilors know I still have doubts."
"Speak."
"I've investigated the ruins of the White Tower. We found not only arcane residue…but the lingering presence of an Akkan—Mikara herself."
Mikara stiffened, opening her mouth to speak, but Turansol raised a hand to silence her.
Aerlant pressed on, "We also went through the goblin village attack. We have ruled out your forces. But the coincidences are too close—goblins, the slaughtered human village, the stolen Mournscript fragment… all within the same week."
His gaze sharpened, cutting through the air."King, you cannot deny this is abnormal."
Turansol paused, voice dropping to an icy whisper:"You suspect my people… you suspect me."
"I only want the truth."
The air seemed frozen.
Then Turansol roared, launching a fist toward Aerlant's chest.
Boom—
Aerlant had drawn his sword and parried with his pauldron, sliding back five feet as black stone shattered below his feet.
"If you've come, don't plan to walk away empty-handed!"
"Then try me, King Turansol!"
Aelrant swung his blade in a golden arc toward Turansol's head.
Turansol roared and braced himself as sword and fist clashed. Pillars collapsed, the battle roaring from hall to high terrace.
Lightning cracked above.
Aerlant spun and unleashed a torrent of sword energy.
Turansol blocked with his arms, blood seeping from his mouth as he staggered.
Velox tried to intervene, but Turansol commanded,"Stand down!"
At that moment, from beneath a stone panel, an Akkan soldier suddenly lunged, thrusting a spear into Aerlant's side.
"Ungh—!"
Blood burst forth.
The soldier's eyes turned red; ignoring Turansol's command, he hurled the bloody spear toward the forest and cried,"For the Master!"
He then charged at Aerlant.
Aerlant gritted his teeth against the pain, fought back, and cleaved the soldier in two.
But—
The soldier didn't bleed. His body turned to dark ash—like a goblin's corpse consumed by shadow—and blew away in the wind.
Elina's face changed."This…shows signs of control magic."
Aerlant pointed his sword at Turansol, his expression unreadable. He then turned and walked away.
"Aerlant!" Turansol shouted, but the king did not look back.
Meanwhile, Velox sensed movement.He spun and saw a shadow in the forest.
"That is—"
Without hesitation he raised his heavy cannon, Hetula: "Boom—"The blast leveled a section of wood. But the figure was gone.
Elina hurried ahead and discovered a rune-glyph etched into the edge of the crater.
"A sigil," she said, crouching to inspect. "Human warlock runes."
"And…" she added, looking at Velox, "that soldier's eyes, his voice—it was like a goblin corrupted by black flame."
Turansol's face hardened like bedrock."If that's true… then everything connects."
"Goblins, White Tower, village massacre—they're all—"
"A human warlock conspiracy." Velox finished the thought.
The three exchanged glances—and at last glimpsed the first pieces of the puzzle.
Under the moon. Far to the west, high on a mountain ridge.
A hooded warlock stood at the edge of a forested cliff, a blood-stained spear—Aerlant's blood—buried in the center of a runic circle.
Behind him, a tall, gaunt figure emerged.
Eyes pitch-black as night, dark flames coiling around him.
"It works," he whispered.
The warlock bowed his head. "The Mournscript's magic courses through blood, pierces the soul."
The dark figure chuckled."Next… let them tear each other apart."
In the distant night winds, one could almost hear the hiss of black flame.