Dalten joined the rest of the generals near the back of the stage. General Dominique spotted him immediately, spreading his arms wide in a welcoming gesture, his usual jolly grin in place.

  “Having fun at the kids’ table?”

  “Vera is over there, you know,” Dalten replied. “She might actually like it if you said hi.”

  Dominique waved a hand dismissively. “Bah, it’s been a long time since that girl was actually happy to see me. They hit a certain age, and suddenly you’re poisonous. Best to let them come around in their own time.” Then, with a knowing smirk, he added, “Did you get the reaction you wanted from little Damian over there?”

  Dalten’s expression said it all.

  “See! One day it’s ‘Yay, Papa is here!’ and the next, you’re lucky to get a groan or an eye roll in acknowledgment.”

  “No, it’s not that.” Dalten hesitated before sighing. “We had some words earlier. He still wants to join the Home Guard.”

  Dominique let out a low chuckle. “Ah, that old can of worms again, huh? Can you blame him? Half the kids in Solar want to grow up to be you, and you’re surprised he might too?”

  “But he’s not like everyone else.” Dalten’s voice dropped slightly. “With his… condition.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “He’s stubborn. He thinks he can make up for his lack of magic with eagerness. I’m just worried he’s going to hurt himself trying to prove something. If he’d just listen—”

  “Listen? Hah!” Dominique scoffed loudly. “I’ve sired three of these little brats at this point. Look at Ignacio over there.” He motioned toward his son, who stood across the way, smiling gleefully without a care in the world. “Do you think he ever listened to a word I said? Of course not! ‘Don’t climb those rocks?’ He’d be halfway up the cliffs the moment I turned my head. ‘Don’t mess with dangerous spells?’ Next thing I knew, half the house was on fire.”

  He let out a hearty laugh before shaking his head. “But every time he fell or burned himself, there was Papa, ready to pick him up. You don’t get to make their choices, my friend. All you can do is be there to pick them back up when they crash.”

  Dalten gave the man an amused smile. “Heh, since when did you become a parenting expert?”

  “Camila might handle the brunt of it, but I’ve picked up some experience here and there,” Dominique chuckled.

  Just then, the lights began to dim. A spotlight beamed down from the walls, illuminating a lectern emblazoned with the Golden Sun.

  “Ah, looks like the old dog is ready to start,” Dominique whispered as the show began.

  A broad figure emerged from the shadows and into the spotlight—Supreme General Santiago Fernando, leader of the Solaran Dominion. He strode toward the podium with the assured gait of a man born to lead, a confident smile resting on his lips, as if privy to some grand jest only he could understand.

  Even in his old age, time had done little to diminish the vigor of his robust frame. Atop his well-kept painter’s mustache, groomed as meticulously as the man himself, sat an eyepatch. The scar beneath it stood as proof of his unwavering commitment and sacrifice to his nation.

  His uniform was a striking vision of power and splendor, evoking the austere militarism of a bygone era. The rich burgundy fabric gleamed under the lights, impeccably tailored to his broad-shouldered, imposing frame. Medals and insignias adorned his chest. Golden-fringed epaulets crowned his shoulders, and a long gilded cape billowed behind him with each step.

  His arrival was met with thunderous cheers as the crowd erupted into a unified salute, the rhythmic pounding of boots against stone echoing through the courtyard. Reaching the podium, his smile never wavered. Then, in a voice both loud and commanding, he addressed his people.

  “At ease. At ease, soldiers,” he announced, motioning for them to relax. The crowd obeyed without hesitation, the courtyard falling silent enough for him to proceed.

  “Look at you all! It warms my heart to stand before such proud, strong warriors. It fills me with great pride to lead a people as great as yourselves.”

  He paused, his gaze hardening as memories of a darker past surfaced.

  “But we were not always this strong. Not long ago, our people were weak. Not long ago, we were nothing but servants and peasants.”

  “Despite working from dawn to dusk in the lush fields and orchards of our homeland, we remained poor and hungry. All while the selfish nobles hoarded our labor’s rewards, feeding their so-called soldiers—lazy, gluttonous men who grew fat behind their castle walls. They kept the secrets of magic to themselves, refusing to share their power with those who toiled to sustain them.”

  The Supreme General’s voice rose, laced with indignation.

  “And where were these soldiers when northern raiders sacked our lands?

  Where were they when monsters stole our children away in the dead of night?

  Cowering behind their walls!”

  His fist clenched atop the podium.

  “It was only when the Dread General conquered the north and threatened his rule that the king’s weakness was laid bare for all to see. Only when his precious soldiers lay dead by his own incompetence did he come to us in desperation. He placed a slugger in our hands and promised to make us into soldiers.”

  A sharp pause. Then, his voice rang with conviction.

  “But that was his mistake. Because we soon realized that if soldiers were the ones who ate the finest food, lived in comfort, and wielded magic—then why shouldn’t we all become soldiers?”

  The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, saluting in unison, their voices a testament to their shared struggle. The Supreme General waited, letting the fervor settle before continuing.

  “And so we did. We tore down their mighty walls and cast aside the selfish royals who cared nothing for the people who had given them everything. Then we turned north and crushed the ‘mighty’ Dread General’s army, succeeding where the old king had failed. And when the war was done, we used our newfound strength to purge our lands of the monster threat, ensuring that our people would never again live in fear.”

  His next words carried a warning.

  “But we did not go far enough. For now, the insatiable greed of monarchs plagues us once more. The so-called Frost Empress believes she can succeed where her predecessor failed. She thinks her blood alone entitles her to rule over everything within her grasp. And in her desperation, she turns to every disgraceful, forbidden, and dark method available to her.”

  His voice grew sharper, ringing across the courtyard.

  “She sends wave after wave of her weak, undisciplined pretender mage soldiers to die against our sluggers. She slaughters countless of her own to create the abominations they call channelers. She unleashes hordes of bloodthirsty monsters upon us. But none of it will avail her against the discipline, magic, and superior engineering of true Solaran mage soldiers!”

  Once again, the crowd burst into thunderous cheers and salutes, even louder than before. The Supreme General stood tall, chest puffed with pride as he delivered his final declaration, his voice echoing across the courtyard. He let the words hang in the air, before delivering the final blow.

  “Our armies stand ready! Our new Leviathan fleets raise their anchors! Our aerobird squadrons prepare their engines to take to the skies! Soon, we will launch a grand offensive, led by our very own Silver Fox—one that will break the Treviet Union’s army once and for all!"

  The courtyard erupted in thunderous applause, a seismic wave of passion. Beyond the walls, the horns of the Leviathans in the port bellowed in synchronized celebration, amplifying the spectacle.

  Then, as the crowd continued to cheer, something odd began to happen.

  You see, it is said that when a magic user becomes skilled enough, they don’t just understand magic—they can feel it. This sixth sense, the ability to perceive the invisible shifts of magic, is often believed to be the reason Aces are capable of their amazing feats and surviving so many dangerous encounters. A deeper connection to the forces of magic grants them insight into wielding it more effectively—or even sensing danger before it arrives.

  Which makes it all the more unusual that the first person to realize something was off wasn’t any of the Aces on stage. Nor was it the generals, or even the Supreme General himself.

  It was Damian.

  But for Damian, this wasn’t some sharpened instinct or mystical awareness. This felt like a sudden and very unpleasant sickness.

  A violent headache struck, pounding in his skull like a relentless drum, sending waves of pain reverberating through his body.

  His vision warped, the world twisting and tilting around him as he struggled to keep his balance.

  His stomach lurched, and for a moment, he was certain he was about to keel over in front of his entire class.

  Then—just as abruptly as it had come—the pain vanished. The sickness faded, leaving behind only a faint ringing in his head.

  And a deep, unshakable sense of dread.

  Which was ridiculous.

  Damian was surrounded by cheering crowds, towering stone walls, and armed guards stationed along those walls. He was, without a doubt, in the most well-defended place in the entire nation. He was anything but alone.

  And yet—he felt like a mouse in the woods, trapped in the dark of night, hearing the rustle of unseen footsteps in the distance.

  Like something out there was watching.

  Like something out there was hunting.

  He turned his head, scanning his surroundings without even knowing what he was looking for.

  His classmate’s eyes were locked on the stage, undistracted. Nothing wrong there. The crowd was packed with people, roaring with excitement. But nothing stood out.

  Then, the stage—where his father stood. The Aces, the generals, all present, all seemingly normal.

  So why did it feel like something was terribly, terribly wrong?

  Then, he noticed his father.

  For the briefest moment, he looked almost… confused. As if he, too, had sensed something was off.

  "Had he felt it as well?" Damian wondered, his heart pounding. He almost wanted to scream out—to cry, “Dad, something’s coming!”—but what good would it do? He would never be heard over the loudspeakers, and even if he was… what was he even warning about?

  It was just a feeling. A strange, unexplainable feeling.

  And yet—it felt as real as the stiff breeze against his skin.

  Then, a realization struck him.

  If this presence—this wrongness—wasn’t coming from the crowd around him, then maybe it was coming from somewhere else.

  His gaze lifted upward.

  At first, he saw nothing. Just a cloudy night sky.

  But as he kept staring, the thick clouds continued to drift, revealing the bright, full moon. And there—silhouetted against its pale glow—Damian finally saw something.

  A dark shadow—too distant to make out in detail.

  But something was there, floating high in the sky. And to Damian, it looked vaguely… human.

  That suspicion hardened into certainty as he watched the figure slowly raise what appeared to be an arm.

  Immediately, a new, far more powerful sensation washed over Damian.

  This time, it was overwhelming. The air itself felt thick and heavy, pressing down on him as if it could knock him off his feet. And in that instant, Damian finally recognized what he was feeling.

  It was like the faint hum of electricity when a light flickered on, the crackling in a crystalwave radio, or the barely perceptible tick of a stove just before it ignited. It was magic!

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  But this… this was hundreds of times stronger than anything he had ever felt in his life.

  And this time, Damian wasn’t the only one to notice.

  As he tore his gaze from the sky, he saw it—his father, Ignacio, Elera, and all the other Aces. Their eyes were wide, faces taut with sudden alarm, as if they had all just realized something terrible.

  His father immediately broke from the line, barking orders to those around him. Some reacted instantly, moving with urgency, while others hesitated, confusion flashing across their faces. Two palace guards abandoned their posts, rushing toward the Supreme General.

  But none of them were looking up.

  Had he been the only one to see it?

  Damian whipped his head back toward the sky.

  The figure was gone!

  Nothing remained but rolling clouds and the eerie whistle of the rising wind, tugging at his dark hair as it blew past.

  He looked back toward the stage.

  The Supreme General had stopped speaking. His guards had already reached him, pulling him away. The Aces had vanished beyond the stage, moving with urgency.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd—low at first, then swelling into a chorus of uneasy voices.

  The celebration had come to an abrupt halt,

  replaced by a growing sense of dread. But soon, even the murmurs were drowned out—

  by the wind.

  That was it! The wind!

  He hadn’t noticed it at first. It had begun as a mere breeze, so subtle that it had seemed unremarkable. But that breeze had never stopped. It was only growing stronger.

  Now, dirt and sand whipped into the air, forcing Damian to shield his eyes. Shouts of confusion turned to screams as people at the edges of the crowd were shoved off their feet. Panic erupted!

  People surged toward the exits, desperate to escape. But not many made it far—within seconds, the wind had become a full-blown hurricane.

  Damian turned toward the stage just as his eyes met his father’s.

  There was concern in his father’s gaze. He started forward onto the stage, towards Damian’s direction, pushing forward against the howling gale—but the wind was already too strong. It forced him to a halt, making him brace himself against the force.

  "Damian—"

  That was the last thing he heard, before his father—and everything around him—was swallowed by a massive cloud of dust

  It was like the whole world vanished.

  The wind roared like a beast, consuming everything around it. Damian could barely move without feeling like he’d be torn from the ground, and every time he tried to open his eyes, they were assaulted by a blinding onslaught of dirt and sand.

  He tried to scream out, but the moment he opened his mouth, the wind ripped the air from his lungs.

  He stumbled blindly, reaching out—searching for anyone, anything—but he could barely see inches in front of his face. The storm spun him around until he had no idea which direction he was facing.

  As he stumbled around until, something or someone he couldn’t even see suddenly bumped into him. He dropped to the ground, clinging to the hard stone floor, holding on as tightly as he could. There was nothing else he could do—nothing except hope it would eventually end.

  It felt like an eternity.

  Lying there, surrounded by the raging storm, he had never felt so powerless. So alone.

  Someone had to be doing something.

  The Aces were still out there. His father was still out there. They had to be.

  Surely, they would stop this.

  So, he did the only thing he could.

  He held on. And waited.

  And then—just as suddenly as it had begun—it stopped.

  The raging winds vanished, retreating outward all at once. The suffocating gale pulled back, unveiling the courtyard once more.

  Destruction lay everywhere. Chunks of the stage had been ripped away, leaving jagged remnants of splintered wood. Torn banners fluttered weakly, half-buried beneath the wreckage. In the chaos, Damian had been separated from his class—now, only strangers surrounded him.

  The once organized audience had been reduced to a panicked mess. People huddled on the ground, some clutching one another in desperate clusters, others sprawled against the outer walls where the wind had thrown them. Guards and guests alike lay in stunned silence, their dazed expressions mirroring Damian’s own. Several pained cries rising from all around.

  Was it over?

  Had the disaster that struck the Castle passed?

  As Damian took a good look at the walls surrounding him he realized—to his dismay—that the tornado still raged around them. The swirling winds had pulled back, but only to trap them inside.

  A massive tornado, stretching endlessly into the sky, now encircled the entire castle. What had once been an impenetrable fortress had become an inescapable prison. Even the enormous gates, flung wide open, led only into the violently swirling, impassable maelstrom.

  But that wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

  Damian tilted his head back and his breath caught in his throat.

  Looming above him—casting a dark shadow over the courtyard—was the underside of two massive steel crafts. It took him a moment to even process what he was looking at. The round, balloon-like structure, the rows of guns and cannons lining its sides. Realization hit him—

  Flying fortresses!

  Two of them!

  Hovering directly overhead.

  At first, Damian felt relief.

  They must have come in response to the strange magical attack—reinforcements, here to secure the castle.

  But then—the spotlights on the walls flared to life, sweeping over the massive airships. And the moment they illuminated the hulls, Damian's relief turned to ice-cold dread.

  Because there, emblazoned on the steel—

  Was the emblem of the Silver Moon—

  the insignia of the Treviet Union.

  And his terror only deepened as the guns and cannons began to rotate downward.

  "No," Damian whispered, his plea lost to the wind.

  There was a long moment of quiet suspense—

  Then they opened fire.

  Large cannons swiveled and roared, blasting into the battlements.

  The palace guards that were meant to protect them were thrown from the walls, or vanished into fiery eruptions.

  Chain-slugger slugs rained down in rapid-fire volleys, cutting through the scattered crowd without mercy.

  Blazing streams of light raking across the courtyard, slicing through anything and anyone in their path.

  Screams erupted. Everyone panicked!

  They shoved and trampled one another in a desperate scramble to escape as bolts snapped against the stone, carving through the chaos.

  People began to fall left and right, struck down in an instant.

  Then came the soldiers—

  Blue-uniformed infantry, their faces hidden under silver steel helmets and rappelled down from the flying fortresses, landing on the castle’s upper floors and walls like a swarm.

  Everything was falling apart so quickly!

  Damian froze, overwhelmed.

  What was he supposed to do?

  Run? Fight?

  Was there even anything he could do?

  Surely this wasn’t real.

  The capital couldn’t just be attacked—not like this.

  Not this suddenly. Not without any warning.

  This had to be a nightmare, and any second now—he’d wake up.

  Suddenly, a streak of red slugs slammed into the ground before him, slicing toward his position—far too fast to react.

  Damian flinched, throwing himself to the ground just as the stream of searing-hot projectiles scorched past his side.

  He hit the floor with a thud—and as he did, he noticed another collapse in front of him at the same time.

  But when Damian vision eventually focused again, his eyes met the stranger's and—

  There was no life in them...

  No color in his face.

  Only a smoldering hole in his chest.

  He was dead...

  Actually, dead!

  Damian had never truly seen a person die before.

  The sight chilled his bones.

  A real person—with a real life just moments ago—just... gone.

  Damian’s breath turned shallow, uneven.

  His chest tightened.

  His mind reeled, lost in the shock, until—

  A sudden, blazing pain tore through his shoulder.

  He had been hit!

  A deep, sizzling burn seared across his skin.

  This wasn’t like the minor scorch wounds he’d taken from the training sluggers at school.

  These projectiles were lethal—meant to burn straight through flesh.

  The full force of the pain hit.

  He yelped, his body recoiling as he clutched his arm.

  And then—a sickening realization.

  Had he been just a few inches further—

  He would be dead. Just like the man before him.

  His mind raced, scrambling to make sense of it all.

  How did this happen? What was he supposed to do?

  It was too much—too fast!

  His thoughts blurred, paralyzed by adrenaline and fear.

  Where was the army?

  Where was his father?

  And where were the A—

  A deep rumbling shook the courtyard.

  Then—a loud blast.

  From the wreckage of the crumbling stage, flames erupted, as something rocketed straight up into the sky.

  A streak of fire and smoke blazing in its wake as it climbed higher and higher at blinding speed.

  A rocket?

  No.

  It flames flickered as it slowed to a stop as it reached the height of the fortresses, hovering for just a moment before—

  Boom!

  An explosion tore into one of the airships, the sheer force causing its immense frame to rock back and forth.

  And Damian realized that for perhaps the first time in his life, he felt genuinely excited to see the young man they called Solar’s next great hero—Ignacio Dominique, the Crimson Rocket!

  Suddenly, the airships’ guns were no longer focused on the crowds below. Instead, they swiveled upward, unleashing a relentless barrage toward the blazing streak of light darting around them.

  Ignacio weaved through the air like a relentless ember, dodging between the massive warships with effortless speed, his movements too fast and erratic for their gunners to track. Bright slugs tore through the sky, flashing in all directions, but none found their mark. All while explosion after explosion pounded against their steel hulls, shaking the floating fortresses under his relentless assault.

  As Damian watched the aerial battle above, a wave of pink flecks suddenly drifted into his vision.

  He blinked and looked back down to his level.

  There were hundreds—maybe thousands of glowing pink petals floating throughout the courtyard.

  The sight was strange, unexpected… Yet, beautiful... A stark—almost calming—contrast to the devastation around him.

  One of the petals glided toward him, hovering just above his injured shoulder, as if asking for permission.

  Almost without thinking, Damian lifted his hand from his wound, and watched as the petal gently settled onto his scorched skin.

  He braced for pain.

  Instead, relief.

  A soft glow spread from the petal onto his skin, and before his eyes, the charred black skin faded—replaced by smooth, healthy flesh. The pain that had once burned through him vanished, as if it had never been there.

  He looked around.

  It wasn’t just him.

  All across the courtyard, people who had been writhing in agony moments ago were now rising to their feet. Bloody gashes and deep wounds sealed shut, the glow of the petals illuminating the battlefield with an almost ethereal radiance.

  Then, he saw her.

  Striding forward through the crowd with determination in her eyes.

  Her golden hair flowing behind her like a halo.

  Her cape billowing from her shoulder with every step.

  The Rose Valkyrie.

  In her hand she held a unique miniature slinger, its polished silver frame etched with thorny pink accents. It glowed brightly as a torrent of petals spayed forth from its tiny barrel—spilling into the air like a thousand butterflies taking flight.

  Her voice rang out, clear and commanding:

  “Everyone, take shelter in the castle! If you can move, help the injured! If you can fight, pick up a slugger and cover the noncombatants!

  Remember—you are not cowards! You are Solaran Soldiers!”

  With that single rallying command, the mood immediately changed.

  No one questioned her lead. The sight of an Ace alone inspired courage.

  Panic became purpose.

  People moved with direction, making their way toward the castle entrance.

  Others worked together, lifting and carrying the wounded.

  Guards and once-fleeing guests alike picked up discarded sluggers, turning their fire toward the Treviet soldiers on the walls.

  Hope and defiance ignited within the crowd.

  Because now—they could fight back.

  Now—the Aces were here.