It was a bright, cloud-streaked morning on the fifteen year since the great war, in the eastern tropical archipelago along the equator. Starmist, had come on a mission accompanied by her young niece, Starlax. Their fleet of ships carried medicine and food for the survivors who awaited them.

  “How long do we have to keep doing this?” the girl broke the silence with a blunt question, her voice sharper than her youth suggested.

  “Until the world heals,” Starmist replied calmly, “and until everyone has the chance to live in dignity.”

  As a Council member, Starmist had taken responsibility not only for the ruling factions, but for every scattered remnant of humanity across All Realm. Though she belonged to the Extraterrestrial faction, outsiders by origin, her heart was often said to be more human than those of the mortals she served. Compassion defined her, and for many, it set her apart from the other councilors.

  “The Commonfolk that remain aren’t what they used to be,” Starmist observed, her gaze sweeping the ruins below. “They’re broken now.”

  Commonfolk was the name given to ordinary humans without any power, a term first coined in the founding years of the Council of Power, when the Superhumans rose to prominence.

  “Father told me,” Starlax continued, “when commonfolk ruled, they always keep an eye on seven factions activity .”

  Starmist nodded. She had lived through those years herself. Superhumans were the minority then, while the Commonfolk held the highest seats of government across the realms. But the old maps no longer mattered—those continents were shattered. The Council erased the old divisions, renaming what remained simply All Realm.

  “As the ones who now hold power, we must act differently than they once did,” Starmist said softly, yet firmly. “We must be wiser. You’ll understand one day.”

  Their ship descended. On the shore below, the Commonfolk gathered in excitement, cheering as the fleet approached. Soldiers moved quickly to unload the supplies, distributing food and medicine to eager hands.

  “Pearl of the Universe,” the people called her, their voices rising with reverence. To them, Starmist was the only councilor who truly cared, a beacon of compassion in their harsh existence. The rest of the Council, they whispered, only thought of their own factions.

  Starmist carried the weight of duty upon her shoulders. As the head of the Sevenstar Foundation, a humanitarian foundation directly overseen by the Council, it was her responsibility to lead missions such as this. Yet despite their efforts, news of the foundation’s work had not spread evenly across the realms. For most commonfolk, crushed by poverty and war, only Starmist herself stood as a symbol of kindness and hope.

  Fresh produce from the Elementalist farmlands, medicines brewed by the Sorcerer faction, iron tools and sturdy wares from the Abyss blacksmiths, all of it was distributed under the banner of the Foundation. Much of it was financed by the Extraterrestrial donors, whose wealth sustained countless lives.

  As the chests emptied, smiles returned to the weary faces of the villagers. Children ran through the dusty streets, laughing and biting into fruit as though they had never tasted sweetness before. Starlax longed to join them, to laugh and play like an ordinary child, but her noble upbringing restrained her. She remained seated, pretending composure, though her eyes betrayed a quiet envy.

  Meanwhile, Starmist walked to the far edge of the settlement. She knelt, pressing her fingers into the brittle soil. The ground was dry, not from lack of water, but as if life itself had been leeched away. Her gaze darkened.

  Two guards rushed forward, worried for her well-being, but Starmist rose to her feet.

  “This land was once a battlefield,” she murmured.

  Starlax, who had followed, froze at her words. “A battlefield? Against whom?”

  “The war with the League of the Transcendent,” Starmist replied quietly. “It scarred more than governments and cities.”

  “Was it so terrifying?” Starlax asked, his voice trembling with both fear and curiosity.

  Starmist’s eyes lingered on the barren horizon. “Even now, many veterans of that war, men and women who sit on the Council or fight among the Vanguard, carry traumas that will never fade.”

  For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Starmist turned back, and together aunt and nephew walked slowly toward the heart of the village, leaving the cursed earth behind them.

  Not far from where Starmist and Starlax stand, chaos erupted. Among the gathered Commonfolk, some who had grown bitter with their lot turned violent during the distribution of supplies. They shouts, throwing fists, and soon they clashed against the soldiers of the House of Star. In the frenzy, tents were toppled, crates smashed, and bruise was spilled on both sides.

  Starmist shot into the sky, her white hair trailing like a comet’s tail.

  The aura spread outward in waves—calm, gentle, yet firm. Known as Reflection Fusion, it engulfed the rioters and soldiers alike, dampening their fury, dulling their rage.

  “Enough!” Starmist’s voice rang like a clear bell. “There is no need for fighting, brothers and sisters.”

  Her hair glowed brighter, each strand shifting as if moved by unseen winds whenever she invoked her power.

  Starlax followed close, flying to her aunt’s side. The young girl clung to the back of Starmist’s cloak, her face pale, her eyes filled with fear.

  But the Commonfolk shouted back, their voices strained with anger and despair. They accused the Superhumans of caging them, of dictating every step of their broken lives. They grumble out that All Realm was shattered, and that they, the ordinary people, were the ones forced to suffer under rules made by those above them.

  Patiently, Starmist answered. Her voice never show anger, though the bitterness of the crowd pressed on her like a storm. She told them the truth: that this suffering was not forever, that the world was still in recovery. The Elementalists labored to restore nature itself, while the Cogworks Consortium rebuilt the structures of civilization. But healing such devastation could only come step by step, never in an instant.

  For half an hour the argument raged, back and forth—Starmist’s calm reason against the fury of the hopeless. Yet not all Commonfolk shared the rioters’ views. Many among them raised their voices to support the one who widely called as the most beloved women on the realm. Gradually, the fire of the riot cooled.

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  When it was over, Starmist looked upon the wounded sprawled across the ground—soldiers and civilians alike. With a deep breath, she released a veil of silvery mist into the air.

  Mist of Convalesce.

  The healing fog drifted over the field, closing shallow cuts, soothing bruises, and easing pain. Though it could not mend deep wounds, its touch brought instant relief. Even the rioters felt its blessing, their injuries fading. They averted their eyes, yet without a word of thanks, they turned and slunk away.

  “You shouldn’t heal those who don’t even appreciate it,” Starlax muttered coldly, glaring at the retreating figures. “Ungrateful wretches!” she shouted after them, her young voice sharp with indignation.

  Starmist only sighed and placed a gentle hand on her niece’s head, smoothing down her hair.

  When the square was quiet once more, Starmist turned her attention to the elders of the settlement. They gathered in the largest house at the edge of the village. The structure was old and weathered, its walls stained with dark scorch marks from fires long past. Yet for the Commonfolk, it remained the heart of the community—the one place large enough for all to gather beneath a single roof.

  When Starmist stepped inside the house, the sight pained her heart. The roof sagged, beams darkened by age and fire scars; the air was heavy with mildew and smoke. She wondered how these people could possibly endure if a true disaster struck again.

  The village elders rose to greet her. Their frail forms bowed low, and soon they settled across from her at the long wooden table. Starlax sat uneasily at her aunt’s side, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the sour odor clinging to the room. She breathed in short, shallow bursts, her discomfort plain.

  “We know why you have come, Lady Star,” said an elderly woman, her lips trembling as she forced the words out. “It is about the destruction of the power station.”

  Starmist inclined her head slightly. “Then tell me—what happened?” Her tone carried no anger, no reproach. Only patience, as though her presence here was for understanding, not judgment.

  The elder seated beside the woman clenched his fists tightly. His face strained with emotion as he spoke. “With the Superhumans holding all power in All Realm, what chance have we, the Commonfolk? We have no strength—not even enough to defend our own lives.”

  Starmist listened, but within her thoughts a quiet conclusion formed. These people had not acted alone. Someone—some hand in the shadows—had driven them to such reckless deeds. But she kept her judgment unspoken, waiting for the elders to voice it themselves.

  “Why strike at the infrastructure we build?” she asked softly. “Do they sell the stolen parts to others? The generators, the turbines, the steel?”

  The elders exchanged glances, and the villagers in the hall shifted uneasily. None could answer with certainty. No one knew what became of the scavenged machines once they were torn apart.

  “But without the station,” cried a villager from the back, “we are cut off. Isolated. We cannot reach the other settlements!”

  The elder woman raised a frail hand, her eyes narrowing with urgency. “Lady Star, your coming here was long awaited. We have news—news of a Superhuman. One who concerns us all.”

  Starmist leaned forward at once. “Who do you mean, gran?”

  The hall fell into silence. Fear tightened the faces of the villagers. None dared name him outright. At last, under Starmist’s steady gaze, a few gave a description:

  A man—tall, thin, nearly two meters in height. His skin pale, with a strange hue of rose. Always cloaked, his hood shadowing most of his face. Yet those who glimpsed his eyes swore they were white. Entirely white.

  And that was not the strangest thing.

  “He wore a robe… like one of the Sorcerer Council,” whispered a villager, shivering. “And his words—they were spells. He bent men’s minds to his will.”

  Starmist frowned, confusion clouding her thoughts. Could this be a demon race wielding magic? Yet the description rang closer to the Extraterrestrials of House Solivara. But that House were merchants, traders of the stars—never warriors.

  Starlax shifted beside her, restless, tapping her feet in boredom and holding her breath against the sour stench of the room.

  “Was he alone in his acts?” Starmist asked, writing notes, circling key points.

  “No,” said a boy, his voice trembling. “I saw him summon a great beast—horned like a bull, with four legs and two monstrous arms.”

  The elder man leaned forward. “A creature of the Abyss, Lady Star?”

  Starmist kept her composure, though doubt coiled in her mind. The description was vague, and too dangerous to accuse a great faction without proof. She fell into silence, pondering. Investigation was not her strength.

  Starlax suddenly blurted out, “Did he use other spells?”

  Starmist paused her writing, intrigued by her niece’s question.

  “Yes,” said another villager. “He drew a circle upon the earth… from it, the monster came.”

  “Years ago,” the old woman muttered, “I saw a young sorcerer summon a beast, a kraken-like thing, during the wars in the East.”

  “A good boy,” added the elder man. “If I recall, his name was Obrion… or Orion.”

  Starmist lowered her head. Her voice was heavy when she whispered, “You mean Oberion… don’t you?”

  The elders nodded.

  Silence fell, until Starlax broke it sharply. “Impossible! Oberion is dead.”

  The mention of a summoner unsettled Starmist more than she cared to admit. In all the All Realm, only a handful of sorcerers possessed such a forbidden art.

  “Lady Star,” one of the elders asked, “if not the Abyss, then is it possible this crime was wrought by the Sorcerers?”

  Rising to her feet, Starmist bowed her head. “Such judgment lies beyond me. This matter must be brought before the Sorcerer Supreme.” Her voice carried honesty, not evasion. She thanked the elders, then took her leave.

  Yet once the village had faded behind them, Starmist clasped her niece’s hand. “Come. There is something I must see for myself.”

  They soared low across the cracked earth, the desolation stretching endlessly before them. The land bore scars of battles long past—ashen soil, fissures like wounds in the world itself. And five leagues ahead, where the villagers had spoken of summoning, the air itself seemed to shimmer.

  The air was thick with drifting dust, forcing Starlax to cough as he flew. She pulled her azure cloak over his mouth and nose to shield herself. Before long, the ruins of the Cogworks stronghold came into view, just as they had been told.

  Starmist entered the broken structure, finding its innards stripped bare—every machine dismantled and scavenged. She dared not tread upon the spiral stair that wound upward, its steps groaning with ruin; instead, she rose upon her own wings of flight. Starlax was told to remain outside, but the girl’s restless spirit betrayed her, and she circled the shattered edifice in curiosity.

  On the upper level, Starmist’s keen eyes caught sight of scattered fragments of metal. She recognized at once the marks of sorcery etched into the steel. No common spell could shatter iron into so many shards. This was the work of a high mage—or perhaps an entire order.

  Meanwhile, Starlax had spied a strange plateau some distance away, its soil marked unlike the ground around it. As she drew near, he beheld the charred remnant of a circle, inscribed with patterns upon the earth. Alarmed, she called out for his aunt.

  Starmist, fearing danger, clutched several fragments of ruined metal before hastening to her side. What lay before them confirmed her suspicion: the blackened imprint of a summoner’s pentagram, complete with the melted wax of five candles at each point.

  She raised her transmitter, seeking to contact Cygnus. Once. Twice. Thrice. No reply came.

  “Why does the Sorcerer Supreme always refuse your calls?” asked Starlax, puzzled.

  “Perhaps he have other important matters or he dislikes this device,” Starmist answered, deactivating the transmitter.

  “Or perhaps,” Starlax muttered, “he didn’t know how to use it. You know well, Aunt, sorcerers and cogworks are like air and water.”

  Starmist laughed, gently stroking her niece shoulder. The girl’s insight was sharp, though her tongue stumbled to clothe his thoughts in proper words. Born of the All Realm, yet his tongue and mind still carried traces of foreign blood.

  Deciding the matter settled, the two took flight once more, their course set for the village and the waiting Stargate. They boarded the last ship at port, instructing the pilot to depart at once. White vapor streamed from its flanks, and blue fire burst forth from its engines—the sign of wings ready to soar.

  As the ship lifted into the skies, Starmist activated the long-range transmitter. The craft itself was not designed for war, merely for carrying people and cargo, but swift enough to bridge continents.

  Across the cabin, Starlax dipped her spoon into a bowl of liquid sweets. Extraterrestrials from House of Star were notorious for their fondness of such syrupy confections, able to consume them by the liter. She twirled a strand of her long hair with idle fingers. “Who are you calling?” she asked, voice flat.

  Before Starmist could answer, a pale hologram flickered to life—Leroy’s face and shoulders rendered in rigid stillness, his beret catching the light though the image did not move.

  “Leroy, I’ve gathered details that may point to the one behind this incident,” Starmist began. She spoke at length, recounting her notes, the villagers’ testimony, the blood traces she had collected. Her report stretched on and on, over ninety minutes, while Leroy listened in silence.

  Only the occasional murmur of acknowledgment escaped him, questions simple and precise, meant to validate her findings.

  “So, what do you think?” Starmist concluded her long report, her voice tinged with weariness.

  “It is… peculiar,” Leroy replied at last, cautious with his words. “The creature’s description straddles three factions. I would not have you chase phantoms, but neither can we dismiss this.”

  She frowned. “Should we bring it before the full Council? I fear waiting may put the locals or other kingdom at greater risk.”

  “Patience,” Leroy answered. “The Council need not carry this burden yet. I know someone who can help us. Meet me in Mainland District Five, two days from now.”

  Starmist agreed, then asked with a faint smile, “And where are you now?”

  “Alvoria. The nobles stir with thoughts of rebellion again. Illegal trade, survival masked as treachery… this cycle never ends.”

  “It never does,” Starmist sighed.

  Starlax, who had emptied nearly three liters of syrupy sweets, bounded forward with bright eyes. “Uncle Leroy, I miss you! When will you visit us at Stargate again?” she asked, her tone playful and childish.

  Leroy response warmly, though his answer was lost beneath the weight of his many duties. Starmist gently drew her niece back, ending the transmission before it dragged too long.

  “You’ll see him again,” she assured. The girl pouted but nodded. Starlax tried to find another topic.

  “In your opinion” Starlax asked suddenly, seeking mischief. “Who’s the strongest men in the Council?”

  Starmist chuckled, twirling a strand of her white hair as though pondering the question. “That would be Lucretius.” She paused, her smile fading to something unreadable.

  “Though sometimes… strength itself can be the most dangerous thing of all.”

  “Then why is Uncle Leroy leads the Council?” Starlax pressed, her wide eyes shimmering with innocent wonder.

  Starmist’s smile softened, though a shadow crossed her gaze. She ruffled her niece’s hair gently.

  “That is… a matter far more complex than you can imagine. When you are older, you will understand the point.”

  Starlax pouted, folding her arms, convinced her aunt was keeping yet another secret throughout their journey back to the Stargate.