As the old man stretched out his hand, his fingers curled in a slow, deliberate motion.

  High above the main hall of the Grand Cathedral, within the grand chamber where King Andrel was seated, an unseen force wrapped around him like an invisible vice.

  The moment Andrel felt the pull, his breath hitched. A sudden, unnatural weightlessness overtook him, his body no longer his to control. Before he could even react, he was being lifted off his throne, dragged toward the massive stained-gss windows that overlooked the city.

  The royal knights stationed around the chamber immediately sprang into action, their hands trembling as they unsheathed their weapons. Fear cwed at their hearts, but their duty demanded action.

  “Sire!” one of them shouted, lunging forward in desperation.

  Another knight, a seasoned warrior with a scar running down his cheek, gritted his teeth. “Release the King!” he bellowed, swinging his sword with all his might.

  The others followed suit, steel fshing as they unched a desperate assault against the unseen force pulling their king away.

  But the old man, still floating effortlessly above the battlefield, barely spared them a gnce.

  His expression darkened, his brows furrowing in mild annoyance. With a single motion—a zy, almost dismissive wave of his hand—the air itself seemed to bend.

  A powerful shockwave erupted from his gesture, invisible yet devastating.

  The knights’ attacks never reached their mark.

  Swords were wrenched from their hands, shields shattered, and the knights themselves were flung backward like ragdolls. They crashed into the grand chamber’s marble walls and pilrs, some crumpling to the ground in pain, others knocked unconscious on impact.

  The King was left defenseless, still being pulled through the air.

  The force guiding him did not slow, did not falter. Andrel’s stomach lurched as he was yanked through the massive stained-gss window. The gss did not shatter—it simply twisted around him, warping unnaturally before closing behind him as if nothing had happened.

  Now he was soaring through the open sky, the city sprawling beneath him as the old man drew him closer.

  The air was cold, biting at his skin as he finally came to a stop just before the ancient figure.

  The old man’s storm-gray eyes bore into him, heavy with something beyond comprehension.

  Then, for the first time, he spoke.

  “Are you Luxar’s son?”

  His voice was deep, unshaken by age, carrying an authority that seemed to echo through Andrel’s very bones.

  A tremor ran through the King’s body.

  He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. His mind reeled at the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing.

  And yet, somehow, through the weight of his fear, he managed the smallest of nods.

  The old man’s gaze did not waver.

  Andrel’s mind, however, was sent spiraling into a distant memory.

  He was ten years old.

  His father, King Luxar Pentra, had taken him to a pce forbidden to most—a pce shrouded in mystery. The restricted sector of the kingdom.

  It was there, deep within a secluded valley, that his father had led him to the Echoing Encve.

  A pce that, even as a child, Andrel had felt was unnatural.

  The walls of the encve had hummed, vibrating with an eerie resonance, as though the very stone held memories of ancient voices long lost to time.

  His father had stood at the entrance, his expression unreadable, before calling out into the vast emptiness.

  “I am here,” Luxar had said.

  Silence had stretched.

  And then—

  A figure had emerged from the shadows, gliding through the air as if weightless.

  An old man, frail and withered, his skin like parchment stretched too thin over brittle bones. His eyes had been sunken, his breath shallow, his very existence teetering on the edge of death.

  And yet…

  That had been two hundred and fifty years ago.

  And now, that same old man was standing before him.

  Looking no weaker than he had then.

  Still alive.

  Still impossibly strong.

  Andrel’s breath hitched.

  “…Impossible,” he whispered.

  The old man studied Andrel in silence for a long moment before speaking again, his voice calm but filled with an undeniable weight.

  “What is going on here?”

  King Andrel swallowed, struggling to steady himself. His mind was still reeling from the sheer impossibility of the man before him, but there was no time for hesitation.

  Taking a shaky breath, he began to expin.

  "A rebellion," Andrel said, his voice growing steadier with each word. "A faction of nobles—House Vienar at the forefront—has risen in defiance of the crown. Their excuse was my daughter's selection as the next High Priestess, but their true aim runs deeper. The rebels, mercenaries, traitorous knights, and zealots have turned the streets into a battlefield, seeking to tear apart the kingdom from within."

  At the mention of his house, Count Von Vienars eyes went wide, his breath hitching as if the weight of the accusation had struck him like a physical blow.

  His legs buckled.

  Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he clutched at his chest. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his weathered face as he shook his head in desperation.

  "I have nothing to do with this," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "I swear upon my name, upon my ancestors—this treachery is not mine!"

  The old man frowned, his gaze drifting downward toward the battle below.

  A quiet sigh escaped his lips—one of disappointment rather than anger.

  Then, without a word, he slowly raised his hand and gave the air below a casual wave.

  What happened next shook the very foundation of Luminaris.

  A deafening crack split through the battlefield.

  The ground beneath the knights cd in bck—the ones who had been keeping the Holy Knights at bay—suddenly fractured as if the very earth itself had been ripped apart.

  With horrified screams, the bck-armored knights tumbled into the darkness, swallowed whole by the abyss. The ground sealed itself shut behind them, leaving no trace of their existence—no corpses, no weapons, no blood. Just silence.

  The battlefield froze.

  The csh of steel and the cries of war came to a sudden, eerie halt.

  All eyes turned to the sky.

  The rebels, their bdes still dripping with blood, could only stare in sheer horror.

  But the old man was not finished.

  Slowly, he turned his gaze toward a building near the battlefield—a seemingly unassuming structure that had blended into the chaos. But he knew what was inside.

  His eyes narrowed slightly.

  Then he stretched out his hand.

  A sudden whoosh of air followed.

  The entire building trembled before an unseen force ripped through it, tearing through stone and wood as if it were made of paper.

  A moment ter, 400 men, dressed in bck, were violently yanked from their hiding pces.

  Their screams filled the air as they were pulled upward, their bodies weightless, filing helplessly as if caught in the grip of a god.

  The old man made a simple motion—his fingers tightening into a fist.

  Another crack split open in the air itself—this time not in the ground, but a gaping void in the sky.

  The void pulsed, a dark chasm that defied all reason, swirling with an emptiness that swallowed light itself.

  The rebels' eyes widened. Some screamed. Others prayed.

  But none could escape what came next.

  With a single flick of his wrist, the old man hurled all 400 men into the abyss.

  Their screams were cut short.

  The void snapped shut behind them.

  And then, silence.

  A deafening, soul-crushing silence fell upon the city.

  The battle had stopped—not because the fighting was over, but because there was no longer the will to fight.

  The rebels—men who had moments ago stood tall, bdes drawn in defiance—now trembled.

  Expressions of terror twisted their faces.

  Many of them staggered back. Others dropped their weapons, their hands shaking. Some fell to their knees, whispering desperate prayers, hoping—begging—that they wouldn’t be next.

  Even the royal knights, the supposed victors of the battle, stood frozen, their weapons sck in their grips, their bodies rigid with shock.

  The old man exhaled slowly.

  He turned back to Andrel, his expression unreadable.

  Andrel, still floating in the air before him, could only stare.

  He had seen war. He had seen men cut down, cities burned, and armies crushed.

  But this…

  This was something else entirely.

  This was power

  The old man let out a slow breath, his piercing gaze sweeping over the battlefield below. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the lingering dust and debris in the air as if sweeping away an afterthought. Then, turning his attention back to the king, he spoke with quiet authority.

  "Clean up this mess, Andrel." His voice carried an unspoken weight, as if the very air around them bent to his command.

  With that, he lowered his hand, and the invisible force holding King Andrel aloft gently released him. The king found himself standing exactly where he had been before, his feet steady on the grand chamber floor, though his heart still hammered against his ribs.

  Then, without another word, the old man turned—his sharp, ancient eyes nding on Melissa. He regarded her for a long moment, his gaze sweeping up and down as if measuring something unseen. A faint smirk ghosted across his withered lips

  "Not bad," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else..

  NOTE

  The Royal LineageKing Andrel – A towering figure with steel-grey hair and piercing blue eyes, Andrel was both a diplomat and a warrior. His reign had been one of unity and prosperity. His rule was firm but just, though he carried the weight of past losses—none heavier than the death of his beloved queen.

  Queen Era Viremont – Born into the esteemed House Viremont, Era was the younger sister of Lady Cassandra Viremont. With her golden hair and serene blue eyes, she was a woman of quiet strength and intellect. A renowned healer and schor, she was beloved by the people for her wisdom and compassion. Her death after giving birth to Prince Finn left a void in both the royal family and the kingdom.

  The Royal SiblingsPrince Cedric (Firstborn) – The kingdom’s golden hero. With his chiseled features, blond hair, and unwavering sense of justice, Cedric was adored by the people. He led the royal army and often served as the kingdom’s primary diplomat. His honor and nobility made him the ideal heir to the throne.

  Prince Victor (Second-born Twin) – Ambitious and sharp-witted, Victor was a skilled tactician and warrior. However, his arrogance and condescending attitude toward commoners earned him little love outside the noble circles.

  Prince Lucien (Second-born Twin) – The more ruthless of the twins, Lucien possessed a calcuting mind and a talent for manipution. Unlike Victor, he preferred to operate from the shadows, using cunning rather than direct confrontation.

  Prince Elias (Fourth-born) – A quiet and introspective young man with a love for alchemy and ancient texts. His reserved nature often made him an enigma, even to his own family. While he had little interest in politics, his knowledge of forgotten magic and old secrets made him invaluable.

  Princess Melissa (Fifth-born) – The only daughter of King Andrel and Queen Era, Melissa was expected to follow the path of duty. Chosen as the next High Priestess, she often found herself at odds with the expectations pced upon her. Fiercely independent and headstrong, she was both a skilled combatant and a reluctant symbol of the kingdom’s faith.

  Prince Finn (Youngest) – Mischievous and carefree, Finn was the family’s troublemaker. Despite his antics, he possessed a sharp mind and an uncanny ability to find unconventional solutions to problems. Though often overlooked due to his pyful nature, those who underestimated him usually regretted it