Shizumi Medical Facility – 6th Floor, Intensive Recovery Ward
The room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of a heart monitor. Its rhythmic beeping was the only sound that cut through the stillness. Outside the window, the city of Shizumi tried to return to life—but inside, time moved slower.
Alaric lay still, tubes running through his arms, his body wrapped in bandages and support braces. His chest rose and fell in shallow, controlled movements, the aftermath of broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and countless internal injuries. His jaw had been wired. His left leg was suspended in a cast. He looked like a man carved from war and then shattered by it.
But his eyes—those dull, half-lidded eyes—were open. Awake.
Empty.
The door creaked open gently. A nurse stepped in, adjusted his IV, and gave him a soft smile.
"You're healing better than expected," she said kindly, tucking the sheets a little neater. "Your teammates will be back soon. You're not alone, you know."
He didn't reply. Couldn't.
And even if he could, he wouldn't.
She offered one last look of sympathy, then left quietly.
When the door shut, the weight in the room returned.
Alaric's eyes drifted toward the ceiling.
A faint tremble formed in his fingers. Not from pain—but rage.
Shame.
He remembered Feydor's foot on his head. Rina's scream. Her blood.
Her blood.
He remembered the sheer helplessness as his body refused to move, and the humiliation that lingered deeper than the wounds. A beating was one thing. Defeat was one thing.
But failure?
That was something else entirely.
His lips moved slightly, barely a whisper.
"I couldn't protect them…"
He clenched his teeth, the wires holding his jaw protesting with pressure.
"I let them down."
He could still see Rina's body crumple from Karnath's strike. Still hear Sylvia screaming her name. Still feel Torren's fury erupt like wildfire.
He wasn't unconscious for all of it. No.
He remembered just enough to know that he failed.
And worse… that maybe, deep down, Feydor was right.
"You're a shadow pretending to be a leader."
The words echoed like poison through his mind.
Was that what they thought?
Was that what the people of Shizumi believed? That he was only relevant because of Hakan? Because of a legacy he didn't earn?
A sudden spike in the monitor—his heart racing.
He grit his teeth again and closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath.
No.
That wasn't the full truth.
They looked up to him. Sylvia. Torren. Rina. They didn't follow him because of Hakan—they followed him because he was there when Hakan wasn't.
Because he kept going.
But that… wasn't enough.
Not anymore.
Tears welled up in his eyes—not from pain, but from the unbearable truth:
He needed to change.
No more being the shadow.
No more being the stand-in.
If he survived this—and gods help him, he would—then the world would never call him a placeholder again.
He would forge something new.
Not to surpass Hakan.
Not to become another Hakan.
But to become Alaric—the man who stood when no one else could.
His fingers curled into fists beneath the sheets, his knuckles pale.
"I'm not done."
And somewhere, down the hall in her own room, a pale Rina stirred in her bed, whispering the same thing under her breath.
Shizumi had been shaken.
But it wasn't broken.
And neither were they.
The hospital room was quiet—far too quiet for someone who had nearly died.
Machines beeped in soft rhythm. The lights hummed. A faint breeze moved through the cracked window. But in the bed, Alaric didn't move. Bandaged from the neck down, his face was bruised, his ribs crushed, one arm in traction.
Still.
He didn't sleep. He couldn't.
His eyes were half-lidded, staring at the ceiling—but he wasn't seeing it.
All he saw were their faces.
Rina, blood pooling around her tiny frame.
Torren, throwing himself into a losing fight.
Sylvia, wounded but pushing forward.
And him? All he'd done was bleed. Get broken. Be humiliated.
"Some vice-captain I am."
He tried to move his hand. Nothing. His fingers wouldn't respond.
"I'm useless."
A hollow silence filled his skull, broken only by the thrum of regret.
Until the lights in the room flickered.
A low growl rolled through the walls.
Alaric blinked. The room blurred. His breathing slowed—not from pain, but from something else. Something ancient. Something alive.
Smoke coiled at the edges of the ceiling. And then—everything stopped.
The machines went dead. The shadows lengthened. The world turned gray.
And then—
"Finally."
The voice rumbled like an earthquake beneath the sea.
Alaric's eyes snapped open—but it wasn't the hospital anymore.
He was floating—weightless—in a vast, obsidian chamber. Ashes floated in the air like snow. Blackened stone stretched for miles, illuminated only by a distant, red glow.
And before him stood a creature of monstrous majesty.
Towering, coiled, covered in pitch-black scales, horns like twisted blades curving backward. Its burning gold eyes stared into Alaric's soul.
A dragon.
But not just any dragon.
His.
"You must be wondering why I never came," the dragon said, its voice layered—half thunder, half fire.
"While you bled, while you begged for strength. I watched."
Alaric could barely form words. "You... you've been there this whole time?"
The dragon's wings unfurled slowly, their span casting darkness across the endless sky.
"Hakan placed me in your shadow. To guard you. To protect you."
"But I made a choice. I chose not to save you."
Alaric stepped back instinctively. "What?"
"Because I don't guard the weak. I devour them."
The heat intensified.
"If I had saved you, you'd have died never knowing your worth. You'd have died a hollow shell… still believing strength comes from someone else's name."
Alaric clenched his fists—he could move again.
"You call yourself Vice-Captain. But all you've done is live in the shadow of a man greater than you. Tell me, Alaric—who are you, without Hakan?"
Silence.
Alaric's voice cracked. "I don't know."
"Then find out."
The dragon leaned down, its molten eyes inches from him.
"You are not healed. You are not whole. And if you don't earn me—truly earn me—I'll burn you alive and leave your soul in ash."
Flames erupted around them, forming a circular arena. The air grew thick, heavy.
"Prove to me," the dragon growled, "that you are not just a shadow with a name."
And then—
It attacked.
A swipe of the claw—Alaric dodged, barely. His legs still trembled, his body aching with every step, but he could move. He ducked, rolled, struck back with a punch to the dragon's chest.
It didn't even flinch.
"Weak."
Another tail swipe—he jumped, but the wind knocked him off his feet.
He hit the ground, coughing up blood that wasn't real—but the pain felt real.
"Stand," the dragon roared. "Or I'll end it here."
Alaric pushed himself up. "I… won't die here."
"WHY?" the beast thundered.
Alaric stared into the flames around him—and saw Shizumi. The people who called out his name. The children who believed in him. His team. Rina. Sylvia. Torren.
Hakan.
He saw them all.
Then—he saw himself.
Not in the shadow of Hakan, but beside him. Not as a copy. As his own flame.
"Because I've lost too much to stay weak," Alaric whispered.
"Because someone has to protect them when Hakan's not there."
"Because I'm tired of being scared of my own reflection."
He stood.
Eyes sharp.
Back straight.
"I'm done kneeling."
The dragon stopped.
Flames calmed.
And then—it smiled. A massive, fanged grin that shook the air.
"Then rise, Alaric the Blade-Torn."
The dragon's body dissolved into embers that rushed into his chest.
"Your body will heal. But your spirit has been forged. From this day forward, I am yours."
"Your flame is your own."
And with a burst of golden fire, the dreamscape shattered—
Alaric's body arched as air exploded into his lungs.
The machines spiked. His pulse returned. The nurses screamed as energy surged from his body, glowing embers dancing across his skin.
He was awake.
Alive.
And something was different.
He didn't just survive.
He returned—with fire in his veins and purpose in his heart.
The word settled in the air like a thunderclap.
Reckoning.
No one spoke.
Not Verrian.
Not Kaede.
Not Soren.
Not even Ren.
They all stared at the blank holoscreen, the ghost of Aurelian's attack still lingering in their minds—an island erased, not destroyed. Not conquered. Removed from existence like it was never meant to be.
John Marshall's voice, when it returned, was heavier. Not with fear. But burden.
"They didn't invade. They didn't send a message. They didn't even claim the territory."
He turned his eyes to the room of humanity's most powerful.
"That wasn't conquest. That was... cleansing."
Across the room, Raiden Jin finally stirred.
His voice, deep and rough, carried.
"They didn't just erase the city. They erased the idea of resistance."
Sylvia's eyes narrowed.
"Then what are we doing sitting here? We're supposed to be Earth's best. Why are we just watching?"
Kaelen responded before Marshall could.
"Because we don't know what we're fighting. That wasn't a demonstration of strength. That was theater. Aurelian and Seraphina didn't just destroy the island. They wanted us to see it."
Iffah stood now, her silver armor catching the low light.
"Then what's the message?"
"Stay out of their way? Or kneel?"
"No," Ren said, still seated, voice cold and precise.
"The message is that we're not even players on the board. Not yet. That was them flicking a bug."
A chill ran through the room.
Colton's voice finally entered the space, dry and tactical.
"So what are we? Obstacles? Bait? Or worse—irrelevant?"
Marshall looked down at his folded hands, then at the gathered guilds.
The weight of leadership pressed on him like stone.
"Whatever we are… it won't matter if we don't act fast."
He gestured toward Verrian.
"We didn't call this meeting just to show you the video. This is a Tier-Red convergence. Global leadership is relinquishing authority to the Accord. Starting now, all 7-star guilds and higher-tier combat units are under Vanguard Sentinels coordination."
A beat.
"We are mobilizing."
Soren raised an eyebrow.
"Mobilizing what, exactly?"
"Everyone," Verrian Solace said, stepping forward. His presence alone seemed to silence the room.
He placed a hand on the edge of the table.
"Vanguard Protocols Alpha through Delta are now unlocked. We are reactivating Sentinel Operations worldwide. All unaligned elite combatants will be contacted. Training reserves are moving into phase deployment. This isn't about guild territory anymore. It's not about towers. This is survival."
"We are forming a single front."
"The Accord's United Offensive."
Ren scoffed under his breath.
"A united front? With them?" He gestured to the gathered crowd. "They'll splinter the moment it gets personal."
Verrian didn't even blink.
"Then they die. Or they fall in line."
Kaede stood beside Iffah now, both watching the room as leaders slowly stood—some nodding, some frowning, some whispering to their seconds.
"What's our first move?" Kaede asked.
Marshall looked at Ren.
"You've dealt with them. You've seen them."
Ren sat back.
"Start by hunting down the remnants. The elves are scouts. Fanatics. But they're not quiet. Track the energy trails. Every zone where energy spiked without a tower appearing—we investigate it. You'll find them. They leave scars behind."
Verrian nodded.
"And when we find them?"
Ren's eyes burned like steel.
"You kill them."
Another silence.
And then—
"Meeting adjourned," Marshall said.
But even as the chairs scraped, and the murmurs resumed—no one truly left.
The war had already begun.
Now… it had a name.
As the room began to settle again, the energy still tense with everything laid bare, Soren rose to his feet. The quiet carried weight now—every breath felt like a countdown.
He looked around the circular chamber, voice steady but sharp enough to draw eyes.
"What if we stopped waiting?"
Verrian turned his gaze toward him.
Kaede stilled.
Ren raised an eyebrow.
"Stopped waiting for what?" Marshall asked.
Soren crossed his arms.
"For them to choose the battlefield."
The room stilled again.
"We keep reacting. Tower breaks, shadow ops, spikes in untraceable energy. We keep letting them set the terms. What if, instead… we called them out?"
Now he had the room.
"We gather every heavy-hitter we've got. Every high-tier threat. All in one place. No ceremony. No press. No spectacle. Just raw power, standing together—like bait."
"They've been hunting us. One by one. Testing, probing. Picking off the strong. So let's give them the strongest. Put a blade in the ground and dare them to pull it."
Iffah leaned forward, intrigued.
"You want to bait a monster ?"
Soren gave a small smirk.
"No. I want to trap one."
Kaelen frowned.
"And what happens if they take the bait and we're not ready?"
"Then we fight," Ren said quietly. "Because they're coming either way."
A silence fell again.
And then Verrian spoke.
"Where?"
Soren didn't hesitate.
"We split. Three locations. Low civilian presence. High strategic viability. All places with one thing in common—incomplete tower patterns."
He raised a small device, casting a map in midair.
"First—Cape Town. Already hit once. Elves have moved through. It's unstable. Ren and Vealian go there. If they come again, they'll meet a wall."
"Second—Shizumi. Ground zero for one of the worst attacks in recent months. Still healing. Still raw. That makes it vulnerable… and perfect. Colton and Kaelen. Shizumi gets your weight."
Iffah's eyes narrowed.
"And you?"
Soren's gaze turned westward.
"I go to California."
Some brows lifted.
Marshall spoke up.
"Why California?"
Soren's tone didn't waver.
"Because it's the next one."
He brought up data—energy patterns overlaid with tower activity, climate manipulation, atmospheric anomalies.
"Multiple low-scale energy quakes in the last three weeks. No tower breaks. No known guild activity. Just... static."
"Like something waiting."
"That's where I'll be. Alone."
Ren's smirk widened.
"You just want a good fight."
Soren met his gaze.
"I want answers."
Verrian leaned against the table, thinking.
"We split. Draw them out. Push them to act. But if they hit more than one place at once…"
"Then we bleed," Ren said. "But we don't break."
Marshall rubbed his temples, then looked around at them all.
"This is off-books. No press. No panic. Only those in this room know the plan."
Everyone nodded.
Soren walked toward the doors, voice low but cutting.
"The Realms… if that's real... then this isn't just a war."
He paused, looking back.
"This is invasion. On a multiversal scale. The towers, the elves, the island—they're the start. The door's opening."
Kaede looked over at Iffah, her voice quiet.
"What if Earth's not the battleground?"
Iffah's response was cold.
"Then we make it one they regret stepping on."
The tension still lingered when John Marshall turned toward the far side of the table.
"Sylvia. Torren."
His voice had softened just slightly. "You represent the Black Dragons. We need to know—where's Hakan Raihan?"
Sylvia straightened in her seat. Even under pressure, her tone was composed.
"He left. Said he needed answers. Took one of the older dragons with him—one none of us had ever seen. We don't know exactly where he is."
Torren leaned forward, jaw clenched.
"He said not to follow. Just that… when he came back, he'd have what we need."
Marshall frowned. "And you haven't heard from him since?"
Sylvia shook her head. "No. But that doesn't mean anything."
Then Verrian Solace's voice cut through the quiet. Cool. Clinical.
"And what if he's dead?"
The words hit like a cold slap.
A few murmurs passed through the room—but before anyone could react, Soren gave a short, dry laugh.
Then Raiden Jin followed with a rare grin.
Soren smirked, voice almost amused.
"If Hakan was dead, I promise you—Aurelian would've vanished with him."
Raiden gave a curt nod.
"You don't kill that man without paying for it in blood."
The room absorbed that in silence.
John Marshall exhaled, fingers interlocked.
"Then we move forward."
He stood slowly, looking around.
"You've all been briefed. Your cities, your roles, your targets. From this moment forward—this operation falls under Tier-Red: Realmwatch Protocol."
"This isn't tower response anymore. This is world stabilization."
He looked at the assembly with firm resolve.
"The plan is in motion. Don't fail."
With that, the lights in the conference room dimmed, and the meeting concluded.
Later – Hero Accord HQ (Private Chambers)
Marshall and Verrian Solace
The two stood before a large holomap, continents flickering with energy signals and tower zone updates. The room was quiet—secure.
Verrian glanced at Marshall.
"There's one more issue."
Marshall sighed. "Of course there is."
"Second of my Sentinels," Verrian said quietly. "Still refuses to take the field."
Marshall blinked. "You're serious?"
"He said this operation's 'a fantasy for cowards and egotists.' That until the heroes stop posturing like saviors, he won't lift a finger."
Marshall's eyes narrowed.
"You trust him?"
Verrian gave the faintest nod.
"I trust what he can do. He's the most dangerous mimic I've ever seen. He doesn't just copy abilities—he enhances them. And with each use, he remembers. Stores. Learns."
Marshall stepped closer to the screen. "What's his name again?"
Verrian exhaled, almost bitterly.
"Elian Meraxa. Born in the ash sectors of Al-Minya. Grew up watching the world burn while heroes flew overhead and did nothing."
Marshall's face turned grim.
"A mimic with that much resentment…"
"He doesn't wear colors. Doesn't answer to guilds. But if we need someone who understands how to tear heroes apart from the inside…" Verrian trailed off.
Marshall rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
Verrian's voice was quiet.
"If it does… just pray we're still the good guys."
Drakareth — Inner Sanctum Beneath the Hall of Monarchs
The room had long since stopped feeling like a chamber. It was a memory made solid—etched in stone and still air. Floating lanterns spun gently overhead, casting shifting shadows across the obsidian floor. Every breath Hakan took echoed in the silence, and before him, the Book of the Ascended Scale lay open.
The pages glowed faintly, pulsing not with magic, but something subtler. Like the rhythm of a heartbeat. Human. Grounded. Real.
He ran a calloused hand over the old parchment, eyes narrowing as he read the names of two techniques.
Void Crusher. Sky Rend.
He froze.
He knew these.
Not by name—but by feeling. These were his. His movements. His instincts. But more refined. Sharper. Like someone had seen the raw form and carved out the purest version.
"These aren't draconic," he muttered.
"No," Rhalvion said, stepping forward from the shadows. "They are not."
Hakan looked over his shoulder.
"Then who wrote them?"
Rhalvion's eyes flickered, his expression unreadable. "Humans."
That caught Hakan off guard.
"Primordial humans," Rhalvion continued. "Not the ones you know. Not the ones who bend at the knees for power or run from the sky when it cracks."
"These were the ones who stood in the heart of the war. Side by side with dragons. With elves. With celestials. When the Realms bled and crumbled under the weight of what came."
Hakan looked back at the book slowly. "I thought they all died."
"They did," Rhalvion said. "Or vanished. No one truly knows. No Primordial speaks of them anymore. But... this book is their echo. This is all that's left of them."
Hakan let the words settle.
Then he looked down at the page again. He turned one, then another.
Each technique wasn't a spell. It wasn't chi-based, or divine. It was pure discipline. Human brilliance turned into movement.
"Storm Quake."
"Pressure Tear."
"Ghostwalk Rhythm."
"Black Bloom Counter."
They were beautiful in the way only martial minds could make beautiful.
"Sky Rend," he said, standing up. "This version... it adjusts air resistance with rotational timing. It's not how I do it. It's... better."
"Void Crusher—" he stepped back into stance, his palm rising slowly. "Mine collapses space through control. This one... displaces it first, then breaks the delay."
He tried it.
One motion.
Boom.
The wall twenty feet ahead rippled. Cracks formed in the stone behind it.
He stood still for a second.
"I'm not evolving," he said quietly. "I'm remembering."
Rhalvion gave a faint nod. "Perhaps your instincts are not just yours."
Hakan turned slowly. "What does that mean?"
"Maybe you are not the first human to stand here," Rhalvion said. "But the first to return."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was holy.
Hakan stepped back toward the book, flipping the next few pages.
"Coilfang Reversal."
"Twin Meridian Break."
"Heaven-Hook Pulse."
Each one a refinement of what he already knew. Like the raw clay of his talent had finally found the sculptor's chisel.
"I want to learn all of them," he said.
"You will," Rhalvion said. "And when you do, the Realms will understand that the dragons were not the only titans born in the old war."
Hakan knelt beside the book, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The ink glowed faintly beneath his fingers.
"I don't need to be the chosen one. I don't need fate. I have this."
He tapped the page gently.
"I'll make this world remember what a human is."
Rhalvion smiled.
"In that case, my liege… let us begin."
Stone walls sang with pressure. The very air around Hakan trembled with anticipation.
He stood shirtless in the center of a colossal circular chamber, sweat dripping down his back. Rhalvion stood at the edge, silent, watchful. The Book of the Ascended Scale lay open on a floating slab of blacksteel, pages turning by unseen will.
Each page revealed not incantations—but movements, stances, breathing cadences, and inner mantras.
These were not spells.
They were instructions for becoming impossible.
1. Photon Severance
"Even light bleeds before my blade."
Hakan inhaled. The page burned in his mind—he needed to become velocity.
He sprinted forward—flicker.
A blur trailed behind him, but not fast enough. He aimed a slicing hand strike at a training monolith—
CRACK.
The stone chipped. But that was it.
"No refracted echo," Rhalvion said. "You did not sever the light. You merely outran it."
"Again," Hakan muttered.
He tried once more, and once more—
FAILURE.
But a flicker of momentum hung in the air. A glint. A refraction. It wasn't mastery. But it was beginning.
2. Particle Dreadmill
"I don't break atoms. I make them scream."
He stood before another monolith. This time, breath steady, hands open.
This wasn't power. It was vibration.
His hands hovered, trembling—then violently oscillated.
The monolith began to hum.
And then—
BOOM.
It didn't explode. It crumbled, from the inside out—dust flowing like water.
Hakan stepped back, coughing through the particles.
"That one," Rhalvion said, genuinely impressed, "was yours by nature."
3. Umbraradiance Fang
"Your light blinds you. Your shadow betrays you."
Hakan stepped forward.
Nothing.
Again.
He tried to focus the opposing forces—light and shadow—in his strike. But they wouldn't bind.
He breathed slower. Focused. Remembered all the moments where shadow deceived and light failed.
And finally—a shimmer. A blade-shaped outline formed along his forearm, refracting and darkening at once.
It lasted a second.
But it was enough to know he was close.
"4. Quarkfall Execution
"You're not fighting me. You're resisting gravity's final scream."
He paused. Something about this one felt wrong.
He stepped into the stance anyway. Focused. The room around him began to bend.
Pressure built. The stone beneath his feet cracked.
Rhalvion immediately stepped forward. "Stop."
Hakan exhaled and backed away.
"That move," Rhalvion said, "isn't for sparring. It's a sentence. You don't try that unless you're ready to erase something from existence."
Hakan nodded silently.
5. Chronoblade Reversal
"Time is a sword. And I cut backwards."
He watched the form closely. Memorized the breath patterns.
He stepped forward, simulated an attack incoming—and swung through empty air.
Nothing.
He tried again—this time visualizing the strike. Visualizing death.
And then—
Snap.
The moment reversed. He saw the strike unwind. It hadn't happened. His heart skipped.
He blinked. "...Did I just dodge something that didn't happen yet?"
"You reversed the cause," Rhalvion said. "Welcome to time warfare."
6. Heaven-Hook Pulse
"My pulse syncs with the cosmos. Yours stops with mine."
This was about rhythm.
Movement in tempo.
He began tapping into his body's internal cadence. Breath, heartbeat, pulse.
Then clapped his palms together.
A shockwave burst out—not a blast of force, but of disruption.
The monolith wavered—like it had lost sync with the world for a second.
No defenses would hold long under that.
7. Storm Quake
"The sky fractures. The earth screams."
Hakan grounded himself.
Then slammed both feet into the floor.
Boom.
Cracks split outward.
He raised one hand and drove it into the air.
A thunderous crack split the ceiling. Lightning coiled downward like serpents.
A dual-force assault. Earth and sky. Raw and elegant.
Rhalvion gave a single nod. "Tamed chaos."
8. Ghostwalk Rhythm
"I vanish between your blinks. And your death comes with the silence."
He moved.
Nothing.
Again.
Again.
He moved—and vanished.
Then reappeared behind the monolith, delivering a delayed strike.
A fraction of a second later, the monolith shattered.
Not from force. From confusion.
"Dead before they understand," Hakan muttered. "Now that's useful."
9. Black Bloom Counter
"Your aggression is the seed. Your defeat is the flower."
This time, Rhalvion moved.
He struck, fast and hard—testing Hakan's reflex.
Hakan didn't block.
He invited the strike. Absorbed the motion. Then—
Detonation.
A burst of dark-pink energy surged outward in a spiraling pulse, blasting Rhalvion back across the floor.
"Was that… emotion?"
Hakan lowered his arms.
"Felt like it."
He fell to one knee.
Sweat dripped. His chest heaved. His body trembled—not with exhaustion. But with understanding.
These weren't techniques.
These were weapons of will.
Each one a testament that humans—primordial or present—were never meant to be weak.
They were meant to break the rules.
"Rhalvion…" he said, sweat trickling down his face. "I don't think I'm training."
"No," Rhalvion said, stepping forward.
"You're evolving."