"To find the Black Guild, you must first find their Pillars," Fionalla said, her tone measured and deliberate as she traced her fingers across one of the glowing runes etched into the wooden table. "Each Pillar is a cornerstone of the Guild's power. They are the roots that anchor its existence in this world. Find them, and they will lead you to the woman in the void—whether she is who you believe she is… or someone far more dangerous."
Asuma absorbed her words, the weight of Rona's warning echoing in his mind. He had said the same: that the Pillars would guide him not only toward the Black Guild, but also to Anami—and to the mysterious entity within the void. If she was truly the Witch Queen as he suspected, then this path could be the key to everything.
"I've already met one of them," Asuma said, his voice firm yet uncertain. "Lanola. She was incredibly strong—inhumanly strong. Is it even possible to defeat monsters like that?"
"You will need strong allies," Fionalla replied, glancing between Leon and Amira with a knowing gaze. "But you are not alone. And from what I've seen, your bonds may be stronger than you realize."
She stood and walked toward a window overlooking the vast illusionary field outside, then spoke again.
"Your journey will begin here, in Talagra. The Garden of the Saint holds the first clue."
"The Garden of the Saint?" Leon said, recalling the chaos in the city square. "That's the place the clergy and city officials were fighting over earlier."
"Is it connected to one of the Pillars?" Amira asked.
Fionalla turned, her expression unreadable.
"The garden has existed since the founding of Talagra," she said. "But its true origins are clouded in myth. Some say it was blessed by a Saint. Others… whisper that it was born from a demon's sorrow. You'll have to discover the truth for yourselves."
Her voice dropped to a softer, almost mournful tone.
"This city is sacred. And corrupted. What you learn in Talagra may shift your perception of the empire you call home."
Asuma felt a chill travel through him—not from fear, but from anticipation. These were the first real clues he had found. A place. A name. A possible trail.
Yet, as with everyone before her, Fionalla's words were laced in riddles. Veiled truths. She had traveled to the demon continent. She was one of the Four Sages—one of the few living souls who had faced the abyss and returned. She likely knew far more than she let on.
And yet he was only ever offered fragments, breadcrumbs on a path of shadows.
Why? Was it caution… or fear?
Asuma clenched his fists lightly under the table.
"I presume our task is to resolve the conflict regarding the garden," Amira said, her voice steady, yet laced with caution.
Fionalla gave a small nod. "Yes. And I'm certain you've already realized—the royal family is entangled in this dispute as well."
"So the carriages we saw outside the gates," Asuma added, "they really did belong to the imperial court."
"Indeed. They arrived this morning," she confirmed. "But you must ask yourself: why would a member of the imperial family come all the way to Talagra? Why would they intervene in what appears to be a mere dispute between clergy and city officials? Unless, of course… this conflict hides a truth that could jeopardize their hold on power."
Her implication hung in the air like a blade suspended by thread. The royal family—the most powerful force in the Azel Empire—was not known for mercy. Any threat to their control, whether truth or rumor, was swiftly buried beneath political maneuvering or silent execution.
"A plot involving the crown," Amira murmured, her brows furrowed. She had grown up in the capital. She knew the truth behind the pristine palace walls—that the royal family ruled with an iron smile. "If we poke too deep into this… we may not return."
"They will not hesitate to erase you," Fionalla agreed. "But if you are to find the Pillars… if you are to unravel the web surrounding your sister, the woman in the void, and perhaps even your own origin—you must risk it."
Asuma didn't hesitate. "Where do we start?"
"The garden itself," she replied. "It holds more than history or holy value. Beneath its soil may lie truths that neither the church nor the empire want unearthed."
There was a pause, then Amira turned toward Fionalla, her curiosity outweighing her hesitation.
"Lady Fionalla… why are you hiding in this pocket realm? Why not work from within the Intelligence Department? Surely your insight would be invaluable."
The question had lingered on all their minds—but none had dared to ask until now.
Fionalla lowered her eyes, her smile softening into something almost fragile. "Of the Four Sages who journeyed into Nior, only two of us remain. The other two… did not survive the truths we uncovered."
She paused, as if the weight of their memories threatened to pull her voice under. "We unearthed ancient horrors buried in the black heart of that land. Some truths… make enemies of both demons and men. My survival has made me a liability to both sides. Assassins came. Spies stalked my every movement. I resigned from the Intelligence Department, not out of fear—but to protect those who still live."
Silence fell over the table, heavier than before.
Killed… Asuma thought, gripping the edge of the table. So that's why she's so guarded. Why her answers are veiled in riddles and shadows. She's seen what knowledge can cost.
"I'm sorry," Amira said gently. She had lost family too. She could feel the grief in the sage's voice, even if she tried to conceal it behind wisdom.
Fionalla managed a faint smile. "Thank you. But don't let the past chain your feet. What's ahead of you now is far more dangerous."
The air settled with quiet determination.
The Garden of the Saint. A place once revered. Now a battlefield for truth.
And perhaps, the first true step into the abyss of the Black Guild.
After exchanging a few more words with Fionalla, the group stepped out of the pocket dimension, their minds heavy with the weight of cryptic truths and looming threats. There was no more time to waste. The path forward was now a bit clearer—if they wished to learn the truth about the Black Guild and there relentless Pillars, they would need to begin with the Garden of the Saint.
The garden was nestled at the summit of Mount Tar, a sacred site long enshrined in the religious identity of Talagra.
As they climbed the winding roads toward the summit, they were met with a disturbing sight. The base of the divine white staircase, which led to the garden above, was choked with people—clergymen in flowing robes shouting scripture and outrage, peasants raising their fists in support, and an impenetrable wall of city guards bracing against the growing tide.
"How could they post guards here? This is sacred ground!" one of the elder clergymen shouted, his voice sharp with fury.
"By order of the city council, the site is restricted!" barked one of the guards, pushing back with his shield.
"Restricted? How dare you suggest such blasphemy!" another clergyman roared, shoving forward.
The shouts escalated. Hands turned into fists. Devout worshippers joined in, their cries swelling with passion. A volatile storm of faith and politics threatened to ignite into open rebellion.
"This is bad," Leon muttered, eyeing the crowd with concern. "At this rate, Talagra's going to rip itself apart."
Suddenly, the tension snapped—not into chaos, but silence.
An imposing line of knights, adorned in polished armor bearing the gleaming golden crest of the Azel Empire, descended from the mountaintop road. Their disciplined formation cleaved through the crowd like a blade through mist, bringing both sides to an uneasy hush.
Then came the figure who commanded not just obedience, but reverence.
She moved with grace, her golden-blonde hair cascading like liquid sunlight, her regal bearing casting an ethereal glow. Her eyes—piercing and radiant—reflected the noonday sun like twin gemstones. Adorned in a flowing white gown laced with golden filigree and jeweled accents that shimmered like stardust, she embodied divinity more than royalty.
Around her neck hung an emblem forged from imperial crystal, and atop her head rested a crownlet whose worth could ransom cities. She didn't need to speak—the very rhythm of her steps bent the crowd to their knees.
Urialla Azel—the Third Princess of the Azel Empire.
At her side walked a young man with Raven hair and eyes like sharpened steel. Clad in a modified version of the royal guard's armor, bearing black trim and an armband marked with a phoenix sigil, he was no ordinary knight. This was Denias—a prodigy and the youngest captain of the Imperial Guard. Where Urialla commanded with presence, Denias struck with precision.
"They're heading to the garden," Amira whispered, watching as the guards parted before the royal entourage.
"And judging by that look on Urialla's face," Asuma added, narrowing his eyes, "she's not here to negotiate."
Her Highness…" The hushed whispers spread like wildfire through the crowded streets, every voice laced with awe and fear.
As the tension thickened, a clergyman, his robes muddied from kneeling, scrambled to his feet and threw himself forward in desperation.
"Please, Your Highness," he pleaded, his forehead pressed to the stone. "This garden is sacred—a holy sanctuary protected by generations of faithful guardians! I beg you, do not desecrate what the gods themselves entrusted to us!"
Before he could reach her, a blur of silver cut between them—Denias, the vigilant captain of the Imperial Guard, his blade drawn in a flash of steel. The tip hovered inches from the clergyman's throat, a silent warning from a man who needed no words.
"Enough," Denias commanded coolly, though his eyes flicked toward the princess for her judgment.
Urialla raised a hand, a subtle gesture that commanded absolute obedience. Denias stepped aside without a word.
She stepped forward.
Her golden eyes locked onto the trembling clergyman—eyes that seemed to peer beyond the flesh, deep into the spirit of those who stood before her. Her expression was unreadable, carved from marble, her voice cold and resolute.
"Tell me, priest—does your garden hold more value than the lives of the people?"
The man stammered. "Your Highness, the Garden of Tara is a symbol of divine presence in Talagra. It is a sacred place—an embodiment of Arlette's blessings. We cannot simply surrender it to—"
"To what?" Her voice sharpened, slicing through the air like a drawn blade. "To reason? To protection? To truth?"
The clergyman faltered.
"Your sacred garden," she continued, "has become a source of sickness. Men, women, children—they go to worship and do not return. They collapse in the streets. They bleed from their mouths. They die clutching prayer beads." Her gaze narrowed. "And you dare stand here, cloaked in righteousness, telling me that this place cannot be tainted?"
"Those are lies fed by greedy officials!" the priest protested. "The garden is hallowed—pure! It cannot be corrupted!"
Urialla stepped closer, lowering her voice but not her fury. "Then why are my people dying?"
Silence.
The crowd held its breath as her golden heels echoed across the stone. She turned from the kneeling clergyman without another glance and walked past Denias, ascending the first steps of the perilous staircase that wound toward the mountaintop.
Every step fell with a divine weight.
"If this garden is as sacred as you claim," she declared, her voice carrying with imperial weight, "then let the gods themselves strike me down for trespassing."
She paused at the foot of the white stone stairway and looked over her shoulder, her eyes burning like twin suns.
"But if I live—then let every clergyman in this city be held accountable for the lives already lost."
With that, she began her ascent.
The priests fell to stunned silence. The guards said nothing. And the people watched, breathless, as royalty dared walk the line between faith and truth.