The descent was slow… but it never ceased.
The King kept sinking—deeper and deeper—piercing through the ancient ice, until he passed five hundred meters.
Layers of frost tried to devour his body,
as if the earth itself longed to consume him.
Despite his terrifying mastery over his own flesh,
despite his superiority over all things human,
the ice here was stronger.
Heavier.
Thicker.
It slowed him…
Then began to freeze him.
His joints stiffened.
His bloodless limbs started to lose all sensation.
His lungs tore under the pressure, his chest tightened—
as though air itself had been exiled from this world.
And yet… he did not feel the cold completely.
There was something else…
A hidden barrier—
a veil between him and death's chill embrace.
"It's not warmth… it's a conditional mercy.
As if something is whispering:
I will let you through…
But you will suffer."
And then, he reached the door.
Massive.
Mysterious.
Etched in ancient grace.
It didn't look like a prison gate—
But rather, a threshold into something terrifying.
Something ancient.
Something… without a name.
The engravings that covered the surface weren't written in any known language.
They pulsed—
as if they breathed beneath the metal skin.
As if the door was not to be opened… but awakened.
He dropped to his knees.
Drew in a deep breath…
Then began circulating energy through his body,
and murmured—voice steady, laced with frost:
"The King's Breath — First Level."
The air trembled around him.
A faint heat began to rise—not from outside… but from within.
Steam escaped his brow,
and the scattered energy around him… began to obey.
Mana.
A force that existed before existence.
A law that governs… creates… and annihilates.
Invisible. Transparent.
It takes shape only according to the will of its wielder.
Yet even so—
it has exceptions.
Anomalies.
Rules it chooses to break.
It is not something one learns…
But something one receives.
Not a power to be acquired…
But a memory… to be recalled.
And then the Blue Sovereign's voice rose, calm and amused as ever:
"I've always wondered…
When would you finally use that breath?
When would you show the mana you've kept hidden from the world?
Will you tell me now… my King?"
Some time had passed since he entered his meditative stance.
And slowly—his body began to recover.
Proof enough of how terrifying the technique he had invoked truly was.
He rose quietly, his breath steady.
Then walked toward the towering door once more.
It stood as if carved into eternity—immovable, eternal.
He reached out, brushing its surface with his fingers, eyes sharp with focus.
"The King's Breath…
A technique I forged after eighty years of studying the origins of mana and how to bend it.
It is split into five core stages—preceded by a threshold called Cosmic Fasting.
In that stage, the body is forced to absorb mana in quantities so small they verge on nonexistence—
forcing it into a ravenous hunger.
A hunger that makes the body crave energy endlessly…
While you… must hold it back."
"The first level?
It mirrors what some would call sacred power.
Mana flows as a living weapon through the flesh—
healing, mending, purging damage without pause or fatigue.
The rest… will come in time."
The Blue Sovereign exhaled in something like admiration—his voice edged with rare enthusiasm:
"Truly impressive, my King…
But tell me—how do you plan to cross that door?
If I could lend you my strength, I would…
But your body won't hold it—not yet.
So show me…
What will you do?"
The King took two steps back.
Then slowly, his sealed eyes lit with a radiant, inner light.
He glanced around.
Stillness fell again—so deep it felt unnatural.
The sound of the world… simply vanished.
"Sovereign…
What is this sensation?
It's like… I've been cut off.
As though everything around me… no longer exists."
And then—
A voice.
Dark. Monstrous.
It cracked through the silence like thunder born of shadow:
"Power…
Have you truly gained it?"
The King's pupils widened.
His body seized in place.
A tidal wave of dread surged through him—
not a whisper of fear, but its embodiment.
He spun toward the voice.
There stood a figure.
A towering human form—faceless, eyeless.
A silhouette of pure darkness… grinning with madness carved into its essence.
It stepped forward:
"So… what is your answer, King?
Still waiting for your little Sovereign?
Or that fool on the throne to rescue you?"
But the King… smiled.
A matching smile.
Not one born of humor—
but of recognition.
He stepped forward—
until only a breath stood between them.
"A faceless wretch…
You think yourself victorious?
You followed me from the previous world, didn't you?
I thought you'd vanished when I fused with the Sovereign…
But filth never dies on the first cleanse."
The figure laughed—
a deeper, hungrier laugh.
"Delightful.
Show me more, King.
Make me pity your miserable life…
As you serve powers greater than yourself."
In a blink—
It vanished.
Then reappeared behind him.
Its arm, cold and binding like a chain, wrapped around the King's neck.
It squeezed—
not to kill, but to remind.
And it whispered:
**"I have always been here…
Lurking in the cracks of your doubt.
Waiting for despair to claim you.
Only then… will you kneel before evolution.
Since your first breath… I've waited.
You just… forgot."**
The King's consciousness began to unravel.
His breath thinned.
His heart staggered.
There was no resistance.
No salvation.
Only stillness.
He collapsed.
Without a cry.
Without a word.
My King…
Isaac!
ISAAAAAAAAAC!!"
The Sovereign's voice cut through the haze,
distorted, broken—
then slowly began to reassemble.
"What happened?!"
His voice echoed again—now laced with something rare: concern.
"You were choking yourself.
With your own hands.
For minutes!
Your mana veered off course during the meditation.
What shattered your focus like that?"
The King answered after a bitter silence, his hand reaching up to his bruised throat:
"I don't know…
It felt like an illusion spell.
But… something far more powerful."
He stood—slowly—
and walked toward the place where the creature had touched him.
There—on the surface of the door—
a glowing mark had appeared.
And when he laid his hand upon it…
the door trembled.
Massive wheels turned.
Ancient enchantments ignited…
then faded like smoke.
The moment the door moved—
even by a single inch—
the entire world changed.
A presence surged outward.
Not just fear…
but something far more primordial.
It was the feeling of both ending…
and beginning.
The air turned thick—suffocating.
The mana clotted—
as if it carried the hatred of something older than time.
And then—
A voice.
Low. Distorted. Eternal.
"That lake… was cold, wasn't it?"
The King advanced toward the voice—
wordless.
Watchful.
Prepared.
The chamber before him was barren,
its darkness so thick it felt as though night itself had been draped across the walls.
No light shone…
except for one.
A single, spectral glow—
from a pair of eyes suspended at the center of the void.
Empty eyes.
But within them…
two words etched in an ancient runic script.
They stared at him—silent, unwavering—
yet stirred every instinct inside him.
Something within whispered, screamed even:
"Do not step forward.
Turn back."
But the warning… was not enough.
The Sovereign's voice rose—rarely shaken, but now… uncertain.
A warning wrapped in fear he could barely conceal:
"My King…"
He paused.
As if the truth weighed too heavily on his tongue.
Then he continued, slow and deliberate:
"It pains me to admit…
But the one you face now
possesses a gift… that rivals even mine."
**"And since you've already arrived…
I will not stop you.
But—for the last time—
in the name of whatever it is you still believe in…
What is it you seek from the Abyss of Light…
My King?"**
The King did not respond.
He was already moving.
Each step brought him closer to the runic eyes—
and as he drew near, his own eyes burned with a strange inner light.
On his lips…
a smile took shape.
Not of innocence.
Nor of cruelty.
But of memory.
He spoke—like one greeting an old companion:
"The books never did you justice.
To remain alive for a thousand years…
sustained only by pure energy…
and still radiating such density?
Truly… impressive."
He moved toward a particular shadowed corner—
as if he already knew what lay hidden.
His voice echoed through the space:
**"But before we continue…
Tell me…
Did I ever release you from this wretched place?"*
The chamber fell still once more.
But the eyes… moved.
From within the darkness,
they watched him—silent, unwavering—
as though waiting for something only he could give.
The King raised his hands,
his voice low—yet burning beneath:
"The blood of Noxfair… cannot wield mana for sorcery.
But I…
I am an exception.
Sovereign, lend me your strength."
His eyes ignited with inner radiance.
The energy around him submitted—
not out of fear,
but recognition.
Then…
Chains of light began to appear—
descending from the ceiling, rising from the walls,
all converging on the center,
where those eyes still hovered.
He gripped one tightly.
A faint, wicked smile curved his lips.
**"I've always hated naming techniques.
It feels foolish…
but somehow—
it's fun.
Graph Break."**
The chamber shook violently.
A muffled scream tore from his throat.
The mana surged—
ripping through his veins like wildfire.
But this pain…
was different.
Deeper.
Personal.
Sacred.
His eyes darted in every direction,
analyzing, unraveling, deciphering.
His voice emerged, strained—
a blend of ecstasy and agony:
"Everything…
falls under the dominion of knowledge.
With knowledge—
you can shatter the unshatterable,
open the unopenable.
Anything… becomes possible."
His body trembled.
The air itself bent.
And the chain he held… began to fracture.
Then—something changed.
For the first time…
the eyes flinched.
Their glow faltered—
as if disturbed by something they didn't understand.
He looked directly into those ancient eyes.
And with a broken whisper:
"Now…
you may come forth.
And I…
I can finally rest."
The King collapsed.
Unconscious.
His right eye barely open—
watching as the chamber shattered:
walls cracking, light dissolving, mist devouring the edges of existence.
And through the wreckage,
those eyes drew closer…
They were no longer still.
No longer paralyzed.
He smiled.
Then closed his eyes.
And surrendered to sleep
Several hours later…
upon the fractured surface of the frozen lake—
something was awakening.
Soft footsteps echoed against the cracked ice.
Malzavir's voice rose, low and heavy with grief:
"Damn it… he's already broken free."
Beside him, Nezira—narrowed her eyes:
"Who? I sense nothing."
But Malzavir pointed harshly toward the golden legion, his voice laced with disdain:
"Do you truly think this presence belongs to those fools?
Broaden your mind, Nezira…
We are standing before something even the Sovereign cannot comprehend."
Before she could speak,
a new voice swept through the air—
soft, haunting, laced with unsettling joy:
"What a delightful welcome party…
How I've missed this kind of love."
And then—
An explosion.
Flames devoured the field.
The ice boiled into mist.
The lake… collapsed into a caldera of molten fury.
And from the smoke and steam—he emerged.
.
His beauty… devastating.
Golden hair streaked with burning red.
A body radiant with impossible purity, sculpted like ivory.
His lips curved into a smile that dared Death to dance with him.
His robes resembled those of a priest—
but not of this world.
They shimmered, translucent and alive,
regenerating with each breath—
as though woven from his very essence.
Each step he took…
reshaped the earth beneath him.
Within the mind of Zervanth, heiress to the Black Flame,
a tremor whispered through her soul:
"His eyes…
What in the hells are they?
We dragons have never known such dread…
Eyes alone… enough to empty my chest of prey."
In that moment, she understood:
Numbers would not save them.
And power… meant nothing.
One of the legion's sub-commanders couldn't bear the pressure.
He unleashed his true form—
a massive dragon—
and roared with primal rage:
"You vile creature!
How dare you stand before the heiress of the Black Flame?!
Taste the fire of dragons!"
A torrent of fire exploded from his maw,
its heat so fierce it forced nearby dragons to retreat.
But Zervanth… didn't watch the flame.
She watched Malzavir—
who sighed…
and covered his eyes:
"Children…
I'm sorry.
What's about to happen… can't be stopped.
I only hope… you survive it."
Nezira stepped back—
not by choice,
but by instinct.
For the first time… she believed.
She turned her gaze to the center of the blast—
and saw him.
Still standing.
Untouched.
His smile unchanged.
His charred body… regenerating.
Even his burnt garments—
reknitting themselves as if the flames had never touched him.
He stood like a spear.
Moved like water.
And the violence meant nothing.
"Hmm… you scarred my handsome face."
He waved his hand through the air—
like a child brushing dust—
"Ahhh—my wing!
My wing!"
Every eye snapped toward the dragon who had attacked—
His left wing…
was gone.
Blood streamed from the stump,
his roar now laced with disbelief.
But the true horror?
He… hadn't spoken a single spell.
Hadn't drawn a blade.
Hadn't summoned a sigil.
Just one motion—
And the wing fell,
cleaner than any sword could sever.
Malzavir stepped forward.
His voice like a blade honed on silence:
"Azaryel…
I knew you strong.
I left you strong.
I found you again… still strong.
**But hear me now—
You will not leave this place alive,
unless I fall by your hand…
Or you fall by mine."**