Divine Land · Western Capital · The Second Morning
The morning mist had yet to disperse, but the sunlight still slanted gently across the royal palace's highest towers. The blood from the previous night had been washed away, but the wound slashing from shoulder to waist still left King Aerlant of Humanity grim-faced.
He sat in the deepest chamber of the palace, wrapped in bandages, his chestplate removed and replaced with a soft royal robe. Wizard Garios and High Priest Heram stood by, tense, silent.
"You're wondering… why I went alone, aren't you?" Aerlant's voice was hoarse.
Garios hesitated, then couldn't help but speak. "Your Majesty, it was the domain of the Akkan… what if—"
"If I had brought you along," Aerlant stared out the window, "would you have let me speak to him as an equal?"
Heram furrowed his brow but said nothing.
"And frankly, I don't trust either of you." Aerlant's voice sharpened like a drawn dagger. "The doubt and selfishness in your hearts—I see it more clearly than anyone."
The priest's expression twisted. Garios opened his mouth but did not argue.
Just then, a royal attendant rushed in.
"Your Majesty, the Akkan King… Turansol, is en route to the capital."
Aerlant narrowed his eyes slightly. He said nothing, only ordered tea and fresh bandages. Deep inside, he knew—this "visit" would not be peaceful.
Divine Land · Capital Outskirts · Market Town
Akkan King Turansol, clad in a war robe, walked tall and imposing on human soil, flanked by sharpshooter Velox, battlemaiden Mikara, and several attendants.
The air around them brimmed with coldness and hostility.
"That's him… the Akkan king…"
"Look at that armor, like it's made of bones… disgusting. Do they eat people?"
"Get away, quick—people died in our village because of them…"
Whispers. Curses. Even pebbles quietly thrown from narrow alleys.
Turansol ignored it at first. These commoners' gazes were beneath his notice. But when a stone struck his chest and scattered black dust, an old woman's voice pierced through him like a blade:
"You Akkans should never have set foot on the Divine Land!"
Turansol halted abruptly, a crimson glow flashing in his eyes. He turned slowly, voice low and thunderous:
"You think we wanted to walk this blood-soaked earth? This 'Divine Land' of yours—half of it was once stained with our blood."
He stepped forward, the air simmering with scorched tension.
"You say we bring war, bring ruin… but ask yourselves—how many of our children died in your wars?"
A young man couldn't hold back and shouted, "But you came first! You're the heretics! You're the curse!"
Turansol's gaze turned icy. He raised a hand—
"Your Majesty." Velox stepped forward, pressing a hand to the king's arm. "Don't let their ignorance provoke you. They're just ordinary folk."
Turansol stared at him for a long moment. Then he slowly released his breath. "If they push further, they're not fools—they're enemies."
Velox nodded. "Understood."
They continued walking. Behind them, the crowd watched in silence, with eyes now full of conflict.
Royal Palace · Main Hall · Afternoon
King Aerlant sat upon the throne, still pale but composed. The moment Turansol entered, the air tensed like drawn bowstrings.
Their eyes locked.
Aerlant spoke first. "You arrived faster than I expected."
Turansol stopped at the base of the throne. "Because you entered my sanctuary alone… and returned wounded. This needs clarity."
Aerlant gave a faint chuckle. "So let's clarify. But your soldier struck first."
Turansol's crimson eyes darkened. "If you'll listen, I'll tell you—he was under a curse cast by one of your human sorcerers."
Aerlant didn't flare with anger. Instead, he raised a brow. "You're saying he wasn't under your command?"
"The Akkan do not stoop to such vile means," Turansol stepped forward, eyes ablaze. "But your kind—someone is playing a game of pieces."
Aerlant rose slowly, circling his throne.
"Do you know why I sought you out personally?"
"Because you wanted to confront your doubt."
"No." Aerlant stopped by the window. "Because I once believed in you. Believed that the Akkan were not our enemy. But now, goblin raids, the White Tower, the village massacre… that bloodied weapon—I can no longer ignore it."
Turansol's voice dropped like stone. "So now, am I your enemy?"
"I don't know," Aerlant turned, expression unreadable. "That's why I need your answer. If you're not the enemy—help me find out who is."
Turansol sighed. "You should be resting."
Aerlant smirked. "We've known each other for twenty years. If I fell from this wound, I'd have no right to call you an ally."
Turansol looked at him steadily. "But you're still human. That strike was meant to kill you."
Aerlant picked up a broken arrow from the table. He turned it over and laid it down.
"The arrow bore a curse, but it's not from your magic system."
Turansol nodded. "The mark comes from the White Tower's northern sect."
Aerlant's gaze sharpened. "Heram's faction… they've always hated your kind. If you retaliate, they'll seize the excuse."
"That's why I didn't." Turansol's voice was low and hard. "I'm not here to explain—I'm here to declare this was not our doing. We detained that soldier. He bore the Mind-Eater Sigil."
Aerlant nodded. "You understand what that implies?"
"You have traitors. And we've been infiltrated." Turansol's gaze didn't waver. "I'll personally investigate. Any Akkan crossing borders must now be cleared by me. If it turns out to be a human plot—you must act."
Aerlant gave a bitter smile. "You want me to flip the table?"
"If you don't, they'll throw you off it." Turansol stepped closer. "I've survived because I learned—true enemies hide behind hate."
Aerlant looked to the sky. "How long will you trust me?"
Turansol met his gaze. "Until the day you raise a human blade against me."
Aerlant smiled faintly. "I'd rather be scorned by mankind than doubted by you."
Turansol nodded. "Then I trust you."
He approached the throne. "You must rest. I'll handle the search."
"How?"
"The arrow was tipped in ink of sacrifice—an old glyph used by the Grey Mages of the northern clans."
Aerlant's expression darkened.
"If you move, the council will panic. Let me be the knife. You keep the seat steady."
There was nothing more to say.
Both understood: what came next would be a deeper, darker war.
Not of race. Not of faith.
But of the world's will—against the very idea of peace