Twelve days passed.
The Vale estate settled into a steady rhythm — a peaceful song of family, duty, and hidden preparation.
Each morning began with laughter over breakfast.Selene's gentle voice guided the children's chatter.Aren's warm but sharp gaze kept them grounded.
After breakfast, the children headed off to their prestigious academy, their car weaving through the city's polished roads — a city that still whispered legends when they heard the name Vale.
Darian and Lyra handled estate duties and private projects.Aren sometimes accompanied Selene for peaceful walks in the gardens, sometimes disappeared alone for meditation.
But always —At 4PM sharp, the family gathered at the training grounds.
Day after day, under Aren's relentless gaze:
Squats, pushups, stretches.
Endurance drills, basic martial forms.
Darian sparred daily with Aren, learning the divine art of seamless cultivation during motion.
No miracles yet.No breakthroughs.
Only sore muscles, sweat-soaked clothes, and silent determination.
Even Mira, who had pouted dramatically at first, learned to grit her teeth and push through.
And every night, at dinner, the family reunited —Tired but closer, stronger, livelier.
The training was slow.But Aren knew:
Steel was not born from haste.It was forged from patience.
It was on the twelfth afternoon, during a particularly intense stretching session, that the first tremor of change arrived.
A royal messenger approached the estate gates, trembling slightly even as he bowed low before the guards.
"I... I bear an urgent summons for Lord Aren Vale," the messenger stammered."From His Imperial Majesty."
Within minutes, Aren was informed.
Selene, watching from the garden's edge, caught his eye.He nodded once — silent understanding passing between them.
Without a word, Aren changed into formal black attire and summoned a car.
The ride to the palace was fast but smooth.
Modern cars wove through the ancient stone streets — technology and history blending seamlessly, just as the empire had always been.
Aren sat in silence, golden eyes half-lidded, feeling the undercurrents of the world sharpening around him.
When he arrived at the Imperial Palace, the guards saluted sharply, fear and reverence blending in their expressions.
The path to the council hall was cleared without a word.
When Aren entered, he found the Emperor waiting alone, seated casually at the vast table that had once hosted generals and nobles.
Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching the Emperor's youthful features — an illusion, like Aren's, that hid the weight of centuries.
The Emperor rose when Aren entered, smiling slightly.
"You came quickly," he said.
"You said it was urgent," Aren answered simply.
The Emperor nodded and gestured toward the table.
Laid before him were several scrolls — ancient, formal, enchanted against forgery.
Each one bore the seals of different races.
"The first diplomatic responses have arrived," the Emperor said, voice heavy with meaning.
Aren moved closer, scanning the seals.
The Emperor spoke as he unrolled them carefully:
"The Demon Lord has agreed.The Dragon Emperor has agreed.The Elves, the Dwarves, even the distant Merfolk... all have agreed to the alliance."
Aren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"No rejections?"
"None," the Emperor confirmed."Even the races usually distrustful of humans chose to join.It seems the heavens' threat weighs on all hearts."
He tapped one scroll lightly.
"The Dragon Emperor also proposed that all future meetings of the Circle of Guardians be held on the Floating Island."
Aren lifted an eyebrow — intrigued.
"The ancient drifting palace?" he asked.
"Yes," the Emperor said."The last remnant of the Old World — built before even our oldest histories. It floats freely, guided only by the qi currents of the world."
Aren smiled faintly.
"Of course the dragons would claim the skies."
The Emperor chuckled.
"It's neutral ground. And its isolation will shield our meetings from prying eyes."
The Emperor unrolled another scroll.
"The Demon Lord placed a condition," he said."No soul weapons permitted during the meetings."
Aren leaned back thoughtfully.
Every transcendent crafted a weapon from their very soul after ascending.A weapon that could wound reality itself.
The Demon Lord — master of cunning — likely feared a sudden betrayal during the negotiations.
Aren nodded slowly.
"They're not wrong to ask," he said.
He crossed his arms over his chest.
"I agree."
The Emperor exhaled softly, tension leaving his shoulders.
"And the elf king," the Emperor continued, "has volunteered to act as scribe.Neutral, meticulous.Every decision, every vote, every oath — all will be recorded.No lies, no hidden agendas."
Aren smiled — a real one.
"Good," he said."The elves still remember what truth costs."
The Emperor watched him closely.
"And you trust the Dragon Emperor?" he asked finally.
Aren's smile turned sharper.
"The Dragon Emperor is many things," Aren said."Proud. Arrogant.But he does not scheme."
He tapped the table once, firmly.
"He hates liars more than anything.He will keep his word."
"And the Demon Lord?" the Emperor asked, raising an eyebrow.
Aren shrugged lightly.
"He breathes schemes.But even he knows — if he betrays us during the meeting, he will stand alone against three transcendent beings."
Golden eyes burned.
"And he is not a fool."
The hall fell into silence for a moment.
Sunlight shifted across the table, illuminating the maps and scrolls — the fragile hope of a world teetering on the edge of annihilation.
Aren Vale stood there — calm, steady, unyielding — and the Emperor realized once again why history itself had knelt before this man.
Not for his sword.
Not for his fame.
But for the sheer, terrifying certainty that when Aren Vale decided to protect something — nothing could stand against him.
The Emperor straightened.
"One week, then," he said."The Circle of Guardians will hold its first gathering."
Aren smiled faintly.
"And the real war will begin."