A week passed.
It was a week unlike any Aren had lived since his so-called retirement began.
Every day, the hours moved with purpose:
Breakfast with his family — warm and lively.
Training from 4PM to 6PM — strict and demanding.
Dinner — full of soft laughter and teasing, a shield against the creeping storm outside.
But the time between those moments, Aren spent buried in silent work.
He pored over ancient records, modern intelligence reports, and confidential diplomatic documents.He devoured histories — the tangled feuds between dragons and demons, the alliances and betrayals among elves and dwarves, the secret bloodlines of the merfolk.He memorized the known transcendent beings, their personalities, their temperaments, their ambitions.
Every scrap of knowledge.Every weapon he could forge from information.Every tool he might one day need to protect what was his.
Selene noticed his intensity, of course — but said nothing.She simply brought him tea when he forgot meals, pressed a kiss to his head in passing, and left him to his silent war.
And so the days blurred into each other — calm on the surface, sharpening underneath.
Until at last —The morning of the summit arrived.
The day that would shape the future of the world.
After a quiet breakfast with his family — where even Mira and Elara seemed to sense the seriousness hanging over the estate — Aren rose silently from his seat.
Selene caught his hand as he passed her, holding it tightly for a moment.Golden eyes met violet ones — silent promises exchanged.
Then he walked through the halls, down into the ancient bones of the Vale estate.
Through layers of spells and seals no servant could detect, no invader could penetrate.
He moved into a forgotten corridor — a place without light, without sound — and paused before a blank wall.
Lifting his hand, Aren murmured words older than the empire itself.
The wall shimmered —And melted away.
Beyond it lay a stone staircase spiraling down into the earth.
Without hesitation, Aren descended.
At the very bottom was a door — simple, unadorned, utterly undetectable.
It was not hidden because Aren did not trust his family.
It was hidden because even the strongest hearts could be cracked open by powers greater than mortal understanding.
No one could reveal what they did not know.
He stepped inside.
The secret room was small — barely large enough to fit three men shoulder to shoulder.Its walls were lined with ancient sigils — protections woven directly into the foundation.
Aren exhaled slowly and extended his hand forward.
From within the depths of his soul, the weapon emerged.
It came with a pulse of power — a katana, blacker than midnight, rimmed with dark purple energy that devoured the light around it.
The very air seemed to twist and recoil from its presence.
His soul weapon.
Forged from the purest core of his being after his ascension.
Behemoth's Fang.
The blade floated gently in the air before him, humming softly, yearning for battle.
But Aren shook his head.
"Rest," he whispered.
With precise, ancient gestures, he began the sealing ritual.
Chains of spiritual energy wrapped around the katana, suppressing its hunger, binding it gently but firmly.
Once the weapon was fully sealed, it slowly descended, locking into the pedestal in the center of the chamber.
A final surge of Aren's qi sealed the room once again — layered protections upon protections, enough to hide the existence of the blade from even the most divine senses.
When Aren emerged once again into the world of light, none would have guessed what he had carried — and left behind — buried beneath the earth.
He left the estate without fanfare, sliding into a sleek black car waiting quietly at the gates.
The streets flew by in a blur — skyscrapers of enchanted steel and glass, hovercrafts humming faintly above, the pulse of modern life oblivious to the ancient battle awakening beneath it.
At the Imperial Palace, the guards snapped to attention the moment they sensed him.
He nodded once — and they parted without a word.
Within minutes, Aren entered the meeting hall.
There stood the Emperor — waiting in simple black robes, no crown, no retinue.
Only a brother-in-arms awaiting the coming storm.
"You're ready?" the Emperor asked quietly.
Aren said nothing — only placed a hand on the Emperor's shoulder.
Then — he closed his eyes — and unleashed his spiritual sense.
Across the skies, across the oceans,Through the hidden currents of qi that wrapped the world in an unseen lattice,Aren stretched his awareness to its limit.
There —High above the western seas —A shadow, a presence, a floating mass of pure qi and ancient stone.
The Floating Island.
It drifted like a lost star — alone but eternal.
Aren locked onto its pulse.
With a whisper of power, he bent space around them —The world folded —And they vanished.
They reappeared at the threshold of the Flying Island's ancient castle.
Before them rose titanic gates — carved from unknown metals, scarred by time but still radiating immense strength.
The castle loomed — spires piercing the clouds, walls veined with glowing rivers of qi.
The air was different here —Denser.Older.Saturated with the raw presence of legends.
It felt like stepping into the heart of a myth —A place where gods once walked, and perhaps still did.
Even Aren, who had seen countless wonders, let his eyes linger a moment longer.
The gates creaked.
Ancient mechanisms rumbled to life for the first time in eons.
The doors swung open with a sound like the shifting of mountains.
A gust of warm, qi-rich air washed over them — heavy with the scent of forgotten ages.
And then —
A voice.
Deep, resonant, tinged with pride and hidden mirth.
The Dragon Emperor himself.
"Enter — or are you waiting for me to come and escort you?"
The words carried a playful tone — but beneath it, the sheer weight of his might rumbled like distant thunder.
Aren smiled faintly.It was an old habit — the Dragon Emperor often joked when facing those few he respected.
And Aren Vale —the man who had once held the line against both him and the Demon Lord —had earned that respect.
Inside the grand entrance hall, three figures awaited:
The Dragon Emperor, standing tall and proud in his dragonoid form —Scales of ancient gold and crimson, humanoid in shape but with draconic horns sweeping back from his head, his eyes gleaming with primal wisdom and overwhelming power.A form he reserved only for battles... or for honoring equals.
The Demon Lord, lounging casually with a slight, amused grin —A beautiful and terrifying figure whose crimson eyes seemed to pierce straight through falsehoods and hopes alike.
The Elf King, elegant and calm —Brought here by the Dragon Emperor's power to record the meeting, for the elves lacked the transcendent strength needed to reach the Flying Island themselves.A scribe, not a participant.
The air between the transcendent beings thrummed —Each of them powerful enough to reshape nations with a thought.
And now, the true Circle of Guardians began to form.
The first steps into history — and into destiny — had been taken.