The world still slept beneath a blanket of mist and stars when two figures stepped silently from the Imperial Palace grounds.
No ceremony.No banners.Only the solemn rhythm of armored boots against ancient stone.
Aren Vale and Arthur Pendragon.
Two of humanity's only transcended protectors.Not rulers this morning.Not generals.Only warriors preparing to bet their existence on a single act of faith.
Both wore battle armor crafted from the finest forges of history:
Arthur, in radiant silver plates trimmed with golden sigils, light swirling subtly around him.
Aren, in black armor etched with violet lines of power, Behemoth's Fang humming invisibly at the core of his soul.
Their faces were devoid of laughter now.Hard.Focused.Immovable.
No words passed between them.
They did not need them.
With a mutual nod, they lifted from the earth —and shot into the heavens like comets.
They flew at full transcendent speed —breaking through clouds, splitting winds,leaving sonic booms echoing behind them like the footsteps of titans.
The lands of men blurred beneath their passage:
Mountains crumbling into hills.
Rivers flashing like quicksilver veins.
Cities flickering like candle lights below.
Faster.
Faster still.
Toward destiny.
After nearly two hours of relentless flight,the landscape below began to change.
The earth grew richer.The forests deeper, ancient, untouched by mortal wars.
And there —rising against the newborn sun —the World Tree came into view.
It was... impossible.
Even from hundreds of kilometers away, it dominated the horizon.
A trunk wider than mountains.Roots spanning entire valleys.Leaves larger than royal courtyards, glinting like emerald suns.
Its crown brushed the upper reaches of the sky,woven with starlight, moonlight, and morning mist.
Aren and Arthur slowed instinctively.
Power — pure and overwhelming — radiated from it.Not violent.Not oppressive.
Sovereign.
Alive.
The World Tree was no mere relic.It was a being of spirit and consciousness —the oldest living thing on the planet.
A silent, ageless guardian who had withstood eons of war, apocalypse, rebirth, and decay.
And it had protected life —even when the heavens themselves forgot their promises.
Without needing to speak,Aren and Arthur descended.
Boots touched sacred ground.
They stood before the World Tree —not as emperors or legends,but as children before a mother older than time.
Without hesitation, they bowed deeply.
Their heads lowered to the earth.
Their auras folded inward respectfully.
They stood that way —silent and unmoving —for long minutes, offering the reverence owed to a being that had watched civilizations rise and crumble like dust.
Then it came:
A gentle current of qi —warm, vast, endless —washing over them like the ocean's embrace.
Permission.
Acknowledgment.
Welcome.
The World Tree had opened her domain to them.
A simple message, clear and profound:
Walk in peace, or not at all.
They straightened slowly, solemnity etched into every line of their bodies.
And together, they lifted into the air once more.
The ritual site was not far.
Near the World Tree's colossal base,a glade had been carved by ancient magic —wide enough to house armies, yet untouched by mortal hands.
As they flew toward it,they felt the presences waiting there.
Not weaklings.Not mortals.
Titans.
The Dragon Monarch — his aura vast and primal, a pressure heavier than mountain chains.
The Demon Lord — a furnace of chaotic, dark heat, barely restrained.
The Elf King — more subtle, more delicate, but rooted deeply in the very lifeblood of the forest.
Each presence resonated differently.
Each one screamed of history, of power, of inevitability.
The air crackled with unseen forces.
The veil between earth and sky seemed thinner here —as if reality itself held its breath.
As Aren and Arthur descended into the clearing,the gathering came into view:
The Dragon Monarch stood tall in his dragonoid form — wings half-unfurled, eyes like burning coals.
The Demon Lord lounged against a stone slab, sharp grin flashing as they arrived.
The Elf King waited stiffly near the ceremonial circle, scrolls clutched tightly in hand.
The moment Aren and Arthur touched the ground,the world seemed to shift —subtle and seismic at once.
The Dragon Monarch chuckled, a sound like cracking mountains.
"Took you long enough," he rumbled.
The Demon Lord spread his arms mockingly.
"We were starting to think you'd lost your nerve, humans."
Arthur smiled thinly, unamused.
Aren said nothing, golden eyes sharp and unreadable.
No petty jabs could pierce the armor he wore now —the armor not of steel, but of purpose.
They approached the ceremonial circle —six great stones forming a ring around an ancient altar.
Above them, the World Tree's lowest branches stretched protectively,each leaf larger than a man.
The silence that fell was heavy.Sacred.
This was no council of politics.
This was a gathering that would shape the fate of the mortal world.
And Aren —he felt it deep in his bones.
The true story had begun.
At last.