Weeks had passed since the incident that shook Aetherion Kronos, and the echoes of chaos had yet to fade. In the wake of that silence, Joker began to move—like a shadow seeping through the cracks of a fractured land.
No one knew how, or when, but his crooked-smile insignia began appearing across Virellan—on supply trucks, crates of illicit goods, and the walls of neighborhoods gripped by quiet fear. He wasn't subtle, nor did he need to be. His goods flooded the streets, illegally imported, shamelessly sold, and not a single authority dared to question them.
Because they all knew the truth.
The ones aiding this infection of Virellan were none other than the Blackthorn Bastions—Zayden Drevarin and Darian Drestmore. Whispers of their names swept through the underbellies of every Citadel like wind through broken glass. The most feared cadets in history—long thought to be fables of the old war—now stood on Joker's side.
And no one could stand against them.
Despite every ounce of loathing, resistance, and outrage, the six remaining Citadels folded. The heads—Elaris Chevalier of Valemire, Serinya Avalen of Swenmere, Cassira Veyne of Auralhym, Jorah Kaelvind of Drakhal, Tharek Fernsby of Zephyros, and Dazek Ivanor of Veydris—were all silenced by one truth: no one defies the Bastions and lives.
The clans stood silent too. The great pillars of power—Dracoryn Vanta, Dreadfin Fang, and Vahnera Claws—each bowed their heads. Whether out of fear or uncertainty, they let the rot spread.
All except one.
High atop the obsidian towers of the Dracoryn palace, Aurek Skalvarn stood beneath the blood-colored skies, arms folded, watching the newsfeeds flood with Joker's crooked smile. He said nothing. But his thoughts burned like the volcanic lands he ruled.
"Why does Kaelus say nothing?"
"Why… does Zeus not act?"
That question haunted him more than Joker's grin.
An emergency conference was called days later—all clan leaders, and Joker's supporters summoned. The screen lit up in a dozen chambers across the continent. The background was black, sterile, anonymous.
And then—
A figure appeared.
A white mask. Red smile carved across it, smeared like blood. The empty hollows of its eyes stared out as Joker's voice, warped by distortion, echoed across the room.
"A celebration," he began, spreading his arms.
"We've done the impossible, haven't we? Built bases, spread trade, conquered fear itself."
He chuckled—an eerie, mechanical rasp.
"But now… it's time we export Virellan."
The room fell silent.
Even the air seemed to hesitate.
Until Nerik Virelock, stood with a cold voice.
"You speak of trade, but you forget one thing."
"Everything that enters or exits Virellan must pass under The Seal."
A weight dropped into the room. Heavy. Ancient. Unforgiving.
Gasps. Eyes widened.
Even the screen flickered.
"No one touches The Seal,"Nerik said. "Not the Citadels. Not the clans. Not even Kaelus Velzareth himself. It is above us all."
The Joker froze for a second.
And then—
Laughter.
A long, maniacal cackle that cracked the silence.
"The Seal? That relic? That fairytale?"
"You fools. Its owner is dead. The Seal… no longer exists."
He leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping into a whisper.
"The only Seal that remains now… is mine."
That final sentence slithered through every chamber, rattling bones and chilling spines.
But none of them dared speak.
Because behind Joker's madness… stood two monsters dressed as men.
The Blackthorn Bastions.
And they were untouchable.
Sylvenia-
A storm brewed not in the skies, but in Mackiah's mind.
Weeks had passed since the Joker's grip began closing around Virellan, and despite all his efforts, the Dome remained a ghost—invisible, untouchable, a place that seemed to exist only in cryptic whispers and lost legends.
Mackiah sat in the sterile confines of the Sector 17 archive room, his desk buried beneath files, schematics, maps, and endless annotated pages. None of it made sense. None of it led anywhere.
And then it all boiled over.
"This is useless!"His voice cracked as he hurled a thick binder across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, pages scattering like snow.
He leaned forward, gripping the desk with trembling hands, breathing heavy—frustration threatening to devour him.
That's when the door creaked open.
Eron Myles stepped inside, calm as ever, with two cups of coffee in hand. He didn't flinch at the mess, didn't question the storm in Mackiah's eyes. He simply walked over and placed a warm cup by Mackiah's hand.
"I thought you'd need this."
Mackiah didn't respond.
Eron sat beside him in silence for a moment before finally saying,
"Sometimes… we search for something so hard, so far… that we miss the fact it was right in front of us all along."
Mackiah looked at him, confused.
Eron met his eyes.
"Maybe what you're looking for… you've already found. You're just not paying attention."
The words struck deeper than Eron realized.
Mackiah blinked, straightened, and slowly turned toward the scattered papers. His mind raced, replaying conversations, memories, symbols. Then—he remembered.
The book.
The one from the hidden archive.
The one that shouldn't have existed.
He scrambled to the corner where he had kept the book safely wrapped in cloth. Dust clung to its cover—the worn symbol of Virellan embossed in faded silver. As he flipped through the pages, something caught his eye.
A folded, torn paper—wedged between chapters.
It looked ordinary.
But it felt wrong.
Mackiah laid it on the glass table, narrowing his eyes.
"There's nothing here… just text."
He took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and slid it beneath the table. The beam pierced through the thin paper, casting distorted shadows.
And then—something began to form on the ceiling.
"Wait…" Mackiah whispered.
A faint map glowed overhead—seven Citadels marked in circles, with Ashreign Citadel at the center, larger than the rest. And beside it… the unmistakable Blackthorn Bastion sigil—a sword wreathed in thorns.
"This can't be…" Alric's voice said from behind them, as he entered the room.
Mackiah, Eron, and Alric stood in awe. But that wasn't all.
Two compass diagrams hovered at the bottom of the projection, with elegant but cryptic instructions in ancient Virellan script.
Alric narrowed his eyes.
"One leads to the hidden library… we've already found that. But the second one…"
"It must lead to the Dome!" Eron finished, almost breathless.
The map's compass led them forward—through twisting corridors, crumbling walls, and hidden pathways untouched by time.
Sector 17, once a modern marvel of research and surveillance, now felt ancient. The sterile tiles underfoot had cracks like spiderwebs, and the deeper they went, the more the lights above flickered—as if even electricity feared what lay ahead.
Alric, phone in hand, paced ahead, reading the satellite blueprint sent by one of his Avenar engineers.
"The layout here's odd. According to this, there should be a long hallway ahead—but look."
He gestured toward the wall—a solid, blank expanse.
"A dead end?" Eron asked.
"No," Mackiah said firmly. "A lie."
He pressed his hand against the wall, inspecting the edges. Nothing. But then—his fingers brushed a raised emblem embedded subtly into the concrete: the symbol of Ashreign.
Mackiah pressed it.
A low mechanical hiss echoed through the silence—and a section of the wall began to shift. Slowly, heavily, a hidden door slid open, revealing a narrow passage lit by faint blue lights embedded in the floor.
"We're in."
They followed the passage into a chamber of pillars, stretching into the darkness. The room was massive, eerie, and quiet—every step echoing like a drumbeat.
Alric raised his phone, flipping through the blueprint again.
"Something's not right. Look at this."He pointed at the map. "There are seven pillars marked here… but when you look around—"
Mackiah turned, counting aloud.
"One, two… six."
Alric stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at the corner of the room, where a lone pillar stood awkwardly, separated from the others.
"That one," he said. "It shouldn't exist. According to this structure, that seventh pillar serves no architectural purpose. It's… camouflage."
Eron moved closer, placing his hand against the surface. A faint vibration pulsed beneath his fingers—subtle, but there.
Mackiah joined him, inspecting the pillar for markings. Then—he found a seam. A barely visible line running vertically down its side.
"Help me."
Together, Mackiah and Eron pressed and pulled, until—with a click—the pillar shifted. A portion rotated and slid inward, revealing a staircase that spiraled down into total darkness.
"We found it," Alric breathed.
At the bottom, they reached a vast, ancient door. It stood untouched for decades, sealed with thick rusted handles engraved with unfamiliar glyphs. But the door's true lock… was in its shape.
Alric stared at the handles and called Mackiah who inspected it and said,
"Wait. That symbol," he pointed, "it matches the one on the book's spine."
Mackiah opened the book and tilted it. The light caught something—an embedded mechanism under the surface of the cover. It was meant to fit into something.
He placed the book against the pattern on the handles, aligning the emblem of Virellan—and twisted.
A resounding click echoed through the cavern.
With a moan of metal and dust, the door creaked open.
And beyond it… was another world.
A high-tech chamber, glowing with panels, screens, floating data orbs, and humming crystals embedded into the very walls. Unlike the dusty ruins above, this was untouched, pristine, and futuristic, like the last memory of a forgotten empire.
Glass casings held strange devices, glowing faintly with hues they couldn't name. Metallic arches twisted like vines across the room's structure, with floating orbs hovering silently near the ceiling. This wasn't just a library.
It was a vault of knowledge… and something far beyond.
"Gods…" Eron whispered. "This isn't from Virellan. This... this is otherworldly."
As they stepped further inside, Eron scanned the metallic drawers along the right wall. One caught his eye, slightly ajar with dust gathered unevenly around its handle. He pulled it open — a click echoing through the chamber — and inside, a black, steel-bound file rested, labeled only with a series:
"B-23"
Eron blew the dust away and opened it with trembling fingers.
At the same time, Mackiah, drawn to an old desk at the center, opened a drawer half-concealed under stacks of archaic schematics. Inside, he found a faded, hand-written manuscript — not printed, not digital. Its cover was cracked and old, with faded ink in unfamiliar runes. Underneath the symbol was a name, strange and haunting:
"The Children of Satan"
Mackiah carefully opened the manuscript. Just as he opened it — Alric stepped back, trying to get a better view, and unknowingly triggered a hidden panel embedded in the floor.
Thoom.
A pulse surged across the room. Monitors flickered to life — one after the other — casting harsh blue light across their stunned faces. The black screens shifted into a unified image.
A sigil. A burning crest. A symbol none of them recognized.
A perfect ring of gold and crimson flames, shaped like a phoenix — but unlike the Aetherion's. It was mythical. Wilder. Around it coiled intricate symbols in a lost language, bound together by a single word in ancient Virellan: "The Seal."
The silence in the room deepened, heavy and suffocating.
Mackiah stared at it, stunned. "That's… not from any of the Clans. Not the Citadels. Not even Ashreign or the Bastions."
"Then whose is it?" Eron asked, voice barely audible.
Alric stepped forward slowly, face pale. "I've… I've seen this before."
They turned to him.
"At Halovex," he continued. "At the port… all of the past shipments that came from Virellan — from Dreadfin, Vanta, even Vahnera Claws — every single crate, every sealed vault… they bear this mark. And not one person in Halovex dares question it."
Mackiah's brow furrowed. "That means this… this Seal governs trade of even the strongest clans of Virellan?"
Alric nodded. "Everything that enters Halovex storage — this symbol is on it. It's the true permission slip. The silent authority."
Eron blinked slowly. "But… who could wield that kind of power?"
The question settled between them like a storm waiting to break.
Mackiah turned his gaze to the glowing seal burning on the monitors. His voice trembled, not with fear, but with dawning realization.
"Whoever owns this… is above the Citadels. Above the Clans. Above even Blackthorn Bastions."
Virellan-
The sun had barely lifted over the crumbling rooftops of Virellan when the storm arrived—not of thunder, but of boots and gun barrels.
Joker's men spread like a plague.
They kicked down doors and tore through homes, taking anything of value—food, jewelry, data drives, tools, even old heirlooms passed down generations. People cried out, voices laced with desperation, but mercy was not part of Joker's lexicon.
Anyone who protested was struck. Those who ran were beaten. Mothers screamed. Elders dropped to their knees. Children hid beneath wooden floorboards whispering for the gods to save them.
But no gods answered.
One by one, the stolen goods were hauled into dark cargo trucks bearing a familiar, dreaded insignia: a crooked, grinning smile. Joker's mark. Once the emblem was welded onto the doors, no one dared approach again.
The convoy rolled forward, tires crushing broken glass and fading prayers. The path led them to Virellan's main export port—a sector watched, guarded, and once sacred. Now, even that felt conquered.
But as the trucks neared the port's massive steel gates, something strange happened.
The gates opened… too soon.
Not for them.
From the opposite side, another convoy appeared—larger, sleeker, and armored like beasts of war. Their engines purred like stalking predators. The road narrowed. There was no room for both.
Joker's trucks halted in confusion.
One of the lackeys climbed into the commander's truck, where the man still lay sprawled, snoring beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
"Commander! There's—uh—some trucks blocking our route!"
The commander didn't even crack open an eye. "So? Move 'em. No one blocks Joker's way."
The driver grumbled and stormed out. He waved his arms at the oncoming convoy. "HEY! BACK OFF! CLEAR THE DAMN WAY!"
Silence.
He took a step forward, cursing louder. "I said—!"
CRACK.
A single, high-pitched sound echoed through the air.
The man dropped.
One shot. One kill.
Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the dust.
Panic rippled. Joker's men scrambled, guns drawn, barking orders—but before they could locate the sniper, more fell. One after another.
The opposing trucks began to open.
From within emerged soldiers cloaked in pitch-black tactical armor, faces completely covered. Silent. Precise. Terrifying.
Each uniform bore the insignia of a Citadel.
But beneath that—glowing faintly in the dim morning haze—was another symbol.
A larger one.
Ancient. Marked with authority.
The Seal.
It pulsed like a heartbeat. Alive.
The commander's eyes snapped open at the sound of gunfire. He rushed out, half-dressed, pistol drawn—until he saw the symbol. His pupils shrank.
"No… impossible…"
His men stood in confusion, some ready to shoot.
One turned to him, snarling, "What're we waiting for?! We can wipe them out—!"
"NO!" the commander roared, stepping forward. "Do you even know who they are?! That's the Seal—they bear The Seal!"
Silence.
The air shifted.
From behind the line of black-clad warriors, a tall, solitary figure emerged—silhouetted by the rising sun. Cloaked in shadow, their presence demanded silence. Authority.
The footfalls were soft.
But with every step forward, the Seal on their chest grew brighter.
The commander stumbled back, lips quivering. "NO WAY!…"