The ethereal weight of Sky Castle pressed against Perugius’s consciousness as he guided the floating fortress through wisps of cloud that clung to its ancient stones like forgotten prayers.

From his throne—carved from a single piece of celestial granite that hummed with residual magic from the void wars—he observed the delicate dance of mana currents flowing through the castle’s mystical architecture.

Each pulse of energy required his constant attention, a meditative practice that had sustained him through centuries of solitude.

The throne room itself breathed with accumulated power.

Crystalline formations jutted from the walls at precise angles, their surfaces reflecting and amplifying magical energy in patterns that would drive lesser minds to madness.

The air shimmered with barely contained spells, layered barriers that could withstand the assault of armies, all maintained by Perugius’s will alone.

Below his feet, the intricate runic circles carved into the obsidian floor pulsed with soft blue light, each symbol a mathematical proof of magical theory that had taken decades to perfect.

Through the massive windows, the world below appeared as a patchwork of healing wounds—cities slowly rebuilding from the Metastasis Event, trade routes cautiously reestablishing themselves, the scars of displacement gradually fading into memory.

Yet Perugius knew better than most that some wounds ran deeper than geography, that some displacements affected more than mere location.

The scent of ozone and ancient magic permeated the air as one of his summoned spirits materialized—not through crude teleportation, but through the elegant folding of space that marked true mastery of the summoning arts.

Almanfi’s form solidified gradually, light coalescing into the familiar silhouette of his most trusted scout. The spirit’s ethereal nature allowed him to traverse distances that would challenge even gods, to observe without detection, to gather intelligence from the shadows of a fractured world.

“I’ve returned, my lord,” Almanfi intoned, his voice carrying harmonics that spoke of realms beyond mortal comprehension. The spirit knelt with fluid grace, his luminous form casting shifting patterns across the throne room’s geometric perfection.

Perugius allowed his eyes to open slowly, golden irises catching and reflecting the ambient magical energy until they seemed to glow with inner fire.

He said nothing—after millennia of existence, he had learned that silence often extracted more truth than questions. His gaze alone carried the weight of authority, the patient expectation of one who had witnessed the rise and fall of empires.

“I’ve discovered the truth behind Arbalest’s dissolution,” Almanfi continued, his ethereal voice carefully modulated to convey both respect and urgency. “The investigation points to Alexander Ryback, the current Kalman, as the catalyst for these events. The organization’s collapse appears to be his responsibility.”

The revelation struck Perugius like a discordant note in a perfect symphony. His fingers, previously relaxed against the throne’s armrests, tightened almost imperceptibly.

The Kalman lineage—he remembered them well. Noble fools, perhaps, but fools driven by an unshakeable moral compass.

Kalman III, in particular, had inherited not just his ancestor’s title but his burning desire to embody justice in a world that often mocked such idealism.

“Puzzling indeed,” Perugius murmured, his voice carrying undertones that made the castle’s crystal formations resonate in sympathy. “Alexander’s character argues against such destructive action. What could possibly drive a man whose entire existence revolves around heroic idealism to dismantle an organization dedicated to protecting the innocent?”

The question hung in the air like incense, heavy with implications. Perugius had observed the current Kalman from afar, noting the young man’s earnest attempts to live up to his legendary predecessors.

The very idea of Alexander attacking Claude—the enigmatic figure who had captured Perugius’s curiosity like no other in centuries—seemed to violate everything he understood about both men’s fundamental natures.

“The evidence suggests more than mere ideological conflict,” Almanfi reported, his form flickering as memories of his investigation played across his consciousness. “I discovered Furk’s remains at what appears to be the battle site—the former Bandit King of the Millis continent’s underworld. The corpse shows signs of catastrophic magical trauma, and the surrounding area bears the scars of combat between individuals of transcendent power.”

Perugius leaned forward slightly, interest sharpening his ancient features. Furk—now there was a name that carried weight in the criminal underworld.

The self-styled Bandit King had built an empire of thieves and cutthroats that spanned continents, his personal strength approaching the divine tier.

For such a figure to be reduced to mere remains suggested a battle of apocalyptic proportions.

“The scene tells a story of systematic annihilation,” Almanfi continued, his voice taking on the detached tone of one describing a natural disaster. “Furk’s elite guard—every officer, every lieutenant, every trusted enforcer—all reduced to scattered remains. The local monster population has already begun consuming what little flesh survived the magical devastation. Based on the scope of destruction, I estimate the entire command structure of the continental underworld was present and subsequently eliminated.”

The implications rippled through Perugius’s consciousness like stones thrown into still water. With Furk’s death and the destruction of his organization’s leadership, the delicate balance that had kept criminal activities within manageable parameters would collapse entirely.

Within months, every ambitious thug and petty warlord would be scrambling to claim pieces of the power vacuum, turning entire regions into battlegrounds.

“The Millis continent will descend into chaos,” Perugius observed, his analytical mind already calculating the cascading consequences. “Milishion’s Temple Knights will be forced to expand their area of operations significantly. Perhaps this crisis will finally compel them to address their xenophobic policies—nothing quite like external necessity to motivate internal reform.”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully, fingers tracing patterns in his meticulously maintained beard. The political ramifications fascinated him almost as much as the magical ones.

Claude’s actions—if indeed this had been Claude’s doing—demonstrated a strategic thinking that impressed even one who had orchestrated the movements of nations.

After allowing the implications to settle in his mind like sediment in clear water, Perugius posed the question that would illuminate the true scope of what they were discussing. “Tell me, Almanfi—during your investigation, did you uncover the actual size of Arbalest’s forces?”

The royal conference chamber felt oppressively small despite its grand dimensions, as if the weight of revealed information had compressed the very air within its marble walls.

Ariel Anemoi Asura stood before the massive oak table that had hosted centuries of political machinations, her hands pressed flat against its polished surface as she struggled to process intelligence that redefined her understanding of continental power structures.

The chamber itself spoke of Asura’s imperial ambitions—silk tapestries depicting legendary battles, crystal chandeliers that cast rainbow patterns across oil paintings of long-dead monarchs, Persian rugs that had once belonged to conquered kingdoms.

Yet for all its grandeur, the room suddenly felt inadequate to contain the magnitude of what Euclid Whitespider had just revealed.

“Are you absolutely certain of these numbers?” Ariel’s voice cracked slightly as she spoke, royal composure fracturing under the weight of implication. “Five thousand Upper Advanced ranks, one thousand Peak Advanced ranks, and ten thousand Intermediate Advanced and lower ranks? You’re describing a military force that rivals the combined strength of multiple kingdoms!”

Euclid maintained her professional stance despite the princess’s obvious distress, her intelligence network’s reputation built on accuracy that brooked no embellishment. “The figures have been verified through multiple sources, Your Highness. Cross-referenced testimonies from former Arbalest associates, analysis of supply chain logistics, and field observations all corroborate these numbers.”

The other occupants of the chamber shifted uncomfortably as the full scope of the revelation settled over them like a funeral shroud.

Eugene Bluehorse stood at attention near the eastern wall, his weathered features betraying the concern of a military veteran who understood force projection on continental scales.

Luke Notos Greyrat occupied his customary position at Ariel’s right hand, though his usual confident bearing had been replaced by the wide-eyed expression of someone whose worldview had just undergone violent reconstruction.

In the chamber’s northwestern corner, maintaining the careful distance expected of a newly hired subordinate, Sylphiette stood in her disguise as “Fitts.” The white-haired elf kept her emerald eyes downcast, though Ariel could sense the emotional turmoil radiating from her childhood friend of the very man they were discussing.

The princess made a mental note to address that particular complication later—Sylphy’s connection to Claude represented both an intelligence asset and a potential security liability.

“Thank God they dissolved themselves before father’s faction decided to move against them,” Ariel breathed, sinking into her chair as the full horror of averted disaster became clear. “If we had actually attempted to eliminate Arbalest through direct confrontation, we would have been initiating a civil war that could have torn the kingdom apart.”

Luke shifted uncomfortably, his noble pride warring with dawning comprehension. “Surely you’re exaggerating, Princess. Seventeen thousand individuals, regardless of their individual capabilities, cannot pose an existential threat to the entire Asura Kingdom. Our military advantages in terms of infrastructure, logistics, and territorial control would—”

“Would mean absolutely nothing,” Ariel interrupted sharply, her political acumen cutting through military romanticism like a blade through silk. “You’re thinking like a traditional strategist, Luke. Arbalest wasn’t a conventional army—it was a revolutionary movement with roots in every displaced community, every freed slave, every survivor of the Metastasis Event who found hope in Claude’s protection.”

She began pacing, her movement helping organize thoughts that threatened to spiral into panic. “Every person they rescued from slavery becomes a potential operative. Every community they’ve aided becomes a sanctuary for their forces. Every survivor of Fittoa who attributes their continued existence to Arbalest’s intervention becomes a zealot willing to die for their cause.”

The strategic implications painted themselves across her mind in increasingly horrifying detail. “We’re not discussing a battle between armies, Luke. We’re talking about a continental insurgency where the enemy can disappear into populations that revere them as saviors. How do you fight an enemy that the common people consider their greatest protector?”

Eugene stepped forward, his military experience lending weight to his observations. “The princess speaks truth. During my investigation into Arbalest’s capabilities, I discovered their integration with established institutions runs far deeper than we initially understood. The Water God Dojo’s cooperation with their operations means we would potentially face the combined strength of every sword saint, water deity practitioner, and associated martial arts school across multiple continents.”

The room fell silent as that particular revelation sank in.

The Water God style’s influence extended far beyond simple swordsmanship—their practitioners occupied positions of authority in merchant guilds, noble houses, and military organizations throughout the known world.

To face Arbalest would mean confronting a shadow network that had been building influence for decades.

“Even assuming military victory,” Euclid added quietly, “the political cost would be catastrophic. Our kingdom’s reputation as protectors of the people would be shattered. How do you explain to your citizens that you’ve just destroyed the organization that saved their children from slavery? How do you justify eliminating the group that provided food, medicine, and protection during their darkest hour?”

Luke swallowed hard, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead as the true scope of the averted disaster became clear.

The image of aerial bombardment from Arbalest’s flying drakes, combined with coordinated magical artillery from their advanced practitioners, painted a picture of warfare unlike anything the kingdom had previously faced.

“There’s another consideration,” Eugene continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Claude himself. Based on my personal observations, the Cloud King possesses capabilities that transcend conventional power classifications. His ability to infiltrate secure locations, eliminate targets without detection, and vanish without trace makes him perhaps the most dangerous individual on the continent.”

Ariel nodded grimly. “A man who can assassinate anyone in this castle without our guards even realizing an intrusion has occurred. That level of capability makes conventional military thinking obsolete. You don’t fight such individuals—you negotiate with them, appease them, or pray they choose to ignore you entirely.”

The political analyst in her couldn’t help but admire the elegant brutality of Claude’s solution. By dissolving Arbalest publicly while maintaining its covert network, he had simultaneously removed the organization as a political target while preserving its operational capabilities.

A masterstroke of strategic thinking that protected his people while maintaining his own freedom of action.

“Which brings us to the most troubling question,” Ariel mused, turning to study Sylphiette’s carefully neutral expression. “What could possibly drive such a calculating individual to abandon an organization of that magnitude? What threat could be significant enough to make the Cloud King choose exile over confrontation?”

The question hung in the air like a sword suspended by spider’s silk, its implications too vast and terrifying for comfortable contemplation.

Whatever force had driven Claude into hiding possessed power that dwarfed even Arbalest’s continental influence—a thought that made even Ariel’s royal confidence waver.

“Perhaps,” she said finally, her voice carrying the weight of decisions that would shape kingdoms, “we should focus on ensuring Lesser Noble Mike receives the protection and respect his position now demands. If Arbalest’s remnants remain loyal to their former leader, antagonizing his current associate would be an act of suicidal stupidity.”

She fixed both Eugene and Euclid with a stare that had intimidated courtiers twice their age. “Make it clear to every faction, every noble house, every ambitious fool who thinks they can gain advantage from this situation—anyone who moves against Mike will be considered an enemy of the crown. I will not have this kingdom destroyed because some short-sighted aristocrat decided to test the patience of sleeping dragons.”

After dismissing her subordinates with curt nods, Ariel allowed the royal mask to slip slightly as she turned to address the two individuals who remained.

Luke’s family connections made him both valuable and dangerous in these circumstances, while Sylphy’s personal relationship with Claude represented opportunities and risks that required delicate handling.

“Luke,” she said, her voice softer but no less commanding, “I need your family’s cooperation in this matter. The Greyrat name still carries weight among the noble factions. Use that influence to ensure no one mistakes our current restraint for weakness.”

Luke nodded solemnly, understanding the political necessity even as it challenged his family’s traditional ambitions. “I’ll speak with my relatives personally. The Greyrat faction will support your approach.”

Finally, Ariel turned to Sylphiette, noting the careful way the disguised elf avoided direct eye contact. The conversation they needed to have would require privacy and careful diplomacy—Sylphy’s emotional connection to Claude could prove either invaluable or catastrophically dangerous, depending on how it was managed.

“Thank God,” Ariel murmured, the words carrying more genuine religious feeling than her usual political rhetoric. “If there are divine forces watching over this kingdom, they certainly chose an opportune moment to intervene. I can only pray that our luck continues to hold.”

The weight of unspoken questions pressed against the chamber’s silence like storm clouds gathering on a clear horizon.

Whatever had driven Claude into exile remained a mystery, but its implications would continue shaping continental politics for years to come.

In the game of kingdoms and power, they had all just learned that some players operated on scales too vast for comfortable contemplation.

And somewhere in the shadows of political maneuvering, the most dangerous piece on the board remained hidden, its next move as unpredictable as it was potentially catastrophic.

___________________________________________

✨ Enjoyed the chapter? Dive deeper into the story world!

I’ve started to share my source here, and thinking to create a AI based video by story telling the story, I already had a testing video for another fanfiction of mine.

Check them out and let me know what you think! Your feedback really helps me grow.

📺 YouTube: EternalLibrary
🎵 TikTok: @library3550
📸 Instagram: @libeternal

☕ Love the story? Support and read ahead!

Help me keep creating by becoming a patron:
💖 Patreon – EternaLib

Read up to 50 chapters ahead + get early access on my site:
📚 Eternal-lib.com

__________________________________________