Ebony Zone,
Ironspire, Mount Obsidian
Agartha, Divine Federation
Anu Solar System
Pleiades star sector
Sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor of his prison cell, Alexander Pendragon drifted into meditation—the only refuge left to him in this bleak, forgotten corner of the world. The walls were damp with age, cloaked in shadows that never retreated. For years, this dim silence had been his only companion. His cultivation had been sealed, stripped from him like breath from a drowning man, leaving him with nothing but his memories and regrets to keep him company.
His thoughts wandered to the recent visit—his son, and the son of his closest friend. Their presence had stirred something long buried within him: hope, guilt, and a grief so old it had calcified into silence. There were truths he longed to share, truths that haunted the edges of every moment. But he had held his tongue. It wasn't his place. Not anymore. The weight of those secrets was his alone to bear.
Leon… Alexander's heart ached at the thought of his son. He had never truly been a father to him. He had left Arexander in the care of his best friend, trusting a mission that spiraled into disaster. And when he returned, thinking he could set things right, the chains of justice had already wrapped tightly around him. Arrested. Condemned. Absent once more. Through it all, Leon had still come to him, still tried to help him.
I don't deserve it, he thought, the guilt coiling tightly around his chest. I've done nothing for him… and yet he still reaches for me.
A faint shimmer caught his eye. Alexander opened them slowly, the dim cell filling with a pale, flickering light. A projection took shape before him—poised, radiant, and unmistakably resolute. Julia Haravok. Her presence was like moonlight cutting through stormclouds.
He wasn't surprised. If anyone could pierce through the spiritual isolation of the Ebony Zone, it was her.
He rose slowly, joints stiff from years of stillness, and offered her a weary, bittersweet smile.
"The time has come," Julia said, her voice calm, but heavy with finality.
Alexander exhaled. "I never thought our choices would take us this far."
She nodded, her expression unreadable, forged from equal parts sorrow and steel. "Out of all of us, Alex, you made the greatest sacrifice. And because of it, they'll have a chance. A real one."
"And Jonathan?" he asked quietly.
Her eyes flickered, pain briefly betraying her composed exterior. "Leon will be the one to lay him to rest."
A silence settled between them.
"I never wanted that for him," she added, voice barely a whisper. "I had hoped to take that burden from his hands. But... I wasn't strong enough."
Alexander looked down, a shadow crossing his face. "Then we must make sure he is."
And in that unlit cell, with the world crumbling outside its walls, two ghosts of a fading generation stood quietly, bearing the sins of their past, and praying their sacrifice would be enough.
****
Unknown
Unknown
Unknown
Around the oval obsidian table, the air was heavy, dense with the weight of ambition, rivalry, and buried grudges. Shadows clung to the edges of the chamber, retreating only where the pale, overhead glow of the celestial lights traced the outlines of the Federation's elite. Each figure seated here represented one of the Twelve Houses of the Celestials, and with them, the full weight of their planetary dominions.
The silence was not idle—it crackled with restrained power. Eyes met, subtle gestures spoke volumes, and every breath seemed measured, calculated. This was not a gathering of allies—it was a war council in all but name, veiled in diplomacy and ritual.
At the head of the table sat a figure draped in a black military coat lined with silver threading—its epaulets embroidered with the insignia of Imperial command. His face was obscured by a horned mask of polished obsidian, the surface etched with ancient war glyphs. Twin crimson eyes glowed behind narrow slits, pulsing like burning coals. Flanking him were two silent sentinels, dressed in the same austere military coats, their masks featureless but no less foreboding.
"The Court has decided on a trial date," said Prime Wardeness Zoelera Hargrove, her voice cold and unflinching. Her presence was regal and stern, shoulders squared beneath a cloak of dark emerald trimmed with the Capricorn constellation, her family sigil. As Matriarch of the Hargrove bloodline and sovereign of Vastkarin, her words held undeniable weight. "There will be no delays."
"Hmph. So Supreme Justice Karajan wishes to end this swiftly," Grand Duke Vladia Tideborn murmured. His voice rolled like waves beneath ice. Clad in flowing robes of midnight blue, patterned with curling silver tides, the Duke leaned back, his silver hair cascading to his shoulders. His pale blue eyes glinted like moonlight on water, but his expression was unreadable. As the ruler of Selenqua, the moonlit world of tides and reflection, he knew well how to navigate treacherous currents—both political and otherwise.
"Of course he does," came a quieter voice from the far side. Caera Mirrasol, High Chancellor of Velatrix, folded her hands atop the armrest of her crystalline seat, her gaze veiled beneath the glint of her ceremonial visor. Her presence was elusive, her tone laced with an understated warning. "And it seems Adiurnal is finally making his move."
A low murmur followed. The name alone caused a subtle ripple of unease, like a predator's shadow cast over still waters. Eyes flicked toward the masked figure at the table's head, but he offered no response—only silence, like the stillness before a storm. The chamber quieted once more, the pressure mounting like gravity deepening.
"There are whispers," Prime Wardeness Zoelera said, her voice low and measured, "that the Murim Alliance Force is preparing to move. And the Cults—some of their hidden allies have already begun mobilizing across Terra's surface."
"Terra…" Mallus finally spoke, his voice a silken drawl laced with venom. It was the first time he had addressed the room, and the silence that followed sharpened as all ears turned to him. "The Beast King is gathering his horde for a full-scale invasion. Let him try. We will watch—observe his failure firsthand. Again."
He leaned forward, crimson eyes glinting behind his horned mask. "Our concern remains with the Pendragon problem. He should've been eliminated long ago, but the politics of the time forced us to stay our hand. That luxury no longer exists."
"Then we proceed with Operation Scorchfire?" asked High Chancellor Caera Mirrasol, her voice like the hiss of velvet over steel.
"Yes," Mallus said, the single word hanging like a blade above the table.
For a moment, the gathered leaders of the Federation's most powerful Houses exchanged glances. No words were spoken—only the quiet nods of monarchs who had long mastered the art of silent war. And then, without fanfare, the projections shimmered and faded, one by one dissolving into motes of light, leaving Mallus alone beneath the voidlit ceiling of the chamber.
He felt the urge to sigh, to vent his mounting frustration—but he suppressed it. Too much has gone awry. Their plans, once so carefully woven, now unraveled thread by thread. Some invisible hand was moving against them—subtle, pervasive, and maddeningly effective. A force he could not see, yet one he could feel. Something, or someone, was interfering.
He rose from his seat, giving a curt gesture to his guards to remain behind. They did not question him. He stepped from the war chamber into a different room—one far removed in mood and design. Where the council chamber was bleak and utilitarian, this one was a picture of indulgence and elegance. Golden sconces bathed the polished marble in soft light, and the scent of rare spices drifted through the air.
A long banquet table dominated the space, overflowing with decadent delicacies—roasted meats, glistening fruits, crystal decanters of celestial wines. At its head sat a figure draped in flowing robes, his aura both divine and oppressive.
Divine Saint Krotus.
He carved into a thick celestial steak with deliberate grace, savoring every bite like a connoisseur at the end of an age. His turquoise eyes shimmered with unnatural light, and the very air around him shimmered with suppressed might. Though divine, Krotus did not radiate raw power as one might expect—instead, his presence gnawed at reality, as though existence itself strained to contain him.
Since his descent into the mortal world, he had been shackled by a divine suppression—a suffocating decree from some higher interference. Most of his true strength had been sealed. He suspected it was the work of another god, or something just as powerful. Until the seal lifted, he would not act directly. And so, Mallus had been left to maneuver in his stead, playing the political game in this realm of mortal dust.
"Are they gone?" Krotus asked, his voice impossibly smooth, carrying a tone of languid boredom laced with unearthly charisma. It wasn't a voice meant to be heard—it was meant to be obeyed.
"Yes, Lord Krotus," Mallus said, bowing deeply.
Krotus didn't look up. He slid another slice of meat into his mouth, chewing with calculated indifference. While he had been forced to wait, he had spent most of his time hunting Celestial beasts, and cooking them as he couldn't rely on mortals to know how to cook Celestial meat. He dabbed his mouth with a silken cloth, then set the utensils aside. His gaze turned to Mallus, gleaming with predatory intent.
"I've sensed him," Krotus said. "Leon Haravok. His power has grown significantly—more than even I anticipated. Give him enough time, and he will eclipse his father. Perhaps even his grandfather."
He leaned back, fingers steepled. "This suppression… it's designed to delay us. Someone wants him to grow. To become ready."
"The Diviner," Mallus said, voice low.
"Yes," Krotus replied. "She is the only mortal capable of standing against us gods. And for now… she buys him time."
"Such an act should come at a great cost," Mallus said, his tone edged with calculated concern.
"Yes… unfortunately for them," Krotus replied, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. "And fortunately for us. I can feel the suppression loosening—just slightly, but it's there. Soon, I'll be able to wield more than a mere fraction of my strength. One percent is no longer enough."
He leaned back in his chair, his turquoise gaze burning with divine hunger. "This business with the Pendragon—tell me, it won't disturb His Highness, will it? Divine peace must not be threatened."
"No, my lord," Mallus assured him, lowering his head with reverence. "It will be handled discreetly. The operation will be executed in a manner that ensures stability within the Federation. There will be no breach of the peace."
"Good," Krotus said, his voice suddenly quiet—too quiet. The calm before an annihilating storm. "Because you understand what happens should conflict erupt within the Federation."
He raised a single hand, fingers crackling with faint motes of suppressed cosmic fire.
"It doesn't matter which factions are involved. Should war break out… all shall be purged."
"Yes, Lord Krotus," Mallus said.
****
Justice Tower
Ivory Spires city,
Agartha, Divine Federation
Anu Solar system
Pleiades star sector
Dignir Galaxy
Alexander Pendragon sat in silence within the hovercraft, its interior dimly lit by soft golden filaments as it glided through the upper atmosphere. The restraints around his wrists were more symbolic than necessary—his cultivation had long been sealed, and his fate lay in the hands of others now. Through the crystalline viewport, he gazed out across the sprawling majesty of the bureaucratic capital—Ivory Spires.
The city stretched like a celestial lattice across the horizon, its architecture a blend of ethereal grace and utilitarian might. But all of it seemed to pale beneath the gleaming monument that loomed ahead.
The Justice Tower.
A structure of ivory and burnished gold, it soared into the heavens like a spear aimed at the stars, its form impossibly tall, eclipsing the surrounding spires that formed the beating heart of the Federation's judicial authority. At its apex, golden glyphs pulsed with divine radiance, their meanings lost to most—but not to Alex. He had once stood among those who understood such things.
Above the city, the Clockwork Atrium turned with slow, majestic precision. It was a magitech marvel of rotating rings and crystal lenses, tracking planetary alignments and cosmic tides. Even now, it cast long, moving shadows over the city—silent, unblinking, eternal. A mechanism that reminded him of fate itself: beautiful, vast, and unyielding.
As the hovercraft descended, the ocean below came into view—a vast, shimmering expanse known as the Enki Ocean, covering nearly seventy percent of the planet's surface. The Justice Tower stood proudly on a floating platform above it, tethered to the ocean by light bridges and gravitational anchors. The waves below roiled in hypnotic rhythm, a restless mirror reflecting the uncertainty that had settled over Alex's heart.
Through the observation panels, he could see the sprawling concourses that ringed the platform now teeming with activity. Shuttles arrived in droves, discharging political envoys, legal observers, planetary representatives, and civilians alike. But they weren't all impartial spectators.
Protesters had gathered—some waving banners emblazoned with his name and old insignia, their chants calling for clemency, for recognition of what he once was. Others shouted for justice, their voices sharp with anger and betrayal, demanding retribution. Faces blurred past, some familiar, others unknown, but the divide was clear. Supporters. Detractors. Fanatics. Skeptics.
Alexander watched them all with a stoic gaze.
So many opinions… and none of them know the full truth.
The hovercraft began its final approach. The gates of the Justice Tower opened like the maw of a divine beast, ready to swallow him whole.
The hovercraft touched down with a whisper of displaced air, guided by invisible fields to the receiving platform of the Justice Tower. The golden sigils on the entrance pulsed softly, sensing his presence—ancient runes of truth and consequence, activated only for those summoned to stand before the Federation's highest tribunal.
The hatch hissed open. Alexander rose, chains still glinting against the folds of his dark robe, the ceremonial garb of a detained High Ascendant. Two Custodian Wardens stood at either side, clad in radiant armor etched with runic constraints—unmistakable symbols of the Federation's impartial will. Their helmets masked all identity, as if justice itself had no face.
As he stepped out, the sound hit him first.
A roar.
Muted through the hovercraft's shielding, but deafening now. Protesters chanted from across the bridgeways that circled the Tower's base—some chanting his name like a forgotten hero resurrected, others calling him traitor, murderer, betrayer. The crowd had been held back by shimmering energy barricades manned by Sentinels, but their passion surged like a wave threatening to crash through.
Alexander didn't flinch. He had known war cries before. These were different—civilized, yes, but laced with the same fear. The same need to cast blame. To elevate or to destroy.
He walked forward, his boots tapping against polished white stone veined with gold, the sound sharp and final. The great gates parted at his arrival, revealing the Hall of Judgement.
Inside, the Justice Tower was a cathedral of law—its vast interior silent and breathless, lit by shafts of artificial sunlight filtered through stained crystal that depicted the Twelve Houses and their divine pacts. Above him, floating platforms shaped like petals ringed the chamber—seats for the planetary delegates, House representatives, and Federation Justiciars. The entire structure was built not just to hold trials, but to remind all who entered that the weight of law was forged in divine fire.
At the far end, towering above all, was the Seat of Judicature, where Supreme Justice Karajan would preside. The judge's dais was fashioned from starlight-forged alloy, suspended between twelve orbiting rings that shifted with his breath and command. He had not yet arrived, but his presence was already felt in the oppressive hush that blanketed the room.
Alexander's eyes lifted—not in defiance, but in quiet clarity. He had walked into battlefields drenched in blood and flame. This chamber was colder… more surgical. And in many ways, far more lethal.
He was led to the center of the room where a circular dias awaited him—a platform that would elevate him to stand in judgment before the court, stripped of all title and station. Not as a Pendragon. Not as a war hero. But simply as a man.
And still… he stood tall.
As the last echoes of his steps faded into silence, the ambient lights of the Tower dimmed slightly. A chime echoed, low and resonant.
The Tribunal was about to begin.