The next morning, dawn broke over the Hero Accord headquarters, casting long shadows through the tall, arched windows of the grand assembly hall. The tension was palpable, and the room was already filled with murmurs and hushed arguments. The oval table—where the world's strongest leaders and strategists usually debated solutions—now felt like a war room, burdened with fear and desperation.
William Carter leaned over the polished oak surface, his fingers tapping rhythmically as he stared at the digital map on the central display. Red markers dotted locations across the globe where energy anomalies had been detected—traces of whatever force had decimated the island. He dreaded the inevitable vote to mobilize the Vanguard Sentinels.
Thiago Santos of Brazil sat back, his face drawn and tense. "We've spent the entire night debating. Our strongest heroes are still missing, and panic is spreading like wildfire. We need to act, not just sit here like helpless bureaucrats!"
Ms. Sofia Müller adjusted her glasses, her tone calm but firm. "Mobilizing the Vanguard Sentinels without complete information is reckless. You know what happened last time—they leveled half of Belgrade trying to subdue a rogue hero. Unleashing them now could mean collateral damage on a global scale."
Sergei Volkov's deep voice rumbled from the opposite end of the table. "And if we do nothing, we risk more attacks. The people want security—something to remind them that we still have control."
Mr. Shiro Tanaka shook his head. "Security won't matter if we become the threat ourselves. The Sentinels are not meant for precision—they're a last resort."
The doors swung open abruptly, and John Marshall entered with a grim expression, followed by his aide holding a tablet. All eyes turned to him, sensing that whatever news he carried wasn't good.
"Marshall," Carter greeted him cautiously. "Any word from the field teams?"
Marshall paused, his lips pressed into a thin line. He took a deep breath before speaking, his voice unusually subdued. "We have a situation. Early this morning, local authorities in Sydney reported a body washed up on the southern coast. We confirmed it—it's Jirrah Rourke."
Silence fell like a guillotine. Carter's face went pale. "What?"
Marshall glanced at his aide, who displayed images on the central screen—grainy photos of Jirrah's battered, lifeless body lying among the rocky shoreline, his coat tattered and bloodstained. Deep gashes and burn marks covered his torso, and his face was barely recognizable.
"That's... impossible," Sofia whispered, horror creeping into her voice. "Jirrah was one of the strongest among us. How could anyone—?"
Thiago slammed his fist on the table. "Someone killed the Elemental Apex? Who the hell is strong enough to do that?"
Tanaka narrowed his eyes, adjusting his glasses as he examined the images. "The wounds... they're consistent with the kind of power we saw in the footage. The being that obliterated the island."
Carter's expression darkened. "You think that thing tracked him down and killed him? Are we dealing with something that's actively hunting down our strongest?"
Marshall nodded grimly. "It's the most likely scenario. We still don't know what that creature was—whether it's a tower entity or something new altogether. But if it's actively targeting heroes, we might be facing a global massacre."
A troubled silence settled over the room. The idea that something was specifically hunting their strongest fighters sent a chill through everyone present.
Ms. Chidinma Okeke of Nigeria spoke up, her voice resolute. "If it can take down Jirrah, we have to assume it's a threat beyond our usual capabilities. The Vanguard Sentinels may be our only option."
Thiago pointed at the map. "Which means we need to mobilize now. We can't waste any more time debating."
Sofia snapped back. "You want to unleash living weapons while not knowing who or what we're up against? If we mobilize the Sentinels without confirming the threat, we risk making things worse. Remember what they were designed for—subduing rogue heroes, not combating an unknown force!"
Marshall raised his hand, silencing the heated exchange. "We need facts, not theories. I'm ordering a full forensic analysis on Jirrah's body. Until we know for sure what killed him, we can't afford to jump to conclusions."
Yuri Petrov, representative of Ukraine, spoke cautiously. "If this being can target and eliminate heroes, we may be looking at a strategic extermination. It could be eliminating anyone strong enough to challenge it."
The room grew colder with that grim thought. Carter exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Then we're not just dealing with an attack—we're dealing with a systematic assault on our strongest defenders. This changes everything."
Tanaka tapped his pen on the table, thinking aloud. "We should consider emergency lockdown protocols on all active seven-star heroes. If there's a risk of them being targeted next, we need to secure them before they're picked off."
Marshall nodded reluctantly. "Agreed. I'll put out the order immediately. No seven-star hero makes a move without explicit authorization."
Thiago didn't look convinced. "You're really going to ground our strongest fighters? That's insanity! If something else attacks—"
Carter cut him off, his voice sharper than usual. "It's better than having one of them killed off one by one! We can't risk losing anyone else."
Marshall's aide received a notification, glancing at it with wide eyes before whispering something to him. Marshall nodded grimly and addressed the room again.
"We have another problem. News about Jirrah's death is spreading. The media's picked it up, and speculation is rampant. Some reports are already calling it an assassination."
Sofia cursed under her breath. "If the public thinks someone's targeting heroes, it'll incite mass panic. We have to put out a statement—something that reassures them without giving away our uncertainty."
Marshall sighed, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. "We'll draft a statement saying we're investigating his death and that all measures are being taken to ensure public safety. But we can't lie—we need to be transparent about the threat level without causing hysteria."
Carter glanced around the room, sensing the fear in everyone's eyes. "We need to vote—right now. Do we mobilize the Vanguard Sentinels or not? We have to make a decision before it's too late."
The leaders exchanged tense glances, weighing their choices. Mobilizing the Sentinels could mean destruction and chaos, but doing nothing left them exposed to an unknown threat.
Marshall looked down at the image of Jirrah's lifeless body on the screen, his mind racing through every possibility. One way or another, their decision would shape the fate of the world.
"Put it to a vote," he said at last, voice resolute. "The world needs answers—and we can't afford to get this wrong."
The news about Jirrah's death spread like wildfire, shocking the entire world. No one could believe that a seven-star hero—one of the strongest in existence—had been killed. Speculations erupted like a storm. Some whispered about rival heroes turning traitor, while others spoke of a hidden villain group lurking in the shadows. But none of that mattered to the man sitting in his high-rise office, towering over the cityscape of Islamabad—the headquarters of the White Dragons.
Soren Raihan sat comfortably behind his desk, leaning back in his leather chair with a calm, almost indifferent expression. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows behind him, casting long shadows over the spacious office. A cup of steaming tea rested on his desk, untouched, while his piercing gaze remained fixed on the news article displayed on his tablet.
"Jirrah's dead, huh?" he muttered, his tone unreadable.
Standing beside him, his assistant Rameen Aftab glanced at the screen, her expression tense but composed. On the sofa across from Soren sat his vice commander, Arham Khalid, arms folded and brows furrowed as he processed the news.
Arham looked up, breaking the silence. "What do you think? Who did this?"
Soren took a slow breath, almost as if savoring the question. "It's not about who—it's about how." He picked up his cup of tea, taking a measured sip before continuing. "Seven-star heroes are the strongest and rarest power in this world. We were all gifted with strength." His lips curled into a smirk—one filled with pride and ambition. "All gifted—except the man who's going to beat them all."
Arham couldn't help but chuckle, recognizing that familiar arrogance. "You really think none of them can measure up to you, huh?"
Soren didn't bother answering, his smirk saying it all. Rameen hesitated for a moment before speaking, her tone more cautious.
"Aren't you concerned?" she asked. "There's been no word from your brother since he left—not even his own guild, the Black Dragons, knows anything. Don't you think something might have happened to him... just like how Luxarion and Di—"
"Nothing's happened to him." Soren's voice cut through the air, cold and sharp, making Rameen flinch. His eyes narrowed as he set the cup down with a soft clink. "It'll take a hell of a lot more than whatever made those two disappear to take my brother down. Don't insult him by suggesting otherwise."
Rameen bit her lip and lowered her gaze, knowing better than to push further. Arham leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"So, you think something's behind all this? The missing heroes and now Jirrah getting killed?"
Soren gave a slow nod, his expression thoughtful. "Precisely. This isn't just random chaos. Someone—or something—is moving with purpose. If it's a tower-born entity, it's not just some mindless beast. It's thinking, planning, and picking off the strongest."
Arham raised an eyebrow. "You're saying it's intelligent? A tower monster with brains?"
Soren's smirk faded, replaced with a calculating glint in his eyes. "That's what worries me. We've seen monsters break free from the towers, but nothing like this—nothing that would systematically hunt down our best. If I'm right, we're not dealing with a mere rogue entity. This is something entirely different... and far more dangerous."
Rameen hesitated, glancing at Soren. "Should we inform the Accord about your suspicions?"
Soren waved his hand dismissively. "Let them figure it out. They're already scrambling to understand what's going on. Besides, mobilizing the Vanguard Sentinels will just make things worse. They'd be throwing hammers at shadows, breaking more than they fix."
Arham gave a slow nod, thoughtful. "And if whatever killed Jirrah comes for us next?"
Soren's eyes glinted with an almost predatory confidence. "Then I'll show it why they call me the Dragon Prince. If it thinks I'm an easy target, it'll regret underestimating me."
The room fell silent, the weight of Soren's words settling in. Rameen glanced at him again, her unease lingering despite his confidence.
Arham gave a slight smirk, knowing that Soren wouldn't back down from a challenge no matter how dangerous it was. "Well, I guess we're in for a hell of a storm, then."
Soren leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the cityscape. "Let it come. One way or another, we'll get to the bottom of this. And if that thing shows up... I'll burn it to ashes."
The sky stretched vast and endless, painted in deep shades of crimson and indigo—an alien sky, nothing like Earth. Clouds roiled like dark flames, and shimmering auroras wove through the air, casting an ethereal glow over the world. This was Drakareth—the realm of dragons.
Standing tall on the back of a massive dragon, Hakan surveyed the horizon with a calm yet commanding gaze. Around him flew his most loyal followers—Veyrath, Vealthor, and Xyvarion—all in their humanoid forms, trailing behind their leader like an honor guard.
Xyvarion, the most menacing of the three, wore an imposing black exoskeleton that seemed to consume light itself, shadows swirling around him like living tendrils. Veyrath, with his crimson skin and piercing amber eyes, looked almost regal despite his brutal presence. Vealthor, in stark contrast, had flawless white skin that made him appear almost angelic, his serene aura at odds with the raw power he radiated.
Hakan remained silent, his gaze fixed on the colossal floating city ahead—VALTHERYON, the Celestial Throne of Dragons. It was nothing short of breathtaking—an enormous city suspended above the landscape, surrounded by flowing streams of molten crystal that cascaded like waterfalls, glowing with a mesmerizing luminescence.
The gates loomed ahead, impossibly massive—towering higher than the Eiffel Tower back on Earth. Intricate patterns of gold and obsidian marked their surface, ancient runes pulsating with primal energy. Behind the gates, the sprawling cityscape stretched endlessly, filled with towering spires, grand halls, and majestic bridges linking floating platforms. It was easily the most magnificent place Hakan had ever seen, even after all his conquests.
The dragon he rode lowered itself as they approached the gates, and without hesitation, Hakan leapt from its back, landing smoothly on the marble-like surface of the entryway. His eyes remained fixed on the grandeur before him, still processing the sheer scale and beauty of it all.
Around him, dragons in both humanoid and full beast forms lowered their heads, some out of fear, others in begrudging respect. Whispers carried through the crowd, fearful and awed. Few could comprehend how a human had come to rule over the mightiest of beings, but they knew better than to challenge him.
Xyvarion landed beside him, his voice calm and respectful. "My liege, welcome to Valtheryon—the throne city of Drakareth."
Hakan didn't immediately respond, his gaze still tracing the spires and crystalline streams. Finally, he turned to face the dragons assembled before him.
"Is there a good healer among you?" he called out, his tone carrying a subtle threat despite its calmness.
Silence hung heavy for a moment, and the dragons exchanged uncertain glances. At last, a young female dragon stepped forward—her form slender and graceful, scales shimmering with a faint golden hue. She hesitated, swallowing her fear before speaking.
"I... I am a healer," she said, voice trembling.
Hakan studied her, his gaze sharp and calculating. Before he could respond, he glanced to the side, realizing he hadn't bothered to remember the name of the one he needed healed—the dragon he'd just beaten half to death in Pyross Abyss.
"What was his name again...?" Hakan muttered to himself, more annoyed than concerned.
Xyvarion stepped forward smoothly, bowing his head. "Ignivarox, my liege."
"Right," Hakan grunted. "Ignivarox. Heal him."
The young healer hesitated but then quickly nodded, bowing deeply. "Yes, your highness!" She hurried to where Ignivarox lay sprawled on the ground in his humanoid form, his body bruised and battered, blood smeared across his face. He looked strikingly similar to Vealzaryon, sharing the same muscular build and fierce features, but lacked the imposing presence that had made his predecessor feared.
The healer knelt beside him, her hands glowing with a soft, golden light as she whispered ancient incantations. Ignivarox groaned but didn't move, too drained and injured to do much besides breathe.
Hakan barely spared him another glance, already losing interest. If the dragon lived, fine. If not, he wasn't worth worrying about. He turned his gaze back toward the towering castle in the center of Valtheryon, perched at the heart of the floating city like a king atop his throne. Its spires pierced the sky, shimmering with an ethereal glow, and the massive central tower stretched far beyond the clouds.
Xyvarion gestured toward it with a respectful bow. "My liege, this way to the castle top."
Hakan took a moment to consider his surroundings, then nodded. "Lead the way."
As they moved toward the grand staircase leading up to the throne hall, dragons parted before them, bowing their heads or averting their eyes. Some whispered in reverence, while others looked on with barely concealed resentment. Hakan ignored them, indifferent to whether they feared or hated him. Respect wasn't given—it was taken.
Veyrath and Vealthor followed closely, exchanging glances. Veyrath smirked, his crimson skin glinting under the strange light. "They fear you more than they ever did Vealzaryon. You've made quite an impression."
Hakan didn't bother replying. He knew they feared him—and that was how it should be. Ruling the dragons had been a brutal conquest, and he had proven himself stronger than any of them. Strength was all that mattered, and he made damn sure they knew it.
As they ascended the staircase, Hakan couldn't help but think back to the Astralis Rift, where he had been flung after tanking the Primordials' fury. Surviving that ordeal should have been impossible—but impossible had never stopped him before. And now, with Drakareth under his control, he intended to make sure no one dared challenge his reign.
One way or another, he'd bend this world—and every other—under his will.
The grand staircase echoed with Hakan's footsteps as he ascended toward the throne room, his presence commanding the air around him. The massive doors of the castle swung open on their own, moved by the sheer force of his aura. The throne hall stretched vast and magnificent—crafted from shimmering dragonstone, with veins of luminescent crystal weaving through the walls and floors like pulsating lifeblood.
Spectral fires burned in colossal braziers, their colors shifting from emerald green to deep sapphire, bathing the hall in an ethereal glow. At the center of it all stood the Dragon Throne—a colossal seat forged from a blend of obsidian and azure crystal, humming with an ancient, primal energy that seemed to resonate with Hakan's very soul.
Beside the throne stood his three most loyal followers—Xyvarion to his right, his black exoskeleton emanating an abyssal presence. Veyrath stood to his left, his crimson skin practically glowing in the eerie light. Vealthor remained behind the throne, his alabaster skin radiating a serene yet formidable presence.
Xyvarion stepped forward, bowing deeply.
"My liege, your throne awaits."
Hakan moved forward without hesitation, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. As he approached the raised platform, massive draconic forms loomed on either side, each radiating immense power. These were the Dragon Lords of Drakareth, gathered to witness their monarch's ascension.
With a single fluid motion, Hakan lowered himself onto the throne, leaning back with an air of absolute authority. The seat hummed beneath him, as if acknowledging its rightful master.
Once settled, Hakan gave a slight nod to Xyvarion, who stepped forward and introduced the gathered lords.
The first to move was a colossal dragon covered in deep emerald scales that shimmered like living moss. Vines and flowers grew between the thick plates, and his golden eyes radiated an ancient wisdom. His massive wings were adorned with vibrant, glowing patterns, and his presence filled the room with a sense of thriving life.
Xyvarion spoke with respect.
"Lord Eryndor, Guardian of Life's Flame, ruler of Sylvaris Vale."
Eryndor lowered his great head, his voice rumbling like roots shifting through the earth.
"My liege, the Sylvaris Vale flourishes under your rule. The roots reach farther and deeper than ever before. Your strength has brought balance."
Hakan gave a rare, approving nod.
"Good to see you again, Eryndor. Your forest still holding together?"
A low, reverberating growl served as Eryndor's respectful acknowledgment. There was a rare, mutual respect between them—a bond forged through Hakan's first interactions with the dragons.
The next dragon to move was a towering, frost-covered behemoth—Itharyx, the Sage of Winter's Veil. His body glowed with a faint blue luminescence, his scales like frosted ice that never melted. Cold mist pooled around his talons, and his wings spread wide, sparkling with frozen crystals that caught the light like shards of a shattered sky.
"Itharyx, Lord of Cryalis Dominion," Xyvarion announced.
Itharyx dipped his head with elegance, his frosty breath forming mist.
"Cryalis stands firm under your reign, my liege. Though I did not witness your conquest, it remains undeniable that the realm bends to your will."
Hakan's expression remained stoic, simply giving a nod in acknowledgment. He knew Cryalis Dominion had fallen during his absence while he was battling in the Astralis Rift, but he couldn't care less as long as it remained under control.
Suddenly, the air shifted, crackling with raw energy as the next dragon approached. This one was sleek and aerodynamic, his storm-gray scales glowing faintly with cyan light. Arcs of electricity danced along his wings and horns, and his piercing blue eyes held a mischievous glint.
Xyvarion gestured toward him.
"Lord Vaelzaryn, Tempest Sovereign, ruler of the Zephyros Expanse."
Vaelzaryn lowered his head, but his tone carried a hint of challenge.
"The winds of Zephyros acknowledge your might, Monarch. Even the sky couldn't withstand your fury."
Hakan shot him a glare that froze the air itself, and Vaelzaryn quickly tempered his grin, the crackle of lightning dimming around him. Realizing he had overstepped, he lowered his head more sincerely.
As the introductions concluded, Hakan's gaze swept the hall once more. He noted something odd—there were no representatives from the Tenebral Hollow. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly.
"Where are the lords of Tenebral Hollow?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the tension.
Xyvarion inclined his head, his tone cautious.
"My liege, they have not answered the summons. No word has come from the Hollow since your ascension. It remains silent."
A low growl echoed from Vaelzaryn, his cyan eyes narrowing.
"Typical. Shadows hiding in shadows—too weak to face the new order."
Itharyx gave a slow, disapproving rumble.
"The Hollow has always been unpredictable. Perhaps they deem themselves above submitting to the throne."
Veyrath scoffed, his crimson eyes gleaming.
"Pathetic. They're nothing but cowards. Afraid to crawl out of their dark little pits and face the real power."
Hakan ignored the bickering, uninterested in pointless squabbling. If the Hollow chose to stay quiet, that was their problem. He wasn't here for conquest or dominance—he needed answers. If the Hollow wasn't going to provide any, he didn't see the point in wasting his time.
Letting the noise die down on its own, Hakan glanced at Xyvarion.
"All of you can leave except Xyvarion and Keep an eye on the Hollow in case they try anything."
Xyvarion nodded without question.
"As you command, my liege."
As the grand hall slowly emptied, the dragon lords dispersed to their respective territories, and Veyrath and Vealthor followed suit, leaving the throne room in a solemn quiet. Hakan remained seated, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse beyond the crystalline windows, the vibrant skies of Drakareth stretching endlessly.
After a moment, he glanced to his right, noticing that Xyvarion was still present, standing dutifully at his side. Something had been bothering him since earlier—the subtle shift in Xyvarion's demeanor when he mentioned the Tenebral Hollow. Hakan wasn't one to ignore such details.
"Xyvarion." Hakan's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
The dark figure remained motionless, his abyssal presence unwavering. "Yes, my liege?"
Hakan's gaze sharpened, though his tone remained calm. "Why were you troubled when I mentioned Tenebral Hollow? You're not the type to flinch at a name."
Xyvarion hesitated for a fraction of a second—an almost imperceptible pause that didn't escape Hakan's notice. Among all his followers, Xyvarion had earned his loyalty countless times over. Unlike the others, Xyvarion had proven himself not just through power but through unyielding dedication, and in a way, he had carved a small, guarded spot in Hakan's otherwise ruthless heart.
Xyvarion lowered his head slightly. "My liege..." he began, his voice unusually strained. "It's because... that is my homeland. I am from the Tenebral Hollow."
Hakan didn't react outwardly—his expression remained as stoic as ever. "I knew you were different... but I didn't think much about it." He rose from the throne and walked right up to Xyvarion, his presence looming like a tempest about to break. "So what about them? You don't want to invade your homeland? Is that it?"
Xyvarion didn't back down, but his tone was cautious. "No, my liege. It's not that... There are reasons. Complications."
Hakan narrowed his eyes but didn't press further. Instead, he took a step back and crossed his arms. "Fine. You'll tell me when you're ready. Get up."
Xyvarion straightened, meeting Hakan's gaze. For the first time since their first battle, he noticed something different—Hakan's eyes weren't the usual piercing, demanding glare. They had softened, just slightly, as if acknowledging that this wasn't just another problem to crush underfoot.
Hakan's gaze shifted back to the towering pillars and flowing crystal streams lining the throne room. After a moment, he spoke, his tone more relaxed. "Why don't you show me around? You've been here before, right?"
Xyvarion nodded. "I have, master. But I'd suggest calling someone who knows this castle like the back of his hand."
Hakan gave a faint smirk. "Good. Call him."
In an instant, Xyvarion was gone, vanishing into the shadows with his usual eerie precision. Hakan watched the spot where he disappeared, his mind already drifting back to the endless maze of questions plaguing him. He moved back to his throne, settling into it with a heavy exhale.
His thoughts churned like a storm. Ever since he had defeated Vealzaryon, his rise to Dragon Monarch had been swift and brutal, but the answers he sought still eluded him. Nothing made sense. Nothing lined up. He had thought conquering Drakareth would bring him closer to understanding the truth, but instead, it had only deepened the mystery.
His thoughts flickered to the Astralis Rift, the chaotic battleground where he had faced the Primordials guard AZAROTH. The oldest dragons had refused to accept him back then. They had thought he was the Chosen One at first, but when that arrogant Azharel declared he wasn't, they had turned on him—forced him out, exiling him from the place where reality itself seemed to bend and twist.
"Chosen One..." Hakan muttered, the word like poison on his tongue. "What the hell was that prophecy about, anyway? Why did they thought it was me at first and what or who is that guy ?"
He gritted his teeth, his hands curling into fists. The dragons had spoken of realms beyond Drakareth and Earth—places where power thrived unchecked. But nothing made sense. The towers that had appeared on Earth, the meteors that struck without causing destruction, leaving behind nothing but powers and monsters—it all seemed connected, but the pattern was just out of his reach.
He slammed his fist against the throne's armrest, cracks spiderwebbing through the crystalline surface.
"Damn it... What am I missing?"
The powers. The towers. The techniques that countered even the mightiest of abilities—all of it felt like pieces of a puzzle scattered across worlds. Was there something deeper behind it all? Some grand design he hadn't seen?
He clenched his jaw, refusing to accept defeat. He was the Dragon Monarch now, the most powerful being in Drakareth. Conquest wasn't his true goal—it was just a means to an end. He needed answers. He needed to know why he had been chosen—or why he hadn't.
As his thoughts circled like ravenous beasts, the soft echoes of footsteps reached his ears. Hakan straightened as Xyvarion reappeared, a dark figure following him. It was one of the castle's caretakers, an elder dragon in humanoid form, his silver hair and worn features showing centuries of service.
Xyvarion bowed briefly. "My liege, this is Vadrik. He has served the castle for generations and knows every corner of Valtheryon."
The elder bowed deeply, his voice respectful but steady. "My lord, it is an honor. I am at your command."
Hakan gave a slight nod. "Good. Show me around. I want to know everything about this place."
Vadrik straightened, gesturing with an arm. "Of course, your majesty. I shall guide you through the halls of the Celestial Throne."
As they moved through the vast corridors, Hakan remained deep in thought, his gaze wandering but his mind fixated on the riddle he couldn't solve. One way or another, he would find the truth behind all of this—even if it meant tearing down realms to get it.
They moved through the winding corridors of the Celestial Throne, Vadrik guiding them with careful steps while Xyvarion remained vigilant, his dark presence always just a step behind Hakan. The castle's crystalline walls shimmered faintly, reflecting the ever-shifting light from the flowing energy streams outside.
As they passed through another archway, Hakan's gaze locked onto a door at the end of a side corridor. It wasn't anything particularly ornate, but something about it felt... different. Unnatural. A faint, oppressive aura seeped through the gap beneath the door, sending a subtle, uneasy tingle through the air.
Vadrik and Xyvarion noticed his lingering stare and halted, turning to face him.
"That room belonged to Master Vealzaryon, my liege," Vadrik said, sensing Hakan's confusion.
Hakan's eyes narrowed. "What was in it?" he demanded, already knowing it wasn't just an ordinary room.
Vadrik hesitated, gathering his words carefully. "He used to study in that room, sire. Spent countless hours in there—alone. No one else was allowed inside."
Bingo. Hakan's mind clicked, instincts roaring to life. If there was any place where that bastard kept secrets, it would be there. The origin of powers. How Vealzaryon managed to reach Earth. The techniques he used. Hakan knew there had to be something—anything—that could shed light on the mysteries tormenting his mind.
"Open it. Now." Hakan's voice was sharp and commanding.
Vadrik froze, his hesitation painfully obvious. "My liege... this door can only be opened by Master Vealzaryon himself... or by someone of higher hierarchy among the dragons. Even a successor Monarch cannot unlock it."
Hakan's eyes darkened, impatience flaring. "Then how the hell are we supposed to get in?"
Vadrik swallowed, his hands trembling slightly. "The power of a Primordial would likely be needed to break the seal. The door is attuned to Vealzaryon's essence... and only a force of equal or greater power could breach it."
Hakan's jaw clenched, anger boiling under his skin. He felt like someone had thrown sand on the tiny spark of hope that had ignited within him. The door was just there—holding answers he craved—but out of reach. He couldn't help but feel an all-too-familiar frustration gnawing at his mind.
"Damn it!!" Hakan roared, slamming his fist into the wall beside the door. The impact sent a tremor through the entire corridor, cracks spreading like a spiderweb across the stone. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the force of his punch resonated through the halls.
Just as he was about to unleash his anger further, a sound of hurried footsteps caught his attention. A dragon soldier in his humanoid form came rushing around the corner, skidding to a stop before dropping to one knee.
"Monarch!" the soldier panted, struggling to catch his breath. "There is a guest who wishes to see you."
Hakan shot a glance at Xyvarion, who raised an eyebrow. "A guest?"
The soldier nodded, keeping his head low. "Yes, sire. He is currently with Lady Elaris."
Vadrik's face went pale at the mention of the name, his hands tightening with unease. Even Xyvarion's expression hardened, sensing something unusual.
"Elaris?" Hakan repeated, his tone both curious and wary.
Xyvarion spoke up, his voice cautious. "Lady Elaris—the Celestial Dragon. She serves as a messenger for Lord Eryndor and guided you to the Astralis Rift once before."
Hakan frowned, his mind racing. That woman had shown him the path toward the Rift when he was still hunting answers, and her presence usually meant something important—or something troublesome.
He grunted in annoyance, brushing off his frustration from earlier. "Fine. Tell him to wait. I'll be there."
The soldier hesitated, casting a wary glance at Vadrik, who cleared his throat, his tone tense. "My liege... I do not think this is wise."
Hakan's gaze turned to him, piercing and unyielding. "What do you mean?"
Vadrik swallowed hard. "If the guest is with Lady Elaris, then there is a high chance that he is..."
Hakan cut him off, his voice dripping with disdain. "A Celestial Dragon. One of those damn slaves to the Primordials."
Vadrik lowered his head, confirming Hakan's suspicion. "Yes, my liege. Celestial Dragons rarely visit Drakareth without reason. Their presence often signals... a matter of grave importance."
Hakan's lips curled into a sneer. "Slaves to those primordial bastards. Xyvarion! Let's go."
"Understood, my liege." Xyvarion gave a curt nod and followed as Hakan stormed off down the corridor, his steps heavy with irritation and curiosity.
As they made their way to the castle hall, Hakan's mind was already calculating the possibilities. If a Celestial Dragon had come to see him, it could only mean one of two things—either they were here to deliver a message, or they had been sent to test him. Either way, he wasn't about to tolerate any arrogance from those so-called servants of the Primordials.
The wind whipped fiercely around the rooftop of the White Dragons' headquarters, cutting through the air like icy blades. Soren Raihan stood at the edge, his gaze fixed on the horizon as the chopper approached, its blades slicing through the sky. The towering high-rise loomed behind him, reflecting the city lights of Islamabad.
Dressed in an elegant gray coat and matching trousers, Soren's attire was completed by a dark purple shirt underneath—simple, yet effortlessly commanding. His hands were casually tucked into his coat pockets, his posture relaxed but purposeful.
As the helicopter descended onto the helipad, Arham Khalid approached from behind, his usual sharp gaze softened by curiosity. "Where are we headed, boss?" he asked.
Soren didn't turn, his eyes still on the chopper. "Switzerland."
Arham raised an eyebrow. "Hero Accord headquarters? They haven't called us. You think it's a good idea to just show up?"
Soren gave a faint smirk, finally glancing back at him. "We'll see when we get there. Doesn't matter if they called us or not—they need someone who can handle the mess."
Arham couldn't help but chuckle. "Typical. Always moving first, thinking later."
Soren didn't respond, stepping toward the helicopter as the pilot gave a nod of acknowledgment. The two boarded swiftly, and within moments, the chopper was airborne again, slicing through the sky toward the airport.
After a short flight, they touched down at a private airstrip where Soren's sleek private jet waited, its polished white body reflecting the runway lights. Standing by the stairs was Zara Nishat, second only to Arham in the White Dragons. Her attire was a striking blend of elegance and tradition—an emerald green Pakistani dress adorned with intricate gold embroidery, showcasing her heritage with pride.
The moment Soren stepped out of the chopper, Zara gave a respectful nod. "We're ready to leave, sir. Everything's been prepared as you instructed."
Soren gave her a brief nod, his gaze sharp yet appreciative. "Good work, Zara. Always reliable."
A faint blush rose on Zara's cheeks, and she quickly looked away. "Yes... sir, thank you."
Arham shot her a knowing glance, suppressing a smirk. As Soren ascended the jet's steps, Zara fell into step behind him, her movements graceful and precise. Once on board, Soren settled into his seat, glancing out the window as the engines roared to life.
Arham took a seat across from him, leaning back with his arms crossed. "You're planning to just walk into the Accord's headquarters without an invitation? You think they'll even let us in?"
Soren's gaze didn't waver from the window, his tone calm and confident. "They won't have a choice. Heroes are missing, Jirrah's dead, and the world's in chaos. They'll either listen, or I'll make them listen."
Arham gave a low whistle. "Bold as ever. You think they're already mobilizing the Sentinels?"
Soren shrugged. "Most likely. But they're too cautious. They'll waste time debating instead of acting. By the time they decide, it'll be too late. We're better off being there before they make a mistake."
Zara approached with a tablet, handing it to Soren. "Sir, reports from our scouts. No new sightings of the entity that attacked the island, but energy readings have spiked near the Atlantic Rift. It could be related."
Soren scanned the data with a sharp eye. "Keep monitoring. If it moves again, I want to know before anyone else. Got it?"
"Understood, sir," Zara replied, stepping back to relay the orders.
As the jet taxied down the runway, Arham glanced at Soren, his usual calm demeanor breaking into a curious smirk. "So, what's the plan when we get there? Kick down the door and demand answers?"
Soren gave a faint, amused snort. "Something like that. Let's see how scared they've gotten since Jirrah's death. They'll be desperate for solutions. We might as well give them one."
Arham just nodded, knowing how Soren's mind worked. If anyone could walk into the Accord's headquarters uninvited and make his presence felt, it was the Dragon Prince. The jet picked up speed, and with a powerful surge, they soared into the sky, cutting through the night as they headed for Switzerland.
The private jet cruised at high altitude, cutting through the dark sky with smooth precision. Inside the spacious cabin, Soren sat by the window, deep in thought, his sharp eyes fixed on the night beyond. Arham was across from him, leaning back with his usual relaxed posture, while Zara stood near the front, coordinating reports through her earpiece.
Soren's mind raced, processing the fragmented information they had. If someone—or something—was smart enough to target the strongest, it was damn well smart enough to trace their movements. He wasn't about to make it easy for them.
He glanced over at Zara. "Zara. Bring me an untraceable phone. Now."
She hesitated for a moment, sensing the seriousness in his voice, then gave a quick nod. "Right away, sir."
Arham raised an eyebrow. "You think someone's tracking us?"
Soren didn't take his eyes off the window. "If they're taking out the strongest one by one, they're not stupid. Calling anyone on standard comms would be practically sending them an invitation. I'm not risking it."
Arham nodded slowly, realizing the logic behind it. "Smart. Never thought I'd see you this cautious. Whoever's doing this really got your attention."
Soren's jaw tightened. "If someone's hunting seven-stars, it means they've got brains, not just power. Jirrah wasn't weak. Whatever took him out knew exactly how to do it without giving itself away. That's what bothers me."
Just then, Zara returned, holding a small, sleek phone wrapped in a protective case. "Here, sir. Untraceable, no linked networks, and minimal digital footprint. It's clean."
Soren took the phone and gave her a nod of approval. "Good work. Keep monitoring the news feeds. Anything suspicious, let me know immediately."
"Yes, sir." Zara moved back to her station, staying out of earshot as Soren dialed a number from memory.
He waited, each ring only heightening the tension in his chest. After a few moments, the line clicked, and a rough, deep voice came through—steady, but clearly on edge.
"Soren? What the hell are you calling me on this line for?"
"Kaelen," Soren greeted, his voice low and firm. "We need to talk. Urgently. Where are you?"
A brief pause. "Somewhere safe. Keeping a low profile. You're lucky I even picked up. What's going on?"
Soren leaned forward, his tone sharp and controlled. "I'm heading to Switzerland—Accord headquarters. But I need you to meet me in Dubai first. Secretly. No one should know you're moving. Not even your own people."
Another silence, this one heavier. Soren could practically feel the tension on the other side of the line. "Why the hell would I do that? You know how tight things are right now. What's got you spooked?"
Soren's grip on the phone tightened. "Jirrah's dead."
Kaelen's voice dropped, suddenly deadly serious. "What? Dead? You're not joking, are you? How?"
Soren inhaled slowly. "Found washed up on the coast—body torn up like someone took their time killing him. No one knows who did it. No witnesses. Just... gone."
A rough exhale came through the phone. "Goddamn it. Jirrah wasn't just strong—he was a goddamn monster on the battlefield. You telling me someone offed him like nothing?"
"Exactly," Soren replied, his voice colder. "Whoever did it knew exactly how to take him down without leaving a trace. If they can kill Jirrah, they can kill anyone. I don't trust the Accord to handle this right—they're too cautious. We need to take matters into our own hands."
Kaelen let out a bitter chuckle, though it was devoid of humor. "Sounds like you. Charging in headfirst. But you're right. If they got Jirrah, they're probably planning to hit more of us. Maybe they're waiting for the right moment."
Soren glanced at Arham, who was listening quietly. "We can't let them pick us off one by one. I need you in Dubai. We'll regroup, figure out what's really going on, and decide how to handle this before the Accord makes a mess of it."
Kaelen's voice grew more somber. "You think it's a single entity? Or are we looking at a group? Hell, maybe even a new tower monster?"
Soren gritted his teeth. "I don't know. But I'm not taking any chances. Get to Dubai. Keep it quiet. I don't care how you get there—just move. I'll handle the rest."
A long sigh followed, and Soren could almost hear Kaelen's mind racing. "Alright. I'll be there within the day. You're right—we can't let our guard down. If Jirrah's dead, that means none of us are untouchable."
"Good. Keep your head low. And if you see anything unusual—anything at all—don't engage. Just disappear."
"You're acting like I'm some rookie," Kaelen shot back with a hint of annoyance. "I know how to move without being seen. Just don't do anything stupid before I get there."
Soren gave a faint smirk. "Just hurry up. I'll be waiting."
The line went dead, and Soren lowered the phone, tossing it to Arham, who caught it with a questioning look. "Destroy it. No traces."
Arham gave a nod and promptly crushed the device with his bare hands, dropping the broken pieces into a containment bag. He glanced back at Soren, his tone more serious than before. "You really think we're being hunted, don't you?"
Soren didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the night sky beyond the window. "Someone's cutting down the strongest. One by one. If it's true... then staying in one place makes you a sitting target. I'm not about to let them catch me off guard."
Arham nodded, understanding the unspoken resolve in Soren's eyes. Whatever was coming, they would be ready.
After Arham crushed the phone and disposed of the remnants, he glanced at Soren, still processing the tension from the last call. Soren remained motionless, his mind working faster than ever, piecing together scenarios and outcomes.
Before Arham could say anything, Soren turned his head slightly, his voice calm but firm.
"Zara. Bring me another phone. Completely clean and untraceable. Same protocol."
Both Arham and Zara exchanged glances, confused and a bit surprised. Arham raised an eyebrow.
"Another one? You just destroyed the last one. You really think calling like this is safe?"
Soren didn't even bother to look at him. "If we're being hunted, they might be tracking comms between the strongest. One call is risky enough. Multiple calls from the same device? Suicidal. I'm not leaving a trail."
Understanding dawned on Arham, and he gave a slow nod, impressed despite himself. Zara quickly moved to retrieve another phone, disappearing into the storage compartment of the jet.
Soren leaned back, tapping his fingers on the armrest, his mind still spinning through possibilities. If the enemy was targeting the strongest one by one, drawing them all together could either be a smart move or a perfect setup.
Within moments, Zara returned, holding another clean phone. "Here you go, sir. Completely untraceable."
Soren took it, offering her a quick nod of acknowledgment. "Good work. Stay on alert."
"Yes, sir." Zara moved back to her station, still eyeing him cautiously.
Soren dialed another number from memory, pressing the phone to his ear as it rang. The line picked up after just a few rings, and a smooth, confident voice came through.
"Soren. Long time. Didn't think you'd call me on a ghost line. Trouble?"
Soren allowed a rare smirk to cross his face. "Colton. You're still as sharp as ever. Where are you right now?"
A brief pause, then Colton let out a low chuckle. "You first. You don't just call me out of the blue. Not unless the world's ending—or you're making sure it doesn't."
Soren leaned forward, his tone dropping. "I need you in Dubai. Tomorrow. No questions, no delays. Get there at all costs."
Colton's voice lost its casual tone, turning serious. "Dubai? You trying to get all the seven-stars together? That's risky as hell, Soren. You really think it's smart to gather us in one spot—especially now?"
Soren glanced at Arham, who was listening intently, before responding. "We can't afford to play it safe. We're getting picked off one by one. Jirrah's already gone. Luxarion and Dimitri are missing. No one's seen Hakan in months. If we keep waiting for answers, we're just giving whoever's behind this a clean shot at us."
Colton let out a frustrated sigh. "Goddammit... Jirrah's dead? You're not messing with me, are you?"
"Wish I was. Washed up on the coast. Torn to pieces. No witnesses, no signs of a fight. Whatever killed him did it fast and clean."
Colton went quiet for a moment. "And no sign of Luxarion or Dimitri. That's not just bad—it's calculated. Someone's removing the top players from the board."
Soren nodded, though he knew Colton couldn't see it. "Exactly. The Accord's too paranoid to move without debating it for days. We need to take matters into our own hands. Dubai's the best spot—neutral ground, and I've got resources there."
Colton hesitated, his voice low and thoughtful. "You're aware that pulling seven-stars together like this could make us one big target, right? If they've already taken out Jirrah, they'll see this coming."
Soren didn't flinch. "Let them try. I'm not hiding while someone hunts us down. Better to consolidate strength and figure out what we're up against. Besides, it's just you, me, and Kaelen right now."
A low hum came from the other end. "Kaelen's in too, huh? Makes sense. That guy's always been practical. But what about the others? Zuberi? Ren?"
Soren sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Zuberi's under full surveillance in Nigeria. They're not letting him move—afraid of losing another one of us. As for Ren Tianlong... he's a goddamn ghost. No one's got any idea where he is. Even when he's active, he never makes contact with any of the other seven-stars. He's practically a dead end."
Colton let out a dry laugh. "Of course. The mysterious loner routine. Typical Ren. Guess it's just the three of us, then. I'll be in Dubai by tomorrow. I'll take some extra precautions on the way—no direct flights. Last thing I need is someone tracking me."
"Good. Make sure you're not followed. Whoever's pulling the strings is smart enough to set traps. I don't want us walking into an ambush."
Colton grunted in agreement. "Yeah. I get the feeling we're about to find out just how messy this whole thing is. You got a plan, or are we winging it like usual?"
Soren allowed a faint smile. "First, we figure out what the Accord knows. Then, we hunt down whoever's behind this. If it's a new threat or a rogue entity, we need intel. Once we're in Dubai, we'll sort out the details."
"Fine. I'll see you there. Try not to get killed before I arrive, alright?"
"No promises. Just move fast."
Colton chuckled. "You haven't changed a bit. I'll be there. Stay sharp, Soren."
The call ended, and Soren lowered the phone, glancing at Arham. "Same deal. Destroy it."
Arham nodded and crushed the phone with a quick motion, disposing of the fragments just like before. Zara, who had been monitoring from the front, approached cautiously.
"Is everything alright, sir?"
Soren glanced at her, his expression cold but focused. "As alright as it can be when someone's killing our strongest. Keep monitoring intel. I want to know the second something changes."
"Understood." Zara gave a respectful nod and moved back to her station, clearly still on edge.
Arham looked at Soren, his tone lower and more thoughtful. "You really think getting the three of you together is the right move? Colton had a point—it's risky."
Soren leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "It's a calculated risk. But if we just sit around waiting, we're signing our own death warrants. The seven-stars aren't just powerhouses—they're symbols. Taking us out one by one will crush what little morale's left in the world. We're not giving whoever's behind this that satisfaction."
Arham gave a slow nod, sensing the weight of what Soren was carrying. As the jet continued its journey through the dark sky, the gravity of what lay ahead settled on them like an unspoken shadow.