The vast chamber of the Flying Island's castle was silent.
An ancient, perfectly circular table dominated the room — forged from a single colossal stone that pulsed faintly with primordial qi.
At four seats, equidistant around the table, sat beings whose names could stir armies to march, whose mere presence bent the atmosphere into awe.
The Dragon Monarch, resplendent in his dragonoid form — gold and crimson light shimmering from his scaled skin.The Demon Lord, relaxed and smiling faintly, like a scholar about to enjoy a lecture on destruction.The Human Emperor, steady and calm, his eyes carrying the weight of countless generations.
And Aren Vale — the Silent Sword, the Lion in Slumber — who sat with the relaxed poise of a man who had already faced the end of the world once and lived.
Near the side of the room stood the Elf King.
Elegant, regal — but clearly lesser.
He clutched a thick, rune-etched tome and a quill that shimmered with ancient magic, his hands trembling faintly as he prepared to record every word, every decision, every oath.
He did not speak.He did not dare.
This was not a gathering of kings.
This was a gathering of forces that could shatter the world.
The silence stretched.
Heavy.Monumental.
Aren allowed it, studying the others without moving.
There was no need for words here — not until the weight of history demanded them.
Minutes passed.
And then —
A booming laugh shattered the tension like a hammer against glass.
The Dragon Monarch leaned back in his seat, laughing with deep, genuine amusement.
It rumbled through the hall, rich and wild, shaking dust loose from the ancient ceilings.
The Demon Lord chuckled quietly, his grin widening.The Human Emperor let out a rare, low laugh — deep and tired and real.
Even Aren smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting.
"So this is what it takes," the Dragon Emperor said, still grinning."Gods deciding to burn the world down — and suddenly, the four greatest warmongers in history are sitting around a table like polite gentlemen."
The Demon Lord smirked."Polite is a strong word."
The Human Emperor shook his head."I believe the word you're searching for is desperate."
Light laughter again — quieter this time.
The ice was broken.
The mythic air still hung around them — but now it buzzed with something more familiar.
Warriors' humor.The absurdity of survival.
The Dragon Monarch tapped a clawed finger against the table lightly.
"Still," he said, "the irony is delicious.You, me, him—" he nodded at the Demon Lord, who gave a lazy bow of mockery, "—working side by side."
"Miracles happen," the Demon Lord said dryly."Especially when survival is on the line."
Aren leaned back slightly, golden eyes cool.
"Survival has always been the one language everyone speaks fluently."
The Human Emperor nodded in agreement.
For a while, the conversation remained light — jests about old wars, half-serious bets on which city would be first to fall if the angels descended en masse.
But slowly — inevitably — the conversation sharpened.
The Dragon Monarch's smile faded into a thoughtful frown.
"So," he said."Preparations."
The word dropped into the air like a stone into still water.
"We're talking about facing beings that not only match us individually," the Demon Lord said lightly, "but who will outnumber us. Massively."
The Human Emperor folded his hands before him.
"And if the worst predictions are true... angels capable of wielding Laws directly."
Silence again — but this time, a focused one.
No one here flinched from the scale of what was coming.
If anything, there was a gleam — a terrible, sharp gleam — in the eyes of the Dragon Monarch and the Demon Lord.
Excitement.
Only Aren's gaze remained tempered, calm —because he was thinking not of the battles, but of the smiles he had left behind at home.
His family.Their laughter.Their dreams.
He clenched his hand beneath the table briefly, invisible to the others.
Then —A sly smile curled the Demon Lord's lips.
"I suppose," he drawled, "we could... level the field a bit."
The Dragon Monarch raised an eyebrow.The Human Emperor frowned slightly.
"And how do you propose we do that?" Aren asked coolly.
The Demon Lord's grin widened.
"Simple.Let me summon one of the Primordial Demons.A true lord of sin — wrath, greed, envy... you know.The real ones.Their existence embodies the Laws of Sin themselves.Even a half-awake Primordial could overpower a dozen transcended beings without much effort."
The Elf King stiffened visibly, his quill trembling.
The air grew colder, heavier — charged with unspoken menace.
The Dragon Monarch snorted — loud and disdainful.
"Yeah," he said dryly, "not happening."
The Human Emperor narrowed his eyes.
"And you speak of your own ancestors as if they're convenient tools to be unleashed at your whim."
Aren leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of mountains.
"Demons are selfish, destructive beings — not by choice, but by their very nature.You do not use them.You unleash them."
His golden eyes flashed coldly.
"And in this war, we cannot afford a second enemy born from within."
The Elf King scribbled frantically, his hand shaking, as if even writing down the words might bring doom upon him.
The Demon Lord shrugged, utterly unbothered.
"It was worth suggesting."
"It wasn't," Aren said bluntly.
The others laughed — even the Dragon Monarch's mighty rumble returned for a brief moment.
And so, the real meeting began in earnest.
Plans would be laid.Promises made.And the fate of the world written — in blood, in loyalty, and in defiance.